Fast Times at 2,000 meters High

This here is a psychological experiment of the blogging variety. Following is the account of the same experience, by one male and by one female, and their different interpretations of the events ...

- AC says

As the speedometer flirted with 150 kilomoters an hour and the tires managed to keep from squeeling around the curves of the mountain road - most likely because of the rain - Tito reached up to the dash and shoved another cracker into his mouth. He had missed lunch, and between checking his cell phone, sipping his Diet Coke and munching away he was shifting gears on the van, pushing it´s less than performance abilities to their limits.

Despite most Argentine bus employees´ disbelief, we had not watched any TV or read any newspapers in Bariloche. In the middle of one of the prettiest places on the planet why would we? Penance for falling of the grid, however, was that we had failed to realize the country was recognizing a time change, one hour ahead.

Of course, we had managed to book bus tickets, reserve a room in our next destination and even sketch out our plans after that. The first leg of our journey from Bariloche to Puerto Madryn, a four-plus hour bus to Esquel, had left on time - an hour earlier.

There were no later buses, no buses would run the next day - New Years Eve, and the hotels in Bariloche were booked with party animals for the holiday. We were left with a solitary option.

We paid Tito, the five-o´clock-shadowed "driver" 300 pesos to drive us the 300 kilometers of two lane winding mountain roads from Bariloche to Esquel to catch our overnight leg which would leave in less than three hours.

For the next two hours and 45 minutes I tried to pretend I was enjoying some of what I think was the prettiest country I have ever seen while simultaneously attempting to keep my heart from exploding out of my chest or my arms from going numb as my fists soaked up all the blood clenching the door handle.

As we emptied out of the mountains into the bigger more open valleys around Esquel Tito was able to really make the engine whine and I relized we were probably going to live after all. My hands loosened up, I had managed to leave the handle intact.

Half an hour later we pulled into the bus stop, 15 minutes early. I shook Tito´s hand and happily paid him his money. Maybe it was too much, but until the moment we pulled into the terminal I never thought we´d make it.


- JMH says

Apparently they have time changes in Argentina, too. Not anything as fancy as "Spring-forward-Fall-back," but someone with power decided tp push to hour ahead by one this year at midnight on Dec. 29. Unfortunately, this person forgot to tell us.

Being the Germanic, puntual travelers we are, Alex and I arrived at the Bariloche bus station about 45 minutes before our scheduled 6 p.m. departure to Puerto Madryn. As the hour drew nearer and nearer, I watched other bus companies come and go, with no sign of ours. I inquired at 6:05 at the ticket booth, digesting the "se fue" response with confusion and then anger. Much to our dismay, the bus had left at its scheduled time, which was an hour before our watches read.

I informed Alex of our error and proceeded to throw the tantrum that`s become my emotional signature - no longer cute at age 25. We weigh our options, and being that it`s nearly New Year`s and everything in Bariloche is already booked and we have reservations in Puerto Madryn, we opt for the $350 peso car ride with a driver I will henceforth refer to as Señor. He told us his name, but in my cries of passenger terror all I could mutter was "Aye Señor." Needless to say, Argentines, as well as most of the rest of the world, drive like maniacs.

I`ve since adapted to the eight minute taxi rides, assuring myself that any accident in the city center would more likely produce a pedestrian or cyclist casualty. But I had no such assurance on this 350 kilometer "3 hour" mountain drive to catch the second leg of our bus ride.

As Señor took the serious curves at over 100 km/hour - irregardless of the "60 km maximum velocidad" signs - I white-knuckled my lap-only seatbelt relseasing my vice-like grip only to grasp the seat in front of me and twist my face into a wrinkly ball of fear. Meanwhile, Señor casually types text messages into his phone, plays with the radio, snacks on crackers and fails to wear his own seatbelt, the safer kind that actually goes over the shoulders. Plus, it`s begun to rain.

My anxiety is palpable, and I remind myself that if there is a god, he/she won`t let me die in a head on collision in Argentina with a man I know only as Señor. I`m thinking that maybe we should nix the whole bus ride thing and hole up with the elves in El Bolson, a town less than 25 km. away. And then I see a road mileage sign. I do some quick math and determine that we need to keep at an average speed of 107 km/hour to catch the 10:30 p.m. bus with no time to spare. That can`t be possible. Or so I think.

The road sign throws me to the wolves and I speak up.

"Are there places to stay in El Bolson?" I ask as though I`m actually interested in the detour. "How close is it to here?" I follow up.

Yes and close are his answers, followed by, "¿Por que?"

I tell him that we`re taking the corners too fast, not staying in our own lane, making blind passes and that the oncoming headlights in my same lane is too much to bare. In a nutshell, "Tengo miedo."

He smiles and tells me he makes this drive three times each week, and when he`s alone he does it in two hours and 10 minutes.

I tell him I don`t want to die. He laughs and says that he doesn`t either.

"Why don`t you wear your damned seatbelt then." But I only think this. I don`t want to be rude to the man who has my life in his hands after all.

So I pull out my pen and notebook to write, realizing it`s easier to whiz be kilometer after kilometer with my head down. Plus, no one likes a backseat driver, especiallt this one.

Needless to say, we caught our ride with time to spare. And I even gave Señor a smile and a kiss when he dropped us safely and in one piece at the bus door.