El Bolson. The land of milk and honey.
After Bariloche, we took a quick 2-hour bus ride to a little town called El Bolsón. This magical town charmed Jenny and I from the first moment we arrived. How could you not love a place that offers sunny weather, jagged mountains sweeping across the horizon, miniature ponies in the park, and artisanal ice cream in fruit flavors never before heard of?!
Move over Blue Bell, Jauja Ice Cream could give you a run for your money.
Although we didn’t, we were told by many locals that it’s even safe to hitchhike here. What an odd and wonderful place.
Berry-stained hands are easy to come by in El Bolsón, because wild blackberries grow like weeds along the side of the road and in the parks.
While hiking in Lago Puelo National Park, our path was lined with ripe blackberry bushes. Most of the easy to reach berries had already been snagged by other hungry tourists, so the majority of the berries left required a little work. The plump berries basically called out to be picked. They taunted me with their juiciness and left me no choice but to ignore the many thorn pricks and pick as many as I could possibly stomach. I gave myself a stomachache but didn’t care. They were the sweetest berries I have ever had.
Picking wild blackberries with our friend Amanda.
Frequent farmer’s markets and art fairs help cultivate the laid-back vibe this town is known for. It’s easy to lose yourself here and imagine that this is what San Francisco in the 60’s must have felt like, except without all the protesting. While strolling around the park, you see hippies happily banging on bongo drums and making hemp necklaces, among other things. Funny that their fire prevention group is called S.P.L.I.F.
Our hostel ended up being farther away than we realized. It was an hour’s walk or 20 minute cab ride! We were a little irritated at first, but got over it after seeing how nice the hostel’s kitchen was. The hour walk ended up being scenic, and we figured we could use the exercise after all the dulce de leche we’ve been eating.
Cute little mountain house we saw on our long walk to town everyday.
The lady at our hostel suggested we go to the Río Azul and visit a locally loved swimming spot. It was easy to find. We crossed a narrow, hanging bridge, followed the river down and stumbled upon a wide spot in the river, which seemed perfect for swimming. But first, a few words about that bridge. Only one person was allowed to cross the bridge at a time. As I crossed, I tried not to think about how the bridge was no more than a random collection of wooden boards tied together with wires. Some of the boards had holes in them and the bridge was susceptible to the whims of El Bolsón’s afternoon wind.
Jenny crossing the bridge.
The locals call the swimming spot El Paraíso” (paradise) and as soon as I got there, I understood why. The water was a gorgeous, shimmering turquoise color. You could stand at the edge of the river and peer down at least 20 feet to see trout swimming about. There were a few other people there, but no one was in the water. I quickly realized why when I dipped my foot in. The phrase ‘ice cold’ is quite appropriate in this case. Turns out there is a big glacier a few kilometers up the river, and this water is fresh glacier melt. We saw one brave, burly Brit who decided to go for it. He jumped in and screamed “SHIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!”. After seeing that, I just couldn’t man up. I read my book on a rock and worked on my tan.
El Paraíso in Río Azul.
Four of our six days in El Bolsón were spent wandering around the farmer’s/craft market. Local artists peddled their wares and local farmers sold their delicious produce.
Berry salesman at the farmer’s market.
We ate very well at the farmer’s market. Ground beef, steak, chicken, and capresse were just a few of the empanada varieties available. Carts boasting steak sandwiches, fresh vegetable pies, pizza, and several kinds of fresh-squeezed berry juices lined the park sidewalks.
Fresh raspberry juice, anyone?
It was like I had died and ended up in food heaven, where they have things like fresh grilled Belgian waffles, covered in blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and fresh whipped cream. I washed it all down with a local microbrew and thanked the food gods for smiling upon me.
Waffle sandwiches are my new religion.
More delicious pics:
About me
After two and a half years of staying put, the travel bug has reared its head once again. This blog is all about me scratching that travel itch and seeing what the world has in store for this restless 25-year old.
