August 9, 2012, Argentina. I spent a few more days soaking in the energy of San Martín de los Andes and found myself particularly inspired by La Pastera, a small memorial dedicated to Che Guevara’s journey across South America and his unwavering commitment to the liberation of the oppressed.

One afternoon, I hiked around the base of the local ski resort and paused to watch a Mapuche cowboy expertly manage a colt and mare. Nearby, a shepherd guided two oxen hauling a large wooden cart—a quiet scene that felt lifted from another century. The next day, I walked toward Junín de los Andes, admiring the beautiful hillside homes, many built in the traditional German style. I stopped in to visit Tatusz one last time and said my goodbyes, feeling a deep sadness knowing I would probably never see him again.

Then came the scramble. My alarm failed to go off, and I nearly missed my bus to El Bolsón—a 6.5-hour ride from San Martín (though just three hours by car). I arrived around 5:15 p.m. and wandered through the town, admiring its charming wooden buildings and the jagged mountain range rising like a wall behind it. El Bolsón sits tucked in a deep valley, and I followed the two-lane road that winds south along the Cordillera all the way to Tierra del Fuego.

At the far end of town, the pavement gave way to forest. I continued on foot toward a wide, shallow river and came upon a Mapuche village under construction. Children darted between homes while men sawed timber and poured concrete. It felt like a community building itself from the roots up.

That night, I stayed at Casa del Árbol, a cozy hostel where I met a young man from Buenos Aires. He’d arrived in El Bolsón on a personal journey and ended up staying to study with a local Mapuche machis—female healers skilled in the use of herbs and medicinal plants. The Mapuche are a deeply resilient Indigenous people who have long resisted colonization and genocide, both in Chile and Argentina.

We shared a rich risotto and good conversation that evening with a few other travelers at the hostel. On my way back from the emerging Mapuche village, I stumbled into a protest in the town’s main plaza—Mapuche leaders and local activists, including dreadlocked hippies, stood side by side protesting groundwater contamination from large-scale corporate gold mining. One protester told me that a significant amount of local water was already undrinkable.

I had hoped to experience the famous Saturday feria, but only caught the very end. I was told that just about everything is sold there. I imagine much of it is handmade by local families—artisanal goods rooted in tradition.

As I walked back along the main road, I was struck by the amount of soot, diesel, and firewood smoke in the air. For a town so environmentally conscious, the pollution was startling. I wrapped a handkerchief around my mouth and closed my eyes, but they still watered—bringing back memories of the smog in Santiago.

I had hoped to visit the nearby lakes, but time ran out. The closest one is about 15 km away and would have required either a car or a bike. As always, there was more to explore than time allowed. Still, I felt grateful to have seen this unique corner of Argentina—raw, rooted, and very much alive.