Malargue Mexican

August 27, 2008

Malargue is like an old western ghost town in a bad movie between siesta hours of 1pm and 4pm. When the old Andestur bus rolled into this one stoplight town the streets were barren and the shops locked up tight. A stiff breeze was blowing down the main street stirring up little dust tornados and scutteling loose papers and plastic bags in it{s path. The white pitches of the Andes could be seen far off to the north and south as one looked up and down the empty main street.
A lanky mexican, smoking swede, and my straggly self were deposited along with our luggage at a one room bus station on the outskirts of town to fend for ourselves.
Despite the town{s apparent sleep and desolation, Malargue was only an hour{s drive from the acclaimed Las Leñas, [Best ski resort in South America[. I had alighted in Malargue along with the rest of my motley crue to take advantage of the town{s cheaper lodging options outside the high priced resort.
The hostel I landed in [city hostel[ put the term basic to the test. I generaly consider a mirror, bar of soap, night table, and towel basic appropriations, but of these there was none. In an aged wood paneled room the only furnishings to be found were three single beds, and two wooden racks affixed to the walls to serve as the barest form of a closet. THe perk of the room is that it has a gas heater which keeps the room nice and toasty, and even too warm at night.
I was bemoaning the lack of the bare necessities on the bus ride home from our first day on the slopes when the Mexican told me to, [stop complaining, it was cheap[, he said. At the equivalent of 11$ a night, he was right.