El Bolson, Argentina

A few weeks ago, a tired and beaten-looking Argentinian who was sitting next to me and gazing dejectedly out the window of our bus said, without looking at me, "This country is run by dogs," to which I responded very enthusiastically by reeling off everything I knew about Peron, The Dirty War, San Martin, and a whole host of other tumultuous episodes in Argentine history. He looked at me, a little puzzled, and then pointed out the window toward a kind of ragged shanty town that we were passing.

"No," he said. "I mean dogs."

He was right. There wasn´t a human being in sight but the little township was abustle with canines of all shapes and sizes, methodically conducting their business.

After that, I took notice in nearly every town. Esquel was swarming with dogs. Perrito Morena, too. El Chalten and Ushuia and Rio May were all crawling with dogs which I wouldn´t call strays, since they more or less act like they own the places. Often times you´ll see the same ones day in and day out, hanging around their favorite restaurants, parks, and bars.

But nowhere has been like this. They´re plotting something here. I´m sure of it. My Israeli roommate got bitten. They´ve been following me everywhere I go. When there´s not one following me, I can feel them watching from behind bushes and around corners. At night, lying in bed, you can hear them in the streets. Thousands of them. Barking and growling and shouting and plotting. It´s otherworldly. Sometimes it feels like you can understand what they´re saying, and what they appear to be saying is, "Take heed, humans! Your time is very fucking nigh!"

Yesterday I wandered south of town to a little-visited area in search of a brewerey (cerveceria) that´s supposed to be out there. I came upon a pack of about fifteen dogs who obviously didn´t expect to be disturbed or interrupted so far from town, and who immediately set upon me. I narrowly escaped with all my body parts by hauling ass across the street and clumsily imitating a kind of clucking sound with my teeth and tongue that I heard the owner of the hostel (who clearly is either a co-conspirator or made some kind of deal) making the other day. These particular dogs were extra fierce- and intelligent-looking. I think they were the leaders of the movement. The core of the junta, if you will. I really need to get out of here before the shit hits the fan.

In other news, yesterday marked the first day of the "Fifth International El Bolson Jazz Festival." It´s international because there´s a pretty ragged old British ex-pat baritone sax player who´s been hanging around here for a few decades. The rest of the acts were all local. In the afternoon, I witnessed a rather awful but still exciting free jazz experiment between the sax player and a pianist. When I learned that they were playing again at midnight in a bar I figured I´d go to see what kind of dangerous things would ensue. I was both delighted and disappointed to show up at the bar several hours later, knock back a few drinks, and watch these free jazz experimentalists play the *exact same disjointed atonal set* note for note.

Truly a thing of beauty.

A British woman shushed me twice during this display and I couldn´t help but laugh.

Now, it´s time to find a bus. The dogs are barking. I can see them in the streets. I can hear them in my head. I can feel them in my shoes. Our time is running out.