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| Cliffs, by Carol L. Douglas, 12X16, available. |
A tale
of woe from Peru validates our decision to ride out our quarantine here in El
Chaltén. Whether the situation there is as dire as the Washington Post makes it
sound, I don’t know, but the lead paragraphs are of all parties behaving badly.
Our experience couldn’t be more different.
Buenos Aires is a city of 15 million people, where
we would be burrs under the saddle of a nation struggling to keep its people
safe. Here, we can be what we actually are: harmless painters. I have faith in
the world’s economy (although I marvel at the speed at which it’s become
unhinged). An important part of that is air travel. Our international travel network
will be back, adjusted for coronavirus. And then we will be home.
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| Cowpath, by Carol L. Douglas, 9X12, available. |
Meanwhile, even the most peculiar circumstances become habitual
when repeated. We eat breakfast together, Kellee Mayfield takes our
temperature, and then we scatter along the Rio Blanco to paint. Luncheon is purely
ad hoc; most of us, I think, are subsisting on caramels, apples, and the
remains of a bag of potato chips. Like the Biblical loaves and fishes, those
chips survive day after day. At 7:30 we gather for supper, which Cristina,
Guillermo, Sergio and Pablo (the only remaining Argentines among us) conjure
from supplies.
My husband faces a deadline, so he’s working. It doesn’t
matter to him whether he’s in Maine or Patagonia; he can still teleconference
and work with his computer in Rochester, NY. Katie Cundiff is teaching her college classes
at Ringling online. She is seventy
years old, but quickly adapting to the idea of teaching online. Every day, Jane Chapin talks to Dahlia, her new BFF
at the American Embassy in Buenos Aires. The time seems to drag for Alexander,
who can’t work remotely and isn’t a painter. But we’ve all settled into our
routine. “It’s like the movie ‘Groundhog Day,’” Kellee said.
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| Cerro Electrico from the path to the National Park, by Carol L. Douglas, 11X14, available. |
Over the weekend, we’ve developed a plan. It involves
jerry-cans of gasoline and a seven-hour drive to Rio Gallegos, the capital of
Santa Cruz Province, just as soon as we’ve cleared quarantine.
There is just one gas station along the way. This being
rural Argentina, it may or may not be open. Against that possibility, Guillermo
will supply us with gas, which we’ll stow in Kellee’s car before we leave. “If
you can fill up, then leave the cans for someone else,” he said. That’s only
one way in a thousand that Guillermo and Cristina have demonstrated their
wonderful kindness.
I have one reservation: my scruples have not yet eroded to
the point of stealing a car, especially from someone as kind-hearted as
Sebastian from Avis. We really must clear this with him first. “I will call,”
said Cristina. “But it can wait until Monday.” Panic? None of that here.
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| Rio Blanco, by Carol L. Douglas, 9X12, available. |
Today, Guillermo will teach us how to pour from a jerry-can
into a gas tank in the inevitable high winds of Patagonia. Apparently, this
involves using a one-liter soda bottle as a funnel, but the aperture is cut on
the side, not the top. The tires on these cars are nothing to write home about,
but each of them has a full-size spare. As we’re leaving at 4 AM, there will
need to be a wingman watching for vicuña. They inhabit the biological niche of
white-tailed deer in the US: roadkill. “Drive down the middle of the road and
follow the line,” said Guillermo.
A note from a friend in the United States gave me
calculations on how much toilet paper is necessary to survive quarantine.
According to Georgia-Pacific, a 2-person household will need about nine double
rolls for 14 days. We are using nowhere near that much. We can't flush toilet
paper here; the septic system isn’t up to it. (This is no surprise; there is
very little topsoil here, just glacial till and granite outcropping.) Used
tissue goes in a small, lined receptacle that is emptied daily. It's amazing
how much that cuts one's consumption.
Water, however, is not a problem. There is a cistern at the
top of the hill. It serves to pressurize the water system, exactly the same way
a water tower works in a city. After inspecting the cistern and marveling at
the ingenuity of running plastic lines up the hillside, we set up to paint. There
are spectacular views of several peaks and glaciers. On a clear day, you can
see to Chile. I couldn’t help it; I broke out into song. The hills are alive
with the Sound of Music.
