Upon the enlightenment of knowing that one needs a goat, thou shalt first double-check the meat dispensa (an underground barracks-like area) to be sure that no more rotting goat flesh is still left hanging from its once vivid loins. With confirmation that only flies exist in the dormant space, thou shalt next seek the advice of the all knowing Gaucho Manuel. With a lick of his finger pointed towards the sky and a glance at the sun – Manuel will tell you to visit the Keeper and hence the Killer of the Goats – in short – Hugo. Through threaded thorn bush and scraggly scamper weed one must wander for nigh an hour until the home of the Goat Killer is spotted. A quaint house of adobe and brick that lies beyond, yes you guessed it, a flock of goats. But lest thine flock of goats be roaming amongst scraggly scamper weed – yee shall return on another sun for ´tis past time for killing.

    Fear not ´tis your lucky morn´ as all the goats are accounted for in their pen. The Goat Killer is spotted in the distance – knife in hand, towel in the other. He stays this way nary a movement, until you approach his presence with a typical greeting followed by an atypical request – you ask to kill the goat yourself. Silence shatters as he belts out a laugh loud enought to make goats pee in their pens. They know what is coming. But it looks as though you will not be the doer of the deed.

    Lasso in hand the Goat Killer serenely selects from his stock, whilst you wait beside the pen disillusioned that your opportunity has passed. The moment is heated, not by the sun, but by the focused eyes of the Goat Killer. Gazing at his victims, alas one is selected. Do not waste a second in confusion at the sounds you will hear – a human like ¨Nooooo, Nooooooooooo,¨as if it were mixed with a goat – will pour from the victim´s throat. Tied up and held down, the selection will make no attempt at escape nor hard feelings in your direction. A quick, precise stab to the throat by the Goat Killer followed by a twist of the knife will separate the selection´s major arterial structure along with its trachea. The resulting pool of blood will nary have a chance to coagulate before being eaten by a mangy pack of mutts,  leftovers quickly gobbled up by the chickens. A quick fillet of the skin and separation of internal organs will prove this goat to be yours, but lest yee forget the tariff on this service – half thine goat shall be not for thou but for thoust Killer of Goats.

(Also please note, the Estancia (ranch) is in fact in the middle of nowhere – a 6 hour horseback ride from the nearest dirt road that is another 3 hours from town. Electricity? No.  Running Water? No. Television? No. Highspeed DSL internet connection capable of uploading hi-resolution images of estancia life? Definitely not…. What I am trying to say here is that this travel blog on Argentina will be blank, yep. Nothing zilch nada….until I get back and fill in all of my stories and photos and juicy details etc.. So please, for now, just imagine and choose your own adventure.)

On New Year’s Eve 2009, Mr. Lentz will be awoken by a foreign voice from a drowsy, sleeping pill induced slumber. The stewerdess will be explaining in a bullet paced spanish how to fill out the immigration and importation card to enter the country. If Mr. Lentz is lucky enough to wake up soon enough, he will even hear a broken english version that will guide him and his blurry eyes towards completion. Yes, Mr. Lentz is embarking on a journey no less than a month into the deepest reaches of Patagonian Argentina. His plans to work on a cattle ranch and learn the way of the Gaucho will become realized (if not then at the very least he will experience the way of the Gringo.) Check back often after the 1st of January 2010 for an intravenous (I can write whatever I want people) look into the travels, trials and tribulations of a white American man in a foreign country. Oh yes – and lots of photos will be coming your way.  Click on the tab ‘Argentina’ above to read the adventure in chronological order, much as our modern day books are written. Cheers!

[View with PicLens]

One full day in Switzerland is not enough.
Here’s the summary: Beer: Good, People: Friendly, Scenery: Mind-blowing.

Once upon a little time, in a far off land not previously known to the outside world, there lived a Bug.  This Bug was no ordinary beetle, in fact it chose to stand out from the colony of bugs in a way not uncommon to the winged insect. The Bug was able to flip and flap as loudly as possible and as long as it wanted for so many hours, minutes and seconds during the day. One day the Bug decided to go on a trip, to leave its far off land for another even farther than the first. It can only be assumed that the colony of bugs rejoiced in fits of partying for days on end when the news was heard of the grand departure. The Bug joined another group of bugs on a trip to travel through this newfound land. All was well and all was fine until the first minute of the first hour of the first day of the trip with the new group of other traveling bugs. The Bug decided to show off its special skill at flip flapping its wings, trying to impress the other bugs. The other bugs immediately became aware of the unique skill of the Bug, yet realized they were unprepared for the significance of this talent and so they soon found themselves as captives more than captivated. The Bug flipped and the Bug flapped all through the day during every minute and every second without cease. The other bugs, one in particular, grew wary of this so called ‘talent’ and began to plot the other Bug’s death. Time passed…. and the rest will be left to your imagination. Guten Tag

[View with PicLens]

First of all, remembering 27 other names of people you have never met before and may never see again, is in fact quite a challenge. Now that task multiplied by three (the average amount of information given to you in small talk – job, hometown, kids) becomes even more confusing and somewhat of a distraction from the trip. Don’t get me wrong – there are quite a number of wonderful things about traveling in a large group: for example – being able to eat with someone instead of sitting there pretending like you are reading your guide book, walking along crowded streets with your camera out and snapping away whilst traveling en masse with your group, and forming a massive blockade in order to cross busy streets where pedestrian right of way is more of a joke than a law.
The element about group travel that strikes me as slightly disagreeable pertains specifically to the free time given to roam on our own. Here’s the situation: twenty-eight travelers, one small French country town, and four square blocks of exploring to do. Spread out, that would leave about two travelers, or one couple, per block. Now set those travelers in motion and see what happens (and remember – this early in the trip hardly anyone remembers each other’s names, nor do they know that much about them). What you get is a bunch of people running into each other and repeating the same exact lines: “Isn’t this beautiful”, “Have you eaten yet”, “Are you headed back to the hotel?”. Feeling moderately crazed by this situation, I am calmed by the fact that our bus driver has offered to sell us beer on the bus for $1. Thus – the key to survival is to spend free time purposely getting lost, when the need arrives to travel by bus – buy a few beers, and in the evening relax with a wine or two. Repeat.
The beautiful four square block I was referring to is known to the world (or at least to the local French) as Beaunne. I simply cannot imagine a more picturesque town. And while that may be the wonderful thing about this place – it also happens to be the most disturbing thing as well. You see – Beaunne is too perfect. Just as I had previously thought, everything done in Paris was exceptionally perfect, and now you have Beaunne. Beaunne, the definition of a perfect French town. Now that I had experienced that – I suddenly felt creeped out. It was as if around every corner, in every nook and cranny – a beautiful photograph was awaiting my glistening lens. The problem being that it became immediately clear that every door, window, courtyard and cobblestone street had been photographed at least 10,000 times from every possible angle. Beaunne is just one of those places. A wonderful place to visit, but don’t commit yourself to Utopia until you’ve rented a room first. Get me outta here and into Switzerlandia.