The underrated sound of silence

A bus took us round meandering long corners and sharp curves on our way to San Carlos de Bariloche, which rests at the foothills of the Andes, until we finally reached Argentina’s answer to the Lake District. Snow-capped mountains lay in the distance as we rumbled towards our destination, huge geographical reliefs looming in the bright blue sky. The chill of the air began to cut through our clothes. However, the undisputed masterpiece of the area, an unbelievably beautiful lake named Nahuel Huapi, quickly removed us from this vapid distraction.

Bariloche town centre revolves around this vision of the lake, with its log cabins, chocolate shops, youths in snowboard gear with backwards caps, women in high-class winter knitwear, and countless schoolchildren stumbling in to buy huge boxes of bonbons. However, if you step out of this clamour of distraction and noise and walk only ten minutes to the edge of the lake, you can be beside a wrecked jetty, parts of which have broken off in the charging waves, or sit on a swing watching windsurfers navigate the choppy water.

On our first full day we decided, perhaps foolishly, to attempt the ‘seven lakes challenge’ – a twenty-four kilometre bike ride cutting through the Argentinean National Park. Given that it had been the best part of ten years since I had ridden any form of bicycle – and this was a circuit involving a sharp incline, several exhilarating turns and equally dangerous downward slopes – this was definitely risky. At the very start I doubted several times whether I could do it and was soon cursing my saddle sores and unfit muscles. Yet whether getting off to push my bike uphill, or letting the air fly through the vents in my helmet as we hurtled downhill, I motivated myself to ride around this gruelling circuit. The reward was breathtaking.

Snow peaked between the pine trees, with pink cherry blossom forming a fringe at the top of our perspective. At the pinnacle of each hill we rode up was a stunning view across the land. As we wearily pedalled slowly back to the bicycle rental shop after completing the distance, wheels wavering with fatigue, a sense of achievement filled our being. Becoming one with the surroundings, breathing the mountain air, sweating on the peaks of the hills and letting our future be carried by two tyres bouncing over the rocky ground underfoot, we felt a sense of freedom unsurpassed by that experienced within a city boundary.

In the evening we decided to try the local nightlife. Think small bars sitting on rocky mounds surrounded by a disused beach, decorated with fairy lights, housing a strange reggae music scene where local Argentineans, schoolchildren and tourists sway to Bob Marley remixes. The smell of marijuana drifts throughout the vicinity. Used condoms litter the beachfront outside in dirt piles beside the water’s edge, incongruous with the natural beauty. There were too many people: it felt incredibly claustrophobic. Dodging drunken over-amorous affection we ended up slipping out to find peace in the night air.

We eventually slept, and the next morning decided to hike up to the summit of Cerro Campanario, a viewpoint situated seventeen kilometres outside of Bariloche. After climbing a short yet steep hike for forty minutes we staggered up to the peak. From the top we were compensated by a view of expansive forestry and tiny houses clustered on the edges of large bodies of water. The sun sat high in the sky, causing the water to sparkle around us. Enclosing the scene were a full house of majestic snow-covered mountains.

Here, we took a moment to perch upon a rock and gaze upon what lay before us. With the world at our feet and the trees in utter stillness beside us, it became apparent what we had gained the most from Bariloche, a new-found appreciation for that most elusive of elements, something we had been seeking for a while: the simple sound of silence.