I ROLLED SOUTH on an overnight bus, passing through an increasingly green and rugged landscape. In Pucón, I bunked at "the place that used to be Edi and Shay's." It was yet another dump: beds piled into rooms, gear everywhere, a cybercafé with Hebrew keyboards. Israelis on paragliding outings were landing in the pasture out back. Edi and Shay had recently decamped to the Holy Land, but there was a new Book at the tourism office, with the usual temperate observations in many languages.

I took the next bus out, motoring up curvy roads to the Argentinian border. Watching as the passports were checked, I realized that I was the only American. There were several Latin Americans, a couple of Canadians, even a few Koreans. There were nine Israelis.

"That's because there are 500 million of us," the guy behind me said, exaggerating by a factor of 71. His name was Amatsia. Next to him sat Ayala, a dark-haired physics-and-math double

On the day of the volcano climb, my guides didn't arrive on time. They didn't arrive at all. It's a lack of respect, and can't remain unpunished. —Marcela and María, Pucón, Chile

major who'd delayed her military service until after university. They both got out to join a cluster of Israelis standing in the road. They opened their little notebooks and swapped hotel names and addresses, everyone writing quickly.

Back on the bus, Ayala shared her list of the spots ahead of us. "Apartment 1004," she said, reading the Hebrew glyphs. Aha. So that was the real name of what Elad called "Room 1040." She gave me the address. "In San Martín," she continued, "it's Naum's."

San Martín was our next stop, a resort town surrounded by forests and lakes, just a few hours into Argentina. We piled off the bus at dusk, just as a hefty man on a scooter pulled up: the owner of Naum's himself, Jorge Candel. The ten of us donned our packs and shuffled across town as Jorge puttered ahead. Naum's was easy to spot—it had a menorah in the yard and an electric Star of David hanging over the street.

Jorge had neglected to mention that the hotel was full. There was now a polite discussion, Israeli style: eight people crammed into the office, shouting demands at one another, waving their arms, marching back and forth, and emitting vehement displays of disgust. Apparently several alliances were built only to crumble, and ground was taken, lost, and then regained. After ten minutes there was a sudden eruption of amity, and handshakes all around.

Ayala emerged from the scrum looking stunned. "I had no idea I was going to meet so many Israelis," she said. "I just ran into a guy from high school."

As usual, the deal was cheap and lousy. We paid $5 each to sleep on mattresses in a hallway, between the bathroom and a heater. In the morning we packed into a van to Bariloche. As we pulled away, Jorge reached through the door with a Swiss Army knife.

"Patrick," he said, "if you are really ready to be a Jew, then we have a certain operation for you."

I rolled the van door over his toes.