A weathered hippy in the Patagonia mountains made his humble house a home for any struggling heart that rambled through his town. At Fede's place we found a common ground.
He drove a taxi down those dusty gravel roads, and with the winds of El Bolsón, he'd pick you up, and then he'd help you travel on. Yeah, Fede catered to the ones who roam.
Oh, ai. Oh, oh. Oh, ai. Oh, oh.
His room a tent pitched on the wood floor of his attick, and all the floor space that remained was for folks like us who'd found a place to stay. His open arms gave shelter from the rain.
The only real rooms in his house were for his mother and his daughter of 15, he cared for them if only with a meager means. In certain ways he let 'em live like queens.
Oh, ai. Oh, oh. Oh, ai. Oh, oh.
I give thanks to folks like Fede, to those who've got a story to tell. And even thought their lives aren't perfect, Lord, at least they live 'em well.
His sanctuary was a refuge in the mountains, el Refugio Retamal. Be it spring or be it fall, he'd make that haul. He listened to the mountain when it called.
That's where he woke up on the day before he died. It was the last place that he went, he hiked back down, and then he bid the world goodbye. And he left a many friend back here to cry. Well, I'm glad to say he was a friend of mine.
I give thanks to folks like Fede, to those who've got a story to tell. And even though their lives aren't perfect, Lord, at least they live 'em well.