Over the Andes

This post is liberally and randomly dotted with pretty pictures in dubious chronological order, as I can't remember which is from where.

We got from Mendoza to Santiago by way of coach, taking the winding road over the Andes mountains.  The terminal in Mendoza is a bit demented - 40 bus ranks, countless offices for bus and tour firms, money changers, water and empanada sellers etc..  More alarmingly, our bus wasn't on the departure schedule.  The bod in the ticket office helpfully drew a circle around the departure time on my printed-off voucher, which did little to assuage my doubts about the coach's actual existence.   Ultimately a bus did turn up, and we handed our bags over to the porter loading the luggage bay - along with half my surplus pesos for his trouble. They don't work for the bus companies, they just work for tips.  Anyone handling the bodybags when they've not been calibrated for domestic flight deserves my groats.

We had booked our seats ahead of time and had managed to reserve two at the top and front.  If you're making a trip as dramatic as this one, you want the view.  Our compatriots in the other two front seats were a friendly and chatty Irish bloke who was resident in Buenos Aires and therefore spoke a helpful amount of Spanish, and a middle-aged American guy who was pleasant enough but was also perhaps not entirely there.  He had the perpetual open-mouthed grin of the recently sedated or of serial killers. I think perhaps that the wheel was turning but the hamster was likely dead. 

The border is an adventure in endurance bureaucracy.  It looks even worse if you're doing it by car -we saw tailbacks for an easy three miles.  We had it easy by comparison in that the buses just drove around the cars and queue up outside a large hanger.  Bus by bus we disembarked and joined a spider of lines leading to desks variously staffed by Argentine and Chilean immigration staff.  The idea was that you got signed out by the Argies and stamped in by the Chileans.  It worked after a fashion.

Then we were paraded into another room with sinister looking metal table and a massive x-ray machine.  There we laid out any carry-on bags and waited while they dragged off our luggage from the bus and ran it through the machine.  We were in attendance in case they wanted to look inside.  Meanwhile, they go over the bus with a fine toothed comb and a team of very distractable dogs.  The point of all of this is partially to look for the normal contraband, but mainly to stop the import of biological matter like diary, meat, plants and untreated wood.  They're serious about it too.  Non of the various paramilitary-looking constabularies and government agents we've encountered in South America look half as geared up for war as the Chilean Ministry of Agriculture.

After a modest hour and a bit (the bus companies allow something like 1-3 hours for the border crossing on their schedule), we were back on our way.  At this point they passed around a hat for tips for the guys who handled our bags at border control.  I was prepped for this, so they got got the other half of my Argie monopoly money.  It's best to lose that benighted currency before you reach civilisation.

You have one job and you suck at it

On the other side,  the road winds perilously around sheer drops a dozen or so times.  This is made all the more fun by being on a duble-decker coach.  The scenery is spectacular on the way through; white peaks and rivers of snow melt all around.

As the scenery gets a bit more conventional once you've reached the bottom, they play a couple of films on the bus TV screens.  They played that new National Lampoon's film, which I'm pretty sure isn't on general release.  Their copy had Spanish subtitles overlaid on top of Chinese subtitles, which meant one of the staff had plainly Bittorrented it on his down time.  

The bus terminal in Santiago was another level of ridiculous. It was 20 coaches crammed into the space of 8, all of whom apparently on a mission to be the biggest possible obstacle. I'll talk more about Santiago in a bit because we're coming back here after a brief stint in the Atacama desert.   

Kurzfassung auf Deutsch:  Wir überquerten die Anden mit dem Bus. Der Kerl, der neben mir saß, war vielleicht ein bisschen dumm.
Die Aussicht war wunderschön, aber die Grenze Bürokratie war lächerlich.

Tough on wine, tough on the causes of wine.

We had a couple of days in Bariloche, so I took the opportunity to get some laundry done.  Since this lot still resolutely refuse to speak the Queen's, I still had to pantomime an impression of a blithering idiot.  An impression that was done no disservice by me asking -in Spanish- if the launderette lady spoke Spanish. Apparently she did, and rather well as it turns out.  This didn't help me any, but at least it was an icebreaker.

While we were waiting for that, we drove El Shed up to the oddly named Llau Llau, which is a massive hotel and golf resort on a hill, peering over the city.  The chap who built the original Llau Llau (which burned down) was very influencial on the rest of Patagonia, so you'll see buildings in this style all over the place now.  We had afternoon tea again, because miniature cakes and sandwiches are apparently still where it's at.

We dropped El Shed off at the airport, whereupon the wheels exploded, the doors fell off, and twelve clowns jumped out of the boot.  Chan says I've done the clown car joke before, but I'm unconvinced so I'm running with it.

Off you toddle, you export market lemon

The last stop in Argentina was Mendoza, a place you'll have heard of if you like a glass/bottle/crate/cellar (delete as applicable) of Malbec now and then.  We didn't check in until about midnight, as we were in Buenos Aires for five hours waiting for our connection.  This is what happens when you fly with a Chilean airline (LAN) out of Jorge Newbery airport. The state-owned airline, Argentinas Aerolineas, is based out of there and would struggle to make money selling deep-fried heroin in Glasgow, as they are managed by some ridiculous Peronist youth group.  Accordingly, competent competition is afforded every possible discourtesy (when they aren't being kicked out of their hangers), you will find your flight delayed and -when you do board-  you will all be stuffed into one undersized bus and taken to the darkest corner of the airfield.  Aerolineas are still pissing pesos, mind.  Although this did work in our favour when they forgot to charge us for our ridiculous luggage on our flight to Ushuaia. 

As the Bard once said:

"You can call in all the favours with the minister of transport that you like - your airline is still a shower of shit."

Anyhoo, we were in Mendoza.  It's a place that should be a desert but for the vast irrigation system implemented by the natives and perfected by the Spanish in times of yore, which makes it now so suitable for grape and olives.  Our first day was a simple one:  we went to a local restaurant of some renown, drank wine;  we went to a local hotel bar of some renown, drank wine.

The restaurant was the Azafran Restó, where they don't have a wine menu, instead they take you to the cellar and help you pick one according to what you've ordered to eat, price and preference.  Or in Chan's case: whichever has the prettiest label.

"I'll have...the lot"

Then we went to the Park Hyatt, where they apparently did free wine tasting.  They did, but not until half six, and it was barely past lunch time.  So we bought some wine to drink while waiting for the free wine.  There are worse ways to spend the day.

The following day we used the public transport network to get across to the wine-growing area of Maipu, where one can hire a bike and cycle between various vineyards and wine shops at leisure.  Evidently one cannot be drunk-in-charge of a bike here. Or rather you can, but no one's going to book you for it,  and the random open drains on the pavements work as a very efficient moderator.   The bike vendors offer a selection of examples from various stages on the knackered spectrum.  After a few offerings with flat tires, we were given a map and sent on our way.

 

The first stop, Vinoteca La Botella, was fantastic.  For 40 pesos (about 4 quid or 6 US dollars) the bloke there gives you 5 generous glass of wine from local vineyards and throws in a bottle to take with you.  Also for 40 pesos, he'll give you a massive glass of wine and 3 steak empanadas.  This was agreeable.

"This tastes hysterical"

We made our shaky way (both mechanically and physically) up and down Urquiza, trying the local wares.  It was important to try everything,  lest we cause offence.

It's hard being me

Eventually we made our way back, using buses following routes that were confusing enough to start with without being drunk, before they are diverted all over the city because of random road closures due to this being Argentina.

The country has been by far the most awkward in South America: every interaction requires reams of paperwork and three times the amount of time you allow for, and buying goods and services was often tortuous (either they don't take card or you can't find an ATM that functions with foreign cards). But the locals have been very friendly (and often met my blustering gesticulations more than halfway) and the scenary frequently awe-inspiring.

So, back into Chile.

Kurzfassung auf Deutsch: Wir haben eine Besichtigung der Mendoza mit dem Fahrrad gemacht, trinkt viel Wein. Es war toll.  Unsere Reisen in Argentinien sind beendet und wir fahren jetzt nach Chile.

On Ruta 40

So, we flew from El Calafate to San Carlos de Bariloche, where the main attraction is functional internet.  It's another ridiculously picturesque area, surrounded by lakes and snowy mountains.  For this reason it's known as the Switzerland of South America.  Well, that and its fondness for money from fleeing Nazis.

Ruta 40 is a national highway that spans the entire country from Rio Gallagos in the south, to La Quiaca in the north. It's in various states of repair from civilised tarmac to gradually more post-apocalyptic as you move south.  

Originally we were going to drive up from El Calafate, but the one-way fees were ruinous. So we decided to pick up a car and drive up and down the middle 1000km chunk of it as part of our ongoing Patagonian adventure.  Accordingly, we rented the local approximation of a Toyota, the Etios, which was made originally for the Indian market. No red flags there then.  The wiki is amusingly less-than-objective:  

(High road noise and vibration) is due to the cost-cutting construction and lack of insulation materials in the cabin, while build quality is edgy and has a low life expectancy in the long term, which could be interpreted as a vehicle built to be "disposable" after a short number of years. In regards of vibrations, there are some reports from users complaining about retinal detachment, as well as sore backs and split buttocks.

There are gaping holes in the front bumper for the optional fog lights that weren't opted for, but also not blanked, so as to remind you that you're driving the loss-leader.  Oh well, there's no point ruining a nice car on these roads anyway.

El Shed.  Come back Donkey, all is forgiven.

The first (and longest) drive was to Los Antiguos.

Apparently they grow a lot of cherries here. 

Basing ourselves there, we used the following day to travel to the Cueva de las manos (The Cave of Hands) where you'll find prehistoric cave finger-paintings.

The road off NR40 is all gravel and rock, which made for some interesting driving.  El Shed's engine sounds like a constant threat of cataclysmic failure, while juddering enough to make every pebble traversed feel like a reluctant favour it was doing me.  I'm unaware of the normal vent filtration configuration in modern cars, but I don't normally find myself shaking dust out of my hair at my destination as with this one.

The caves live down in a valley, where they have been preserved from the elements over the millennia.

The caves were painted by people of yore making paint out of whatever they had to hand, chewing it all up, and spitting a spray around their fingers.  The earliest date back 11,000 years.

3,000 years later they figured out using two colours by using a white background.  That's progress for you.  

They also figured out using the feet of animals - like the ostrich feet in the middle of the this one.

Then they had a bit of an avantgarde movement and started actually drawing things,  which must've been an exciting time.

What a time to be alive

Half the reason for being in Los Antiguos was to get someone to take us across the border to visit the Cavernas de Mármol (Marble Caves). They are a particularly unusual series of caves and monoliths formed from marble which live in General Carrera Lake (or Lake Buenos Aires depending if you're Chilean or Argentine, respectively), but you need someone to drive you around to Puerto Rio Tranquilo, to then take a boat to the caves in order to see them, as we couldn't take El Shed out of the country.

The various guidebooks and websites would suggest that Los Antiguos is lousy with tour providers, all gasping for your peso.  This is evidently not the case and we were reconciling ourselves to not going when our very jolly but very non-English speaking hotel receptionist managed to organise a last-minute deal with a local tour guide.  They picked us up at twat o'clock the following morning and duly took us on our 13 hour round trip.  Apparently we had to get back before 20:00 because that's when the border closed.  I was unaware borders had office hours -  there's always a surly jobsworth available to scrutinise my passport back home.

Our guides were a very friendly husband and wife team with a minibus: him doing the driving; her doing the nattering.  She spoke all of three words of English, but we managed to get the gist. We pulled over quite regularly so that we and the other couple with us could take photos, but also so that lady guide could smoke with ferocious efficiency.

To the caves - they are very pretty and the lake is really, really blue:

They provided us with a sandwich, but we were ravenous by the time we got back, so I indulged at the local parrilla, where they gave me a voluminous selection of roast beast:

Dear Lord

The next day we travelled back up RN40 to Trevelin (Trefelin in Welsh), one of those mythical 'Welsh' places in Patagonia.

To be honest, Patagonia did feel a bit like Brecon - venturing up into the hills was reminiscent of Sennybridge training area, complete with babies' heads and bastard grass.  The main spoilers of the illusion (aside from the Snowdon-eclipsing mountains everywhere), were the occasional glimpses of the local fauna.

Guanacos - Henceforth referred to by Chantelle as 'Guantanamos' because they're orange 

This armadillo is taking the "I can't see him so he can't see me" approach

Family of ostriches in process of buggering off from El Shed's cacophonous protestations

Back to Trevelin -  I think my Welsh might be marginally less bad than my Spanish (Cymraeg GCSE - D grade), but I'm unsold on how much good it would've been anyway.

Some signs were in Welsh and there were dragons aplenty, but I was unconvinced on the town's overall 'Welshness'.  That is until I saw how the weekend's main activity was apparently cruising around the main plaza roundabout in town in THE most fucked hatchbacks I have ever seen.

I could've watched this all day

"Smoothly does it"

Sick vent, bro

Bonnets are for pussies

I saw a 2CV missing most of it's front end. I saw Fiat Unos with suspension so dropped they literally had to take three attempts to clear a speedbump.  All this while blaring techno from grossly overtaxed stereo systems and wearing a studied expression of absolute cool.  Suddenly it felt very Welsh indeed, albeit Connah's Quay in the mid-90s.
I spotted an XR3i at one point: if it were a dog I would've shot it.

As was apparently required, we had tea at a local tea shop. I think my cred with the roundabout cruisers might have taken a hit.

Just like one would find in Flint

Bit iffy this.  The other tourists in the room were obviously Argentinian tourists and had set about pouring sugar onto the pre-buttered bread.  Seemed to be a toss-up between afternoon tea and an Argie breakfast.  The scones were definitely below par though.  Someone call Amnesty.

That night we stayed in a local cabaña, run by the very chilled Paulo, who was the second hairy man to kiss me in greeting - these foreigners with their foreign ways.  The place was very cozy, with several friendly street dogs who had apparently taken up residence. One quite old example of which gave me the most reproachful look as he crawled from a nice bit of shade under our car the following morning, when I had the audacity to load the boot.

We drove back to Bariloche the following day by way of Ruta 71 -which runs through a national park- as we cannot get enough of those lakes and mountains.

This road turns to gravel and rock as soon as you've paid your fee to enter the park and rounded the corner. At least I got my money's worth from the car's 2 year lifespan

Here's a couple of pretty pictures from the park:

Kurzfassung auf Deutsch: Meine Frau und ich haben sich Ruta 40 angesteuert, um einige Sehenswürdigkeiten zu sehen. Vor allem haben wir entdeckt, dass es eine Enklave der Welsh Menschen, die schreckliche europäischen Autos zu fahren.