Fear and Groaning near Los Andes

The flight to Santiago, Chile took an agonizing 11 hours. I slept for 1 of those and felt appropriately grim. LAN Airlines Chile served us well though and the seats, food and onboard facilities were good. Perhaps the plane’s most impressive feature however was its time travel capability. We took off at 4pm Friday, flew for 11 hours and landed at 11am Friday – not a bad service: Complementary food, drinks, films and an extra Friday for good measure.

After spending 6 weeks in the safe and familiar surroundings of Australia and New Zealand we knew South America was going to be a totally different experience. Stress wasn’t an emotion we had had to deal with for a while. That soon changed. As soon as we left the calm sanctuary of the airport, wide eyed and western, we were duly surrounded by the hustling airport transfer bus drivers and taxi men who tried their best to persuade us to get an expensive private transfer to town. We resisted, and hopped on the 50p bus. We were a little nervous, and our main fear was getting mugged. Violently mugged. The South American guide books all warn of (petty) crime and advise common sense and caution. Like in China, we were the only blonde northern Europeans around, so we felt conspicuous and therefore vulnerable – especially after withdrawing 200,000 Chilean Pesos (£200) at the ATM. I was convinced that I would have to display my masterful Kung Fu skills at any moment, and kept running through the mugging action sequence in my mind… As you may know I’m not renowned for my acts of violence, so all these thoughts and fears were an unwanted addition to my already exhausted body and soul. At least the adrenalin kept us awake. As we walked a few blocks to our hostel, the City felt pretty safe. So we were suffering a little from paranoia – it doesn’t hurt to be cautious does it? One should be when one finds oneself on foreign soil – thousands of miles from the Empire!

We (timidly) strolled the streets, lunched on a 900 peso (90p) empanada (latino Cornish Pastie), and a takeaway Pizza for dinner. Our bedroom was beyond basic – bed, doorless wardrobe and a light, but the hostel itself had a good homely atmosphere. We chatted to some nice English folk and an odd but highly helpful Spanish translator who gave us some reccomendations for our ongoing trip, which was uncertain. We found ourselves at a cross roads. Go north to the Atacama Desert, northern Argentina then south to Buenos Aires, OR take the shorter (and surely less exhausting) route across to the Argentine wine capital of Mendoza and then on to Buenos Aires. In our jet-lagged state we opted for the latter, easier option – which we regretted the next day as we felt far more alert. And so we left Chile after only 2 days, bound for Mendoza, Argentina with only the Andes in our way.

The drive up was spectacular and a bit upsetting, as I knew I may never see Los Andes again. I was in a sulky mood, which soon descended into a full on strop when we reached the biggest obstacle on the mountain pass – the border control. It took nearly 2 hours to be processed by a team of infuriatingly slow and casual border guards in a cold and dismal warehouse/car park. I was struggling to feel buoyant as we finally descended into the shadow of the mountains, beyond their eastern face and into Mendoza’s bus terminal. We took a taxi to our centrally located hostel, and were encouraged by the look and feel of the City. We had heard positive remarks of this place and they looked to be well founded, with plenty of cafe’s, restaurants, plazas and attractive old buildings.

We joined a wine tour, visiting a massive industrial scale winery and a small family run organic one, as well as an olive oil factory. Both had good wines to taste, and I bought some very nice red stuff for 30 Argentine Pesos/a fiver. Things were looking up. That night we dined at a posh restaurant next door and ate very tasty £5 steaks with a £4 bottle of wine, served by a very friendly waitor who helped us learn the Spanish for “ice bucket” – we may be backpacking, but damn it we want our Sauvignon Blanc chilled! It felt good to be civilised.

Since Auckland I had felt the increasing onset of a sort of traveller’s fatigue. I was beginning to loathe staying in hostels. The crusties, the hyperactive European teenagers, the shared kitchens, the dirt. It was all starting to get me down, and i was feeling a distinct loss of stamina and enthusiasm. On our second day in Mendoza for example, I actually wanted to loaf about in the hostel all day rather than venture out. Was I metamorphosing into the aforementioned crusty? No, surely not, but I think I was/am fed up with living out of a bag. So, we caught a bus an hour out of town to the Cacheuta hot springs and luckily bumped into a friendly Spanish speaking Dutch couple who helped us find a Spa. Oddly situated at the end of a dusty disused railtrack was this luxury Hotel and thermal spa set in a beautiful canyon. 30 quid each and not a crusty in sight. We wore clean bath robes and lazed in the hot pools. A gigantic buffet lunch was included, which, still enrobed in our gowns, we devoured like Greek aristocrats. This felt good.

Ten hours later however, Siobhan felt less than good and endured a night on the toilet for her sins. We think it may have been caused by a malevolent quiche. That was quite a night. Hopefully the 13 hour bus ride to Buenos Aires will be less dramatic.

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