From the very south of Argentina we flew up to Buenos Aires, dolled up and went to La Cabrera - perhaps the best steak restaurant in the whole world, and then hopped on an 18 hour night bus to Salta, in the north of Argentina - gaucho country.
The landscape couldn´t be more different from the south. Salta la linda - ´Salta the fair´ - is a pretty city nestled in the foothills of the Andes, surrounded by lush green valleys. After a few quick changes of plan we headed off to a ranch in the hills for some gaucho action. We chugged up in an aging pick-up and arrived at a crumbling ranch, untouched and unrenovated for years with armadillo skeletons on the coffee tables, an ancient record player in the hall with old tango records standing by and dusty old bathrooms with cracked tiles and dubious plumbing.
We didn´t have long to admire this amazing place because before we knew it we were matched up with some fine horses and were off, riding western-style through the long grass in the burning sun. After a short, sedate morning ride in quite a large group it was back to the ranch for a hearty asado (BBQ) where the steak was plentiful and the wine flowed freely. We played with the children and grandchildren of a local family, there were puppies and kittens to cuddle, and baby chicks pecking around our feet. By the end of lunch we were dancing with the kids on the patio and everyone was on a high. In the afternoon the day trippers returned to salta and we went out for another ride with a lovely dutch girl called Susannah. This time, with a smaller group we were able to go for a good long gallop in the lanes near the ranch and we returned to the ranch elated to share a maté with our host, the gaucho Milagro and his wife Alicia.
After a shower in the creaky old bathroom where I was joined by a bat (cue blood-curdling screams and a very frightened bat) we had a lovely dinner in the ranch and drank yet more of the local wine with Alicia and Milagro, muddling through a range of conversations in broken Spanish and English before retiring to our shuttered room for the deepest sleep imaginable.
The next day, Milagro ensured that Mike, Susannah and I had the fastest horses and we went off for another ride, this time climbing a steep hill before galloping along grassy tracks for a few kilometers with our hearts pounding in our chests. It was paradise, and the image of Mike galloping in front of me through the long green grass on his dappled grey horse will be one of my most treasured memories of this whole trip.
Sunday 22 February 2009
Can somebody please remind mother nature that it is summer?
Ah, the Fitz Roy range. Mention the name to any serious climber and they´ll start waxing lyrical about the towering spires of Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy. They have frustrated and confounded many climbers the world over as, though only hovering around 3000m in height, they are two of the hardest mountains in the world to summit, with sheer rock faces of thousands of meters to navigate and relentless winds that sweep through Patagonia all summer long.
Mention the Fitz Roy Range to Mike or I and we´ll wax lyrical about sodden boots, freezing fingers, floating tents and obscured views. The weather was not kind to us.
We had originally planned a four day hike into the mountains with la carpa José, but when we awoke on day one to dark skies, and lashing rain we reverted to plan B - reading Treaure Island in bed, going for a stroll in the afternoon and topping off the day with a slice of the best lemon meringue pie in the world, discovered at a local bakery. On day two however, with the weather unchanged, feeling a bit stir crazy we decided we´d do a 3-day hike anyway, so we set off with a rented stove, a huge pack of supplies and our wet weather gear. We hiked to the camp site, pitched the tent and continued for another few hours up to Lagos de Los Tres, a scenic glacial lake with panoramic views of Cerro Torre. Or, as we were to discover, an icy pool with gale force winds skating across its surface and a view of... well it was difficult to see really with razor blades of icy rain lashing into your eyes.
We returned to the tent, piled up our sodden clothes and boots, cooked dinner and tried to sleep with the thunder and rain howling outside. We did get to sleep eventually and I awoke with the sensation of floating on a luxurious water bed, my bones no longer creaking on the cold hard ground. There was a reason for this sensation - I was floating. A small dam near the tent had burst and we had 20cms of water under the tent. Our boots, left outside to dry, were bobbing like little fishing boats in the flood. Did I forget mention it was Valentine´s day?
Beaten, and with clothes still freezing and wet from the night before, we admitted defeat and skulked back down to a warm bed and more lemon pie. We had three more days, and three more hikes but when we boarded the bus back to El Calafate with the other hikers it was with the disappointment of not having seen either of the peaks. There was a silver lining. As we sped through the Patagonian scrub the bus driver pulled over and shouted to us all to get out. The sun had broken through and we scrambled up a low hill to take our only pictures of the majestic peaks glimpsed through the clouds.
Mention the Fitz Roy Range to Mike or I and we´ll wax lyrical about sodden boots, freezing fingers, floating tents and obscured views. The weather was not kind to us.
We had originally planned a four day hike into the mountains with la carpa José, but when we awoke on day one to dark skies, and lashing rain we reverted to plan B - reading Treaure Island in bed, going for a stroll in the afternoon and topping off the day with a slice of the best lemon meringue pie in the world, discovered at a local bakery. On day two however, with the weather unchanged, feeling a bit stir crazy we decided we´d do a 3-day hike anyway, so we set off with a rented stove, a huge pack of supplies and our wet weather gear. We hiked to the camp site, pitched the tent and continued for another few hours up to Lagos de Los Tres, a scenic glacial lake with panoramic views of Cerro Torre. Or, as we were to discover, an icy pool with gale force winds skating across its surface and a view of... well it was difficult to see really with razor blades of icy rain lashing into your eyes.
We returned to the tent, piled up our sodden clothes and boots, cooked dinner and tried to sleep with the thunder and rain howling outside. We did get to sleep eventually and I awoke with the sensation of floating on a luxurious water bed, my bones no longer creaking on the cold hard ground. There was a reason for this sensation - I was floating. A small dam near the tent had burst and we had 20cms of water under the tent. Our boots, left outside to dry, were bobbing like little fishing boats in the flood. Did I forget mention it was Valentine´s day?
Beaten, and with clothes still freezing and wet from the night before, we admitted defeat and skulked back down to a warm bed and more lemon pie. We had three more days, and three more hikes but when we boarded the bus back to El Calafate with the other hikers it was with the disappointment of not having seen either of the peaks. There was a silver lining. As we sped through the Patagonian scrub the bus driver pulled over and shouted to us all to get out. The sun had broken through and we scrambled up a low hill to take our only pictures of the majestic peaks glimpsed through the clouds.
Saturday 21 February 2009
The furthest south we´ve ever been
From Trelew we hopped on to a very late night bus south. As this is not a major tourist route we were not able to take a luxurious bus so we settled in for 22 hours on a cramped bus with the tantalising aroma of cheese and sweat. They did show movies but they were Chinese martial arts movies dubbed into Spanish and did little to help the hours pass. But pass they eventually did and we found ourselves the following afternoon in El Calafate.
The only reason, so the guide books say, that anyone comes to El Calafate is to see it´s biggest draw, the immense and beautiful Perito Moreno Glacier, but that is not doing the surrounding landscape justice. Rolling hills covered in low brown scrub stetch out into infinity and the glacial lakes - a milky turquoise - reflect the rolling clouds overhead. It is stunning.
Still, true to form, we headed off with half the population of Japan on a tour bus to see the glacier. We were not blessed with good weather. The clouds hung thick overhead and a slight drizzle hampered our sightseeing all morning, but this could not detract from the beauty of the enormous blue glacier creaking and groaning its way towards us. Wrapped up warm we took a boat trip up to the face of the glacier and then spent three hours staring, mesmerised, at its face from one of the many balconies on the facing slope. We were incredibly lucky - with an almighty roar a 60m-high spire carved off right in front of us, sending huge ripples of energy through the lake. At the final hour, as we reluctantly tore ourselves away, the sun broke through the clouds and we were able to see the ice glowing like Superman´s cryptonite in the afternoon light.
The only reason, so the guide books say, that anyone comes to El Calafate is to see it´s biggest draw, the immense and beautiful Perito Moreno Glacier, but that is not doing the surrounding landscape justice. Rolling hills covered in low brown scrub stetch out into infinity and the glacial lakes - a milky turquoise - reflect the rolling clouds overhead. It is stunning.
Still, true to form, we headed off with half the population of Japan on a tour bus to see the glacier. We were not blessed with good weather. The clouds hung thick overhead and a slight drizzle hampered our sightseeing all morning, but this could not detract from the beauty of the enormous blue glacier creaking and groaning its way towards us. Wrapped up warm we took a boat trip up to the face of the glacier and then spent three hours staring, mesmerised, at its face from one of the many balconies on the facing slope. We were incredibly lucky - with an almighty roar a 60m-high spire carved off right in front of us, sending huge ripples of energy through the lake. At the final hour, as we reluctantly tore ourselves away, the sun broke through the clouds and we were able to see the ice glowing like Superman´s cryptonite in the afternoon light.
Welsh cakes and rugby in the Welsh valleys
It was the longest detour we´ve ever made for a Welsh Cake, but it was definitely worth it. From Bariloche we hopped on a night bus to Trelew, a small and rather unimposing town in eastern Patagonia where it´s all about Wales. Welsh flags flutter in the breeze and the ubiquitous dragon snarls on the front of every tourist brochure in sight. The Welsh, according to the tourist literature, ´fleeing persecution by the Englísh´, arrived on these shores in 1865 and went about turning rocks to riches in the dry, dusty valley that snakes inland from Trelew.
We headed to the teeny town of Gaiman where we checked into Plas-y-Coed, a quaint bed and breakfast adorned with framed tea towels of bara brith recipes and Welsh castles. We had a fantastic afternoon wandering around the town´s museums and original houses and chatting to Welsh decendents, most of whom spoke Spanish and Welsh but no English. The highlight of the afternoon was a meeting with Teigai Roberts a beautiful elderly lady with snow-white hair and twinkling blue eyes who worked at the town museum. We began chatting to her in Spanish but when she realised we spoke English we switched languages and she broke out with a perfect Welsh accent, sounding every bit like one of our grandmothers. We were dumbstruck, it was so surreal. She is the grandaughter of one of the original settlers has lived all her life in Argentina, but speaks fluent Welsh and learned English from people who were born in Wales.
She was a fascinating lady and it was difficult to drag ourselves away for the obligatory Gaiman pastime of a ´Té de Gales´ in one of the many tea houses. Now, we´re not really sure afternoon tea is really a Welsh tradition in Wales itself, but who were we to complain when a mountain of cakes arrived on the table, complete with a tea-cosy clad teapot in a room full of yet more pictorial tea towels and love spoons.
Our brief foray into the Welsh valleys was topped off when we managed to watch the first game of the six nations in an amazing bar, once frequented by Butch Cassidy et al and seemingly untouched since then, where the owner agreed to put the match on for us. Mike was beaming like a cheshire cat as he tucked into a lomito and a dark beer and watched Wales slowly plough Scotland into the mud.
We headed to the teeny town of Gaiman where we checked into Plas-y-Coed, a quaint bed and breakfast adorned with framed tea towels of bara brith recipes and Welsh castles. We had a fantastic afternoon wandering around the town´s museums and original houses and chatting to Welsh decendents, most of whom spoke Spanish and Welsh but no English. The highlight of the afternoon was a meeting with Teigai Roberts a beautiful elderly lady with snow-white hair and twinkling blue eyes who worked at the town museum. We began chatting to her in Spanish but when she realised we spoke English we switched languages and she broke out with a perfect Welsh accent, sounding every bit like one of our grandmothers. We were dumbstruck, it was so surreal. She is the grandaughter of one of the original settlers has lived all her life in Argentina, but speaks fluent Welsh and learned English from people who were born in Wales.
She was a fascinating lady and it was difficult to drag ourselves away for the obligatory Gaiman pastime of a ´Té de Gales´ in one of the many tea houses. Now, we´re not really sure afternoon tea is really a Welsh tradition in Wales itself, but who were we to complain when a mountain of cakes arrived on the table, complete with a tea-cosy clad teapot in a room full of yet more pictorial tea towels and love spoons.
Our brief foray into the Welsh valleys was topped off when we managed to watch the first game of the six nations in an amazing bar, once frequented by Butch Cassidy et al and seemingly untouched since then, where the owner agreed to put the match on for us. Mike was beaming like a cheshire cat as he tucked into a lomito and a dark beer and watched Wales slowly plough Scotland into the mud.
Tired feet, wet feet in the lake district
Arriving in Bariloche, for the first time in ages we had to dig to the bottom of our packs for some extra layers as the high mountain air was crisp and clear - a relief after the scorching heat of Mendoza. Bariloche, king of Argentina´s lake district region is a middle-sized town, choked with tourists and alpine architecture ranging from the quaint to the ridiculous. The town planning went awry when the town started to grow as although it sits next to a stunning lake, the main highway through the region runs along the lake shore, severing the town from the delights of the waterside. However, none of this quite removes the charm of the town and the cute chocolate shops and cafés compensate for the drawbacks.
We warmed up with a lovely afternoon of kayaking on nearby Lago Gutierrez (where Mike became the only tourist in the history of Bariloche kayaking to fall out of his kayak) before drawing up a list of kit and supplies, strapping José to our day packs and heading up into the mountains for a three day unguided trek in the Cerro Catedral. I will need to delve to the bottom of my plentiful sack of effusive adjectives to describe this trek. It was truly amazing. We started in dense green forest of native bamboo studded with the skeletal remains of thousands of trees cremated in a forest fire a few years back with views back across Lago Gutierrez. Joined by Martin, a friendly and knowledgable Swiss hiker we took it easy on the first day climbing slowly out of the forest and up to our first night´s stop - Refugio Frey, perched dramatically at the edge of a lagoon on the lip of a plunging drop into the valley below and framed by an amphitheatre of jagged peaks. We pitched the tent in the shelter of a rock wall to protect us from the wind whistling down the face of the rocks and across the lake.
We spent the evening in the cosy refugio, crammed full of hardy climbers and hikers, and tucked in to steak and mash and played cards before we settled in for a chilly night in our two-season sleeping bags with woolly hats on and all of our clothes piled up on top of us for extra warmth.
The next day began with an extremely long, steep ascent up the jagged peaks that had towered above us the previous night. It was tough going, using hands and feet to haul ourselves up to the top with our heavy packs, but the view from the top was ample reward. Mike climbed off to sit on a rock and admire the view and he formed a tiny dot on the wide horizons of steep peaks and lush green valleys and lakes below. From there we had a couple of hours of scree hopping down into the next valley, a very tiring activity where every shred of concentration and thigh power was needed to keep you upright in the ever-mobile scree. We eventually made it to the valley floor where we lounged in the sun in a grassy meadow and ate lunch. Studying the contours on the map it dawned on us that we had repeat session of the morning to reach the evening´s rest camp - straight back up the next mountain and another few hours of navigation down the scree on the other side with screaming muscles and tired feet. By now there were four of us hiking together but on the scree it was every man for himself and no time for chat and we all chose our own path down, eventually reaching a babbling stream in the valley floor where Mike, fastest of the four of us, was already perched on a rock soothing tired feet in the icy water.
We arrived at Refugio Jacob, again perched next to a sparkling lagoon, wrapped up warm and snoozed on a large flat rock next to the lake in the afternoon sun. The evening was spent enjoying homemade pasta by candelight in the bustling refugio.
The next morning we awoke early and were first out of the camp for an 18km sprint back down the valley to catch an early bus back to Baricloche. It was all down hill and fairly easy-going but our muscles were exhausted from the night before and it was a hard slog to get back in time for the bus. Somehow we made it and rewarded ourselves with a tin of cat food and some dry crackers at the bottom.
From Bariloche we picked up a car and headed off on the ´Ruta de Siete Lagos´fabled as Argentina´s most scenic drive past seven beautiful lakes. I am not sure who was doing the counting as there were way more than seven lakes, but who are we to argue. As we headed off the sky darkened and the clouds drew in. Before long the rain was lashing down and the dirt road turned to a quagmyre. We were very tired and aching and very much in need of a warm bed and a hot shower, but this proved to be harder to find than we had hoped. After several u-turns looking for campsites described by the guide books, but no longer in existence, we eventually found a cute little campsite in a farmer´s field. We pitched José in the lashing rain and howling wind, soaked to the skin in seconds. The evening ended well with a boiling hot shower, some lomitos (steak sandwiches) and an Andes Negra (local dark beer) in the farmer´s front room-cum-café. We awoke in the morning to snow in the hills all around us.
Back in the car, and wearing every possible layer we owned, we drove along the route - our views limited by the thick clouds and mist. We stopped for some breakfast at a campsite further on and spent a thoroughly pleasant hour drinking mate with a lovely couple from Buenos Aires before we pushed on through the boggy roads to St Martin de Los Andes, a cutsey alpine-style town with chocolate shops and parrillas (BBQ restaurants) a-plenty. We pitched the tent on the shore of the lake and treated ourselves to a gigantic steak dinner and a lovely bottle of Malbec.
The next day the sun broke through the clouds and as the temperature slowly inched upwards we snaked back to Bariloche along a little-used road past yet more lakes, now sparkling in the sun, and through a stunning deserted valley of enormous phallic rock formations just in time to catch the afternoon bus to the Welsh valleys. The Welsh valleys? More about that later....
We warmed up with a lovely afternoon of kayaking on nearby Lago Gutierrez (where Mike became the only tourist in the history of Bariloche kayaking to fall out of his kayak) before drawing up a list of kit and supplies, strapping José to our day packs and heading up into the mountains for a three day unguided trek in the Cerro Catedral. I will need to delve to the bottom of my plentiful sack of effusive adjectives to describe this trek. It was truly amazing. We started in dense green forest of native bamboo studded with the skeletal remains of thousands of trees cremated in a forest fire a few years back with views back across Lago Gutierrez. Joined by Martin, a friendly and knowledgable Swiss hiker we took it easy on the first day climbing slowly out of the forest and up to our first night´s stop - Refugio Frey, perched dramatically at the edge of a lagoon on the lip of a plunging drop into the valley below and framed by an amphitheatre of jagged peaks. We pitched the tent in the shelter of a rock wall to protect us from the wind whistling down the face of the rocks and across the lake.
We spent the evening in the cosy refugio, crammed full of hardy climbers and hikers, and tucked in to steak and mash and played cards before we settled in for a chilly night in our two-season sleeping bags with woolly hats on and all of our clothes piled up on top of us for extra warmth.
The next day began with an extremely long, steep ascent up the jagged peaks that had towered above us the previous night. It was tough going, using hands and feet to haul ourselves up to the top with our heavy packs, but the view from the top was ample reward. Mike climbed off to sit on a rock and admire the view and he formed a tiny dot on the wide horizons of steep peaks and lush green valleys and lakes below. From there we had a couple of hours of scree hopping down into the next valley, a very tiring activity where every shred of concentration and thigh power was needed to keep you upright in the ever-mobile scree. We eventually made it to the valley floor where we lounged in the sun in a grassy meadow and ate lunch. Studying the contours on the map it dawned on us that we had repeat session of the morning to reach the evening´s rest camp - straight back up the next mountain and another few hours of navigation down the scree on the other side with screaming muscles and tired feet. By now there were four of us hiking together but on the scree it was every man for himself and no time for chat and we all chose our own path down, eventually reaching a babbling stream in the valley floor where Mike, fastest of the four of us, was already perched on a rock soothing tired feet in the icy water.
We arrived at Refugio Jacob, again perched next to a sparkling lagoon, wrapped up warm and snoozed on a large flat rock next to the lake in the afternoon sun. The evening was spent enjoying homemade pasta by candelight in the bustling refugio.
The next morning we awoke early and were first out of the camp for an 18km sprint back down the valley to catch an early bus back to Baricloche. It was all down hill and fairly easy-going but our muscles were exhausted from the night before and it was a hard slog to get back in time for the bus. Somehow we made it and rewarded ourselves with a tin of cat food and some dry crackers at the bottom.
From Bariloche we picked up a car and headed off on the ´Ruta de Siete Lagos´fabled as Argentina´s most scenic drive past seven beautiful lakes. I am not sure who was doing the counting as there were way more than seven lakes, but who are we to argue. As we headed off the sky darkened and the clouds drew in. Before long the rain was lashing down and the dirt road turned to a quagmyre. We were very tired and aching and very much in need of a warm bed and a hot shower, but this proved to be harder to find than we had hoped. After several u-turns looking for campsites described by the guide books, but no longer in existence, we eventually found a cute little campsite in a farmer´s field. We pitched José in the lashing rain and howling wind, soaked to the skin in seconds. The evening ended well with a boiling hot shower, some lomitos (steak sandwiches) and an Andes Negra (local dark beer) in the farmer´s front room-cum-café. We awoke in the morning to snow in the hills all around us.
Back in the car, and wearing every possible layer we owned, we drove along the route - our views limited by the thick clouds and mist. We stopped for some breakfast at a campsite further on and spent a thoroughly pleasant hour drinking mate with a lovely couple from Buenos Aires before we pushed on through the boggy roads to St Martin de Los Andes, a cutsey alpine-style town with chocolate shops and parrillas (BBQ restaurants) a-plenty. We pitched the tent on the shore of the lake and treated ourselves to a gigantic steak dinner and a lovely bottle of Malbec.
The next day the sun broke through the clouds and as the temperature slowly inched upwards we snaked back to Bariloche along a little-used road past yet more lakes, now sparkling in the sun, and through a stunning deserted valley of enormous phallic rock formations just in time to catch the afternoon bus to the Welsh valleys. The Welsh valleys? More about that later....
Monday 16 February 2009
First class to Mendoza
I never really thought I would find myself opening a blog entry with description of a bus journey, but until this moment I had never had the unparalleled experience of travelling first class on the night bus in Argentina. It´s almost like flying first class. Slightly camp and enthusiastically attentive trolly hombre? Check. Fully reclining leather seats? Check. Unlimited drinks? Check. In-´flight´ Bingo? Check. OK, I am perhaps running out of parallels with Emirates 1st class, but you get the picture. This is bus travel as you´ve never seen before. We were given bibs to put on while we ate our food, we were given a tray of sandwiches, cakes and salads, and scoffed the lot before realising that this was just the starter and we would also receive hot food and a pudding. All in all, in the safe hands of Diego we arrived in Mendoza 14 hours later feeling remarkably fresh and well rested.
Argentina is no longer the land of plenty with 5 dollar steaks the size of a baby´s leg and cheap accommodation in cosy guest houses. Prices in 2005 were a fifth of today´s prices and prices have doubled in the last 12 months. This put paid to our original plans as double rooms in hostels were suddenly out of our price range so we went back to the drawing board and acquired José, a replacement for the much-loved Oh Vee which we left in London when we popped back in December. José is slightly more palatial than his predecessor. You can sit up in him, and roll over - sometimes it´s even possible to sleep.
So with José lashed to the side of Mike´s bag we set off around Mendoza province in a tiny hire car. First stop was the small spa town of Cacheuta which was quite frankly bizarre. A dusty dead-end town with not a scrap of shade where the 40 degree sun burned the red earth and a brown river snaked through a deep gorge. Gusts of wind whipped the dust into mini cyclones and wild dogs chased each other up the main, and only street. Argentine holiday makers were not to be deterred. They coughed up four quid each to squash in to barbed wire pens along the riverside with hundreds of other holiday makers, eat picnics and swelter. We didn´t linger.
We headed on to Potrerillos a small town in the foothills of the Andes which had had a recent surge of popularity when the river was dammed to create a huge and beautiful azure lake. We found an amazing campsite with a babbling stream and green grass sprinkled with daisies swaying under heavily-laden apple trees. A bay pony mowed the grass while puppies frolicked around its feet. We were immediately mobbed by the children of the owners who gave us the impression that gringos-under-canvas are in short supply. A pretty, rosie-cheeked imp called Abril followed me around for the 2 night of our stay chattering in spanish and the few words of english that she knew. Paradise in the Andes.
From there we drove higher and higher into mountains through expansive landscapes of multi-coloured rocks and trekked to the base camp of Acocagua, the largest mountain outside of the Andes. The base camp at over 3400 metres was a challenge in itself as the climb was steep and the sun unrelenting and we had nothing but respect for the climbers waiting at camp to acclimatise before attempting an ascent to the summit at almost seven thousand meters. From there we spent the night in Upsallata, once graced by the great Mr Pitt whilst filming for Seven Years in Tibet. I am not sure if he stayed in the same campsite as us which was carpeted with spilt rubbish and lorded over by a pack of overly-friendly stray dogs.
From there we zoomed to the a town called San Rafael, a few hundred kilometres of Mendoza and a successful wine growing region where we were yet again the only gringos in the local campsite. We pottered around the countryside, tried ´cool river´ in the local rapids (basically it´s you and a life jacket with an inflatable boogie board to hang on to bouncing down the rapids), we swam in some stunningly beautiful lakes and drove in the scorching heat through the stunning Canon del Atuel past amazing rock formations. We also managed to fit in some time to quaff some of the local wines.
After that we whipped back up to Mendoza for an afternoon´s wine tour around some of the regions best bodegas before hopping on to a night bus to Bariloche where we were treated to an incredible electric storm over the Andes.
Argentina is no longer the land of plenty with 5 dollar steaks the size of a baby´s leg and cheap accommodation in cosy guest houses. Prices in 2005 were a fifth of today´s prices and prices have doubled in the last 12 months. This put paid to our original plans as double rooms in hostels were suddenly out of our price range so we went back to the drawing board and acquired José, a replacement for the much-loved Oh Vee which we left in London when we popped back in December. José is slightly more palatial than his predecessor. You can sit up in him, and roll over - sometimes it´s even possible to sleep.
So with José lashed to the side of Mike´s bag we set off around Mendoza province in a tiny hire car. First stop was the small spa town of Cacheuta which was quite frankly bizarre. A dusty dead-end town with not a scrap of shade where the 40 degree sun burned the red earth and a brown river snaked through a deep gorge. Gusts of wind whipped the dust into mini cyclones and wild dogs chased each other up the main, and only street. Argentine holiday makers were not to be deterred. They coughed up four quid each to squash in to barbed wire pens along the riverside with hundreds of other holiday makers, eat picnics and swelter. We didn´t linger.
We headed on to Potrerillos a small town in the foothills of the Andes which had had a recent surge of popularity when the river was dammed to create a huge and beautiful azure lake. We found an amazing campsite with a babbling stream and green grass sprinkled with daisies swaying under heavily-laden apple trees. A bay pony mowed the grass while puppies frolicked around its feet. We were immediately mobbed by the children of the owners who gave us the impression that gringos-under-canvas are in short supply. A pretty, rosie-cheeked imp called Abril followed me around for the 2 night of our stay chattering in spanish and the few words of english that she knew. Paradise in the Andes.
From there we drove higher and higher into mountains through expansive landscapes of multi-coloured rocks and trekked to the base camp of Acocagua, the largest mountain outside of the Andes. The base camp at over 3400 metres was a challenge in itself as the climb was steep and the sun unrelenting and we had nothing but respect for the climbers waiting at camp to acclimatise before attempting an ascent to the summit at almost seven thousand meters. From there we spent the night in Upsallata, once graced by the great Mr Pitt whilst filming for Seven Years in Tibet. I am not sure if he stayed in the same campsite as us which was carpeted with spilt rubbish and lorded over by a pack of overly-friendly stray dogs.
From there we zoomed to the a town called San Rafael, a few hundred kilometres of Mendoza and a successful wine growing region where we were yet again the only gringos in the local campsite. We pottered around the countryside, tried ´cool river´ in the local rapids (basically it´s you and a life jacket with an inflatable boogie board to hang on to bouncing down the rapids), we swam in some stunningly beautiful lakes and drove in the scorching heat through the stunning Canon del Atuel past amazing rock formations. We also managed to fit in some time to quaff some of the local wines.
After that we whipped back up to Mendoza for an afternoon´s wine tour around some of the regions best bodegas before hopping on to a night bus to Bariloche where we were treated to an incredible electric storm over the Andes.
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