In my own frightfully worthless opinion on an even more worthless subject matter, I tend to think my previous blog entries have been lacking somewhat due to a sequence of events that conspired against me preventing access to the source material that make for interesting entries, that source being of course my diary. It is amazing how an innocuous occurrence can seemingly shape entire months of travel and become the leading influence on my decision making for most of my time in Argentina. A simple green book with a couple of random scribblings is hence the centerpiece of this ultimate entry coming to you from the beautiful Andes.
The Andes...
A quick brief (as opposed to long one…) on my diary; I discovered I’d left it, that most precious and irreplaceable of all travel items, on a bus all the way back when I was traveling around Iguazu Falls. Coupled with the fact that I lost it whilst making the special trip to the San Ignacio ruins, (which to remind you are about as memorable as any of the previous winners of Big Brother and only slightly more worthwhile) made it a particularly frustrating turn of events. By some minor miracle the bus company found it immediately and passed it on to my hostel in Iguazu. Now assuming I was dealing with anyone with even a single competent bone in their body, one would think that 2 weeks would be ample time to slip the diary into an envelope and shoot it down to my hostel in BA (incidentally under the same management as the one in Iguazu so both hostels even had regular contact with each other). Alas no, 2 weeks passed and unable to wait any longer, I was forced to request they send it on through to yet another associated hostel in the Lake District town of Bariloche, my next destination.
Bariloche is a charming outdoorsy town at the foot of the Andes set in what must be some of the most beautiful landscapes to be seen in Argentina. It’s quite a holiday haven for gringos and Argentines alike and its reputation as one of the primo ski towns along the Andes had made it my first choice to seek employment to facilitate my remaining time in South America. Unfortunately a blindingly obvious fact I had neglected to consider was the fact that being as it was, in Argentina, wages tend to match the incredibly cheap cost of living and for most Argentines, a 3 month lift pass is certainly not typically included within the general cost of living, particularly those who try and get away with only working in hostels and bars for a few hours a day as I was naively hoping to do. I came to the conclusion after an extensive and thorough search one entire afternoon, that the chances of earning more than say a free bed and loaf of bread each day were even less than that of finding a competent hostel worker (i.e. zero) and so I decided to suck it up, spend the cash to ski at my leisure and earn the money back at 7 or 8 times the rate back in Australia.
None of these photos are mine obviously and many are thanks to this gentleman here, Andy of Texas, taken whilst skiing in Bariloche. Even if the snow was a little average at the time, the views were top shelf.
After a horrible day of skiing on the asphalt-sprinkled-with-ball-bearings that passed for snow, I decided that Bariloche wasn’t the place for me to ski. Unfortunately when not skiing, there really isn’t much to do in the town except admire the views which don’t result to much more than the fogged-up windows of your hostel when it’s raining all the time. Basically passed the time by indulging in my staple pastimes of hanging about with other similarly bored travelers, going out until ungodly hours, and eating steak, including arguably the best one I've ever had at one Alberto's (you have to eat there once in your life…) One highlight was tenpin bowling South America style. I guess I probably could have picked up a job there as one of the poor kids who sits cramped-up at the end of the lane and manually arranges all the pins and rolls the ball back to you after every bowl. Up there with toll-booth workers for worst job ever.
There were a few days of clear weather that allowed us to escape the hostel cocoon during the day and head out to experience some of the world-class lookouts that showcased the amazing landscapes on offer. One in particular, Cerro Campanario, is supposedly quoted by National Geographic, no less, as being one of the 10 greatest vistas in the world. After seeing it twice both on clear days, I will hardly disagree with their esteemed judgement. I just wish that I had my own camera to take as many shots as I had wanted to.
About 90 of the 360 degree views able to be enjoyed from Campanario. The second time I went up (I had lots of time...) was even more stunning with clear skies to the horizon.
Despite the views, my time in Bariloche was turning into a bit of a Twilight Zone as one day morphed into another as I continued to wait for word on the bloody diary. Looking for anything that might help me pass the time more effectively, I got wind of an opportunity to head down south to a little hippie town by the name of El Bolson, where the Hostel International (HI) hostel was looking for some assistance in running the place for a week or two. Generally HI hostels are buzzing and packed with interesting travelers in most instances and so the prospect of hanging about and getting free board and food to basically do what I was already doing seemed an appealing if not irresistible prospect.
Turned out to be not quite so much a typical HI venue but more similar to that hotel in the Shining, or even Norman Bates’ cozy venue of Psycho fame. Firstly the place was a 4.5km muddy trail walk to the town, (a trail required to be traversed anytime you needed anything, food for example), there were no facilities whatsoever, and quite disturbingly, I was the ONLY guest. Yesiree, just me and the slightly crazy manager who sat rocking away in front of the fire drinking mat´e and playing Crosby, Stills and Nash exclusively on his guitar (quite well I might add. Must have plenty of time to practice…). Fearing for my sanity and wondering what would happen when I went for a shower, I needless to say hightailed it out of that place back to civilization.
More shots of mountains (all I have really...), this time again from the ski-fields in Bariloche.
Writing of slightly weird hostel experiences, I was lucky or unlucky enough (I’m yet to decide) to enjoy undoubtedly the most surreal series of events I’ve yet encountered in a hostel when staying in Bariloche. It is said that love is blind, but on this particular occasion I discovered rather hilariously that lust is clearly both deaf and mute. At 6:30am one morning I was awoken by the typically counterproductive efforts of completely twatted drunks trying to keep silent by “shusshhhing” each other at incredibly loud volumes, provided in this case by a kiwi guy and his date for the evening, a Bariloche local. It became pretty obvious that the kiwi did not speak a lick of Spanish and the woman was equally mute with English. This of course didn’t stop him from giving her the old leg-up to the top bunk so he could then proceed to get his leg-over. Somewhat mortified and completely at a loss as what to do, I continued to feign sleep during round 1 of these proceedings, at the end of which the remaining 2 occupants of the intimate 4 bed room stumbled in at around 7am.
The two lovebirds commenced round 2 blissfully ignorant to the rest of us and it was only after a sublimely timed “¿Contento?” posed by Jessie below me at the end of proceedings did the ice break. I won’t describe the theatrics that followed for the next hour in the room but I believe the 3 of us innocent (some more so than others) bystanders have a special bond after the experience. Was certainly great incentive to practice your Spanish with a beautiful woman walking about unashamedly naked in your room… (“¿Donde esta mi mombachas?” means “Where is my underwear....”).
Michaelangelo's David was on a brief tour of South America from Florence... A plastered reproduction inexplicably found at a lookout complex in Bariloche.
I finally got confirmation that my diary had definitely been sent a mere four weeks after it was found and that it would arriving the next day. Knowing this to be an optimistic proposition, I booked my ticket out of the town four days later to allow for any further (and inevitable) Argentinean incompetency. As predicted, promises of “mañana, mañana”, continued unabated with no sign of the diary. Then on the day of my bus, I was assured that the girl had just spoken to the bus station and they had it there waiting for me, all I needed to do was pick it up, get on my bus, and everything would be apples. Needless to say, the bus company had positively no idea what I was talking about and I once again failed the patience and calmness test that seem to get thrown at me disproportionately often. Even more frustratingly so, turns out that the diary had been there, only they had sent it on to the hostel and somehow neither party knew this was the case. I can just imagine that my diary passed me in some vehicle heading to the hostel whilst I was gleefully making my way to pick the damn thing up.
Anyways, that bus took me alongside the Andes all the way to Los Leñas, the biggest, best and most expensive ski resort in all of Argentina, the Aspen of the Andes. Well technically I headed for Malarque, a backpacker haven which was a lazy 2.5hr drive to the slopes each day but had the distinct plus of offering 50% off your lift pass in addition to offering far more affordable accommodation. Being very close to the end of my trip, I was planning on a solid 5 or 6 days of good skiing to celebrate. The first two days were a little sketchy weather-wise, but the third day was glorious. That is until I somehow completely snapped my decrepit rental ski (from Malarque) on the softest piste known to man.
More Andes... I'm really stretched for photographic material here.
Man I was pissed. Not only did it take me an hour to walk down the mountain during perfect skiing conditions, I had pay an extra 50 pesos to rent more for the rest of the day. Well I kept the rage up until I arrived back in Malarque ready to storm into the rental place and demand some money back for renting out such obviously haggard and worn equipment. The response I received was slightly different to my hopeful expectations to say the least. Hmmm, it seems I didn't/couldn't read the fine print on the contract I had signed...
Seems I owed some US$300 for a ski which would barely fetch 20 bucks at a garage sale (in its unbroken state…). What started as calm and collected discussion regarding various matters such as the obvious repairs and damage sustained previously to the equipment, my inability to read the contract and the failure on their part (despite several English-speaking staff) to explain the lack of insurance, quickly escalated when my explanations were met only with a continual shaking of the head, accusations and name-calling, and threats to call the police. Arguably the most rude and vile man I encountered in all of the world and had I not been up for a further 300 bucks I may well have attempted to break the other ski on his skull.
Suffice to say, that little episode led to a premature end to my ski holiday but whilst making a VERY firm complaint to the tourist office, I was fortunate enough to experience the flip-side of such obstinate and foul behaviour. In light of my problem, EVERY single person I encountered was sympathetic to my plight and went out of their way to offer advice and assistance, but one family in particular, the Kesslers of Buenos Aires, overheard my ranting and offered to assist me in negotiating a more reasonable outcome. For the next hour or more, they drove me around, sought the opinions of other rental stores and eventually through teamwork consisting of me raving furiously in English to Carolina, the daughter, followed by her translation to her dad, who then forcefully duked it out with the boor of a man at the ski rental and got my price down to a third of what was asked originally. An incredible example of kindness and hospitality for a complete stranger unlike anything I experienced outside of South America.
With broken skis in tow (they were after all the most expensive souvenir I’ve ever bought) I headed north to Mendoza, supposedly an adventure-loaded city that also has the added benefit of being the producer of some 70% of Argentina's wine. Unfortunately the quality of their wine tours is not quite up to scratch (I got offered to try only 3 tiny glasses!! Outrageous), but their wine is typically cheap and very good. Any bottle of $5 or more was pretty much guaranteed to be good or it least it was in my experience. Another upside of Mendoza was that I was joined by the only female seemingly able to put up with my company for extended periods, the delightful Ana whom I had met in Buenos Aires (incidentally the same venue where my camera was stolen meaning that I have no proof and all those mates of mine who doubt the possibility of such an outcome occurring will have to take my word for it...)
And one more, again taken from the top-10 lookout at Campanario.
The next few days were spent indulging in such romantic pastimes as drinking the above said cheap wine, going on horse rides (or more appropriately titled lumbering mule processions) through the beautiful Andean landscapes, eating fine meals and watching Scrubs on tele (my personal favourite). A fabulous time indeed but alas I needed to head back to Santiago whilst the temperamental mountain pass was temporarily clear of snow. This done, it was then a merely a waiting game for a day or two in Santiago before completing the final leg of my whole journey all the way back to Brisbane. Without my diary of course…
At this time of closure to my little adventure, if you have made it this far, may I thank you all for at least looking at the photos every now and then and responding to my emails, it made the world a much smaller and welcoming place... til next time, hopefully sooner rather than later.
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