Mongolian Mishaps

MONGOLIAN MISHAPS

Due to the logistical hurdles, visa red tape and the fact I had only decided to embark on the Trans-Siberian at the last minute, I had been forced to go through a travel agent to arrange all the details. Being also that laziness is my default state of being I declined to do even the most basic research under the mistaken belief that it would be fun to “wing it”.

This is not the case.

A common theme that arose was hence that more often than not, I had very little to no idea of what was going on at any given time. I found myself in a perpetual state of cluelessness, which can be particularly hard to resolve in places such as you encounter along the Trans-Siberian railway. For starters, Beijing Railway station is a nightmare and I narrowly missed a train that would have taken me to Chongdu or some other such unexceptional Chinese city of a million or 12. Thankfully I realized my mistake in time (shouldn’t there be more tourists on this train?) and did eventually find my Trans-Mongolian carriage and settled into a relatively comfortable 4-berth cabin. By this I mean comfortable relative to the battery-hen-like conditions experienced in a fully occupied cabin. Thank God I only had one other occupant as the Orient Express this most definitely is not.

China from the train

Considering you can barely get more than 2 feet away from your fellow inmates for days on end, I was lucky to have very pleasant company and so as we rolled through China with its varying scenery (a rare treat as it turns out on the Trans-Siberian) I was having a great time shooting the breeze with my fellow trainees. The first day hence became a blur of chatting, reading, window gazing, and a lot of snoozing. Something about the rhythmic click-clack of train travel that just sends you to sleep…

The Mongolian steppe

This blissful state of affairs was interrupted when we pulled up abruptly late in the day whilst I was eating my first train meal in the dining car. Incidentally, the kitchen had an elaborate and extensive menu on paper at least, but apparently only one dish is available at any one time.

“Well I guess me and my friend here will have 2 of that then.”

“Ah, sorry, we only have one dish. Of that one dish.”

And so it was that I had just commenced eating my half-serve of fried onion and rice, when on storm seemingly half the Chinese military shouting in broken English “Hurry, hurry, back to rooms, go, go, go.”

Rolling hills in Mongolia

Being that mine was the last skerrick of food on entire train, I didn’t want to waste it, but my stalling tactics were not appreciated by one particular gent, who obviously in a hurry, simply took the bowl from my hands, gave it to his colleague and proceeded to shoosh me all the way back to my room where he demanded my passport. It further aggravated him immensely as I commenced rummaging around my luggage looking for it.

Officer: “Where your form?!?!

Me: “From? I’m from Australia.”

Officer, annoyed: “No, no, your form!! Where your form?!?!”

Me: “Oh you want that little yellow form? I haven’t filled it out yet."

Officer, looking at me as if I had just pissed on his shoe: “WHY NOT! YOUNEED FILL FORM!! HURRY UP! HURRY!”

Me: “Ok, ok, just let me find a pen” (more rummaging…)

Officer, by now disgusted and looking at me as if I had just pissed on my own shoe: “Oh no, no, no, you too slow. Give me now, I do quicker.”

And with that he snatched my passport and was off into the night.

For the next 8 hours it turns out.

8hr process to change the bogeys on every carriage for the different rail gauges.

It’s little disconcerting suddenly finding yourself at night in the depths of communist China, surrounded by military, without your passport, nor any clue as to what is going on. Of course, had I read my handy travel info-pack, I would have known that we had reached the border of Mongolia and the huge delay would be due more so to the lengthy process involved with switching the rail bogeys to suit the country’s different gauges than any immigration control or espionage interrogation.

Despite being a situation where potentially one should keep their wits about them, myself and a few other equally clueless tourists, passed the time getting rather pissed on vodka and by the time we woke up rather dusty the next morning we were rollicking along the vast, beautiful and empty steppes of Mongolia (I had been visited by the passport fairy as there it was under my pillow...). For hours that day, we passed through seemingly endless undulating plains that stretched to a horizon of rolling hills, with barely a mark of civilization to be seen.

Parliament and giant communist square (again) in Ulan Bator.

The tranquil surroundings were broken when we pulled into the capital Ulan Bator for our first official stop in the early afternoon. Ulan Bator with its population of near about 1 million, is the only place you could describe as a “city” in Mongolia. Unlike most desperately poor countries, which Mongolia undoubtedly is, there is actually a significant migration of peoples away from urban areas back to the countryside, with many living a traditional, subsistent lifestyle much the same as their ancestors have done for thousands of years. Some 70% of Mongolians still live in the camel-fur tents, or gers as they are known (pronounced grrr, as in “those pesky communist oppressors, grrr…).

Typical Mongolian ger tents.

The communist oppressors it could be argued constitute the primary reason why so many are forced back to living off the land. Although never officially part of the USSR, it was subservient in all but name. After having lived through 300 years of oppressive Chinese rule, Stalin sent his Red Army under the guise of promoting the Mongolian Socialist revolution against the Chinese. Instead, the Mongolian leaders mysteriously “disappeared” and Stalin had his own puppet regime installed, under which indescribable atrocities (as was in vogue at the time) were committed in the same vein as in Russia itself (if nothing else, Stalin could not be accused of playing favourites). For the next 70 years or so, the USSR plundered much of Mongolia’s natural mineral wealth, and upon the collapse of the union, Mongolia was left with next to nothing, with no smelters or refineries to process their raw mineral wealth. To add insult, the Russians slapped them with a bill dating back to the 1920’s for all the “investment” they had made over that period.So Mongolia has been left in the all-too-common poverty trap of having to sell its assets off cheap, without the means to build the necessary infrastructure to capitalize on their resources. Hence the steady exodus back to the traditional ways of living. Well that, and the fact that the Mongolian countryside is stunningly beautiful and Ulan Bator is a shithole.

I loved the street signs in Mongolia. Permission to fly for the another 3 seconds...

But no fighting...

Watch out for pedophiles??

Although having a few points of interest and some small pockets of grandeur (what is it with communists and huge f***-off squares??), Ulan Bator is not a city you want to hang around for too long. It has the air of a dying city, with old decaying communist-era buildings in a state of total disrepair in the outer suburbs. Despite being desperately poor however, everyone still seemingly has access to huge late model 4WDs. Thus imagine your typical Asian big-city traffic, only here every driver thinks his or her vehicle to be indestructible. Pedestrian crossings are a fanciful myth where you take your life in your own hands playing “frogger” to cross eight lines of traffic on a four-lane road. Adding to the confusion is that there apparently seems to be no official side of the road on which to drive judging by the fact that it’s roughly a 50-50 split between right and left-hand drive cars. Basically you want to get of the city as soon as you can.

Hmmm. Can you pick the potential problem here? Right and left hand drives are pretty much in equal distribution around UB.

Unfortunately this proved a hassle in my case. Due to my pretentious aversion to doing anything with an “organized” tour (how common!), I had rallied against the “organized” add-ons offered by my travel agent by refusing to sign up to any hokey, hackneyed, dare-I-say-it touristy activity. This is dumb for a number of reasons, not the least being that I am a tourist, a giant-Nikon-DSLR-camera-dangling one at that.

It seems every Mongolian wedding has their photos taken in front of the grand Parliament building. There were 3 other parties waiting in line after this one...

Furthermore, it just means you end up spending half your time wandering around the city trying to organize yourself to join a hokey, hackneyed, touristy activity. I don’t know what I was thinking, I mean, I’m hardly going to rent a horse and go galloping solo across the plains. On top of that, it’s usually for twice the price as was offered as part of the larger package, and most often there’s very few options available when you require them to commence in say, half an hour from now…Which leaves you with only one option and the main reason why it’s stupid to think you can organize your own “authentic” Mongolian experience; this being that you have to get the tour operator to “make something up”. In other words, you join part of one tour for a day, then get picked up, join another, and then leave the existing tour early so as to make your own way back in time for your departing train. This plan may work in say, Switzerland but in a place like Mongolia where finding someone who speaks English is like finding an Australian fluent in Inuit, it most decidedly does not work, particularly when only one of the participants knows the plan…

Seemingly endless scenery like this abounds as soon as you leave UB

…Who unfortunately wasn’t there when I returned to commence the patchwork quilt of a tour of which she apparently was the sole mastermind and possessor of any knowledge as to its existence. In her absence another guy (who was unable to find any evidence of my tour) sent me to follow some mute kid halfway across the city to catch one of those buses that departure schedule is based on waiting until it has at least twice the legal limit of passengers squeezed inside.Where am I going? What happens when I get there? What do I need? Who do I meet? All these were seemingly reasonable questions I had attempted to ask only to be consoled and cajoled into believing that everything would be alright; I just needed to “get on the bus” and everything would be ok from there… Ah. Hindsight.Having survived the bus trip out to the countryside (I know why they need 4WDs now), I stepped off the bus scanning the vacant lot for a friendly smiley face who might spark up at the sight of his fare. Hang on, I’m a blonde Caucasian tourist with a fancy camera in Mongolia, a walking dollar sign, wouldn’t every taxi driver’s face spark up at the sight of me? And so it eventuated.

Me: “Hi, I’m Matt. You pick me up for tour?”

Random Mongolian man with a car grins broadly, nods head.

Me: “You here for Matt yes? Me, Matt.”

More nodding and grinning from RMMC. Motions me into car.

Me: “Definitely you here for Matt then, yes?”

RMMC’s Head continues nodding unabated, opens door, pushes me inside.

He was the wrong guy.

"The precious human body is so badly used in mistaken ways as if it were a useless bag of urine." I love Bhuddist wisdom.

20 minutes later I’m in the middle of nowhere, he’s asking me for more money than I have on me, I can’t tell him where I want to go because I don’t know (I don’t even know where I got off the bus), and I don’t know who I’m supposed to meet or what I’m supposed to be doing. Great. On top of that, my driver spoke not a single word of English and let’s just say my Mongolian was primitive. I did gather that he was threatening to leave me there as he attempted to shoosh me out of his car, and I was having thoughts that maybe I would get my “authentic” Mongolian experience after-all. Minus the horse, of course.

I did my best to try and enjoy the comical nature of the situation at the time, but the truth is I’ve rarely felt so completely inept and helpless to change my predicament. Hardly life-threatening but I was in a pretty big shit at the time. No money, no language, no clue, and all in the middle of the Mongolian steppe miles from anywhere.Thank goodness I had kept the business card of the tour “organizer” from the previous day, as I was able to communicate via the international hand signal for phone that I meant to call someone. So off we drive to a little isolated ger, and the taxi man gets his friend to get me a phone. Saved!!

No reception!! Shit.

A two-humped camel!! Bactrian camels are only found in Mongolia and Northwestern China. And Zoos.

The three of us then continued to waltz around the steppe phone held aloft trying to get a single bar… success at last, and the matter was all fairly quickly sorted out. In fact from there on, I experienced nothing but utter kindness and generosity from every Mongolian I met from then. At least I think I did, judging by their smiles.

Another ger...

A bit of horse-riding ensued, a bit of temple visiting (Stalin wiped out the vast majority of them of course, he was nothing if not industrious in his labors), and then I was collected (correctly this time) by a Kazakh herdsman to be whisked away to his ger where I was to spend the night with his family.

Scenes from my host's camero as we tore through the steppe.

Not before driving across some of the most spectacular countryside I’ve ever seen though. Despite again not sharing more than say 5 or 6 commonly understood words, I felt I was bonding with this man as we sped over the grassy fields, a man who was roughly the same age to me, but whose life was could not have been more different. We bonded of course by drinking several litres of warm potent 10% beer on the steppe, so the surreal nature of the situation and my rapidly pissed state may have clouded my judgment. Still, it was awesome.

My host and one of his daughters.

This young man was the patriarch of a family unit that lived in several gers that included his brother’s family. I was treated as an honored guest and served a lovingly prepared feast that basically consisted of every imaginable product squeezed from a tit of some livestock animal. Goat milk yoghurt, sheep milk moldy cheese, horse milk tea… Just swallow and smile Matt…Despite a few misses on the culinary front, I had a great time there, the kids in particular were adorable.

Super cute kids.

Amazing how some kids, despite living a very basic existence that would probably be defined as poverty, are deliriously happy so long as they had some goat knuckles and a beat-up football to kick. I’m always astounded however that despite living such an ancient way of life, they all still have cellphones (they laughed hysterically when they saw my ancient nokia), listen to Jay-Z, and sport Barcelona and Man United gear.

I felt like doing the same with some of my dishes...

The gers are actually really quite comfy and snug, and most have all the basic mod cons such as fridges, electric lighting, and ipod docking stations… you know, the essentials. In fact, after spending the evening feasting on warm milk products, sitting all nice and toasty around the central wood-fire stove whilst the cold wind howled outside, amongst a tightknit and loving family full of laughter, I found myself envious to adopt this uncomplicated life of simple pleasures. Until I went to use their toilet. A potent brew a diet of milk and meat does maketh, and this family wasn’t quite as nomadic as I thought judging by the state of their facilities... Still, it really was an absolute pleasure and privilege to hang out with them even if only for one night.

Inside a typical ger...

The next day continued much the same as the last, i.e. me being chauffeured around to various beautiful and historic Mongolian sites but having absolutely no clue as to their significance or even their name. I think I went to a national park?

One site however that you didn’t need a lonely planet to explain, was a giant statue Mongolia’s favorite son, Chinggis Khan, or as westerners know him, Ghenghis Khan.

GHENGHIS!!

Now this statue is big and holds several interesting records. It is in fact the world’s largest statue of a man on horseback, and I’m pretty sure it is also the largest statue of any dude that comes from Mongolia. But it is most definitely the Guiness book of records holder for the world’s biggest statue in the middle of frickin’ nowhere. Seriously, there is nothing anywhere near it, and you can see it from absolute miles away; a giant silver shimmering beacon in an otherwise completely empty and vast plain that stretches to the mountains on the horizon.Rumors abound as to what he did at this particular site, but as very little is actually known of any of his significant locations (the whereabouts of his birthplace, grave, even his capital city are all unknown) I guess it’s as good a place as any to build a giant shiny equine sculpture.

That little speck above the horse's ear is a person... It's a big statue.

The guy is still revered around these parts and it’s easy to understand why as this simple herdsman (supposedly he raised a ragtag bunch of armed men in response to his mum being kidnapped – classic!) created the second largest empire the world has ever seen (only the British empire beat it for size) stretching from the Pacific all the way to the Danube in central Europe. His name and image were banned under Chinese and Russian rule as his image harks backs to a time when Mongolia, tiny little Mongolia, literally ruled the world, and was not subject to foreign pillagers… so he’s kind of a big deal around here… Having read a little more into him, it really is amazing the influence this guy had on shaping the modern world as we know it, with most of China, India, Eastern Europe and the middle East having all been ruled and shaped by the empire he created. But more of that later…

Middle of nowhere... Pretty much sums up Mongolia.

Alas my time in Mongolia was painfully brief and following the continuation of the theme of general cluelessness, including my driver leaving me on the side of a desolate highway with no explanation in the middle of nowhere (everywhere in Mongolia, it felt to me, is in the middle of nowhere) with only a vague hope that someone else would collect me. Somehow, as it usually does, it all worked out in the end I made it back in time to catch my train, and said goodbye to a truly beautiful, ancient, and fascinating place. At least I think it was, I was never really sure…

Beijing Beginnings

Finally, the journey began with my arrival in the soon-to-be capital of the world. Beijing although not officially part of the “classic” Trans-Siberian route (Moscow-Vladivostok), was my starting point, and being that this “tourist” version of the world’s most famous railway still travels some 8000km (including some 6000km trans Siberia), I consider it mere semantics. In fact, being that it was going to take 7 full days of train travel to complete the short version via Mongolia, I came to appreciate my choice even further, particularly when I was 2 days into a 4-day continuous stretch on a sweaty, smelly Russian carriage… But more of that later.

Beijing is massive. This becomes readily apparent when you start walking to your hotel, which, whilst appearing to be quite close to the Forbidden City on my tourist map, is actually quite a ways to walk. Particularly when carrying all one’s luggage and it’s raining. The folly of my judgement of scale came about due to the tiny dot-like nature of the Forbidden City in map form, and it’s frickin’ enormous city-like nature in reality form.

The forbidden city. Much bigger than it looks on the map.

Thankfully the greeting shower I received did help to clear Beijing’s most infamous feature, the all-consuming smog, for a few days at least whilst I was there, but that was the extent of my fortuitous timing. With less than 4 days in China, I was only ever going to be able to include the big hits, namely the Forbidden City and the Great Wall, and so it was that I found myself trying to squeeze in the two most popular tourist attractions, in the most populous nation in the world, in summer, during the school holidays, on a weekend… Needless to say, it was busy.

Chinese like their umbrellas. Rain, hail, or especially shine. Very dangerous for anyone over 5'8".

For the uninitiated, the Forbidden City is the old palace built during the Ming dynasty that served as the centre of Chinese politics for some 500 years up until the establishment of the Republic of China in 1912. As alluded to earlier, it’s frickin’ huge. Despite being a palace, it’s literally about the size of a city, measuring nearly a km in both directions (this was represented by a very small square on my map…) Surprisingly enough it was called the forbidden city as it was forbidden for any commoner to enter unless you were a eunuch member of the royal guards. Probably not worth it in my opinion. I mean, it was good, but…

Inside the Forbidden City. How times have changed... Now they let any riff-raff in.

Not to big myself up, but I reckon I would have been challenging for the other most popular tourist attraction that day, at least amongst the Chinese. I don’t know how many random photo albums or mantlepieces I’ll be appearing on as I lost count of how many families wanted their picture taken with the blonde dude. And it was snowball effect; stop for one, and suddenly every passer-by wanted a piece of the action.

Tiananmen square celebrating 90 years of the communist party in China. Not a tank to be seen.

My charms weren’t limited to snap-happy locals either, I had my fair share of ladies approaching my under the auspices of “practicing English” (nudge, nudge) or “sharing a cup of tea” (wink, wink). Although come to think of it, $50 for a cup of tea does seem a little expensive.  I had heard of some other poor schmucks that had been taken for a ride by some ladies who were only talking to them to scam some money, but my girl was really into me I could tell.  Must have just been a really classy establishment.

Guess...

Next up was the Great Wall. Thankfully considering the peak nature of my timing, the vast majority of tourists hit up the most proximate section of the wall to Beijing rather than the region I undertook a tour to, which was a little bit more out-of-the-way. So much so that our driver got lost en route. I can only imagine the conversation he had when stopping in the middle of seemingly nowhere to enquire with several farmers and ox herders along the way…

“Hey, I’m looking for the Wall.”

“Which wall?”

“The Great Wall. You know, of China. About yay big, and really long”.

“Oh yeah. That one. I think it’s over there, beyond them hills, through that paddock, and over that dry creekbed.”

“There isn’t a highway or road at least that takes you straight there?”

“You'd have thought so.”

We did get there however, and it was well worth the 3hr detour through some stunning countryside. The wall was built during several stages over thousands of years (as is understandable when you get a close-up appreciation of just how monumental it all is) but its most durable and robust sections were built by the Ming Dynasty to repel the Mongolians, whom incidentally they had driven out from the capital that Kublai Khan (Ghenghis’ grandson) had founded, Khan-Baliq, which is today none other than Beijing. (Thanks handy trip-info pack!!).

My group did a 6km portion which was a fair workout on slopes like these. Makes you feel pretty small however considering we covered less than 0.1% of the total in the best part of an afternoon...

I’m not sure how successful it was however, as particularly when you see the incredible terrain any barbarian hordes would have to travel thousands of kilometres over, I’m not sure how much resistance a 4m high wall would have provided… (“Well that’s torn it. Alright lads, back to Mongolia and quit your grumbling”). As can be imagined, trying to maintain an 8000km frontier proved difficult, as in the end, it took only one bribed sentry to open the gates and bring about the end of the Ming dynasty.

Awesome day for it. No smog.

Incidentally, on the topic of scale, it is complete garbage that you can see it from space. I have no idea how or why that myth persists, but according to wiki, if you were standing on the moon, it is the equivalent of a identifying a human hair from 3.2 km away… you would need some 17000 times better than 20/20 vision to spot it. Yet I still learnt it in school…

Despite it’s huge size, Beijing is generally easy to get around particularly if using the modern world-class metro (which is ALWAYS packed in my experience). Not so much if you’re walking however, particularly if you start wandering around the old hutongs, or small alleys that are located all around the city centre. It’s a really nice feature to have such historical remnants of the old city with their traditional ways, and it’s great escape from the mega-buildings littered throughout the rest of the city. Of course it’s really nice until you get lost for 2 hours in stifling heat and smog. It’s a frickin’ maze in there and forget trying to ask for directions.

Typical Hutong

Another great escape is the Summer Palace, a huge expanse of man-made lakes and gardens that feels a world away from the masses of humanity right outside. The huge lake was entirely excavated by hand and the reclaimed earth was used to build the hill upon which the palace is built. Ah, what can be achieved with vast amounts of expendable labour. The smog and haze had come back with a vengeance by this time unfortunately…

Smog. With the Summer Palace in there somewhere...

They get pretty specific with there temple assignments in the Summer Palace... This was my favourite, the "Temple of Timely Rains and Extensive Moisture".

I have to mention the Chinglish signs. I’m not sure what it’s like in other parts of China, but in Beijing perhaps as part of the preparation for the Olympics, it’s generally easy to get your bearings (hutongs aside) as all the major road signs are in English, even if very few speak any English at all. But seriously, if you go to that much effort, surely you could get an advisor to do a quick once-over before putting them in place (i.e. looks great, but who are the boncos?). Some really creative advertising on the metro however, there are television screens along all the tunnels that flash images in sync as you fly by so as when you look out the window at appears as movie reel of advertisements.

Couldn't have been too hard to do a spell check surely...

You wouldn’t be in Asia without some pretty funky and out-there food stalls and Beijing’s certainly offers some pretty creepy cuisine. Beetles, scorpions of varying sizes, sharks on a stick (i.e. literally, a boiled shark on a stick), horse, and of course dog… Snake was about as out there as I got, which you guessed it, tastes like chicken…

Some of the many and colourful food stalls.

I took it as a sign of China’s continued economic growth and newfound prosperity that very little bargaining seems to take place at the stalls I frequented. If they didn’t like the price I offered, that was it. Begone with you.

Beijing Railway Station, my departure point.

Of course if fried house pets don’t appeal, you can always visit McDonalds, and you have quite the choice of outlets. I counted over 120 on my McDonald’s sponsored map of Beijing. In some places I could see four from where I standing. As they say here in China, a journey of 5000 miles starts with a single sausage mcmuffin, and so with 2 consumed for good measure at one of the multiple Beijing Railway Station McD’s, I headed onto the platform to find my home for the next few days.

All good journeys start with a Maccas breakfast...

Next stop, Mongolia!

The Trans-Mongolian!!

Andean Adventures

Andean Adventures

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.