We left El Calafate eventually on Sunday afternoon carrying a straggler. We were actually pretty lucky to get out of this touristic chintzville as early as we did. The standard route north from Calafate for the cash strapped backpacker is to backtrack south to Rio Gallegos and get a connecting bus (which leaves at 4am) to Commodore Rivadavia and then get another connecting bus to Mendoza, Santiago in Chile or like we needed to do, to Bariloche. We had been to both Rio Gallegos and Commodore Rivadavia and my fear of ever having to return to either town was marginally greater than my general aversion to backpacking….I mean backtracking. The reason the bus companies take such an illogically circumvent route is that the large tour buses get North quicker by hitting the better paved roads of the Atlantic coast than by trundling up the fabled but unpaved Ruta 40 along the rocky spine of the Andes. So the added expense of a quick flight became instantly preferable to some depressing long distance 30 hour backtracking exercise or a gruelling, dusty and apparently pretty boring trip up the Ruta 40.
People with reading sickness in Calafate airportWe knew there was a flight north directly to Bariloche every Sunday. Leaving it until we returned from Chalten on the previous Friday to book it was probably unwise but we lucked out and got a reasonably priced ticket for the Sunday flight - oddly, purchased at the bus station just after we landed back from El Chalten. Despite the quality of service and abundance of routes for internal flights in Argentina, this would be our first flight since landing in BA in December and actually my first ever internal flight in any country.
M gets a surprise roadside attack of reading sicknessOur straggler was the middle aged traveller-nervosa on a 1 year sabbatical from an apparently high pressure, high responsibility post in Zurich and liked nothing more than fishing and golf but talking about fishing and golf. Like the lusty sailors of old, he had a rod and a half set of clubs in every town. He possessed a British soap opera accent - despite his stated Scottish heritage and Northern Irish education - the kind you put on when you want to appear wishy washy or half facultied. During a communal kitchen conversation with M, he had heard that we'd be getting a cab from the hostel to the airport the following morning and he kindly proffered his companionship to save on taxi fare. He then very kindly proffered his companionship on the plane (more fishing stories mixed with some particle acceleration trivia) and on to the hostel we'd chosen in Bariloche. We almost ended up sharing a dorm with this guy - all as a result of a random conversation over a stove in a hostel - but for the grace of an almost fully booked Periko's with one bed free in one dorm and 2 free in another. It's interesting the sense of helplessness you feel when the hostel staff, seeing you've arrived together, do their utmost to try and accommodate you together even though you desperately want to shake off your newly acquired companion. The randomness of hostel relationships or acquaintances, which up to now have been really positive, interesting and informative, cuts both ways I suppose. He even suggested that dining vegetarian would be OK by him - ie. he'd very accommodatingly eat whatever food we were preparing that night. Bless his veggie friendly soul. Basically he was a Walter Mitty character with parasitic tendencies. Boring and cheap is an unforgivable combination on its own. Add a vocal obsession for fishing to the mix and I couldn’t get away from him fast enough. He left the following day to go fishing on the Rio Grande not before causing an international incident at breakfast over someone not ordering him a taxi. Poor Walter must have thought he was staying at the Ritz.
We spent the first full day in Bariloche acclimatising to the relative warmth again after our extended travels in Long John Patagonia and Thermal Tierra del Fuego. To give y’all some perspective on the season here in the Southern hemisphere, we're currently (as I’m pretty sure y’all are) coming to the end of March which, weather wise, equates to the end of September at home - almost the second month of Autumn.
The car pictures are backBariloche is a year round resort town, with student partying, trekking and watersports in the Summer and skiing and snowboarding in the Winter. It’s pitched kind of chaotically on the rolling hills overlooking the magnificent lake Nahuel Huapi. The town council seem to be trying to force some tentative link to the Swiss Alps down the throat of all visitors… the architecture is all pseudo Alpine log cabins, exposed beams and acutely pitched roofs. Apparently the secondary industry after the touristic pot of gold is the ancient Argentinean lost art of chocolate making. Milka’s PR push is in overdrive here with entire shops decked out in Milka’s colours, devoted to trying to convince you to purchase buckets of Swiss chocolate seeing as you’re kind of in the Alps. This is a bizarre turn to the previously noted Argentinean obsession with all things European.
Our main reason for visiting Bariloche was that it would break up the grand trip north. There was also some apparently great trekking opportunities in the area. We decided on a 2 day trek upto Refugio Frey – a more interesting 2 day trek would probably have been up to the Tronador – we figured this out afterwards. We scored some very allusive bencina blanca fuel for our stove, packed our tent, sleeping bags and warm clothes and we were again on our way into the wilds of Argentina to walk around in circles. We took a public transport city bus from Bariloche to the small skiing resort of Catedral – a trip of 20km – where we would grab a cable car up the mountain and then a chairlift up to Refugio Lynch to start the trek. The bus was 30 minutes late, fully packed when it did arrive and promptly broke down just when we got out of town. We had to wait a further half hour for a replacement bus to arrive. Yet again Milka chocolate came to the rescue to settle our nerves. The first days hike turned out to be more of a rock climbing expedition than anything resembling a leisurely hike. We hiked up under the cables for the ski runs and came to a sign which basically said you’re on your own after this. We spent the next 3 hours walking across the banks of a 1000m deep valley on a very narrow and infirm gravel pathway with nothing to stop you and your Fisher Price camp set on your back from rolling and tumbling down the boulders to your death or disfigurement at the valley floor like an over ambitious, over laden ant.
Ant M defies gravity....again
Irrelevant Pictorial DistractionSeveral times the only way to make progress was to unstrap your bag, haul yourself up to a ledge, generally whacking your kneecap in the process and then winch your pack up after you. As physically demanding as all this was you also really needed to keep your wits about you and choose each step carefully lest you plummet to your death. This took a lot of concentration. You needed to stop every 1 or 2 minutes to try and get an overview of where you were headed using the red and yellow dots painted 50m apart on the rocks as your only guide. We eventually made it to a point where it looked like there could be no more uphill. Sweat soaked relief all round. We took a rest at a beautiful lake and convinced ourselves that yet again the hardship was worth it.
Where's Maisie?Honestly these pictures don't do our trauma justice. Generally when things were at their scariest and the drops the steepest I was holding on for dear life rather than getting snap happy. The descent down to Refugio Frey however also turned out to be problematic. The challenging terrain changed not a bit, except for the fact that it was now downhill. Treacherously steeply downhill. At several points it felt like we were descending a quarry wall. Again it played havoc with my ageing knees. When we eventually hit the valley floor, scenic and all as it was surrounded by small lakes and interesting flora, we still had another hour of walking to do before we could pitch our tent and collapse ourselves. We got to the refugio, a lonely and small stone building dwarfed by the mountains and rocks on all sides and which looks like it’s been in situ for approximately forever, just before a downpour of rain.
Refugio Frey
Refugio S and MPitching the tent on rocks was interesting aswell. A couple of bent tentpins later and we had wedged our tent between a rock and a gorse bush on a vaguely level plot beside a lake and all was good again. Refugio Frey is a legendary hotspot for rock climbers – real ones, skilful, skinny and lithe unlike us grazed, ungraceful pretenders. They hike up, sleep overnight in the refugio and get up at the crack of dawn to scale sheer rock faces. There’s a complex etiquette involving teams of two and ropes and who leads and who follows but it’s fascinating to watch. Limbs launch sidewards like spider’s legs as these elastic men and women acrobatically secure foothold or handgrip enough to make upward progress. The rock above our tent must have been 700 or 800 feet straight up. These guys were scaling the top of this rock in about an hour and a half. Then they’d hang out with the bemused condors for a while and abseil down in about 20 seconds. Net gain in altitude zero. Net accomplishment – pretty high.
When the climbers congregated they formed the most oddball collection of people gathered round the huge stove out of the biting winds. Beards were a common element and also a wild and independent look in their eyes. Not the friendliest of souls but you could tell there was a huge amount of mutual respect between them. These were obviously people who had taken the experience of the great outdoors and the challenges of nature to an extreme. Anyone can walk up a mountain trail and hang out at altitude in awe of the scenery with, generally in the company of several other happy campers. It takes an admirable amount of energy, skill, determination and balls to get where these guys get, with the only reward seeming to be the stone cold solitude and obviously the superior views. Respect. We hung around the following morning watching these guys pushing spandex to the limits of its design and then strolled the 4 or 5 hours down the mountain again to catch the bus back to civilization.
Diggin' The Nature SceneThe buses back ran every 90 minutes. We somehow managed to time it so we reached the end of a 5 hour hike and even though we had to run the last 500 metres, no fun when you’ve no blisters left to pop, jumped straight onto a bus which was just pulling out. A shower at the hostel was our immediate reward and then on to our victory dinner. One of the faces that keeps popping up wherever we do on the Gringo trail is a girl called Nic. She’s a lovely girl of British / Zambian / Gambian extraction who we originally bumped into in the campsite all the way back in Ushuaia, then in the middle of nowhere on the Chalten / Fitz Roy hike and most recently at Periko’s hostel in Bariloche. She kindly agreed to join us for dinner and we headed to a Mexican restaurant which happened to be in the middle of a cocktail happy hour. Half price frozen strawberry margheritas all round, a couple of times. Anything in South America that’s not pizza or pasta, no matter what state of freshness or how ill prepared, is a complete joy. Even if sometimes you end up swatting bluebottles and house flies maniacally from your food knowing that if the flies are hanging out in the eating area that they're most definitely in residence in the rich pickings of a dirty kitchen. A rule of thumb is to avoid sitting near the swinging door of the kitchen. The glimpses of hygiene imperfection can completely ruin your already hold-the-nose meal. Greasy fingers and grease proof napkins which wouldn’t even absorb dust. General observations of the food we’ve experienced down here.
The Market - El BolsonThe Mexican meal was actually quite tasty. We had a very pleasant evening bitching about Israelis, snorers, and swapping tales of the more interesting characters we’ve met thus far on our travels. Nic had a funny story about some Italian guy who she met in Ushuaia who has been travelling forever in the same pair of almost fossilised cotton pants. Passing through Peru, he decided to buy a horse and cart to take him on his journey through that fair country. His primary reason for investing in this form of transport was because it was very cheap to do so. But also, it’d be a fucking blast man! He had to ditch the horse and cart idea 2 weeks later because – and this is the precise reason he gave – the horse kept going to the left. One cannot traverse the borders of Peru efficiently on a cart with a horse which keeps going to the left. Of course, there’s no possible way that it could have been his horse handling skills, the horse was obviously retarded. Funny stuff. We retired for more scoops to the ubiquitous Irish bar – generally the only bars here with any atmosphere – and were enjoying our first drink when a hardy handsome Canadian gentlemen politely requested the pleasure of our company.
......Roger From Kildaaaaaaare....
Nic, Ron and MWe shipped out of “touristic” Bariloche the following day, heading for the much heralded hippy / vegetarian paradise of El Bolson about 120kms south. Well. It turned out that the only thing this place had going for it was our Arcadian campsite surrounded by the tallest poplars you’ve ever seen. Poplars are sewn prodigiously around Patagonia purely for their excellent wind sheltering properties. So constant and fierce are the winds that you sometimes see poplars sporting a fetching backcombed effect , rather than growing towards the sun or as gravity intended, the branches grow in the direction of the prevailing wind. Windswept and interesting…… a phrase Clodagh used to use regularly. Anyone anywhere know where Clodagh is or what she’s doing these days? I hope she’s happy and still both windswept and interesting. It’s so nice on a sunny day to have no clouds just the welcome shade of treetops. So anyway…..Artesian Market my hole. A migration of chip vans from the slurms in the morning as we walked into town from the campsite took the wholesome edges off any notions we may have entertained of having an organic Vegetarian feast. We did buy the heaviest and most unpackable shaped thing we could find. It’s pretty amazing what beauty can be produced with a chisel, a fist and a soft piece of wood.
M took this from the tent - El BolsonSo yeah, El Bolson in unstructured ramblings….. Crusty culture is alive and well. Kids dogs and adults all sharing the same empty bottle of shampoo. Felt rolls of cloth stuffed with their “artesenal” wares. Touristic. Touristical. Lock jaw clips pinning linen to metal frames. You like puppy? Make beautiful sandwich. Rollerskates and arrowback shoes. El Bolson is a parody of a hippy town with tourism the new "ism" from the East. Skinny greybeards with eyes disillusioned as ever peeking out from between their plaited ponytails. Bald patches from overthought. Filthy multicoloured striped baggy cotton pants do not obfuscate your alcoholism. Despite their generally admirable decision to take a parallel route off life's 8 lane highway, crusties to me always sully any impression of an idealistic soul with their propensity for always politely asking for more than you're prepared to give. Whether it's a swig from your last bottle of beer, or a couple of cigarettes when they very obviously only have one mouth. They seem to get on just fine with dogs though. El Bolson seems to me a confused town. Just off the gringo trail it still hosts its fair share of ogling over-thrifty backpackers foaming at the mouth for an original experience solely for bragging rights in the hostel common areas (or on their blog!). The honest hard working locals don’t seem over eager to interact with the hard thinking hippies on reality sabbaticals. Life is full of wont be backs. And El Bolson was definitely a wont be back.
All Souls Poker Tournament - El BolsonWe walked the town backwards looking for even one of the lauded Vegetarian oases on Sunday afternoon and ended up walking back to the campsite to cook our own. Very disappointing. The deserted El Bolson campsite was a very welcome reprieve from a crowded hostel dorm however. It was a semi functioning farm of sorts with apple trees, and several wheelbarrows full of walnuts and racks full of other interesting fruits lying around drying in the sun. There was also shed loads of these things tearing around :
Rare shot of a bird on rollerbladesYou lose so much stuff in hostels – alarm clocks, individual flip flops, earplugs, bobbins, really important pieces of string. God knows where they get to but if it’s the case that whatever you’ve lost has fallen down the side of the bed or, heaven forbid, under the bed, you write it off as a sacrifice to the gods of gristle, dust and darkness. You don’t even think about it, you just do. There should be no grimace faced searching on hands and knees through the carpet of dust in the darkest corners of the dorm floor. Anything you may retrieve – if it isn’t someone else’s, will be covered in dust and hair and the shedded skin of costume changing insects. Besides, the dust gods will not be happy. Hostels equate to forensic anarchy. You’ll never see an episode of CSI “Wherever” set in a hostel. Ever. Although a missing block of cheese or half bottle of wine is rarely cause for involving the Feds anyways. Early morning ship outs are proving problematic aswell with a remarkable amount of our (M’s) possessions being written off as collateral damage. Our consideration for the sleeping patterns of our fellow dormers (which is incidentally very rarely reciprocated) means we don’t turn on the light as we pack our stuff, we speak in pre-dawn whispered whispers and we don’t take the opportunity to check amongst the cluster bombs of others possessions for elements of our own which may have become entangled. And that’s just the start of our issues with hostels. Short beds for tired legs is another one of mine. And snoring. I could write for hours on the misery I have been exposed to as a result of snoring. I’ve come up with a plan involving water pistols which should do the trick though. You snore, you get squirted in the dark by an unknown pistolist from an unknown corner of the room – that’d be me, wearing a leather glove to throw off the forensics people. You wake up (mission accomplished) with a wet ear and I don’t even have to climb down from my two story duplex bunk bed (I thought I’d said goodbye to bunk beds forever when I was 10 years old) to poke you in the ribs. Oh and more hostelling fun : yesterday I headed down to the communal showers to be told to return in 10 minutes as the showers were being fumigated. Nice.
Think about that one for a minute folksAnd our hostel issues are just the beginning. Maybe we’re starting to get tired from all the travelling. It’s not so much the travelling as the disruption I suppose. Living constantly out of a packed bag, constantly shared living space, the half sleep on speeding buses and the ensuing screaming matches with the tip crazy baggage handlers. Yesterday for example, on arriving in Mendoza I went to retrieve our baggage from the under-bus storage, moderately dishevelled after an overnight 18 hour bus journey. I queued patiently like everyone else. It was raining heavily and when my turn came I saw 3 of our bags thrown on the wet oily floor of the bus depot. The one missing bag – my rucksack with tent attached – was lying in a pool of discoloured water under some galvanised panels in the luggage compartment of the bus. Naturally my first instinct is to go and try and rescue my stuff from such unnecessary hardship. Bad idea. Just as I had grabbed the straps, I got an unmerciful shoulder into the ribs, followed swiftly by an elbow dessert. It was a tackle that a county footballer at home would be proud of and the perpetrator, the hispanic Francie Bellew who was the baggage handler, stood looking at me with a smug that’ll-soften-your-cough look on his face as he pretended to busy himself with other passenger’s luggage. These guys aren’t employed by the bus companies or the bus stations. They’re generally residents of the slums adjacent to most large bus stations and they seem to eke out an existence from the paltry tips awarded by western backpackers. They’re basically answerable to no one. Not even me, screaming abuse at him as he responded in kind albeit in Spanish. Calling me that thing you called me means you don’t get a tip.
The last blog entry took a record 6 attempts to publish. I’m publishing this from the 5 star Park Hyatt Hotel in Mendoza, just around the corner from our hostel - the common area here is a little cleaner :) This is becoming more like work everyday. I had several instances in El Calafate and Bariloche of waiters refusing to give me a network key until I bought a coffee. Fair enough I hear you cry but when you plug the key in and you cant detect a signal you’ll hear ME cry scam. It maddens me that these places boldly advertise wifi (or wiffy as it’s pronounced down here) on their doors but yet cannot guarantee a signal. Their floor staff avoid eye contact and look very worried if asked to help troubleshoot even the simplest of issues – “Let me go look at the server” was their most common escape. Fair enough they're not techies but if a café offers a service they should have someone on hand to guarantee its delivery. For the blog the words arent a problem but you really need a solid connection to upload the images…hence my 6 attempts.
Welcome to wherever we are todaySo that was a wandering incohesive update on our wandering incohesive travels. Despite all the first world complaints in these second and third world countries we’re still really enjoying ourselves. I’ll throw up another entry soon about Mendoza - the most famous wine producing area of Argentina where we've spent the past 5 days. We’re leaving here tomorrow to go to Valparaiso in Chile and we’ll be in Easter Island this time next week. We were just saying we’ll have to take a holiday when we get back from Easter Island because that will mark 4 weeks of some pretty hardcore travelling. But who’s complaining?
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El Bolson
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1 comment:
Done. Apologies for the oversight.
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