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Published: December 9th 2009
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Steves grubbings,
The city of Cordoba, its grand old churches residing over a city full of all the trappings of a modern working metropolis; coffee shops, icecream bars, homeless people... and lots of McDonalds. We soon escaped the city setting off for the hills, first came a day trip to Alta Gracia. The childhood home of the great Che Guevara, and oddly once visited by JFK. CheĀ“s former home is now a museum, and it turned out to be really good, his story told in photos and letters, his bicycles, toys and books, a film of local people and their recollections of him as a child, his toilet, and a bronze statue of him as a child sat on the varander thoughtfully peering out at the world, with a futher bronze of him as an adult with its eternal flame burning. The museum succeded in capturing the humanity of the man who became an international icon. The Jesuits had of course also visited here and founded various churches, all then abondoned, then rebuilt.
Then trekking, we set of for Villa General Belgrano, a mostly German settlement, allegedly where the escapies of the Graf Spree fled to, we even found a monument
dedicated to them, with a large Fascist style sculpture of a man in liederhausen balanced on the top. Then the trekking began at Villa Alpina, one refugio (with nothing, and no one in it), one street mostly populated by horses and sheep, and maybe ten houses all at least half a km apart. The local troublemaker was a stallion, who spent his day tearing up and down the street, and was spotted breaking into a pick-up, by ingeniously banging the back door, then pulling up the lid which finally led him to the bails of hay, between each part of the deed he would stand facing the other way apparently pretending to mind his own buisness. The valley was completely sheltered from the wind, with no lights, so on a night the stillness was almost overwhelming, just the occasional sound of a sheep or distant goat (or the Stallion... probably up to no good), the nights were clear, so the stars just seemed to beat down upon us, as we sat outside mesmerized, then a child on a horse would appear from nowhere and disappear back into the dark.
Onto Mendoza, a city famed for it wine, so we had
to do the wine tasting...its compulsory. The locals have come up with a great method of getting between the vineries - by bike - so off we set, wine tasting here was by the glass or two..or three, then on to the next vinery and so on, basically cycling on foreign roads whilst fairly tipsy, occasionally passing other tipsy folk...health and safety has some way to go in Argentina!!!
Once again our route led us back to the mountains, this time to Uspallata. The town squats at the base of the Andes, the main route over to Chile. Our plan to see the mighty Aconcagua, at 22830 feet (6959 meters) it is "The highest point in the Western and Southern hemisphere". So off we set accompanied by a jovial backpacking Swede, who later confessed to being 82 years old!!! The ascent started by hours on a bus passing through vast valleys which made the road ahead appear like a thin pencil line. The trek to the view point was only a few km, we worked our way past the smashed remains of the ranger station thinking nothing of it as we continued to the end, to be greeted by a
view of cloud, with a massive stone base. At this point a ranger appeared, waving his arms and shouting at us, apparently only a week or so before a massive avalanche had tore down the mountain destroying everything in its path, and the area was deemed to be dangerous. So we retreated, the massive piles of fluffy snow now seeming malevolent, then down an abandoned railway track to the Puente Del Inca a large natural (petrified) archway that forms a bridge over the river. Evidently Seven years in Tibet was filmed around this area, so there was a cafe full of Tibetan stuff, bit odd really!
Vik's:
Cordoba was fine, as cities go. A cramped and noisy hostel where my disliking for other human beings was able to flourish at 6am in the morning when people where returning somewhat unquietly from their night out, a couple of good art museums (a break from old bones and bowls), and a departure from wine. Here the folk abandon their Argentinian produce in favour of some Italian drink called 'Fernet'. A distinctly medicinal taste, made a whole lot worse when you add a good measure of coke, which is exactly how they drink it here. But the enjoyment of this region is once you exit the city and head for the hills. We got off to a faltering start, in a place called Carlos Paz, where just about the only interesting thing was a giant cuckoo clock in the centre of town (sadly a bit big for the house mum) although we did have some good meat, so all was not lost. From here we ventured to Villa General Belgrano, where cuckoo clocks still featured (but on an altogether more practical scale) but the beef no longer did. Instead it was strudel and sausages (the wurst kind). If that seems a little peculiar, the hosting of the 'Oktoberfest' was even more odd. But the beer was a treat.
And after all that beer what we needed was a good walk. So we dumped half our stuff and ventured off on foot between the neighbouring villages. It didn't always go to plan - which may well be because there never really was one - but certainly climbing fences, fighting through thorns, and jumping rivers (all with my backpack firmly attached to my back) was never part of my, albeit sketchy, idea. There were one or two hairy moments - sat in the midst of a valley, enjoying the fine midday sun, contemplating whether we had wandered 20k in the wrong direction - but we always made it to our destination in the end (and I only very briefly considered whether I would eat Steve if the situation took a turn for the worst). Upon reflection, a map might have helped. Turns out that we couldn't just 'ask people along the way' as the woman in our previous hostel had helpfully suggested; after leaving the village we only saw several hundred cows and one dog.
Then back to the city. Mendoza, a pretty and spacey city transformed into such after a totally disasterous earthquake in the 1800's. We arrived just in time for a national holiday (made for happy home-hunting) in honour of the spanish influence in Latin America. Whilst Mendoza was embracing the celebrations I'm not so sure that the folk across the borders were. As Morales pointed out, hunger, poverty and disease are not normally something to get jubilant about.
Out of the city, one more stop and then a return to Chile. An utterly spectacular, totally frustrating, journey crossing through some of the Andes grandest peaks (was a bit like driving through giant slabs of Vienetta) and a four-and-a-half hour wait at the border. A little taste of the fun and games that go on between these two neighbours.
PS. Anyone wondering why Steve's smiling face dominates the photo selection, it's because of technical problems with his memory card and so we are onto the Kodak Easyshare.
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