Mendoza

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In the end it took 21 hours to bus from Bariloche to Mendoza. The bus left at 1pm on Sunday and arrived at 10am the following morning. The journey was another experience full of travel contradictions. The coach, a modern-looking double-decker, had ostensibly been designed to cover long distances in relative comfort. Taking no chances I booked a cama (seat that reclines to a bed, as opposed to semi-cama, presumably only half a bed). The seats were wide and reclined about 60 degrees, with a footstool that folded out from the back of the seat in front. Not quite a bed but pretty comfortable; something akin maybe to business class on aeroplane. The analogy with air travel was further reinforced by the singe screen showing films and music videos and the steward serving snacks and drinks. The tinted windows, drawn curtains, and dark interior all suggested an environment designed to fulfill the weary long distance traveller´s most heartfelt ambition - to sleep and magically to wake refreshed and at their destination.

Outside the rain lashed down and early into our journey it became apparent that despite its sleak lines and modern finish the coach was perhaps not as new as it had at first glance appeared. The seals on my window leaked. Not badly. Not enough to get me wet, but enough to introduce a disconcerting air of uncertainty as we travelled up through a day and night of pretty much constant rain.

It seemed that in addition to paying to sleep we had also paid to be entertained and fed and the bus company was determined to make sure we got our money´s worth. Film followed film. Snack followed snack. I had had hopes of an early night, however, the relay of films continued on into the night finally finishing about 1 am with "Captain Phillips". It isnt an easy thing to sleep through Tom Hanks begging Somali pirates for mercy, I should know, I´ve tried to do it twice. Still I´m splitting hairs. The journey may have fallen short of what I had built it up to be, but in between passenger stops and bumpy roads I did get some sleep.

As soon as I got off the bus I liked Mendoza. After dropping off my bags and taking advice about where to go and eat I hit the town. A night of rain had been followed by sun and I immediately noticed the warmth that came from being 1,200 kilometres further north. For the first time since I´d sat outside the pub in the Falklands this was t-shirt weather.

Mendoza is a city of tree-lined avenues. The traffic is busy, but walking the avenues it felt like a city that knew how to take its time. As I found out on my first morning you are never that far away from a secluded bar or bistro in which you can eat an excellent lunch and drink the local wine. (I am going to dedicate my next post to Argentinian food - with photos! - so will not dwell here). I walked round the five squares (four lesser squares arranged on the diagonal off the main square) and then up to the local viewpoint which in one direction looked back at Mendoza and across to the flat plat plane of the desert and in the other looked out towards the Andes and Aconcagua (the highest peak in South America and aside from the food and wine the other principal reason for coming to Mendoza).

The hostel I stayed in - Hostel Lao - was the most British I´d stayed in so far. There were excited Liverpool fans from Lee Green (so practically neighbours) and disappointed Manchester United fans from of all places Manchester. Even the owner was English. Finding such a UK-focussed group was something of a mixed blessing, but none the less they were a friendly crowd with lots of useful advice for my future destinations and there was generally a good atmosphere.

On my second day a group of us from the hostel went out for a bicycle tour of the wineries. Despite the potentially chaotic, if not even catastrophic, combination of bikes, wine and Argentinian traffic it was a good day out. We bussed out to a leafy suburb (Lujan) on the edge of town, picked up some hire bikes, together with maps and instructions for visits to 3 contrasting wineries where tours and tastings had been pre-arranged. The first winery was a one man show, run by an avuncular and enthusiastic 70-year old. The onus was on the tasting rather than the production and Patti, the owner, managed to communicate his passion despite his English only aspiring to "broken". The next winery was organic. In addition to tastings we were given a thorough tour and explanation of production including tastings direct from barrels and vats, reflecting wine at different stages in the aging process. Importantly we were also able to take on ballast in the form of empanadas to help to soak up some of the alcohol. The tour finished with a more high end boutique winery - more tasting followed together with some interesting information about the history of wine making in the region.

The wine we tasted was all excellent, predominately big, boozy Malbecs but also by way of a contrast smoother, more subtle Sauvignons and Sauvignon/Malbec blends. It had been a pleasant way to spend an afternoon and although the wine had certainly been the main attraction an unlooked for bonus had been the pleasant cycle down flat, leafy roads under a warm sun, catching occasional glimpses of the snow-capped peaks of the Andes across the fields and vineyards on the western horizon. To round off the day the hostel was hosting an asado - almost an unnecessary indulgence after the afternoon´s intake but as ever the meat was fantastic, as was the Malbec with which it was washed down. I hope I managed to do justice to the feast, although my consumption was somewhat limited by the knowledge that I would have to be up at 7 to join an excursion into the Andes to see Aconcagua and various points of interest en route to the high mountains.

At nearly 7,000 metres Aconcagua is the highest peak in the Americas, and indeed anywhere outside of the Himalayas. Up to now I´d flirted with, but not fully appreciated the scale of the Andes, they were either the mountains sometimes visible on the left as I drove North or in the case of Torres Del Paine and El Chalten, isolated outcrops you could walk to and admire. However, here the mountains were on a whole different scale. To get to our ultimate destination we drove for the better part of 5 hours, stopping for photo opportunities or comfort breaks, but almost always climbing. (Admittedly our progress was hindered by our mode of transport, a mini-bus which seemed to struggle up even the gentlest of hills - a serious drawback in this part of the world.) Eventually, after a forced change of mini-bus for the final steep ascent, we arrived at the viewpoint on the border with Chile and the promised view of Aconcagua.

The wind whipped through and it was cold and bleak. The mountain was imposing and impressive but what really took the breath away was the stark wilderness of the setting. It had been very much been about the journey rather than the destination. For hours we had driven through scenery that was by turns reminiscent of Death Valley or the Grand Canyon. Minerals in the rocks coloured the lower slopes of the mountains with streaks of yellows, reds, browns and oranges. It was beautiful but unforgiving. A stark, dry, uncompromising landscape, that the road aside seemed little marked by in the wcivilisation. Eventually we wound our way back down the way we had come. It had been a long day - in total over 12 hours, but had shown me a side to the mountains I had not seen before and would be unlikely to the chance to see again.

The plan had been to fly to Salta the following afternoon but Argentina intervened in the form of a transport strike that grounded all planes (and halted all bus traffic). This was the first real adversity I´d met with during my travels. It was hard not sympathise with the cause. The workers just want a living wage in a crippled economy where they are the victims of increased taxes, lower wage and hyper-inflation, but even so I was more than a little frustrated by the unfortunate timing of the protest.

The most disconcerting element about the strike was the lack of information. This made it impossible to arrange a contingency. There had been rumours as to how the strike would impact, however, the first definitive information I had was when I returned from the trip to Aconcagua and tried to use the online check in for my flight to Salta only to find that the flight had been cancelled. With the strike affecting all alternative forms of transport this left me stranded in Mendoza. To exacerbate the situation Salta was the only part of my trip which I had pre-booked with a third party. The itinerary for this part of the trip was now severely compromised. I set to work to try and make the most of a bad job. To date I have been able to arrange a cama on bus to Salta which will leave on Friday lunchtime and arrive early on Saturday morning, so I will only be a day behind. The tour company with whom I booked the Salta to Uyuni section of my trip are doing their best to rearrange my itinerary and I am hopeful this will not involve too many compromises. As for accommodation, I have my fingers crossed that the same travel issues that have left me stranded in Mendoza will also prevent the would-be occupants of my room at the hostel from arriving...

I am told that strikes such as this are an inevitable part of life in Argentina. Who knows with time I may be ready to accept it as intrinsic to the Argentinean travel experience, just not quite yet...

Just a brief update to confirm that in the end the accommodation issue sorted itself out, the itinerary for Salta, Atacama and the Bolivian salt flats has been successfully rejigged, and the information I have is that I will get a full refund on my flight. So all seems back on track plus I get the rather mixed blessing of an additional 20 hour bus ride thrown into the bargain.

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Photos

View Across the fields to the Mountains
En route to the first winery of our wine tasting tour

The Bridge of the Incas
A natural rather than Inca made phenomenon. The rocks are stained by calcified mineral deposits from the hot springs

Comments

[JK]

I don't have many memories of Mendoza. I was the wine festival and recall waking up on the floor of the bus station with a little kid rummaging through my pockets like a wild animal tugging at a carcass.

[fromthebottomup]

Happy days eh? I have managed a to avoid anything quite as dramatic. Although safe to say that watching the rain fall as I tried to resolve the issues thrown up by the transport strike was not a holiday highlight.