Trevelin (Argentina) to Marlague (Argentina)

---

"He had now time to give himself up to the full romance of his situation. Here he sate on the banks of an unknown lake, under the guidance of a wild native, whose language was unknown to him, on a visit to the den of some renowned outlaw, a second Robin Hood, perhaps or Adam o'Gordon, and that at deep midnight, through scenes of difficulty and toil separated from his attendant, left by his guide-What a variety of incidents for the exercise of a romantic imagination, and all enhanced by the solemn feeling of uncertainty, at least if not of danger!"

(Chapter XVI Waverley, Sir Walter Scott. I have now finished Don Quixote and have acquired in its place a copy of Waverley in an attempt to continue with the noble theme of chivalry as I use this blog to chart my adventures and experiences of romance, adversity and flat tyres across the Americas.)

The above passage from Waverley tallies nicely with a recent evening I spent camped next to Largo Traful in Argentina. After a long hard day picking my way through the stones on an unpaved road I turned off to for the campsite, Brazo Norte Lago Traful. This I think is the most beautiful place I have camped at so far. More or less deserted, just a few days out of season and there are only three or four tents pitched in the whole site.

The only movement is a flyfisher in waders delicately casting a line across water which perfectly mirrors the clear evening sky and the surrounding mountains. I find that there is something compelling about watching the casting action. Subtle wrist movements produce a fluid rhythmic movement which is almost hypnotic. The afternoon light gradually fades away and is replaced by dusk. The fisherman calls it a day, steps out of the water and comes towards my tent. As the figure approaches it becomes apparent to me that the he is actually a she. We starts talking and she intoduces herself as Steffi von Wuffalotter, a fellow traveller from Innsbruck, Austria.

Steffi speaks English with only the slightest of accents and with a low husky sensual voice that sounds like a cat being dragged slowly across rough sandpaper. The bulky waterproofs she is wearing cannot completely disguise the slender, yet physical curves, of an athletic, lithe body (she explained that in addition to being a keen fisher she also enjoys Schlammringgen, a kind of wrestling that apparently is quite popular at the moment in Germany and Austria). Night falls and we continue to talk. Lost in conversation, time slips quietly past us. I hang on her every word, entranced by this lady of the lake. A very milky, milky way illuminates the night sky.

Eventually our minds can no longer resist what our bodies knew from the first time we had laid eyes on each other. The subtleties of conversation subside and are replaced by the primitive forces of nature that have guided mankind's destiny for millenia.

The next morning I awake early. I am alone in my sleeping bag staring not into the deep blue of Steffi´s eyes but the pale beige roof of my tent. I look everywhere. There is no sign of her. It feels as if last night was no more than a passionate dream. What kind of cheese could produce such vivid fantasises? Have I, like my literary mentor, Don Quixote, been enchanted by some mysterious wizard? Still struggling to come to terms with what I now consider are no more than wild hallucinations, I notice that just outside my tent door are two large freshly caught rainbow trout...

...actually what really happened was that I met two fisherman from Cordoba, Hugo and Esteban. They kindly invited me to dinner in their tent and cooked an extremely tasty potato omlette which we washed down with a few bottles of red wine (I think the menu would have been different if they had caught something that day). But when I started writing that, although I enjoyed it, it sounded a bit flat. I have therefore sexed up my blog a bit (I have been coming under pressure from certain quarters to provide more graphic, detailed, blow-by-blow accounts of my new life in lycra).

Anyway, fictional motifs aside, the past month has been really good. From Trevelin I made my way up through Argentina to Bariloche, a large commercial holiday resort town in the northern part of Patagonia. It offers a wide variety of adventure activities. Backpackers, or mochilleros, congruate here to participate in kayaking, trekking, canyoning, canopying, horse trekking etc. I spent four days here which I dedicated almost exclusively to the more passive activities of sleeping, eating and watching TV. I stayed an extra day here just to watch Newcastle get hammered 3-1 at home to Liverpool. When will this pain end?

Batteries recharged I pushed on through the region known as the Argentinian Lake District area. Here I met loads of bikers, mostly Argentinian both touring and on mountain bike day trips. I rode the western half of a well established 350km circuit that starts and ends in Bariloche then went past the Lanin volcano and dropped down into Chile again. After riding straight through the commercial tourist town of Pucon, I actually saw a kebab shop on the highstreet, I spent a couple of days staying in a hostel in a smaller town called Villarricca run by a Swiss German couple, Claudia and Beat. They have toured the world on bikes for two and a half years before settling down here. Their hostel, La Torre Suiza, has a file full of articles about people, with long beards and bottoms of reinforced steel who have riding around and around the world for years, including one particularly hardy German bloke has been on the road for 30 years ([e-mail]).

From Villarrica I push on to the Coast and ride down the Bio Bio valley to the town of Conception (thank you Ricardo for the nice chicken and rice lunch). I have enjoyed riding through this part of Chile. It is an agricultural area not really touristy and the people are generally extremely friendly and open. It is also interesting watching the habitat change as I have gradually cycled into a warmer region. The deep blues and greens of Chile´s Carterra Austral and the Argentinian Lake District are replaced by more agricultural yellow and paler dusty browns. The spiders are also getting a lot bigger. Saw a huge hairy one a few days ago. Stayed in Talca, Chile about 250km shy of Santiago in a very pleasant friendly hostel, Casa Cheucal. It has substantial breakfasts, including sugar puffs and offers classical Cuban massages. Tried the former but not the latter ([e-mail]). Crossed the Andes east of Talca at Paso Maule o Pehuenche, 3 days climbing an unpaved road to the top of a 2,500 metre pass and one day descending into Argentina. On the way I stayed with a Belgian/French couple Dimitri and Betty in the small village of Amerillo, Chile. They have an amazing story. They set off on their bicycles from Belgium rode down through France and Spain and crossed to North Africa. After riding across North Africa they flew onto Brazil and rode through Brazil, Paraguay, Argentina, Bolivia, Peru and Chile. When they arrived in Chile they liked the place they were camping at so much they bought the land and built a house on it. Two months after they moved in Betty gave birth to their daughter Mei Ling. They are both deeply committed to ecotourism and are planning to start running a small hostel in the mountains (www.laterreavelo.free.fr).

Am currently in the small town of Malargue about 400km south of Mendoza. Had a great day yesterday went on a daytrip to a volcanic region called La Payunia. Lots of black and red metallic volcanic lava rock swept into strange sea like patterns interrupted by small islands of dry grass with huge snowcapped volcanos forming the backdrop. Returned to the hostel for a goat party which everyone, with the possible exception of the goat, thoroughly enjoyed.

Thank you to all the people who have helpfully pointed out that there may be a direct causal link between the number of meat pies I have eaten and/or am carrying and my frame breaking. Hopefully this will become an academic point as I have now acquired a Bob trailer.

In an effort to make my blog more interactive I have decided to hold a competition. Whoever emails me with the most interesting, appropriate, original, or depraved name for my bicycle will win not only an exclusive soft copy set of full colour photgraphs of me relaxing in a thermal spa in Conaripe, Chile but also something warm and woolly to wear whilst perusing said images.

During this period BB King has been helping me up the hills. Rick Astley seems to be getting quite a lot of air time on Chilean radio, which is a bit odd.

Anyway just a reminder that I am riding to raise money for Medecins Sans Frontieres. If you would like to make a donation please visit my website www.pushonnorth.com.

Push on

Tim

---

Photos

Me and two other dummies
Bariloche is one of the more commercial places that I have visited.

Two gentlemen from Cordoba
I met Flavio and Osvaldo in the Argentinian Lake district. Lots and lots of bikers here mainly riding a fantastic 350 kilometre loop from Bariloche.

Goat´s cheese
Not all goats in South America enjoy the happy peaceful existence that is depicted in this rather beautiful sign advertising goat´s cheese. I was carrying out a minor repair by the roadside next to a farm in Chile one day when I watched some children play a game which involved beating a very smelly old goat until it was forced to defend itself at which point it was attacked by dogs. Never before have I felt more sorry for a goat or thought it would be a good idea for children to be given Sega Mega drives.

My pink friend
I am meeting new friends wherever I go on my travels. Bilz is a Chilean soft drink which looks very natural and healthy. Just the thing to elevate your child into a hyperactive goat beating frenzy.

Paso Maule o Pehuenche
This was a really great ride over the Andes. No traffic at all just lots of incredible scenery.

Chilean chillies
Ho ho ho.

Roadside kiosk
The lady who runs this kiosk made me some very tasty cheese and garlic sauce sandwiches.

Olga and Javier
I stayed one night in the small town of Santa Juana, Chile. After about an hour of asking people in the plaza if there was anywhere to stay I was eventually taken to Olga´s house. She runs a hostel for construction workers and lorry drivers. More hairy armpit than Lonely Planet. Interconnecting rooms and beds everywhere. Large bunches of onions and chillies hung from the ceiling of the kitchen. I really liked it here. Olga insisted that the next time I came to Santa Juana I must call her and then watched carefully as she dictated to me her telephone number to make sure that I got it right. Why did this never happen to me when I went nightclubbing in Clapham Junction?

Tradesman´s bikes
For lots of people in South America the bicycle is their main or only mode of transport.