Northern deserts, part 1: San Pedro de Atacama

   Arriving in San Pedro was a breath of fresh, hot air.  At 2,460m above sea level my first act of applying sunscreen was pure comedy gold as the change in air pressure left me covered in the stuff.  We found the way to our very relaxed hostel, five minutes out of town.  It was so relaxed, the door was open and no-one was around to check us in at 8:30am so we dropped our packs and settled into hammocks in the courtyard for a few hours sleep.  At about 11am Kizzy got up for a look around and found someone happy to take our money and give us a key.

   In San Pedro our first goal was to book passage on a 4x4 to take us over the border to Uyuni in Bolivia.  The challenge here is that there are almost no positive reviews online.  Instead, the forums are littered with complaints.  My favourite was the anecdote with the drunk driver who kept falling asleep and was eventually replaced at the wheel by one of the passengers.  On the basis of an overheard conversation at our hostel and only minor complaints online we promptly booked with Estella del Sur.  More on that journey in the next post.

   San Pedro is very much a tourist town and with a full day to fill we set about booking local excursions to the Geysers de El Tatio and the Valle de la Luna.  Our work done, we treated ourselves to a siesta and a good meal at a local restaurant.

   At 4am the next morning we were outside our hostel waiting for collection to see the geysers at sunrise.  At 6:30am we were shivering in a dark volcanic field, surrounded by puffing fumaroles.  At 4,300m the El Tatio geysers are the world’s highest geothermal field and probably also the world’s coldest.  I started feeling tingly as soon as we got there and by the time we had breakfast I felt positively nauseated with a banging headache and had to retreat to the minibus to lie down.  I’d never experienced altitude sickness before – there’s not really any place in Australia that’s high enough.    

   Thankfully Kizzy was largely unaffected and took some lovely photos of the sunrise and soon after I roused myself for a dip in the nearby hot springs.  Given the freezing cold outside I think everyone was hoping for a pleasant warm bathing experience.  In fact we were treated to a fairly shallow thermal spring, with waters that alternated between shiveringly tepid and scalding hot.  The reason you go to the geysers at sunrise is because it’s cold enough for the emissions to project visible steam into the atmosphere.  This does not necessarily correspond with genuine warmth – as Kizzy pointed out, her breath was steaming up and she was freezing.

   The noted restorative effects of thermal springs did not help me with my altitude sickness in this instance, although I was able to appreciate the humour of three dozen uncomfortable tourists trying to pull dry clothes over wet, shivering bodies.  On the way down the hill I dry heaved a few times and had the sympathy of the other passengers as I slumped over looking green, clutching my Tupperware bowl just in case.  We stopped at a local pueblo and I was supplied with a stash of unidentified herbs that I was assured would help me recover and prepare for the ascent to Bolivia the next day. 

   When we got back to San Pedro I collapsed on the bed for three hours, wallowing in misery at the anticipation of our trip the following day at the end of which we would be sleeping, or writhing in pain, at 4,200m. 

   If we hadn’t booked a tour for the afternoon I would have hidden in bed until the following morning but as it was we head out again at 3:30pm to see the wonders of the Valle de la Luna.  By this time I was feeling a lot better and able to truly appreciate the moonscape vistas laid out before us.  Returning shortly after sunrise I was early to bed and somewhat dreading the next day.

Northern beaches

   As we’ve gone further north, Kizzy has started to view our passage through the Andean countries with greater trepidation.  Despite our plan to follow the sun into the North American summer, we are now wondering if our warm clothes are warm enough as we approach our month-long stretch at altitude, mainly above 3,000m.  In preparation, we headed back from Mendoza to Valparaiso for the start of 8 days on Chile’s northern beaches.

   The port city of Valparaiso is billed as the cultural heart of Chile but for us it was a bit of a dive.  The hostel we stayed in was crowded, disorganised and unwelcoming and we quickly determined not to extend our stay beyond two nights.  There was a funny moment in the main square when an enthusiastic crooner did a marvellous rendition of the Carpenter’s “Close to You” in Spanish.  He delighted us with some truly committed dancing in the instrumental sections.  He also gave an account of the sad story of Karen Carpenter to prepare us for the full emotional impact of the song.  It was enough to keep us there for perhaps 15 minutes. 

   Viña del Mar had more going for it.  It has a beach, which was always going to win Kizzy over and we duly spent several hours sunbathing and contemplating a dip in the ocean before retreating to the ice cream shop.  Late in the day we pulled out the guide book and I got excited all of a sudden when I read that the local Museo de Arqueologico e Historio houses one of the best collections of Easter Island artefacts, including a real Moai sculpture. 

   Moai are huge stone statues of rather stern-looking contemplative figures that the Easter Islanders catastrophically deforested their Island to erect.  Ever since reading about the history of the place I’ve been fascinated by them, eager to see one, albeit not eager enough to fly into the remote corner of the south Pacific where they’ve congregated on a ledge looking out to sea.  This was a great opportunity and with twenty minutes until the museum closed we tore across town, prepared to pay any entry fee for a brief visit to the star attraction.  As it turned out we didn’t have to.  We arrived with 10 minutes to spare to find the Moai perched on a small plinth outside on the grassy forecourt enjoying his freedom in the sunshine.  It made my day. 

   Our next four nights were in La Serena, which is described as Chile’s premier beach resort with 360 cloudless nights a year.  La Serena, we found, has a fabulously wide and very long beach about 20 minutes from town.  However, most of the beach (i.e. all of it as far as we walked) was closed for swimming, being laced with rip tides and largely unpatrolled out of season.  We were fortunate enough that our visit coincided with the rare phenomenon of a cloudy night.  In any event it is only the nights that are usually cloudless.  The days are buried in a deep fog that rolls in with the sunrise.  The one thing we’re sorry to have missed so far was a trip to the observatory in the Elqui valley.  We wrote it off as a bit too pricey when we got to La Serena and as our last night was cloudy we were to late to act on the advice of fellow travellers who highly rated the night-time tour.

   After four days enjoying the excuse to laze about and venture out mainly for the sunset, we continued northward on an overnight bus to begin our sojourn at altitude in San Pedro de Atacama at 2,460m. 

It's wine time

   Mendoza is the place you go for wine in South America.  Even the Chileans, rightly proud of their own industry talk wistfully about the Malbec in Mendoza.  On the backpacker trail all the talk is about hiring bikes and touring the bodegas (wineries, sort of).  I have seen Kizzy sway and stagger after two glasses of Lambrini.  So though the thought of her weaving in and out of traffic and ditches on country roads was amusing, I was responsible enough to leave it to the realm of fantasy. 

   We took the bus to Maipu, 15km to the south east, from where we could better explore a few bodegas on foot.  Our bus driver had other ideas, a road diversion sending us miles and miles off course.  We were fortunate to see many of the fields of grapevines and groves of olive trees as we waited hopefully for the bus to head back into town.  I was again reminded that in Spanish you use the same word for “wait” and “hope”.

   Arriving in Maipu in the early afternoon we fell back into our habits from Santiago and enjoyed a long lunch before setting off to taste the wine of two of the more accessible houses.  On our way to the first one we passed the museum of wine and viniculture.  With Kizzy curious as to the processes of wine-making, we ducked in to see if they had an interactive display. 

   This was not a mistake as such but things did not proceed in a normal fashion.  There was no interactive display but it was a bit like entering the house of the Adams family.  A very friendly lady insisted on giving us a tour, entirely in Spanish, wearing a maniacal yet friendly smile he whole time.  The museum was previously the mansion of the premier wine-making family in the region and from what I could tell the tour focussed on the family history and their furniture.  I think Señor Giol consolidated his empire by strategically marrying-off his sister.  And everything in the house was imported from Europe because they didn’t make anything nice in Argentina in the 19^th century.  Then there was something about the Queens of Maipu beauty pageant, and also the antique toilets.  Things were getting a bit surreal before they broke out the wine to be honest.

   Pleasantly the tour finished with a tasting session that we weren’t expecting given the entry to the museum was only AR$5, or about 80p.  After three half-glasses of wine – they seem to do wine-sampling, rather than simply tasting – and a few olive-based canapés Kizzy was starting to feel woozy. 

   By this time it was really quite late and we only had half an hour until the bodegas closed for the evening.  We trotted across the road to the Antigua Bodega Giol, for another largely impenetrable tour in Spanish and a further wine-sampling session. 

   I have very little idea as to the content of the tour, and I already know something about the making of wine.  About the only extra thing I picked up was that I am on an inexorable journey to becoming my father.  I could feel it in my facial muscles as I formed exactly the same expressions I’ve seen on him when trying to look attentive to someone prattling away in a foreign language, too polite let them know they have no real audience. 

   Kizzy was a little less discreet, albeit not by her own design.  She was doing quite well, nodding occasionally and punctuating it with a “si, si” every now and again.  She would have got away with it, except she threw in a “mas o menus” (more or less) with a flourish when the question was very much “yes” or “no”.  The tour guide had the opportunity to look confused at that one, then she clicked and patiently explained in English.  Allowing us our dignity she continued the tour in Spanish and Kizzy went back to “si, si”. 

   After another five half-glasses each, I was also thankful not to be on the bike. This one included the mistela: the sacred that the Giol brand are licenced to make for all of the priests in Argentina.  It is really quite strong, and I have it on good authority that cycling while drunk is not the safest route home. 

   That evening, I think – memory’s a bit hazy, we wandered through Mendoza back to our hostel and came across the rally of the bodegas.  We were a little sad to have missed the harvest festival in late February but were fortunate to stumble across this classic car rally and Harley Davidson convention instead.  It left me wistful for possibilities of a self-drive trip across the Americas.  However, I’m not sure how far we would go on Bolivia’s roads in an MG or a Jag roadster.  It would be awesome until the frostbite set in.

Santiago - an unexpected pleasure

   Santiago gets a mixed reception.  Some of the people we’ve met have described it as “just another South American capital”.  Others have talked about what a lovely place it is to stay for a few weeks.  The guidebooks tend to go on about the smog.  All of these accounts have some merit.  Luckily we arrived with low expectations and had a pleasant few days there. 

   Not having any real highlights was the highlight of Santiago.  We climbed Cerro San Cristobal (in the funicular railway, admittedly) and enjoyed the afternoon in the shade of the Virgin Mary.  We were in no hurry; we just sat about taking in the smog-obscured views over the city and out to the Andes.  We took a long lazy lunch (at ridiculously good value) in Belavista because there was nothing to rush off to.  We walked across town on each of our three days to a place with wonderful ice cream, because we really liked it. 

   All those sorts of things we would have felt guilty about if there had been something else to do.  Most Santiaguinos exuded a similarly relaxed and cheerful air.  Their most striking characteristic: their determination to colonise every green open space for public affection.  There was another hill, Santa Lucia, on which I would have been embarrassed had I not had Kizzy by my side.  Everywhere you looked there were young couples joined at the lips.  It is a heritage site and they don’t charge but they do take a register of people entering the park.  I suspect that half of it is so that they can call up a girl’s parents.  “You were on Santa Lucia and you were just enjoying the scenery?  And you expect me to believe that!”  It’s a pleasant site, but none of the locals paid any attention to the scenery.  I suspect they all live with their parents.

   It was good that we could relax while we were there as our inbound journey was a pain in the neck.  We boarded the bus in Pucon at about 9pm.  After 90 minutes we were just nodding off when we pulled into Temuco and were woken up to be told we could get off for 15 minutes. We were then woken up again and told that in fact we must get off for 15 minutes while the bus was filled with petrol.  We arrived in Santiago at 6:30am grateful to have a wonderful hostel where they were let us show up half asleep (so were they) just after 8am.  After dropping off our bags we ventured into town to find a fry-up, or its closest Chilean approximation.  We promptly found a place that looked like a greasy spoon café and served rubbish greasy food at really inflated prices.  Exactly the sort of thing you do in an underslept state.  It is in fact a very good reason for not doing overnight bus journeys that disembark at any time before 9am. 

   Foolishly we did not fully learn this lesson until we left Santiago for Mendoza.  The overnight bus included a border crossing at 2am and arrived at 4:30am.  Hanging out in Mendoza bus station until it was light enough to safely cross town and politely arrive at our hostel ranks as a low point in our travels.  They got upset whenever we looked like we might doze off.  The seats were really uncomfortable, probably so that sleep is impossible.  The first café didn’t open until 7am.  The coffee was really expensive and the medialunas were rubbish, which is quite a feat.  This is not a complaint in search of sympathy; it is meant to be informative.  Do not do the overnight bus between Mendoza and Santiago.  You will regret it.  You will want to bicker with loved ones and station staff.  And you will end up sulking over a rubbish breakfast.

The grass IS greener

   Forget what you’re told about the grass always looking greener.  After the rain and greyness of the Argentine Lakes District our time in Pucon on the Chilean side was truly a welcome change.  Our journey from San Martin de los Andes (to be fair – sunny with nice walks - see photo) to Pucon was one of those bus trips where you spend most of the time trying to take the perfect photo out of the dusty window of a moving bus on a bumpy road, only to get there and find out you need not have bothered, the views are far better at the end.

 Volcan Lanin (at about the border post between Argentina and Chile)

Volcan Vilarica (the view from Pucon town centre)

   When we crossed the border back into Chile I very sensibly avoided another customs infraction and was able enjoy the show (albeit with some sympathy) as someone else was busted trying to smuggle honey.  The customs post is fabulously situated at the foot of Volcan Lanin.  The siting is spectacular but it could hardly be otherwise in this part of the world.  Majestic perfectly conical volcanoes are what they do here.  Our next three nights were in Pucon, on the shore of Lago Vilarica where the lower slopes of Volcan Vilarica meet the water. 

   With perfect weather (i.e. no clouds and lots of sun) we not only spent much of our time on the black sand beach but also being told by other guests at our hostel about the amazing ascent of the volcano.  And the white-water rafting.  And the canyoning.  And the treetop canopy.  Temptations all, but in the end we did none of these.  Our budget is still recovering from Patagonia and our travels will take us past further (hopefully cheaper) volcanoes, rivers, forests and canyons.

 At the refugio in Reserva el Cani

 more views from El Cani

   We met up with Nick and Amanda again and on their advice we went to the little visited Reserva el Cani.  It started out looking like a miserable day.  Low drizzle and the prospect of 6 hours hiking on steep hills put Kizzy in a bit of a mood.  Luckily this improved.  As we hiked, first up to and then into the cloud, more light gathered around us.  We emerged into a magical setting of forest and small lakes, perfect campsites and almost no-one else around.  The final push at the top of the trail took us to a lookout with views out two three volcanoes (including Lanin and Vilarica) jutting above the blanket of cloud beneath us. 

 Relaxing in the Termas los Pozones

our favorite spot on the beach on Lago Vilarica

   We had a quick bite to eat and some hurried photos before rushing back down through the cloud to be on time for our bus to an evening at Los Pozones thermal springs.   This was the ideal way to relax after a strenuous trek.  The next day we chilled out by the beach again (still recovering), before setting off on the overnight bus to Santiago.

Goodbye to Patagonia

   Patagonia showered us with her gifts of bright sunshine and glorious scenery as we frolicked deep within her southern reaches.  As soon as we determined to leave she just showered on us.  We had heard wonderful things about Bariloche yet it almost failed to deliver on account of the incessant rain. 

   Gabi and Max (and their kids, Constantine and Justina) were lovely hosts and took the trouble to take us to visit a nearby waterfall and chocolate factory but sadly there is only so much you can do in an adventure capital soaked to its thermal base-layer.  Luckily all was rectified by churros. 

   Kizzy was concerned that our adventures had peaked too early when we found the most amazing ice cream in the world in southern Brazil.  In Bariloche this run of luck continued with our discovery of the world’s best churros served with hot chocolate.  The churros in Argentina do not come with a pot of chocolate to dip into, they come with injections of smooth and glossy caramel running the length of their cores.  The café in Bariloche, which gave us an afternoon of emergency shelter, had the freshest churros and the perfect sauce to churro ratio, and they practically insisted on serving them with hot chocolate.  Again, we missed the photo op, our intention to return thwarted as the café closed for renovations for the remainder of our stay.

   From Bariloche we turned northward along Lago Nahuel Huapi to the tiny and charming town of Villa Angostura.  As we stood in the street wondering where to go looking for accommodation a lady approached us asked if we needed anything.  She proceeded to call over her husband and loaded us and our bags into her car and drove us to the place we had in mind.  She then wrote down her address in case we had any problems.  Her husband didn't bat an eyelid.  I can only presume she is a nice and generous human being all the time. 

   Our hostel was a gorgeous and well-appointed chalet that, being the tail end of the summer season and heavy with rain, we had to ourselves.  What luxury … or so we thought.  It turned out we were not alone.  We shared the place with some decidedly unsavoury lodgers who turned up in the middle of the night, in the wrong beds (namely ours) and proceeded to eat us alive.  Villa la Angostura did not really work for us.  Aside from the bedbugs, the weather continued in the pattern set in Bariloche, perpetually raining or threatening to rain, and the one break we had we commenced a walk to a waterfall only to find ourselves on an unappealing road in an unappealing forest amongst a cluster of buildings with signs making it very clear this was private property.  Shortly a posse of dogs came along telling us in no uncertain terms to bugger off back the way we came.  We buggered off. 

The Ruta 40 experience

   This is the classic South American road trip.  Between Bariloche and El Calafate lies the wild expanse of Patagonia and only one road does it justice.  Chalten Travel will take you on this two day adventure, driving during the day so you can enjoy the every inch of these amazing views.  And at the end, they will also sell you the t-shirt.

   Ok, it has been a while since I last wrote.  Sometimes it’s easier to write when busy.  Trying to write when on a stultifying bus journey for two days saw me lacking inspiration.  Since then, no excuses, we’ve been mainly stuck indoors as we have enjoyed the authentic Lakes District experience, rain and all. 

   Route 40, despite Chalten Travel’s advertising, is not a good road trip.  60% of the journey is on slightly bumpy gravel road.  Not enough to warrant excitement but sufficient to make sleeping difficult.  There is a distinct lack of pleasant scenery.  In fact, Patagonia’s western expanse looks pretty similar to the east, only with unsealed roads, worse buses and fewer settlements.

   I cannot fathom why Chalten Travel split the journey into two days. I can only surmise they have a happy relationship with the one hotel in Perito Moreno where they stop overnight.  Unsurprisingly it cost over 50% more than our BA accommodation and we were in a shared dorm room rather than a private double.  Their suggestion that they want us to enjoy the scenery has a hollow ring to it when it the windows of the bus are caked with the dust of several thousand miles of gravel roads. 

   To give it its due, Route 40 starts well just out of El Calafate with a stop at the Hotel de Campo la Leona, just before taking on passengers from a connecting bus from El Chalten.  Aside from decent toilets and a handy café, Hotel de Campo la Leona has a display of information, photos and newsprint on the subject of its claim to fame as the venue for a month-long layover for Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid and Ethel Place after their exertions robbing banks on the eastern coast.

   There was also an amusing toilet stop (OK, I know, clearly it was a slow news day) half way to Perito Moreno.  In the absence of any suitable alternative, all the buses on this route seem to stop at this one point, possibly the only stretch of road with a hill and a gully.  The hill is the boys loos and the gully is the girls.  This was the only loo stop where the girls didn’t have to queue for 20 minutes to use the bathroom. 

   As far as entertainment went, that was it.  Route 40 wasn’t an awful experience.  It’s just 40 hours of tolerable dullness that someone has chosen to market as a road trip.  If you do travel with Chalten Travel, be warned: getting stuck at Hotel de Campo la Leona (a la Butch and Sundance) was almost the authentic experience for Amanda and Nick, the Aussie/English couple we ended up sharing a dorm with.  12 minutes into the 15 minute pit stop our coach pulled away leaving them in the loos.  Fortunately the gentleman sitting behind their empty seats alerted the driver who reluctantly stopped the bus and reversed 100m back up the drive.  In the later pit stops it was clear the drivers had not learnt from this experience, but thankfully everyone else on board had. 

   It seems to be a part of the culture in southern Patagonia to get the bus moving quicker than everyone else expects.  In the previous week at Torres Del Paine National Park we were sitting in the shuttle bus when the “auxiliary”, not the driver but the guy selling tickets, slid across into the driver’s seat to get something and disengaged the handbrake.  Funny for us sitting in the bus: there was a Japanese bloke outside with a wonderfully expressive face.  But not so funny for the people loading their luggage at the back.  It was hard not to laugh at the auxiliary when told to “put the handbrake on!”  His response: “I can’t drive”. 

A very big ice cube

The day after hiking in Torres del Paine we were on another bus to another town, El Calafate, with a pleasantly laid out main street devoted entirely to selling the one attraction in town.  Actually, the Perito Moreno Glacier is about 90 minutes away by bus.  We knocked about in El Calafate, had a quick look at the tours and decided to just bus out and tread the boardwalks ourselves.  We then raced across to the bus station with our hearts in our mouths after some suggestion that this weekend was “really busy” and the buses were all sold out; they weren’t. 

The next morning we had a lie-in and a nervous wait until 10:30am to see if the hostel laundry had our clothes cleaned on time.  Thankfully they were done, otherwise Kiz would have been enjoying the glacier in her summer dress and me in my board shorts. When we went over to the breakfast area we were treated to a spread of cakes and pastries, jams, yoghurts, cereals, fresh fruit and juices, hot chocolate and the rich smell of good coffee.  The attendant asked for our room number and we told her and she pointed not to a table but to the door.  “You have the other breakfast, in the kitchen.”  The other breakfast was running low on bread and jam.  And that was it, with some powdered coffee and powdered milk.  It was cruel.

   We took the 1pm bus to the glacier, with the prospect of 5 hours to wait until the return bus.  Actually one of the selling points of the tours is that you are not stuck out there for 5 hours in the face of chilling winds straight off the ice.  When we arrived it was about 20˚C with blue skies and barely a breath of wind.  For most of our five hours we sat on a well-sited bench, out of the way of most of the tourists.  In fact for the last two hours it seemed we had the glacier almost to ourselves.  I think everyone else was camped out in the café in the parking lot.  For most of that time we were chatting with a British couple, Lou and Masha, and watching splinters of ice slip from the face of the glacier into the lake.  As is the way of this travelling lark it turns out that Kizzy was taught by their daughter at Shene school and I worked at the Birkbeck student union with someone Masha has also worked with.  Hopefully we’ll catch up with them again in the Lakes District.  With the weather we had the five hours were a blessing. 

   Earlier in the day, as we were walking to the bus station, I was fretting about the time and hurrying Kizzy along.  She doesn’t take so well to being hurried along and as it turned out we were there over 15 minutes before the bus was due and 23 minutes before it actually left.  Kizzy reminded me of a conversation we had with my mum the first time I took Kizzy back to Melbourne.  “It’s at times like this that I remember the snort your mum gave when I said that you were a laid-back person.  ’Myles?  Laid back?’ she said and then she laughed.”  Our five hours at the glacier had a very calming effect, completely capturing the mind and the eye.  For the duration of that experience I actually was a laid-back person.