I would be lying if I said it was a wrench to leave Chile. I had a really good couple of weeks there, from the arid Atacama in the north to the party towns of Santiago and Valpo, but I've been looking forward to visiting Argentina for a while.
I've crossed the Andes more than I've crossed my legs out here, flitting back and forth over the mountainous beast all the way down from Colombia. My final crossing would be one of the best.
24 hours after my initially scheduled departure from Viña I finally got out of there. I purposefully chose a day bus because the scenery is renowned for being spectacular. With iPod fully charged, plenty of water and snacks in store, I set off.
After a couple of hours we were soon winding our way through the Andes. It is such an enormous mountain range, the boney backbone of South America, and the views - as promised - were spectacular:
At one point we zig-zagged our way up the side of a mountain, passing underneath ski lifts (we're currently out of season) and looking down at the bendy road below and the mountains beyond:
The border crossing was a strange one. Just before we entered a tunnel I caught a glimpse of a sign saying goodbye:
And then on the other side we drove straight through a police checkpoint manned by Argentinian police, and with a big Argentine flag fluttering in the breeze. So I guessed at that point the border had been crossed.
Ten minutes later our coach pulled into a huge aircraft-like hangar where we got out, walked to the first desk where a Chilean (in Argentina) gave us an exit stamp. We then walked another few metres and an Argentinian gave us an entry stamp. And that was that.
We all had to unpack our bags, which the mullet-topped customs officer gave a cursory glance to and nothing more. Good job he didn't find the 20 kilos of cocaine and small rabid dog that I had stashed away.
Back on the bus then, and we were treated to more scenery straight out of National Geographic. If you enjoy a good mountain, you'd love to do this crossing.
A few hours later and we reached Mendoza, famous for its wine, its pleasant climate and its way of giving you ridiculous hangovers.
That last bit is my fault, obviously. But I also blame an Australian named Shaun.
I arrived in the city on May 16, the day before my birthday. I managed to get the last bed in the Hostel Lao, a homely little place run by Englishman Mike and his Argentinian wife.
Straight away I got chatting to people in the hostel. There was a guy of mixed race from France called Adolf (which I thought was slightly cruel of his parents), Poppy from the UK, Ian the New Zealander, Clayton from Oz and Shaun.
I had arranged a rendezvous with my friend Mila, the Mendozian (if such a word exists) who I'd first met in Peru. The group of us went out and had a great first Argentinian dinner - various steaks, chicken dishes and copious amounts of the local vino:
We put Mila in charge of our next destination, and ended up at a faux Irish Pub - gurning green leprachauns sprouting out the walls, Guinness ads above the bar, ´90s indie tunes on the jukebox.
Strangely, the Irish pub had an English telephone box as its front door. Here are Mila and I striking a pose:
At midnight the crew were kind enough to belt out a 'Happy Birthday' to me. Shaun then appeared with an Irish Car Bomb, a lethal cocktail of Guinness, whisky and Baileys. The shot of whisky and Baileys is dropped into the pint of Guinness and then downed in one. Here's a step by step demonstration:
And this is me and Shaun, a bad influence:
Feeling slightly inebriated, some of us decided to head to pastures new and soon found a small dive bar up the street. It was virtually empty, but we managed to get a dance in before heading off to another club in a cab.
At this point things are a little hazy in my mind, but Shaun, Adolf and I eventually found our way back and in one piece. One of the biggest nights of my trip and a fun way to spend a pre-birthday eve.
The following day was the big day itself. The big Three Four, as no-one says.
Probably like most people, birthdays have less and less relevance to me the older I get. It's not that I dread adding another year to my age - I'm hugely enjoying my thirties - but it just seems like another day to me.
A call from mother was a pleasant surprise, and then Shaun and I decided to go on a walk and see Mendoza. It's a fairly straightforward city - an easy-to-follow grid pattern of streets, all the usual shops, restaurants and cafes, and some nice bits of greenery to relax in.
We had a great hangover-busting burger...
...and then walked block after block after block to the massive park on the west side of the city. By the time we got there we were out on our feet so just splodged on a patch of grass metres from the main gate.
On the way home I fancied cooking myself a birthday meal, so bought all the ingredients for a spag bol. I went home, cooked it up, shared it out, and collapsed into bed just after midnight.
The following day a group of us (Nat and Laura from England, Ian, Poppy, American Julian and I) decided to go and do what all right and sane people come to Mendoza to do: cycle around vineyards drinking wine.
We got a regular bus to a place called Maipu, about 40 minutes outside the city, and disembarked across the road from the famous Mr Hugo's.
Mr Whogo? I hear you ask.
Mr Hugo is something of a legendary figure in these parts. He runs a bike rental company in Maipu and is known for his warmer-than-an-electric-blanket welcome, free wine and good bikes. So there was only one place we were renting our bikes from.
The man himself was not there to greet us, but his wife was and she gave us a map of the local vineyards, a couple of discount tokens for the wineries and set us off on our way with a cheery wave.
The six of us peddled off down the road in search of the local plonk and soon turned off into a beautiful tree-lined avenue. It's autumn in Argentina, and the leaves on the trees were several different shades of orange, red and brown - a great sight.
It felt like we could be in Tuscany, or Provence, as we cycled down quiet paths with the sun on our backs. Unfortunately my camera decided to die on me so I had to rely on my rubbish iPhone camera for most of the day, but never mind.
Our first stop was to a winery owned by Trapiche. Now I'd never heard of Trapiche, but it turns out they are the tenth biggest wine manufacturer in the world, and the biggest in South America.
The company bought a dilapidated winery a few years ago and spent two years bringing it back to scratch, and it now forms the centrepiece of their operations in Mendoza.
The building was beautifully restored, and we were led round on a fascinating tour by a friendly guide who looked like he'd been enjoying the free wine tasting a little too much. I think the word is rotund.
Out the front of the building were two small acres of vines, and the guide explained how Trapiche were using these acres purely for testing out new methods of grape growing. It involved biomedical something or other, and was apparently the most eco way of growing the little white and purple fruits.
During the tour we passed some ancient presses that the winery had employed back in the 1920s:
And the huge main hall, decked with special oak flooring (intricately restored) that was designed to be the perfect surface to roll barrels of wine on:
Out the back was a railway line, now defunct, that the original Italian owner had built to transfer huge quantities of wine to Buenos Aires and elsewhere:
At the end of the tour we were led to yet another impressive room, where pristine tablemats and wine glasses were laid out. At this stage the guide was almost the same colour as the red wine he was holding, dramatically effusing about its 'flowery flavours' and 'strong, oaky texture'.
I should set him and Jilly Goolden up on a blind date.
We tasted four different wines, including the plunge-your-nose-deep-into-the-glass-before-you-sip part. We tried our hardest to look like connoisseurs, but probably came across like a group of giggling fifteen year-olds having their first sample of daddy's drinks cabinet.
This is Ian and I trying to do the wino connoisseur thing:
It was a great introductory hour to the time, effort and passion that goes into making wine in these parts. Suitably refreshed and with a healthy wine glow, we set off on our bikes.
It was almost lunchtime, so we thought we should get some food and lay off the wine for a bit. After all, it had just turned beer o'clock.
On the map given to us by Mrs Hugo was a beer garden, and we'd already been told it was a must-do by some other people we'd met in the hostel. We cycled down a bumpy track and found a little wooden shack at the end of it.
We took a spot in the sunny garden and enjoyed a round of home-brewed beers and a pizza. It was a great spot, run by great people, and chilling there in the sunshine was one of the highlights of the day.
Afterwards we headed off to another vineyard for more wine tasting. No tours this time, but we still managed to watch one of the young workers squishing the grapes with his booted feet in a giant press:
I'm not a massive fan of red wine so settled for a Chardonnay followed by a refreshing glass of Champagne. What a hardship.
At this point we were all nicely merry (particularly Poppy, who went for the 4-glass tasting marathon). We cycled down another stunning road, with the gold-leaved trees forming a perfect arch over our heads, and ended up in the Mavi vineyard.
It had only been open two weeks, and was in an enviable position. A modern whitewashed building with great balcony views over the acres of vines below. We got a group shot out the front...
...before retiring to some plush sofas out the back. We started off tasting more wine, before moving on to buying full bottles and sharing them out with a German/Canadian couple we met there.
The sun was slowly setting over the mountains in the distance, the wine was flowing, and a friend I'd met in Santiago (Tom) randomly turned up with another group. Basically, the perfect end to a fantastic day.
With the sun set, we thought we should better get the bikes back to Señor Hugo. We took a wobbly 15km ride back through the dusky roads to his place. At one point Nat's chain came off, which I luckily managed to fix before the dark really set in.
Back at Mr Hugo's we were given the promised free wine (which at this point was probably slightly unnecessary, but hey - everyone loves a freebie) and met up with some familiar faces.
After a forgettable bus journey back to Mendoza, during which a sleeping Julian (blond hair, black RayBan Wayfarers) was amusingly named 'the white Ray Charles' by Ian, we sloped back to the Hostel Lao in a tipsy state.
That night, after yet another helping of probably the biggest spag bol I've ever made, a few of us went out on the town.
I don't think there's a huge amount to report from this night, except that the DJ in the club was about 65, a female member of our group (naming no names) almost came to blows with another girl on the dancefloor, and Liverpudlian Lucy fell in a ditch.
My final day in Mendoza was a very memorable one, but for the wrong reasons.
We'd met scousers Amy, Lucy and Louise at the hostel and they had read about a lake outside Mendoza that was a really good place to visit. Ian, Shaun, the girls and I went to the bus station to buy our tickets for our evening departures out of Mendoza, and also one for the Potrerillos Lake.
With time to kill, we decided to grab a quick bite to eat. After much waiting around, and with our bus about to leave, we were delivered some foul Milanese sandwiches - unidentifiable chewy meat, almost black lettuce, no sauce. A dry, tasteless monstrosity that set the tone for the day.
An hour after leaving Mendoza the lake came into view. The driver told us it was our stop, so we got out.
The lake itself was reasonably impressive: large, bordered by green hills, blue water. A lake.
We wanted to get a drink so wandered along the path about 50 metres from the shoreline. Unfortunately the only restaurants or cafes that did exist were closed.
It was a ghost town. There were no activities (boat trips, pedaloes, Eye Spy), nothing to do except look at the lake - and looking at a lake doesn't take up much time.
We decided to walk down to the lake and find somewhere to sit. Unfortunately there was no grass to sit on, only muddy wasteland and some boulders covered in bird shit. By this time a couple of scraggy dogs had decided to follow us, which they continued to do for the rest of the day.
It felt like something out of a horror film - six out-of-towners head down to a derelict town on the lake in the middle of nowheresville and get brutally murdered one by one.
At one point, as we tried to find an inch of boulder to sit on that wasn't covered in crap, a car drove slowly down the track towards the lake - and towards us. It then parked, facing us.
This was our cue to leave, and as we went past we saw the driver - a man, or a woman (it was difficult to tell), with a mullet. It was staring out of the windscreen straight ahead. No-one else was around, no-one else was in the car.
We thought maybe it was a member of the local dogging club, but we weren't going to stick around to find out.
Above the lake was the small town of Potrerillos. With dog in tow we walked up the road in the sun, hoping to find something to drink, to eat. Just something to do.
This is one of two photos I took in Potrerillos, of the scousers walking up a road:
And this is the other, of Shaun and Ian just ahead of them:
Exciting stuff.
There was one cafe, but it was closed. Nearby there was a shop - open! - where we bought some cards and a football. We asked the cafe owner to open, which he did, and sat waiting patiently for the next bus out of town - some two hours later.
After one of the most disgusting coffees I can remember, and a game of cards which I lost, the bus eventually arrived to take us out of this depressing place in the Argentine wilderness.
The day to forget was complete when we got on the bus to find it packed out. We stood, or sat on the floor, for the tedious journey back to Mendoza.
A farcical day.
In the evening we went for a final steak and then boarded our separate buses. Ian, Shaun and I were off to Cordoba. The girls were heading to Salta.
I've been on some comfortable buses in South America, but have been waiting for my first experience of the full cama suite on an Argentinian night bus.
I've heard lots of great things about them, but to experience the full 180 degree flat bed...
...the free glass of champagne....
...a good feed....
...and free wifi was an experience to remember.
It was the best night's sleep I've had on a bus out here, and we arrived rested and ready for all that Cordoba was about to throw at us.
I've crossed the Andes more than I've crossed my legs out here, flitting back and forth over the mountainous beast all the way down from Colombia. My final crossing would be one of the best.
24 hours after my initially scheduled departure from Viña I finally got out of there. I purposefully chose a day bus because the scenery is renowned for being spectacular. With iPod fully charged, plenty of water and snacks in store, I set off.
After a couple of hours we were soon winding our way through the Andes. It is such an enormous mountain range, the boney backbone of South America, and the views - as promised - were spectacular:
At one point we zig-zagged our way up the side of a mountain, passing underneath ski lifts (we're currently out of season) and looking down at the bendy road below and the mountains beyond:
The border crossing was a strange one. Just before we entered a tunnel I caught a glimpse of a sign saying goodbye:
And then on the other side we drove straight through a police checkpoint manned by Argentinian police, and with a big Argentine flag fluttering in the breeze. So I guessed at that point the border had been crossed.
Ten minutes later our coach pulled into a huge aircraft-like hangar where we got out, walked to the first desk where a Chilean (in Argentina) gave us an exit stamp. We then walked another few metres and an Argentinian gave us an entry stamp. And that was that.
We all had to unpack our bags, which the mullet-topped customs officer gave a cursory glance to and nothing more. Good job he didn't find the 20 kilos of cocaine and small rabid dog that I had stashed away.
Back on the bus then, and we were treated to more scenery straight out of National Geographic. If you enjoy a good mountain, you'd love to do this crossing.
A few hours later and we reached Mendoza, famous for its wine, its pleasant climate and its way of giving you ridiculous hangovers.
That last bit is my fault, obviously. But I also blame an Australian named Shaun.
I arrived in the city on May 16, the day before my birthday. I managed to get the last bed in the Hostel Lao, a homely little place run by Englishman Mike and his Argentinian wife.
Straight away I got chatting to people in the hostel. There was a guy of mixed race from France called Adolf (which I thought was slightly cruel of his parents), Poppy from the UK, Ian the New Zealander, Clayton from Oz and Shaun.
I had arranged a rendezvous with my friend Mila, the Mendozian (if such a word exists) who I'd first met in Peru. The group of us went out and had a great first Argentinian dinner - various steaks, chicken dishes and copious amounts of the local vino:
We put Mila in charge of our next destination, and ended up at a faux Irish Pub - gurning green leprachauns sprouting out the walls, Guinness ads above the bar, ´90s indie tunes on the jukebox.
Strangely, the Irish pub had an English telephone box as its front door. Here are Mila and I striking a pose:
At midnight the crew were kind enough to belt out a 'Happy Birthday' to me. Shaun then appeared with an Irish Car Bomb, a lethal cocktail of Guinness, whisky and Baileys. The shot of whisky and Baileys is dropped into the pint of Guinness and then downed in one. Here's a step by step demonstration:
And this is me and Shaun, a bad influence:
At this point things are a little hazy in my mind, but Shaun, Adolf and I eventually found our way back and in one piece. One of the biggest nights of my trip and a fun way to spend a pre-birthday eve.
The following day was the big day itself. The big Three Four, as no-one says.
Probably like most people, birthdays have less and less relevance to me the older I get. It's not that I dread adding another year to my age - I'm hugely enjoying my thirties - but it just seems like another day to me.
A call from mother was a pleasant surprise, and then Shaun and I decided to go on a walk and see Mendoza. It's a fairly straightforward city - an easy-to-follow grid pattern of streets, all the usual shops, restaurants and cafes, and some nice bits of greenery to relax in.
We had a great hangover-busting burger...
...and then walked block after block after block to the massive park on the west side of the city. By the time we got there we were out on our feet so just splodged on a patch of grass metres from the main gate.
On the way home I fancied cooking myself a birthday meal, so bought all the ingredients for a spag bol. I went home, cooked it up, shared it out, and collapsed into bed just after midnight.
The following day a group of us (Nat and Laura from England, Ian, Poppy, American Julian and I) decided to go and do what all right and sane people come to Mendoza to do: cycle around vineyards drinking wine.
We got a regular bus to a place called Maipu, about 40 minutes outside the city, and disembarked across the road from the famous Mr Hugo's.
Mr Whogo? I hear you ask.
Mr Hugo is something of a legendary figure in these parts. He runs a bike rental company in Maipu and is known for his warmer-than-an-electric-blanket welcome, free wine and good bikes. So there was only one place we were renting our bikes from.
The man himself was not there to greet us, but his wife was and she gave us a map of the local vineyards, a couple of discount tokens for the wineries and set us off on our way with a cheery wave.
The six of us peddled off down the road in search of the local plonk and soon turned off into a beautiful tree-lined avenue. It's autumn in Argentina, and the leaves on the trees were several different shades of orange, red and brown - a great sight.
It felt like we could be in Tuscany, or Provence, as we cycled down quiet paths with the sun on our backs. Unfortunately my camera decided to die on me so I had to rely on my rubbish iPhone camera for most of the day, but never mind.
Our first stop was to a winery owned by Trapiche. Now I'd never heard of Trapiche, but it turns out they are the tenth biggest wine manufacturer in the world, and the biggest in South America.
The company bought a dilapidated winery a few years ago and spent two years bringing it back to scratch, and it now forms the centrepiece of their operations in Mendoza.
The building was beautifully restored, and we were led round on a fascinating tour by a friendly guide who looked like he'd been enjoying the free wine tasting a little too much. I think the word is rotund.
Out the front of the building were two small acres of vines, and the guide explained how Trapiche were using these acres purely for testing out new methods of grape growing. It involved biomedical something or other, and was apparently the most eco way of growing the little white and purple fruits.
During the tour we passed some ancient presses that the winery had employed back in the 1920s:
And the huge main hall, decked with special oak flooring (intricately restored) that was designed to be the perfect surface to roll barrels of wine on:
Out the back was a railway line, now defunct, that the original Italian owner had built to transfer huge quantities of wine to Buenos Aires and elsewhere:
At the end of the tour we were led to yet another impressive room, where pristine tablemats and wine glasses were laid out. At this stage the guide was almost the same colour as the red wine he was holding, dramatically effusing about its 'flowery flavours' and 'strong, oaky texture'.
I should set him and Jilly Goolden up on a blind date.
We tasted four different wines, including the plunge-your-nose-deep-into-the-glass-before-you-sip part. We tried our hardest to look like connoisseurs, but probably came across like a group of giggling fifteen year-olds having their first sample of daddy's drinks cabinet.
This is Ian and I trying to do the wino connoisseur thing:
It was a great introductory hour to the time, effort and passion that goes into making wine in these parts. Suitably refreshed and with a healthy wine glow, we set off on our bikes.
It was almost lunchtime, so we thought we should get some food and lay off the wine for a bit. After all, it had just turned beer o'clock.
On the map given to us by Mrs Hugo was a beer garden, and we'd already been told it was a must-do by some other people we'd met in the hostel. We cycled down a bumpy track and found a little wooden shack at the end of it.
We took a spot in the sunny garden and enjoyed a round of home-brewed beers and a pizza. It was a great spot, run by great people, and chilling there in the sunshine was one of the highlights of the day.
Afterwards we headed off to another vineyard for more wine tasting. No tours this time, but we still managed to watch one of the young workers squishing the grapes with his booted feet in a giant press:
I'm not a massive fan of red wine so settled for a Chardonnay followed by a refreshing glass of Champagne. What a hardship.
At this point we were all nicely merry (particularly Poppy, who went for the 4-glass tasting marathon). We cycled down another stunning road, with the gold-leaved trees forming a perfect arch over our heads, and ended up in the Mavi vineyard.
It had only been open two weeks, and was in an enviable position. A modern whitewashed building with great balcony views over the acres of vines below. We got a group shot out the front...
...before retiring to some plush sofas out the back. We started off tasting more wine, before moving on to buying full bottles and sharing them out with a German/Canadian couple we met there.
The sun was slowly setting over the mountains in the distance, the wine was flowing, and a friend I'd met in Santiago (Tom) randomly turned up with another group. Basically, the perfect end to a fantastic day.
With the sun set, we thought we should better get the bikes back to Señor Hugo. We took a wobbly 15km ride back through the dusky roads to his place. At one point Nat's chain came off, which I luckily managed to fix before the dark really set in.
Back at Mr Hugo's we were given the promised free wine (which at this point was probably slightly unnecessary, but hey - everyone loves a freebie) and met up with some familiar faces.
After a forgettable bus journey back to Mendoza, during which a sleeping Julian (blond hair, black RayBan Wayfarers) was amusingly named 'the white Ray Charles' by Ian, we sloped back to the Hostel Lao in a tipsy state.
That night, after yet another helping of probably the biggest spag bol I've ever made, a few of us went out on the town.
I don't think there's a huge amount to report from this night, except that the DJ in the club was about 65, a female member of our group (naming no names) almost came to blows with another girl on the dancefloor, and Liverpudlian Lucy fell in a ditch.
My final day in Mendoza was a very memorable one, but for the wrong reasons.
We'd met scousers Amy, Lucy and Louise at the hostel and they had read about a lake outside Mendoza that was a really good place to visit. Ian, Shaun, the girls and I went to the bus station to buy our tickets for our evening departures out of Mendoza, and also one for the Potrerillos Lake.
With time to kill, we decided to grab a quick bite to eat. After much waiting around, and with our bus about to leave, we were delivered some foul Milanese sandwiches - unidentifiable chewy meat, almost black lettuce, no sauce. A dry, tasteless monstrosity that set the tone for the day.
An hour after leaving Mendoza the lake came into view. The driver told us it was our stop, so we got out.
The lake itself was reasonably impressive: large, bordered by green hills, blue water. A lake.
We wanted to get a drink so wandered along the path about 50 metres from the shoreline. Unfortunately the only restaurants or cafes that did exist were closed.
It was a ghost town. There were no activities (boat trips, pedaloes, Eye Spy), nothing to do except look at the lake - and looking at a lake doesn't take up much time.
We decided to walk down to the lake and find somewhere to sit. Unfortunately there was no grass to sit on, only muddy wasteland and some boulders covered in bird shit. By this time a couple of scraggy dogs had decided to follow us, which they continued to do for the rest of the day.
It felt like something out of a horror film - six out-of-towners head down to a derelict town on the lake in the middle of nowheresville and get brutally murdered one by one.
At one point, as we tried to find an inch of boulder to sit on that wasn't covered in crap, a car drove slowly down the track towards the lake - and towards us. It then parked, facing us.
This was our cue to leave, and as we went past we saw the driver - a man, or a woman (it was difficult to tell), with a mullet. It was staring out of the windscreen straight ahead. No-one else was around, no-one else was in the car.
We thought maybe it was a member of the local dogging club, but we weren't going to stick around to find out.
Above the lake was the small town of Potrerillos. With dog in tow we walked up the road in the sun, hoping to find something to drink, to eat. Just something to do.
This is one of two photos I took in Potrerillos, of the scousers walking up a road:
And this is the other, of Shaun and Ian just ahead of them:
Exciting stuff.
There was one cafe, but it was closed. Nearby there was a shop - open! - where we bought some cards and a football. We asked the cafe owner to open, which he did, and sat waiting patiently for the next bus out of town - some two hours later.
After one of the most disgusting coffees I can remember, and a game of cards which I lost, the bus eventually arrived to take us out of this depressing place in the Argentine wilderness.
The day to forget was complete when we got on the bus to find it packed out. We stood, or sat on the floor, for the tedious journey back to Mendoza.
A farcical day.
In the evening we went for a final steak and then boarded our separate buses. Ian, Shaun and I were off to Cordoba. The girls were heading to Salta.
I've been on some comfortable buses in South America, but have been waiting for my first experience of the full cama suite on an Argentinian night bus.
I've heard lots of great things about them, but to experience the full 180 degree flat bed...
...the free glass of champagne....
...a good feed....
...and free wifi was an experience to remember.
It was the best night's sleep I've had on a bus out here, and we arrived rested and ready for all that Cordoba was about to throw at us.
