The bus was a shocking disappointment. We may have braved Indian buses with no complaint - the bad roads, the crappy seats and incredible delays were all things we took in our stride. Here though, we were being charged 900 Argentinian pesos (125 pounds) for the privilege. While we knew the road would be bad we figured, Hey - that´s the price you pay for the stunning views. When a dilapidated bus turned up, we shrugged our shoulders. But when we had to clean our windows at the first petrol station about 10hours in, we were a little peeved. And for our money, there was no food or water like so many other Argentian buses. Instead we were shepherded into little stores for crisps and cakes, and overcharged for the privilege. When the bus broke down for a couple of ours later in the afternoon, we rolled our eyes. And the views? Well, we saw some whistle past at 50km a hour through our grubbily self-cleaned window. But with no stops to appreciate it, Route 40 became just another road and we buried our heads in books. All in all, Argentina is very well-developed and there aren´t any real scams or cons for tourists. In fact, when we bought our ticket we were told specifically that another bus for the same price could take us luxury cama class in take less time, with meals included - however it would not travel "Route 40". So because only tourists demand this route and only tourists travel it, we got hung out for our cash and paid the price.
So it was that we finally pulled into an overcast and breezy day in Bariloche. The wind whipped across the vast lake in front of us, frothing up foamy white crests across the deep lapis lazuli blue of the water. The lake is so big that looking West, its far shores are invisible, but for the snow-capped mountains that rise in the distance.
El Calafate had resembled a Swiss alpine town, but Bariloche had taken it further: fondue restaurants, artisan chocolates, and skiing added to the mix of log cabin city architecture and hiking shops. We'd come for Christmas to escape the southern wind and cold: the temperature nestled around the low 20s, cool fresh mountain air and the town sported a relaxed, if touristy, vibe. The start of the day was a bust - the campsite we'd chosen 3k out of town was closed and with no charged card or change for the bus, we had to walk back into the city with all our kit. We carry about 25kg each while in transit , so it was a weary trudge back to the city centre, to find tourist information, inexplicably, closed. Our fortune turned a little when we landed at Periko's youth hostel: I'd booked us in there over Christmas for an upgrade to real beds, free breakfasts and the like. Now we begged them for space for the first three nights of our stay - and got the last two beds in dorm rooms. The couple standing hopefully behind us at the reception queue were turned away. We were able to throw our bags in lockers, clean up and head out to explore. Pleased that our fortune seemed to have changed, we grabbed a great sandwich lunch from a pizza parlour round the corner, while staring enviously at other customers wood-fired food, and discussed the plan. Biking and hiking it was to be: a two wheeler circuit around the south side of the lake with great views, and then on another day a trek up to view points on Tronador, the slumbering englaciered volcano to the south west. If other hikes came our way we'd take them on: we knew that once the 25th Dec arrived we'd be hitting the bottle and taking a deserved rest, so we were eager to make our early days count in Bariloche. And of course, after our TdP trek we were fit, experienced and enthusiastic. Nothing could stop us.
So it was that we found ourselves on an overcast and windy morning standing at the bike hire Circuito Chico stand looking at a 40k loop up and down the Andean foothills that would give impressive views of the mountains and lake, along with other treats such as secluded bays with azure blue water lapping against white pebble beaches and hidden lakes with a fairytale feel. Looking at our bikes, I wasn't sure they were up to the challenge - they had certainly seen better days. But the brakes worked and at least one gear on the chain seemed to function... So having signed a disclaimer making us liable for everything under the sun we sped off into a light drizzle.
The light drizzle turned to rain, and rain turned to hail as we gritted our teeth and carried on. Majestic views of the countryside were mostly obscured, and it all started to feel very British. In fact the other cyclists we met were British: clearly we are the crazy ones looking to go cycling round forested roads on a wet and windy afternoon. I can't help wondering whether somehow Bradley Wiggins has pumped too much bike enthusiasm into us as a nation over the summer. We wearied on, but in good spirits, considering - the rain wasn't too brutal and there was a quick drop off 15k from the end for those who wanted to (as I put it) give up early. While considering this, I looked at Mhairi.
'Our hands are cold,' I said. And that was it. Finally after 3 months Mhairi and I had totally merged brains. One of the funny things about being 100% with your partner is the amount that becomes totally unsaid and only communicated through small actions, looks and coded speak. In this case, we had exchanged a glance, and our hands are cold meant that we both thought it was time to bail. As we toured slippery downhills with blinding hail, the signs for our drop off appeared majestically through the haze of the downpour.
The rain continued for 4 days almost solidly - apart from teasing breaks designed only to lure the unwary out of their homes for a good drenching ten minutes later. Tronador was out - at 2000m heavy rain here meant snow and hail in sub-zero temperatures. In some ways, the closed campsite had saved us from ourselves. We were under roof rather than under canvas, and Periko's wrapped itself around us like a cosy blanket. Shamelessly we soaked up the free Internet, lingered in the big kitchen making meals and even took out a DVD to watch on the Tv in the lounge. Jeff Bridges certainly had True Grit, but looking out at the rain from a cushioned sofa, we most certainly did not.
Deprived of the outdoorsy thrills we´d expected, we instead reverted to type and went looking for food and drink. First up we headed out to a Mexican restaurant that evening - so overpriced for the quality and service that we had to go out drinking afterwards to forget it. The South bar was a proper watering hole full of rock fans drinking beer on scrappy tables, and listening to any music that had great guitar riffs: Pearl Jam, Elastica, Guns'n'Roses. A few drinks went on to become a nuclear session as we met the two young South Americans sharing our dorm in another 'Irish' bar playing trance music, serving Fernet Branca and coke and open until 6am. So we stayed till 4am, befriending Tomas and Señor Venezuela while dancing to DJ Tiesto as the only customers there. Typically the next morning, the young 22year olds pretty much got up looking fresh and inviting us out again that evening: we glared at Christmas Eve over hot cups of tea and refused politely. At least we'd get to sleep easily before Christmas Day.
After the closed amenities and the rain we were to have our third Bariloche fail - Christmas Eve dinner. We knew that Christmas Eve was the bigger event in Argentina, in line with a lot of Catholic countries. As a tourist getaway, we had assumed that some places would be open to walk into for something to eat. How wrong we were - I know now the Spanish fluently for 'did you make a reservation' and after our education in this phrase for over an hour or so we headed back to the hostel for a bread bun and an early night.
Christmas Day brought a break in the storm and heralded the popping cork of our Patagonian Fizz - Neuquen's Fin del Mundo finest. As Mhairi spread her cheeses out and I topped my scrambled eggs with local smoked trout, the little-seen sun cleared the clouds and sent shafts of light through the hostel windows. We could take a walk up to Cerro Otto in the now warm weather and finally appreciate some of the amazing views. To coincide with our new fortune, Jauja restaurant was open in the evening with warm, tourist friendly service and good quality food. I held off on the steak and took the venison with Malbec reduction. Mhairi looked very content with her grilled provolone cheese and pasta main course.
A small but perfectly-formed outfit, the museum both educated us on the abundant flora and fauna of the lands, and described in detail the tribes of the steppe. Stuffed condors looked menacingly out of their glass cases, with the skinned heads full of wrinkled menace, as well as pumas, guanacos. armadillos and all manner of birds. The anthropological segment was more poignant. It described the history of the aboriginal peoples. How they'd lived before European settlment, and helped the early pioneers, Welsh and Spanish. How they'd traded and cooperated with the encroachment of the Europeans and then worked with independent Argentinians from the 1816. And then how they had been virtually wiped out in a new policy of lebensraum and limpieza in the 1879-80 war of the desert. Mapuche, Tehuelche and others were hunted down and their lands annexed to a new Argentina eager to consolidate its people and borders. Of course, the British have done worse, and colonial-imperial history is full of dishonour and shame. Yet when Christine Kirchner accuses the British of holding the Falkland Islands merely as a relic of imperialism, she seems blind to the hypocrisy - though as the claim supports her nationalist agenda and detracts from the rampant inflation and threatening levels of unemployment, I'm sure she doesn't care so much.
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