Adios Huevon, hola Ché. We have left the Chilean Pacific and reached the Argentine Pampas, two different oceans both sweltering under the same clear sky. Summer is in full swing down here and from the bathers in the sea to the boaters on the lakes everyone is enjoying the sun. Even cyclists, sweating over mountains, round lake shores and across deserts have been doing their fair share of 'basking'. Between the coast and the dry interior we've passed through the Patagonian Lake District. Alpine-style towns bursting with families enjoying the school holidays make for somewhat strange but relaxed ports of call, accentuating the emptiness of the scenery of the final two days as we leave the crowds and push into the province of Neuquén. Pablo Neruda escaped persecution in his homeland and Ché Guevara pushed his motorbike in different directions across these mountain passes. Nothing especially momentous happened or will result from our crossing, but then again we did find a place called 'Chin Chin'! Bottoms up, here's to the return to Argentina and Quilmes at 4,50 pesos a bottle...
Day fifty four. Puerto Montt - Petrohué. January 30th. 85 KM
Where there's sand, there's a beach.
Why rush when the journey is the destination? Why is the world chasing itself around when we could sit back and enjoy the view? Hmmm, indeed, quite, muse, stroke beard... Cojones to all that, we've not seen a main road since 2007 and cycle out of town down the hard shoulder of a motorway. We pause only so I can stand next to the road sign for the aforementioned town. To stop childish idiots like me from doing exactly this they've put the sign in the middle of the central reservation. Check out Eddie Murphy crossing the motorway in 'Bowfinger' for a similar interpretation of the Green Cross Code. Off Ruta 5, through the town of Puerto Varas and round the metallic sheen of Lago Llanquihue. The perfectly conical Volcán Osorno looms over all. A day of tarmac ends with a new road surface for us. Sand has been blown down the route from our campsite for the night; the beach at the western end of Lago Todos Los Santos. We take the plunge - Col swims and I sink as normal. Al exhibits more reserve and is rewarded by not being bitten to bits by midges or sun burned.
Day fifty five. Petrohué, Chile - San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina. January 31st. 57KM
Three men in three boats.
The day starts with a two hour crossing of the lake, the crown of Volcán Osorno peeking monkishly out of a fringe of cloud behind us. Just when the day was shaping up to be easy going for a crossing of the Andes the ferry timetable made things a little more interesting. The second of today's three voyages left at 5 PM from a place called Puerto Frias, the other side of the mountains. Our fellow passengers had no trouble getting there with 40 minutes to spare, despite the 800m ascent in just 8KM on a surface of sand on rock in a humid 30 something degrees. However, they were in a bus. We found it a bit of a tighter schedule. Especially as we had to get off and push round the hairpin corners; surface, incline and bike weight trumping leg power and balance. Even Col had to dismount here and he can cycle over almost any terrain, his balance testimony to years of practicing sitting still. This combination of Tour de France mountain climbing and the Plymouth Navy Gun Run got us over the border and on to the next crossing with minutes to spare. Here we came a bit of a cropper with regard to the fare. Acting on the advice of the ferry company in Puerto Montt we had prepared for the crossing like the Owl and Pussycat, packing some money and plenty of honey. Is that right? Anyway, we should have gone to sea with more money than honey because we didn't have enough. The fee had disappointingly gone up in the two days since leaving town and competition in the marketplace was thin on the ground. The invisible hand of price had formed an invisible fist and punched us below the belt. Our plums hadn't been so bruised since the fruit bag joined me in the Austral pile-up. All four wallets were emptied and a combination of different currencies left us with exactly one US dollar to spare. We helped out with the currency conversion rates so perhaps the fit between total cost and ready cash wasn't quite so uncanny as it might seem. Note to the Owl and the Pussycat - just take money next time. Chilean customs are going to rob you of your honey anyway.
The final ferry of the day was reached without incident. It was full of tourists from Bariloche and the only reason we didn't pollute the generally refined atmosphere with our disheveled appearance was that we were diluted in a huge sea of North Face and Lowe Alpine clothing. I can't really get away with calling this a ferry anyway - there was a couple from Cheam, Surrey on it. It must have been a 'Launch'. They were very nice people though, and spoke to me despite the fact that I looked like a stowaway. In fact they would be far and away the most English people we'd met yet if it wasn't for our encounter with 'Dan' on a walk up to the base camp of Mount Fitz Roy a few weeks ago. Dan was easily identifiable as English from 200 paces as found him looking at a cloud. He was waiting for it to lift off the top of the mountain so he could have a view and I can't think of a more English pastime. When we went down from camp the next morning we met Dan coming back up for another crack at the view, despite having twisted his ankle the previous evening and it being cloudier than the previous day. He was so upbeat about the prospect of this cloud watching I'd nominate him as the most English man I'd ever met. When they carry him off Fitz Roy after 60 odd years of cheerful waiting in vain for the cloud to lift off the summit they should find a spot for him in Westminster Abbey. What a friendly bloke as well. Dan - we salute you!!
Oh yes - we then cycled to Bariloche amidst a complete lack of incident.
Day fifty seven. San Carlos de Bariloche - Villa La Angostura. February 2nd. Dist: 91KM
Hasta la Quilmes es muy barata siempre
The highlight of the rest day in Bariloche was our surprising effort in finding the local Marxist Youth Branch bar amidst a sea of mediocre expensive restaurants. A political statement to fit in was hard to come by - 'my father knew Lloyd George' seemed unlikely to signify anything in this place. Er, or century. What would 'he knows Hillary Armstrong' get you from a Marxist? A slap in the chops probably. We only wanted a beer so we just pointed to our beards and nodded friendly-like - the fridge door to the cheapest Quilmes in town was opened. Great party. The following day's cycle to Villa La Angostura was made easier for Al and his steed after the bike shop in Bariloche repaired the repair work done by the bike shop in Puerto Montt. The photos of Lago Nahuel Huapi speak for themselves, making this a nice short entry.
Day fifty eight. Villa La Angostura - not San Martín de Los Andes. February 3rd. Dist: 92 KM
La ruta de los siete Lagos. Translation: a right hard day on a bike.
This would have been a beautiful day on the bike if either the road was not the dustiest yet encountered or if not every man and his dog had decided to drive along it at the same time as us. As it was we floundered through a dust bowl for the first 50KM, during which time we saw next to nothing, and spent the remaining distance trying to resume breathing as normal. When we finally hit tarmac again I looked over my shoulder to see Colin emerging from the clouds -all he was missing was a lamp and he could have been emerging from a shift down Wearmouth Colliery. The restorative measures taken involved two lakes. The first was a swim in Lago Villarino which was a good idea. The second was a lemonade drinking session which wasn't. Movement of any sort after the latter was awkward - we only made it five yards back into the heat outside the cafe and we were asleep on the floor in the front garden. We got on with the cycling only after the owner turned the sprinklers on. With 20 odd KM still to go to San Martín and up high in the mountains we found a campsite run by a Mapuche family. We tossed a coin to decide between batting on or declaring. Col got out the double headed coin reserved for such occasions and we all cheered when it came up 'stop here'. Machismo preserved by the fall of a coin we had notable showers: the lads of the family were building the roof of the shower while we used it. They unfortunately nailed the tarpaulin on while I was in there, plunging the operation into darkness as they covered the window at the same time. Despite all indications there was no repeat of my Granddad's construction antics (Headline in the Express and Star: 'Wolverhampton Carpenter Falls Through Roof') so at least we washed one at a time. We ate the best empanadas of the trip to date around the family's campfire and watched the vastness of the night sky unfold above us in the clear mountain air, as it is wont to do round here.
Day fifty nine. Las Taguas Arroyo Culebra - Junín de Los Andes. February 4th. Dist: 81KM
There is only one barbers in San Martín de Los Andes and he's shut on the annual 'Día de San Martín de Los Andes'. Which is February 4th.
We thought San Martín de Los Andes the most appealing town in the area and enjoyed a half day loafing around, catching up with some reading on the beach etc. We then went for a haircut which didn't happen as, despite it's charms, San Martín has the lowest ratio of hairdressers to heads of any town in Argentina. Fact. The only one which we found was shut as everyone battened down the hatches for a procession to mark the town's anniversary. This seemed to consist of a number of military parades so we left in the evening cool for a fast cycle to Junín de Los Andes. This tranquil and shady town was bigger than we thought, a realisation we marked by losing each other. The second interesting demographic statistic of the day is that Junín de Los Andes has the most bikes per head of population of any town in Argentina, leading to lots of false alarms when searching for two other cyclists as darkness draws near. Once reunited relief overcame recrimination, which was probably a good job for me as I was the likely criminal, and we immediately declared a 'we're not cooking tonight night' and ate in a bar by the town square. Here we fell into conversation with 'The Bloke from Bahia Blanca' who we made an immediate connection with, his town's football team being the support act when we went to watch "The World's Greatest Football Team" (Pablo Villa, yet to see Wolves play) Boca Juniors play a few years ago. Anyway, whatever the reason, our man decided he should buy us water and leave it strategically placed on the road ahead tomorrow. We were entering the desert.
Day sixty. Junín de Los Andes - La Amarga. February 5th. Dist: 131KM
Flush that? With this? Are you having a laugh?
We set off at the crack of dawn. Two reasons: firstly, in December the Argentinean authorities changed the hour to increase evening light and reduce energy demands, putting dawn within reasonably easy reach even for the late risers amongst us. Secondly we never really got to sleep anyway as we'd pitched up in the world's noisiest campsite next to it's most irritating occupants. It was hard to resist waking up in the morning and returning the favour by disturbing their sleep by shouting out 'Hi dee Hi'! So we didn't. Disappointingly no one seemed bothered. We could have done with screaming chainsaw man from El Sordo!! We cycled off into the Castilian-esque landscape under a clear sky which promised a hot day. It delivered. Happily so did 'The Bloke from Bahia Blanca'. In an superbly humane gesture he'd left the 5 litres of mineral water where he said he would. More touchingly, the house he said he'd leave it in had been reduced to rubble so he must have back tracked to leave it with some workmen who, after Colin and I had idiotically charged past, managed to halt Al and deliver the gift. From Junín to Zapala there is no town and water is pretty scarce. Rarely has it tasted better. The day rolled on and the humidity rose. Long climbs across barren mountains. A thunderstorm loomed, making all of us nervous, especially Colin who was the tallest object for hundreds of kilometres around. We raced for a dot on the map called La Amarga which turned out to be a very pleasant dot indeed. The only house in the area provided essentials such as cold beer and a free spot to pitch our tent, sheltered from an imminent storm that never arrived. It also provided a truly remarkable toilet facility, the gruesome use of which required nerve and balance in equal measures. Welcome though it was we could be picky and complain about the moving floor of ants we'd erected the tent on. On a broiling night this meant we could leave only a small section of the zip open to ventilate the unshowered contents. A small window of opportunity, but one a large animal tried to take advantage of to break-in at about four in the morning. You can probably imagine, this led to 'not a little excitement'.
Day sixty one. La Amarga - Zapala. February 6th. Dist: 85KM
He was from Stockport; he should know a dump when he sees one.
We rose traumatised from the nocturnal scuffling and sized up likely culprits for the intrusion. A wonky-eyed hound looked pretty guilty - I wonder if his eyes were wonky before the night's rumble? We managed to get away early enough to beat a road blockade staged by local Mapuche at Puente Picún Leufu, a protest at local labor discrimination. An unlikely traveler we met coming the other way might not have been so lucky. Emerging from the desert haze, slowly he appeared. Nope, not Omar Sharrif in Lawrence of Arabia but Steve, a yoga instructor from Cheadle. He was lost but not at all bothered. He also cheerfully informed us that he had just come from our intended oasis for a day's rest and labeled it a "dump". At this stage we thought he was really from Stockport in which case he would know what he was talking about (je je je Mancunian amigos!). However, it later turned out he was from the 'posh end' and probably operating higher standards than us scruffs. We arrived in the middle of siesta with plenty of time to test his theory and checked into a hotel for military or police employees. Not quite sure how we managed that one, but the bikes should be safe.
So Steve was proved wrong and Zapala turns out to be a large but quiet resting place with a leafy square, a nice airy library for writing blogs and a population suitably bemused by our appearance, in both senses of the word. Not many people take their vacations in central Neuquén, but that's no bad thing for those who wheel up here, on the road to San Rafael and Mendoza.
D Middlemiss
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