On the Other Side (of the Andes)

Once we’d completed the ordeal of crossing the Andes into Argentina, we set about actually exploring the city of Mendoza for a few days. It must be said that we knew relatively little about the place before we arrived; many of the things we noticed about Mendoza had as much to do with being in a new country as with being in Mendoza specifically.

One of the first things we noticed was the dramatic increase in prices. In Chile, we had been able to eat, drink and get around without much thought for our budgets; in Argentina, we quickly realized we were paying what we might pay back home. That led us to do a bit more cooking in hostel kitchens, and as it happened, our accommodation in Mendoza was quite nice and filled with friendly, chatty people. In fact, Mendoza itself was also slightly nicer, in many ways, than anywhere we’d been in Chile. There were fewer stray dogs and public spaces were generally cleaner and less cramped. I would hazard a guess that as Mendoza is primarily known for its wine, high-end tourism has played a role in creating those “nice” characteristics we noticed (and driving up the cost of living).

We managed to get our feet dusty, taking a city bus out to the edge of town for a day hike in the Andean foothills. It was a workout for us two East Coasters. We suffered the indignity of watching two local men in their 60s (or older), one using a cane, stroll past us as we took our umpteenth break of the ascent. We tossed potential excuses back and forth for the remainder of the climb, but youth was no substitute for experience, it seemed. The views were excellent, in any case.

The tourist with no name.

The two guys who passed us on the way up.

Two final points on Mendoza: because of some strange policies regarding sidewalk ownership and the irrigation system that was apparently built by the indigenous inhabitants of the area, sidewalks in Mendoza are almost comically unsafe. It appears individual property owners are responsible for maintenance – and some take pride in their cleanliness – but no one is responsible for making sure the sidewalk is flat or for building barriers along the irrigation ditches.

And finally, Mendoza has a tram system that we just had to try. Coincidentally, its terminus is in a suburb called – I did not make this up – Maipú. That is pronounced exactly as the most immature part of your brain thinks it is. When you’ve finished laughing about that, meet me at the next paragraph.

There's a tram in Maipú!

Given our memorably unpleasant experience on the bus over the Andes, we decided to splurge on our next journey to Buenos Aires. The range of bus services available in South America is remarkable, but perhaps even more noteworthy is how affordable they all are from a middle-class North American’s perspective. The trip from Mendoza to Buenos Aires is about 13 hours depending on stops; the prices for one-way fares ranged from about $75 to $150.

Our $150 fare bought us a trip that was as memorably positive as the previous one had been negative. In addition to seats that reclined to be completely flat, privacy curtains and a reasonably clean toilet, a trip attendant served us dinner, breakfast and champagne. She even spoke English, a non-essential but welcome surprise. As we arrived in Buenos Aires the following morning, we almost didn’t want to leave the bus.

At this rate, I'll probably write about Buenos Aires in another year, but...stay tuned!    

Borders, Broken Toilets and John Wick

With one of us on a plane back to Canada, the remaining pair began making our own preparations to leave Chile behind. We were moving on to Argentina. Although flying was a possibility, it seemed a shame to cross the Andes without actually seeing them. So we decided to take a bus to Mendoza, the first major city in Argentina after the border. We had had a small taste of South American bus travel on our way to and from Valparaiso; the trip to Mendoza was a full meal.

There is no North American equivalent to bus travel in South America. There are dozens, if not hundreds of competing companies. Some companies offer varying levels of service, much like airline seating classes. Many companies only focus on a few routes, perhaps because of the number of buses in their fleet. Needless to say, standing in the largest bus station in the largest city in Chile and trying to figure out the best way to cross the Andes was no easy task for two gringos.

Complicating the situation was the crossing itself – El Paso de los Libertadores, the gap in the mountains that connects Chile and Argentina, had been snowed in over the previous few days. As we asked around the ticket offices at the bus station, most of the providers told us they weren’t running buses to Mendoza the next day, when we hoped to go. A few mentioned that they might cancel, but they were optimistic about crossing during the day and that they had snow chains if necessary. And one stated very clearly that they were going. One hundred percent. So we bought two tickets, which included our seat assignments and the platform number, and returned the next morning for the journey over the mountains.

Waiting to depart from Santiago.

Things began smoothly enough. We were told to wait before loading baggage, then watched an Argentine family pile a household’s worth of boxes and luggage into the hold. We managed to sneak our bags in with help from a baggage handler (who asked for his tip first) and hopped on board.

We quickly realized that our seat numbers – which the ticket agent had made a special effort to ensure we knew – might as well have been e and π for all the good they did. Some pairs of seats were not labelled; the ones that were numbered did not follow any logical sequence. We made our best guess, then asked the people nearest us if they agreed. They did. Every successive passenger went through the same process, some less pleasantly than others. One Japanese tourist walked through the entire bus trying to figure out the numbering system, then gave up; it took some convincing for the Argentine family with all the luggage to give up their claim to the seats we were in. Luckily, the bus was not sold out (or overbooked, United Airlines!!), so everyone was able to settle in somewhere.

The two of us were more bemused than annoyed by the little frustrations we faced; that attitude proved useful throughout the day. After about an hour on the road, I headed back to use the toilet. Now, I don’t have high standards for bus toilets. I’m comfortable with the idea that I might have to hold my nose, brace myself against a wall, or wash my hands without soap. Or all three. Or more. But the toilet on this bus looked like it had been lifted from an abandoned house somewhere out in the desert. Not only was there no soap, there was no toilet paper; the seat was hanging off the bowl and the latch on the door was broken to boot. This was the state of things at the beginning of the trip. They could not have more effectively said “Do Not Use This Toilet” if they had literally written that on the door. I went back to my seat and told my friend we’d probably want to hold it for the next eight hours.

From what we could tell, the bus had two staff, both sitting in the front and alternating driving duties. At some point before beginning the climb up to the pass in earnest, the staff member who was not driving remembered that there was a DVD player on the bus to entertain the passengers. He threw on a film neither of us knew, but that we now know all too well – John Wick. Luckily, he left the audio in English, so we could follow along as Keanu Reeves screamed grammatically incorrect phrases at the people he killed to avenge his puppy. The scenery deserved a better soundtrack, but it was jaw-dropping all the same. One section of the drive included roughly 30 switchbacks with no guardrail; there was also a ski lift that passed right over the highway. The roadsides were filled with cars that had pulled over so kids could sled and throw snowballs.

On the way up.

Then we reached the border. Readers, I have crossed many borders; I have had many long waits and many short waits. I once crossed the Canadian-American border less than a month after September 11, 2001. But I have never seen a line like this one. It was less a line and more a linear parking lot. For about thirty minutes, we sat on the bus looking out the window. Then a few other passengers stood up and headed outside, presumably to smoke while we waited. We used the excuse to get some fresh air. As we stepped off, the driver told us not to leave, as we’d be in the customs plaza in five minutes. Never has a more obvious lie been told, my friends.

A portion of the line for the border.

When we stepped onto the snow, we first realized that the passengers who had stepped off for a smoke were nowhere to be seen. We walked toward the customs plaza, thinking that would let us catch up with our bus when we saw it move. And then we saw where everyone was going. Next to the plaza was a small strip mall of ramshackle sheds to serve people waiting to cross into Argentina. Only then did we realize just how long this wait might be.

Tuck shoppe at the border (not duty-free).

Double-checking that our bus had not moved – it hadn’t – we decided to become part of the sandwich vendors’ captive market. Unfortunately, a long line for the border meant there was also a long line for sandwiches. Aware of that fact, none of the staff were in a rush. We saw several people lose spots in line because their bus had advanced; we also learned the hard way that we had to order and pay first – in a separate line. We were past the point of being worried, however, and continued to marvel at the whole concept – businesses that only existed because of inefficiency - as we waited.

Killing time at the border.

As we left the sandwich stand wiping crumbs off our lips, two vaguely familiar faces approached. Fellow passengers, we realized. One of them spoke some English, and asked if we had been through customs yet. No, we replied; our bus was still seventh in line and hadn’t moved in half an hour. Then we noticed the bus driver – who had said we’d be through in five minutes – marching toward us with a sour look on his face. Luckily, we had our passports on us and followed him back to the customs plaza.

He grumbled something to the border agents about us acting like little princes, and the woman in the booth made an unimpressed face at us when we handed over our passports. She stamped them, and we walked off; a minute later, the bus driver hollered after us to come back. We had only been stamped out of Chile; the lady to the right of the Chilean agent was the Argentine agent waiting to stamp us in. Though I am normally the first to accept blame for silly misunderstandings like that, I somehow feel like the three people – the driver and the two customs agents in the same booth – who knew the routine could have taken less than a minute between them to call us back.

The bus driver firmly guided us back to the bus, and drove it into the plaza. We were told to disembark with all of our hand luggage, and baggage handlers took out everything in the hold. Customs agents skimmed over our hand luggage and a few people were picked out for fairly casual screenings. One of our bus drivers ran through the passengers with a tip cup for the baggage handlers, then told us to get back on the bus. With the door still open as we boarded, the driver yelled “¡Vamos!” and stepped on the gas. He stopped almost as soon as he started, possibly just to scare us into boarding more quickly. The people on the steps waiting to get in were shaken – literally – but unharmed, and we got underway without further issues.

Night had fallen as we entered Argentina, our eight-hour journey having become a twelve-hour one. Despite the day’s stresses, we were both able to laugh at the sheer insanity of the trip. A quick check of the toilet revealed that it had actually gotten worse – somehow an empty roll of toilet paper had ended up in the bowl, and the seat was now fully on the floor. To top it all off, the driver eventually remembered that the movie had finished, and hit the play button again. And so we made our way into Mendoza, heart of Argentine wine country, to the sounds and sights of Keanu Reeves kicking Russian gangster butt…again. 

Highway (and Airplane and Bus) Chile

I had grand plans for what I would write about my trip to South America last summer, and have achieved none of them. After that five-week adventure, I began another that was unlike any I’ve been on before – moving across the country to pursue a relationship. Adjusting to sharing my life with another person (and to life in Alberta) has been uniquely challenging and rewarding, and has moved the writing of blog posts a few steps down my priority list. So this post is less involved than I would have liked. But it is at least something, before the memories of last summer’s trip become so covered in dust as to be unrecognizable.

My time in South America began with a week alone in Santiago, Chile. Two classmates from Dalhousie would be joining me later. That gap was mostly a result of more ambitious trip plans that I had reduced, but it also gave me time to adjust to the new surroundings on my own. As the most experienced Spanish speaker of the three of us, I needed some time to revive my knowledge; as the instigator of this trip, I wanted to be somewhat comfortable before they arrived.

I had never been to Latin America, and despite my well-worn passports, most of my travelling has been in first world/OECD/developed countries. I’m ashamed to admit that I had something of a siege mentality for that first week in Santiago. I walked everywhere, partly to see the city but partly to avoid the challenge of taking the subway. I didn’t make much small talk. I think my worst fears were that Santiago would turn out to be like Marrakesh, the only other second-world/non-OECD/developing city I’d visited. It had been impossible to avoid hawkers there, and asking questions just meant being hassled for money before long.

My fears were baseless. Chile is (I believe) the most developed country in Latin America. I walked through crowds of people with no one batting an eye at me, most of them too busy on their smartphones to notice that I was not from there. Santiago is Chile’s largest city, but it’s hardly a tourist hotspot. That gave me a comfortable level of anonymity as I wandered around.

Each week of this trip deserves a separate blog post, but here are three highlights/observations about Santiago:

It’s mostly flat, but a couple public parks had excellent views of the surrounding Andes. Walking on Cerro San Cristóbal was particularly memorable for the chapel/amphitheatre at the hill’s summit; it was also there that I noticed just how many tourists to Santiago come from other Latin American countries.

A large area of Santiago’s downtown is pedestrianized, which made us three urban planners wet our pants with excitement. During business hours, the pedestrian malls were packed with people of all stripes: vendors, customers, people-watchers, chit-chatters and checkers players.

It was not until after I left that I realized how polluted Santiago is. It’s hardly surprising, given its glacial traffic. But I learned later that I had spent my first week walking through smog so dangerous that children and the elderly had been advised to stay inside.

After a week in Santiago, I was ready to move on when my friends arrived. Luckily, they quickly were too. We hopped a bus to Valparaíso, on the coast. It was one of the few destinations in Chile I was aware of before researching for this trip. Three quick highlights:

Valparaíso is made up of nothing but hills (42 by some counts). Therefore, elevators make up an important part of the public transit system. The elevators are old, still mechanically operated and are dirt-cheap to travel on.

Almost every surface in Valparaíso has art on it; murals are especially popular. There is a thriving arts community that benefits from the city’s tourist industry without catering exclusively to it.

Valparaíso is also a major port and the main headquarters of the Chilean navy. The port, the hills and the arts community made me think of both San Francisco and Wellington.

Our visit to Valparaíso was probably too short, but one of my friends was only staying for nine days, and sights had to be seen. In the most complicated travel day of our trip as a trio, we took a bus from Valparaíso to Santiago, another bus to Santiago airport, then a flight to Calama and another bus to San Pedro de Atacama. If you’ve heard of the Atacama Desert, you may know that it is the driest place on Earth. Being right next to the Andes and in the Atacama, San Pedro is in the middle of some pretty dramatic geography. We did our best to see as much of it as possible via organized tours. Three quick highlights:

Just west of San Pedro is la Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon). Reminiscent of Tatooine, it was an aggressive reminder that deserts are more than just flat sand and hot sun. In that extreme setting, it almost feels like you can watch geology happen. The wind was overwhelming.

The salt flats near San Pedro are among the largest in the world (Uyuní, just over the border in Bolivia, is the largest). A visit to el Salar de Atacama gave us the chance to go swimming in the saltiest water any of us will ever see, taste, or frantically wash off when it starts to crack skin. It was also freezing cold – it was winter, after all – resulting in this memorable picture.

We also got super high when we were in San Pedro. 4,320 meters high, to be exact. The Tatio geyser field in the Andes looks its best at sunrise, they said, meaning we woke at 4 in the morning to get there. The combination of waking early, altitude, and freezing temperatures made for a physiological roller coaster. Jumping in a thermal pool right when my feet lost feeling was a welcome relief.

After waking at 4 in the morning, we spent one final afternoon in San Pedro before flying back to Santiago. One of us flew home; the remaining two prepared to cross the Andes by bus. The journey we took on July 20, 2016 deserves its own blog post. Stay tuned.

Add llama to the list of animals I've eaten.