My very own Dakar (Part 2)

When planning the trip, The Boss had decided that we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Argentina because a) it was cheaper and b) we would have already seen the mountains from above on our flight to Santiago anyway. As far as that second part goes, we didn't really get to see anything from our aisle seats, but I wasn't fretting. In fact, I was much more interested in seeing the Andes from up close, so I was excited (that is, as excited as I can get after being dragged to a bus station at 7am).

Our plan really started to unravel when the fine piece of machinery, 1940's state-of-the-art engineering marvel that passed as our bus pulled in. Suddenly, I was missing the safety provided by Chile's modern funiculars. And then it got worse. We weren't expecting a tour bus, but we imagined than a vessel traveling for 9 hours on such a scenic road would at the very least make a few stops, even if only to let the passengers buy some food, use the toilet and stretch their legs. However, upon inquiry, we were informed by the gentle man who was assisting the driver (a drive attendant, perhaps?) that there were no stops scheduled. None. They would, however, provide tea, crackers and on-board entertainment: Warner Bros. latest blockbuster Troy, featuring Brad Pitt, followed by a showing of a low-quality pirate copy of Ice Age 3.

It didn't take long before The Boss started cursing at me as if it had been my idea to take that damn bus. Fully aware of the futility of using reason against angry women, I decided to focus on the other impending battle, the one between Brad Pitt and Eric Bana, and just wait for the storm to clear. Luckily, she soon became entertained by the mountains and proceeded to take 900 pictures of any hill that still had some leftover snow on it (that's just a sample. She really did take a shitload of those). God bless the Andes.

So this wasn't exactly what I expected when I decided to sign up on this bus idea, but at least it would be over soon. According to our (her) calculations, we would be arriving in our destination at around 3pm, just in time for lunch and a siesta, and could still salvage the day with a nice evening walk around beautiful Mendoza. And we got to see the Andes, which are really impressive, so everything was just dandy.

Still, the funny thing about the mountains is that, after the fifth or sixth one, they start to look the same. By then, Manny had had his baby, Diego and Sid had already escaped the T-Rex and the funny-looking squirrel had lost his nut for the umpteenth time, so I was bored to death and decided to sleep the rest of the way, hoping I would wake up to a juicy Argentine steak. Instead, I woke up when the bus stopped in front of what seemed to be a large warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

After a few minutes of confusion, we established that we were at the border and waiting for our turn to go through. Our friendly bus attendant even opened the door and authorized people to step outside, as there were a couple of buses in front of us and it would be a few minutes before we were called up. Hurray, a stop! It was 1pm or so and we were getting quite hungry, so this seemed like a good opportunity to spend our remaining Chilean pesos in some snacks at a dirty little shop right outside the police checkpoint. However, after thoroughly inspecting the facilities, we classified the jamón sandwich as potentially lethal and the rest of the food there as a type 1 vacation-ender threat, so The Boss, who had been pushing down Alfajores since the trip started, decided to just stock up on water instead. As for me, I blew my last few bucks on a chocolate bar that had been expired for so long it was turning white. Nice.

Moreover, in retrospect, I should have noticed something fishy when the bus dude just let everybody out without a care in the world. Or perhaps when nothing moved for 40 solid minutes. As it turns out, despite building a massive structure in the middle of the Andes and starting a whole joint immigration operation to simplify the process, neither Chile nor Argentina thought of actually sending their officers to the border, so we had to wait for nearly 3 hours while this one lonely dude checked the passports of every single person crossing the border at that moment (in all fairness, there was a second officer at the booth, but for some reason he was just watching the first one).

So by the time we finally entered Argentina, it was almost 4pm and I was freakin' starving. The Boss, who thanks to a steady diet of Alfajores had been showing admirable restraint so far, finally lost it when the bus attendant sort of laughed at her when she asked if we would still be in Mendoza before 5 o'clock. Apparently there were still two and a half hours left in our journey, which once again torpedoed her plans beyond repair, and all the candy in Argentina could not calm her down after that.

According to the original plan, we were supposed to use the rest of the day to see what Mendoza had to offer, as the next two days were (again) meant to be spent on two day-long tours, one to Mount Aconcágua and surrounding areas and the other to some winery, where we (I) would try some of Mendoza's wine, supposedly the world's best Malbec. However, with our arrival now scheduled to 7pm, our walk around Mendoza would have to be postponed and one of tours would have to be dropped.

It pains me to say, folks, that once again the booze drew the short stick. That's right, I spent eight days in the wine countries of Chile and Argentina and never set foot in a winery. Even The Boss, who doesn't even like wine, was deeply ashamed and, always the evil genius, quickly concocted a plan. While making me swear never to tell anyone, she snapped some pictures of a random faux-vineyard they had in our hotel and bought half a dozen of bottles of wine from a local supermarket, creating evidence of a trip that never happened. But I cannot live with this lie burning into my very soul, which is why I now confess: we never saw a single genuine grape while there.

Evil touristic plots aside, Mendoza turned out to be a lovely city. We were staying at the heart of the old center, which has one big square, la Plaza Independencia surrounded by four smaller squares: Plaza Italia, Plaza España, Plaza Chile and... Plaza San Martín. How very eclectic. I never really understood why Christopher Columbus and Simon Bolivar both got countries named after them (and Amerigo Vespucci got an entire continent!) while San Martin, who worked just as hard as those other guys, was never anything more than a street. I mean, there's Martinique, but I'm pretty sure that's in honor of a different Martin, so it doesn't count. And it's not like there was no room for him: Brazil is a tree, Ecuador is an imaginary line, Paraguay and Uruguay are rivers, Chile is now a sauce and Argentina refers to a freaking metal that has become a synonym for second place, so the current names are not that unique and clever to begin with. Thus, I was pleased to see that historical injustice mended in Mendoza and that, at least there, San Martin is getting the respect he deserves and is hanging out with the right crowd.

But I suppose you can't get everything right, so the same people who finally put San Martin back on the map also thought it would be a good idea to have open ditches all over the city, running next to nearly every street (think of it as Argentina's answer to the Amsterdam canals). Not only they are a pain in the ass whenever you are jaywalking, but they also stink up the place when it is hot (and it was pretty f-ing hot). Definitely not the best of ideas.

Another curious element of Mendoza was the amount of signs that read Playa and had a little arrow pointing the way. Now, playa means beach in Spanish, I know that for a fact. And I think it is extremely unlikely they had beaches anywhere near, considering we were on the wrong side of the Andes and everything. Not even The Boss, who speaks much better Spanish than I, could solve that one and I still don't know what on Earth they were talking about. And I swear, those playas were everywhere, even in the most bizarre of places.

My favorite place in Mendoza was Av. Villanueva Aristides, just outside the historic center. It is long street with bars and clubs on both sides that would require weeks - if not months - of dedication to be properly studied and cataloged. It was also there that I found the one gym I know for a fact I would never quit, as well as a restaurant that finally embraced the one truth my grandma has been telling me my entire life: that pizza is not food. A truly marvelous place.

We went west on Av. Villanueva for several blocks, gauging its apparently limitless potential for fun, before it ended abruptly at the Parque General San Martín (who else?). I'm not much of a park type of guy, but that one was pretty awesome. We went there on a beautiful Sunday morning and I think I could have stayed for two days, maybe three. Unfortunately, the place was so inviting that every single mosquito and gnat in Mendoza was there as well, which forced us to retreat back to the city for lunch. And what a lunch it was.

See, I like to eat as much as anyone and I do enjoy a good meal, but I'm not really into gastronomic tourism like, for instance, The Boss. Nevertheless, lunch in Argentina was something special, only matched, maybe, by dinner. I am a proud carnivore and lifelong fan of the Brazilian beef, which I always considered perfect. But man, can those Argentine barbecue a steak or what? And even if you say that our meat is just as good, you can't top a country where you can eat half of a perfectly cooked cow for 2 US dollars. You just can't. I tip my hat to our hermanos: you won that round, keep up the good work.

So, once again, I would have been happy to just pick a restaurant and keep ordering Bifes de Chorizo until it was time to go to Cordoba, but there was another tour to be made. I wasn't terribly excited about spending another day on a bus going up and down the Andes, but I was hoping we would at least take different road this time. Well, we didn't. In fact, we went basically up the same road all the way to the border (and to that despised checkpoint) and back. Even worse, I couldn't even take that silly picture with one foot in each country, as the actual dividing line was either up a gigantic hill or inside a freaking tunnel. What a waste.

However, on this second try, at least we got to stop at some cool places for pictures, such as the Puente del Inca, which is either a natural bridge carved in the rock by the water or a passage made of the petrified bodies of Inca warriors who sacrificed themselves to allow the ailing son of their Chief to cross the river (pick your theory). We also stopped at a smaller, more modest bridge used by our friend San Martin on his way to kick some Spanish butt back in the day; and even at little lake with turquoise water straight from the mountains that looks stunning reflecting the sun.

And I suppose I should also register, without any hint of irony, that I was humbled and amazed - in the truest sense of the word - by the Andes. The pictures we took unfortunately don't make justice to the sheer size of those things and don't translate how minuscule they make you feel. Just seeing the "ceiling of the Americas", Mount Aconcágua and its 6,962 meters, even if from a distance, was enough to make that second journey worthwhile. I actually want to climb it now. It was quite a sight, although The Boss quickly killed my buzz by pointing out that, from where we were standing, the one to its left looked a lot higher.