The Bigger Picture: Isla Damas & Elqui Valley

During our seven hour journey north to La Serena, we fantasized about checking into a hotel, getting delicious room service, and just generally treating ourselves nice. Fifteen minutes after arriving, it seemed that our dreams were within reach! Private room: check; flatscreen TV with cable: check; room service: that'd be pushing it now, wouldn't it? There was however, an extremely convenient completo stand. The planned night of relaxation couldn't have been much better: a stroll down to the beach to catch the last of the sun's rays and replays of old romantic comedies. Any homesickness was cured by a dosage of Bridget Jones on HBO. La Serena served as a great stop-over for re-cooperation and re-stocking (Anna finally got a new camera, thank god), but it was essentially our gateway to the beautiful Chilean nature and countryside.

The next day we got up at normal-person time, greeted firstly by Meg's new best friend, the giant, hairy spider, we attempted to figure out the shower heater to no avail. Oh well, we were about to get very wet regardless! A tour of Isla Damas was just something we had to do, especially after crying at others' tales of penguins in the south of Chile. We're only okay with missing out when it involves climbing.

The boats that would take us to three viewing points out in the Pacific awaited our arrival at the dock. It's fair to say that we got a lot more than we bargained for...

Ey up, a 'raft' of sealions!

A 'huddle' of Humbolt penguins!

A really big bird!

TWO BLUE WHALES!

A 'pod' of dolphins!

High five from daddy sealion. That's all you're getting! Onwards to unspoilt island for some toe-dipping.

The views over the ocean were incredible. Even when just having to focus on the horizon. Yep, the waves were a little too choppy at times for Eva. But, it didn't take too long for our stomachs to settle enough to devour our fresh fish and white wine lunch at a local pit-stop. We got strange looks from the tour guides when all three of us collapsed in the restaurant's hammock. What a day.

From one recommendation to another, we planned our excursion to the Elqui Valley for the next day. With only one hostel available online, we trusted the raving reviews and booked a night at Villa Badiian. We were certainly making our way off the beaten track. Thanks to appropriate signage -->, we managed to find the hostel, between pisco vineyards, at the end of a dirt track. Prepared for the rustic Chilean experience, we were slightly taken aback to be greeted with a 'Hey y'all!' Our time here ceased to be less strange: when a couple of hours later, her husband (a self proclaimed 'citizen of the world', with a t shirt to confirm) came to collect us from the idyllic river bed down the road. To say they were welcoming would be an understatement. We hardly managed to escape their company. Like the quasi-grandparents we hadn't wished for, we were force fed old grapes and tales of love, success, religion. And a little more religion for the road. Complete with a brochure each on the Bahai faith, we escaped for a few hours to explore the surrounding landscape. And, y'know, contemplate the fact that Anna was a goddess and that us three we were the saviours of the world.

Anyone who says Chile is miss-able obviously hasn't been to Pisco Elqui.

And they haven't seen how big the moon is there! For all their inappropriate indoctrination, the hostel owners drove us to and from the local observatory. (We won't mention the extortionate fee we were charge for the ride, after all what's money between spiritual partners?!) Despite our confused expressions- 'But how long IS a lightyear?'- we relished in star gazing up on the mountain. Oh, and now we don't need maps. We don't need compasses. All we need is the Southern Cross to find our way through the Southern Hemisphere!

 The galaxy is pretty cool.

Right to the Art: Santiago & Valparaiso

Consuming three entire apples, including core & pips, we progressed into Chile. The border authorities here are not sympathetic to the transport of organic produce so incidentally: coffee was thrown out and walking boots severly bashed against one another. It was pissing it down when we arrived to Pucon, pathetic fallacy you might say to the disappointment that followed. The volcano, alas, did not erupt during our stay and it seemed that the only activities besides actually doing the seven hour trek up the volcano- when crampons are involved, it's simply not an option- was to raid the many second-hand stores. Initially delighted with our new purchases, only a quid for some more suitable clothing (matching shirts and jackets that perhaps could be considered vintage) we paraded the streets all wrapped up with nowhere to go. So we went to the beach, bobble hats n all and marvelled at how black the sand really was! Having exhausted Pucon-cafe time and at the end of our tether with climbing enthusiasts, we were ready for a city. A proper city, with people actually wandering the streets and buildings too tall to peer over.

So, we brought our raincoats to the hottest part of the country, Santiago. Too jolly for the nocturnal hostel owner, we were greeted at 8am with a SSH and decided that we would make the most of the day and head out to see what the capital had in store for us. In true trio style, we unbeknowingly walked the perimeter of the city. We immersed ourselves in the traffic, witnessing a motorbike rally; we took in the city from way up high- a little fort that let us fully appreciate the back drop of the Andes and sadly, the smog; and we found the ultimate rest spot to spend an afternoon, Chilean-style.

Ah, the Completo. 'Completos Italiano' to be exact, have become somewhat of a vice, a daily fixture in our lives here. Think hot dog meets nachos; a full fist of pure bread, meat and sauce all for under the price of a bottle of water. Water, however, was not on the agenda. Beer in Bellavista, was.

 

After a proper good sing-song with now-alive hostel owner, (enter stereotype) Rodrigo, we knew we wanted to return to this area of the city after dark. We don't remember very much of this night, but the photos (not blog appropriate) would suggest we had a blast. So we spent the whole next day in bed in true 'mong-out' hangover style, not realising that within these havens of comfort lay lots of little tiny bugs. It seemed that the new vintage coats that we
were so proud of, had served as a very comfortable home for bed bugs. And they'd been multiplying throughout our bags for at least three days. Little buggers.

Witness left, the ultimate wash-a-thon. We were taking no prisoners- No Anna your hand-wash only jumpsuit WILL be washed at high temperature; Yes Meg, you have to empty your entire rucksack even though you have no bites. Eva's arms and back, ballooned and radiating heat, were of great concern. Turns out, she's allergic (thought we wouldn't put you through those snaps, either). That day was quite bizarre. With literally everything in hot tumble dryers apart from the clothes on our back, which were in turn, quarantined, we did the best we could to stay calm and to not infect any other unassuming travellers. We drowned our sorrows and made sure nothing from our backpacks would hit our changed matresses again. There was no option but to sleep naked. Forgot about that decision in the morning. After whiling our time away at the local laundrettes for a couple of days, our time in Santiago was coming to an end. What better than a trip to the zoo to cure post-bed bug trauma and reconnect with the sympathetic forms of animal life? We like monkeys. 

We don't like hostel hunting in a hot, new town where we're having to cover up our bed bugs bites in order to be offered at least decent prices on dorms. Despite the paranoia that didn't really disappear for a few days- especially when we saw roomates itching legs- Valparaiso was a treat. Only two hours North of Santiago, we could've travelled across the Mediterranean to Italy. The steep cobbled streets and tourists sipping on cafe cortados gave this city a really European vibe, but it still had that Latino twist. It still had completos (rejoice!); beautiful buildings with no names, or no roofs. The whole city was like a gallery.

 

 

It also had tragic, tragic 'discotecas'. St Paddy's night was certainly...different. Falling on a Sunday night, we pretty much had to make our own entertainment. What more appropriate to celebrate the Irish Patron Saint than to teach Chileans Irish Snap and dish out our trademark trip challenges?! Anna's reactions a little off after home-made cocktails, it was time for her to face her fear. Not jumping out of a plane, no, but consuming an entire plate of tomatoes. Always line your stomach before a night out, eh?! Enough vitamins to balance out the pisco, we spent our time there wandering the streets and generally soaking up the vibe. Debateable as to whether it takes five days to do this, but hey, when you've got six months, you can afford to chill out in those special places.

A holiday from a holiday.

 

 

Further North for us. Must bring drinking levels back down to pre-'holiday' amounts.

Total Completo Count: 23

 

 

Sweet Little Findings: Bariloche & El Bolson

We arrived in Bariloche late afternoon, following a very enjoyable journey riding up front at the top of the bus. The 16hrs were more than comfortable thanks to trashy made-for-TV-films, attentive bus hosts and views that gave us only a little taster of the landscape ahead. The welcome was warm, unlike the lake. With some of us less prepared than others - picture the irony of Meg and Eva attempting to buy raincoats whilst out in the pouring rain- it took us a couple of days to acclimatise. After some hot soup we were ready to try and search for the WWOOF farm that we'd been banging on about since the start of our trip. Alas, farms in South Argentina do not have a) good access to internet, b) the initiative to pick up phone calls even on numbers they encourage you to call. Our dreams of hoeing the fields and nurturing the chicks were diminishing by the second, and to be honest, we were slightly put off by the weather and what the vagueness of the 'organic shower' would entail. So we started working in a hostel.

Apparently after only one evening of tuition from fellow traveler who manned the reception, we were qualified to run it! Our duties went from cleaning rooms and stripping beds in the morning (low points) to chatting to the guests about all the potential activities they could do in the area. None of which we'd done ourselves- they were trekking enthusiasts, whereas we're suckers for a pretty view at the closet distance. Skimming stones on Playa Bonita seemed the most perfect activity.

We managed the bookings in the evening, clicking here and there, responding to emails with Google translate, and counting up pesos wrong- it didn't matter too much if the figures didn't match. We also were left to answer the phones. Telling the kayaking instructor who was calling to confirm a trip with a guest that 'I'm sorry, we're full' wasn't the best thing we did there. Baking bread was!
 When the owner returned after a few days, there was little for us to do. So the afternoon shift consisted of making bread, watching it rise, and eating it. That fared slightly better than making a concoction with the other guests' left overs. Beetroot pasta has gotten slightly old. Oh, and if anyone tries to tell you that avocado can be made into a dessert, don't believe them. Perhaps coincidentally,  the day we sampled this treat was the last day we worked at Hostel 41 Below. We made our excuses, 'Oh we've heard from the farm' (which of course, we had not) and made a slightly awkward exit to hippy town two hours south, El Bolson.

There's nothing better as a traveler than having somewhere recommended to you, being able to find it, and it being everything you had hoped for. La Casona de Odile was idyllic. If we tell you that the first thing was did was drop our bags in the cosy living room and then participate in the free yoga class by the stream, you get the picture. Also picture us trying to not fall asleep - home-brewed beer is not an ideal choice before yoga- whilst slowly breathing in unison and one by one, 'being aware' of each limb. We were so 'aware' of our bodies after that we had dinner, accompanied by some old friends from Bariloche and some new ones. El Bolson seemed a congregation for all those who appreciate the fine things in life: good conversation, intense game-playing, copious amounts of wine and home-made jam.
Although our hostel was out in the countryside, we hopped on a few public buses and with ease found ourselves at the local artisan market. It was time for Anna to buy some earrings, of course; for Eva to buy a hat and for Meg to be a bit less selfish and get some lovely gifts. Here we also sampled the monstrous milanesas, which were definitely a two-hand jobby.

That night we had a great pot-luck dinner with our little hostel family. Can't say we were overly proud with the tuna and lettuce salad that we brought to the table, but it's always nice to share isn't it, especially when the others make home-made pizza and fried chorizo. And we shared something altogether more important, our love for Articulate. Watching a Texan trying to describe 'loo roll' was quite funny... 'Y'all, I don't even know what one hundred roll is!' For once the late night didn't deter us from the next day's plans. 

On a few hours sleep we hiked to the infamous carved forest. Well, we got a very bumpy taxi ride to the point where we thought we could begin to face the steep incline. After a forest fire a few years ago, local artists made sculptures out of the remaining trees in commemoration. Anna especially liked the warthog, which we all had fun admiring the view whilst sitting on top of. Oh, and it got even more impressive a few metres up.  Top score on picnic spot rating. It was incredible up there.

 Unfortunately, we had underestimated how much we would love this place, so we had to find alternate accommodation for one night, until the Casona had space for us again. We weren't the worst, some had been there for over two weeks. We were, however, the largest group so three beds on short notice wasn't likely. Thankfully, we found another haven. Of sorts. This hostel took rustic to new levels. But if it was privacy we'd craved, that we were  granted. We had an entire house/hut to ourselves, complete with outdoor computer shack- reading emails has never been quite so bizarre. Our hostel family here consisted of...us, a somewhat unhinged couple and of course, the mischievous puppies. The laughs here were no end due to the owner- he suggested that Anna borrow some of his trousers when we got caught in a downpour; the obscure location of the property- it could only be found when quoting the owner's name; and the local nightlife that we decided to embark on. A borrowed pair of flares later, we were hitting the only bar in town with a couple that had decided to stay in their hut for a month after only arriving that day. Fair enough, we said, and drank their friendly tequila. That and boxed wine served up a headache the size of the looming clouds. Camping would have to wait.

After a night of recovering, our determination to pitch up our non-existent tent by Lago Puelo meant that by the next day, we could give our hostel companions a definite answer to, 'So, what exactly are your plans?' We rented a tent (two man) and Eva borrowed a sleeping bag (met the guy for one night and asked), we did not however, get roll mats or really, anything else necessary for camping for three days. We had no stove, no utensils to cook with or on, or anything to keep our meat cold. You'd better believe we soldiered on though. The first night we were joined by hostel buddies who bought with them knives, rolls and fire-starting fingers. Although slightly charcoaled, the sausages were made sweet by the views of the lake and incredible show of stars that came out as the sun went down.

Just the three of us, the next night we felt the absence of all appropriate equipment, but made do by skewering pieces of smelly old steak on sharpened sticks and slowly cooking them on the hot ash. We like our steaks rare after all! And, finally alone, all day, in the quiet, with no iPod battery, we went to bed relatively early as game-playing hit an all time low on inspiration. We went round the circle saying one thing we liked about each other. The fire wasn't even still blazing. If only we had a little more liquor so that we didn't feel the numerous stones digging into our backs throughout the night. And if only it was actually ten in the morning, and not six, when we all awoke from the pain.

Next on the all-important trip checklist: renting a car and cruising up the road of the Seven Lakes to San Martin de los Andes. And what a sweet ride we managed to get our hands on! Three-door little Chevvy with both Meg and Eva on the insurance (we weren't going to risk Anna on just third party cover), and only a small hit to the budget for the one-way drop off fee. Fuckers. Lakes are now our specialist subject. Posing in front of lakes; driving very very slowly past lakes; swimming in lakes and even occasionally, peeing in them.

A thumbs up from car rental guy- he didn't notice the dent on the front right- we relaxed into our last evening in Argentina with a double scoop of the town's finest helado. Early night for us, bus to Chile at 6am the next morning!

From the Clouds to the Vine: Cordoba & Mendoza

Attempting to sleep on a bus that seemed to twilight as a cockroach sanctuary, we wondered-  'How can there be an Argentinian city to sufficiently follow Buenos Aires?' We were headed North West to university town, Cordoba. With 250,000 students, and 250 bars in our local neighbourhood, we discovered that this fun-loving lifestyle was not confined to the province of the capital. After our standardly strange bus-recovery period (all three of us slept for five hours, sitting upright, on the one hostel sofa before we could check in), we still ended up partying 'til dawn and indulging in greasy, greasy meals. Spanish, however much improved in conversations about tipping toilet attendants, still serves us up three large meals when we only asked for two. Oh well, we try. We try especially hard under the influence of local specialty, fernet and coke, apparently, to describe our endeavors to the unfortunate, friendly Argentinians. We. Us. Today. Jumped. Out. Of. A. Plane. Avion. Aeropuerto. You know?! Us, WHISSSSH. 

Our Spanish couldn't stretch far enough to adequately describe the spectrum of emotions we all went through prior, during and after our experience. If only we had the pictures handy.

There's only so many times we can say in unison that "We all loved it, it was the best thing we've ever done," and know that we all mean it. Turns out that facing fears doesn't work out for everyone. It's still just fucking fear. 

Feeling somewhat elated, one might say, invincible after such a feat, Meg took on a challenge of a different variety. The chorizo. It seems that skydiving works up quite an appetite for cured pig, and the relaxed environment of our hostel was more than accommodating to our strange activities. Every few minutes, the owner would check back on her progress, as Meg attempted to consume an entire chorizo. With no cutlery allowed, this was easier said than done, and as dry mouth and heart pains began to kick in, we let Meg rest easy (drink water and sit quietly for a while), and finished the last quarter of cured meat with olives, the civilised travelers that we are!

From olives to grapes, we traveled ten hours South West to wine region, Mendoza. Argentina isn't the cheapest of traveling destinations if you're expecting to while your days away rafting or eating asados with real-life gaucho guys, but when you come for the wine, you really get your money's worth.

 And what better, than to come to a city where wine IS the activity?!
Cashing in on the month's exercise fix (kayaking was a while ago now, guys), we rented bikes in order to cycle alongside the countryside's fine vineyards, stopping at various tasting spots along the way. Spoiled by the generosity of a wine-maker at the end of her shift and taking advantage of the optional absinthe from a girl who taught us the word for smell, we wobbled on dirt tracks and attempted to follow maps that somehow looked so much more complicated than they had when we set off. Gagging for agua (always 'sin gas, por favor'), we managed to get the bikes back in one piece. Although pretty drunk, this little afternoon window into the Argentinian wine country had only left us with a taste for more. There are so many different varieties of Malbec, you see. Oak aged, bottled aged, the blended grape. We would have to stay a couple more days and do it all over again. 

The second time, we were thankful to be offered helmets. And we managed to pick up some other wine-connoisseurs along the way. Those who would rather pay for just the tasting, please, not the tour. The finely refined tastebuds from Portsmouth, Cornwall and West London accompanied us on our journey from cellar to bar to balcony, sticking together with that familiar British glue, especially when we crashed in to one another, or couldn't push off on tandems. The weight is not evenly distributed, okay. 

Mendoza was full of surprises. Some were great.  Like saying goodbye to a pair of Addidas trainers left in the back of a late night taxi, only to have them dropped back off at our former hostel and delivered 16hrs south via a friendly Norwegian- SURPRISE! Some were bad. Like arranging to meet for dinner in the central plaza on the night of Carnival-SURPRISE- soaked to the bone by local boys with buckets and bottles of fountain water. And some were really shit. Like being woken up and dragged off a bus by the Argentinian military police- SURPRISE- full on interrogation whereby every item of our luggage was searched and sniffed for hints of illegal substances. We've only got two years, eleven months left of our sentence to wait out.



Luckily, they let us out for a day so we could discover beautiful Canyon de Atuel. Low on funds, as most jail-birds are, we decided against the conventional tours and got ourselves on the local bus. Turns out that canyons are quite big- where do you get off? We walked for around an hour in hunt of the view that we'd seen on the postcards in the ice-cream shop, but the landscape didn't change much. So, relatively content to admit defeat, we ate an early picnic by the river in the grounds of a hotel that we somehow managed to creep into. Somewhat recooperated, we gave this whole walking business another shot. Just a little bit further in that direction, perhaps over the top of that mountain, we might get there. And we bloody well did. The panoramic views over the canyon were breath-taking. As was the sun burn. Bring on some Altitude, Patagonia!