Argentina IV: Horizons Found

It was a damp 70km to the border. At 8:30 AM the clouds were hovering low over the Puyehue National Park. The road wound between hedgerows and open fields that revealed mountains and waterfalls. As we climbed it began to rain and the brown slopes had great big patches of dirty grey snow. The mountain became a graveyard. Every tree was dead, with bleached spiked branches reaching skyward, like corpses’ fingers. Up here, Ruta 215 was a mess of potholes, all with broken, jagged edges and filled with black water. It was impossible to tell how deep they went. We were zigzagging across the road, trying to stay on the few remaining strips of asphalt. I was swaying like a hula dancer on the back, trying to keep to Bolívar’s rhythm, because dropping the front wheel into one of those inky pools was going to ruin more than our day. If I just went with the flow, surely he’d keep us upright. That’s one thing we’ve learned about the Himalayan: when the going gets rough, just let him take you there. He knows what needs to be done better than you do.

The devastated mountain was a result of the 2011 eruption of the Puyehue Volcano, or more accurately, the Puyehue-Cordón Caulle, which are two joined volcanic structures. In the rain and the silence, it was a grim, lifeless place. It made the Somme look like Club Med. All went well exiting Chile after a wait behind the passengers of an Argentinian bus. Later, at the Cardenal Antonio Samoré pass, the physical border, there was another delay at the police check-point. This is one of the main passes in the southern Andes, but we got it on a quiet morning. It’s also one of the few with a paved road, though I’d argue the definition of “road” here, and the “paved” bit too.

Another 16km later we were back in Argentina. I was hoping that conditions would improve over here which was silly because Chile was the one with the money and Argentina the one who was broke. But miracles do happen and the way down was considerably better than the way up. And with less rain, we could see out of our visors again. The forest on this side was the Nahuel Huapi National Park and just 42km from the pass, we reached Villa La Angostura. It was like emerging from a nightmare and waking-up in a dream. There were pretty wooden chalets, glossy shops and busy shoppers, and all around, trees and lakes. The air got warmer on the long downhill to a beautiful plain, and in the distance the glacial lake Nahuel Huapi. On its southern shores we got our first glimpse of San Carlos de Bariloche.

We stopped downtown for lunch and to fuel, both places overlooking calm blue water and a horizon of snow-capped mountains. But outside the city we had to pass through a rundown barrio called El Pilar. The sad, depressed houses, and neglected shacks with sagging roofs, were a dismal sight with none of the shiny glamour of their neighbour next door.  Even the sun had gone in. But our hotel on Lago Gutiérrez was in a beautiful spot and we would have stayed longer but for its awful restaurant. With just us and one other resident, it seemed the cook was away and another staff member, God help her, made the worst meal we had in Argentina, maybe even beyond. So, we moved back to Bariloche, and into the bottom floor of a house with fleur-de-lis-painted walls on a quiet side street. The garden was in full bloom and the two sisters welcoming, obviously uber-proud of the house their Austrian papa had built.

The city was constructed in an Alpine style of wood and stone, on hills running down to the lake. The modern Bariloche had been in business since 1895 and enticing tourists since the 1930s, so they were well-versed in advertising their spectacular scenery. We were lucky with the weather, a nice change. Like the rest of Patagonia, it’s windy here for 85% of the year, and gusts sometimes exceed 100 km/h. We spent most of our time driving around the lake and exploring the countryside. But we realized we don’t enjoy cities that much anymore, and those whose main focus is catering to tourists are just too impersonal. The shops were designed to sell luxuries to visitors rather than necessities to locals, and the lakefront, that beautiful shore with its view of the Andes, was lined with a long row of hotels, spas and lodges. Even our friendly hosts in their little Alpine house turned out to be more hard-nosed wolf than the twittering Red-Riding Hoods they first appeared. “What a big calculator you’ve got!” I exclaimed, when we finally got down to business. “All the better to charge you with, my dear” replied Helga, and with that, added an extra 20% to our room rate.

We left without too much regret. The funny thing was, we’d once planned on stopping here a while, when our South America wanderings were over. That was back in 2019. All we knew about the place was from a cookbook we had in California. The author was from Bariloche and the pictures of roasting animals on cages over roaring fires was for us the epitome of rural Argentinian life. I’d imagined renting a little house, parking Pferdi outside and planning the next stage. What I hadn’t factored in was bags and bags of old bank notes, trips to Western Union, and little old ladies with the ethics of Wall Street bankers. I certainly hadn’t envisioned Bariloche as the country’s third most popular tourist destination.

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The “Route of the Seven Lakes” took us back to Villa La Angostura and on to San Martín de los Andes. It was as beautiful as it sounds, even with the police checkpoints at the start. At one of the miradors we met a polite young man on his way to Chile with his Mum. They gave us their groceries, which needed to be offloaded before reaching the border. ‘No point in getting into trouble with the Chilean customs for the sake of a few vegetables, bread and jam. San Martín was a mini-Bariloche with wooden houses and grey stone buildings. Tourism had brought prosperity. The streets were clean, the houses freshly painted and well-tended gardens had the monkey puzzle trees we saw in abundance across the line in Chile. There was something for everyone: a small beach with boats on Lácar Lake and a leafy downtown with expensive bars and restaurants. Expensive for Argentina, that is. In one place, several tables over, four twenty-something tourists were served a platter of steaks that left little room for anything but an overload of cholesterol. Its outrageous size came with an outrageous price, even compared to Buenos Aires, and we thought, wouldn’t it be lovely to be that young and that rich?

Our apartment here was everything the Austrian house wasn’t. Bright and sunny, we’d sit on the balcony at dusk with our wine, looking out over the tree-lined street and the Andean foothills beyond. We extended our stay. It really was a pleasure to deal with a professional owner. The sorry part of it was that she was the exception. There was no false cheeriness, no unexpected charges and no funny business. What we’d booked was what we got for the price it said. To be fair, accommodation overpricing was happening all over the continent, but at least in Argentina they had a good excuse. Chile was just as guilty, but without the same problems. We’d stopped booking in advance, but sometimes there are days that are going to be particularly long, and it really is nicer to know there’s a bed with your name on it at the end.

We drove Ruta 40 as far as we could, taking back roads and getting close to the Mamuil Malal Pass, a border crossing that we might or might not take back. In Junín de los Andes, behind the Mountain Infantry Regiment building, (nice place, they had horses grazing on their lawns), we discovered a road that’d make your heart soar. We were hoping it would take us to the Lanín volcano. The forests had disappeared and we drove for miles along a river with lush foliage, but the road turned to gravel shortly after the snow-covered cone came into view. But what a time we had getting there! Always remember, “El camino es el destino”, and then you don’t feel so bad.

We decided to return to the border we came in on earlier from Chile. The Mamuil Malal Pass to Pucón was closer but it wasn’t paved all the way. Besides, it was an excuse to drive the Seven Lakes route again. We left early. I could tell Fran was in his happy place, the three of us melded into one, leaning into those curves as if we’d known them all our lives. Between thick trees, I caught glimpses of a huge, triangular snow-covered mountain, perfectly reflected in the lake. I hoped and hoped for a gap in the branches, but it was no good. Maybe some places are not meant to be seen. There were more lakes further down, green and flat calm in the early sun, but we didn’t stop. Climbing back up towards the pass, the road wasn’t as good as we’d remembered, but at least it wasn’t raining.

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Argentina checked us out. We weren’t done, but we didn’t think we’d be back. Four visits in less than a year made us realize it’s quite possible that Argentina can never be finished. I for one will always regret not riding Ruta 40 further into the south, another road not fully paved, another road not taken. We’d driven sections of it over the months, and like Chile, there was scenery down there I’d wanted to see. But only if we could ride there, and poor Bolí, with two-up and a 411cc engine, God love him, just wasn’t equipped for rugged dirt roads and unpredictable weather. Neither, for that matter, were we. Sometimes you just have to admit you can’t do everything.

Since 2017 Argentina had been one of our horizons, but now that we were here, our feelings were mixed. With the lingering effects of a currency collapse, a black economy running alongside the official one, as well as rising inflation, life was incredibly hard for those who lived here. Annual inflation for 2024 was 117.8% and well-dressed people were diving in dumpsters. But still they smiled, remained interested and friendly, and lent a helping hand. Spending your lunch hour in line at an ATM that had no money was no fun, but they just got on with it. The hospitality industry on the other hand, was no longer hospitable. Checking-in at day’s end gives the traveller his first face, and first impression, of the new place he finds himself in. But post-pandemic, there was no hiding the focus was on money. And the guest was the first casualty.

Over and over, we reminded ourselves that the people behind the reception desks and oversized calculators were not the ones to judge a country by. To them the visitor’s no more than a walking wallet. So we kept coming back, because there’s nothing like riding those long, empty roads. And, for goodness sake, THIS IS ARGENTINA!  If one of our horizons was finding the real life here, then we’d reached it long before Bariloche. It was right in front of us, driving back and forth across country. It’s the gas station girls in their starched lilac uniforms, the coffee counter ladies who wish you a “Buen viaje”, and the other drivers who pass the lonely miles with you. It’s the friend’s friend who welcomes you, the people you wait in line at Western Union with, and the guy who sells you a new pair of winter bike gloves. It’s the cops who let you away with a $20.00 “gift”, it’s the Migración officers and the Customs guys at the beginning and end of every road, and it’s the mechanics at Royal Enfield who get you safely there (with the exceptions of those in Salta and Mendoza). Last but not least, it’s the waiters in long, white aprons who wait for hours while you stretch out your bottle of Malbec. Because you just don’t want that meal to ever end. And sometimes, like the real Argentina, it doesn’t.