You're not in Guatemala now Dr Ropata

No indeed, we're in Bolivia and the comparison to Argentina is chalk and cheese.

We're in a taxi, us Gringos are in shock and the six strong Bolivian family who are squeezed in with us are too. Mr Taxi driver has just run over a Cocker Spaniel and seems non-plussed. He shoves more coca leaves in his green, slimy gob and continues on the wrong side of the road. I try not to look back, I do, tears cloud my vision - why couldn't it just die quickly.

Empanadas in Salta

Our grumpy hostel owner is fighting with his wife. She's not happy with us using the Internet. We're in the midst of a domestic and can't extricate ourselves. We hover in the kitchen waiting, a door slams, and off to our rooms we quickly go. Still the hostel has a table tennis table. Done.

Nice enough plaza Salta. Good people. Pink church and the mummified remains of three Inca children offered to the sun gods via live burial at the top of a 6,800m volcano. Ever stared into the eyes of a lightening scarred, mummified seven year old? Hits you deep.

The more you learn about the Incas, the more you are impressed by their feats of engineering and cultural infrastructure, but it's tinged with some misgivings at other facets of their life: human sacrifice, purposely misshapen skulls for those of high birth, getting kids drunk and burying them alive atop volcanoes. But it was all part of life back then and so be it. It makes for good touristing.

More wine please

Not content with a visit to one wine region we`re off again to another. Cafayate, a slightly smaller producer than Mendoza, higher up toward the Andes and specialising in a crisp white from the Torrentes grape, greets us warmly with Summery temperatures - a welcome change from chilly Tafi.


The town itself does not extend far from its plaza, but it's pretty, our hostel has a pool, well a large stagnant bath, and there's wine a plenty.

Up into the mountains

Tafi del Valle, quaint in a slightly run down sense. One main street, one or two restaurants, a cafe that deals solely in empanadas and a multitude of artisan stores offering Malbec or Syrah and the local hard cheese laced with pepper or cumin.


Our wee group has slotted into two concrete bungalows after taking the offer of accommodation from a frail old lady on the street. The local cheese man lent us his car to retrieve our gear from the bus station. He didn't mind us driving either, complete strangers, such be the folk from Tafi del Valle. Good police.

Wine and in laws

It´s funny the things that make travelling memorable. A stolen conversation when asking for directions, a local who sits beside you in a bus and tells you of places off the tourist trail, a waiter who goes above and beyond the call of duty and becomes a personal tour guide. In Mendoza it was our apartment lady Patricia, a comely, middle-aged Argentinian who, with the flair of an Italian, warmed our hearts and gilded our stay with an edge of silver.


With no English, and us with fair to middling Spanish, we bumbled through conversations and recommendations from our host. She helped us out in every which way even asking shops down the street to keep water and ice for us when her own freezer had run out of space. She was even so good as to proffer the hand of her daughter to BIL (brother in law) who has won the attention of many locals on account of his giant back and surfboard - a wonder this far inland.

Lakes and stuff

So, Bariloche, a popular lakeside town nestled on the shores of Lago Nahuel Huapi with the towering Mountain Cerro Tronador looking down from above.


In the Winter, Bariloche is Argentina's premier ski resort, but in Summer it swelters beneath a carpet of 30-plus degree heat with not a breath of wind to cool the skin. Shops hide beneath sun shades and their keepers appear listless but manage smiles beneath dull eyes. You'd kill for a salad but pizza, empanadas and steak rule the roost with red wine of coke to wash it down.

A jaunt up the spine of South America

Patagonia´s magical, it´s magnificent, it is a landscape built for adjectives, but it´s expensive as hell and as we bid goodbye our wallets breath a sigh of relief, though not before throwing a wedge of pesos at a bus company for a grinding two day journey up the Ruta 40.

The Ruta 40 is the world´s longest road, I haven´t googled this, I´m going on the opinion of our trusty bus driver. And for much of its southern wind it's unpaved and a tad perilous, with no help available if you strike a rock or happen to fall off a cliff... can´t wait. Our bus also pulls up sans bathroom. So you mean to say we're going to be 10 hours a day in this thing with no toilet? Yep... can´t wait. Travelling in South America, as we will often find out, is an exercise in bladder control.

And so it began

And so as I finish my umpteenth cup of Nescafe's finest instant blend, I'm moved to write. Apologies if some of the language feels a tad turgid, medieval even... we're trekking through Chilean and Argentinian Patagonia which is more or less Lord of the Rings country and post finishing the Hobbit, I'm now waist deep in Game of Thrones and fancy becoming a knight of the realm.

The last two months or so have been a blast. There was Italy (food and coffee under the warm Tuscan sun and the bustle of Cinque Terra before it got hit by storms), LA (teriyaki turkey jerky, root beer floats, an excellent host in Claire and poolside lazing in Palm Spings), NZ (winning the Rugby World Cup, family and a fierce sun) and Aussie (one fine wedding indeed). But I'll spare you some of the beginnings for later and jump into South America.