Hospitality 101, Slopes and Lakes

Update: 19

Let's say all of South America had a competition whereby their hostels were judged against each other. Argentina could enter their buses and they'd still beat Bolivia. Admittedly the seats don't quite extend to a full bed (unless you're in the coveted First Class where they do), and there are no hot showers on a bus, but then there aren't that many in La Paz either and a Bolivian bed is classified as something relatively flat with springs and a blanket.

When we were on Lake Titicaca, we met an Argentine couple who invited us to join them in Mendoza. At the time, we were really excited about the prospect of staying with some locals and seeing a side of the country that tourists invariably miss but, deep down, I think we both knew that an invitation like that from strangers who you've known for a few hours should not be taken too seriously.

How wrong we were. We caught a bus from Cordoba that provided one of the best night's sleep we'd had in ages, steak for dinner (obviously) and coffee and biscuits for breakfast and arrived in Mendoza at the crack of dawn. Due to translation problems and sporadic email from our hosts, we weren't sure of the situation and followed the safe route of checking into a hotel. 

Later, when we checked our mail again, I had three with subject lines in capitals instructing me that "MERCEDES WANTS TO TALK TO YOU" and "CALL MERCEDES NOW" and asking "ARE YOU IN MENDOZA?" Understanding the urgency, I called immediately. I conducted the the call in Spanish, but managed to make out that Mercedes had prepared a room for us and was coming to fetch us. "Where were we?" I tried to explain but after a useless two minutes - I didn't know where we were in English, let alone Spanish - it was agreed that we'd meet in the Plaza Independencia. I didn't know how to say "We've just arrived and want to have a look at email, can we meet a bit later?" so we followed instructions and ran to the plaza to meet her in half an hour.

For the next five days, we enjoyed hospitality unlike anything we've experienced before. Everyone has friends and family who go out of their way to make your stay comfortable, but when this comes from relative strangers, it's difficult to get your head around it.

Day one was spent drinking and driving. Apparently a true Argie can't steer a car unless one hand is holding a cup of mate (pronounced MAR-TAY) so for the three hours or so that it took us to reach Aconcagua, the wooden cup was passed around and four of us sipped the stuff, had it topped up and passed it on. It's a tea really, but stronger and spicier and drunk through a metal straw with a filter on the submerged end from one shared receptacle that is passed between those lucky enough to be allowed into the circle of trust. It's fair to say that the Argentineans are serious about it. Not a day goes by that we don't see people drinking it and the sound of the straw hitting the end of the liquid is heard constantly. Every kitchen - private and in hostels - has cups and metal straws to make it. I'm not making this up, but on one particular day we saw a homeless guy preparing mate on a makeshift stove under a bridge. 

When we left Mendoza it was warm and sunny. I'm not sure what I was thinking, but my dress for a visit to the highest mountain outside Asia was totally inappropriate. I felt a bit stupid plodding through snow at over 5,000 metres in a wind that was messing my hair up trying to have my photo taken with the big mountain in the background wearing shorts. What we ended up with was a picture of Tam grinning, all cosy in about six layers of thermals, and me in shorts and a fleece gritting my teeth and trying to pretend that the cloud we were standing in was worth making the effort for.

Lunch, back in normal climes, was a piece of meat the size of Wales. Matambre - which apparently comes from "mata hambre" being "kill your hunger" is a blanket of beef with a surface area of about half a square metre. This washed down with five litres of Mendoza's finest cheapo red (a huge bottle that can be bought anywhere) at the side of a stream with nobody else for miles is an experience we'd both recommend.

Monday saw the arrival of Sebastian, Merc's fluent-in-English son. This was a relief and allowed us to fire questions at him about Sunday's conversation of which we had understood about ten percent.

As a lesson in cultural understanding, Tam and I volunteered to cook a traditional English dish for our hosts. There was much excitement in the house as we explained the intricacies of a curry which, unbelievably, no-one had ever heard of.

Note to self: when introducing novices to curry, do not put all your eggs on one basket (or all your curry powder in one pot).

As we sat there enjoying a flavoursome stew, Mercedes and her sons drank litre after litre of water, mopped their dripping brows and told us through tears how much they were enjoying it. I believed them as it was damn good and they ate everything, but the next morning morning as they took turns in the bathroom flushing the toilet, I understood why no-one pushed us for the recipe.

***

Bariloche. Oscar Wilde would struggle to put the magnificence of this place into words. A cosy ski resort on the shore of the massive, mirror-like Nahuel Huapi lake overlooked by the snow capped mountains behind it.

It's been a while since either of us has been skiing and we'd both forgotten about the culture that goes along with it. From the boarders with their interesting facial hair, oversized clothing, dreadlocks and body-piercings to the super-cool companies that run the show. Waiting in the queue for the lift, I amused myself by noting all the names and catchy slogans on the jackets squeezing past me. My favourite being "Xstreme (which isn't a word) Liquid Surfing" (huh? No waves here) or something like that whose motto was "Snow Solutions". I wanted to lean over and say "...but with skiing, 'sno(w) problem." But I didn't.

For the two days we were up there, conditions were perfect. There were a few moments when my South African ski experience was shown up by my Alpine ski guide wife's. The first being getting my ski caught while trying to sit on a lift. That in itself wasn't too embarrassing; only when the ski flew off, nearly hitting the people in the chair behind us, causing the operator to stop the queue, retrieve the offending ski and strap it to its own chair leaving me unable to ski off at the top so hopping and falling and then having to wait for the people in the chair behind me to get off, swear at me, and then have it brought to me, did I feel some shame.

The second being the descent home. Most people caught the lift down. Tam thought it would be fun if we skied down. There's a reason people queue for the lift: that reason being a black slope on an incline of about 80 degrees - only distinguishable from a cliff face by the fact that is has metre high moguls everywhere. My loving wife gracefully wound her way to the base (which was a mud pit - reason 2) and waited for me while I slid down on my backside and face.

Back in the hostel - ten floors up looking over the lake - we had hot showers and cooked ourselves fine, inch-thick bife chorizos (rump steaks) and drank a bottle of Malbec. Again.

We shared our table with the other end of the ski crowd: my favourite kind of Brit. In Bermuda shorts, Hacket polo shirt with mandatory upturned collar, Timberland moccasin-type leather shoes and signet ring, Tarquin said, when I offered him some chilli sauce "Yah, you can always tell when a chap's been to public school: he likes hot sauce. Bahaha." I wanted to ask whether Eton took all 1.1 billion Indians and Harrow took the Mexicans, or whether some went to Marlborough. But Tam wouldn't let me.

Next morning we rose early; Tam with stiff legs, me with bruised coccyx and face and joined our new Brazilian friends with whom we'd hired a car to drive the famous Ruta de los Siete Lagos. A meandering dirt road through pristine countryside leading to lookouts over each of the Seven Lakes. The lakes making up the Argentine/Chilean lake district are huge expanses of crystal-clear water home to salmon and trout and a feeding ground for impressive birds of prey. Luckily we had the Brasilenos to drive. I tried, but when I opened the window when I meant to change gear, I think all of us were happy that they took responsibility for transport.

***

We've fallen into the habit of making up occupations when we check into hostels. Every place offering accommodation has a book where guests register by entering passport numbers, residential addresses and professions. "Accountant" might hold some kudos (arguably) at dinner parties with other city folk but, in the world of the backpacker, it's sad. That being the case, we often sign in as something ridiculous that a second language English speaker is unlikely to recognise straight away or something reasonable that won't raise too many questions. Tam's been a plumber, teacher, dancer and on this occasion she chose to be an architect. Not convinced that our landlady in El Bolson (two hours south of Bariloche) was bad enough at English to allow me to use my favourite "assassin" or "stunt double" I chose "cartographer".

Next morning, as I was typing this up, Lilly asked me if I was working on a map. I said no, I'm writing some notes and loading up photographs. "For maps?" she said again. At first I must have looked a bit confused, but when she asked if I liked working with maps, I remembered and, not wanting her to take it personally I confirmed that I did, wracking my brain as to whether Tam was a masseuse, politician or screenplay writer.

***

The 23rd of September for us, was spent in a bus. We left El Bolson at 5.30pm on the 22nd and arrived in El Calafate - about a third of the way down this already long country - at 1.30am on the 24th. I make that 32 hours.

After a long trip like that and what with the 24th being our first wedding anniversary, we thought it was only right that we check into a proper hotel. The five star Design Suites provided a pool sized foam jacuzzi with a glass wall overlooking the azure Lago Argentino, bubbly and oysters, a stereo system in our carpeted room and a pleasant change from the usual bare-floored clean-but-right-next-to-the-shared-kitchen quarters we're used to. Pity I can't kid myself that I'm a rock-star. The accountant in me is already thinking of how we bring the budget back in line after that.

***

Tam is still asking for sopa en el bano (soup in the toilet) when she means jabon en la ducha (soap in the shower) but we're understood well enough.

Next is Torres del Paine and Tierra del Fuego. Until then, take it easy.