Remind me never to travel by bus during the night when there is border crossing involved!
Plans to go across to Argentina to renew my visa were made well in advance and we thought we would cleverly save time by voyaging while we slept but oh what a mistake. My lovely Chilean and I left the never-sleeping Santiago at 22:00 on a semi-cama bus, exhausted from that day’s work yet full of keen hope to relax and disfrutar our time in Mendoza. As our tired eyes finally closed into a struggling sleep we were woken at la frontera where we were to then stand in the freezing Andean night for at least 45 minutes. Then we sleep walked back onto the bus only to arrive at our destination a mere 3 hours later. The worst thing was that we were to do it all again on the way home!
Exhausted, we piled into a taxi and at our hostal we desperately pleaded the receptionist to give us our room even though it was 05:00 and check-in wasn’t until 14:00. We grabbed at the key and agreed to give 100% in the survey at the end of our stay. We didn’t awake until well into the afternoon when our stomachs rang out their wake up call. First thing though we had to change our money, which happened to be a rewarding experience because the Chilean peso is currently worth more than the Argentinean Peso so all of a sudden we were richer.
We ate the most mouth-watering, succulent Bife de Chorizo accompanied with salad and Andean beer inside the local food markets. As I am now well informed, because Argentina is such a flat country their cows are lazy and have no need to wonder far for food. On the contrast, Chilean cows build up their muscles climbing the mountains and hills in search of green pastures and as a result their meat is far more tough and chewy. So, although both Chilean and Argentineans cook muchos barbeques, Argentinean beef is just to die for. Even with bursting stomachs we just couldn’t resist visiting Havana, my favourite Argentinean café, afterwards to have a rich expresso and chocolate alfajor. With so much food inside of us we just had to sleep some more.
In the usual South American way, the shops in Mendoza don’t close until 21-22:00 but are closed over lunch and are mostly closed on Sundays, except for restaurants. And so after lots of descanso we had the chance to soak in all the leather and clothes and copious amounts of shoes. One could grow terribly obsessed with fashion here and to make it worse, it’s relatively cheap. God bless Argentina’s strong Italian influence! That evening we relaxed in our hostal eating rough, cheap cheese and crackers, and drinking cheap Malbec wine.
Early morning we were collected by some locals who drove us towards the hills where we were to then jump off and paraglide down to the bottom. Running towards the edge as the wind picked up the parachute and with my guide/flyer safely attached behind me, he accidentally stepped on the back of my shoe making it slip off. I stumbled along as he yelled for me to keep running. Once in the air I held onto my shoe for it’s dear life and managed to slide it back on as metres past below me. Only then could I take in the sheer emotion of what I was doing. As if I had wings, I was soaring through the sky and my lovely Chilean was not far away doing the same thing. Behind me came the voice, “Are you scared or are you just cold?” I was freezing! Although I was in leggings, I only wore a t-shirt on top and the wind was giving me terrible shivers.
Off in the distance we could see the other couple flying swiftly in figure eights and all of a sudden so were we. Gravity pulled my stomach along, up and down, side to side, as if I were on a roller coaster high in the clear sky. Little screams of enjoyment sprang from my mouth but died away as we approached the ground for I concentrated on landing probably. I had nothing to worry about though and la tierra approached smoothly. I looked up to see the others still high above us, as apparently they had lost track of time chasing a poor bird. To catch up they suddenly circled their way closer to earth as if they were being flushed down a toilet. They had gone so fast that my lovely Chilean could barely move his head during the process. Effortlessly they landed.
Back in town we had some very odd pizza for lunch. It was more like thick bread with cheese melted on top but we ate it anyway and gave our leftovers to one of the many strugglers who desperately plead for money from people eating in cafés and restaurants along the street. We later saw this particular struggler give the pizza slices to her tiny son who scoffed it down with undeniable hunger. It is also common for strugglers, far too young to be seeking money, to place items on your table for you to look at and then will come back asking if you want to buy it. However, most of the time it is useless junk like a page of fairy stickers, probably stolen from elsewhere.
In the Mendozean heat (as for some reason the other side of the Andes gets much hotter) we walked to the big park at the far side of town. Apparently there is a zoo at the end of the park but we only made it to the ugly man-made lake and rested under the shade of a tree. The park was a far cry from the main square back in the centre of town, which is spotted with beautiful, big and shady trees and in the evenings it is covered with artisan markets and local musicians. It is just the most peaceful place to relax. Back in the park though, we heard ice cream calling out to us and sitting beside the vendor of Italian prepared helado we were met by the Belgian couple who had been paragliding with us that morning. We chatted for quite some time about our experiences in Latin America before we went our separate ways.
We ate a light meal in the pedestrian only street before going to check out the artisan markets once again. Mendoza has that great European influence of eating outside under umbrellas if necessary, rather than like the Chileans, who prefer to sit inside even during the most spectacular weather. We very much enjoyed Argentina’s hunger for gastronomy and the pleasures of life. Chilean’s can often become workaholics even at the best of times.
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