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19th-26th November: Iīll try not to make this page so much of a diary. I have one beautiful hour to spend in Esquel, the town made famous by Theroux when he travelled to the end of the Old Patagonian Express - the small gauge railway. He used creative licence to paint the town with the "s#$(hole" brush, in fact there are some huge mountain bikeable hills within a stones throw, just like the crazy dogs he realistically described. Since playing with the whales in Puerto Madryn, I have spent my time chasing my mail all over Argentina, but I donīt think that Iīll be seeing it before I get to El Calafate, a glacial town close to the end of the world. Bariloche is a town of 60000 nestled in the heart of Argentinas Lake District.. and lakes there are indeed. Ascending from the steppes of desolate Patagonia, the bus winds its way through the young, rough cut Andes mountain range, past peaks and lakes of turquoise. Bariloche itself is perched on the side of a 100km long lake treasured by the early German settlers who still keep the memory of good chocolate and ok beer alive here. Seeing the alpine setting, its not long before I overcome my trepeditions regarding truck wheels and hire a mountain bike, riding into the traffic to be sure that any mistake would be of my own doing... and the scenery is fantastic. As with most of Argentina, the rich dominate a small area beyond which lies shanties with wooden walls showing lights from within. I meet a couple of friendly wild boar farmers while riding some great single track - theyīre less relaxed in Australia.. I find that most of the tracks are inside a region reserved for the construction of nuclear power stations.. and apparently one is destined for Australia. I canīt help thinking of the Pumas and Cougars rumoured to inhabit the area as I fly through the forests. I come across a trout farm apparently run by cats who dab at the fish ineffectually through the mesh covering the ponds. Alpine winds, cool dry air and dust devils which remind you that you are still in Patagonia accompany me on my ride. I discover the town called Colonia Suiza (the Swiss Colony) but am unable to indulge in the European culinary delights that I long for, however some of my favourite smoked trout pate on toast with a glass of beer certainly compensates. Spurning the tourons spending heaps on tours to an island, I wander through a free park just up the road, discovering a stand of the curious Monkey Puzzle trees, birds and even trout fishermen on Lago Clandestino. When their boat turns up I eye their three trout and joke that my lunch has arrived... but they didnīt laugh - could be something to do with the $80 it cost them per fish! The wind caused by thermals knocks the trees together with wooden thunks and whips the lake into 2ī waves which flood the piers because of the quantity of melted ice. At night I am educated further about the Middle East by the endless 21 yo pilgrims from Israel on their first year out of the army. We discover an atmospheric tango bar hidden behind a nondescript red door. When we pass early in the night, I manage to down one the the Fernet Branca and cokes savoured in the region while surveying the vacuous stoney cellar adorned with pictures of Charlie Chaplin, Kiss and Che Guava. I return late to find the place still playing tango music to a room too full for a dance. |
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6th December
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Hooking up with Yan, who works in an oil refinery in Rotterdam, and Jason, who works with computers and volunteer work in Trinidad, we hire some well maintained bikes with 4" suspension and head up the 700m to the lookout at Cerra Otto. Jason and Yan entrust me with the navigation, which was looking like being a mistake until I discover a short cut which brings us onto the dirt road..."but single track is so much better..." . Even Jasonīs black skin has been burnt in the sun on the glacial slopes of the Andes so I slap on the Brasilian factor 30 while Yan slowly roasts in the gammas. The picturesque main square brims with tourists (and St Bernard dogs for photos) on a warm Saturday, so I set up my first hawker stall on the Monday. Yes, Craig is on the pavement, heīs rolled out his velvet cloth with his wire jewellery and is using his souvenir LaBoca flag to protect the pavement from his spraypaint art. I manage to paint two pictures before the windy conditions prevent further play... and predictably donīt sell a thing. I must look the part because a passerby asks me for marijuana. One woman from Brasil is hawking for less than $1.25 an hour.. might take some work to make it this way! But it is an experience, however are our backgrounds too different? It worked for Che Guava.. I constantly face the battle of talking Spanish to staff who want to practice their English.... the best policy is to speak really fast then switch back to Spanish (heh heh). Bariloche is brimming with activities, and we pass winter skiing slopes and rock climbers on the ascent. I keep trying to keep some chocolate for when I leave but they seem to have an evaporation date of 24 hours.. I meet Chris, a Canadian farmer from Kenya whoīs daughter has "run off with his money". Just an expression? He talks about the petroleum industry and gives such good travel information that I have to help him out with a little cash until help arrives. I start to believe that his daughter did in fact run off with his money! I hope thats not me one day! Now to face the remaining 30 hours of travelling to get to El Calafate!
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