Following in the footsteps of Che, the hop-on hop-off bus leads us north along the gravel track of Ruta 40 (it also breaks at a road cafe in the middle of nowhere where I get to kiss a Guanaco - no tongues). In Los Antiguos, we tour the cherry farms and buy sweet raspberry liquor from the only man in town not wearing a beret (we never did get to the bottom of that idiosyncrasy). Further north, we take a 4x4 tour from Perito Moreno to Cuevas de los Manos. Juan, our rude boy guide, has suped up the jeep with so many interior blue lights that it feels like travelling in a solarium. It´s a strange contrast of history and future. The cave, high above a canyon, was inhabited by people 10,000 years ago. It´s covered with ancient cave paintings of guanacos, ostriches and hundreds of hands. Apparently the paint was made by mixing coloured earth with urine and was then blown from their mouths. The guide compares it to the modern day Japanese who she tells us drink their urine for its health benefits (I shall be having a little conversation with my Japanese friend when I get home).
Continuing the unofficial Che pilgrimage we arrive at Esquel and invest in a Mate. It´s the national drink of Argentina - basically a special container from which you drink the tea of yerba mate leaves through a silver straw. Legend says that the Goddesses of the Moon and the Cloud came to the Earth to visit, but they instead found a jaguar that was going to attack them. An old man saves them, and, in compensation, the Goddesses gave the old man a new kind of plant, from which he could prepare a "drink of friendship". And so the Argentineans carry around flasks (like old people in the UK) and pass around these hot drinks like sharing a bong. For us it´s novel. And helps us camouflage a little (or amuses the Argys that the gringos have learnt to make mate).
We take a tour to Los Alerces national park, a series of long lakes surrounded by beautiful green forest. As it turns out, we seem to have chosen a popular destination for the over-60s. We stroll through the northern part of the park, taking plenty of breaks to catch our breath, pull up our stockings and wait for Mavis to catch up, before boarding the ferry to get a view from the water´s edge and each the ultimate attraction - aptly named El Abuelo (grangfather), a 4,000 year old tree. We decide to let the group leave without us and check into a lodge on the lake´s edge, joining an elderly couple and a fat ladrador with a wooden sign around his neck asking people not to feed him ´por favour, no me alimenta´. The wife takes a fancy to Etienne and chats with ´Francito´ (the little french one) whenever she gets the chance. We hitchhike to the start of trails, riding in the back of the bread delivery van with pumping dance music and blacked out windows, and find that we´re the only people on the paths. We pass fields of grazing sheep, climb hillsides covered in wild flowers, and cross streams where we fill our water bottles and take a break to eat lunch. We lose ourselves (really, we got very lost) in dense thicket and eventually emerge at a waterfall covered head to toe in spiky seeds shaped like mines. Heading back, we pick blackberries at the roadside and get covered in the dust blown into the air by passing cars and buses. Time to get back on the backpacker route.
We take a day trip to travelin, a welsh settlement town that still holds onto its heritage. The street names are typically Argentinean and it´s disappointing not to see signs written in unpronounceable gallic. But there are Welsh teahouses so we stuff ourselves with sandwiches and cakes watered down with a good brew.
Our next stop on Ruta 40 is El Bolson, a hippy town where the evolution of crafts has led to an small forest of trees carved into all manner of people, animals and abstract ideas post the last joint. From here we set out on a 2 day trek, spending a night at a refugio in the mountains (I am avoiding camping at all costs). At times it´s an almost vertical climb, at others we´re just rambling through forest. It´s all very beautiful although difficult to take in while I´m struggling to breathe and sweat is dripping between my shoulder blades. When we arrive at the glacier, I forget I was ever tired. Until I lie down on the thin mattress in my sleepingbag and pass out, sleeping soundly despite the loud, gutteral incessant snoring from one of the other 19 people in the room. Woken early by the sun streaming through the window and 19 people zipping open sleeping bags, I click my hip back into place and we have breakfast next to the beautiful setting of forest and mountain and glacier and sun before setting off. We take a longer downhill route to return, stopping for lunch at the crystal clear blue waters of Rio Azul. Flowing down from the glacier, it´s icy cold despite the hot sun so no swimming with the frozen trout now. We follow the horse trails the rest of the way to the pub marking the end. I rescue a tiny field mouse from the playful claws of a cat and settle down with a good pint of home made brew.
I don´t know what I was thinking when I got dressed this morning. We´re cycling around the lakes of Bariloche in the Parque National Nahuel Huapi (happy nappy), climbing steep hillsides and speeding down the winding roads, and I´m wearing a pair of skin tight jeans. Even on the flat I´stretching the denim to keep up with Mr Tour de France. There are no segregated cycle lanes and we´re edged off the asphalt by oversized cars and chased back on by oversized dogs. Nonetheless the setting is beautiful and there are enough miradors for regular de-saddling and reshaping. After 4 tiring hours we head back to the hostel to rest our legs. We meet our new room mate - a 50 year old man greets us in his Y-fronts. Unsure what to say or do, we make polite conversation and escape to the local irish pub for a refreshing pint. The next day is spent attempting a beautiful trek through a popular winter ski resort to a lake high in the mountains. We pass the ubiquitous Israelis carrying backbacks twice their size and greet the returning early birds - ´falta poco´ - as we climb the final stretch. Again, as we´ve come to expect from Argentina, the reward of reaching the top is worth all of the pain in getting there. Time to head back. I choke on a fly and almost collapse a lung.