Well, I have never been on a saga holiday, until now. My
advertised multi-trek to the glaciar on Tronador Mountain was more a
Judith Chalmers bus trip with a variety of Spaniards who smelt of
sugared almonds. During the 10 hour trip, we meandered for about 45 mins, the rest spent in the bus, getting out at points of interest. However, I was too busy trying to get photos of my fellow travelling companions than the sites of wonderours nature around us. We had one serious contender as a Salmon Rushdie look-a-likey, albeit wrapped in spandex. see here....
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=16157982&id=663605654
And one who closely resembled the Italian God Mother from the Goonies.
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=16158006&id=663605654
Photos attached for your amusement.
Having
lunch near the glaciar I was oringinally sat with an elderly Group of
argentinians, who were either struggling to swallow mashed potato, or
trying to get their tight clad legs over the bench to queue for the
toilet alonside throngs of other OAPs. It is I hear you cry, unusual for me to feel young, indeed it is. I had my eye on the defibrillator strapped to the wall for most of the meal. Once
there was space the spaniards moved me over, and I preceded to watch
them demolish two bottles of Malbec and attempt to get a third befote
our guide stepped in. Yes, it looks as if everyone was
aware this was a day of serious hiking it seems, except me who was
actually clad and prepared to do the Inka Trail again. How wrong was I.
The previous day I
had the envious option of either crashing around the hostel, or
getting active and out into the patagonian highlands.
I took the latter option and decided to hire a bike. So, dressed in
shorts, two T-shirts, pumps and a waterproof I waited for the bus.
By the time I had arrived at the bike store, it was pissing down with
rain. The guy couldn’t quite understand why I thought it was
appropriate to cycle 27km dressed in what could easily have been
described as beach wear (´”But you
have no coat??”….. “No,
its fine. I´m from England”). It
was 13 degrees outside. When I could see through the spray or had
recovered from my asthmatic wheeze during vertical climbs, the
scenery was spectacular. Tall peaks disappearing into the ocean,
with winding tracks round coves and bays. I was sustained by
Argentinian staples such as Alfajores, kind of triple sized wagon
wheels but with cake inside, and banging heavenly trance music
courtesy of an Above & Beyond podcast. Truly awesome.
Back in the office I
met two outdoorsey northern Irish girls and chatted over thermos
flask tea and more biscuits. Although first mistaking them for
lovely lesbians, I discovered over dinner that they had in fact
missed the recruitment drive and hadn’t been signed up, despite
having sufficient attributes. We were joined by three friends from
their hostel. Swiss Cedric had coined a phrase most appropriate to
champagne backpacking, and which I intend to use as much as I can
herein. When ever offered anything, such as another glass of wine,
or the option of upgrading, he constantly replied “Well,
it would be rude not to”.
So dinner in a swiss looking restaurant, made entirely from wood and
sized for hobbits was an expensive affair, but the half kilo steak
alone was worth it.
The final night was catch up and chats with a great
swiss medic whom I had met in Menodoza on a wine tour. Small
small world.
