Hi-Ho Hikers

The next morning is a frightfully early start, after we ended our night with more wine in town. Amanda and I had stupidly booked ourselves for some hiking – Mendoza-style - and it was apparently essential that we wait for at least an hour before moving from the hostel, precious sleep-time wasted. Our mission for the day was the Cerro de la Virgen, although the name meant nothing to us until we saw it rise up before us in the car to Cachueta.

Maxiaventura’s HQ, a kirky cabin erected out of pine wood and string, holding only a chair and computer inside, looked like it belonged to a boys’ clubhouse or scout troop - not a safe, secure adventure tours company. And it certainly paled against the nearby hotel, touting the virtues of its hot springs, and other tour establishments we had passed along the way. Make sure you check the ropes, was all I kept thinking to myself.

Thankfully Amanda had reminded me to replace my near-permanent flip-flops with a pair of sneakers, because the hike to the top was nothing short of challenging, and a sombre reminder why smoking is never good – no matter how much wine you consume. A few slides down the gravel, which our guide Daniel happily reminded us equalled one round each at the bar, and we made it to the abseiling spot, where we could finally rest easy, hanging parallel to a 20m drop. Nice.

A much needed break then arrived, with lunch at the bottom of the second drop, which was the epitome of basic. Some fruit, a loaf of bread, cheese and ham - so Argentinian. At least I wasn’t the 18 year old from Buenos Aires who was instructed to make our sandwiches while Daniel went to set up the ropes for our rock-climb.

It was about here, that Amanda and I started to flake, and were not fazed at all when we were told that the rock-face was too busy to climb now, and that we would head to rafting instead. We were already dreaming of our next round of liqueurs and how nice it would be in the water with them in hand.

Making our way to the mouth of the rapids, a popular camping and picnicking spot for locals, we of course fell asleep, happy to have a rest from all the activity. But one dip of our feet into the icy water and we soon woke up and lost all aspirations about going swimming. It was positively freezing! To make matters worse, our cowboy hosts were intent on not only soaking the competitor companies’ rafts, but also filling our own with icy water by making us perform tricks and chants. What’s that about tourists being monkeys?

Fortunately though, you are never to far from a bar in South America, and the little store next door to HQ was also home to some strong Andes ‘red’ beer. It's warming stout was the most soothing remedy to our overworked bodies.

Mr Hugo Has Entered the Building

Following the advice of some fellow travellers, Nicole, Amanda and I took the bus out to meet Mr Hugo, who is as well-known for his bike rentals, and is he for his post-tour parties. Located in Coquimbito, about 20 minutes out of Mendoza, his house, and the place of our rental pick-up is in the heart of the Malbec strip. And as we get off the bus, Mr Hugo appears immediately, like an Elvis-mirage, yelling “I am HERE! It is me, Mr Hugo!” like we have been waiting for him all our lives.

A quick pat of the various animals around and we are kitted up with our bikes and sent on our way with a bottle of water and a basic map. (It seems no helmet is necessary in these parts). But when we are given a rough guide to where we should head – up and down the same street it seems – we know they have seriously underestimated the abilities and determination of three Australian girls, each travelling solo.

As soon as we head off the main road Urquiza onto Montecasseros, the smell of fermenting grapes hits us and we hurry to catch a tour of the museum at the Rutini vineyard. Set up in 1979, it houses over 5000 objects from the hand-harvesting days, including animal skins, claypots, and tools. Unfortunately though, as good as the tour guide is in consistently translating her speech into English, the ‘Museum’ red we taste at the end is not quite at the same standard as their reknown ‘Felipe’ reserve drop, which comes in at 79 pesos (AUD$ 35) a glass, and we leave still thirsting.

And so starts our magical mystery tour on the bikes. Taking off for the furthest point we are aiming for, we head out onto the freeway, using the gravel shoulder road as a bumpy alternative to playing chicken with the speeding cars. A few kilometres later and it seems we are not much closer to finding Don Bosco’s, despite having stopped at the church of the same name, to check out its beautiful interior.

Realising that we are getting nowhere fast, we head back along Route 70, watching the strange numbering system change and reverse itself at least twice. Finally, hidden behind an obscure bush, we see the Don Bosco sign, saying 100 metres ahead. Of course it is not 100, but 300 metres ahead, and closed. But we are only too happy at this stage to admit defeat and have some cheese and crackers on its front. (It is Good Friday after all, so technically, no one in a Catholic-way should be drinking anything today).

Finally, back on the suggested trail, we arrive at the Familia de Tommaso bodega (vineyard), and realise that our chances of an immediate table are pretty slight, so we settle down for some tasting instead. Our first is the particularly vinegary offering of a one year old who has missed the imported oak. The next is a big improvement, having had 6 months in oak, and finally, the “Malbec Roble”, with its one year toasting in the barrel, slides down our throats like caramel.

Our host boasts that it has won many silver medals, but when we question where – “internacional” – we then wonder who else is making the stuff and is in competition (apparently only California – France uses it solely for its Bordeaux blend). Sadly too, the Torrontes, which I had such high hopes for, disappoints, disappearing inside me like water. But the sunken barrels, light breeze, and low tables outside improve our weariness, as does a bottle of their not-so-fine, but drinkable table (Malbec) red.

Our next stop - Viña El Cerno - is only a passing visit, after I spy a strange stash of other people wine out the back, stacked in glass flagons, and none of us is particularly impressed by the four glasses we alternate between. Perhaps we are just spoilt Australians, trained a little too well in our wine discernment, but nothing seems to be hitting the walls the way it should.

I finally earmark Trapiche to be our saving grace, having had a few too many of their bottles on our first night here, and considering it a pretty amiable liquid. But in our way stands a policeman, who it seems is intent on making us go home. What starts as a friendly warning that the winery is already closed and the road we are on is not safe, soon sours when I respectfully take on his advice, and attempt to continue forth. Not taking too kindly to my disobedience, he proceeds to reverse his car, spin it around and cut me off at full speed. Dangerous alright. (Trapiche is actually closed, but that is not the point).

Feeling the day almost over – it was after 6pm at this point – we chance upon a liqueur place that is only too happy to stay open and continue serving cocktails and chocolates to passing tourists. Taking a seat in the garden, I order an amazing concoction of grapefruit liqueur, lemonade and grenadine that eased the pain of failed attempts, and settles as sweetly as the setting sun.

Two blocks back to Hugo’s, and we are seated with free-flowing plonk, empanadas and heated conversation with some Americans, and it is here that I realise why his place is such an oasis, after a hard day’s work at tasting.

There's No Home Like A Vegetarian Restaurant

Feeling a little anxious to lift the anti again, after a pretty flatline stay in Córdoba, I was only too happy to get on the bus to Mendoza and get right to the heart of Argentina’s grape-growing region. But it seems my agitation would have to wait at least six more hours, when I am seated next to a very nice but very inquisitive old man. Wanting to know everything from my mother’s profession, to my little sister’s name, I struggled to find patience with his constant chatter. And when his speed for speaking clashed with my foreign accent, the conversation became truly painful, with most things being repeated at least twice, if not thrice.

And to make matters worse, despite my ‘cama’ status, there was no food, no drink, no pillow or blanket. No comment.

It was then a scary little knock at the dingy door of the only place that could house me for the three nights I am here – Mendoza Lodging. I only mention the name, because it is best avoided, particularly when you are looking for a clean place, with friendly people, a washing service that does just that (as opposed to the other washing-dying-in-one service that doesn’t usually mention the latter) and something more than stale bread for breakfast.

But not to be totally down on the situation, where there is a will, there is almost always an Australian, or in this case, two. So when I met up with Nicole and Amanda, my luck changed somewhat. Nicole and I took a walk around in the unusual sights of Mendoza’s Museum of Modern Art, mistakenly taking a leaking roof and a tastefully painted air-conditioning vent for additions to the rest of the conceptual art display, which, apart from that, was full of more rotting fruit installations and things that looked like they had taken the least part of a cigarette break to put together.

We headed from here back down the busy pedestrian strip, away from the Plaza Independencia and towards Mendoza’s markets. But it seems everyone who was not already away on holiday, was staying at home to eat for Easter, and they were almost all closed. Feeling the growing sun on our backs, we decided to find the tourist office to plan our wine tour the next day, and stumbled across a flier for a vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away. Having spent the last hour or so bitching about how little of the red, green, yellow and orange stuff they eat here, we basically ran the whole way there.

And what awaited us was the most delicious spread of broccoli, beans, peppers, carrots and salad we could fit in. And with a dessert included, that we didn't even get to, it was a total steal for 24 pesos (AUD$10). Thank you “Green Apple”.

Che-Sera, Sera...

After two sleeps on the first day, and a lomito (steakburger) and Malbec that night, I was still a little confused about how many days I was staying here for. Perhaps it is the constant getting on and off buses that had started to make me weary, but I was delighted to be informed by someone else that I have only been here for a day, and still have two days to explore further afield.

Having chatted with an English guy Jamie about the sights and sounds of Córdoba – he was quite the veteran of the town with 10 days already under his belt, though God only knows how he did it – I decided to join him on a collectivo (mini-bus) for an hour trip out to Alta Gracia, to visit the house, town and museum that made up Che Guevara’s childhood.

Despite being born in Rosario, and moving to Buenos Aires as a baby, Che and his family eventually settled in this northern town to escape his chronic asthma woes. But before getting there, I first have to overcome some woes of my own, when I realise that the Easter holiday week has left almost all the tickets out of here sold. It is a mini ticket-fiasco with the first three companies shooing me away with no seats, and the next trying to sell me a semi-cama ride (only semi-reclined, and totally squished) for the 12 hours, at a ridiculous price. I politely decline.

Finally though, at the ‘Penguin’ desk, I stumble across the last ticket on early departure for the next day – with a basic cama chair to sit in. I snap it up eagerly and we make our way to the local bus station to go to Che’s house. But it seems ticket issues are the theme for the day, and unlike the other bus station, they seem to just keep printing tickets indefinitely for our destination. Thus the line to get on each passing time-marked bus doesn’t seem to work or get smaller. God only knows how people deal with this daily.

Eventually we travel back past the red brick student apartment blocks of Nuevo Cordóba and out into the flat fields of corn towards Alta Gracia. But again, Lady Luck is not on my side, and when we arrive with the impending rain, a sign sits on the white picket fence saying “Cerrado: Abuelo”. Apparently someone quite significant in the town has died, and everything is shut for business. With not much choice, I clamour at the door of the café/restaurant next door, in the hope that someone will have pity on our grumbling tummies.

Soon the owner appears, and doesn’t need much convincing to feed us, despite the embargo, but I still don’t manage to find out who the important person is that has spoilt our trip. Instead we enter into the shrine that she and her husband – Héctor Celano - have created to commemorate his poetry and musical career, complete with trips to Cuba to meet influential leaders and friends of Che and Fidel Castro. It’s a loose connection, but I decide that it can perhaps be strengthened by a review of “The Motorcycle Diaries” and the more recent “Che” (part one) with Benicio del Toro. I know am clutching, but at least I can see his original grave sight in central Bolivia.

Much Ado About Monday

Having ridden out the weekend with a few bottles of Malbec in San Telmo, and thus lightening the load from the Basement Jaxx concert the night before, I decided that an overnight bus to Córdoba would take care of my tiredness and let me sleep it off. But when we make uncharacteristically good time travelling, and I arrive two hours earlier than expected – at 6am – I am not exactly well-rested.

Needless to say, I make my way straight to the hostel, which was fortunately not full, and could check me in straight away. I don’t even bother to wake for breakfast, instead waking a little after lunch to stroll through the city towards Plaza San Martin. The streets are full of students – no big surprise when Argentina’s second largest city contains no less than seven universities.

Luckily the sun was out again, having hidden itself for much of the last week, and I lazily decided to trust the guidebook and head for a tart at El Viejo Esquina (‘the old corner’) – which is just that. An aged café/bar filled with thick dark wood sleepers that make up the bar and outer perimeter where people are perched on stools eating home-cooked goods. Vintage music, faithfully played throughout the rest of the country, sees me humming along to the Beach Boys “Kokomo” and then Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares To You”. Random.

And when my tart arrives, I am well rewarded with a pastry bigger than my hand, smothered with mashed pumpkin, herbs and the sweetest cheese I have ever tasted. It is pure divinity, the perfect set-up for the sights I am about to see, or so I thought. Named the Cultural Capital of Latin America in 2006, I must admit that I had high hopes for this educational hub, which were sadly let down when I came to my first stop and realised that being a Monday, no museums were open.

But I was pleased to see some scaffolding up, and buildings being looked after and restored every so often. There were lots of bookstores open too, obviously to service the student crowd, and people on the prowl – presumably on holiday because of the Holy Week holidays leading up to Easter. I was also easily impressed by the clear blue signposting they had up, marking out each of the city’s historical and cultural places. A first for South America. At least I knew where I would go tomorrow.

So instead, I allowed myself to indulge in some retail therapy, and was immediately fascinated by the set-up of each of their shops. With the first half of each being devoted to displays of clothes and shoes on offer, the back half is left to merely stack the goods high on all the remaining wall space. Basically, there is no real browsing, no touching of what you might like - if you want to look at something up close, you have to ask for help.

I slowly head home and finish off my tour at the Paseo de Buen Pastor, the renewed site of the Córdoba’s former women’s asylum of the same name. A bit of a strange place to reinvigorate the city’s gastronomy, but all the while, I make myself cozy inside one of the cultural centre’s restaurants with a half litre of choppe (tap beer), and a plate of salted peanuts. Life could be much worse on a Monday.