A day in Tafi del Valle

This is the kind of place we're at: horses walking the streets between cars, browsing the grassy sidewalks (and sometimes pulling plastic bags with garbage from the garbage cans, tossing them out just for the fun of it!)

Tafí del Valle proved to be a wonderful place for us. The drive from Tucumán, though only 125 km, took about three hours and led through spectacular landscape. We left the fertile plains to ascend once again into hills, and within a short time entered a subtropical cloud forest. This time the ascent was so steep that the bus had to negotiate one tight switchback after the next. It felt almost like Columbia when I looked out the window and had only steep, thickly forested drops beside me. The road was amazingly good, however, and the driver very careful. 

A clear river tumbled over big rocks along the way, at first close by, later sometimes deep down in the gorge, and we often saw people fishing. It looked like a wonderful area to spend holidays. I already envisioned myself walking along the river, in this lush vegetation during our stay in Tafí del Valle. 

 

What a surprise, then, when suddenly the forest gave way to much drier hillsides again and then dropped down a little to a valley surrounded by only partly and much more sparsely forested flanks. It was as if this misty paradise had been an illusion.

Yet, when we arrived at our destination it was not a disappointment, even if the landscape was rocky once again. The little town looked quiet and inviting, and we shouldered our bags and headed for the hostel we had chosen as our starting point. I was anxious: we had 10 Argentinean pesos left by now, and still didn't know if we would find a place to exchange money. The first relief was the hostel: not only did they have a room for us, a sign on the door also said they accepted Visa – if things got really tough we could always pay that way, even though it would mean we'd have to pay a lot more. The hostel felt like a wonderfully welcoming place. Small and relatively new, it is about a fifteen minute walk from the town centre. Its services include not only breakfast but supper, too, so we wouldn't go hungry either. They gave us little hope that we'd be able to exchange money that day: not only was it a Sunday, but also the day of the presidential election. The bank was definitely closed until the next morning, and nobody knew of any 'grey market'. 

 

Thus we headed back into town soon. Johann's idea that we might be able to change money at one of the better restaurants didn't pan out: yes, Tafí was very much a tourist place, but obviously for Argentineans way more than for foreign tourists: again, we didn't see any. Someone directed us to the gas station as a possibility, someone else mentioned a supermarket – nothing. We were almost resigned to getting the regular exchange rate at the bank the next day when Johann suddenly headed into one of the many souvenir shops. Here, unlike most of the others, an older man sat in the back behind the till. Marvel of marvels: he was very willing to do a deal, not at 14.4:1 as in Mendoza, but 13:1, which is very much acceptable for us. Now we could breathe easy again! He would have taken more than $200, assured us there would be no place to exchange money in Cafayate, where we will be heading next, nor even in Salta, a sizeable city definitely visited by tourists – but of course he wanted our business, and it is hard to imagine that he is right..

A wonderfully fragrant  broom-like shrub that grows along roadsides everywhere

Verbenas

These worries behind us, we could concentrate on pleasant things again. Yesterday morning we decided to hike up to the Cerro de la Cruz, a hike of about an hour up a rather steep rocky hillside, from where we had a wonderful view of the valley. 

 Again I was delighted to find many blooming flowers, some of which I know from my own flowerbeds in the summer, like the verbenas that bring colour to dusty roadsides and rocky paths alike. Here, I found them not only in red but in a very pale lavender as well. It's always wonderful and still surprising to find them growing in the wild. 

This beautiful plant was visited by a hummingbird while we watched, vibrant metallic green and much larger than our ruby throated hummingbirds at home.

About a quarter of the way up we gained a hiking companion: a large brown dog who followed us all the way to the top, lay down beside the cross while we sat there to enjoy the view, and came down with us again - until we encountered another group of hikers, with their own following of village dogs. There are many dogs - all of them friendly - in these little towns, and they readily attach themselves to anybody walking anywhere for a little while.

 It's time to say goodbye once again to a group of nice people. Best of luck and a big thank you to Tony and Silvina, the hard-working owners of the Nomade hostel, and their two cute little boys Gaetano and Timoteus. They are in the process of adding on a second floor, a sign that the hostel is becoming better and better known. 

This is the view from the front steps of our hostel this morning. The misty, cool day yesterday has given way to a warm, sunny one today. I wish I could capture the fragrance of those white blooming shrubs on this blog!

Leaving the city life behind

The slightly seedy charm of the Tucumán hostel

It's getting close to midnight, and it is more quiet than it has ever been since we arrived in South America a week ago. After travelling from one city to the next on our slow way north to the Bolivian border we have now arrived in a small town of little more than 5,000 people. Tafí del Valle is about 125 km west of San Miguel de Tucumán, the capital city of the province with the same name.

Tucumán was the latest in the string of towns we visited, and we arrived there late in the afternoon yesterday after a six-hour drive from La Rioja. The landscape changed quite dramatically on the way: from the dry, thorny brush country with cacti just coming into bloom and scattered herds of cows, sheep and goats the road ascended into the hills. As soon as we turned downhill again the vegetation had totally changed: lush green, leafy trees had taken over from their thorny cousins, and even from the top we could see that the plain below was home to a much different kind of agriculture. Large stubble fields stretched into the distance, some wheat fields still unharvested, tobacco plants stood in neat rows, large slatted sheds awaiting them for drying and storage. More and more frequently sugar cane fields appeared on both sides of the road, and soon traffic was slowed by big trucks heaped with chopped sugar cane. Every once in awhile a column of dark smoke indicated the location of a sugar factory. 

 

In Tucumán we drove by several side-by-side soccer fields before we had even reached the bus terminal, teeming with people, just like in many smaller communities we had passed through on the way: Saturday must be 'futbol' day. We took a taxi from the bus terminal and were dropped in front of the 'Tucuman Hostel', recommended in the Lonely Planet. It might have had a downward turn since its printing (ours is more than six years old), since it seemed to be in need of a major overhaul, an impression that was not helped by the young man at the reception desk who showed a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. But we did get a room with clean sheets and a reasonably clean bathroom, and the house itself surely had seen more prosperous days, as still evident in its high rooms with solid wooden doors with coloured-glass windows over top and beautiful floor tiles.

We had a bit of a problem: not anticipating any troubles changing money at about the same exchange rate as in Mendoza, but finding no place to change money (inofficially, anyway) in La Rioja we had only 300 Argentinean Pesos (about $25 Canadian) left after we paid the hostel. We needed to try and find a money exchange in Tucumán, and soon, which, we were told, was nearly impossible on the weekend.

We put our bags in our room and walked downtown nonetheless: maybe we'd be lucky. Another option was to find a good quality restaurant where they might be happy to exchange 'dollares'; we had made that experience last year in Puerto Iguazu. We didn't find either, however, and surrounded by milling people out to spend money and have fun on a Saturday evening, stuck time and again behind a couple or a group of people moving excrutiatingly slow, but not leaving much room to pass I caught myself thinking, 'what are we doing here? We didn't come to Argentina for this.' A case of sudden and extreme 'crowd fatigue' had set in, and a sideways glance at Johann told me that he, too, had been hit by it. 

 

What to do, then? We could stay at the hostel for another night and try our luck Monday morning, or escape the city and take our chances that we'd find a place to exchange money in Tafí del Valle, a town we had long marked as a desirable destination. The money we had left would be enough to take us there, to buy some bread, cheese and a bottle of wine for supper, and to pay a tip to the men lifting our bag in and out of the belly of the bus – here in Argentina the tip seems to be expected, unlike other South American countries where we have travelled.

                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obviously we made it to Tafí, and things have worked out well – but right now it's time for me to go bed, and I'll continue tomorrow.

La Rioja - a quiet day

The cathedral

It's nine in the evening here in La Rioja, and the fan in the courtyard of “Residencial Anita” is still running full speed. Together with the tarp that serves as a roof over the courtyard it manages to keep the temperature at a bearable, even pleasant level in the afternoon. It was 28 degrees Celsius today, and a month from now it will be really hot.

We hadn't booked anything here but had decided to try our luck at one of the accommodations mentioned in the Lonely Planet. Critiques online didn't seem to confirm the positive description in our travel guide, but we have learned that one cannot necessarily give too much credence to the opinions of other people; standards and expectations are too different. The taxi dropped us off at 'Residencial Anita', and they did have a room for us – warm water, air condition, wifi, but no breakfast. The room and bathroom looked clean, and it was quiet – good enough for us to spend a night here, especially when dusk was already starting to set in. Little things like the missing toilet seat or – noticed only when we took a shower – a missing shower head are small inconveniences one can live with for a couple of nights.

We spent a very leisurely day here. Late in the morning we walked the fifteen or so minutes into town to have a look around. I had read about La Rioja's Museo Folclórico, folklore museum, and we got a really interesting guided tour in English.

We heard about the patron saint of the city, St. Nicolas de Bari, and the strange figure of Jesus Mayor (Mayor Jesus) and the celebration that honours both on December 31 (and the following two days), with huge processions to which people come dressed according to which of the two they follow – the biggest celebration of the whole year.

There is a room with wine making equipment, the most interesting of which – to me - was a tanned cow hide stretched on a frame, sagging in the middle so that it looks like a bathtub (accomplished by piling sand on it while it is still pliable), where children tread the grapes to extract the juice, with a hole to drain the juice. Other rooms have kitchen equipment on display, saddles, musical instruments. The last room we visited was reserved for the mythology of the area, dating back to pre-Inca times. The Inca arrived a hundred years before the Spanish and were here not long enough to lastingly impose their religion. The indigenous beliefs from before the Inca are still present alongside the strong Catholicism.

There is Pachamama, for instance, Mother Earth, or Mother Nature, the most revered of all since the gives and protects life. She is responsible for food and fertility and bequeaths all things necessary for a good life – but only as long as nature is respected and cared for. There are celebrations where big holes are dug and filled with agricultural produce, from corn to potatoes, grapes, olives, etc., then covered – an offering to Pachamama. Our guide told us that even one of the candidates for the upcoming presidential election closed his campaign by having a ritual for Pachamama. Will it make him successful?

Most gods – other incarnations of Pachamama, mostly, responsible for different aspects of life – are female, but there is also one important male god who is responsible for the thriving of livestock. A lesson on local witch rituals – a bit tongue-in-cheek, but not totally, I think - completed our education for the day ...

By now it is past midnight, and we returned from an excellent meal in the restaurant our landlady recommended to us yesterday about an hour ago. She warned us: before 9:30 or even 10pm there would be little hope to get something to eat. Yet when we came by the 'Le City' at the smaller of the two plazas and looked at the menu around 8:30 last night we were invited to stay: the parilla was smoking already. With the help of the waiter (and with some gesticulation to make up for the lack of words) we decided on 'Bife de chorizo' (Rumpsteak) and once again were not disappointed. Argentineans do know how to cook meat! The Santa Florentina Malbec, grown locally, recommended by the waiter, was a good choice as well. We are not sure if he didn't have the Gato Negro on the wine list we had asked for or if he just didn't want to serve Chilean wine. It's nicer to try local wine and support the local industry anyway. 

 

Since it was so good we had the same meal as yesterday, sharing the meat, but this time we left out the french fries and had two salads instead. I couldn't resist: I had to try the local olives, and was not disappointed.

The afternoon found us at the two plazas. Keeping the siesta time in mind, we left a little after five, only to find most shops still locked up. Streets and sidewalks were deserted, and so were the plazas. Here and there someone was stretched out on a park bench, sleeping. We sat on a bench in the shade and let the world pass by. Every time I am here in South America I am touched by the loving attention given to elderly people by their children and grandchildren. Actually, come to think of it, I only remember seeing women or girls with their mothers or grandmothers or grandfathers. What do boys do, I wonder? Often an elderly woman or man can be seen walking with a child on each side, guiding them carefully, giving support. Their faces are turned attentively to the older person, and each gesture speaks of loving devotion. Family, as we have heard time and again here, plays a huge roll. 

Children are everywhere, and mostly seem to be indulged, rarely scolded. Babies and toddlers are carried around rather than pushed in strollers, by mothers as well as fathers. Of course they are still up and about even now; the three small kids of our landlady here just walked up to their quarters and were shushed when they passed by the guest rooms.

La Rioja is not a town geared to tourists, at least not at this time of year. We didn't see a single 'extrajero' (foreigner), at least not one from a visibly different background. Wherever we went we were treated with politeness, but nobody made a fuss over us, which feels nice.

Tomorrow we'll find a bus to our next destination, Tucuman, a much bigger city about six bus hours north of here. From there, we hope to make our way higher up into the mountains to get away from the cities for a bit.

It's nine in the evening here in La Rioja, and the fan in the courtyard of “Residencial Anita” is still running full speed. Together with the tarp that serves as a roof over the courtyard it manages to keep the temperature at a bearable, even pleasant level in the afternoon. It was 28 degrees Celsius today, and a month from now it will be really hot.

We hadn't booked anything here but had decided to try our luck at one of the accommodations mentioned in the Lonely Planet. Critiques online didn't seem to confirm the positive description in our travel guide, but we have learned that one cannot necessarily give too much credence to the opinions of other people; standards and expectations are too different. The taxi dropped us off at 'Residencial Anita', and they did have a room for us – warm water, air condition, wifi, but no breakfast. The room and bathroom looked clean, and it was quiet – good enough for us to spend a night here, especially when dusk was already starting to set in. Little things like the missing toilet seat or – noticed only when we took a shower – a missing shower head are small inconveniences one can live with for a couple of nights.

We spent a very leisurely day here. Late in the morning we walked the fifteen or so minutes into town to have a look around. I had read about La Rioja's Museo Folclórico, folklore museum, and we got a really interesting guided tour in English.

We heard about the patron saint of the city, St. Nicolas de Bari, and the strange figure of Jesus Mayor (Mayor Jesus) and the celebration that honours both on December 31 (and the following two days), with huge processions to which people come dressed according to which of the two they follow – the biggest celebration of the whole year.

There is a room with wine making equipment, the most interesting of which – to me - was a tanned cow hide stretched on a frame, sagging in the middle so that it looks like a bathtub (accomplished by piling sand on it while it is still pliable), where children tread the grapes to extract the juice, with a hole to drain the juice. Other rooms have kitchen equipment on display, saddles, musical instruments. The last room we visited was reserved for the mythology of the area, dating back to pre-Inca times. The Inca arrived a hundred years before the Spanish and were here not long enough to lastingly impose their religion. The indigenous beliefs from before the Inca are still present alongside the strong Catholicism.

There is Pachamama, for instance, Mother Earth, or Mother Nature, the most revered of all since the gives and protects life. She is responsible for food and fertility and bequeaths all things necessary for a good life – but only as long as nature is respected and cared for. There are celebrations where big holes are dug and filled with agricultural produce, from corn to potatoes, grapes, olives, etc., then covered – an offering to Pachamama. Our guide told us that even one of the candidates for the upcoming presidential election closed his campaign by having a ritual for Pachamama. Will it make him successful?

Most gods – other incarnations of Pachamama, mostly, responsible for different aspects of life – are female, but there is also one important male god who is responsible for the thriving of livestock. A lesson on local witch rituals – a bit tongue-in-cheek, but not totally, I think - completed our education for the day ...

By now it is past midnight, and we returned from an excellent meal in the restaurant recommended by our landlady yesterday about an hour ago. She warned us: before 9:30 or even 10pm there would be little hope to get something to eat. Yet when we came by the 'Le City' at the smaller of the two plazas and looked at the menu around 8:30 last night we were invited to stay: the parilla was smoking already. With the help of the waiter (and with some gesticulation to make up for the lack of words) we decided on 'Bife de chorizo' (Rumpsteak) and once again were not disappointed. Argentineans do know how to cook meat! The Santa Florentina Malbec, grown locally, recommended by the waiter, was a good choice as well. We are not sure if he didn't have the Gato Negro on the wine list we had asked for or if he just didn't want to serve Chilean wine. It's nicer to try local wine and support the local industry anyway.

Since it was so good we had the same meal as yesterday, sharing the meat, but this time we left out the french fries and had two salads instead. I couldn't resist: I had to try the local olives, and was not disappointed.

The afternoon found us at the two plazas. Keeping the siesta time in mind, we left a little after five, only to find most shops still locked up. Streets and sidewalks were deserted, and so were the plazas. Here and there someone was stretched out on a parkbench, sleeping. We sat on a bench in the shade and let the world pass by. Every time I am here in South America I am touched by the loving attention given to elderly people by their children and grandchildren. Actually, come to think of it, I only remember seeing women or girls with their mothers or grandmothers or grandfathers. What do boys do, I wonder? Often an elderly woman or man can be seen walking with a child on each side, guiding them carefully, giving support. Their faces are turned attentively to the older person, and each gesture speaks of loving devotion. Family, as we have heard time and again here, plays a huge roll.

Children are everywhere, and mostly seem to be indulged, rarely scolded. Babies and toddlers are carried around rather than pushed in strollers, by mothers as well as fathers. Of course they are still up and about even now; the three small kids of our landlady here just walked up to their quarters and were shushed when they passed by the guest rooms.

La Rioja is not a town geared to tourists, at least not at this time of year. We didn't see a single 'extrajero' (foreigner), at least not one from a visibly different background. Wherever we went we were treated with politeness, but nobody made a fuss over us, which feels nice.

Tomorrow we'll find a bus to our next destination, Tucuman, a much bigger city about six bus hours north of here. From there, we hope to make our way higher up into the mountains to get away from the cities for a bit. 

One of my favourites: the bougainvillea

A map of Argentina

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 It's not the most detailed map, but it will give an overview over where we have been so far and where we are at the moment.

From Mendoza to La Rioja

It takes a while to really start to listen in a new place. Being on the move so much keeps the mind engaged: there are always plans to be made, bus routes to ponder, bus companies to be compared at terminals, buses to book, hostels or hotels to compare, taxis to hail; there is always the language barrier to be overcome yet again, trying to make myself understood, trying to understand what the other means. It is a wonderfully spontaneous way of experiencing a country, a place. Listening, however, just sitting, being quiet, letting all your senses experience your surroundings – that takes a while.

It is what I am doing right now, in the tiled open space in front of our room here at the 'Residencial Anita' in La Rioja. We are a few blocks away from the centre of this city of about 180,000, and while I can hear traffic it is not overly loud. People get up late here – no wonder, since streets are teeming with life until in the early hours of the morning – and even the voices of the proprietess's children didn't drift up to me until a little while ago. There is the constant chirping of sparrows, cooing of pigeons – but there is a whole lot of other birdsong, too, now that I have opened my ears to them; even the sound of the vacuum cleaner can't drown them out completely.

Most of yesterday we spent on the bus from Mendoza to La Rioja. From our front seats on the top level we had a prime view, and it is the only place on a bus where one can entertain even a faint hope of taking photos. The drawback is that the sun, too, has full access through those big windows, and the air condition isn't always up to par, so it can get pretty hot.

For the first little while after leaving Mendoza there was still a fair bit of agriculture: fields of onions and potatoes, vineyards and olive plantations. Soon, however, this changed to a landscape all too familiar to us from other travels in Argentina: dry, sandy soil, thorny shrubbery in different shapes and heights, as far as the eye could see. It is a landscape so monotonous that it is hard to stay attentive, and time and again I fell asleep, only to wake up half an hour or three quarters of an hour later to the very same sight. 

Once I woke up because the road had suddenly gotten a lot rougher. When I looked out I saw the original paved road a few feet above me to the left, part of it broken off, a deep dry riverbed beside it: a terrible flood must have washed out the road at some point, by all indications quite a while ago since the surface we were driving on had been graded and gravelled, and speed signs had been installed. I imagine there is no money to repair the road and return it to its original state. A few kilometres later we were back on the real highway. Seeing how very dry it is one can't imagine that there could ever be water running in these dry gullies.

Other than at our first visit in January/February of 2009, when it looked completely desolate and hardly alive anymore, the shrubs were starting to green up now. Once in awhile there was a burst of the most stunning yellow, again not unlike the blooming desert shrubs that had so delighted me in Arizona and California in the spring. So far, they are only in full bloom here and there, but all over buds are waiting to open, and I imagine in a couple of weeks the landscape will be transformed into a sea of gold. With luck, I will still get to see that.

Shortly before six pm I woke up from another slumber. This time a wall of solid green – albeit still the same kind of bush as before – greeted the eye to my right, whereas long rows of olive trees stretched out to the left, with mountains forming a dramatic backdrop. The light had mellowed now that the sun was on its way down, and everything looked a lot friendlier. Only a few minutes later we reached the outskirts of La Rioja.

Mendoza

It's eleven o'clock at night, and we have just returned from a nice evening meal at “de un Rincon de la Boca” on Las Heras avenue. By now it's no longer astonishing that the streets are filled with people at this time of night, that more diners can be found in the many restaurants now thatntwo hours ago, that children of school age and toddlers in high chairs are as much part of the picture as groups of men out to have a pizza and a beer or wine. Not a single tourist was among the crowd at 'de un Rincon” (except us, of course), and all the tables were full, inside and outside. Our waiter, after inquiring carefully if we'd rather converse in Spanish or in English, turned out to be fully bilingual: for twenty years he has lived in the US and only recently decided to spend the north American winters here to be close to his mother. The meal – lomo con papas fritas a lo pobre y ensalada – was excellent and great value: beef from the grill, french fries with two fried eggs (that's the 'lo pobre' part) and a lettuce-tomato-onion salad, one serving enough for both of us, plus a bottle of Malbec, all of that for about $26 Canadian.

On our way to the pass at Aconcagua

We arrived here in Mendoza, the wine capital of Argentina, yesterday in the early evening after a seven-hour bus ride from Santiago. The bus ride itself would only have taken five hours, but shortly after passing the entrance to Parque National Aconcagua we reached the border between Chile and Argentina. Several buses were waiting ahead of us, and it took about an hour until our bus driver called up to all of us seated on the top level of the bus that it was time to come down and bring our passports. 'Chicos', he called us, which, I imagine, is like calling a group of people 'guys' in north America. It sounds nice, I think. :)

We lined up in front of the two side-by-side glass windows, one with a Chilean border official, the other one with her Argentinean counterpart. At the first one, we got the all-important exit stamp for Chile, at the other one a stamp which shows that we are allowed to stay in Argentina now for 90 days. It went smoothly for all passengers involved (we were the only non-Latinos), and we returned to the bus for a little while before disembarking again, this time with our carry-on bags. The big bags stowed in the belly of the bus were unloaded as well (the bus driver went around with a cup to collect tips for the young guy handling the bags) and sent through an x-ray machine. If anything questionable was found here, the suitcases had to be opened in the presence of their owners. There were a few, but nobody got in trouble. Only about two hours later we arrived at the bus terminal in Mendoza, surrounded by beautiful jacaranda trees with their pale purple blossoms.

We hadn't decided on a hotel or hostel, only picked one out we'd check out first, but as soon as we left the bus terminal to look for a taxi we were approached by a man with a stack of pamphlets advertising a hostel just across the road. I was leary, however: the bus terminal is not the most desireable environment, and if we wanted to go out at night it could well have been unsafe. On top of that it was loud, with a busy avenue running right beside it. We decided to take our chance with the hostel that had looked most promising in the Lonely Planet. A taxi took us there in less than ten minutes. Unfortunately, they didn't have any space for last night except one spot in the female dorm. The girl at the reception was very helpful, however, and marked several other options on the city map, all of them in easy walking distance. We ended up at the 'Mendoza' hostel, even though they, too, didn't have a private room anymore. The guy at the reception gave us a three-bed room with one single and one bunk bed. The beds are good, there is hot water, and breakfast is excellent by Argentinean standards. The only drawback is the internet which only works in the common area on the main floor, and even there is a bit iffy.

Mendoza is a beautiful city. It is much smaller than Santiago, only about 110,000 people, and the tourists, of which there must be quite a few, seemed to be in hiding much of the time. Maybe they were all busy with wine tours in the surrounding area, or visiting Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Americas at 6,962m. We visited the Parque National Aconcagua with Johann's brother and his wife in 2009, and this time just went by. Yesterday it was shrouded in clouds. The trip through the Andes from Santiago to Mendoza is very impressive. How forbidding, barren and ancient these mountains seem! But it is spring, and along the roadsides masses of yellow flowers were blooming, very similar to California poppies as far as I could tell. Remnants of dirty snow were still plentiful around the pass.

Closer to Mendoza fields were green: potatoes and onions, olive groves and vineyards – how fertile this country is where there is no lack of water.

Plaza Independencia

We spent our time in Mendoza in a very leisurely fashion, wandering the wide, tree-lined streets, watching the world go by in the different parks. They are arranged like the eyes on the "five" side of a die, with Plaza Independencia in the middle and, two blocks away from each corner, the other, smaller plazas: Chile in the northwest, San Martin in the northeast, Italia in the southwest and Espana in the southeast. I loved the spaciousness of Independencia, especially when I saw it for the first time last night, its beautiful water fountains illumined, the scent of blooming trees lingering in the air, a faint whiff of charcoal from the many parillas (grills) in the adjacent streets noticeable even there. 

Today we stopped for a while in Plaza España with its many tiled benches, fountains and mural built to commemorate Spanish-Argentine friendship (something not to be taken for granted; the liberation of the Latin American countries by their hero General San Martin most certainly didn't happen in friendship).

Detail from the mural at Plaza Espana

Floor tiles at the Plaza Espana

After a very necessary siesta (temperatures in the upper twenties and long walks on pavement, combined with the bottle of beer that accompanied dinner took care of that) we walked the half hour or so to Parque San Martin, a huge park with many recreational facilities for Mendocinos, as the inhabitants of this beautiful city are called. We walked once around a big man-made lake where members of the 'Mendoza Regatta Club' were working on their rowing skills, passing through the rose garden, now pretty much in full bloom. I had to stop a few times to bend down and 'smell the roses'. 

By the time we reached our hostel our feet hurt: it hadn't occurred to us to take a bus from the Plaza Independencia like many, if not most, other tourists. The walk along Av. Emilio Civit with its splendid houses was well worth it, however, and since we'll spend much of tomorrow sitting in a bus again it was a good choice.

Tomorrow morning at nine our 'Flechabus' will leave for La Rioja, the capital of the province of the same name, eight hours away. We are slowly making our way north toward the Salar Uyuni ...

Santiago

Spring!

It's getting close to midnight, and traffic has slowed down on 'Bellavista', the avenue hugging the Santiago arts district of the same name. A couple of blocks away from the 'Nomades' hostel night life will be in full swing, but here in the hostel it is pretty quiet. It is not one of the 'party hostels' of which there are a good number in every city and from which we've tried to stay away: at our age sleep is precious when you are on the road, especially if you're still suffering a bit from jet lag.

Our flights from Edmonton to Toronto and Toronto to Santiago on Saturday were uneventful. Security didn't seem to be any tighter than before the Paris attacks, but I'm sure security measures were followed strictly.

We arrived in Santiago a little after noon. We had the address of our hostel and, with the help of a tiny street map we had saved from the hostel we stayed at five years ago, found its approximate location. There was plenty of daylight left to get there, and soon we had located the bus station at the airport. Johann handed the driver the fare, but to our surprise he stopped us and said something we didn't understand. So soon after landing Spanish was still even more of a foreign language than it should be, and will be again in a little while. He said something about 'ojos' (eyes), and pointed to his fare box. Hmmm – what was wrong? And why did he hand us so much change? After a moment it dawned on us: the Chilean currency with its many zeroes had fooled Johann into paying ten times the amount we needed. Luckily the bus driver was honest; we likely wouldn't have noticed until it was too late. It takes a little while to get used to dealing in thousands. A Canadian dollar equals about 500 Chilean pesos at the moment. Johann might have clued in quicker if we had changed money recently, but this was left over from our Chile trip five years ago.

We got off the bus at the 'Pajaritos' stop where we could connect to the metro, a great way to traverse distance in a big city. Some names still sounded familiar: Estación Central, Los Héroes, Universidad de Chile ... Our final station was Baquedano, from where it was only a short walk to our hostel.

Once we had checked in we walked to the centre of the city, the 'Plaza de Armas', to find an ATM. We enjoyed the walk through beautiful 'Parque Forestal' to get there, and were clearly not the only ones doing so. Everywhere on the lawns couples were intertwined in tight embrace, oblivious to the world around them. It's spring here, and they were making the most of it. The Plaza de Armas was filled with families with kids playing ball, eating ice cream – 'Helados, helados' – sounded from street vendors with their little carts everywhere. Kids in swim suits splashed in the fountains, others had their picture taken on life-sized stuffed ponies or looked up to the mounted policemen, eager to pet their horses. All was as it should be. We had a beer in one of the many outside restaurants, watching the world go by, happy to be back in South America.

Today was a slow day, too. We slept in, then made our way to the bus terminal at the Universidad de Chile and bought a ticket to Mendoza, Argentina for tomorrow. Later in the afternoon we decided to walk up to the 'Virgen', the statue of the Virgin Mary overlooking the city from its highest point in the Parque Metropolitano, about 860m above sea level (the city itself is about 500m lower). It was a much longer walk than we had anticipated since a security officer stopped us from taking one of the many small walking paths. He pointed out the danger to people who so obviously looked like foreigners – this, too, part of being in a big city, unfortunately – and put us on a busy walk/bikeway. 

 

All day it had been hazy, as so often in this city of five million people. The Andes could just as well not have been there. The valley is prone to smog, and we were very lucky five years ago when, just in time for us to leave, the blue sky formed a beautiful backdrop to the dazzling display of the snow-covered mountains. Today, we couldn't see very far even from that high up, but on the way down the sun appeared briefly just when it was setting, basking the city below in a warm glow.

Tomorrow morning we'll leave for Mendoza, a six or seven hour drive depending on the time we need to cross the border. We plan to spend a couple of days in the wine capital of Argentina before moving on to destinations so far undetermined.