Argentina and Brazil November '19

The long road to the deep south

From storms and strife at home to the first signs of spring in the southern hemisphere. The jacarandas are coming in to bloom and people are stripping off in the parks to catch the sun: it could be Portugal or Spain in early May. In more ways than one. Having flown 7,000 miles, Buenos Aires could be any of a dozen cities in southern Europe: architecture, shops, language, food. But there are undercurrents. Inflation is over 40% and the currency is tanking. And then the F word (or M word to Argentinians). For younger readers, on 19th March 1982, 19 Argentine scrap metal workers raised their flag over the almost abandoned British dependency of South Georgia, in the wild and stormy South Atlantic. Two weeks later, Argentina invaded the disputed, but at the time British,  Falkland Islands. A ten week undeclared war ensued, which cost the lives of 255 British servicemen, 649 Argentines and a number of ships and aircraft. The British victory sealed the rule of Margaret Thatcher and presage the end of military dictatorship in Argentina. There is a monument with the names of all the dead inscribed. But teenagers are taking grinning selfies next to the soldier guards, so perhaps a new generation doesn't care any more. But there are still plenty of Islas Malvinas bumper stickers, so we ought to tread carefully.

Experience tells us to plan to spend minimal time in big cities and get out into the country as soon as possible. So just two days in Buenos Aires it is, and we lost most of the first one on the way. Ninety minutes to queue for passports, ninety minutes for currency, thirty minutes for a taxi and so on. Previous records at Melbourne, Mumbai and LA knocked into a cocked sombrero.

Friends tell us that on visits a few years ago, the exchange rate was five pesos to the pound. It's now 75 and rising, because of the rampant inflation. No issue for us as one balances the other, but to avoid stockpiling and a run on the banks, there are rules in place to make it harder to get your hands on the stuff. ATM withdrawals are restricted to two £50 transactions per day, each of which carries a hefty £8 fee, so cash is king. Bring plenty of it. The advice we were given was to bring US dollars and cash them in at the official 24-hour government bank at the airport. Hence the 90 minute queue. In reality, exchange seems to be widely available in the city, but at slightly worse rates and although dollars and euros are widely accepted, still no quotes for sterling.

What did we learn? Two boxes ticked, three definite recommendations and one misfortune. Ticks for the theatrically gothic Ricoleta cemetery with Eva Peron's tomb and for the pink confection of the Casa Rosada and Peron's balcony. Most of the city centre looks early 19th century, ilset out on a grand grid bisected east West by a tree-lined ten lane boulevard. But three areas hint at other histories, with former dilapidation now gentrified and decorated for a new generation of incomers. El Caminito near the old docks is just two short streets of terraced houses now painted a gaudy variety of colours and housing a selection of tourist bars and restaurants, with (very) tongue in cheek tango shows and selfie opportunities. Tacky as hell but good fun. The market at nearby San Telmo lies in the shadow of two great flyovers and has been taken over by a charmingly shabby flea market with a very on trend food court. And Palermo resembles a South American Hackney or Shoreditch, invaded by hipster bars and cafes with the streets full of the young and the cool sipping Fernet and Coca (the drink of choice in Argentina, apparently. Tried it but can't work out if the Fernet spoils the Coke, the Coke spoils the Fernet or both).

The misfortune? At the end of a very long first day, retired to the hotel reception to deal with a few emails and social media messages but lapsed into a steak and Malbec coma (yes,it's true: the steaks are huge and the Malbec is cheap). Woke up after half an hour to discover phone gone. Examination of the hotel's CCTV footage shows a young boy coming in off the street, pretending to engage in conversation before snaffling the phone off the table. SIM quickly cancelled and bank informed then down to the local police station to get a crime number. Perhaps predictably, no one spoke English but an "interpreter" was called, who turned out to be a beat cop in stab vest and armed to the teeth. Alexis was actually charming, saying he'd learnt his English from video games. We made a statement by video link to the prosecutor's office, which was promptly typed up, printed and signed. As Alexis said on parting: "shit happens" and he gave me a leaflet on avoiding crime in Argentina.

So passing through Buenos Aires was just a means to an end and now onto the real stuff. After the first 7,000 mile flight from the UK, the next 1,500 to El Calafate in southern Patagonia was like being delivered to another planet. Phone cameras can't do it justice: the chilly desert landscape is vast. From crystal blue lakes in the foreground, through barren treeless desert stretching for 50 miles in each direction to snow-capped mountains on the horizon,  the landscape is stunning.

El Calafate itself has an edge-of-the-world frontier town feel to it: nothing much over two storeys and all the hotels and businesses strung out along a single street and a few side streets running down to the stony expanse of the shores of Lake Argentino,  the country's biggest lake. Like South East Asia, there are loads of loose dogs around on the tatty sidewalks, generally fast asleep in the shade. Those which aren't are no trouble: they clearly have things to be doing and know where they need to be. Apart from bars and barbecue restaurants (barbecued llama is a thing and is really not too bad), all the businesses are about the two reasons to be round here: hiking and glaciers. So we did. The vast lake has four arms extending into the lower folds of the Andes to the west, into each of which flows a glacier (if three metres a day counts as flowing). 

Perito Moreno is the most accessible, with a tarmac road virtually to the cliff face of the ice, not much more than an hour away. Whether seen from fairly close on a boat or really close on the specially built walkways,  two impressions are strongest. First is the other worldliness of the juxtaposition of a thirty mile long river of ice ending in a 70 metre high cliff against steeply wooded lakeland hillsides in bright spring sunshine. Only 200 metres up and it's 12 degrees: t-shirts are just about possible for the hardy. The clash is a bit like finding a spaceship in Trafalgar Square. The other impression is the noise as the ice thunders and cracks, occasionally casting an avalanche or larger boulder into the milky lake.

There is some serious hiking to be done round here and some serious hikers doing it. Then there's us, content with a 10km ramble through the foothills of Pategonia's tallest mountain, Fitz Roy from El Chalten. Up in dappled sunlight through green woodland then out onto the tips revealing ever higher vistas of the jagged peak, the blue glacier flowing down from it and the crystal clear lake below. Did exactly what it said on the tin then back down for a beer.

In a karmic balance to the phone theft, we had booked a table at a (Culture Trip recommended) restaurant tonight. As we approached, a nervous waitress was hovering outside, apologising profusely for the fact that the place was closed (Sunday), she shouldn't have taken the booking and her boss was on the way to sort things out. Belen arrived, told us she had booked us into another restaurant, said she would drive us there and offered to pay for a taxi back. We accepted the lift, not the taxi and after kisses all round, dinner was great. She had an Islas Malvinas bumper sticker, though. 

Of mishaps and Malbec

Since we started putting these long haul trips together for ourselves a few years ago, they have arguably become ever more ambitious, with a change of scenery every three days and sometimes challenging logistics. The overarching principle has been that, as we may never come back to a specific country again, we should see as much as possible.  And if we find somewhere we really must see more of, we can plan to come again. The detailed plans have always worked out so far: until they didn't. El Calafate in southern Patagonia was 1,500 miles from our next destination,  800 from another alternative and we'd seen everything there we wanted to. So when sat in the hotel, having checked out and waiting for a taxi to the airport, and an email comes telling us the imminent flight is cancelled, a complicated set of decisions ensues. To cancel the taxi and go to the airline office in town or go to the airport and see what else is on offer? Went to the airport. To stay in the three hour queue for temporary accommodation while another flight is arranged for tomorrow or the day after or head out anywhere? Buy last four tickets to Buenos Aires. To overnight at the airport there and get the airline to sort out the connection tomorrow or sort ourselves? Book a hotel and buy last four tickets on another carrier to Mendoza the next day. So currently running a day late and £1,200 out of pocket but hopefully we can sort refunds and consequential loss claims later. Keep moving...

Two upsides to all this. Although Mendoza enjoys something like 330 days of sunshine a year, it also suffers with the most devastating hailstorms. If rain on one day raises the humidity level, any rain on the following day crashes into the rising thermals, creating hailstones the size of tennis balls, which can do some serious damage. Thus every street is dotted with covered parking lots, vineyards and fruit orchards are protected by Kevlar netting and deep drainage channels run up both sides of all the gridded streets. One such storm had landed at about the time we were due to arrive. Apparently, they fire some sort of air cannon into the cloud as the hail starts to try and break up the stones: probably not much fun in an areoplane). Our taxi driver was apologetic for the state of the streets the following morning. Blue skies are now back and there is talk of 35 or even 40 degrees in the days to come (although that didn't quite work out either).

Second minor bonus: as we got the last few seats on the early flight from Buenos Aires, we were separated and mixed up with other passengers. Striking up conversation with a neighbour who spoke good English  (daughter living in Wimbledon etc) and was keen to brag about "his" city. He directed us to a slightly off piste restaurant which turned out to be the best meal of the trip so far, generously lubricated with Malbec and, as so often here, cheap as chips.

Which brings us to wine. To be blunt, really the only reason to come to Mendoza because, although pleasant enough in an Iberian kind of way, there isn't much else to see and do. Imagine moving Lincolnshire 7,000 miles south, replacing the potatoes and cabbages with vines and going to stay in Peterborough to look at it. 

And there's a lot of it to look at. I don't remember Malbec being much of a thing in the UK until maybe 10 years ago. We have now moved on from Chardonnay to Sauvignon Blanc, from Cava to Prosecco and from Europlonk to Australian Shiraz, Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon and Argentinian Malbec. 80% is exported and most of that goes to the US and UK. So wine tours are big business in Mendoza: every day there is a choice of buses each taking in four or five bodegas, where the staff pretend to tell visitors about the history, science and terroir,  and we for our part pretend to be interested in anything other than drinking. In our house, the only day of the year when it's OK to drink before lunchtime is Christmas Day. In Mendoza, it's Christmas every day. For the record, we visited Trevinto and Altus Alba  (which I think I had heard of) and Trapiche and La Rural (which I had not) plus a fruit farm (important to get some vitamins on the way). Most bodegas make a thing of big lunches so the whole enterprise seems to keep everyone happy. Things we learnt: malbec is supposed to be smoother and rounder than Cab Sauvignon, which is "a punch in the face". Don't bother with anything less than a Reserva or less than 14% ABV and a few in the middle of the day certainly take the edges off. We spoke to some Canadians who were in town for three days and had booked three full day tours. They're going to wake up in Toronto with one hell of a headache.

For arcane logistical reasons, we now reverse direction and head south again to Northern Patagonia. Directional note: climb to 35,000 feet, keep the snow capped Andes to your right and land when you see a load of lakes. 

After the lunar landscapes of glacier country, a two hour internal flight takes us from Spain in Mendoza to Alpine Switzerland in Bariloche. Pategonia's northern lake district still butts up against the mountains and even though the snow has gone from the lower levels now that spring is here, this is skiing country. Apart from the ski lifts and clothing shops, there are fondue restaurants and chocolate factories. But bloody hell, the wind. 

C

Took a bus up route 40, a branch off the Pan American Highway, today to see the Seven Lakes route and San Martin up in the Andes, but despite the sunshine, the wind is biting and not conducive to sightseeing outside the bus. Chile is less than 20 miles away and the intervening peaks, forests and lakes are suitably memorable. San Martin was starting to feel spring like, with warm sunshine in the brisk wind. 

 

However the seasons then went into reverse in Bariloche with billowing sheets of rain driven along by a stormy wind. Our pre-booked bus tour included a climb up a nearby mountain to 3,000 feet in a chair lift. It was too cold to take phones out of pockets for photos for fear of dropping them from senseless fingers. As for the stunning view from the top: no idea. There wasn't one. A day for hot chocolate and retiring to the hotel lounge with books. Switching back to a northerly direction tomorrow with the promise of rather better temperatures to come.

And for years, back in Europe, I've taken flak for speaking a strange blend of Portuguese and Spanish. Turns out I've been speaking Argentinian all that time. Buen dia everyone.

The far north: trains, boats and planes

Another 1,000 miles or so further north (Argentina's a big country), to Salta, in the top left corner. Chile is within an empanada's throw and Bolivia about 100 miles north. The ride in from the airport definitely brought us through the shabbier part of town but for some reason, Salta - another Spanish low rise town built on a grid with a scattering of squares - ticks all my boxes that Mendoza didn't. 

Patagonia's biggest and spikiest mountain,  Fitz Roy, reared up to 11,000 feet. A thousand miles north, the Andes have grown up and softened to allow road traffic in to even greater heights. The main reason for coming to Salta is the train to the clouds: El Tren a las Nubes. Actually not much of a train any more. Although still used by occasional freight trains, the tracks were declared unsafe for passengers a few years ago, so now it's a coach trip to meet the train near the summit. But what a coach trip. We start in Salta at about 6,000 feet. In the first couple of hours the bus grinds past multicoloured rock formations, cactus trees and disused viaducts to 9,000 feet for breakfast. Then it's a quick blast of another mile high to 14,000 feet in less than an hour. That hurts. Nothing to be worried about, but the dizziness,  shortage of breath and palpitations are unpleasant for the first hour or so. The coach trip was spectacular, the train section less so. After the five hour climb from Salta, the train clanks just a further 13 miles up (to a new height of about 15,000 feet) and back in about three hours. There are said to be only three wet days a year in this part of the Andes, but we chanced on one of them. After a 30 minute "railway manouevre" (turning the engine round), there is a 30 minute stop to get off and admire the huge curved iron viaduct at the summit. But the rain had turned to hail, which turned to snow, so another empanada and beer from the buffet car instead. Don't get me wrong: a great day out which ought to be done, but it's a coach trip which happens to visit a train, not a train to the clouds. Although the clouds were definitely there.

In the absence of personal recommendations, we tend to rely on the Culture Trip app to find places and restaurants to visit in any new town. The first night in Salta was OK if a bit cheesy. The second night was off the scale. In a barn of a room decked out with fake wooden beams and chandeliers, waiters clad in full gaucho gear served up dishes of peasant stew and unfailingly got all the orders wrong. The only way it could have been cheesier would be for the food to be served on horseback to the accompaniment of a quartet of singing llamas.

Two other impressions of Salta: the trees scream. Walking into the main square on our first evening, we couldn't work out what the noise. Loud - almost impossible to hear conversation above - and somewhere between an alarm bell and the engines of a taxiing jet and, curiously, all tuned to one single note. Turns out it is the seasonal sound of a certain type of cicada and it emanates from every tree, all day but loudest at night. The locals don't seem to notice it but it could drive to distraction. 

Secondly, Salta must be where all old Argentinian cars come to die. Not vintage models or carefully preserved museum pieces, but rusty and ramshackle rubbish from the 60's and 70's. Peugeot 504s, Renault 21s, mark 2 Escorts, mark 3 Cortinas  (like my Dad used to drive in about 1971) and mark 1 Granadas, so The Sweeney would be at home. The smaller models have been repurposed as battered red taxis, so it's rare to find one capable of fitting our four cases in the boot.

We've enjoyed Argentina immensely but it's time to head on to the last destination here. Iguazu is home to one of the Seven New Wonders of the Natural World. It isn't clear on whose authority such a list is compiled or what validity it has, but given that Babylon no longer exists on the map, let alone the Hanging Gardens, a certain amount of review seems fair. So in the equivalent of the Champions League or something, welcome to the Iguazu Falls. Whatever the logic, the falls are stunning. The height (about 200 feet) is not really the point: it's the width, with the waters of the Iguazu river tumbling across a panorama amost two kilometres wide. The river marks the border between Argentina and Brazil and convention suggests a day on the Argentina side, where a number of trails take visitors very close to the ten or so separate falls, both at the vertiginous top and the bottom, with its clouds of spray and cacophonous roar. Follow this with a day on the Brazil side, where there are views of the whole panorama from further back and an opportunity to get up close and personal in powerboats, getting very, very wet in the process.

We're in subtropical forest now - the topics start at Rio 800 miles north - so trees not as tall or dense but thick groundless growth as the sunlight can get through. So a landscape rich in wildlife. There are wild jaguars but rather fortunately we didn't encounter one. Lots of coati, the South American raccoon with a long snout. These are not remotely shy and are something of a nuisance, pinching food and occasionally giving a nasty bite. Toucans are rather retiring, but box ticked: three on the wing and two on branches. And big black vultures, hundreds riding the thermals over the falls. Managed not to become their lunch so after nearly 2,000 miles end to end, that was Argentina and very good it was too. Time for another country and Brazil beckons.

Her name is Rio....

It took ninety tedious minutes to get into Argentina but less than ten to get out, even allowing for the queue of cars at the border crossing bridge. Less than two minutes then to get into Brazil and straight into the middle of action.  Nothing as threatening as the various popular uprisings currently going on in Chile and elsewhere in South America, but it's the semi finals of the South Americas cup and Flamengo (Brazil) are stuffing River Plate (Argentina). These things matter round here and we're trying to find dinner somewhere in the middle of an orgy of car horns, banner waving and fireworks. The police are out en masse and are just about keeping a lid on things, albeit seemingly concentrating on keeping the fireworks out of a petrol station.  Sod the high street: it's a back street Italian for dinner.

Puerto Iguazu on the Argentina side was a charmingly ramshackle, low rise, backpacker kind of place, with just two streets of bars and restaurants and with the forest pressing in all around. Brazilian Foz do Iguacu is an unattractive modern city which sprang up in the 1970's to support the construction of the (then) biggest hydro-electric plant in the world. It really has very little to commend it other than being a much quicker and easier way to get into Brazil than the legendary queues at Rio airport. To which, onwards.

It's big, but not the biggest city in Brazil (Sao Paulo) nor the capital (Brasilia). It is probably surprisingly few individuals who shape the enduring character of a place. Whoever first brought the LBGT slant to Rio Carnival was probably one. But the tourism industry before that was probably thanks to whoever looked at the almost vertical sides of Sugar Loaf and thought "I could put a massive cable car up that" or the one that looked at Corcovado and thought "what that needs is a bloody great statue of Christ" and the other who thought "if he does that, I'm going to build a bloody steep funicular to get to it". And the birds permanently spiralling over the beaches? A few are black vultures (with the ragged ends to the wings) but most are Frigate birds, the species with the largest wing span to body size ratio in the natural world. So there. 

Just as Buenos Aires was pleasant enough as a stopover gateway into southern Argentina, so we didn't have particularly high expectations for Rio. But it turned out rather better than expected. The main attraction is the topography. Wrongly, I had assumed Sugar Loaf mountain and Christ the Redeemer were either the same thing or at least next to each other. In reality, they are just two of dozens of individual mountains and even ranges scattered around the vast natural harbour and the city just carries on endlessly, seemingly flowing between the peaks. Indeed, the latterly famous areas of Copacabana and Ipenema didn't even exist until early in the 20th century, when engineers found ways to drive tunnels through the Tijuca mountains to get to them.so Rio is a city for climbing things. First off, to the top of the hotel for the view of two mile long Copacabana beach. Then onto an old yellow tram for the unexpected delights of the clatter up a hill of cobbled streets to the top of San Teresa, then off at the top for the driver to turn the seats round. Not unlike the ride up to the castle and cathedral in Lisbon. Then Sugar Loaf and Corvocado - home to massive art Deco statue of Christ the Redeemer - which are actually three or four miles apart. A two-stage cable car up the first and a (very steep) funicular up the latter for all the classic views of the city, the beaches and the harbour, as well as looking down on planes taking off 9from the two airports.

Another of the favourite meals of the trip was here in Rio. La Garota de Ipenema is named after the Girl from Ipenema, Antonio Carlos (Tom) Jobim's famous song from the 60's which kick-started the bossa nova boom. The song was allegedly written here and the tune, lyrics and a blue plaque to that effect are on the wall. The food is Brazilian barbecue, in this case picanha - one of my favourite steaks in Portugal, but with the twist here that you cook your own slices on a little gas grill at the table (while humming bossa nova tunes).

A few other observations on Rio. On public transport (the metro is easy to use and works well) notices clearly set out the pecking order for the priority seats. First the obese, then pregnant women, mothers with small children etc etc. And there are a lot of large people about. Being overweight is no barrier to fashion choices: if you've got it, flaunt it (and preferably put a tattoo on it). Semi nakedness is fine: it's perfectly acceptable to be on the streets in budgie smugglers several streets inland from the beaches at Ipenema and Copacabana. And once again, ideally put a tattoo on it. 

There is crime: one of our party had a necklace torn from her neck on the main promenade on Copacabana in broad daylight (fortunately the thief dropped it) and all the showy apartments on the beach fronts and side streets are protected behind very solid steel fences and sliding gates.

And we are in the tropics. So it is likely to rain from time to time and even in the middle of the city, a marmoset or monitor lizard is as likely to amble by as a cat or dog.

And that's about it. Off to the airport for the overnight slog back home. Highs: El Calafate, Bariloche and Iguacu. Lows: stolen phone, cancelled flight and the usual holiday stomach (probably not the food this time but some other unfortunate contact). Final recommendation: southern Argentina well worth a visit. Just don't mention the M word.