"Perhaps one day, tired of circling the world, I'll return to Argentina and settle in the Andean Lakes" El 'Che' Guevara
It didn't quite work out like that for Mr Che. But in all our infinite wisdom, French Fred and I decide to go on a bike ride & see what Che was on about. Stocked up with a bag of tasty pastry (80% filled in novel ways with the ubiquitous, supersweet Dolcé de Leiche), some water and two strong Café Cortados we bused to the bus station to arrange respective tickets North. Fred to Chile to pick up a motorbike & rag about the Chilean Altiplano, and me to Mendoza to get some wine tasting in. I arranged my tickets IN SPANISH all on my tod! 6 our of 10 and a big smiley face for effort.
Monsieur Frederique, a Parisian Lawyer is taking a career break to let his hair (and mainly beard) grow. He looks about 15 years younger than his passport photo and smokes like a powerstation. E az ze fantaztique French accent when E speakz ze Engleesh and has a good spirit. I keep mistaking his name for Franc, so to avoid mental strain I call him French Franc.
Today we've decided to go for a bike ride in the lakes. It is possible to hire bikes in Bariloche and start there, but it's far more fun to throw logistical complications into the mix and bus to the backwoods and hope they've some bikes for rent.
We stand on the joined train & bus platform and await the no. 10 bus, for what feels LIKE A FREAKIN' ETERNITY! At least eight number 22's rumble past while we waited. It's like standing at an English busstop. While responsible Frank took watch I filled time playing like a child on the overgrown, derelict railway tracks photographing old wagons and station signs in the baking sun. It seems Argey has given up on the old railway network. The buses operate better than their airlines (ask anyone who's flown with Aerolineas Argentina) and the equivalent of a 1st class bed seat costs relatively jack. So trains have sadly gone to rust. Shame really when they put so much effort into gouging the mountains and scaling the Andes back along.
A shout from Fredfranc and we on the ten, destination Collonia Suiza, heading back through Bariloche and out the other side. Bariloche fancies itself as 'The Switzerland of Argentina'. It sports nuffty pseudo-Swiss wooden buildings, is nestled in mountains and lakes and is the chocolate fountain of Argentina. In fact it's Chocolate Month, or 'Easter' as we call it back home, a great time to be here. The shops seem to be running a 'Who-can-make-the-largest-egg-and-display-it-in-their-window' competition (some proudly display eggs the size of, er, really massive eggs). The wooden interior of one of the larger chocolate shops is disturbingly like a Church. A veritable shrine to Coco. The Inkas would heartily approve.
The Bariloche chocolate is divine too; hand-made, badboy stuff in all sorts of wacky variations. Fancy a raspberry caramel choc truffle? The best thing is that you can sample before you buy. They happily chop a piece in half to be sampled. and a shrewd shopper can leave with a nicely wrapped box and the equivalent weight of samples in their stomach. For the Swiss, who it's fair to say, do like to big up their own shit, there are imported Lindt truffles and bars sporting the purple Milka cow available also.
Anyhoos, Franked and I potter through the countryside, skirting lakes and scaling steep hills on our bus. Like all Argey bus drivers, our driver has pimped the interior of his bus, with many tasteless fur-lined mirrors, twinkling lights and tasteless and various cheesy stickers of Jesus. After a stoney road we finally alight in Colonia Suiza; a charming little place with emphasis on the little. There's a restaurant, an ice cream shop (which hand-makes mouth watering fruity sorbets), a footy pitch, possibly 6 houses and a Swiss Pub that brews its own brews and also rents bikes. And there are two left. Bikes, not brews. And they're pretty good.
The lady running the show, a laid-back and altogether welcoming pregnant thirty something blonde, lets us take the bikes without necessitating any paperwork (cos we look like trustworthy boys (WITH THESE BEARDS?! YOU SURE MOTHER??) and we're off! The games begin...
The 25km hilly lap of the lakes, called the 'Circuit Chico' (small circuit), proves a mission from the offset. I spent a good while glad we didn't brave the 'Circuit Grande'. Fred admitted early on, wheeling up a steep hill in 1st, that "I.. probably smoke... too... much" No really. A truly cosmopolitan Parisian chimney, he makes the Marlborough man look like a wuss. Perhaps a whole 1km in I realise I'm shafted and that carrying my full 6kgs of camera gear plus 2 litres of agua was possibly a mistake. For a while I fear this trip might end at a spinal injuries centre.
On the fanatically beautiful and tiring two and a half hour ride we pass a film crew making some period drama (who cheer us along like we're on the tour de France), skirt the golf course of the super spendy Hotel Lao Lao and bezz through a national park. Various viewpoints come as welcome breaks after spending a lot of time swearing at long hills. Just as much ups and downs
Towards the end, I stopped to take a photo (of a pretty view that turned out to make a crap photo) while Freddy battled on. I played catch up all the way down the dirt road back to town, but back in town was no French Bred. And the last bus for hours was leaving in 10 mins. Hmmm. It seems Fred missed the dirt road and is taking an extra 5km way round. I could go back out and check he's not taken a tumble off a cliff or is hugging the front of a bus somewhere, or I could sample this Swiss home brew...
Delectable. Weaty. A bit cheeky even. Light on the hops and ... "Oh hey Fred! What took you? 25km wasn't enough?! You've got to try this beer." We laugh as he sparks up a firetube. The bus left half an hour back, so we settle back in the sunset and savour a few beers and gratis crisps. Our cordial renter asks us if we'd like to join her, her pal, kid and knackered volvo half-way back to town to collect 'Chico' the dog from the vets. Result.
So with Mathias, an excitable unsecured (read: 'loose' or 'wild') child, between me n Fred in the back we set off. This cheeky 3 year-old kept on elbow dropping or stamping on my balls, and when he offered me a gift of leafy rubbish from the floor, I gratefully pretended to eat it. While this amused him very much, he proved difficult to stop when he started eating any leafy rubbish he could find. Kids eh?
We hop out right in front of the bus that takes us back, bid farewell to mum and the little liability destined for diarrhoea and twenty minutes later we're cleaned up in the hostel wondering if we'll ever be able to walk again. I thought my own saddle would've offered protection, but them bike saddles could've had more.
Further reinforcing the Swiss theme, Franc, Nicole (I can't help saying papa when her name is mentioned), Yankee Marla & I head (for me read 'hobble') out for Fondue! Much to Swiss Nicole's horror we shat on ancient Swiss social norms and order both a cheese and meat fondue! Heaven forbid! What colour wine to drink?? I believe we went white. Joined later by the lovely Sandra and an Argentinean amigo of hers, a cool looking dude with no English and a serious truck, we drink and eat heartily till our tongues loosen and belts follow suit.
I can see why El 'Che' would like to settle here.
Barns
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