Bussed up

Half a day to kill, and with a bag of fresh croissants kindly donated by Martha, I walk like John Wayne after a sound buggering to the bus stop. That bike ride left me a mess. No more of this exercise gubbins for me. Today Marla's off to cycle 150km round seven lakes or some madness with a French dude that fancies her. Screw that. It's powered transport for me from here on in. Today it's buses and a chair lift up a mountain for panoramic vistas of Bariloche.

The views from the Cerro Campanario were simply splendid. You can see why this is called the lake district. Major and minor lakes aplenty, mighty snowy mountains sprouting right from the shores, the route we cycled yesterday past that fancy hotel, all clear as a bell. I blitz off a few digital rolls hoping to stitch a few panoramic at home anon, and thoroughly content I wander back for my bus..

Now then - Argey buses! As I mentioned, buses here are like an airline service with four classes; Coach, Semi-Carma, Carma and Premiere Executivo. Normally you'll have two classes on each bus, eg. Semi-Carma upstairs and Premiere down.

I arrived with about 3 minutes to spare, find the Andesmar to Mendoza and weigh up the size of the queue; plenty of time to get a take away cheese & ham sarnie from the restaurant. I join the bag queue and spot Swiss Nicole, my translator, and we shuffle to the front. This is my 1st official long bus journey under an Argentinean operator (In comparison, Chilean, Brazilian & Paraguayan don't cut the mustard).

At the front of the queue a man tickets my bag hands me the stub, shoves it into the back and straight demands a tip. Hmm. I'm overcome by the same feeling you get at an American bar where a bartender expects a tip for opening a bottletop. That's not tipworthy, that's basic rock-bottom service. Mr bag thrower stamps his feet a bit, but I stand my ground and board the bus. As I find my seat I wonder if I'm missing some basic etiquette here, but end up thinking he must try it on with all the tourists. However, three things could happen from here:

I) We arrive in Mendoza and I get my bag
II) The spiteful bagman 'accidentally' leaves my pack on the Bariloche platform
III) Mr Thrower man discretely marks my bag for later manhandling

Upstairs in seat 47 I take in the relative luxury of Semi-Carma, with fold down leg rests from the seats infront, cupholders and inbus magazines. Each floor has it's own member of cabin staff, in shirt & tie, who dishes out coffee & grub. He lays down the rules in Spanish. A yankee Seattler in the seat across the bus and I laugh at our lack of understanding, but how we both picked up that only leekio's are to go in the pan, no paper or clothes. He gives the floor a quick mop and on comes 'The Final Countdown' theme on the stereo (!) then we're off. It also seems I have a free seat next to me for the entire journey. Love it.

15 minutes later we're supping on hot sweet coffee and the first of our three-star DVD selection fires up. SWAT: Colin Farrell, a hardman outsider, joins America's finest patriotic flag-wavers to stop some bad Frenchman escaping justice. Distinctly top-heavy explosions to story dross. Blah blah blah. After that it's BINGO BINGO BINGO time!! Much more exciting. Apart from being a bit slow on the uptake. Though I know 'Sesenta nueve, dude!'

Then it's dinner time and time for another mediocre movie: The Tailor of Panama, where Pierce Brosnan tries very hard not to be James Bond, but fails miserably. It should be called 'Bond pulls a scam'. We chew on breaded milanesa chicken and some tasty rooty mash, washed down by a glass of wine and slurp down a caramel cream as night sets in. My Seattle man hand me a 660 of Quilmez beer. Good lad.

Were given cushions and blankets and settle back with the final three star flick, a straight to video about Christmas, chewing gum for the eyes. The Seattle contingent opens a screwcap of Mendozan Red and we classily sup it from the bottle. He says he sleeps better on buses after a few drinks. A few? He brought a four pack of large tinnies and a bottle of wine. Lordy.

Before I know it I'm waking up with the sunrise, seeing miles of vibrant vineyards stretch off up to the base of the giant snow covered Andes lining the distance. This view, in various viney incantations, occasionally broken by a line of poplars, goes on and on for a few hours until we pull into Mendoza bus station. Right, how do I find the wine bodega tours...


Barn