Mendoza! Nice place. 
Josh was really happy here.
And why not?
This is me showing off my passport at Los Libertadores, before my humiliation. 
Daamn.
This road was nuts.
I mean nuts.
Welcome to Chile!Cordoba - Mendoza - Los Libertadores - Valparaiso
Part of the reason that Josh and I were supposed to be good at traveling together is that he would add sanity and prudence and I would add adventure and experience. I have to admit, however, that I have been a little disappointed. Josh has proven to be quite capable. In many towns, he has mastered the layout of the city before I have, and he sometimes is even able to pick up phrases in Spanish before I can (although I attribute that mostly to my hearing). That said, I still have a certain degree of, oh, I don´t know, seasoned travel knowledge. Today, for example, I had to instruct Josh that you always, always need your passport on your person when crossing an international border. I got to shake my head knowingly as he embarassingly asked the bus porter to reach to the back of the luggage compartment to get his backpack so that he could pull out his documents.
Sure enough, we did need our passports on the bus with us. Apparently the customs station between Mendoza, Argentina and Santiago, Chile is in the middle of the Andes. When I say middle of the Andes, I don´t mean the general region of the Andes. I don´t even mean foothills. I mean the top of a pass, with snow whisping over the peaks surrounding us. We were asked to step out of the bus to deal with customs. Despite our frozen surroundings, I mocked Josh for being cold.
After about 20 minutes of standing around, we were approached by the customs officer who asked for our customs form. Josh produced his easily enough. I did not, so I ran back in the bus to get it. It was nowhere to be found. Running back, I sheepishly admitted that it was gone. The customs official exasperatedly produced a new one. Old ladies on our bus looked at me like I was an idiot. I fumbled for a pen. Unfortunately, the altitude had caused my pen to explode. The ink dripped all over the new form in huge, shameful droplets. In a panic, I got a new pen from Josh (a bic that had survived the trip), and began filling out the soiled form. As the blue ink of the old pen smeared everywhere, the customs official looked on bemused. Finally, after it had become apparent that I had caused an irredeemable he asked me to fill out a third copy of the same form. The old ladies were visibly annoyed. Josh was visibly quite pleased. I was very happy for him.
I would be remiss to not describe the bus ride beyond my own sense of shame. The ride to the border was dramatic, with vast, arid flood planes and massive brown rocks that had fallen from increasingly large mountains. It was the trip back down out of the mountains that was truly shocking, however. I´m a person who has seen a lot of mountains, including the North Cascades, Canadian Rockies, and the Swiss Alps. The Andes are serious. These were not pretty, verdant, or uplifting mountains. Albert Bierstadt could never have painted these. They were dark, snow covered, dominating peaks, yielding little forgiveness as our bus took sharp switchback after switchback, passing trucks that were taking it too slowly for our drivers to tolerate. Josh and I were totally enraptured, and more than a little blown away.
For me, these mountains were so beautiful that it hurt. I´ve had that feeling several times here in South America. One of the problems with a trip like this is that you never really get to experience the full essence of the people and places you interact with. The insanely beautiful women in Buenos Aires, the solitude of living in the Mendoza wine country, the total stillness of a Cordoba afternoon, and these mountains: these are all things I have gotten to taste but not fully understand. It´s this part of traveling that is so fantastic and so painful at the same time.
* I changed the setting on the blog so that anybody can comment. I don´t know why it wasn´t always like this. It gets lonely out here sometimes, and I appreciate any and all comments a lot. Miss you all!
Part of the reason that Josh and I were supposed to be good at traveling together is that he would add sanity and prudence and I would add adventure and experience. I have to admit, however, that I have been a little disappointed. Josh has proven to be quite capable. In many towns, he has mastered the layout of the city before I have, and he sometimes is even able to pick up phrases in Spanish before I can (although I attribute that mostly to my hearing). That said, I still have a certain degree of, oh, I don´t know, seasoned travel knowledge. Today, for example, I had to instruct Josh that you always, always need your passport on your person when crossing an international border. I got to shake my head knowingly as he embarassingly asked the bus porter to reach to the back of the luggage compartment to get his backpack so that he could pull out his documents.
Sure enough, we did need our passports on the bus with us. Apparently the customs station between Mendoza, Argentina and Santiago, Chile is in the middle of the Andes. When I say middle of the Andes, I don´t mean the general region of the Andes. I don´t even mean foothills. I mean the top of a pass, with snow whisping over the peaks surrounding us. We were asked to step out of the bus to deal with customs. Despite our frozen surroundings, I mocked Josh for being cold.
After about 20 minutes of standing around, we were approached by the customs officer who asked for our customs form. Josh produced his easily enough. I did not, so I ran back in the bus to get it. It was nowhere to be found. Running back, I sheepishly admitted that it was gone. The customs official exasperatedly produced a new one. Old ladies on our bus looked at me like I was an idiot. I fumbled for a pen. Unfortunately, the altitude had caused my pen to explode. The ink dripped all over the new form in huge, shameful droplets. In a panic, I got a new pen from Josh (a bic that had survived the trip), and began filling out the soiled form. As the blue ink of the old pen smeared everywhere, the customs official looked on bemused. Finally, after it had become apparent that I had caused an irredeemable he asked me to fill out a third copy of the same form. The old ladies were visibly annoyed. Josh was visibly quite pleased. I was very happy for him.
I would be remiss to not describe the bus ride beyond my own sense of shame. The ride to the border was dramatic, with vast, arid flood planes and massive brown rocks that had fallen from increasingly large mountains. It was the trip back down out of the mountains that was truly shocking, however. I´m a person who has seen a lot of mountains, including the North Cascades, Canadian Rockies, and the Swiss Alps. The Andes are serious. These were not pretty, verdant, or uplifting mountains. Albert Bierstadt could never have painted these. They were dark, snow covered, dominating peaks, yielding little forgiveness as our bus took sharp switchback after switchback, passing trucks that were taking it too slowly for our drivers to tolerate. Josh and I were totally enraptured, and more than a little blown away.
For me, these mountains were so beautiful that it hurt. I´ve had that feeling several times here in South America. One of the problems with a trip like this is that you never really get to experience the full essence of the people and places you interact with. The insanely beautiful women in Buenos Aires, the solitude of living in the Mendoza wine country, the total stillness of a Cordoba afternoon, and these mountains: these are all things I have gotten to taste but not fully understand. It´s this part of traveling that is so fantastic and so painful at the same time.
* I changed the setting on the blog so that anybody can comment. I don´t know why it wasn´t always like this. It gets lonely out here sometimes, and I appreciate any and all comments a lot. Miss you all!
5 comments:
your description of the mountains was poetic - your comments about Josh made me laugh. you nailed him to a T...
Now we are getting somewhere. I was wondering when this blog would take us to the real beauty around you instead of the inside of taverns and hospitals and such. You better go on a good hike while you are there or your mother will never forgive you.
Please tell me that you were sitting INSIDE the bus and not on TOP of it.
By the way, get a good hike in or your father will never forgive you.
OK OK we'll go on a hike.
Oh Seasoned Traveler, are you again pickled?
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