Latinalicious: The South America Diaries (7 page)

I don’t know about you but I’ve always had a truly romantic image of what it must be like to be a gaucho. Or
with
a gaucho. I imagined a brooding group of sun-kissed men, with taut muscles and horse whispering qualities and a penchant for romps in hay, all set to reduce any woman in range to a quivering puddle.

As it turns out, not all of them are like that.

When Kendra, our wine guru and fast-becoming friend, collected us for another day of alcohol-infused exploits, it wasn’t long before we were speeding off to the highest altitude vineyard in Mendoza, the rather funkily named Zorzal. Contrary to my imaginings, Zorzal was not a wine-filled space pod elevated above the ground, although they did have some rather space-agey looking eggs on the forecourt. I maintain that these really would make excellent rocket ships if only they weren’t being used to ferment wine.

Sitting in the tasting room around a large table surrounded by barrels, the guys at Zorzal poured us the bottled fruits of their harvest, which proved a delicious testament to how well this young winery has been doing since it opened in 2008. I particularly loved the Climax Owners Blend 2010. It’s probably the nicest wine I’ve had in Mendoza so far — or ever. Look it up. It’s soft, sensual and soothing like the tango singer it’s named after (though in Russia it’s seen as even cheekier, as climax means menopause over there).

I’m liking all this new wine knowledge, you know? It makes me feel learned. Last week I thought a good wine was anything without a screw cap.

And so it was that, fuelled by a sufficient amount of booze, Autumn, Kendra and I headed up into the mountains for some horse riding with the sexy, chiselled cowboys of our imaginations. Here at La Quebrada del Cóndor, amid the snowy slopes of the Cordón del Plata range, scintillating views and yet another
asado
were waiting for us, along with some significantly porkier gauchos than the ones we’d envisioned.

It’s not that I was disappointed when the smiley-faced, grey-haired, rotund gaucho opened the door of his humble hut in the middle of a field. The house was the house of my romantic dreams, what with its smoking chimney and grilled meat fumes, and bottles of red wine being poured generously into glasses as if we hadn’t had enough already. I think I was just surprised. No one was exhibiting any horse whispering, or sun-kissed naked torsos. I couldn’t see any hay bales anywhere, either. Or anyone under fifty.

No matter, we enjoyed a spectacular feast of chorizo and beef rumps and glazed onions grilled to perfection, as we asked our hosts about the numerous black and white photos on the brick walls depicting gauchos from generations past. Some of those were bare-chested and even appeared to be whispering to horses, which made me think perhaps a slew of straight
Brokeback Mountain
-style hotties were waiting for us around the corner, once we’d finished lunch.

They weren’t.

But by then we were quite tipsy and over it anyway. Our older, knowledgeable gauchos were gallant men of the land and were pretty darn impressive on horseback, even in their flowing, gargantuan ponchos which, when filled with wind, served to make them look even bigger than their horses.

They galloped around the green and mustard plains and
we
trotted, as carefully as we could, being full of red wine and
asado
. Autumn somehow managed to carry her camera throughout the whole ride, which made for a lot of wonky photos of horses’ hooves and a great one of Kendra falling off as her saddle slipped sideways. Luckily her horse was walking at the time and not attempting to jump over an icy stream.

The jagged, white and brown painted backdrop of the Andes made for a memorable afternoon riding around, although it was freezing cold. I know I’ve mentioned how these winter climes are taking some getting used to. Shopping was all just too expensive in Buenos Aires and as a traveller I’m starting to think I should have as little to carry as possible (learnt that from trying to shove the koala bears onto a bus more than anything else). My Quito jumper is getting a lot more wear than it should right now, because it’s easy to forget when you’re in a mild city that a few kilometres out in the mountains can be a totally different temperature.

I had to borrow a gaucho’s gloves and another’s huge puffy jacket just to brave the ride. Even if the gauchos had been young and hot and up for a romp in a hay bale, it would have been way too cold and I would have spent the best part of an hour getting all my clothes off. Not very romantic, really.

Autumn and I are starting to think we could happily live forever in Mendoza. We’re not the only ones, either. An earthquake in 1861 destroyed the city and another in 1985 did some serious damage, but a Taste of Mendoza tour (as recommended by the
Lonely Planet
) with a lovely local lady called Magdalena provided even more proof as to why potential earthquakes will never put people off coming here, or staying.

We discovered things like how Mendoza actually means Cold Mountain, how the little squares around the city have been built to offer safe open-air spaces to run to in the event of an earthquake, and how the drainage system is infinitely superior to others throughout the world (drainage systems are fascinating, I’ll have you know).

Magdalena also offered us copious amounts of the drink
mate
(pronounced mah-tay) as we wandered around the city. This is a favourite drink here in Argentina and I’m growing quite fond of it.
Mate
is made by steeping the ground leaves and stems of the yerba mate plant. You sip it through a metal straw with a filter in it, so you don’t end up with unflattering bits of plant stuff in your teeth. Everywhere you go, you’ll see people drinking it from special flasks. I think it’s a slight upper. We felt pretty good after sipping it as we sat on our wooden bench by the river in the gorgeous Parque General San Martín, learning the stories surrounding a nearby haunted house.

All in all, Mendoza is a tantalising land of sun, culture and wine, and in spite of its gauchos not being exactly as anticipated, the scenery is some of the most photogenic around. And there’s still time to find a sexy gaucho, I suppose; there’s plenty more of South America to see. We shall prevail.

Before packing our bags once more, we deposited another koala with the lovely Magdalena, and one with Kendra, too, which took us down to twenty-five — an acceptable number, we felt, to carry with us over the border to Santiago.

17/09

As we took a juddering bus from Mendoza through the Andes, the views of snow-capped peaks gave a hungover Autumn and me an everlasting first impression of Chile. Then, at the border, Autumn’s case was randomly selected to be opened and searched, so she had the pleasure of unloading onto a table piles of laundry, both clean and dirty, together with camera and laptop cables and one or two stray koalas, as an entire busload of people looked on in amusement.

For some time we were held up by her giant family-sized barrels of calcium-magnesium tablets and protein powder, which she’d packed in the hopes that maybe we would eat them instead of vast amounts of cheese and Malbec. Obviously we haven’t touched them since she arrived; nor have we used the skipping rope with weights in the handles that she also packed in anticipation of a daily workout. It’s the thought that counts, though. And at least the sniffer dog had something to do.

Our final night with Kendra had seen us making the most of a wine-tasting event at the Intercontinental Hotel, and by ‘making the most’ I mean we sampled maybe eighty top varietals from Mendoza’s exceptional array of vineyards before hooking up with some of Kendra’s friends in a nightclub. By the end of it, we weren’t exactly feeling on top form.

We made it back to our room at a cute B&B called Casa Lila at 7 a.m. and slept straight through the alarm at nine, so that owners Pablo and Mariela and possibly their dog Olivia all had to take it in turns to try and wake us up.

After a panicked flurry of shoving things into suitcases and sitting on them, Pablo drove our still-tipsy selves at full speed to the bus station, where we promptly missed the bus for which we’d paid almost $50 each.

Luckily the views and two cans of Red Bull took our minds off the misery as we waited for the next bus, surrounded by a pile of booze-absorbing empanadas. Unfortunately they didn’t wipe the recurring flashbacks of dancing barefoot in a stranger’s kitchen somewhere in Mendoza only hours before, singing
Call Me Maybe
while eating pizza.

With only two days in Santiago before heading south to Chile’s volcanic action capital of Pucón, Autumn and I arrived with our bags in a disgruntled heap at The Aubrey in Santiago’s hipster hub, Bellavista. We’re still glam-packing it a bit because Autumn has photos to take for a book of hotels she’s working on, but after this we have a whole heap more hostels to stay in.

The Aubrey didn’t judge us. Well, not out loud anyway. The Aubrey is the kind of place that scolds your hangover with its pure, visual splendour.

‘How dare you look so rubbish within these walls!’ it challenges, with its heated terrace swimming pool, outdoor tables in the shape of snuffling pigs and mansion-house interior complete with authentically squeaking staircases.

‘Sort your life out!’ it cries as you struggle up the stairs with your pathetic backpacker’s rucksack and Winnie the Pooh suitcase, passing immaculately dressed businesswomen in suits and men in expensive shoes.

Over complimentary pisco sours (a must-have cocktail in Chile, although, to be honest, I think pisco — a grape brandy — tastes a bit like Dettol), we narrowed down the most important things to do and see in the city. These were: eat seafood, eat more seafood and visit the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos — the Museum of Memory and Human Rights. Then we failed to do anything with our day except eat some
choclo con lomo
(which is some sort of sweet corn concoction served with delicious, tender beef), at a corner restaurant called Galindo (amazing!), complain about the excessive number of smokers in the place (why must people still do this next to others who are eating?), and fall asleep.

The next morning, shopping called. We headed to Calle Bandera, a street of vintage and second-hand shops a block away from Plaza de Armas in the heart of Santiago, which can entertain you for hours with some absolute bargains. We bought nothing but a second-hand winter jacket each, however, because we’re told it’s going to be very cold down south, especially when we get on the cruise from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia, the capital of Tierra del Fuego. I’ve made the mistake of not being prepared for these trips before, of course, so I wanted to make sure we were both well equipped this time. I still shudder when I think of my minivan day in Ecuador.

The jackets we bought are disgusting. They’re so bad they would have been horrible even when they were made and first worn with love in the 90s. Autumn’s is big, puffy and white, and mine is bulky, fat and black. Walking down the street wearing them, we caught a look at our sad shapes in a shop window and renamed ourselves Marshmallow and Tyre Man.

In our new apparel, we ate some lovely seafood in Mercado Central — a busy, noisy, stinky place with a circus atmosphere and amazing live music provided by guys walking around with violins and guitars — and then it was time for our Chilean history lesson.

As soon as you exit the Metro station Quinta Normal, the giant green box of a building that contains the Museo de la Memoria looms over you, casting an instant shadow on your mood. I don’t think we were quite prepared for it. Exiting this museum after what must have been almost four hours, we felt like we’d been strapped into a rollercoaster ride and slapped about the face by reality. Wow. The mountains that guard this city in their soldier’s coats of smog have seen some very, very dark times.

As we walked around the nearby Parque Quinta Normal, clutching styrofoam cups of steaming Nescafé and dodging kids speeding across the gravel paths on tricycles, a voice on a loudspeaker, sounding eerily like that of one of the armed soldiers we’d just been listening to, boomed from a stand near the boating lake and made us both jump. If there’s one thing to put you on edge, it’s watching televised images of death, chaos and destruction in pretty much the same space as it happened, not even forty years ago.

If you do one thing in Santiago, or Santiarsehole as it’s often labelled most unfairly thanks to the smog that arches over it all like a filthy rainbow, skip the seafood, don’t even bother with the vintage clothes, but do not, I repeat, do
not
miss this museum. If you’re on a budget, go anyway because it’s free.

This three-storey space is dedicated to raising awareness of the shocking human rights violations committed by the State of Chile between 1973 and 1990. Via a series of documents, installations, television and radio broadcasts, plus the audio guide, if you pay an extra thousand pesos like we did, you’re swept through the military coup, the subsequent oppression endured by Chileans, the forced exile of thousands, the horrendous torture imposed on prisoners, and then the resistance, finally leading to the disbandment of the ruling junta, which had by 1990 brought the country to its knees. Take some tissues.

I wasn’t even born when all the trouble started and I was just a kid when stories of this dictatorship broke across the world. I vaguely remember the celebrations on the news when at last there was a return to democracy, but I knew very little of the junta and General Pinochet’s control … and not just because I was too busy dancing around to Wham in my Doc Martens.

In those days, there was no social media to enlighten us where official media lied, no Facebook updates sharing photos and posts depicting torture and heartbreak, no mobile phones or Twitter feeds to enable cries for help or news of loved ones to be heard.

When the Chilean military overthrew Salvador Allende’s Marxist government; when Allende himself committed suicide in despair; when the junta suspended the constitution and Congress, imposed a curfew and censorship and halted all political activity; when artists, film-makers and journalists were murdered for trying to show the truth, I, like many others my age at the time carried on regardless, going to school, dressing up pretty, never knowing how lucky I was to be safe and sheltered.

I think the museum’s images of the men lining up in their 70s flares with their hands in the air and guns at their backs are the ones that stick with me most. Back when the rest of the world was getting into disco, bad sideburns and glitter balls, many of these handsome young men in their prime were in exile, forced to leave everything and everyone they knew. The only Saturday Night Fever experienced by others was via electrocution, as they were strapped to metal beds in detention centres (many in secret locations), covered in water and zapped by military officers in the name of extracting information about those opposing the regime.

Women were often sexually abused, prisoners of both sexes were shackled naked and blindfolded, exposed to extreme temperatures, crammed into tiny cells or placed in solitary confinement and tortured in hideous games of Russian roulette.

Anyone who’s free to express themselves as easily as we do today might have a hard time believing how the press itself played an important role during the regime, distorting the truth, and supporting or covering up heinous crimes. In a world full of people who now know far too much about each other, keeping secrets on such a massive scale is unthinkable. But it happened in Chile.

I think sometimes we travel without really knowing very much about the places we go. I know I do. Perhaps we have a vague idea … perhaps we read a few pages in a guidebook, do a bit of Googling. To those who were sheltered from understanding the severity of Pinochet’s rule like I was, Chile is probably still more an adventure capital full of volcanoes, zip lines and hot springs, than it is a living shrine to lost hope and lost citizens, or a shining example of what
can
be achieved by the power of the people. The Chileans moved mountains in their fight for a return to democracy, but not before more than 3000 innocent people died or ‘disappeared’ at the hands of state agents.

As Autumn and I make our way down south through this country’s impressive national parks, scoffing empanadas, soaking in hot springs and bundling up against the cold on the way to Patagonia dressed as Marshmallow and Tyre Man, there will always be an extra chill in the air, thanks to this Santiago history lesson. And a deeper appreciation, I think, of the Chilean spirit of resilience.

22/09