travellingbennetts

Chile & Argentina – the start of the riding!

When staring at the map of South America, one can see that there are only 2 directions in the lower third one can seriously engage in – up, or down. Starting from the Intercontinental Hotel in Santiago, we chose down through Chile and Argentina, hence Chargentina. It was official Ultimate South America Day 2, the gathering day involved no riding but had been given the honour of being Day 1.

Day 2 commenced with what will become a well-honed routine – up about 2 hours before departure, ablution, down to breakfast, back to room, toilette, cruise around picking up random items that can be packed before realising you’ll need those again in 3 minutes, inefficiently check rooms about 30 times to make sure everything is in, and lug the whole lot down to the lobby. Just as you stagger up to a growing Bag Mountain, a bellboy will slip in and take the whole lot from you to carry the final 2 metres. Where were you mate when I was trying to Tetris the entire shambles out of the lift just now? Then our briefing from JC (Juan 1) while Juan 2 stacked the support truck, and we were away.

Being a Saturday, and it being Santiago before 9am meant traffic was very light as we cruised out of the city via the efficient network of major roads and tunnels. Route 5 Sur, please sir. Traffic was a bit messy as everyone was in summer mode and were heading to wherever it was they were heading, unfortunately the same direction as us. Not much riding memory from the day, but some learnings about getting fuel, and what fuel grades were available were gained. 93 was the go-to minimum for Chile petrol. About A$2.40 per litre. Even more pricey than at home which was a bit of a nasty surprise. However, a very pleasant surprise has been the advance in servo coffee quality since our last trip in 2015; back then it tasted like an infusion of burnt dog hair and homeless man sock, now it tastes like it should.

Day 2 actual riding was not memorable – cruisin’ down the freeway in the hot hot sun. The destination of Los Angeles gave hope to some that they may reconnect with luggage last seen there in 1988, but it was a different LAX and we didn’t make it to the centre. The Salto del Laja was a more than adequate substitute – salto means leap and that’s what the Rio Laja was doing right outside our room. A stroll along the river, an accidental encounter with a craft beer establishment, collection of local empanada delicacies, and Day 2 was done.

Day 3 was a little better; more highway until lunchtime and then the scenery began around Volcan Villarrica and the lake and town of the same name. A stop for a fine lunch of pollo (chicken) soup and chips, a wander about, and we pushed onto Pucon, with our first deep pebbly gravel challenge in the carpark of the Hotel Casa Solaria. Pucon is part of the Banff Canada and Queenstown NZ trifecta – designed for tourists and populated almost entirely by tourists. There are plenty of places to buy grossly overpriced outdoor clothing, artisanal crafts and souvenirs, but try finding electrical tape and normal items on the lower levels of Maslow’s hierarchy (besides craft beers) and you’re in trouble.

A wander around the small town to get the lay of the land showed it had simply gotten a bit bigger and busier since our previous visit. The beach was something else – we don’t do many landform features well in Australia and glaciers are nil stock, but we can hold our heads up high when it comes to beaches. I doubt there were too many Australians loving it amongst the huge crowd on the Playa Grande that day.

Getting the mandatory daily Pisco Sour was no challenge in Pucon. Everywhere including children’s clothing shops could serve you a strong one. And finding somewhere to eat was likewise not difficult, but we decided to fulfill a decades-old dream – a fondue. In hindsight we went for the wrong option of the carne (cow) and pollo (chicken) with sauces, a queso (cheese) fondue at the next table was looked on with envy. But spearing and lightly par-boiling pieces of meat in a pot with large lumps of celery, carrot, and capsicum for just long enough to drop the bacteria’s guard was still pretty good.

Day 4 plan was some cruising around the Pucon district, starting with a ride up to the Playa Negra (strangely way whiter than the Playa Grande) in Lagos Carburgua. Luckily arriving just before the parking payment station had been set up, we wandered along the beach and had a local explain to us in Spanish that no water craft hire was available due to the strong off-playa winds, somehow we understood even though we had absolutely no intention of hiring water craft and didn’t care. Next it was via some back road dirt with some rustic scenes including getting stuck behind a B Double (a two bullock wagon) to Tres Saltos – the reader now familiar enough with the language to know this means three waterfalls. We can definitely confirm two, but the third was way out of the extent of our motivation. The restaurant had two big spits going out on the deck with lamb on both, a perfect lunch and it smelled awesome. But it was for a private do so we couldn’t have any. I hope they all got lamb grease burns and were attacked by condors on the way back to their cars.

More dirt and back onto the main road to our final destination for the day – Thermas Indominto. Indomitable means unconquerable. We were up for the challenge and had brought our togs. First lunch – a ham and cheese sandwich on the menu looked small but morphed in the kitchen to a huge hamburger and a mountain of chips. Unconquerable? We nearly got through it. Then into the change room, other patrons and staff were luckily absent when a bulky Klim riding suit and boots were being jammed into a locker by using a lot of force. Into the pools, we started in the cool end and worked our way up, like a pair of corned beefs.

Fondued, it was a careful opening of the locker door which was bulging, back into the kit, and back to Pucon. Another epic Pisco Sour and a trip to the supermercado for cheese and bikkies and the day was complete, the last in Chile for a while.

Up early on Day 5, we went due east to the Mamuil Malal border crossing, like most in this region very volcanic and this one sitting under the smoking Volcano Lanin. The exit from Chile was fairly smooth, not many people and just the need to hand in the infamous slip of paper given on arrival into Santiago. Within about ½ an hour we were chargin’ into Argentina at the picturesque immigration facility, once we’d received a slip of paper which was like a checklist for the border force staff. The process was a lot more crowded, a long queue for the vehicles that didn’t move much at all, but with some linguistic assistance from Juan and JC we were in. The support vehicle was inevitably a lot more difficult, but that simply meant waiting for a bit longer under an active volcano.

10 kilometres of very rough dirt road later we were onto the bitumen and through Junin de los Andes heading for lunch into San Martin de los Andes, both named in case anyone somehow forgot what that imposing mountain range to the west was called. Unsurprisingly empanadas were on the menu, so were consumed by most. We were now glued to the famous 5,000 km long Ruta 40, which starts near the top of Argentina and finishes near the bottom, so continued down to Bariloche cruising at speeds in line with the $0.60/litre Argentinian fuel prices. The traffic became a bit horrendous approaching the hotel, it appeared to the unhumble as though we were being escorted by a joyous marching crowd but it turned out to be a slowly walking protest and nothing to do with us.

First things first after getting into the hotel, Argentina hasn’t improved the currency situation since we were last here 8 years ago. So doing a dodgy exchange of USD for pesos is essential, the official exchange rate is 200 pesos but the rate on the street is 350-360. JC helpfully brought a tattooed chap into the hotel where a small amount of paper could be changed into a wheelbarrow full of paper; the largest note in the system is 1000 pesos, about $4 Aussie. So paying for anything takes lots of paper, and wallet capacity dictates discretionary spending limits. Using cards is possible, but uses the true exchange rate and results in a spend of nearly 3 times the cash rate. The upside is that things are a lot cheaper than Chile.

Day 6 was all about the Chico circuit, but only after dropping the first laundry of the trip and finding an old classic place in town we’d seen back in 2015. Still there, the marketing team hadn’t managed to convince management that the branding should possibly take a different direction if they were planning to expand internationally.

The Llao Llao Hotel was a target, Cindy and I had tried to get in back in 2015 for a coffee with no success, but JC sweet talked the security guard into letting us in, maybe assisted by a dearth of $2000/night paying punters since Covid. The staff were surprisingly welcoming to people not in any way dressed like true clientele, and soon we were ensconced in the lounge. Recognising that this was our only opportunity, I ordered a trout empanada and Cindy a special hotel chocolate the size of two of the old kid’s favourite Wagonwheels.

Back onto the road like we now owned it, it was the loop with some of the clearest and most amazing scenery, before back to the hotel and preparation for the evening. One of Bariloche’s premium carne restaurants in a country famous for carne was the plan, so those with “double wide” pants and tracky dacks had them laid out in readiness. At 7:30pm we were in the queue, waiting for the very early opening by Argentine standards; 8pm. Doors didn’t actually open until 8:10pm, but it was worth the wait. Seated, several cuts were ordered, and then relentless plates started to appear. They never ended, as soon as 3kg of carne was consumed, out of the kitchen it would reappear. Eventually (about 15 minutes in) we were frightened to touch anything because it would have a re-in-carne-tion. Okay maybe they won’t notice a small black pud missing. Oh lord they did – here comes another wooden platter. “Elegant Sufficiency!” someone moaned, their pants parting like the Red Sea in Exodus 14:21, but without any chance of Egyptians drowning in a zip-up.

Day 7 was the start of Patagonia although we didn’t realise it at the time. Up at 6am, casual breakfast, away by 8:30am. Due south out of Bariloche which was easy, and down through the lakes the same as since Pucon, suddenly trees started to disappear. The lunch plan was complicated – we would meet with the last north-heading Compass Patagonia Explorer group for the year at the turnoff to Butch Cassidy’s old digs, have the luncheon, then go back to the turnoff to meet the final group member Scott who had not been seen since Santiago due to his bike being held hostage in Miami. Scott had been escorted in two days from Santiago by Tomas, a Chilean BMW riding champion. Speed was of the essence. All went smoothly from our perspective, rolling into the Butch Cassidy property in a huge crowd. Lunch and meeting with other riders – Maslow later admitted he should have included these in his hierarchy slightly above craft beer. A great group, they had done it really tough with some of the worst winds for years. All we could tell them was it was going to be easy from here on, except for the traffic.

Back up the road for the Scott reunion, it was down into Esquel. The wind wasn’t too bad but the years of horrible stories certainly had us sensitive to anything above a stiff breeze. Esquel was a nice town, but classic Argentina with lots of restaurants who open for the early-bird pensioner specials at 8:30pm. Queenslanders have normally died well before then, but luckily we found a craft beer bar who served enough free peanuts to keep us going until a 9pm supper back at the hotel.

The warnings had been coming on strong about Day 8 for a while; we were heading for the town where paper picnic napkins have the lowest take-up on Earth – Perito Moreno. The wind heading to the lunch stop at Rio Mayo was just brutal – 80kmh. And as we could really only travel North-South and the wind could only travel West-East, we were unlikely to become friends. Lots of physics studies and vector analysis made it more bearable; motorcycles are designed to head into the wind but the side force made it important to try to get the head pointing into the apparent wind direction about 15° toward the wind to stop the buffeting. Rio Mayo lunch was planned as a picnic out of the truck, but wasn’t going to happen, the wind even in town was just nasty and Cindy was blown over at the servo, so inside a restaurant for shelter and very nice salads and chips. Back on the road, the true challenge of Patagonia’s winds became apparent; stopping is truly scary and needs a lot of planning. As we had a nearly straight on head wind in one section, I decided to pull over and take a photo of the barren landscape. The bike wasn’t quite straight on into the wind, which was coming in slightly from the side-stand side, so leaving it was considered a really bad idea and photos were taken pushing against the side. Then a glove got loose. Within a few seconds it was 50m away. Thinking through it, this was simply a fusion of Sophie’s Choice with a bit of Sisyphus boulder rolling thrown in. Both just went for it, so I did the same and raced for the glove hoping a gust wouldn’t happen, and it didn’t. No dramas.

Into the Hotel Americano in Perito Moreno, plans were afoot as it was someone’s birthday. No need to say whose, but a card of sorts, a present, and a cake were organised by moi with assistance from Paul. Dinner was a well-attended event and postres (desserts) were quietly signalled to the punters to be off-limits. The cake from the impressive bakery up the road was brought in, the singing was loud, and the day was complete.

Day 9 started like all other Day 9’s except we were in the Hotel Americano. Plan for the day, unknown by those who weren’t paying much attention, was a station. Estancia in the local language, a farm rather than a train parking spot. The weather was good and the wind had died down, so the main issue was getting enough fuel over the next few days. We pulled in at the Bajo Caracoles Hotel at around 9am. Not open. Okay we’ll wait with the other 50 people hoping for fuel. 10am rolled around, owners presumably still abed. Eventually there was no choice with the clock heading for 11am, we had to press on. The scenery was like South Australia around Pimba but with topography; zero trees but some hills and mountains in the distance.

Eventually we reached a turn-off. The first official gravel of the trip, around 40km into the Estancia. Patagonia gravel is a bit variable like most, but commonly river gravel is used; this is like 1” roundish rocks, and can be a bit skatey. The trick is to get into a rut which is free of pebbles, and get some momentum going, say 60kmh plus. I found 75kmh to be about perfect so even when occasionally ploughing into the piles of loose stuff it was easy. Those that had trouble were usually travelling slowly – the conundrum of fear of crashing at speed versus making it difficult, and more likely to crash. Regardless, only one minor off and all pulled into the Estancia OK.

The Estancia was a beauty. Situated in a river valley between mountains of river pebbles, there were horses, cows, and sheep. And cats. Lots of cats. A walk up onto the mountain of river pebbles gave great views, before we were escorted back to the Estancia by a one-eyed cat. Dinner that night was another epic meat extravaganza washed down with a few reds, and sleeping well as a result. Up for Day 10, it was cold. Bloody cold. Ice on the motorcycle seats cold, and a bit damp from some overnight rain. The start was delayed by ½ an hour – we had 40km of gravel to get to the main road, apparently with some clay which could get slippery, then 50m of bitumen, then the last remaining Ruta 40 gravel section of 73km. JC decided to lead from the back in case there were dramas, so Scott with Gina, Rex, and I (the only one with a working GPS) were tasked with opening the piste.

We had a ball, the road was a lot easier than the previous day except for a straight just before the tiny section of bitumen. Confusion reigned – were we supposed to stop there? No was the consensus, we were supposed to meet up at a viewpoint over a lake. Tragically we missed the viewpoint, and by the time we’d figured out we’d missed it we were miles along. Never mind, keep going until we reached the end of the gravel and found the servo at Tres Lagos. We never saw any lakes let alone 3. The group eventually caught up with us, and news came that Cindy has crashed, luckily only a bruised rib – but after she’d ridden on to the lake viewpoint she’d discovered the bike was badly leaking oil so it was up on the truck.

The weather suddenly got ugly with relentless rain as we trundled into El Chalten, or El Carlton for those about to miss the start of the AFL season back home. Dripping wet we were into the hotel, but quickly dried off and down to a local bar for a Gin Tonic (&s are not popular in Argentina apparently) and local IPA.

Day 11 was a free day, with priorities finding the Tigressa oil leak source, finding toothpaste, finding more Gin Tonics, and getting pictures of the local scenery especially Mt Fitz Roy when it appeared through the clouds. The leak location was found – definitely the seal on the output drive shaft – so JC called ahead to our next night’s stop at the large town of El Calafate, hopefully one was available there. More Gin Tonics were found, and we got some teaser quick glimpses of the mountains.

The first part of the journey had ended, with a few days of raw tourism coming up. The only major downside was a leaking bike, but the prognosis was hopeful and the chances of finding more Pisco Sours and Gin Tonics was good.