Blessed are cyclists.

May 4, 2011

From where I'd camped near the hotel it was only two kilometres more up the slope to a great big border control complex where I wasn't sure whether to stop as the last time (2007) they waved me through and I got both exit and entry stamp many kilometres farther on on the Argentine side of the border. This time was different however and I stood opposite inspector Gonzallas who was on the telephone concerning a man trying to cross the border without a valid ID card. He replied in the negative to whomever was on the other end of the phone to all the particulars and I was just wishing he'd flick through my passport on the desk in front of him and stamp it so I could be gone. Finally he did put the receiver down but then two phones began to ring, though as he had begun processing my passport he ignored them.

With an Exit Stamp from Chile secure, the priority was breakfast and I definitely wish in retrospect I didn't rely on an overpriced kiosk at the border, but the lure of almost fresh bread and perishable filling is too great in hunger inducing mountain air. As it was Is greeted, or rather not greeted by a sour middle age woman with blond hair and gold rimmed glasses that didn't show any sympathy for my evident soar throat and thereby difficulty speaking.

"Eight-hundred pesos" she snapped the price at whatever sandwich I showed an interest in while looking at me with contempt. Not that that what was on offer looked interesting; more like boring, and moments later sitting out in the sun, I bit into past it's best dry bread with plastic cheese and could likewise write nothing to recommend the polystyrene cup of sweet brown water which was sold to me as coffee. And overall it cleaned out half my remaining five-thousand Chilean pesos.

Leaving the great green-roofed aircraft hanger perched on a brown plateau ledge which is the indoor border complex behind, there is only a few kilometres more of moderately steep ascend most of which passes under an avalanche shed across screed slope in frosty morning shade, the sun still being on the other side of the mountain this early. Turning the corner the concrete mouth and dark void of the "Christ the Redeemer" tunnel stirred me in the face. On the right is the offices of the company assigned to look after tunnel maintenance and my bike and uncoupled trailer is loaded into their pick-up and they drive me through eventually emerging from the long claustrophobic ceiling lit interior of the mountain with the constant echoing din of vehicles out into the glare of the sun the other side. I'm dropped off at checkpoint booths and lift barriers across the road ahead and a bossy young Gerdameria officer knocks on the glass beckoning me quickly over to check my passport not giving me time to put on my helmet and gloves. And similarly after he'd checked the passport and I continued to adjust my clothing he ordered me away saying Is in the way of cars of which there weren't any, not in the five minuted Is there.

Old railway with housing against snow which most have been a feat of engineering to build across the Andes.

It follows the road and provides a point of interest.

The pity, the well ordered days of an Argentine railway network have been replaced by cars, trucks, chaos and egoistic backwardness.

It is yet another 18km to the Argentine border complex and along the way the old now disused railway is ever present, sometimes on the left side of the road and other times on the right. The corrugated iron sheets are falling off the timber framework of the housing originally put up to keep the track clear of snow. Other than what I see I don't know much about this railway or when it was built or even the countless immigrants that risked their lives from the blasting and rockfalls during it's construction. But I have read a book "Perdido en Patagonia" (hiding in Patagonia) by an Argentine author which follows the exploits of Leroy Parker and Harry Longbottom alias "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" Piecing together the story using police records of the time (circa 1905), the pair were believe to be behind a big bank hold-up in Villa Mercedes, a city roughly midway between the Andes and Buenos Aires which in those days was all connected up by rail. They'd come up the Pacific coast from Patagonia by coastal-steamer to Valparaiso, where in the book there is a photo from the time of the hotel they resided in in the port-city. Taking a connecting train to Santiago, they board a train bound for Buenos Aires whereupon alighting at Villa Mercedes. There isn't much in the police report other than descriptions which match theirs and that they were accompanied by a lady believed to be Etta Place, the inseparable third member of the gang. I relate this history not to bore you reader but to throw a perspective on an era when automobiles were still few and the steam locomotive brought people and goods to far flung places.

Aconcagua: the highest mountain in America and the world outside the Himalayas.

Then as if railways wasn't enough to stir my curiosity in history, I just had to look at the scenery and not lease the stop to admire Aconcagua. But wait a moment, I'm forced to stop at the entry to the National Park by a contentious issue of Tickets; or rather I and most other travelers think it's wrong that we foreigners are charged double to enter National Parks here. Most state the argument that they've traveled vastly farther than citizen of the country, costing them a lot of money and additionally are spending a lot of money while in the country, so why should they be charged double? Would this be anything to do with a common perception amongst some here that foreign travelers come from comparatively wealthy countries and therefore are very wealthy themselves, because I can tell them I worked both night and day shifts to fund my travel; and anyway, it isn't my fault that European economies have jumped forward in the 20th century while Argentina's has gone backwards.

"Senor senor,tenes que pagar ticket" called out the lady from the Park Ranger's office. I said I only want to look at the mountain and take a photo. "Then you follow this path here" she replies motioning to a path off to the side of the main drive in. It was a 20 minute hike on a single-track up and down always over hillocks to what was perhaps as good a view of the mountain as from the car-park which was nearer and in which you had to pay to go. Despite Aconcagua's height, it isn't that impressive a mountain to look at, or perhaps from this vantage point it is still quite far away which gives the perception that closer mountains are higher.

Blessed are cyclists. The cross prompted the page title as on a bike you see more and .......the list of benefits goes on!

I took some photos and back near the Ranger's office take another with a cross to the side looking back up the valley in which I'd descended. It shows the wonderful different colours of the slopes and the cross adds a little extra interest.

It is one kilometre more down a steep slope to Argentina's equivalent aircraft hanger indoor border control. But before entering I stop for lunch at one of the fast-food places were I have a succulent Corripan (sausage-roll) which was a world of difference from the morning's bland sandwich but just as expensive finishing off all my Chilean pesos. And the woman behind the counter was just as unfriendly as her Chilean colleague: makes me think what is wrong of these people.

In the hanger, the bus passengers line-up in a separate drive-thru area which was a different procedure than the last time Is here when everybody lined up together and that time Is behind a long line of bus-passengers. This time there was only a car and a group of motorcycle-tourers in front of me and so Is in and out within ten minutes.

And so the afternoon was delightful cycling gently downhill, where I first pause to glance at "Puenta del Inca", a natural bridge over a stream created by a hole being corroded through the rock; and later I stop to fill up on water at a ski resort in the likelihood I wouldn't make it to Uspallata, a town which was my gold for the day, thereby having to camp wild and I didn't put much in store on the swift melt water river in the valley's middle being drinkable. The last part of the day as the sun cast long shadows and getting to Uspallata became more urgent, was harder as the road dipped down and out of every small contributory dry stream and their valley branching sidewards across the main valley. There were a lot of them and I climbed as much as I freewheeled down in the last 30km. These dry stream-beds were ideal campsites especially out towards the river where there would be a view and the lulling sound of the Curran; and it had crossed my mind to stop but I wanted to reach town as Is famished.

Today's ride: 97 km (60 miles)
Total: 13,827 km (8,587 miles)

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