Since leaving Buenos Aires a week ago tonight, I’ve spent no less than twenty seven hours on buses- ten from Buenos Aires to Cordoba (in a crowded semi-cama bus), ten from Cordoba to Mendoza (in a luxurious and empty front top seat in a coche-cama bus), and seven from Mendoza to Santiago (maybe an hour less if you subtract the ridiculous out of bus formalities at the Chilean border).
The past week has been an eventful one to say the least. To recount it chronologically and entirely would result in a novel (perhaps a choose your own adventure novel in which any decision you make still results in your being stranded in south-suburban Santiago, Chile after a KISS concert in a moderately famous soccer arena) slightly more infuriating to attempt than Gravity’s Rainbow.
Rather than risk having my bag re-appropriated in the gauntlet that is the two blocks from the Subte to Retiro Bus Terminal (at 10:00 on a Sunday night at that), I decided to take a taxi. The driver was in a rather shitty mood until I paid the eleven peso fare plus a four peso tip entirely in one peso coins, at which point I received a “muchas muchas gracias.”
Saving a few pesos by taking semi-cama to Cordoba was a mistake, as the ride was long and crowded. Nonetheless, I was able to sleep for about half of the ride and woke up in a new city where I enjoyed breakfast at the bus station before dragging my belongings across the city to Baluch Hostel.
Cordoba is cool. It’s the second biggest city in Argentina (1.3 million) and home to a slew of universities, as well as the bookstores, music, clubs, and kids that come with them. It’s also at the base of the central sierras and a launching point for pretty much any type of outdoor adventure (skydiving, swimming, skiing, mountain biking, etc). It’s also way cheaper than already way cheap Buenos Aires. My time there was fun but relatively uneventful- fell asleep in a hammock on the roof of the hostel, wandered the city while consuming massive amounts of strawberry ice cream, enjoyed a traditional Israeli dinner with some guys from Tel Aviv who were staying at the hostel, and went out in Nuevo Cordoba with a big group of people from all over the place.
The roof of the hostel.
The city from the roof.
The city at night.
A cheap cab from the hostel had me on a bus five minutes before my 10:00 pm departure for Mendoza. This time I was riding in a coche-cama bus, with the entire front row of the second floor to my self. While this provides for a great view of the road ahead, it also provides for a petrifying view of oncoming traffic in the (highly likely) case that your driver decides to pass on the left without ample room. A warm dinner and complimentary malbec left me quite sleepy, and I was pleased to wake up to the lights of mendoza and the pre-dawn shadow of the Andes Mountains in the distance.
Ample legroom and red wine.
Kind of dreamy to wake up to this.
After consulting a map and a police officer, I decided it would be safe and cost effective to walk the fifteen or so blocks from the bus terminal to the hostel, only to run into a friend from Stockholm (who I’d last seen in Buenos Aires four days prior, as well as Sao Paulo a month before that) who was out for an early morning jog before a day of rafting in the Mendoza River. Needless to say, I had not even checked into the hostel before I was crammed in the back seat of a renegade van heading up into the Andes to go rafting.
Rafting was outstanding. The all you can eat asado (so much steak) at camp at the end of the trip was outstanding as well. I will post pictures from this when I get them from the Swedes.
The hostel in Mendoza was full of drunk high school kids from Cordoba who were on some sort of chaperoned trip. While this was funny to an extend, it also provided ample motivation to leave the hostel and go out elsewhere in the city after dinner.
The following morning began early, as check out was at ten and our bus to Santiago half an hour later.
Paper work for immigration to be filled out on the bus.
The drive over the Andes is unbelievable. Pictures do not do it justice. The Chilean border is at the highest point of the pass, and I cannot help but wonder if perhaps the thin air is somehow responsible for the ridiculous immigration process that takes place there. After getting off of the bus to be stamped out of Argentina and into Chile, you are asked to re-board the bus, only to drive about twenty feet into a sort of garage wherein the entire busload of luggage is unloaded and thrown through a series of machines while the passengers turn over signed paperwork swearing that no fruit or animal products are being brought into the country. In addition to this, the workers who move the luggage expect monedas (coins, but in this case “tips”). The Chilean border is also apparently sponsored by Nestle, as the Nestle Flavor flag blows proudly as you approach the building.
Looking out the front of the bus at the Andes.
The desert and the mountains.
Some sort of Argentine military base.
This is a bus station somewhere in the high desert where we stopped to pick up more people.
Still in Argentina.
Dry river beds.
A rest stop just before the border.
The actual border between Argentina and Chile.
The Nestle Flag.
The decent into Chile from the border is jarring. I’ve never been on a road that offers such a great drop in elevation in such a short distance. The switchbacks are sharp, steep, and entirely free of guard rails. I imagine the top front row is the place to be on this bus.
Next time I’m on this road I swear I’m going to be in the driver’s seat.
Sketch city.
These partial tunnels are incase of rock slides.
Santiago appears abruptly after a few hours of coasting through the Andean foothills and Chilean wine country.
Wine country on the way down to Santiago.
Santiago suburbs.
I’ve been in Santiago for about five days now and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. It’s big and sprawling and somewhat of a disaster. The people are really friendly for the most part, but in a way the whole place feels like it is still shaking the effects of the dictatorship. I’m sure the influence of the catholic church plays quite a role in this feeling as well. A walk through Barrio Brasil or Bellavista on a weekend night however makes it very apparent that the younger generations have moved on.
The geography of the city is very confusing. In addition to the fact that there seems to be no actual downtown, there is no body of water to serve as a beginning or end to the city. I managed to walk straight through the center without even realizing it. Geographically speaking, Santiago is the LA of South America (culturally, the LA of South America would be Caracas).
This is somewhere in central Santiago, from on a hill in a city park.
Same park.
Telefonica and the Metro Red Line.
I learned after I was here that this is actually considered downtown.
There are some beautiful old buildings here.
Weird open spaces.
The way the highway runs below street level through the old neighborhoods reminds me of the BQE in Sunset Park in Brooklyn.
Santiago’s buses are all green.
A Salsa Club in Bellavista.
I love this mural. It’s a few blocks long.
I hiked up Cerro San Cristobal, which is the big hill just outside Bellavista. There is a tram and a gondola to the top, but I was feeling in need of a good hike.
The view of the statue as I near the top of the hill.
Looking out over the city from the top of the hill.
Some guy drove this to the top. Totally jealous.
Generation gap.
This entry has been written in five minute intervals over the past few days. It’s now Tuesday evening and I’m flying back to New York tomorrow night. I went to Valparaiso yesterday and my camera is now dead and my voltage converter exploded. Today I hung out at a pool and ate some excellent guacamole. I’m finishing up this post while having a somewhat infuriating conversation with @marksteffen concerning my Thursday morning transportation from JFK to my home away from home in ever-festive Williamsburg and finally to the 23rd Street Olive Garden to feast on unlimited breadsticks, salad, and strawberry lemonade at the reunion lunch of the NYIC. I’ll driving back to real life (Chicago) after dinner on Easter Sunday. For the sake of my well-being (blood pressure in particular) I really hope I don’t have to look at snow when I get there.
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