Arrival in Argentina

Joanne talked me through everything I had done since. Did I accidentally hand it over to the conductor when I paid for the tickets? Definitely not: I remembered counting through the money and would definitely have noticed my card there. Did I collect it from the ATM after drawing the money? I couldn't remember one way or another; normally it's so automatic I don't register doing it. Then I remembered that the stupid ATMs in Chile all ask you if you want another transaction (Y/N) after dispensing your cash. Then I realised: this is something I would have remembered because it always annoys me that they ask such a pointless and potentially hazardous question to the ownership of your card. I had hoped that my irritation would always remind me about this but, on this occasion, we had still been discussing which bus to get, and I think I must have just whipped the money out then continued the conversation. Could someone have been passing, just as it was beeping for a response and said Yes, I'd like to draw all the money available? I hoped it at least asked for this PIN again if you try to draw more money. This is why ATMs in the UK give you your card first, then give you your money; if you want another transaction after drawing money, you have to put your card and PIN in again. Stupid South American ATMs! Stupid rushing and harassing bus conductor! But above all, stupid me for walking away from the machine without my card!

I'm not certain that this is what happened, but it seems the most likely explanation. I suppose I may have dropped it on the way to the bus, or someone may have dipped into my pocket. Whatever had happened to it I had to stop the card immediately. So I sent a text to my trusty old friend, John, asking him to look up the card-stop numbers for me. Soon his (reliable as ever) text came back, but I discovered we couldn't make international calls on the Chilean SIM and I didn't want to call them, roaming from my UK SIM; someone might have been taking the daily maximum out of my account but that would surely be nothing compared to the bill racked up by waiting on hold from abroad. So I sent my dad a text and asked him to make the call for me. Even at 36, parents can come in really handy.

On the road there were hundreds of large lorries. It must be a major haulage route between the two countries. The scenery was stunning on the way up to the border, but most of the time quite well hidden by cloud. I can't remember what height the pass is, but it must be about 3000 metres, I think. We passed a few ski courses and continued upwards. All this climbing, of course, meant that it was absolutely freezing at the border, where we were obliged to hang around for more than half an hour, off the bus for some reason. We weren't dressed for it, in fact we didn't really have the clothes for it with us, but putting on our thermals before we got on the bus would have helped.

On the road to the Santiago-Mendoza border

Back on the bus, heading down the other side from the border, suddenly things seemed far more militarised: we passed several army units apparently out on exercise in the hills and there were quite military-looking police everywhere. Also, the railway line I thought I had caught glimpses of on the way up to the border was much more obvious on the other side, but now I could see it was disused. Clearly this railway line used to be the main freight route between the countries but now it's all hundreds of big lorries. What a waste! The line didn't even look like it had been out of use for all that long, no more than twenty years. All the tunnels were intact, as were the bridges, some of which didn't even look very rusty, in fact there were even metal signs along the tracks that were still legible. It was only the weeds and the uncleared earth, part burying the tracks in places, that gave away the redundancy of the line. We followed the railway route pretty much the whole way to Menddoza.

Maybe to prepare us for the country we had now entered, I pondered, on the bus stereo was now played a continuous string of the biggest cheese merchants that the music industry has ever been cruel enough to inflict on the world. Act after act of faux-sincere, over-emotional crooners wailing about un amor perdido or whatever. It was horrendous and just when we thought it couldn't possibly get any worse, they switched on the screen and there they were: strutting around the stage, mostly rather macho, complete with gleaming teeth, giant collars, white suit, bouffant hair, or tight purple jeans and a hairy medallioned chest, or whatever other awful combination their style-gurus must have told them would really sell. I understand that music in the UK used to be overrun with crooners before Elvis and pop music rendered them all obsolete, but this was no video nasty from the 50s or 60s, this was clearly quite recent and a few numbers even featured a nod to modern pop-py beats. What kind of country were we entering where this could be modern music? What was it - Cheesier than Cheddar vol.5? Now that's what I call Gorgonzola? We'll never know because, although disbelief really made me want to ask, I couldn't risk someone overhearing and thinking that I had liked it.

After a while the road levelled out and became very straight. The numbers of police on the road just rose and rose, until there seemed to be cars pulled over every few hundred yards. At first I thought they must be pulling people over looking for bribes, but then I noticed that around every intersection the speed limit was very low, and there were frequent little shrines dotted all along the road as well; so I suppose they probably have good reason to pull so many vehicles over. Whatever the reason is added more to the feeling that we were in a police state or military dictatorship, which I wasn't expecting given how long it has been since the last junta.

The walk to the hostel wasn't very nice and we were anxious to get there before it got too dark. On first impression, it was it far more run-down than Santiago or Valparaiso: there was graffiti everywhere, and not the nice murals of Valparaiso. The pavements were all cracked and loads of the paving stones were missing, as if they had been lifted and sold off. Everywhere there were real wrecks of cars on the road. I didn't really expect this much of an obvious change just coming across the border from Chile to Argentina, but it really seemed like we had arrived in a less prosperous country, full of vandals. The people even looked quite shady after Chile.

The hostel was very nice and it was quiet, which was what we needed after Santiago. The guy who was on the desk seemed very nice, but extremely serious, bordering on miserable. We got chatting to the only other people staying there: a girl from Irvine and her English fiancé. They took pity on us and our lost bank card, and invited us to join them in the dinner they had just made (a little too much of, they insisted).

written by  The Happy Couple on September 21, 2009 from Mendoza, Argentina
from the travel blog: Michael's Round-the-World honeymoon
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