All Over Mendoza - Gear Box Overhaul - 22 Dec 2002
Jurassic Park
Mendoza ñ gateway to Aconcagua
Alexei Sayle
Boring old farts I
Tangled up in Chair
Boring old farts II
Whine Tour
All you can eat
Aconcagua
Boring old farts III
We were heading for Mendoza and on the way was a lesser known national park that is famous for its fossils and rock formations. The very nice man at the gate allowed us to camp at the entrance, and apparently was asking no fee. The deal is here that normally a car arrives and takes a guide from the park with them in the car around the area. Now, two up on the bike there is not much room for a guide. OK I know that in many countries in the world it is perfectly normal to pile a family of five, two sacks of rice and a couple of live chickens onto a Honda C50. But we are British and a bit more anal about biking than many. Anyway our mode of transport was a bit of a problem until a French couple arrived in a conventional car and it was sorted we would follow them on the bike. Perfecto!
At the first stop another Argentine couple, joined us. So not we were a little convoy of three. It brought back memories of travelling with Stevie and Scully in North Africa. And brought back all the same emotions. As we trundled along the twisty roads, in the middle of the three vehicles, I felt the need to try and keep both our rear vehicle in sight and the leader simultaneously. I did not know these people and certainly I would not be held responsible if the last car got lost, but I was overcome with a protective need to make sure the other cars were OK. If we lost sight of the rear vehicle I mentally willed Pat to slow down until we caught a glimpse of them and therefore they could get a glimpse of us to find their way. Donít ask me to explain this and all the while the logical part of my brain (I do have one) was saying, ìLet the guide worry about itî. But maybe that was the problem, he didnít seem to be!
The park itself had a deep dusty pink 100m high escarpment running along one side and rest was amazing golden sand stone formation. Weíd stop every now and go for a little stroll to get to some rocky bits. At one we walked up a muddy river bed which was fine for us, in bike boots, but we were following the Argentine couple and she was dressed in white cotton espadrilles, to match her light cotton trendy outfit of hipster trousers and skimpy top. Their pace slowed and slowed as she, in vain, tried not to get her shoes dirty and walked self consciously readjusting her g-string as it edged over to top of her trousers. She and her man were clearly a little unhappy, that their posing day in the countryside was not showing them at their best. It reminded of that scene in the ìGood Lifeî when Margot decided to help out salvaging the Goodsí crops ñ fish out of water. It always makes me smile, seeing people struggle with unsuitable and uncomfortable fashion wear, never having been much of a fashion guru myself. No comment [webmaster]
At the next stop the guide set a hefty pace through unpathed shrub land and I could sense the young couple falling behind. So I stopped and waved frantically shouting ìHola, aquiî I could see the girl struggling to maintain dignity ascending a steep bank into the river. She was concentrating so much that my efforts were ignored. I tried again and again to raise their attention and failed, and finally gave up, thinking if I didnít move on I would also be lost. They didnít catch us up. The guide was remarkably unconcerned and after rushing to the natural watering hole, he was in no rush to go back.
Eventually, we sauntered back to where we had left the cars, and the couple were there, in their hot car, and even with my limited knowledge of EspaÒol I could tell they were not happy chickens. At our last stop, they muttered something disparaging to the guide and sped off without him to the park gates. He wonít be getting a tip then.
Although the only evidence of dinosaurs we was a few fragments of bone, the scenery made up for it and the French couple were great company.
Back at the entrance the guide was in for a tongue lashing, he had not only annoyed 2 tourists but he had taken too long so that the office had been shut as his colleague had had to take out the next group, because he wasnít back. Oh dear!
Beer oíclock and a good chin wag with the French couple. I was delighted with their definition of broad minded, when talking of the American boyfriend of their daughter, ìOh no he wasnít narrow minded he ate all the French cheeses and any food we gave himî. How French! Their comment kept us smiling for the next couple of days.
We watched the sun set over the park and drank a little wine with the remains of our cheese.
So thatíll be about five meals over a few days from the same block of cheese thatís never even seen a refrigerator. It was getting better all the while. A good day - soured by a little thoughtlessness by our guide. Not that it really affected us; it was just that we were somehow involved in the goings on.It was rather nice to be back in our little tent again even though it was quite cool. At home and cuddling. Nothing finer.
The morningís travelling was thankfully on good dirt, they had graded it a couple of days before to salvage the mess that the heavy rains had made of it. To be honest the road was worse when we hit tar, the potholes made the riding a slalom course. San Juan our home for the night was a nice unpretentious commercial place surrounded by more vineyards.
Mendoza ñ gateway to Aconcagua
Finally into Mendoza, and we have finally found where the tourists are. The first two hostels had no room at the inn. I realize that we are approaching Christmas, but spending the night with a manger does not appeal. Eventually, we found a lesser known hostel and finally could peel ourselves of the bike gear.
That night we fancied some people watching and enjoyed a few drinks al fresco on the main drag. We took the option of a good vantage point for people watching but it did have the down side of also being the closest to the buskers.
The first to ìentertainî us was tone deaf and I normally always give to buskers trying to make an honest living, but this man was so bad that I felt it was unfair to delude him that he could make a living at this occupation. It is more humane to not give any money and maybe he will see the light and find and pastime that he can be a success. Tight wad [webmaster]
The second were a bunch of spangly dressed Mexican types, complete with oversized sombreros. I decided that given the recent downpours I hope these hats have a built in drainage system or the lip of the enormous brim will create a lake, with the bump for the head forming an island amidst the lofty reservoir. There were about 6 of them, guitars and trumpets. They looked more spectacular than their music. But as most things in life people gave more generously, being impressed by the showmanship rather than the quality.
Pat had been mithering about noises and difficulties with the gears since BA and the next day he finally found a mechanic that seemed to know what he was talking about. We shall see.
Back in Buenos Aires when Iíd had the electrics looked at, the guy had given me the name and number of a chap in Mendoza who is considered the BMW guru of Argentina. Of course, Iíd lost the piece of paper but I assumed that this guyís reputation would ensure that anyone in local bike shops would point me in the right direction. Regrettably, no. Eventually we got a lead from the local BM car dealer and so it was that we found ourselves at the end of a residential street devoid of life (the street that is). I knew Iíd got the right place only by the BMW sticker in the window on a garage door. The owner of the car dealership had arranged a time for me to go down and so I pipped the horn and Alexei Sayle popped his head out, or at least a man much resembling the king of comedy.
He allowed me over the threshold and inside was a huge collection of Beemer twins of all ages. I was rather relieved to see the quality of these bikes and the lack of oil patches on the floor below them ñ always a good sign. Spanglish communication and he seemed to have a vague understanding of the problem viz. hitting a false neutral when changing down from 4th to 3rd and the change lever not returning to its mid position on lower changes. As I had predicted, we needed to open ëer up and have a look. Monday morning (if you can call 11 oí clock morning) was arranged and we parted for the weekend.
That night the guy running the hostel decided to have a party. Now I know that we are old fogies on the backpacker circuit, but we had headed to bed at about midnight, tired. Things were reasonably calm downstairs at that time, but as the night progressed so did the volume, shouting, slamming doors, music pounding. I resorted to ear plugs, Pat on the other declined ear plugs and whittered on. By 4 in the morning there were no signs of abatement and Pat was a seriously grumpy old Hector.
To be fair, I couldnít sleep as I had a touch of indigestion and the noise thumping up from below was sufficient to push me over the edge. For all Hippies mithering me to put in some ear plugs, it was interesting that she did not sleep a wink either. So, it was four in the morning and the noise was not diminishing and so I donned my clothes and made for the party to complain. Now, our Spanish is progressing, but complaining about people having a party at inconvenient times is not covered in most courses. I walked down the stairs very slowly considering what I could say to be effective in my quest and not a complete embarrassment. All I could muster was a sarcastic ìEso es un hostel o una discoteca?î It did the trick. OK, so they had to placate the party goers who were, I believe, in an ecstasy induced frenzy. All was quiet by 4:45.
I had been against, saying anything on two counts a) it could have the opposite to the desired effect, with the collected drunken throng, taking enjoyment out of annoying the boring farts upstairs b) I can still remember the tolerance of my neighbours when I was a student and it may be good for our karma to now return the favour.
The music did stop, and repeated complaints by party-goers did not lead to its reinstatement. It took about 45 minutes for the revellers to slide off to nightclubs or bed. I was quite impressed, and I have to take my hat off to Pat, that he was right this time. It did mean that the next day as our fellow hostellers peered through fuzzy hangovers at us, you could tell they were thinking Iím never going to be a kill joy like these old fogies. Time will tell.
It was time to show our love for Bertha, and give her a full clean up. This was partly out of love,
but mostly the fact that Alexei had been much unimpressed by the grit and grime that he would have to work through. In fact he had demanded that she was cleaned before I returned. So as we scrubbed away with a toothbrush, scourer and scrubber, I developed a new intimate relationship with the bike. Getting into crevices, covered in a goo of compounded dust and aged oil, that I am sure has not been cleaned since we left England. I was little apprehensive because I am certain that the gunk was helping to hold it together and hold in the oil, now that it is clean all manner of new problems could be created.As I bent over, scrubbed a particularly awkward crevice with the toothbrush Fi appeared. We had known that the Hot Rockers were in the area, and hoped to meet up with them, not having seen them since BA.
We were cordially invited to dinner with them. How nice? After a hard morning cleaning it was time for a beer or two. We sat with Fi on the Plaza catching up on Hot Rock gossip, and generally having the craic. (thank you webmaster for the correction of our spelling previously)
It was fascinating to watch a group of youths on the plaza, strutting their stuff on their mountain bikes. A couple of them were really skilled, controlling the bike into all manner of aerobatics. If this is the extent of juvenile rebellion here, itís pretty constructive.
I bought a new round and sat down, or rather I didnít! I found myself knees squashed against my chest by the frame of the seat, my arms above me and my bum on the pavement. I had gone through the chair. Now enclosed within the frame of chair in full public view I collapsed into giggles for a few minutes, unable to think rationally about my predicament. When I finally gained control of my senses, getting out of the confines of the chair was easier said than down. With my arms high I had no leverage to push myself back out. As Fi and Pat pulled me out, I realised what had happened. The canvass seat of the chair had become detached and as I sat down it had allowed me to be trapped by the frame. I can only conjecture how I must have looked. The worst thing was that I didnít even have the excuse that I was drunk.
Hmmm debatable point. Iím glad you said it ñ if it wasnít the drink then it must have been the weight ñ I think we shall go with drink [webmaster]Off to our dinner invitation. It was weird turning up on the campsite, the familiar red truck there, but there was no one that we knew. Since last we met, the climbers we knew had mostly gone to be replaced with equally charming gregarious but unfamiliar others.
The youngsters were all up for partying in town and so we set off in a collection of cabs to rendezvous in the street of Mendoza that most resembles southern Europe. This was back where we had been ìbuskedî the other night. Iíd had my fill with a glass of beer and a gin and tonic, but the others were mad keen to go and dance. Perhaps out of guilt for being a boring old fart the other night and not wanting to be hypocritical or maybe because I am, indeed, a boring old fart, I declined the disco option. Back at the hostel all was quiet and I was tempted to do a bit of engine tuning to get my own back on our cohabitees. In the end, I decided not to provoke any more ill feeling.
We upped and left in the morning to move in at the hostel where Fi and some others were moving. It had been full when weíd tried before but now they managed to find us a double room. The others were placed in bunkrooms with three tier bunks. How jealous they were ñ until the next morning when we emerged 10 pounds lighter each from the fact that there was no window in our room and the fan simply moved the boiling hot air from one place to another. We were faced with the problem of whether to move all of our gear (which of course is annoyingly bulky and separate bits and bats rather than a simple back pack) or stay in the sauna for the following nights. The shortage of cupboard space forced the sauna option on us. Oh, joy.
Days of nothing followed. I spent quite a bit of time down at the workshop with Carlos (for that is his real name) to learn about gearboxes. It seemed that I knew pretty much all I needed to be able to solve the problem by myself, but would have been completely unable too as I canít possibly carry all the tools with me. The faulty component could have been replaced for about 50p, but other gremlins emerged ñ leaking seals and the like. Regrettably, the cost of the seals and other parts, here, is extravagant because of the huge import tax and weakness of the pesos. If Iíd had the parts sent from England they would have ended up costing the same. Total bill in the end came to close to a hundred and fifty quid. Not bad for a 50p job!
I was a bit confused by the fact that we started at only 11:30 each morning and teased Carlos about being a lie abed. It turned out that he actually has two jobs and turns into Mr Ice-cream when the sun goes down. He owns an ice cream factory and a high street outlet and, being Argentina, this stays open until all hours of the morning.
Carlos was not just a BMW enthusiast, mechanic and ice cream manufacturer and seller. It turned out that he had a huge collection of old bikes. Way back when Argentina was a wealthy country, Britain was turning out its best bikes. Apparently the Buenos Aires police were equipped with Brough Superior bikes. This means that there may be yet some tucked away in sheds awaiting to make me a million or two. The manís collection included no less than three Vincent Black Shadows (my favourite of all bikes old and new), a couple of Velocettes, Nortons, Moto Guzzi Falcones and even an Ariel Square Four. An amazing haul of mostly extremely valuable bikes. I guess he is so busy that he has no time to restore these bikes and as he refuses to let them go to get repatriated by well heeled enthusiasts, they sit forlorn gathering dust in his yard.
Poor Hippy was left to stew at the hostel and try to plan out our post New Year travels for when our dear friend Esther joins us. I know she was frustrated to be left mulling over the options by herself with little input from me. With pretty much all put back together, I decided to bail out and leave Carlos to finish things off so we could take a trip out to the vineyards for an afternoon.
Fi was able to join us as sheíd been having Spanish lessons in the morning, leaving the afternoons for playing. We waited patiently. (one learns to after a while) The van turned up about 10 minutes late, but much worse than that, we could not fit on with the other chap from the hostel who had opted for the tour. No matter, we had not intended to go with him anyway and the driver assured us that another van was following in a moment. Sure enough, 10 more minutes even later, the next van turned up but could only take one. We kicked up bit of a stink, now, as weíd all booked together. No one seemed to see that there was problem splitting up groups of friends to go on tours with other groups We assumed that as weíd booked quite late that maybe they could not shift groups around to create space. Fi disappeared off spitting fire.
Predictably, the next van (a further 10 minutes late) had enough space for us and spare so Fi could have come with us. The tour was not spectacular. South African vineyards had been a lot more attractive and certainly more generous with their tastings. The measures were fine. You donít need a lot to be able to judge the wine, it was the lack of variety that disappointed. At each of the two stops, we had one chardonnay, one malbec and one cab sav. Didnít learn much there, then. Returning towards the town of Mendoza, we called into the church dedicated to the patron saint of vintners. Not inspiring, really. Even less inspiring was the obligatory ìstop at my brothers craft shopî where snacks were grossly inflated and the crafts were really pretty poor.
When we got back to the hostel, we found that Fi had had a good old whinge and managed to get a complementary trip of her choice out of it. At least when we pointed out that she hadnít even paid for this one as Hippy had booked it she was quick to reimburse us!
Sounded like our kind of a deal. I imagined that weíd be in some rather grotty place and be brought endless slices of drab pizza or some such filler that you canít possibly manage a lot of. Other residents at the hostel had recommended this place but that, in our experience, does not necessarily mean anything.
In fact it was one of the most excellent meals Iíve ever eaten. The huge cavernous restaurant was extremely bright and clean. Tables were laid out for bookings of up to 30 people and the allotment of other tables was on a first come, first served basis. Rather than do this as people arrived, there was a huge backlog of folk stood inside the door looking over at the tables, of which there were hundreds, waiting for the call. At the door Fi gave her name and we stood and waited for a table.
Eventually, our number came up and we were directed to a table where Aldo, our wine waiter and table clearer waited. He asked our nationalities and so we had the usual embarrassed Malvinas conversation. Drinks ordered we were directed to help ourselves from the buffet bars. This place prides itself on providing 160 different dishes and so choosing took some time; cured meats, exotic fish dishes, Chinese, Italian, scores of salads, an enormous barbeque and puddings to die for. As we worked our way through the available fare, the pre-booked tables filled with their parties. Strangely, pretty much all of the diners were women and the men that were here seemed to be sitting in pairs. I began to worry that weíd landed in some bizarre gay dining club. We ate until we could eat no more and limped home doubled up with stomach cramps, muttering ìnever againî as we went.
For those who are geographically challenged, Aconagua is thought to be the highest mountain in South America and possibly the highest in the southern Hemisphere as a whole. This means that Mendoza being its nearest major town, tends to attract a number of mountaineery types, who feel the urge to tick off this mountain on the must do list. With a steady stream of people going up, their comment of night temperatures of ñ22 degrees C did not enthral me. But it did not seem to put of the more adventurous people at the hostel.
People approach the challenge in different ways, some planned to go up and down in 4 days, without the aid of a mule, and relying on collecting water on the way. Others planned to take up to 17 days, with the necessary food supplies it necessitated the use of a mule. Now I ought to point out here that if you are looking for an investment opportunity get into mule hire. One days hire to lug gear up to base camp is $100 US, as Fi pointed out in India you can buy 5 mules for that ñ good money if you can make it!
Two of the Hot Rockers were some of the many taking up the challenge and I cannot fault Garyís preparation and attention to detail. He even measured out his daily rations of powered milk for each of the 17 days by teaspoon into little plastic bags. All I hope is the argentine plastics industry is up to the job and all his bags survive the journey otherwise he could end up with a horribly gooey rucksack if it snows up there. His partner in this mission was Adam, otherwise known as Daddy on account of his seniority. Now Daddy has a unique character, a Pole who lived in Australia for half his life, with an anal approach to everything but time and had the reputation for being the last to be ready each morning on the truck. With Daddy wanting each meal to be different and Gary, planning on easy packing and basic sustenance on the food front there developed a little tension. I hope this was just sign of pre-expedition nervousness, where they spent their time planning and re-planning to prevent worrying about the cold and how they were going to lug all that lot.
Even the ìseriousî climberís hostel displayed some of the wildness associated with backpackers places everywhere and as it was the end of the lunar month and the moon was reaching its peak, a moonlit rafting expedition with full-on party till dawn was planned. I figured that as people seem to drown with alarming regularity when rafting during the day; this was not the safest pursuit. We opted out and had a quiet dinner with Andre, a Swiss biker weíd bumped into, and Fi. There was a little stress in the air in the morning ñ clearly all had not gone as planned. Thankfully there were no drowned souls and it simply happened that the ìhourly minibusesî back to the hostel had failed to materialise leaving a few folk jaded and annoyed. I guess we could have seen that coming.