Next Bus

Today is another travel day. I talk to a French traveler embarking on an expedition atop a 20k volcano for the bargain basement price of $60, a promotional offer. I skip the much needed sleep and look for a ticket to my next destination. I can find no more reason to stay in San Juan. Valle de Luna would be a nice excursion, but its so much like the scenery in Arizona, presumably, that I think its better to move on. I easily find a bus to Mendoza leaving later in the morning.

I hoof it to Winca’s hostel from the bus station. I decide almost immediately to get on the river and white water raft. With an expedition company every third store, this is not a problem. I find one for $40. I visit a restaurant that is reviewed as having the best pizza in Mendoza, but I’m not so sure. It goes down like Pizza Hut. Days behind on my sleep, I call it an early night, preparing for an early morning aventura.

Backwater Barreal

And exactly what kind of place Barreal is, I’m not sure. But its all up and becomes increasingly beautiful. The snow covered Andes emerge above the foothills. I am the only Gringo, or tourist for that matter, on the bus. I bring warm clothing with me and contemplate finding a cabana for the night, but decide not to. The Andes come into clear view and everyone on the bus has a specific place to go but I. I’m told I’m in Central Bareal, to my surprise, so I get off and cross the length of town. All the shops are closed for siesta at one pm except for one kiosco. I buy an ice cream and a liter and a half of water and I walk towards the mountains.


I pass farms and cabanas advertising expediciones. Motorbikes and rickety bikes go by along with the usual packs of dogs. I weave past farms with horses, chickens and roosters towards the mountains. I hit a crossroads. Mary is there, enclosed in glass. I follow the road through an impromptu junk yard to an impasse, a rushing river fed by snowmelt. It is frigid, wide, fast flowing and insane if not impossible to cross by foot. I follow upriver hoping to find a bridge or a narrow crossing.


Nothing exists. I leap across several tributaries and wade across a wider crossing nearly rendering my feet numb. I find a place to lay down in the grey sand amongst the rocks and take a short nap. I return in the darkness. My timing is perfect for 9pm dinner. I gnaw on tough lomo topped with cheese and ham and drink a liter of Quilmes dark, to pass the time. At nearly 11, I can dawdle here no longer and I go out in the chill air to take a walk. I’m tired to the point of exhaustion and not sure how I will while away the next four hours. I hit a crossroads and afraid of getting lost, turn back. I take a nap in the park until I’m awakened by a brisk wind and the cold. I huddle behind a wall in the central square and hug in my knees to try to keep warm.



Time passes slowly as I check it on my camera every few minutes. Chilled to the bone, I finally notice 3am pass. Several people gather on the streets waiting for the same bus. Mercifully, my seat is on the back of the bus where I can spread out and sleep for most of my journey back to San Juan.

A Long Walk

Today I hike to a reservoir, Dullum, which sounds attractive in my LP. I go through a long stretch of suburban neighborhoods all lined by yellow tiled sidewalks, past parillas and kioscos until I reach the countryside and army training facilities. I walk between some barren hills until I reach the river and walk up towards what looks like a miniature Hoover Dam, given the geography. On the near end of the dam is a snack bar and motocross course going through the sandy mounds and small hills. On the far side are some scattered waterfront clubs, but no public beaches, and not much activity on the water, from the few glimpses I get from between the hills. There is an abundance of motocross and mountain biking, and guys taking their girlfriends for a ride on their motorbikes for the afternoon.


I turn down a road for a club, bypassing the admission sign, and catch a water view or two. My 40 km hike ends back in town where a fair is taking place. The market in the fair stays open past midnight on a Sunday night and there is a bandstand with singing. I sit down in a pizza parlor and eat a doble mozzarella that’s a rare disappointment. I try to get a good night’s rest before my bus into the Andean town of Bareal the next morning.

Give me The Cure

Today is another travel day as I finally leave the Salta and Jujuy provinces for good. But first I layover in Jujuy for 8 hours. I eat a hamburguesa with fried egg and pace the length of town.
I take an overnight bus eighteen hours to San Juan. While there, I walk what seems like a far distance down tiled sidewalks, beneath sycamores, lined by deep gutters carrying meltwater from the Andes. Most are fetid and garbage filled and smell quite rot. I am a sweaty mess as I am in a warm climate for the first time since Iguazu. The beaming, pony tailed proprietor of Zonda Hostel asks if I need a towel for a shower.

I eat some very salty, ham filled, lasagna and turn back towards the hostel hoping I’m not arriving back too late. But I’m far from it. I forget that its Saturday night in Argentina. Music and dancing fill the dining room. Recovering from illness, I’m in no condition for heavy partying, and I watch TV for the night and early morning while the concierge pours me complimentary glasses of wine.

The Cure plays and the Argentine revelers sing, "Tell me how you do that trick.." at the top of their lungs.