Crossing the Andes

Dan complains that I will always find the long way to go anywhere. So when I proved to him that it was geographically shorter by far to make our way to Argentina’s famous wine growing region in Mendoza overland by way of Santiago, Chile, he was enthusiastic, but suspicious.

“What’s the catch? You never do anything the easy way.”

I debated whether to reveal that we would have to take a seven hour bus ride through the Andes, bumper to bumper with aging, belching transport trucks negotiating a dozen switchbacks up to 13,000 feet. Moreover, the Paso Libertador, was prone to closure by spring hailstorms or avalanches, the former growing fiercer with global warming.

“There’s no catch. They say the scenery is lovely.”

My husband is thankfully a good sport and although less informed about the crossing than I, he agrees with my opinion that it will be more fun to start our wine tour in Argentina by land through the side door, than by way of a domestic flight from Buenos Aires.

Leaving Santiago’s toxic halo, we now enter the mountains as little as a half hour out of the city. Chile is such a sinuous stretch of land, its capital city as close to the sea as it is close to its neighbour, Argentina. The road follows the unruly brown water of the Mapocho River, which rushes over continuous rapids towards the sea. As we climb higher and a mere ribbon of guardrail separates us from the precipice, I watch a river that doesn’t know which direction to turn. The current splashes every which way through this historically disputed frontier. At other times in my life, I’ve been afraid of severe switchbacks and blind corners crowded by grinding transport trucks. But now my travel legs are older, one divorce behind me, and crossings, though stressful, are part of life.

I’m convinced that drivers who work mountain routes in South America take a mischievous delight in the play between speed, sharp turns, and centrifugal force. Fortunately the seats across the aisle are unoccupied because both of us, or our respective backpacks and lunchboxes, are launched sideways across the bus, then back again, and occasionally smashed against a window, no less than nine times. During our thrashing, the driver’s companion looks back into the coach and reports something to the driver, who then snorts out a laugh.

What I hoped was the final turn, took us only to a broad plateau, at which point we began yet another climb. We are approaching the kind of elevation that hurts the head should you linger, although it doesn’t leave a bruise like switchbacks.

The Andes on the Chilean side are not so much beautiful as they are dramatic with gigantic clefts of rock wrenched apart by earthquakes. Until you reach the snow and ice streaked channels of retreating glaciers, the view is monochromatic grey. We are mere mice, scaling the furrowed, tough hide of an elephant with allergies.

As we approach the border, we pass more than fifty trucks awaiting entry to Chile at a special check point. Thankfully, our mostly empty bus is waved on within half an hour after a cursory search of luggage. From this point, it’s downhill all the way, a ride that is supervised by Cristos Redemptor. This four ton statue of the Saviour on the Argentine side has been patiently keeping an eye on driving conditions since 1904, as well as the freeze-thaw of relations between the two countries.

We are leaving behind the comparatively sombre and tightly squeezed Chilean side of the Andes, the younger side in geological years. Now, white alpine flowers litter the slopes like confetti. The severely chiselled walls of rock have turned into piles of brown and red scree. There are more alpine plants, now purple and yellow. Perhaps it’s my upbeat mood, or just all these shades of brown and cream make me think of ice cream sundaes with melted caramel topping, chocolate shavings and sprinkles.

And when the last of the mountains are behind us, and the broad expanse of sun baked land unfolds ahead under an endless sky, what I’ve learned about each side of the Andes is that Chile holds its breath; Argentina exhales. (by Carolann Moisse at maturetraveler.blogspot.com)

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