After a few days at the hostel in Bariloche, it was time to backtrack. I had a day’s ride back around the lake to Villa La Angostura, then a steep climb up and over the southern Andes into Chile’s Los Lagos region (translation: The Lakes Region). On the morning of my departure from Bariloche, I ate a truly astounding amount of bread from the hostel breakfast, and then set off back the way I came.
The first part of the ride went quickly, as the wind was on my side. I flew past Dina Huapi, up and over the ridge on the east side of the lake, and soon I was headed back west along the north shore. I wanted to make it all the way back to Villa La Angostura in one day so that I could treat myself to a fancy sendoff meal for my last night in Argentina. I tried to treat myself to a fancy sendoff meal on my last night in Bariloche, but in my attempt to try the local cuisine, I ended up with a mysterious stew that was pale yellow in colour and contained numerous chunks of what I later learned was cow throat. The cow throat was kind of smooth on one side and had an almost furry texture on the other, and I would give it a 0/10 on the scale of things that are fun to eat.
I still had a lot of pesos, which I suppose was the opposite of the problem I’d had in San Martín, when I had almost none. As previously mentioned, the Argentine economy has a lot issues, and one is rapid and aggressive inflation. This meant that, even if I returned to Argentina later in the trip, my money could be worth very little by the time I got back. So I figured I might as well spend some of it now, which resulted in fancy sunscreen and a dream of a nice meal. And a bunch of dulce de leche donuts in an attempt to vanquish the cow throat stew from my mind.
I got to Villa La Angostura later than expected, although I don’t know why I expected anything different – I didn’t leave Bariloche until almost 1pm and the ride was over 80km. I was just being silly. Then, the first campground I went to was full and I had to mosey around for a bit to find a place to stay. By the time I rocked up to a restaurant that advertised ravioli on their menu, it was quite late and I was starving. So I decided to treat myself to a Submarino as well – this is a brilliant Argentine invention. It’s a glass of steamed milk, with a chocolate bar on the side. The chocolate is the ‘submarine’ and you drop it into the milk and then stir it while it melts. For anyone interested, we can have a Submarino party when I’m back because I’m low key obsessed with them.
In the morning,I headed for Chile. I biked up and up and up, past panoramic vistas of lakes and mountaintops. The southern Andes are quite different from the northern ones, so the scenery bore little resemblance to what I saw going over Paso Vergara.
Partway up, I arrived at the Argentine border crossing. At first I thought it was construction because the line of cars was so long, and there was no sign to tell me what the line was for. But, being on a bike, I skirted around the line and rode on the gravel shoulder for a while, and eventually arrived at the immigration building, where I got to wait in a human line. But at least I got to skip the car line.
It was a very slow line, so I pulled out a carrot and started to munch away. The Chilean granny behind me found this very funny and burst into a fit of giggles. I guess she thought my choice of road snack was unconventional.
After officially leaving Argentina, I continued biking upwards until I finally reached Paso Cardenal Samoré. It’s altitude is only 1314 meters above sea level, but I was still technically standing atop the Andes, so I felt pretty pleased – although I must admit it’s a far cry from the passes further north in South America, which reach altitudes over 4000 meters. But I’m not sure biking those would be particularly fun, at least in the traditional sense of the word ‘fun.’
The Chilean side of the Andes is much wetter than the Argentine side, and this was almost immediately obvious. As I dropped down from the top of the pass, I descended into what I can only describe as a jungle. Giant ferns, mossy boulders, and flowering trees surrounded me. It was a totally different world.
Chilean immigration took a lot longer than Argentine immigration did, because they look through everyone’s bags to make sure they’re not bringing agricultural products into the country, which could threaten Chile’s heavily agriculture-based economy. I was sort of at a point where I didn’t even know what was in my bags, but the border agent didn’t seem too worried. He opened each bag and glanced in. Each bag happened to have an article of clothing or two on top, and he didn’t investigate much further.
“Only clothes?” He asked in Spanish.
“Yes, I have clothes,” I said because my brain takes a while to catch up en Español and I didn’t totally comprehend what he was asking me.
And then he sent me on my way, and later I found myself wondering if this man really thought I was biking around South America with forty pounds of clothes and nothing else.
I stopped at the first campground I saw. Upon realizing I spoke minimal Spanish, they told me to wait while they fetched someone who spoke English so he could explain the camping to me. I waited and waited and waited, wondering what was so complicated about this camping that required an explanation. Was the water toxic? Was there a werewolf on site?
After about half an hour, the guy showed up and he said, in English, that I could put up my tent beside where I’d been waiting.
That was it. Nothing else. Just that I could put up my tent in the place I was already standing.
I don’t speak much Spanish, but I’m pretty sure they could have gotten that across to me somehow. Sometimes language barriers are bigger in our minds than they actually need to be.
The next day, I biked to a small town called Entre Lagos. I was excited to get there, because all along the highway were signs advertising a German bakery. I am a bakery fanatic, and I couldn’t wait to get to this one. But when I finally arrived in town, the bakery was closed. It looked like it had been closed for a long time. I guess they forgot to take down their signs.
So there was no bakery, but what Entre Lagos did have was a Mexican music festival! There were people everywhere, and a stall selling sombreros. Street food vendors had descended upon the town, setting up tents and tables along the main drag.
Chile’s food culture heavily features hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries, sopaipillas, and salchipapa. The first three are familiar to most North Americans. Sopaipillas are fried discs of dough that you can put mustard or spicy sauce on. Salchipapa is French fries with chopped up sausage or hot dogs on them. As far as I can tell, every street food vendor in the country sells these five items and almost never anything else.
The ten or so street vendors that had set up in the street were selling these things. Further along, there was a more permanent-seeming outdoor food court with about ten stalls, each of which also sold these things. I have been trying and failing to understand the economic viability of every single street vendor selling exactly the same thing. It’s like if you went to the food court at the mall in Canada and every single vendor only hot dogs and French fries. I find it somewhat bizarre.
So I had some sopaipillas and went to bed, lulled to sleep by the Mexican music blasting across the entire town. I carried on to Puerto Octay in the morning.
Puerto Octay was very nice, as were the other small towns I biked through in Los Lagos. Charming wooden buildings, lush green vegetation, and lots of friendly dogs. Cute coffee shops and happy families on vacation. It was touristy but in a more relaxed way than Argentina’s Lake District. It reminded me of the West Kootenays in British Columbia. I kind of wish I’d stayed a bit longer, but I was also eager to get to Puerto Montt and start the Carretera Austral.
My favourite town in Los Lagos was Puerto Varas, which has a quirky Bohemian vibe. The streets all twist down a hill toward a lake, and along the waterfront you can see the volcanoes on the other side. There is not too much volcano – just the perfect amount (I hope someone out there in the great wide world gets this rather obscure reference).
The ride from Puerto Varas to Puerto Montt felt like a long series of brushes with death, but I got there in the end. I occasionally had to stop and stress-eat crackers on the side of the road. It seemed someone had decided to undertake a large number of construction projects, but hadn’t put any thought into planning how traffic would work during those projects.
But I got to my hostel. Casa Perla Hostel feels a lot like staying at your grandma’s house, if your grandma was a kindly but no-nonsense Chilean lady who had been running a tight-ship hostel out of her house for thirty-five years. It was actually quite a charming place, and I was especially charmed by Preciosa the cat, who slept in my bed all night.
Puerto Montt reminded me of Prince Rupert. Streets of unique wooden buildings, the ocean on one side, and temperate rainforest on the other. Ferries and cruise ships coming in and out of the harbour. The town itself, much like Prince Rupert, is surrounded by an incredibly beautiful landscape. Puerto Montt is a lot bigger and a lot more chaotic, but the resemblance was there nonetheless.
My return to Chile was going swimmingly. Lots of sunny weather, unproblematic bike rides, and fancy coffees. I was feeling optimistic and ready to take on the Carretera Austral, a scenic road that winds 1200km through Chilean Patagonia, starting in Puerto Montt and ending in Villa O’Higgins. Finally, the trip seemed to be turning around.
After two nights in Puerto Montt, I had made a few adjustments to my bike and belongings. I had bought a pair of $2 Hawaiian shorts to wear while doing laundry. I’d eaten a delicious piece of Kuchen, a German cake that Chile has adopted as their own. So I got on my bike and off I went, into a land that promised glaciers, fjords, and infinite beauty.
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