Valdivia to Bariloche, and the second scariest border crossing of my life

In Valdivia, we pottered around for a few days. The rain did eventually ease, and we took a little day-trip to the nearby seaside town of Niebla, which turned out to be tiny and rural in the most quaint, sleepy sense.

It took us about five minutes to see the village, and half an hour to exhaust the comic photo opportunities of sand. Then spent the rest of the day in search of food. There were about three little restaurants, two of which had apparently closed for the year. So we ate a surprisingly good meal (the only two dishes on the theoretical menu) at a roadside shack, listening to the friendly chatter of the elderly waiter, who didn’t seem to care that we didn’t understand. Then hopped a bus back to reliable, but more boring, civilisation.

And soon, for various reasons now forgotten, we thought it time to venture over to the Argentine side of the border for a while. Which could have been done via a mere five-hour bus ride from Valdivia straight to Bariloche. But we decided that life’s a journey (not a destination), so opted to do things the hard way.

The hard way began with a bus to nearby Panguipulli (backing over our own progress a little, but no matter), which was a nice little town, like Pucón without tourists, so no complaints as we were forced to spend the night thanks to scheduling problems.

Then, in the morning, another bus to Puerto Fuy, where (we rejoiced and thought ourselves lucky) the daily ferry stood waiting to take us down the long lake Pirehueico.

The ferry was a welcome change of transportation; peaceful and picturesque. But, as it approached the opposite shore and the end of its journey, we found ourselves staring at the small cluster of huts along the lake growing larger but no more numerous, wondering where the hell the rest of the town was supposed to be. Apparently (as we now know, and contrary to evil guidebooks), there was none – and no semblance of public transport either.

We managed to hitch a ride for the first time in my life, with a nice old man, and we sat in the back of his pick-up truck squeezed between boxes of rapidly defrosting raw chickens.

He took us as far as Chilean customs, but after that we were on our own, and very much so. The nearest Argentine town was 50km away, and we saw no sign of a single vehicle as we walked along the dusty mountain road, with all our worldly possessions strapped to our backs, passing through various immigration formalities along the way (we grew used to the worried looks on officials’ faces as they realised we were on foot).

We walked for about an hour and a half, and were starting to seriously fear for our well-being, when by divine luck, a Land Cruiser came bounding up behind us, containing two friendly Argentine police officers from the border checkpoint on their way home. For which I was endlessly grateful, but even as I vowed to keep my poor undeserving self away from dodgy border crossings from then on, I knew it was a pipe dream.

The border guards took us as far as San Martín de los Andes – another log-cabin-filled, pseudo-Alpine, chocolate box of a town where fancy ski shops jostle for space among cutesy chocolaterías.

We spent a couple days in its warmth and chocolate-scented cosiness, going for a hike in the surrounding mountains that took double as long as it should have because we got lost, but found our way to the impressive lake views eventually.

We also visited nearby Junín de los Andes, which, while sounding similar and being nearby, was surprisingly bland; but no one expected the trout capital of Argentina to be a buzzing pit of riotous hedonism. Instead it contained an elaborate religious park, depicting the story of Christ in a series of harrowing sculptures. And culminated, as I’m finding many things do these days, in some impressive panoramic views.

Now, finally, we are in Bariloche. It’s like a bigger, even more tourist-stuffed version of Pucón. The Swiss theme is wearing thin and the ski-burned puffa-clad ski-tourists are more infuriating than ever. And before anyone accuses me of being nothing but a ski spectator and never partaking in any of life’s activities, I’d like to point out that I’d love to be able to afford it. So instead we’ve been devoting copious amounts of time to fretting.

Now I don’t quite know how to explain the sheer near-impossibility of travelling around Patagonia. Suffice to say it is near impossible. And absolutely impossible to go the way you want to go, or the way that would seem most logical, or convenient, or cheap or easy.

So we’re going to have to wing it, and hope for the best, and certainly hope that we won’t be stranded somewhere between two countries again (but at the same time increasing our chances of doing so as much as must be possible, as we’re looking at about five more Chile-Argentina crossings before we’re done with that border. Partly because it’s funny, but mostly because traversing Patagonia, as I’ve mentioned, is just not logical).

But hey. It will probably be all the more exciting for it.