Zesty Lemon

The final chapter of my Argentinian adventure. Complete with epilogue and details of summit successes. Click here for the previous part, or click here for my diary on the mountain.

After some revitalisation, we had to get some of our money changed into Argentinean Pesos. Contrary to what Adventure Peaks had advised, it was the most widely accepted currency and the US dollars we had exchanged were largely useless. Although we definitely lost out by switching our money twice, I was pleasantly surprised by the exchange rate offered in Mendoza. With our pockets only slightly lightened, we made our way back to the hotel through the crowded streets. For a relatively small city, I was staggered at how busy the streets were and indeed how slow people seem to walk. The pavements were narrow and the locals seemed to only have two walking speeds; slow and coma. Treading carefully and trying to project my frustrations by telepathy didn’t have any impact on their urgency, and I was left longing for manhole covers to yield in front of them; plunging them out of sight faster than they’d ever moved before.

The evening brought a discussion of something we’d all been looking forward to. Argentina is of course famed for its steak and before our enforced weight loss, I was determined to indulge. We stormed a restaurant close to the hotel on a recommendation from our guide; which turned out to be more of a buffet. I heaped a large steak on to my plate from the naked BBQ and made a beeline straight for our table. I should have really heeded the warning when it took me a good few minutes and a sweaty brow to split the meat in two. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. It was flavourless, dry and so chewy that you could be excused for thinking it had come from a plasticine cow. I noticed at this point that our guide; who had so vehemently recommended the restaurant, hadn’t touched the steak and instead stuck to white meat. As much as I hoped his GI tract would live to regret this choice, I’m guessing that his committed selection of eatery probably had some sort of financial betterment for him.

The following day was all about permits and food for the expedition. After a leisurely breakfast, we took a short walk over to the permit office in order to obtain our stupidly important A4 sheets that would secure entry on to the mountain. Given their relaxed approach to transatlantic immigration, the formalities for climbing the mountain absorbed most of the morning, and in an advent of logic that would have taken several British think-tanks to surmise, our guides had to visit a completely different location to actually pay for them.

After breaking for lunch, we reconvened at a large supermarket about half a miles walk from our hotel. Splitting into teams, we were given lists of products to find and their associated quantities. Between stealing glances of a very pretty Hispanic woman with a translucent dress and an attachment to products on the bottom shelf, we were largely successful. We piled over 8 trolleys high with everything from toilet role to hot chocolate powder and; much to the bemusement of the store manager, preceded towards the checkout. I have a photo, taken just at the point where we realised that we’d blown the budget and didn’t have the funds to pay. The look on our guide’s face was priceless and it was only the generosity of one of our group that saved the day.

If we’d perhaps been a bit more cunning, we’d have taken our capacious backpacks with us to the shop. Unfortunately, this thought only occurred when I was having my arms pulled harshly from their sockets with every rhythmic step, clutching two heavy bags brimming with sustenance. Praying that the bottoms of the bags held true, I adopted a kind of uneven shuffle – the kind that one embraces when in a semi-permanent state of unbalance and in doing so, blended in remarkably with the locals’ gait. Arriving back at the hotel with considerably longer limbs, we arranged our purchases neatly in the lobby and by the time everyone had arrived back from the supermarket, we had acquired a veritable mountain of produce.

The following day came and it was now time to kiss goodbye to the hotel. With our bags finally packed for the trek, we formed a human chain from the hotel reception into the car park and all the way to our waiting bus in order to convey both our bags and food more efficiently. My guidebook indicated that the three-hour journey from Mendoza to the hostel at Puerta del Inca was supposedly a very scenic one. I nabbed a seat at the front of the bus and we set off from the rear entrance of the hotel.

Given that this was a mountaineering expedition and that even our city-softened flesh had no desire for feminine napkins on the hill, we left a small bag of clothes and valuables in secure storage at our hotel. However, no sooner had we departed the dappled leafy streets of suburbia, a member of the group ashamedly informed our guide that he had left his climbing permit in his ‘checked’ luggage. It’s funny how effective the universal language of gesticulation, especially in the context of frustration, can be but it was clear that the driver was not best pleased about returning to the hotel to retrieve the missing document.

Take two of the drive was much more successful! Apart from some ‘wild’ overtaking manoeuvres in which the seat lining very nearly became one with my rear passage, we arrived at the hostel in blistering heat and unpacked the coach. Although it was a hostel, we were fortunate to have our own room and bathroom facilities. The following morning, we loaded up the remainder of our gear, repacked it into two trailers towed by ancient 4x4s, and departed for the trailhead. Minutes later, with permits checked, clean skin and the sun on our faces; we stole one last glance at real civilisation, and set off into the mountains.

~

Epilogue:

Of the 12 or so members of the climbing group, only two made the summit in the end. My companion who I already knew; Alan, and Christian; who has since gone on to other peaks and most recently conquered Pik Lenin in the Pamir range.

Adventure Peaks sent me a feedback form a few weeks after my return to the UK. Unfortunately, I could think of few kind things to say about their logistics and management of the trip, and instead, binned it! On the following trip to Aconcagua that Adventure Peaks ran after ours, a member of the expedition died on the mountain. So far; to my knowledge and research, Adventure Peaks haven’t commented on the circumstances.

After getting off the mountain, I finally found a great steak – in fact, I found several and actually came back to the UK with a greater girth than when I left.

The return journey passed without event really. We had an altercation with another passenger at the Madrid transit, when; on account of urgency, she deemed elbowing as an acceptable way to part our jet-lagged shuffling. We only had about 30 minutes to make our connecting flight and as a consequence, none of our bags arrived at Gatwick but they found their back to my house about four days later covered in Latin American dust. The trip held one last surprise a week after my return. I came to unpack my hand luggage at home and discovered my cutlery set nested in a fleece I’d packed for the journey. I stared in disbelief, wondering how I had made it through four separate airports, three separate flights and 5 independent security checks with a potential weapon in my bag!

I never made the top of Aconcagua. Am I disappointed? Yes. Am I going to loose sleep over it? No. It’ll always be there if I want to return and who knows? Maybe they’ll have showers there someday!

Tags: Aconcagua, Adventure Peaks, Argentina, Argentine, Epilogue, Steak, Vacas Valley