Don't Cry for Me 2005: Final Chapter

I got Thai food (spices! tofu! broccoli!) and 12 hours of sleep last night, so I'm finally ready to recap the rest of our adventures in South America.

Let's see, when last I left off, we were in the Toshota Corosha, driving through the Andes.

As you'll see if you've looked at the pictures (or if you've been there yourself), the Andes are not like any mountains in North America. Visualize the rock of Arizona or Utah - reds, golds, deep umber browns - and create enormous, peaked mountains like the Rockies with them. Only bigger. No trees, just low green scrappy shrubs and grasses. Extremely dry and windy. Spectacularly beautiful, and impossible to capture with camera or words.

Before crossing into Chile, we made some stops around Aconcagua National Park. There was Puenta de Inca, a stop on the famous Incan road system and, in the 20th century, a ritzy lodge with natural thermal baths. The hotel was destroyed by a rock slide in 1965, but remnants of the thermal bath building still stand, nestled under a natural rock bridge over the Rio Mendoza. Individual soaking rooms still remain - the tile and fixtures nearly destroyed by the harsh elements - and warm, sulfury water continues to bubble forth, leaving colorful mineral deposits everywhere. We hiked past the church - the only intact building - and up the hillside a ways, breathless from the altitude. Overhead, we saw an enormous Andean Condor, circling in the air and then chasing a smaller bird.

We also stopped at the Aconcagua Climber's Cemetary, the final resting place of many who have died on that mountain, as well as life-long climbers who have chosen to be buried there. There are probably 100 people buried in the cemetary, from all around the world, stretching back nearly 100 years.

Lastly, we stopped at a viewpoint for mighty Aconcagua itself, highest peak in the Western Hemisphere. Megan and I wished we had a couple of days to really hike here, and much as I enjoyed Chile, I still would have passed it up for a couple more days in those mountains, getting out among the rocks and the plant life and the birds.

Crossing over the Andes ultimately involves a tunnel. I guess the road just can't get high enough to actually go over the spine. The tunnel itself must be a marvel of engineering, winding for a seemingly impossibly long time through the bowels of the rock (the Mines of Moria, anyone?). The way down on the Chilean side seems even more impressive than the Argentine side, if that's possible. Winding down 33 switchbacks (they count them for you) and probably about 6,000 feet, every turn displays more breathtaking scenery and hair-raising roads.

Once at the bottom, Chile was a greener and more agricultural country than Argentina. It was late summer, and harvest time. While Argentina seemed to have two things - orchards and prairie - Chile was bursting with beautiful produce, especially avocados. Avocados as far as the eye could see, growing up hillsides, for sale in heaps at roadside stands for astonishingly low prices.

We pulled into Renaca, our little beach suburb, around dinner time. Renaca is a little upscale beach resort just north of the larger upsale beach resort of Vina del Mar, which in turn is just north of the larger, grittier, artsier port city of Valparaiso, tumbling down the hillside in a cascade of color and noise. Among other things, Valparaiso is known as Chile's city of poets, boasting one of the homes of Pablo Neruda.

Because of a music festival underway in Vina, the feeling there and in Renaca was like South of France meets Spring Break. Hordes of partying young people, celebrities arriving in well-guarded buses amid throngs of screaming fans, and techno-pop music thumping in the bars well into the wee hours. This, I could have done without. The Pacific down there is much like up here, with volcanic rock formations, seals, and a hard, pounding surf.

Our first night in Renaca, we ate at a Mexican restaurant, where our waitress was from Texas. Inspired by a Latin American history class, she had come to Chile 18 months prior, with absolutely no Spanish but some sort of student set-up, and was now waiting tables while waiting for her Chilean fiance to get a visa to return to the states with her. She gaves us detailed advice and instructions on where to go, what to see, and how to get around, which proved invaluable. When asked what she would miss most about Chile, she said "the avocados. Definitely the avocados."

Our first day was overcast and cool - more San Francisco than San Diego - and we were all tired. We shopped, slept, and got massages for about $15. Chile was more expensive than Argentina, but still generally a screaming deal.

Refreshed, the next day we hopped a bus for Valparaiso. The lower city of Valpo is stately and filled with ornate Spanish-style buildings, plazas and monuments. From there, you can take any of about a dozen ascensores - a cross between a cable car and an elevator - up to the old city, on the hill. You can also drive or walk the narrow, winding, cobblestone streets to the top, but the ascensores, the oldest built in the 1880s, are a more interesting way to go.

Once on top, there is endless exploring of winding, climbing streets, the houses painted bright colors - indeed, people have taken it upon themselves to paint everything. Light posts, window gratings, benches, gates - all have received the artistic touch. Along with the many craft shops, this gives the upper city the air of a bohemian artist's community, set against the backdrop of stunning sea and hillside vistas. It really is a magical place, though we were warned many times that Valparaiso has a grittier element and we should be careful of our backpacks and cameras, and get off the upper city before nightfall. We ended our afternoon with chocolate o'clock at a cafe with a beautiful view of the ocean, lower Valpo, and Vina del Mar.

After that there was dinner at a Syrian restaurant in Vina del Mar; the drive the next day back through the Andes with a stop for lunch at the Portillo ski resort, where for many years the US and other national ski teams have practiced during the northern hemisphere's summer months; another border crossing; and through Mendoza to the small town of San Luis, notable only as a stopover on the Pampases. There we stayed in the town's only 4-star hotel (for $30 a night!) and had a great meal ("Oh my god," said Megan, when the vegetable soup arrived, "I think I see a sweet potato.")

The last day of driving was again across the Pampases and it seemed long. By this time, we had exhausted all the word games we could think of. We debated whether it had been worth it to drive from BA to Mendoza, but agreed that while we really didn't need to experience the Argentine Pampas twice, we would have wondered what we'd missed if we hadn't done it at all. Plus, we would have missed seeing live polo games (the Argentines are big polo fans, and apparently the British royal family buys some of its polo horse stock there); an astonishing diversity of raptors and water fowl; and the most enormous free-range pigs you can possibly imagine.

Lastly, there were two more days in BA, which involved some final sightseeing and shopping. By the time we got on the plane Tuesday night, we were all ready to head home. Once we got through immigration and airport security, the airline announcements were increasingly in English first and Spanish second. I realized I could put away the pocket Spanish dictionary that had been my constant companion for two weeks. Before embarking on the 20-hour journey home, we drank a final bottle of Malbec at the airport snack bar, and toasted the continent that had treated us so well.