The best camping
spot we could find in three days driving across Patagonia’s desolate
scrub was a gravel pit. Not even the fist-sized stones protruding though our thin
sleeping mats could persuade us that this wasn’t the best camping site
ever. We liked it so much
that the following night we went out of our way to ask a local landowner
if he wouldn’t mind too much if we slept in his gravel pit.
Our destination,
Bariloche, is an oasis of scenery in Patagonia’s wastelands.
Majestic snow topped mountains dwarf hills that roll down to
picturesque lakes ringed by tasteful chalets.
This is Argentina’s Lakes District and it is more like the
Patagonia you see in brochures and travel magazines and nothing like the
Patagonia we had spent the last three days enduring.
Bariloche town
centre is a honeypot of chocolate shops, restaurants, cafes and bars
catering to foreign tourists and Argentineans who, despite the country’s
economic crisis, can afford to while away the day sipping submarinos and
nibbling dulce de leche confectionaries.
Bariloche isn’t all decadence and if you really feel you have to
earn your artery-hardening delights then there is hiking, paragliding,
mountain biking and reputedly the best rock climbing in South America.
My broken ankle
had forced us to split with the Hot Rock climbing expedition we had been
travelling with, but we had arranged to meet up in Bariloche for a rare
night out on the town. After
spending so long on the road and rough camping the Hot Rockers were keen
to get out of their dirty and presently discoloured clothes and into
something a bit more exuberant. A
fancy dress theme of Glam was promptly declared.
Living in close
quarters with each other and generally wearing nothing but filthy outdoor
gear, fancy dress nights offer a prized opportunity for self expression
and Hot Rockers latch onto them with an enthusiasm that would get them up
the hardest rock routes. The
local second hand stores were pillaged and glitter supplies raped.
But it didn’t stop there; four heads went blue, two blond, two
red and one purple. Some of
the guys spent more getting their hair dyed than all they’d spent on
hair care in the last five years.
Later, dressed in
new clothes and hair done up, it was clear that the theme’s target of
Glam had been missed. While the girls alone wouldn’t have looked amiss in a
trendy club, in the presence of the boys’ pimps and rent boys costumes
they looked more like high-class call girls.
A new theme for the night was spontaneously declared – Pimps and
Prostitutes – and we all fit right in.
Argentineans live
life late: they eat late, they go out late, drink late, come home late and
presumably get up late. By
the time we deemed it a suitable time to hit the town
we had already lost one of our party to the ravages of too much too
early. She was escorted to bed demonstrating her grasp of Spanish by
shouting “Bueno! Super Bueno! SUPER DUPER BUENO!” Even though we had put off going out for as long as we
could there was still only one place that would be lively enough for us
this early – the dreaded “Irish Bar”
Over the last
twenty years, like some kind of infection, “Irish Bars” have sprung up
in seemingly every place of habitation on the planet.
While pubs are something the Irish are justifiably proud of, these
perversions bear as much similarity to the genuine article as a bottle of
embalming fluid to 18-year-old single malt.
“Irish Bars” are characterised by a clientele of poseurs
leaning on polished oak and brass direct out the “How to Build an Irish
Pub” catalogue with over priced Guinness incompetently poured by some
Aussie who doesn’t have enough cash to finish their around the world
journey. Perversely the only
place in the world there are no “Irish Bars” is Ireland.
The pub we ended
up in was no different. It
was midnight and distinctly unlike a pub in Ireland - half of its patrons
were sitting down to a candle lit diner and enjoying a fine bottle of red.
The Guinness was five times the price it ought to have been and was
poured out of a bottle with a flourish totally out of character with the
nature of the drink – I suppose I should have been thankful that they
didn’t draw a shamrock on the head.
The only thing out of place was that the collapse of the
Argentinean Peso meant no self-respecting Aussie could be arsed working
there.
Eagle eyed
management quickly spotted that we were there to party and ushered us to
the back away from their more discerning customers. Seated at a long table
with a background of cheesy dance numbers it looked like a decidedly
mediocre night was on the cards. However,
a critical mass of alcohol and a change of DJ had us all on the dance
floor showing the locals how to party.
Three short hours of shirtless, crutchless, frenzied dancing later
we showed them how to go home early.
