Latinalicious: The South America Diaries

by Becky Wicks

  Kendra explained how she feels the passion of winemaking in Mendoza far more than she’s felt it anywhere in her home country. ‘In Argentina, drinking wine is an event to be cherished and shared,’ she told us as we swirled and sniffed and swigged yet another fine Malbec Reserve from the highly regarded winemaker Michel Rolland, who’s so famous that a bottle with his signature on it immediately doubles in value. ‘It’s the same as eating here. Eating is a time when people come together to engage, not a means to an end like it is in a lot of other places.’

  I like that eating isn’t just seen as a means to an end here. Thinking about it, whereas McDonald’s, Burger King and Subway are still everywhere you look in these parts, you don’t really see the abundance of fast food spin-offs here like you do in other countries. Cafes and local restaurants that have been in business for years are still drawing huge crowds. Argentineans are creatures of habit, but those habits seem to involve visiting their much-loved regular haunts in the name of comfort, familiarity and sharing as much with the staff as they do with their own friends and family.

  At the restaurant Azafrán, which is known as one of Argentina’s best restaurants, Pablo Ranea, who’s been whipping up his creations here since 2006, came out to personally say hi, because, like I said, Kendra knows everyone in Mendoza and Mendocinians are immensely proud of their food.

  Pablo proceeded to serve us some of the most incredible empanadas — make that the most incredible empanadas — I have ever had, all filled with chunky steak meat and oozing gravy, encased in perfect pastry half-moons. Oh my God. If one of these empanadas was a man, I would marry it. The restaurant is pretty pricey but trust me, even if you just order the empanadas, you will die a happy bunny.

  Anyway, Autumn, Kendra and I sat there for a while making noises like ‘mmmm’ and ‘ohmygodthisissooogood’, and were then joined by a fascinating American man called Jon Staenberg, a venture capital expert from Seattle who has a fifty-acre vineyard here in Mendoza called Hand of God. As we chatted over yet more wine, which was paired by the sommelier to a range of dishes such as cheese-crusted bife de lomo, or the most amazing fillet steak, if you’re no meat expert, Jon told us all about how his intriguingly named business came to be.

  I naturally assumed he and his college friend-turned-business partner ran this winery from a religious ranch somewhere with crucifixes on every wall, the fruits of their labour being a rich, blood-red wine they then bottle with love and spiritual wellbeing. But no. Hand of God, he told me, was named after the controversial World Cup goal scored by Argentinean soccer hero Diego Maradona in 1986. There’s a lot I have to learn about soccer. And wine, for that matter.

  Did you know there are companies that specialise entirely in fixing wine-tasting rooms with different lights? I had no idea how much thought goes into these things until Kendra and these equally passionate wine aficionados started telling us. Lights in tasting rooms are supposed to be of a particular colour and brightness, and all walls should ideally be white, because different colours can trigger different emotions and stop you thinking about the wine.

  Green, for example, is supposed to make you think of meat. I’m still not entirely sure why — the only thing I can think of is that animals eat grass. Blue apparently makes you think of citrus and can magically conjure notes in your mind that aren’t even in your wine.

  When Autumn and I had our tour of Club Tapiz, we were shown a darkroom that’s pitch black. It reminded me of a time I went speed-dating in the dark (not a wise move on anyone’s part for a number of reasons), but that aside, this particular room works in a similar way to the bright lights and white walls: when you taste your wine in complete darkness, you’re unaffected by anything else, allowing your senses to work out more about the nose, body and flavours of the wine. How clever is that?

  I think Autumn has just returned, and judging from her message on my Facebook wall, I did indeed miss a wonderful day of fun among the wineries. Hmph. The fire is dying down and thankfully so are my stomach cramps, and as I haven’t puked in a few hours, maybe the bug has vacated my system. I hope so. There’s so much more to learn and digest in this city, it’s almost criminal not to be able to keep it down.

  10/09

  Gaucho girls and the perfect climax …

  I don’t know about you but I’ve always had a truly romantic image of what it must be like to be a gaucho. Or with a gaucho. I imagined a brooding group of sun-kissed men, with taut muscles and horse whispering qualities and a penchant for romps in hay, all set to reduce any woman in range to a quivering puddle.

  As it turns out, not all of them are like that.

  When Kendra, our wine guru and fast-becoming friend, collected us for another day of alcohol-infused exploits, it wasn’t long before we were speeding off to the highest altitude vineyard in Mendoza, the rather funkily named Zorzal. Contrary to my imaginings, Zorzal was not a wine-filled space pod elevated above the ground, although they did have some rather space-agey looking eggs on the forecourt. I maintain that these really would make excellent rocket ships if only they weren’t being used to ferment wine.

  Sitting in the tasting room around a large table surrounded by barrels, the guys at Zorzal poured us the bottled fruits of their harvest, which proved a delicious testament to how well this young winery has been doing since it opened in 2008. I particularly loved the Climax Owners Blend 2010. It’s probably the nicest wine I’ve had in Mendoza so far — or ever. Look it up. It’s soft, sensual and soothing like the tango singer it’s named after (though in Russia it’s seen as even cheekier, as climax means menopause over there).

  I’m liking all this new wine knowledge, you know? It makes me feel learned. Last week I thought a good wine was anything without a screw cap.

  And so it was that, fuelled by a sufficient amount of booze, Autumn, Kendra and I headed up into the mountains for some horse riding with the sexy, chiselled cowboys of our imaginations. Here at La Quebrada del Cóndor, amid the snowy slopes of the Cordón del Plata range, scintillating views and yet another asado were waiting for us, along with some significantly porkier gauchos than the ones we’d envisioned.

  It’s not that I was disappointed when the smiley-faced, grey-haired, rotund gaucho opened the door of his humble hut in the middle of a field. The house was the house of my romantic dreams, what with its smoking chimney and grilled meat fumes, and bottles of red wine being poured generously into glasses as if we hadn’t had enough already. I think I was just surprised. No one was exhibiting any horse whispering, or sun-kissed naked torsos. I couldn’t see any hay bales anywhere, either. Or anyone under fifty.

  No matter, we enjoyed a spectacular feast of chorizo and beef rumps and glazed onions grilled to perfection, as we asked our hosts about the numerous black and white photos on the brick walls depicting gauchos from generations past. Some of those were bare-chested and even appeared to be whispering to horses, which made me think perhaps a slew of straight Brokeback Mountain-style hotties were waiting for us around the corner, once we’d finished lunch.

  They weren’t.

  But by then we were quite tipsy and over it anyway. Our older, knowledgeable gauchos were gallant men of the land and were pretty darn impressive on horseback, even in their flowing, gargantuan ponchos which, when filled with wind, served to make them look even bigger than their horses.

  They galloped around the green and mustard plains and we trotted, as carefully as we could, being full of red wine and asado. Autumn somehow managed to carry her camera throughout the whole ride, which made for a lot of wonky photos of horses’ hooves and a great one of Kendra falling off as her saddle slipped sideways. Luckily her horse was walking at the time and not attempting to jump over an icy stream.

  The jagged, white and brown painted backdrop of the Andes made for a memorable afternoon riding around, although it was freezing cold. I know I’ve mentioned how these winter climes are taking some getting used to. Shopping was all just too expensive in Buenos Aires and as a traveller I’
m starting to think I should have as little to carry as possible (learnt that from trying to shove the koala bears onto a bus more than anything else). My Quito jumper is getting a lot more wear than it should right now, because it’s easy to forget when you’re in a mild city that a few kilometres out in the mountains can be a totally different temperature.

  I had to borrow a gaucho’s gloves and another’s huge puffy jacket just to brave the ride. Even if the gauchos had been young and hot and up for a romp in a hay bale, it would have been way too cold and I would have spent the best part of an hour getting all my clothes off. Not very romantic, really.

  Autumn and I are starting to think we could happily live forever in Mendoza. We’re not the only ones, either. An earthquake in 1861 destroyed the city and another in 1985 did some serious damage, but a Taste of Mendoza tour (as recommended by the Lonely Planet) with a lovely local lady called Magdalena provided even more proof as to why potential earthquakes will never put people off coming here, or staying.

  We discovered things like how Mendoza actually means Cold Mountain, how the little squares around the city have been built to offer safe open-air spaces to run to in the event of an earthquake, and how the drainage system is infinitely superior to others throughout the world (drainage systems are fascinating, I’ll have you know).

  Magdalena also offered us copious amounts of the drink mate (pronounced mah-tay) as we wandered around the city. This is a favourite drink here in Argentina and I’m growing quite fond of it. Mate is made by steeping the ground leaves and stems of the yerba mate plant. You sip it through a metal straw with a filter in it, so you don’t end up with unflattering bits of plant stuff in your teeth. Everywhere you go, you’ll see people drinking it from special flasks. I think it’s a slight upper. We felt pretty good after sipping it as we sat on our wooden bench by the river in the gorgeous Parque General San Martín, learning the stories surrounding a nearby haunted house.

  All in all, Mendoza is a tantalising land of sun, culture and wine, and in spite of its gauchos not being exactly as anticipated, the scenery is some of the most photogenic around. And there’s still time to find a sexy gaucho, I suppose; there’s plenty more of South America to see. We shall prevail.

  Before packing our bags once more, we deposited another koala with the lovely Magdalena, and one with Kendra, too, which took us down to twenty-five — an acceptable number, we felt, to carry with us over the border to Santiago.

  17/09

  Whistle stop Santiago and a lesson in history …

  As we took a juddering bus from Mendoza through the Andes, the views of snow-capped peaks gave a hungover Autumn and me an everlasting first impression of Chile. Then, at the border, Autumn’s case was randomly selected to be opened and searched, so she had the pleasure of unloading onto a table piles of laundry, both clean and dirty, together with camera and laptop cables and one or two stray koalas, as an entire busload of people looked on in amusement.

  For some time we were held up by her giant family-sized barrels of calcium-magnesium tablets and protein powder, which she’d packed in the hopes that maybe we would eat them instead of vast amounts of cheese and Malbec. Obviously we haven’t touched them since she arrived; nor have we used the skipping rope with weights in the handles that she also packed in anticipation of a daily workout. It’s the thought that counts, though. And at least the sniffer dog had something to do.

  Our final night with Kendra had seen us making the most of a wine-tasting event at the Intercontinental Hotel, and by ‘making the most’ I mean we sampled maybe eighty top varietals from Mendoza’s exceptional array of vineyards before hooking up with some of Kendra’s friends in a nightclub. By the end of it, we weren’t exactly feeling on top form.

  We made it back to our room at a cute B&B called Casa Lila at 7 a.m. and slept straight through the alarm at nine, so that owners Pablo and Mariela and possibly their dog Olivia all had to take it in turns to try and wake us up.

  After a panicked flurry of shoving things into suitcases and sitting on them, Pablo drove our still-tipsy selves at full speed to the bus station, where we promptly missed the bus for which we’d paid almost $50 each.

  Luckily the views and two cans of Red Bull took our minds off the misery as we waited for the next bus, surrounded by a pile of booze-absorbing empanadas. Unfortunately they didn’t wipe the recurring flashbacks of dancing barefoot in a stranger’s kitchen somewhere in Mendoza only hours before, singing Call Me Maybe while eating pizza.

  With only two days in Santiago before heading south to Chile’s volcanic action capital of Pucón, Autumn and I arrived with our bags in a disgruntled heap at The Aubrey in Santiago’s hipster hub, Bellavista. We’re still glam-packing it a bit because Autumn has photos to take for a book of hotels she’s working on, but after this we have a whole heap more hostels to stay in.

  The Aubrey didn’t judge us. Well, not out loud anyway. The Aubrey is the kind of place that scolds your hangover with its pure, visual splendour.

  ‘How dare you look so rubbish within these walls!’ it challenges, with its heated terrace swimming pool, outdoor tables in the shape of snuffling pigs and mansion-house interior complete with authentically squeaking staircases.

  ‘Sort your life out!’ it cries as you struggle up the stairs with your pathetic backpacker’s rucksack and Winnie the Pooh suitcase, passing immaculately dressed businesswomen in suits and men in expensive shoes.

  Over complimentary pisco sours (a must-have cocktail in Chile, although, to be honest, I think pisco — a grape brandy — tastes a bit like Dettol), we narrowed down the most important things to do and see in the city. These were: eat seafood, eat more seafood and visit the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos — the Museum of Memory and Human Rights. Then we failed to do anything with our day except eat some choclo con lomo (which is some sort of sweet corn concoction served with delicious, tender beef), at a corner restaurant called Galindo (amazing!), complain about the excessive number of smokers in the place (why must people still do this next to others who are eating?), and fall asleep.

  The next morning, shopping called. We headed to Calle Bandera, a street of vintage and second-hand shops a block away from Plaza de Armas in the heart of Santiago, which can entertain you for hours with some absolute bargains. We bought nothing but a second-hand winter jacket each, however, because we’re told it’s going to be very cold down south, especially when we get on the cruise from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia, the capital of Tierra del Fuego. I’ve made the mistake of not being prepared for these trips before, of course, so I wanted to make sure we were both well equipped this time. I still shudder when I think of my minivan day in Ecuador.

  The jackets we bought are disgusting. They’re so bad they would have been horrible even when they were made and first worn with love in the 90s. Autumn’s is big, puffy and white, and mine is bulky, fat and black. Walking down the street wearing them, we caught a look at our sad shapes in a shop window and renamed ourselves Marshmallow and Tyre Man.

  In our new apparel, we ate some lovely seafood in Mercado Central — a busy, noisy, stinky place with a circus atmosphere and amazing live music provided by guys walking around with violins and guitars — and then it was time for our Chilean history lesson.

  As soon as you exit the Metro station Quinta Normal, the giant green box of a building that contains the Museo de la Memoria looms over you, casting an instant shadow on your mood. I don’t think we were quite prepared for it. Exiting this museum after what must have been almost four hours, we felt like we’d been strapped into a rollercoaster ride and slapped about the face by reality. Wow. The mountains that guard this city in their soldier’s coats of smog have seen some very, very dark times.

  As we walked around the nearby Parque Quinta Normal, clutching styrofoam cups of steaming Nescafé and dodging kids speeding across the gravel paths on tricycles, a voice on a loudspeaker, sounding eerily like that of one of the armed soldiers we’d just been listening to, boomed from
a stand near the boating lake and made us both jump. If there’s one thing to put you on edge, it’s watching televised images of death, chaos and destruction in pretty much the same space as it happened, not even forty years ago.

  If you do one thing in Santiago, or Santiarsehole as it’s often labelled most unfairly thanks to the smog that arches over it all like a filthy rainbow, skip the seafood, don’t even bother with the vintage clothes, but do not, I repeat, do not miss this museum. If you’re on a budget, go anyway because it’s free.

  This three-storey space is dedicated to raising awareness of the shocking human rights violations committed by the State of Chile between 1973 and 1990. Via a series of documents, installations, television and radio broadcasts, plus the audio guide, if you pay an extra thousand pesos like we did, you’re swept through the military coup, the subsequent oppression endured by Chileans, the forced exile of thousands, the horrendous torture imposed on prisoners, and then the resistance, finally leading to the disbandment of the ruling junta, which had by 1990 brought the country to its knees. Take some tissues.

  I wasn’t even born when all the trouble started and I was just a kid when stories of this dictatorship broke across the world. I vaguely remember the celebrations on the news when at last there was a return to democracy, but I knew very little of the junta and General Pinochet’s control … and not just because I was too busy dancing around to Wham in my Doc Martens.

  In those days, there was no social media to enlighten us where official media lied, no Facebook updates sharing photos and posts depicting torture and heartbreak, no mobile phones or Twitter feeds to enable cries for help or news of loved ones to be heard.