A few kilometres out of the town
of Chos Malal there is a monumental statue celebrating the halfway mark of
route 40. We had made it halfway, but weather-wise had missed the chance to
continue further South, where the cold of the Antarctic winter was already
making its presence known. The crisp steel cut map of the Americas is upside
down, markedly pointing out that South America is not Under any other country.
The towering flag pole is also purposely curved possibly symbolising both the
curve of the earth and the forces of the powerful winds that blow across the Southern
part of Argentina. We turn West at Las Lajas, having failed again to withdraw
any cash from the ATM. Our bank card is only recognised by itself in the cities
where the international banks have ATMs. The local and national banks/ATMs
flash up ‘invalid’ and cash withdrawals have been difficult in Argentina,
however paying by card is acceptable at most supermarkets, fuelstops and
restaurants. Our friends had kindly swopped some Arg pesos for Chilean pesos
and we had a coin for the tunnel soon after the border crossing. As they had
gone on holiday, we were invited to empty the fridge of consumables that wouldn’t
last. A bag full of red cabbage, cucumbers, ham, apples, carrots and a gem
squash were bungied onto the panniers, ready for a delicious vegetable supper
stirfry. We climb from an altitude of 446m to 1900, passing through twisted
upheaved boulders and a forest of ‘monkey-puzzle’ trees, watch Cranes and
Herons mingling in a mountain top pool before reaching the barriers, where we
are handed a scrappy piece of paper on which the guard has noted our time of
arrival, plus make, model and registration number. We park, dismount, gather
the all-important folder of papers and make our way to ‘Entrada’.
Check, Check, Stamp, Stamp:
Immigration Done.
Next desk: Check, Check, Stamp,
Stamp: Customs Done.
B wandered off to find a chair.
His ribs are taking strain. In my best Spanish I explain why he needs a chair:
‘Costella Fractura’, I say and continue filling out two forms that have been
thrust into my hand, one for each us but I fill
out both, because B cannot really stand at the counter anymore. ‘Anything to Declare?
No, No, No I tick all the No boxes.
And then there is the Bike
Inspection.
“Espagnole??”says the nice man.
“No, Chiquito. Inglis” I say.
He says “Frutta?”
And then I get carried away, proudly showing off the extent of my
Espagnole vocab: ”bebida, comedor, por favour, gracias, carne”. I proudly
rattle off a string of words and turn to the seated B asking “what’s that funny word
for Carrot? Zed something?”
Half listening he replies “ we’ve
got carrots in that bag, actually we’ve got a lot of fruit and vege in that bag.”
Then it registers. He’s not
testing my Spanish speaking capabilities, he’s asking me if we are carrying any
fruit or vege. STRICTLY not allowed to cross from Arg into Chile. I grab the bag, hand
it to him with many
apologies “Sorry, Sorry, Non Comprehendo”. Out comes the lovely red cabbage and all our potential
dinner, taken away somewhere. And then I get given the form back. I cross out
the Nothing to Declare and tick the Yes, Fruit and Veg to declare. This form is
now invalid.
Back to the office, new clean
form: Name, Passport, Date of Birth, ANYTHING TO DECLARE? Yes, I TICK ,
ALTHOUGH THEORETICALLY SPEAKING NOW THAT THEY HAVE TAKEN IT AWAY I DON’T REALLY
HAVE ANYTHING TO DECLARE. Better not push my luck!
I hand over the form, big
apologetic smiles, we get the empty bag back and with helmets on, wave goodbye.
The man at the Chile gate wants the scrap of paper we received an hour ago,
which I stuffed somewhere? But where? Too many pockets, bags and wallets have
been opened and closed, but at last it’s found and we are on our way.
“ Zanahoria” B shouts
“What?”
Zanahoria, That’s Carrots”
“Oh, Carrots” I say, “ Zanahoria,
I remember that now”.
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