This is too much like hardwork

"I'm afraid we have some bad news, Mr Threlfall. Our initial biopsy shows you have acute bovine ingestion saturation."
"And what does that mean, doctor?"
"Well, Mr Threlfall, it means that if you eat any more beef, your legs will drop off."
"Are you sure, doctor? It sounds a bit made-up to me."
"Oh we're quite sure, Mr Threlfall. It's a well known medical condition here in Argentina. One more steak and both your legs could literally fall off."
"Well, couldn't I just have the odd steak and hop a bit?"
"Oh no! That's not how it works. You could carry on as you are, pushing enormous, fat, juicy steaks into that big mouth of yours every single day for weeks and be alright. Or, you could have just one more steak and by the end of the night you'd be legless."
"Oh, I'm quite used to that, doctor."
"Indeed. So there you are, Mr Threlfall. Stop forcing undercooked meat into your fat, greedy face or lose both your legs. Any questions?"
"Just one, doctor. Do you know where I can buy a cheap wheelchair?"

True story.

San Carlos De Bariloche,

(just Bariloche to his friends)

Argentina

...

Bariloche is great. We've had a fantastic time there and I personally didn't want to leave. We planned on spending a few days here and spent about a week and a half. First, let me tell that San Carlos De Bariloche is a lakeside town in the Argentine lake district, popular with skiiers in winter and everybody in summer. They survive solely on chocolate and ice-cream and it is a stuning place to visit. Ok, got that bit out of the way, now let's get to the interesting stuff.

To get to Bariloche from Puerto Natales was a very interesting excercise. We had initially planned to fly from El Calafate direct, but a strike at just the wrong time by Aerolineas Argentinas kind of put a block on that. If we had wanted to wait around for a while we could have taken a direct bus up to Bariloche via Route 40, which on the map is a fairly simple, straightforward journey, but in reality offers a very expensive, unreliable slog along a dirt track with more pot holes and craters than the surface of the moon. Somewhat akin to sitting on a pneumatic drill while somebody smacks you around the head with a tray and throws dirt in your face. We'll pass on that one, I think. Only other solution was as follows : Local bus from Puerto Natales over the border to Rio Turbio in Argentina, change bus and head to Rio Gallegos, change bus again and head to Commadora Riviera, get yet another bus and fire straight to Bariloche. 2 tickets for option C, please. To give you some idea of the indirect nature of this trip, it is equivalent to travelling from Birmingham to London via Torquay! Only much, much further. So anyway, we set off first thing on Friday morning and arrived in Bariloche on Sunday afternoon. What fun. Snapshot of the journey : Wait forever at immigration at the border (On the Chilean/Argentine border there is a large sign reading 'Las Islas de Malvinas son Argentinas' which translates as 'the Falkland Islands belong to Argentina'. They're still not over it, are they?). We had to sleep over in Rio Gallegos, which as I described before is where concrete goes to die. We went to a steak restaurant and failed to get a steak, AGAIN. This town can fall into the sulphurous pits of Hades for all eternity as far as I am concerned. Scratch that, I think it already has. Other stuff happened too, but who cares? Anyway, we eventually made it to Bariloche. It was raining. And windy. And very, very cold. Great!

...

Our first couple of days were spent in a little Residencia, which is like a hotel only nothing like a hotel. It was a nice place and the owners were very friendly, but unfortunately they didn't speak a word of English. My Spanish is coming on a treat and I have an enormous repertoire of questions I can ask fluently. On the down side, I can't understand a bloody word they say in response. I'm sure it means something to them but to me it's just noise, so I've started getting very good at miming. On our second day in town we decided to rent a couple of bikes and cycle the 'Circuito Chico', which means 'small circuit'. They call it small, but they can't be very bright because it is in fact 64km in total, but we thought what the hell? It follows the lakeshore so it should be flat and I'm sure two healthy specimens like us can manage that distance. I mean, we've climbed mountains so how hard can it be? The next morning we were up bright and early and rented ourselves a couple of decent quality mountain bikes, stocked up on goodies from the supermarket and headed out of town. The first 15kms were a gentle peddle along the lakeshore, passing some spectacular buildings and even more spectacular scenery. This is where it starts getting a bit unpleasant. The next 30kms were spent cycling up and down enormous hills and mountainsides, most of it with a fairly hefty head wind. My legs started to wobble and at one point, my calf muscles got off the bike and started walking. I couldn't peddle at all without them so I had to get off and walk too. I only presuaded them to get back on the bike with the promise of a nice downhill stretch and some crisps. All along the route there are some truly fantastic views over the lakes and mountains of the area. We even managed to find a quiet little lake hidden in the trees to have our lunch. As you can see from the photos, it was nice and peaceful but a little cold, hence the silly hat (by the way I know I look like a tit, but I'm the tit with the warm ears!). After sitting by the lake for half an hour we had both seized up a bit and my calves refused to budge an inch until I promised not to do this again. The rest of the journey was exceedingly bloody difficult and by the time we arrived back in town and ditched the bikes, both Cara and I were about as knackered as I remember being. Back at the residencia we collapsed on the bed and didn't budge for an hour. Who said excercise was good for you?

...

The next day we packed up and shipped out to a new hostel called La Morada, which is a quiet, isolated place built on the side of a mountain. And what a place! Quite simply the best hostel/hotel/resort/tent we have ever stayed at. The views from out of the window were breathtaking, even to a cynical slob like me, and there was nothing else anywhere near the place. We sat on our arses for 4 days and did nothing but eat, sleep and sit in the sun. The weather had changed completely by this time. We went to bed one night and it was cold, cloudy and windy (outside, that is). We woke up the next morning and there was not a cloud in the sky. Result! Pack away the fleeces, hats and scarves and break out the flip-flops, Mik has got some pasty white knees that need sunning. The hostel was, as I said, perched midway up the side of a mountain. In addition to the great views over the lakes, this also meant we were a little isolated. There was a 4x4 into town twice a day, but apart from that we were stuck. One of the folk who runs the place told us that we could walk up to the top of the mountain though, and it shouldn't take too long as there was a clearly marked path all the way up. There was a cable car that ran from the lakeside all the way to the top of the mountain and our path just followed the cables all the way. So off we set, full of enthusiasm ready for our pleasant stroll. When we reached the path we realised that in fact there was no path. There was however a gravelly stretch of bare dirt that ran stright up the side of the mountain. A few degrees steeper and it would technically be a cliff.

...

We were about to start up the trail when my calves pointed out that I had promised not to do this kind of thing again. I mentioned that the lady in the hostel reckoned this would be a doddle, but they were having none of it. They both promised to give me cramp in the middle of the night and set off grudgingly. We set off up the slippery track, and the first few minutes weren't so bad. A bit further though, and we were almost on our hands and knees. We even passed a couple of mountain goats who had given up and were heading back down. Now Cara suffers from a bit of vertigo, and she wasn't too comfortable with how things were proceeding either. By the time we finally reached the top after an hour she was having a pretty crappy time and surviving by staring at my feet and nothing else. I thought she did fantastically well considering, and I would have turned back if the tables were turned. At the top of the mountain, we were rewarded with freezing winds and took shelter in the very tasteful rotating restaurant ant the top of the cable car terminal. A coffee warmer, many pesos lighter and two and a half rotations later we decided to take the cable car down instead of trying to climb down. At the bottom we ran into someone from the hostel who was waiting for a ride back in the 4x4 so we jumped in aswell and took the easy ride back. Lightweights! You'd think that after that I'd know better, but a few days later I agreed to head down the mountain with a young Dutch guy as we both needed some supplies from the supermarket. Being 18 years old, he suggested we run down to avoid any slip-sliding. Just get your head down and go for it, he said! Being 34 years old and conscious of the fact I was old enough to be his father, I agreed. We pelted down the hill and made it to the bottom in about 15 minutes. Out of breath and hot as hell, the Flying Dutchman dived for the nearest bus into town. I decided I'd walk the 6km into town along the lakeshore. Not because I 'm fit or tough or thought I needed more exercise, but because I just didn't want him to see me vomit and faint in the street. I'll just never learn, will I?

...

The next morning I climbed out of bed and fell flat on my face. My legs were officially on strike and I could barely walk for the next three days. What fun. Walking down the road I was cringing and groaning so badly I looked like I had a nasty case of hemorrhoids. And I've done so much exercise recently that I can now crack walnuts between my thighs! This makes crossing my legs especially dangerous. Anyway, we had a great time at La Morada and after 5 days there we headed back into town to stay at their sister hostel called 1004 for some reason. This was located on the 10th floor of an apartment block on the lake edge and also had some cracking views. Especially on our second night when a thunder storm rolled in across the lake and we sat on the balcony drinking beer and watching the lightning flash across the sky. I'm embarrassed to say one of the main reasons we came back into town was because both Cara and I wanted to revisit a restaurant we had been to when we first arrived. I know I promised I would not talk about food again but I'm sorry, that is a promise I cannot keep. The restaurant was called El Boliche De Alberto and of course, it was a Parilla. Our reasons for wanting to go back were because we had, on our first visit, had simply the best meal ever! Ever, ever! The serve the greatest steaks I could ever imagine eating. Couple that with the largest plate of chips I have ever seen and some cracking wine and we really had to give them a second visit. And it was just as good second time around. Fortunately for me, my legs didn't drop off.

...

We decided it was time to go so we bought a couple of bus tickets to our next destination of Mendoza, to the north. I don't think I need to tell you how long the journey was. The bus wasn't especially comfortable but we were very lucky and managed to bag the front two seats on the upper deck. At least, we thought we had been lucky until 15 minutes into the journey when a pigeon exploded on the window right in front of us. Staring at his insides for the next few hours was a very pleasant experience and didn't put us off our sandwiches at all. We later realised why nobody had wanted the front two seats. Above our head was a small red light and a big speaker. Whenever the bus driver went over the 90km speed limit the red light would come on and a very bloody loud buzzing noise came out of the speaker. He speeded a lot. We slept a little.

...

Mik