Category Archives: South America

Punta del Este is the best(e)

Celebrities such as Paris Hilton, Marky Mark and Paul ‘Fatty’ Vautin flock to Punta del Este each summer like flies to shit. The beaches are packed with bronzed bodies and the nightclubs are pulsing with techno music. Uruguay’s second city is one of the world’s great party spots, so I was surprised when I rocked up with a box of glowsticks, a pocket full of disco biscuits, and my Best of Eiffel 65 CD, only to find the place almost deserted.

A vagrant informed me that Punta del Este is incredibly busy for a few weeks in summer, but basically empty for the rest of the year, which seemed to make sense. Then again, the dude was hunting through banana peels and used condoms for a feed, so there’s as much chance that Punta del Este had actually been taken over by a plague of zombies. Whatever the truth is, there’s not much action for most of the year, but it’s still a really nice place.

Punta del Este is referred to as The Monaco of the South, The Pearl of the Atlantic, The St. Tropez of South America and The Woy Woy of Uruguay, and it’s easy to see why. The views are spectacular and the golden beaches are decorated with expensive restaurants and trendy cafes. Huge towers loom over the water, and everything feels pretty safe and clean compared to other parts of South America. I reckon Ms Hilton could even pass out under a palm tree after a night on the goon without worrying about getting her phone pinched.

As well as natural beauty, Punta del Este boasts some awesome touristy things to see. I found some evil battle robots down a side street, a scale replica of the Statue of Liberty outside a pizza shop, and the world’s hugest hand emerging from the sand. You’d be cranky if you found out your girlfriend’s ex had fingers like that. My verdict is that Punta del Este is tops any time of the year, but if you want a chance of rooting one of the Olson Twins, go there in summer. When the weather’s cold and windy, you might have to settle for a homeless fella with two teeth in his head.

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Estadio Centenario: Pretty cool, even though it smells like soccer

Back in 2001, Aussie soccer fans were left in tears when the Socceroos were bundled out of the World Cup qualifications after a heartbreaking 3-0 loss to Uruguay in Montevideo. I laughed my dick off because soccer is a game for teenage girls and the physically handicapped, and Aussie soccer fans are the sort of ponytailed wankers who deserve to be tipped into bins, so when in Montevideo I just had to visit the scene of the hilarity.

The Estadio Centenario was built in 1930 for that year’s World Cup, and doesn’t look like it’s been renovated since then. The stadium is old fashioned, run down… and utterly fantastic. Despite being an oval, every one of the 60,000 seats has a great view and is right on top of the action. There are no corporate boxes, the seating is basic, there’s no roof, I couldn’t find any toilets and the Wifi is rubbish, but it has more character than any billion-dollar modern stadium. The atmosphere would be awesome during a big game (as long as you ignore the soccering happening on the pitch).

The razor wire and security moats that separate the various sections of the stadium give some indication of how wild things get during matches, but when I was there on a Monday arvo, the crowd was reminiscent of a Central Coast Mariners game. There were about six other people in the stands and a dozen or so bored-looking birds hunting about on the grass, and the only flares I saw were being worn by a fat bloke with an afro.

In the bowls of the stadium is the Museo del Futbol, which is full of photos of soccer players and World Cup trophies and other stuff I couldn’t give a shit about. I guess if soccerballing is your thing, you’d love it. Apparently the two World Cups Uruguay have earned are housed there, but fucked if I could work out which ones they were amongst the memorabilia, so here’s a trophy that may or may not be one of them.

As I wandered through the displays wearing my Kangaroos jersey, a couple of the workers started taunting me about how rubbish the Socceroos are and lisping “One-nil! One nil! Harry Kewell suck so bad! Juan Aloisi has faeces on his boots!”

“Boys, you need to settle down,” I said, pointing at the badge on my chest. “I don’t waste time watching limp-wristed tossers pretending to be hurt and biting each other’s dicks. I follow rugby league and the Australian Kangaroos, and we haven’t won just two World Cups, we’ve won 14 of the bastards.”

They were curious about what I meant, so I turned on the nearest Commodore Amiga and pointed them towards a few rugby league videos on YouTube. The fellas started hootin’ and hollerin’, slapping each other high fives and pretending to tackle each other. As I looked at some more displays, the crowd around the computer grew, and I chuckled as one little fella wondered out loud, “Why have we been wasting our time with soccer all these years?”

Pretty soon every computer in the museum was blasting out YouTube clips of the NRL’s biggest hits, the 1989 grand final, or Tina Turner’s old Simply the Best ad for the Winfield Cup. One bloke was getting pretty worked up over a compilation video of Nathan Hindmarsh losing his shorts. Another was using the 1928 Olympic trophy as an ash tray and trying to replicate ‘the bubbler’ as he watched some of Todd Carney’s career highlights. As I left I saw one of the fellas pulling down a photo of Diego Forlan and putting up a photo of Johnathan Thurston that he’d hastily printed off his Amstrad computer, saying, “Uruguay is a rugby league country now.” Expect the Montevideo Mud Crabs to join the NRL any minute now!

Montevideo: Worth visiting for more than a day-o

My first impressions of Uruguay weren’t great. After climbing off the bus late at night in the middle of Montevideo, the first person I saw was a crackhead shitting in a park. When I made it to my hostel, in the historic Old Town, it was an absolute slum. Animals wandered the delapidated hallways, the whole place smelled strongly of farts, and an emaciated homeless man was passed out on the floor in front of my room. I thought I’d walked into a nightmare, but luckily I gave Montevideo another shot, because I ended up discovering it’s a really cool city – especially if you spend most of your time in the Pocito district.

Before getting into the delights of Montevideo’s beachside suburbs, I need to stress that the Old Town (Ciudad Vieja) is absolutely horrible, and should be avoided at all costs. In most places around the world, the historic centres of cities are full of bars, coffee shops, hotels and culture, but that’s not the case in Montevideo. This Old City is home to abandoned shops, junkies and pools of vomit on every corner. It’s depressing, scary and dangerous. It’s a shame, because this area of Montevideo has some really nice old buildings and parks, but they’re all painted with a coat of misery and suffering. Do yourself a favour, drastically reduce your chances of being butt-raped by a toothless meth addict and stay the hell away.

You don’t need to walk far out of the Old City before things really start to improve. You’ll even be able to put down that big stick you’ve been using to fend off attackers. Grimy buildings and congested streets give way to quaint houses and tree-lined avenues, with a more European ambiance. Closer to the coast, Montevideo can be quite lovely, with small beaches and swaying palm trees. The weather’s pretty shocking in May, but I imagine it would be a particularly nice place to visit in summer, when the skies are blue and the nights are warm. Outside of that, pack a raincoat.

The real star of the show is Pocito, with its sweeping beach and seemingly-endless rows of towers that look out at the ocean. It’s the liveliest part of Montevideo, and has heaps of bars, restaurants and clubs, and very few people shooting heroin into their eyeballs. There are all sorts of shiny towers and pleasant gardens, and there’s no dubting that all of the money that used to be in the Old City is now in Pocito. It’s certainly a top spot to get hammered whilst looking at all the pretty Uruguayan senoritas. So of course I said goodbye to the awful MVD Hostel, bid a fond farewell to my homeless housemate, and relocated to trendy Pocito at the first opportunity.

From then on, my life was flipped turned upside down, and I started loving Montevideo. I befriended the locals (several times, actually) and settled into life in this buzzing South American metropolis. Before long, I was basically a Montevideoperson… except for the fact I can’t speak Spanish and everyone looks at me like I’m a fucking idiot when I can’t understand what they’re saying. It was all good, though, because as I flounced through the dappled sunshine, I found a really big gun in a park, and hung off it like a teenage nymph hanging from Ron Jeremy’s oversized wang.

I discovered the Centro Nacional de Disfunción Eréctil, which I soon learnt is the National Erectile Dysfuntion Centre. Appropriately, it’s housed in a penis-shaped building, and when I walked through the doors I was met by a handful of depressed-looking blokes who were milling around with their hands in their pockets, kicking stones. I swaggered up to the front desk, winked at the sadsacks around me, and loudly proclaimed, “I have an erectile dysfunction,” before pausing for dramatic effect. “That’s right, I can’t stop getting boners and I can’t keep women off my boners.” I think it would’ve been more effective if anyone inthe room could understand what I was saying, but I reckon it was fuckin’ funny.

I didn’t want to spend all day in a clinic for fellas with dodgy doodles, so I decided to head off for a spot of shopping. The Punta Carretas centre is built in the remains of an old prison (the front gate is still there, but not much else remains of the bad boys home), and is a good spot to visit if you need a new tunic or a boob tube or something. I actually found my favourite shop in there:

While walking through a park, I saw a few dozen locals swarmed around some sort of metal structure. They were taking turns trying to climb up the weird contraption, so I tiptoed over and asked them whether I could have a crack at it. One bloke with a monobrow and a limp told me it was called el juego de escalar pene, which translates to the penis climbing game, and it’s the Uruguayan national pastime. The goal is to climb to the top as quickly as possible and sit on the pole. I’m not a fan of shoving poles up my blurter, so I just climbed as far as I could and called it a day.

As for food and drink, those little Uruguayan champions sure know what they’re doing. Patricia beer sounds like it’s been named after an English poet and academic from Exmouth, Devon, but is cheap and delicious. Uruguayan wine is great, and available all over the place. The food is awesome, with massive steaks, bulging sausages, and perhaps the greatest meal of all time, the legendary chivito, which is a sort of steak burger with cheese, tomatoes, bacon, eggs, ham, and anything else you can think of. It’s worth getting fat for.

Montevideo has certainly surprised me. When I arrived, I thought it was only slightly nicer than Huddersfield, which is to say I thought it was rubbish. But over the past week this city has revealed a wonderful, exciting, fun side that I’ve come to love. I’ve spent longer here than expected, thanks to a number of factors, but I’m really getting into the swing of things. Video might’ve killed the radio star, but Montevideo killed all my expectations (alright, that was rubbish).

Colonia-oscopy

Argentina is a beautiful and diverse country, but after drinking their beer and climbing their hills it was time move on to a nation best known as the punchline to a Simpson’s joke, Uruguay. The historic township of Colonia is only one hour by ferry from Buenos Aires, so I jumped on one and headed off to country number 55 or 56 or whatever I’m up to now. The ride over is fairly boring, with very little to look at, but it was worth it simply for the name of this ship I saw once I got to Colonia.

The town was founded by the Portuguese back in 1680 and traded between them and the Spanish for centuries. It shows, because the Old Town of Colonia feels like it should be in southern Europe, with cobblestone streets and outdoor cafes. It’s a favourite weekend getaway for people from Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and with its laid-back atmosphere Colonia is the perfect place to kick back with a beer and a slice of pizza.

The Old Town is small enough to wander through in a matter of minutes, and there are some pleasant parks and (presumably boring) museums to check out if you want a touch of culture. A bit of a warning, though; I saw this pervert trying to lure children into his sex grotto and when I stormed up and asked him to explain himself, he wouldn’t say a word. So watch out.

As far as interesting historical sites go, the Colonia del Sacramento Lighthouse is the best there is. It was constructed in 1855 after dozens of ships were wrecked off the coast of Colonia, and it still stands proudly today. The cost to climb it is a very reasonable 25 pesos, and after paying the surly guard at the front door I struggled up the narrow, winding staircase to the top. The view isn’t exactly spectacular, but does provide a different perspective of the town, as well as a look back at distant Buenos Aires, across the murky Rio de la Plata.

I assume it would normally be quite pleasant up there, but the mood was ruined by a fat girl who was sitting on the railing, taking selfies and working her way through a garbage bag of chocolate-filled empanadas. Or maybe they were shit-filled empanadas, because the farts she was letting off could’ve killed an Arab. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I headed back to street level.

I was halfway down when I heard an ominous rumbling from above, followed by a scream. The rumbling and the screaming were getting louder and closer, but I couldn’t work out what it was. Suddenly someone screamed, “Oh my God, the fat girl has fallen!” and I was met with the dreadful reality that she was rolling down the stairs towards me, destroying everything in her path. I turned in terror and ran blindly down the staircase, as the boulder of flesh closed in on me.

I looked back to see the tumbling fat blob was only metres away, and I resigned myself to being crushed by her empanada-fuelled bulk. Then I saw a beautiful beam of light in front of me, and dived out the front door towards safety. At that point I saw the painted pervert ready to step inside (probably to kiss children), so I gave him a thumbs-up and told him to go right ahead. No sooner had he stepped inside than the fat girl rolled around the corner, cleaning him up. The pervert was firmly wedged in the fatty’s arse crack, and she was now farting even more regularly due to shock, causing him to start gagging and vomiting up his asado lunch (a type of BBQ that’s a local specialty – see, this is a proper travel blog). It was time for me to catch a bus to Montevideo, so I wished them all the best in their new life as conjoined twins, then sashayed off into the afternoon to get drunk on public transport.

Buenos Aires: City of Beauty

Buenos Aires is home to 13 million people and 13 million ways to spend a warm May Sunday, such as dancing in the streets, eating empanadas and… well, I wasn’t really sure what there was to do, so I just strapped a smile to my face and headed out into Argentina’s bustling capital. This is the story of my one big day in the city of fair winds.

I happily flounced out into the street wearing a singlet and shorts, and the warm weather was a welcome change from the frigid conditions I’d become accustomed to in Patagonia. I was surprised to find a massive street fair right outside my hotel (which is apparently a regular thing on Sundays) and got caught up in the swarming crowds. I encountered some small children in funny costumes who were carrying a flag around. It looked like fun, so I borrowed a beret and got involved, only for some killjoy to snatch my headpiece and tell me to grow up. In Spanish, which was even more humiliating.

Whilst walking along the glamorous waterfront, with expensive yachts bobbing in the polluted water, I found a boat that seemed a bit older than the rest of them. Turns out it was the Presidente Sarmiento, which first sailed in 1897 and is now a floating museum. The 81m-long marvel was built as a training ship and never saw active service, but did circumcise circumnavigate the globe six times. As a mark of respect, I pretended to have sex with one of its cannons. The captain thought it was hilarious, but suggested I leave before he caved my head in.

There are plenty of good sorts in Buenos Aires, but a huge proportion of the heads here are that rough they’d make a sheet of sandpaper wince. This battler was recently judged to have Buenos Aires’ Most Beautiful Smile, but when I saw him he’d shat his pants and was arguing with a pigeon. How the mighty have fallen.

The highlight of the day came when I encountered a homeless man wearing a McDonald’s bag on his head like a crown. I would’ve liked to ask him what the story was, but he seemed to have a chip on his shoulder so I left him alone.

I ended up in the Le Boca district, which is run down and a bit poor, but has its own charm. There are lots of colourful buildings and fun shops, which is nice. I noticed lots of excited little Argentinean blokes swaggering around in blue and yellow tops, and at first I thought they were all massive Parra Eels fans. Who knows, maybe Daniel Wagon and Luke Burt are big names in Buenos Aires. I stopped one of the little blokes and asked him what was going on, and he just thrust his hips and said, “Football, football!”

“Did you see the Raiders game?” I asked him, happy to have someone to talk footy with. “How good was Tapine! I bet you fellas are looking forward to getting a team in the NRL. What are they gonna call them, the Buenos Aires Bum Bandits?” For some reason the dude showed little interest and started shrugging his shoulders as if he was trying to get rid of dandruff. When a round ball landed at his feet and he started juggling it, I realised he was actually a fan of soccer, which was surprising because I hadn’t picked him as a homosexual.

The Argies love their soccer and take it pretty seriously, so the streets around La Bombonera were crawling with cops and heavily-armed anti riot squad members. There were even armoured vehicles. The fans heading to the match seemed to be enjoying themselves, though, with plenty of dancing and singing. Hey, if I knew I had to spend the next two hours watching a game of bloody soccer, I’d make the most of my last few moments of freedom, too.

I was getting a bit cold, so I chucked on a bright orange shirt, and immediately noticed that more Argies than usual were yelling at me. It’s not possible that I could’ve fucked all their wives, so I didn’t know what was going on, until I noticed a group of hardcore Boca Juniors fans burning an effigy of an opposition player wearing an orange shirt similar to mine. Turns out I’d unintentionally dressed up as a member of Boca Juniors’ biggest rivals, the Palermo Pindicks! I had a giggle and then raced off into the streets before someone beheaded me.

Feeling tired and emotional, I grabbed a few cans of Quilmes and ended up at the San Telmo Street Fair, which seemingly runs forever through the cobblestone streets. It’s the place to go if you want to buy roasted peanuts, magnets, knitted caps, pictures of soccer players, carved wooden sculptures, or any other knick-knack you can think of. I ended up getting quite drunk and accidentally knocked over one of those human statue street performers, who completely dropped his act to tell me to fuck off. I found it completely unprofessional, so I won’t be contacting him next time I require the services of someone who can stand really still for a long time. Buenos Aires, huh? What a grouse place!

Bariloche: bars, bushwalks and bad behaviour

Pictures of Bariloche make it look like a sleepy little town in the Argentinean mountains, but this place can be as wild and exciting as you want it to be. It’s surrounded by monumental natural beauty, but also full of great restaurants, busy bars and nightclubs that run until dawn breaks over the lakes. During my time in Bariloche, I saw a little of everything it has to offer – and trust me, it offers a lot.

I arrived to predictions of heavy rain, so I immediately extended what was planned to be a three day visit to five. It was a good call, because the weather the first few days was atrocious. I still set out into the wind and rain to climb Cerro Otto, a 15km round trip from town, which on a nice day would deliver wonderful views back over Bariloche. Honestly, I should’ve stayed in bed with a box of wine and a good book. I saw next to nothing and just ended up cold, wet and tired, like a nymphomaniac snowman’s girlfriend (yeah I know, I was really reaching with that one).

After drying off, I decided to get my insides wet instead, loading up on cheap supermarket booze before heading into town with a young lass I’d met earlier at an empanada stand. Seriously, nothing turns me on more than a woman who can down a dozen meat-filled pastries in a sitting. If I thought the weather was challenging, it was nothing compared to an evening in Bariloche. We started out at a delightful restaurant where I had my first encounter with a thick, juicy slab of Argentinean beef. No, I didn’t suck off some swarthy Latino bloke, I got stuck into a steak, which isn’t something I often treat myself to because I’m a povo backpacker. I got the small steak, but it was still the size of my head and absolutely scrumptious. Fortunately, the waiter forgot to charge me for my food, so it tasted even better.

Bariloche is known as Argentina’s party capital for a reason, and after dinner I stumbled through a haze of bars serving wide ranges of craft beers, and clubs playing thumping European techno music. At some point, whilst I was having an illuminating conversation with a tattooed bouncer regarding whether or not I had ingested one too many beers, my lady friend slipped off into the night with the bloke from the empanada stand. As I looked out over the warming sun as it climbed over the lakes, with vomit on my shirt, I was just happy I’d made it through the night. It was great to be in a proper city after weeks in remote villages but come on, I’m 35, too many nights like that would kill me.

Fortunately, the weather picked up from there, and I was able to appreciate the true glory of the area. I jumped on a bus out to the waterfront village of Llao Llao, which is the starting point for a number of short but breathtaking hikes. Climbing to the top of Monte Llao Llao (an easy hour’s hike from the bus stop) is a must-do when in Bariloche, and as I sat up there, I couldn’t help thinking that it was perhaps the most spectacular place I’d ever visited. Well, maybe there’s a few places between legs that best it, but it was still very pleasant.

Bariloche is a weird place. It looks and feels much like a European city, but it has enough dirt and grime (and a surprisingly large amount of burnt-out cars) to give away the fact it’s not quite first world. Dogs wander around everywhere, graffiti is splattered across most walls, and little Argie dudes rush around everywhere. But with such a massive selection of bars and restaurants, as well as some of the best scenery you’ll ever see, it really is a cool place. Now I need to get out of here and head somewhere to give my liver a rest. I hear Buenos Aires is nice this time of hear… how could I possibly get into trouble there?

El Chaltén to Bariloche bus: Are we there yet?

The worst thing about being at the arse end of the world is that it’s a really, really bloody long way from anywhere. So when I wanted to leave El Chalten, in Argentina’s southern Patagonia, I really only had one option – a 24-hour-long bus trip along Ruta 40 to Bariloche. And yes, it was every bit as grueling as you’d expect, with sickening food, stops in creepy towns and police busts.

At least the cops have cool uniforms

If you’re heading north from El Chaltén, the bus is the only way to go outside backtracking to El Calafate and taking an expensive flight to Buenos Aires, so they sell out early. During autumn there are only three buses a week, leaving plenty of people (like me) stranded in El Chaltén for a week or more. By the time I staggered to the bus stop at 10pm, I felt like I was breaking out of prison.

Look how much fun I’m having

Whilst the trip sounded like a nightmare, I boarded the bus with hopes and dreams of being seated next to a pretty European lass. As the Patagonian wilderness rolled past, I’d win her heart with stories of my drunken adventures and by saying that her hair looked pretty, and maybe get a handjob around the 17 hour mark. Instead I climbed on to find a fat German bloke sitting in my seat with half an empenada hanging out his mouth, and when I asked him to move he farted into my seat and said he’d kill me in my sleep. I suppose dreams arent meant to come true.

Expect to look at this for 11 hours straight

The first 10 hours of the trip crawl through the pitch-black Argentinean night. The road out of El Chalten is bumpier than a crack addict’s complexion and there are no towns, villages, windmills, trees or amusement parks to break up the monotony. There’s not even much cow shit to gawk at. With nothing in the way of heating, it was so cold on the bus that ice was forming on the inside of the windows. I was just grateful the bus actually had windows.

The best bit of the trip was when they played a Morgan Freeman film… in Spanish

There are two types of seating; the more expensive cama, with fully reclinable seats and plenty of space, and the cheaper semi-cama, which lean back a little and are a bit shit. I’d recommend the cama every day, but the little bloke at the bus station must’ve picked me for a poor cunt, because he didn’t even give me the option. So, squashed legs and an aching back it was.

Oh yay, it’s a dog! And a crack caravan!

Fortunately, the good folks from Marga serve food on the bus. Unfortunately, it’s of indescribably bad quality and the serving sizes wouldn’t satisfy a Somalian toddler who’d already stuffed his face with rice. Dinner and lunch were identical packages that consisted of some sort of dodgy biscuit, a slice of soggy garlic bread, and a sandwich that caused heated debate between diners regarding the identity of the contents. Some said chicken, some said tuna, I said arse. Homeless arse. Trust me, that’s the worst kind.

You wouldn’t feed this shit to a sex offender

It’s a boring trip with stuff-all to see, so if you think it’s a good way to check out Argentina’s stunning scenery you’re out of luck. Ruta 40 is nowhere near the Andes, and the only thing you’re likely to see hour after hour is dead grass and brown hills. The occasional llama or deadbeat town are the only things to break up the boredom. Well, that and the chance of being caught up in a major police bust like I was.

Wait! There’s a bush!

Alright, ‘major police bust’ might be the biggest exaggeration since I told a girl that I’m often confused with Peter North, but there was still some excitement when the bus was pulled over by the cops. A local woman on board was caught smuggling a small dog in her handbag, which meant our trip was delayed for two hours in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, there are so many street dogs in Argie that she might as well have left her old dog at home and picked up a new one when she arrived. The rude bitch didn’t even apologise!

Take your dog and fuck off, lady

There’s no denying that the El Chalten to Bariloche bus is a tough ride, and as far from the glamorous side of travelling as possible. It’s a never-ending journey for backpackers seeking adventures in far-flung destinations, with the ever-present danger of major delays or breakdowns. By the end I was so tired I could barely pick up a six pack to drink back at my hostel. But there was also something wonderful about being surrounded by people willing to go through such an ordeal for the sole reason of exploring the world. Would I recommend travelling through Patagonia this way? In a heartbeat. Would I do it again? Fuck no, are you crazy?

A hell of a time in El Chaltén

El Chaltén is a great little town surrounded by natural beauty, but when I found out I’d be stuck here for a week due to a lack of buses, I wasn’t the happiest little Vegemite. The townsfolk are preparing to close the place down for the winter, so there are hardly any restaurants or bars available, and the streets are almost deserted. With some dodgy weather around threatening to keep me off the area’s world famous hiking trails, I was looking at spending day after day locked up in my hostel watching re-runs of M*A*S*H and eating stale Argentinean bread – but as it turns out I’ve had a fuckin’ cracker of a time here.

With dark clouds all around, I took a trip along the Laguna Torre track, which is really gorgeous. It’s an easy hike that offers stunning views out over the valleys and canyons, which are burning orange and red at this time of year. After 8km I found myself at the lake, which was actually a bit disappointing. It’s basically a poo-brown pond surrounded by mounds of dirty rocks, with a pretty sad-looking glacier at one end. The hike is like a Stephen King novel – brilliant all the way through, with a crap and disappointing ending.

When the sun finally shone down upon El Chaltén, I took a stroll up to Lago Capri, which lies at the base of Monte Fitz Roy. Now this is a nice blopdy lake. The whole thing was frozen over so I couldn’t go for a dip, but that’s probably a good thing because it would have been a similar experience to getting fucked up the arse by Frosty the Snowman. Seriously though, you’d struggle to find a nicer place anywhere on the planet.

Loma del Pliegue Tumbado is a hard name to say, and the hike out to this mirador is just as difficult. It climbs 1000m over the course of a 9km scramble through forests, ending with a steep climb through deep snow. It was pretty much deserted when I was there, because I guess all the fat cunts who tried to climb it died of heart attacks and rolled back to the bottom.

My struggles were repaid many times over, because the views from the top are astonishing. I found myself in a perfect position to kick back and marvel at the shimmering Andes. Until I saw Fitz Roy in all its glory, basking in sunshine, I couldn’t have imagined how incredible it is. In the right light, the entire mountain range glows. The whole experience was made even more special by the fact I was smashed on bottles of ice-cold Quilmes.

So now, as I prepare to board a bus for a 24-hour ride to Bariloche, I’m glad that I was forced to spend an extra couple of days in El Chaltén. It allowed me to take my time and explore more of Patagonia’s astonishing wilderness. I was able to form a more intimate relationship with Fitz Roy, as I saw the massif in all sorts of different conditions. And more than that, it allowed me to get really, really wankered on cheap boxed wine every night back at the hostel – and that’s what travelling is all about, right?

Goon and lagoons: The Laguna de los Tres trail

The Laguna de los Tres hiking trail in El Chalten, Argentina, is one of the most awe-inspiring walks in tbe world. It sweeps along ancient cliffs, past raging rivers, and towards glowing glaciers – but I didn’t get to enjoy much of it because I was monumentally hungover after a night of drinking the dodgiest red wine legally allowed to be sold without breaking numerous United Nations conventions.

Actually, the first half of the hike was fine because I was still pretty pissed. With another box of Vino Toro in hand, I sauntered into the park with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. It’s a steep trek, but the path is well maintained, with heaps of brilliant miradors to provide views out over the valleys and mountains. Seeing as I was drunk, I was extremely personable and made lots of friends, including one pervert who told me that Australians are the best-looking blokes on Earth. I gave him a high-five and kept swaggering up the hill.

I’d heard that the last kilometre of the 12km first leg of the walk was challenging, and it fucking well was. It features a 400m climb through ice and snow, with strong winds making things even harder. I had to climb up on my hands and knees, sliding back down the cliff a few times and ripping my hands apart. It was made more difficult by the fragile state I was in, but this is a rough climb by any standards, so quadriplegics should forget about it.

The views from the top, however, made the whole struggle worth it. Not only is it possible to look back along the fiery orange valley, but the shining blue de los Tres Glacier stands imposingly in front of the mirador, and is spectacular. Laguna de los Tres basks in its own azure glory, and Monte Fitz Roy stands imposingly above it all, rising thousands of metres up into the clouds. It’s quite a nice spot, really.

The walk back to El Chalten was somewhat more difficult than the trip up, because with every step I became further consumed by the brain-stomping hangover that comes with guzzling Vino Toro. Twelve kilometres might as well have been 1000, as I lurched from side to side, seeing double and doing my best not to shit myself and hurl up my guts at the same time. My best, it seems, was not good enough.

The rancid red broth in my stomach was causing me all sorts of trouble, and I finally collapsed in the middle of the track and unleashed a steady stream of deep crimson bile that steamed angrily in the early evening air. When I started I couldn’t stop, and soon the path was awash with the tumultuous residue of my boozy evening. I lost all track of time and place, and was barely able to see or hear. I thought I might die out there, and at that point I didn’t really care if that happened. This was the sort of hangover that should be reserved solely for sex predators and Manly fans.

I was crawling into a bush that seemed a good place to perish in, when I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“Come with me, my friend,” came a swarthy Latino voice, and I looked up into a kind, mono-browed Argentinean face. It was one of the park’s hard-working rangers, and he helped me to my feet and gave me a bottle of water.

“No, not water, ” I gasped. “I’m hungover, don’t you have a beer?”

The little bloke gave me a wink and rifled through his bag, finally producing a can of Quilmes. I guzzled it, did a little dance, and felt ready to run back down the hill.

“We carry these just for the Australians,” the ranger chuckled, and we both pranced back to El Chalten, hand in hand, as a full moon rose over Patagonia. All was well in the valley.

Torres del Paine, Day Quattro: The rain in Paine falls mostly on me

Torrential rain. Sub-zero temperatures. Sleet and snow. Cyclonic winds. They sound like good names for heavy metal bands, but they’re not the kind of words you want to hear while you’re hiking through Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park. My fourth day on the W Trek dawned with absolutely appalling weather that saw a number of tracks closed for safety reasons, and left me wondering whether I’d actually get out of my tent at all.

I did finally crawl out around 10am to start a wet, wild and at sometimes dangerous 16km walk towards the ccentral Las Torres campsite. I can’t say the views were breathtaking, because I could see dick-all other than the thick clouds around me and the rain that pelted into my eyes. It didn’t take long before I was wetter than a fat chick with a box of fresh donuts. As the weather worsened, I had to keep going, because there was no shelter or places to divert to. It was just one sopping foot in front of the other for hours.

There’s a section of this track that runs along the shores of Lago Nordenskjold,and that’s where things got truly dicey. The wind was smashing through at more than 150km/h – enough to knock me off my feet and send rocks flying at my head. It was kind of scary, and I was grateful when an attractive Chinese girl asked if I wanted to hold onto her pole so I didn’t get blown away.

“No thanks,” I replied. “But feel free to hold onto my pole if you like. You won’t be blown away by it, either.”

The last few kilometres of the walk felt like something out of a World War II prison camp. Lonely, skeletal figures staggered through the gloom, sometimes falling, never speaking. When I finally reached the camp, it was even worse. Far from the comforts of Camp Grey and Camp Frances, Las Torres is little more than a turd-smeared toilet block and a small tent, which was full of muddy, crying, shivering survivors. To make things worse, the shack that serves as a shop was out of Clos. It was a tragic end to an awful day – or so I thought.

“Hey man!” came a voice, and I turned around to see Antonio standing there with a girl under each arm. He told me he was heading back to Puerto Natales on the next bus, and planned to get drunk and go dancing. I looked around at the horror show surrounding me as I weighed up my options; I could stick around in the mud and misery another day in the slim hope that a miracle would happen and it would clear up enough that I could hike up to the Torres in the morning. Or I could jump on the bus, get epically drunk in a warm pub, and try to pork a stunning Chilean girl. If you’re wondering which way I went, just check the name of this blog.

I made the right decision, because the weather just got worse and I ended up having a top night. After getting back to Puerto Natales at 10, a bunch of us loaded up on boxes of cheap Clos and headed out to a swinging bar, where I got smashed on awesome local beer and worked my way through a kilogram of chips. I’m doing my best to rediscover all the weight I’ve lost over the last year.

Things then took a turn for the bizarre. On the way home from the bar, after killing another box of Clos, Tony and I ended up in a near-deserted pub with only one old pisshead drinking in the corner. At 3am it seemed like as good a place as any to continue the festivities, so we got stuck into more of Patagonia’s finest piss. Then a couple of perverts walked in, and we suddenly found ourselves in a more dangerous situation than anything del Paine could throw at us.

“You are handsome boys, why not you dance on the pole?” asked one of the creeps. At first I assumed he was talking about his dick, but then the barmaid flicked a switch and a sad string of rope lights lit up a pole in a dark corner of the room. The sicko started gyrating to a song that must’ve been playing in his head, saying, “You would look so good on the pole. Don’t be scared, I dance with you.”

I told the idiot in no uncertain terms that I didn’t intend on dancing on any poles, but poor old Antonio was drunk enough to be coerced into the corner. He bopped around a bit while the perverts oohed and ahhed and lifted up their shirts to expose their erect nipples, and I laughed along and did my best to cop a feel of the barmaid’s big tits. Suddenly, my Portuguese pal let out a squeal and raced for the door, spilling out into the frigid night. I skolled my beer and followed him, and when we saw that the perverts were after us, we ran through the icy streets of Puerto Natales until we were sure we’d lost them.

“I’m fine with dancing on the pole, I’m alright with their sexy comments, but I draw the line at them biting my penis,” he yelled.

I just nodded, afraid to ask any further, and then handed Antonio a box of Clos to help him suppress the memories.

“No more Clos,” he wept, throwing the carton into an open drain. “With you, it is always about the Clos! We hike, we drink Clos! We don’t hike, we drink Clos! Because of Clos, I was almost raped by a retarded guy!”

If the marketing team at Clos don’t use that as their tagline in the future, they should lose their fucking jobs.