<p><strong>Published in the Buenos Aires Herald, 28 November 2008</strong></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>"What's my horse's name, David?"</p> <p><br />"Yours doesn't have a name," he replies. "Mine's called India."</p> <p><br />"Hey David, what do you call a gaucho in Chile?"</p> <p><br />"Huaco." David is not a talkative type. I settle down and enjoy the silence. We plod along the desert valley floor towards the Cordillera de la Sal - the Salt Mountain Range. Behind us the Andes line the horizon, the icing sugar sprinkled Lascar and Licancabur volcanoes reaching up over fifteen thousand feet into the sky. It doesn't surprise me that the Atacame&ntilde;o people used to communicate with the gods by talking to the mountains.</p> <p><br />As we start climbing up the dunes my horse suddenly gets a burst of energy and accelerates. I forget everything I ever knew about tightening reins, and my feet slide out of the leather half-clogs that are my stirrups. I call out, my voice echoing against the rocks ahead, and David comes to the rescue.</p> <p><br />Soon, having accepted that my nag likes sprinting on the tangents, I feel she is more or less under control. We reach some small caves in the rock face. I copy David, dismounting and tethering my horse.</p> <p><br />"Well done, huaca," says David. "This is where miners used to dig for copper. They lived here with their families, in simple stone shelters, until 1900. They used to process the copper here, then carry it to San Pedro on mules, and exchange it for food."</p> <p><br />A far cry from Chiquicamata, the largest open-pit copper mine in the world which I visited yesterday, which has a surface area of eight million square meters.</p> <p><br />"There's still copper here," David tells me, picking up a speckled green and brown stone, "but this area is protected now."</p> <p><br />I arrived in the Atacama Desert four days ago, and it rained. I'm not joking. It rained. San Pedro de Atacama is one of the driest places on earth. The average humidity is 35%, the skies are clear for 330 days a year, and there is very little rain, which generally falls over about three days in February. The winter temperature, although nearing freezing point at night, rises to over 70 degrees in the day, so I thought it would be a good choice for a few days' escape from the Uruguayan winter, which has been rather wet this year.</p> <p><br />San Pedro in June is quiet. The few other tourists were young backpackers. When you find you are the only non-gap student around, it can make you feel either very old or very young. I opted for the latter.</p> <p><br />The half hour's rain on my first day fell as snow in the mountains, blocking the route to the highest geysers in the world. Was I disappointed?</p> <p><br />Not at all: I've seen snow on the normally bare desert mountains. I've seen flamingoes - three distinct types - on the Atacama salt lakes against a backdrop of a flaming sunset, and most important of all, I've been through the desert on a horse with no name.</p> <p><br />P.S. To see photos of my recent trip to the Atacama Desert, check out http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=12223&amp;l=60eb7&amp;id=664241054</p> <p><br />In San Pedro there are innumerable cheap hostels. If you are looking for a little more comfort, you could stay at the following hotels:</p> <p><br />Hotel Casa de Don Tomas: www.dontomas.cl<br />Hoster&iacute;a San Pedro: www.chilesat.net/hspa/hosteria.htm<br />Altiplanico: www.altiplanico.cl <br />Hotel Tulor: www.tulor.cl<br />Hotel Kimal: www.kimal.cl</p> <p><br />There are several daily flights from Santiago to Calama, which is 100 kilometres from San Pedro de Atacama.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p><strong>Published in the 'Buenos Aires Herald', 14 May 2008</strong></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Andr&eacute;s, do horses like being ridden?' I called.</p> <p><br />&lsquo;I think they'd rather be grazing in a field. But once you decide to come riding, you have to play by the rules. Talk to her! Kick her! Use the stick!'</p> <p><br />Luna, with much encouragement on my part, and little enthusiasm on hers, lagged behind. In a sense, I supposed I'd asked for it: I'd specifically insisted on having the quietest possible horse. The two Argentine lawyers, Gisela and Anabel, whose combined ages hardly added up to mine, and who were clearly far more experienced horsewomen than I, were trotting ahead, barely within my sight, their long dark hair blowing in the breeze. I could just see Gisela's horse, whose hooves seemed to tango, making her sway to his rhythm. The rough path was steep, taking us through the mountain's dense cloak of coihue trees, the low flattened branches blocking out the sunshine and cooling the air. The coihue thrives in this area, and can grow to forty-five metres and its girth can reach two metres. The branches here were decked with lichen beards: a sure sign of unpolluted air.</p> <p><br />We were in the Parque National Nahuel Huapi, in Argentine Patagonia, just above Villa la Angostura, and between Bariloche and San Mart&iacute;n de los Andes. Half-way up the Cerro Belvedere, we stopped at a waterfall, the Cascada Inacayal, to rest, and Andr&eacute;s took photos of us cross-legged, hands on knees, thumbs and forefingers forming &lsquo;Om' circles, eyes closed. I can think of worse places to meditate.</p> <p><br />When we remounted, I felt energized, and so did Luna, who chomped away at bushes and trees all the way up. We emerged from the forest into Heidi-like pastureland and let the horses loose to graze. Luna looked decidedly happier. We looked over the sheer cliff to Lakes Correntoso and Nahuel Huapi, joined by what the locals say is the shortest river in the world, the 250-metre Rio Correntoso. The sky was clear, the air fresh and dry, and the view unbelievable. Would cobalt describe the colour of the water? No, I don't think cobalt is as pure. Aquamarine? Sapphire? Or perhaps there's a colour called Argentine Early Autumn Lake Blue.</p> <p><br />We sat on our coats on the ground, and Andr&eacute;s produced a mate gourd filled with yerba leaves, a silver straw, and a flask. He soaked the leaves with hot water, sipped, refilled, and passed it round. The taste was much milder than what I had become used to living in Uruguay. I had never shared mate with strangers: at the top of that mountain, backed by the sound of a woodpecker, it was a truly bonding experience.</p> <p><br />&lsquo;So Andr&eacute;s, would you call yourself a gaucho?'</p> <p><br />&lsquo;Being a gaucho isn't a job,' he replied. &lsquo;It's a way of life. You're born a gaucho; you don't become one. And I was born in the city. So I'm not a gaucho. I do horserides. That's my job.'</p> <p><br />&lsquo;So do you write "horseride doer" on official forms, under "profession"?'</p> <p><br />&lsquo;I write "tour operator".'</p> <p><br />A man of confidence, like any good gaucho, I thought. After each of us had drained the bitterish, warming liquid, Andr&eacute;s refilled the gourd for the next person.</p> <p><br />There's something about holidays that makes me garrulous. I simply must talk to people, and find out what they think - what makes them tick. Once again, I broke the silence.</p> <p><br />&lsquo;Andr&eacute;s, what's the difference between Uruguayans and Argentines?'</p> <p><br />&lsquo;Uruguayans drink mate all the time. We only drink it occasionally.'</p> <p><br />Anabel elaborated: &lsquo;Uruguayans drink mate wherever they are, whatever they're doing. They'll even drink it when they're walking down the street or standing in a queue. But we Argentines always stop and sit down to drink mate. Other than that, there's no difference. Except we swear more. And they say "Ta" when they mean "Okay".'<br />So no mate on the hoof, so to speak, in Argentina.</p> <p><br />We relaxed for a while longer, enjoying the sunshine, then Andr&eacute;s got the horses ready for our descent. I hadn't realised that we would have to lead the horses a long way down the mountain on foot, as it was too steep and dangerous to ride them, and their saddles would slip. I felt almost less confident off Luna's back than on her. I could sense her bulk as she carefully picked her steps, so close behind me that I could almost feel her warm breath on my neck. I dreaded to think what might happen if she or I slipped. This was not what my physiotherapist had prescribed just before I left Uruguay. (&lsquo;Remember it's only two months since your knee operation: gentle horserides, yes, because I know I can't stop you, but mountain hikes, absolutely not. Half-hour walks on the flat with good boots. No more.')<br />Ah well, it was definitely worth it, despite the subsequent swelling, for the air, the view, the chat, the mate, and the look on Luna's face when she was set free on the mountaintop.</p> <p><br /><strong>General Information</strong><br />Villa la Angostura is a small resort (pop. 12,000) perched on the northwestern tip of Lake Nahuel Huapi in the Lake District of Argentina, 80 kilometers north of Bariloche, 100 south of San Mart&iacute;n de los Andes, and close to the Paso Cardenal Samor&eacute; which is one of the main passes across the Andes between Argentina and Chile .</p> <p><br /><strong>How to get there from Buenos Aires or from Chile</strong><br />Air: Aerolineas Argentinas and Lan Airlines fly regularly to Bariloche. Bus : Regular buses serve Bariloche (2 hours), San Mart&iacute;n de los Andes (just under two hours), and the transport hub of Neuquen (8 hours). There are also buses across the Paso Cardenal Samor&eacute; Osorno (3 hours) and Puerto Montt (4 hours) in Chile.</p> <p><br /><strong>When to Go </strong><br /> Villa la Angostura &lsquo;s economy relies heavily on tourism, and May is the only quiet month. During the Austral winter it is a busy ski resort. In summer the beaches are the main attraction, though the water is cold (14ËšC at best)! The fishing season runs from November to April.</p> <p><br /><strong>Accommodation </strong><br />There are plenty of hotels and hostels to suit every budget, and the tourist office is very efficient and friendly (www.villalaangostura.gov.ar). I stayed at the superb La Escondida, a small, upper-range hotel in El Manzano, 10 kilometres south of Villa la Angostura. Check their website for details (www.hosterialaescondida.com.ar).<br />Horse riding: Cabalgatas Correntoso : Cacique Antriao, camino al mirador Belvedere , Villa la Angostura Cellphone: 02944 15510559/15624221 e-mail: info@cabalgatacorrentoso.com.ar website: www.cabalgatascorrentoso.com.ar</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p> <p><strong>First published in 'Go Nomad', February 2008</strong></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Castro is the shabby, colourful capital of the fertile archipelago of Chiloe, two thirds of the way to the southern tip of Chile. The Chilote are an independent island people. They fish and farm, and live in shingled houses. Chiloe boasts an array of wooden churches, many over two hundred years old, which are UNESCO world heritage sites.</p> <p><br />It's September, and the spring this far south is cool. On my first morning, I take a bus down rickety roads to the quiet hamlet of Cucao in The Parque National Chiloe, thirty miles away. I decide this is a place to see on horseback, and negotiate a deal with Nelson, a handsome, quiet, gaucho. My horse's is called Feo, and I wonder why the beautiful beast was named "Ugly". Nelson's is Chispa - Frisky.</p> <p><br />Accompanied by a stray black Labrador and Nelson's mongrel, we ride through the village, and down a path through gorse-covered dunes. The cold Pacific wind hits us as we glimpse the ocean. The sky has cleared to cobalt with splashes of foamy white clouds. Closer to the salty spray, the gorse is replaced by low bushes with giant prehistoric-looking leaves. Nelson tells me it's nalca, an edible plant.</p> <p><br />We ride through swamps, fiercely guarded by screeching southern lapwings, to a stunning two-kilometre beach, sparkling with giant cockle and mussel shells, dunes on our right, hills far ahead, white foam and spray to our left. Oyster catchers stitch the shoreline.</p> <p><br />Nelson tells me about the indigenous people, the Huilliche. They had lived on the land for generations, but had no title. The Pinochet government created the National Park and expelled them into a corner of the island, but after the dictatorship fell, the National Park boundaries were moved, and they got some land.</p> <p><br />"They live over there," he says, pointing to the hills beyond the end of the beach. "It's a day's walk."</p> <p><br />"Do you people get on with them?" I ask.</p> <p><br />"Oh yes. Sometimes there is intermarriage. But remember, they were here before us. This is their land. We respect them."</p> <p><br />Nelson tells me about the 1960 tsunami. Although the earthquake which caused it measured 9.5 on the Richter scale and killed two thousand people, Chiloe suffered few casualties, because people were warned and moved to higher land. One victim was a gold-panner called Abraham Lincoln. The geography of the coastline was transformed, as Lake Cucao was flooded and joined up with the sea. Farms and fields were washed away, and replaced by dunes. Freshwater lakes in the area are now salt lakes.</p> <p><br />After an hour on the beach we head back towards Cucao through the dunes.</p> <p><br />It has clouded over. Heavy dreadlocked clouds hang low in the sky, and it's drizzling. At Nelson's, I slide off my horses, hug him good-bye, and trek across the field to a little wooden shack where he says I will find good food. It's after two o'clock and I'm hungry. A large, jolly, aproned woman welcomes me.</p> <p><br />"Pisco, por favor," I ask. The strong, clear local brandy hits the spot.</p> <p><br />The landlady offers me seafood empanadas - exquisitely delicate patties. Then there's a cazuela - a deliciously warming casserole of lamb with seaweed. I guzzle down two huge helpings.</p> <p><br />The bill comes to $3.00 each. The meal has warmed me up. Blurred by iodine and pisco, I sleep soundly on the bus all the way back to Castro.</p> <p><br />Getting to Chiloe: There are frequent buses from Puerto Montt to Castro. The journey includes a twenty-minute ferry ride and takes about three hours. There are direct flights to Puerto Montt from Santiago with Lanchile. The bus ride from Santiago with Cruz del Sur takes seventeen hours.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>