CHAPTER 33
After saying good-bye to Kathy in Valparaiso, we loaded up the Golden Gringo and drove east. My Birthday was in two days and I was excited to celebrate the big 27 in Mendoza, Argentina. We edited our itinerary a bit so that we could stop in El Cajon del Maipo, a long valley stretching from the outskirts of Santiago high into the Andes Mountains. The far end of the valley consisted of stratified rock formations that had once been the bottom of a shallow sea before the up-lift of the Andes. During a dinner party we attended in Santiago, Dave heard from the wise old uncle that at the far end of the canyon, there were thousands of fossils strewn about just waiting to be found and taken home. We had already missed our opportunity for fossil hunting twice in Peru, and we (i.e. Dave) was not willing to let this chance pass us up.
The Maipo Canyon was a few hours out of the way, but at least in the general direction of the border. We circumvented the busy center of Santiago by using the toll highways that circle the outskirts of the city. This was an exclusive highway to be used only by automobiles that displayed their electronic transponder in their front window. We had been on this highway before, without realizing that it was a toll road, but when we figured it out we quickly exited. Though we didn’t see any police patrolling these toll highways, we were afraid of getting a ticket since we didn’t have a transponder. During our stay in Santiago, we had asked our friends about the rules, and were told not to worry: “They will send a ticket to your address if you don’t have a transponder, and since you don’t have an address, don’t worry”. With this in mind we freely circled the city on this toll highway without a care in the world. It was great, and saved us the hassle of fighting the traffic that clogs the thin streets of the inner-city every hour of the day.
It wasn’t until we reached the tranquil Cajon del Maipo that we were stopped at a police checkpoint. The logical portion of my brain told me that it couldn’t be because of our blasé gallivanting on the tollway sans transponder, but there was a small part of me that knew we had been caught! The young police sergeant asked for our documents and perused them casually, then questioned us about our license plates. Dave in the driver seat, and me in the passenger seat, we hastily reputed his inquiry, replying that “they are foreign plates and that is why they look so unfamiliar”. He squinted his eyes, and with an inquisitive look on his face, repeated his question. Dave and I sat there thinking “what is this guy up to?” Eventually, after going back and forth a few more times with none of us understanding each other, he simply told us that we were missing both our front and back license plates. “You mean we don’t have our license plates?!….they must have been stolen sometime last night while we were parked on the streets in Valparaiso. Unbelievable!”
We filed a police report with the two very cordial officers, and they even called the US embassy to see if they could provide any help with the situation. With no license plates, we would look extremely sketchy and most certainly be stopped by every policeman in Chile. Not being able to get around the local roads would be bad enough, but we wanted to cross the border into Argentina the next day, and we were sure that that would be impossible without plates. Unfortunately, the embassy couldn’t help, but the officers gave us a small piece of paper as evidence of the report we had filed, told us to show it to any police that might stop us in Chile, and graciously let us continue on. Later, using a sharpie and the inside of a wine box, Dave skillfully crafted up look-alike plates and duck taped one to both the front and back bumpers. Hopefully these, along with our “get out of jail” piece of paper from the police, would keep us out of trouble until we got to the border.
We were relieved when we finally reached our fossil hunting destination considering the events of the day. I had my doubts that we would really find anything worth keeping, but went along as a good partner should. My hope was lifted when we saw another group digging in the rocks in search of fossils. We hiked a bit higher than them and began our search. To be honest I really didn’t even know what I was supposed to be looking for, but just kind of pretended to closely watch the ground I was walking over. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a faint spiral shape in a flat piece of stone. The spiral had a ribbed texture, and was slightly darker gray than the rock that it was in. I picked it up and called to Dave to have a look. “Incredible! You found one!” It was a miracle, and within the hour we had both discovered dozens of ammonite fossils. We put the heavy rocks containing the imprints into Dave’s pockets, his pants nearly falling to his ankles from their weight, and clambered back down the steep hill in search of a safe place to park the truck for the night. We made camp at the foot of an immense waterfall and were lulled to sleep by the sound of the gushing water spilling over the cliff.
We awoke to the bright sun beaming into the tent and were ready to try our luck at crossing the border into Argentina. A steep mountain highway zigzagged up the face of the Andes before passing through the very long, unlit Cristo Redentor tunnel into Argentina. On the other side, we soon came to the border post, where we filed in the long line of cars ready to make the tedious border crossing. Because it was still considered to be “summer vacation” there were hundreds of both Chileans beginning their vacation, and Argentines itching to get back into their home country. Due to this, the lines were long and we waited nearly 4 hours for our turn– 4 hours of uncertainty of whether or not our home-made license plates would get us turned away, or would actually get us successfully across the border. We were happily flabbergasted when the border official stamped our import papers for the truck and then our passports for ourselves without any mention of the flimsy cardboard tapped to our bumpers. “No way… we were in, we made it across even without real license plates!!!” We stopped at the Gendarmaria office, the national police, at the border in hopes of obtaining an official document from the Argentina police stating why we were driving our vehicle with such obviously fake license plates. But no such luck- they told us since the plates were stolen in Chile, there was nothing they could do on the Argentina side, and assured us that the tiny piece of paper that the Chilean officials gave us would suffice at the countless Gendarmaria check points we were sure to encounter on the highways of Argentina. We reluctantly took their word and drove on, following the circuitous road through the canyon leading to Mendoza. From then on, we were very nervous at every police check point. But the little magic slip of paper carried us safely all the way to Buenos Aires two weeks later, where we planned to fly home and retrieve new license plates from Colorado. After a long day on the road we tiredly set up the tent at a camp-site right outside of Mendoza’s city center, and hit the sack. The following day was filled with big plans for celebrating my 27th birthday!
Mendoza is charming town, crisscrossed by wide, tree lined avenues, every corner featuring a boutique shop or trendy café, and feels much smaller than it actually is. But this quaint environment is not why people come here- they come for the wine. Mendoza is on par with Bordeaux in France, or Napa Valley in California, and is famous for the unique variety of Malbec grapes that thrive in this climate. I love wine, and Malbec was a new favorite of mine, so the opportunity to tour the Mendoza vineyards sounded like a perfect way to celebrate my birthday.
We rented a bicycle built-for-two, that we affectionately called our ‘wine-cycle’, from a rental shop run by the gregarious Mr. Hugo, and set out in search of tours and tastings at various vineyards within biking distance. The tandem bike took a little getting used to- we were a bit wobbly at first, and with Dave steering I had to trust that he wouldn’t lead us into danger. This was much easier to do after having a couple glasses of Mendoza’s famous Malbec, though in reality, I probably should have become more worried about a collision caused by my equally inebriated chauffeur. We brought the tour to a halt when we found the peaceful patio of one vineyard that served gourmet appetizers and wine tastings. Thinking responsibly we thought it best to put some food into our stomachs before continuing on. We ordered a delectable assortment of cheeses and spreads accompanied by toasted home-made breads, and a wine flight sampling three of the vineyards finest varieties. It was sheer perfection; the company, the atmosphere, the food and drink, and the service. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday celebration. Thanks Dave!
To top it all off, when the vineyards eventually closed and we rolled back to Mr. Hugo, he prolonged our wine drinking by serving free bottomless glasses of wine in his garden, seated with the other gringo tourists who were lucky enough to chose him to rent bikes from. After drinking for more than 8 continuous hours we were forced to tell Mr. Hugo good-bye and thank you, and we returned back to our camp-site to make a special birthday dinner. That night we dined on fresh salad, caprese gnocchi pasta, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit, another bottle of Mendoza’s famous Malbec. We went to bed full and happy and I another year older.
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