'I visited ridiculously beautiful country but as a tourist it was baffling'

Daily Mirror

13 hours ago

"It's easy. Pull the reins left, the horse goes left. Pull right, he goes right. He goes downhill, you lean back. Uphill, the opposite.' And with that 30 second lesson, I had learned to ride a horse.
In Argentina, you don't need a helmet, a 10-week course at a riding centre or any health and safety waivers before you're let loose into the Andes.
All you need is to entrust your life to Negra the Mendozan gaucho and his Snow White-like ability to perfectly control three horses with clicks and whistles.
Ten minutes after becoming a master jockey, my feet were plunged into torrents of meltwater as my steed ploughed across a waist-deep mountain river, putting the equestrian crash course to a very early test.
'I can't believe I'm on a horse,' my horse-loving-but-deprived wife beamed from her saddle, once safely on the other bank, scorching Southern Hemisphere December sun already drying our trousers. As with much else in Argentina, an experience of equal measures invigorating, chaotic and slightly dangerous.
Like American cowboys thousands of miles to the north, the gauchos of the Argentine and Uruguayan grasslands are swamped in folklore. They rose to fame in the mid-18th century as European traders started buying contraband hides and tallow in the frontier regions around Buenos Aires, leading gauchos to hunt large herds of escaped horses and cattle that had roamed freely there.
When not 'gambling, drinking, playing the guitar, singing doggerel verses about their prowess in hunting, fighting, and lovemaking', they were bravely leading the successful charge against the Spanish colonialists, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica.
Today they remain revered as national heroes and some continue to lead lives partially separate from their countryfolk. We were taken out of town to Negra's dusty compound in the foothills of the Andes by Pablo, owner of family-run business Trekking Travel Expeditions, and told his level of English matched our Spanish.
Happily, there is little need for talking when riding in the wake of a gaucho, up the winding rocky paths and under the circling condors of a place that has been home to his family for generations. Located in the central west of the country, Mendoza is less visited than Salta and its sunset orange cliffs in the north west, or the 275 cascades of Iguazu Falls in the north east.
The two-hour flight from Buenos Aires to the regional capital may be one of the most turbulent in the world, but it is well worth braving for two reasons alone: the wine and the mountains. Vineyards in Mendoza are planted at some of the highest altitudes in the world yet produce two thirds of all Argentine wine, with the pink-skinned grapes of Criolla Grande and Cereza squished into famed vintages of Malbec.
Plantation tours are available across the state including the Luján de Cuyo and Uco Valley, where seemingly endless rows of vines create contour lines on the undulating hills, watched over by towering Christ statues on some of their peaks.
I recommend Bodega la Azul, served cold on the sunny banks of a mountain river by Pablo's son after a long horse trek. Beef ribs smoked in a clay oven are such a good accompaniment you too may be forced to break 12 years of vegetarianism.
It's important to have a few sips only if you're planning to motor off into the Andes proper after lunch. When out on the near-empty country roads, Argentina feels genuinely vast, but driving through built-up areas with grid-like town planning – coupled with traffic-light-free junctions – left me certain I was about to be shunted at each corner. A clear mind and reactive braking foot are key.
Winding our way further into the hills, plunging down tunnels cut roughly through the rock, we came across yards-tall mounds made up of thousands of plastic bottles. These are not collective littering efforts nor memorials for road-victims, but shrines for the saint of travellers Difunta Correa, who died of thirst in the desert of San Juan running away from a forced marriage.
Perhaps she helped us make it to the base of Argentina's tallest mountain safely, despite the rapidly thinning air and the fearlessness of fuel-truck convoys as they thundered by. Roughly one in 10 Argentine men seems to be wearing national team football shirts at any given time, making their pride for Messi and the boys quite clear. Talking to people living in the long shadow of Aconcagua, the love felt for the tallest mountain outside of Asia shines through nearly as brightly.
The Sentinel of Stone comes in at just under 22,837ft, 6,000ft less than Everest. Argentines say it's more visually arresting due to the sheerness of its southern face, and the way its snowcapped top pierces the blue summer sky.
Up and up we drove in search of the mountain, passing empty ski resorts and parking at the foot of the Parque Provincial Aconcagua. After slamming the car door shut I stopped for a moment to blink the stars out of my eyes. The air was noticeably thin.
Several gauchos leading a herd of horses down the hills seemed unfazed, lighting up cigarettes on the saddle as we wandered higher. Huge house-sized boulders litter the path, the result of 'super rockslides' that tore off bits of the summit and dumped them down into the glacial valley. It would've taken us two weeks to reach the top if we'd if carried on walking, so we settled on a quick stroll before heading back to the car park.
Argentina is blessed with more natural beauty than any other country I've visited, yet curiously, most of it sits behind a baffling paywall. Our trip to the Aconcaguan foothills was far less serene than the eventual sight, thanks to a hugely complicated ticketing system.
Parking MUST be booked online, with a national ID requirement, which means visitors end up schlepping to the local Western Union to show their documents. There we were met with a 30-person queue. Argentina is undergoing dollarisation, whereby its pesos will be replaced by US currency. As a result, cash is tightly controlled and rapidly inflating pesos are treated like unwanted hot potatoes.
Supermarkets are filled with shoppers exchanging foot-high stacks of notes for dollars, and every other street is lined with tired-looking workers waiting at a Western Union. Since the country's floppy-haired President Javier Milei started ripping up the public sector and phasing out pesos last year, poverty rates have shot up to more than 50%.
Economists continue to argue about whether austerity will provide a long-term economic cure to a country that has swapped currencies more times since 1970 (four) than it has won World Cups (three).
Some say the shock therapy is needed for a country that was one of the world's wealthiest 100 years ago, yet now languishes as the 70th richest globally. Others, including ATE union members who brought public transport to a standstill in October, argue the cuts are an indignity to a deeply proud nation.
Right now, hardship seems to be the main symptom of the reforms, and you can feel it everywhere. From the tourist's perspective, the disruption is temporary but ­noticeable. Prices in Buenos Aires are similar to those in London. Cash machine withdrawals are limited to a few pounds due to cases of muggings. Prices are rarely advertised online as inflation renders them quickly out-of-date, meaning almost all activities have to be researched online and then the price haggled over WhatsApp.
Yet amid all the change and turmoil, Argentina is a beautiful country and an amazing, surprise-filled one to visit.
After making our way down from the mountains on our return to the UK, my wife and I strolled out into the sweaty Mendoza city night to discover a 60-piece brass band in the central square. 'I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,' a crooner warbled as a very red-faced Santa samba danced with a long queue of patient children below, and scents from rotating barbecue spits wafted into the night air.
The singer's dreams probably didn't come true, but that doesn't mean his and the flip-flop-wearing punters' days won't be merry and bright.