Mendoza is just 6 hours by road from Santiago, the capital of Chile, and we considered making the full journey and spending a few days across the border. But then we found out that the buses often spent another 6 hours at the checkpoint while the border guards checked every article brought into the country, and decided against it.
Instead we followed Route 7 to Paso de Los Libertadores, the border with Chile, and turn back. Our route traces that of General Juan San Martin at the head of the Andean army that liberated first Argentina, then Chile and finally Peru from Spanish rule. While they did it on foot or on the back of a mule, we are in the relative comfort of an air-conditioned mini-bus.
The journey is spectacular. The carefully cultivated vineyards soon give way to the barren, slopes Mendoza’s own mountain range before climbing into the Andes through the Uspallata Valley and skirting Mount Aconcagua, at 6,962m the highest peak outside the Himalayas. Of course, it is shrouded in cloud when we pass by.
Our first stop is the reservoir that provides all of Mendoza’s water and much of its electricity. It is surrounded by desert mountain scrub, a clear sign that without the Andes snow, life would be impossible here. And there are real fears about the effect of global warming. Each year there is less snow, which means less water. The Mendoza River is in full flood at the this time of year, but the channel of rushing water, chocolate brown with mineral sediment carried down from the mountain, covers barely a quarter of the river bed. But the locals have developed ingenious irrigation systems and the few towns and villages we pass on the road to the border announce themselves with rows of trees and green fields standing out against the arid landscape.
General San Martin’s army was not the first to pass this way. The Inca civilisation spread through the Andes from Cusco, hundreds if not thousands of miles north. One of their favoured spots was the hot thermal springs along the route. Legend has it that the bridge across the river here, Puente del Inca, was formed by a line of Inca warriors stretching out to form a bridge for their ailing leader to reach the healing springs. In reality the remarkable bridge is calcified water, created by the minerals in the springs. There is no public access to the springs – this ended in the 60s, when the spa hotel there was swept away by an avalanche. Judging by the roadside stalls, they are now mainly used to calcify old trainers to sell to passing tourists.
The lorry drivers who regularly use the route are a superstitious bunch, leaving offerings at makeshift roadside memorials that commemorate unofficial “saints”. The signature red shrine of Gaucho Gil is one of the most popular, but he is unlikely to be canonised. A Robin Hood figure, robbing from the rich to give to the poor, he was eventually sentenced to hang, proclaiming from the gallows his new mission to save the lives of those travelling the roads. Another shrine to a woman who died in the mountains but whose baby lived by suckling at his dead mother’s breast is bizarrely marked by piles of plastic water bottles.
We manage the journey safely without their blessings, but instead of going through the tunnel to Chile, take a narrow, hair-curling dirt track to climb the 800m in 2 kilometres to the top of the pass where a statue of Christ marks the border between the two countries. At over 3,800m and in dry, windy conditions the air is thin and scrabbling over the scree to get to the best viewpoints leaves you short of breath. But once again we fared better than the Andean army, who were forced to eat onions and garlic to ward off altitude sickness. It took them 22 days to reach Santiago. I’m betting they won their freedom by breathing on the Spanish forces they met there.
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