Crossing Borders

Driving through Bolivia

April, 2024

Duration: 2 weeks of driving, 1 week of wine tasting
Countries: Peru Bolivia Chile, Argentina
Budget: Gas, Wine, a few very nice hotels (at agent rates)
Miles Travelled: 3,500 miles (5,700 km)

Crossing Borders: A Roadtrip from Peru to Argentina (Driving through Bolivia!) Ever since we acquired our Toyota Fortuner during the pandemic, Tristen and I have had a dream of crossing the Andes by 4-wheel drive. Our plan included an overland visit driving through Bolivia and its epic salt flats of Uyuni followed by some hiking in the Chilean high desert of San Pedro de Atacama. From there, we would meander down the famous 40, or “Carretera Austral” following the Andes South until arriving at Mendoza, a world class culinary and viniculture destination. That was about as much as we knew. We would need a few things before we could commit to such an adventure: 1) An excuse to leave Willka T’ika for a few weeks. 2) A reasonable route that was both off the beaten path but still enjoyable 3) A lot of logistical planning (visas, permits, and supplies required for driving through Bolivia) 4) And hopefully some partners in crime.

Day 1 (Peru to Bolivia)

We left Willka T’ika at sunrise on Sunday, April 7th, hoping ideally to be driving through Bolivia ‘s border in the afternoon to get to La Paz around dark. We knew it was an ambitious plan, as 700 km in Peru could easily take 10 hours, especially considering weekend road work. And we had no idea how long it would take us to cross the border at Desaguadero and then drive the final 100 km stretch to La Paz. Accompanying me and Tristen in our Toyota Fortuner were our On-Site Manager Verena and our Cusqueño guide Silverio. They would head back to Peru once we’d all laid eyes on the Salt Flats of Uyuni. Verena had lived in Bolivia years ago during medical school. But that was before the government of Evo Morales had come to power in 2006 and things had changed a lot since then. We made a few calls to some Bolivian contacts asking about how to cross the border. They warned us that there would be a lot of paperwork and that driving through Bolivia was not for the faint of heart.

The Peruvians (and Bolivians) have a special word “trámite” for any legal transaction or procedure, one which usually involves an inordinate amount of a paperwork. And the word “Desaguadero,” which means “drainage” is also commonly used to refer to a sewer. So it wasn’t hard to imagine that the trámite of clearing customs in a backwater town named after sewage system, would be neither pleasant nor easy.

Thus, I was somewhat prepared when we arrived at the “Vehículos de Turismo” crossing at CEBAF (Centro Binacional de Atención en Frontera), and they promptly sent me back to Desguadero to “apply” for a tourism visa, something only required for Americans. (Tristen, who holds an Australian passport, and Verena and Silverio, who are Peruvian, cleared customs without any issue). After handing over my yellow fever vaccination card, bank account details, passport photo, trip itinerary, sworn affidavit, and $160 in cash, I was bestowed a Bolivian tourist visa by 5PM.

But that was the easy part. Our precious Toyota would need much more in the way of trámites. We were prepared for this and I had a folder of legal documents showing that the Fortuner was Willka T’ika’s company car along with a legalized copy of my Vigencia de Poder attesting that I had full ownership over all things Willka T’ika. The Peruvian official waved us through customs to the Bolivian woman sitting across from him. She was less sanguine and insisted that I needed an official authorization from the “owner” of the car to allow driving the vehicle through Bolivia,

“But I am the owner of the car,” I calmly explained, showing her the 14 page Vigencia that gave me the complete range of “poderes” or legal powers. She pushed the documents back at me, saying that they were only valid in Peru and carried no weight in Bolivia. Rummaging desperately through my folder of legal documents, I pulled out a legal letter I had notarized giving permission for our driver Rubén to bring the car back to Peru after the road trip. It was apostilled by the Ministry of External Relations in Peru and thus had international jurisdiction.

She almost softened. “But where is this Señor Rubén? Only he has the poder to be driving this car through Bolivia. Either he needs to be here or you need to get your own poder.”

I knew better than to argue or try to use logic to overcome bureaucracy. Verena had hinted a few days that I should probably get a poder for myself as well as for Rubén. But it had taken a few days to get Ruben’s poder in Cusco and I didn’t have the time or patience to go through that process again just to attest that I gave permission to myself to drive my own car.

With my tail of trámites between my legs, I conferred with Silverio and Verena. Silverio tried to reason with the Bolivian official until I pulled him away. The friendly Peruvian official whispered to us that it was fruitless. And Verena tried to hold back from saying “I told you so.” For the second time, we left CEBAF, but this time with only exit visas from Peru but no entry visas into Bolivia! We were like the Tom Hanks character in the movie “The Terminal” who gets stuck between immigration offices!

I took a few minutes to calm myself down and present three options to the others. We could return 3 hours to Puno and try to get the necessary poder. Maybe it would be quicker there than in Cusco? We could leave the Toyota in a parking garage in Desaguadero and cross the border by foot, like hundreds of other merchants were doing. It would be easy enough to catch a bus to La Paz and make our way to Uyuni. But then what? Or we could call Rubén and ask him to drive the car. Either way, we needed to find a place to sleep. It now dark and none of us wanted to sleep in a sewer town so Verena booked us in a decent hotel in Puno. On the bumpy 150 km drive, we called Rubén who graciously agreed to catch the all night bus to Puno and meet us in the morning.

Day 2 (Driving through Bolivia)

As soon as the Bolivian consulate opened in Puno Monday morning, Silverio, Ruben and I were waiting outside with a ream of documents and passport photos ready to inquire about getting a poder for me to drive my own car. Rather than go through that process which would require going to a notary and then the Ministry of External Relations, the Consular officer instructed us to complete the “Formulario Para El Ingreso De Vehículos De Uso Turístico A Territorio Nacional.” Why hadn’t the woman at the border mentioned this form? An hour later we had an official Bolivian document showing that both the owner and the driver had been authorized by the Bolivian government to enter the country. But I still was not allowed to drive my own car! The friendly officer reminded me that Rubén would have to be driving through Bolivia the entire time, lest we risk having the car impounded!

At 11AM, we drove the 3 hours back to Desaguadero and into the all-too-familiar CEBAF crossing. This time the Peruvian official made us wait an hour while he called his supervisor to double check that we could take the car out of the country. I tried to show him our documents but he wouldn’t look at them until his boss had finished his long speech about vehicle jurisprudence. Ironically, the Bolivian official waved us right through as soon as she saw our new document with the Bolivian consular stamp. “This covers me,” she almost smiled, “but we still need to verify the serial number of your car.”

It was not uncommon for narcos to be caught driving through Bolivia with stolen cars for sale so she examined our “Carta de Propiedad” (pink slip) again and we showed her that the VIN number matched the number on the engine and on the battery casing.

“No, I need to see the VIN number engraved on the chassis.” Silverio and I ran around the car frantically looking for such a number. Only after watching a few youtube videos was I able to find it hidden behind the rear right wheel. Reaching behind the tire with my iPhone I snapped a bunch of photos with the flash, until one finally revealed the correct 17 digit number. 24 hours since we arrived at Desaguadero, we were finally able to cross the border!

Elated to be finally on the open road, and passing scores of sidelined 18-wheelers, Rubén drove us towards La Paz with Verena navigating. It was already 3PM and we had lost a full day. There was no longer time to stay in La Paz. We would be driving though Bolivia for 600 km straight until we arrived in Uyuni. As we approached La Paz, the roads became increasingly congested and riddled with potholes. Using Waze, Verena guided us threw a harrowing detour around LaPaz until we rejoined the main Highway 1 to Uyuni at 6PM. It was getting dark and we had over 400 km to go.

We had been warned about roadblocks and inspections and every half hour we would pull over and dutifully pay a few Bolivian Sucres for tolls. One official asked to verify that we were carrying the required first aid kit, roadside emergency supplies, and fire extinguisher. It was only a brief search and we hopped back on the freeway, now pitch dark, hoping to make it to Uyuni by 11PM. I called the hotel asking them to save us our dinner. Since breakfast we had only eaten nuts, chips, and protein bars. Rubén and Silverio were used to eating a big meal for lunch and they asked if we could stop in the next town, Caracollo, for a proper caldo. We never made it to Caracollo.

Not long after the last toll, we saw a strange site. A car driving towards us on the freeway! It was creeping along the side of the road going against the flow of traffic. Granted, there wasn’t much traffic, but it still seemed like a pretty dangerous thing to do. A few minutes later we saw a several 18-wheelers parked along the side of the road. This was not uncommon and Rubén confirmed that when he had been a commercial driver he would also pull over in designated places to sleep for the night. But this did not look like a designated place and more and more trucks seemed to be stopped, sometimes in the middle of the freeway. We proceeded gingerly noting that the space between us and the parked trucks was diminishing rapidly. Soon there was barely enough room for us to squeeze through stopped traffic. I recalled an ominous short story by Julio Cortázar that I read in college, “La Autopista del Sur,” where drivers are stranded on a freeway outside Buenos Aires for days. And driving through Bolivia seemed way worse than Argentina.

Weaving between the trucks, a small police car was driving against traffic towards us. Silverio jumped out of the car to assess the situation. “There’s a large protest up ahead,” the officer warned us. “They are burning tires. I would turn around if I were you. If you can, take one of the dirt roads and see if you can find a way around the blockade.”

Verena looked nervous. “Bolivian protests are no joke,” she frowned. “It’s not like Peru. If they are burning things and the police are moving away from the scene, then things are serious.”

“Well, this is why we have a 4×4,” I said cheerfully. “We can drive for hours on these dirt roads until we find a way around. And we have supplies in case we need them.” I much preferred the idea of driving offroad to being sandwiched between dozens of Bolivian semis.

Verena stared at her phone. Her Waze had stopped working and she couldn’t see a clear path around the blockade to the next city, Oruru, still 100 km away.

“Put the car in high ratio 4 wheel drive,” I instructed Rubén. We’ll take this dirt road and see where it goes. As long as we’re heading South with the freeway on our left side, we should eventually find a way to rejoin it.”

After a half hour of driving down a thin, dirt road, a small car passed us. I took that as good news. Rubén tried to flash his lights to get it to stop but it ignored us. The next car to pass we were were able to get its attention until two men who seemed like they had been drinking, pulled over suspiciously. With all the heated political protests, I didn’t want to advertise the fact I was a gringo, so I told Silverio to ask them if there was a way to rejoin the freeway from this road.

“Sí, Sí,” they motioned us forward, not really answering the question. I told Silverio to be more specific. “Is there a town ahead?”

“Sí, Sí,” again. “Soledad.” And with that, they drove away ever quicker than they had arrived.

An hour later, we found Soledad, which turned out to be more of a campground than a town. I was just happy that it was on Google Maps and that I now roughly knew where we were. Verena was not so sure. A few miles later we found what could have been a town, except it was deserted. There was a plaza, some houses, maybe even a church but nobody to be seen.

“This looks like a Zombie apocalypse,” Tristen joked. But at least she wasn’t freaking out. Fortunately, nobody was freaking out. Yet.

What I had hoped would be a direct road South turned into a winding path that wandered down and eventually around a large ravine. Just before I was about to admit that I had no idea where we were, Verena’s Waze reappeared, and we were able to see the path to the freeway. It was after 8PM now but we were back on the freeway, with no blockades in sight.

By 9PM we arrived in Oruru and found a place for Rubén and Silverio to get their caldo. “We need to keep our driver happy,” Tristen reminded me before I could insist that we keep driving.

I tried to buy some diesel to fill the tanks, but the young station attendant confirmed what we had been warned. “I’m sorry, but we can’t fill up your car without a special code from the Bolivian government.” I had thought that a crisp $50 US dollar bill might have convinced him otherwise, but he literally could not get the pump to release gas without a code.

The final four hours to Uyuni were too much for even Rubén. He had been driving through Bolivia ‘s deserts for 12 hours and had not slept much on the bus the night before. Despite his protests, I took the wheel. At this point, the risk of having my car impounded for not having the right poder was negligible compared to the danger of Ruben falling asleep at the wheel. I chewed coca leaves to stay awake. Everyone else fell asleep. By 1AM we pulled into the dusty town of Uyuni. Our dinner was waiting for us but none of us had much appetite for hamburgers with a side of llama jerkey.

Day 3 (Salt Flats, Salt Palace)

We had worked so hard to see the salt flats and nothing was going to stop us now. In the morning, I’d arranged for a guide from Hidalgo Tours to show us the Salar. But first we had to find fuel. With the 50 liters of reserve diesel I had in the back, we could probably make it all the way to Chile. But I didn’t want to take any (more) chances. We found a government gas station, where for a premium of 30%, we could fill up our thirsty tank. After that we drove to the “Cementerio de Trenes,” a graveyard of rusty locomotives from the end of the 19th century. After the silver trade dried up and steam engines became obsolete, the trains were abandoned in the desert outside Uyuni. Now they served as a good playground for tourists like us to warm up our photography skills.

After a quick and touristy visit to the local market and salt factory, we dropped off our luggage and car at the Palacio del Sal hotel, located on the border of the 150 km by 80 km wide Salar. We were happy to leave our car there and have Hidalgo do today’s driving through Bolivia. Not only were we exhausted, but we knew that the endless salt would corrode the chassis of our car and the poor Fortuner had been through so much already! Even just to walk on the salt flats, required us to all put on gum boots.

Describing the Salar is best left for videos and photos. Suffice it say that the staggering bleached beauty was well worth the hassle. Collectively, Tristen and I have been to over 70 countries and even having seen amazing Salt Pans in South Africa, Namibia and Utah, we never experienced anything like this. It is such a shame that Bolivia has made this trip so difficult for Americans. But there were no shortage of European, Asian and Latino tourists. Our hotel was packed, with April being an optimal time to visit. There was still water on the Salar, leaving an incredible shimmering reflection, a perfect backdrop for endless photographic fun.

The cherry on to top of our day trip was the sunset aperitif on an isolated, and partially submerged playa. Stepping into ankle-deep water, we strolled up to a picnic table replete with wines, hors d’oeuvres and cheeses. With cool trance tunes from our own private DJ, we sipped rosé and watched the sun set over the salty horizon. As soon as the sun disappeared, the temperature dropped dramatically. We were sitting at 3700 meters, slightly over 12,000 feet elevation and it was time to go back to our salt palace.

Day 4 (Bolivia High Desert)

By morning, we had acclimated to the altitude and were ready for the road ahead. Since we’d be driving about 200 km through Bolivia deep desert to our next stop, we hired a guide, Willy, to make sure we didn’t get lost or miss any of the many hidden gems in this desert. After all, this was one of the biggest benefits of having our own vehicle. The only other way to see this desert was to hop on one of the overland tours, or for the most extreme road warriors, to bike across the desert.

We stopped for lunch at a small desert mining town called San Cristóbal. It was the only civilization between Uyuni and the Chilean border. Then after driving through Bolivia hard-packed desert we arrived at the Cañan de la Anaconda, named after the serpentine river that cuts through the sand. The next stop was the Valle de Rocas, a stunning series of carved crags that begged to be climbed. Here our Fortuner looks most fortunate, sitting among cliffs, sand, and rugged bushveld.

I felt like I was back in Africa! Each secret stop was more stunning than the last. An hour later we arrived at the Laguna Qatar, an oasis in the middle the desert, named after the eponymous Arab Gulf State. And finally, another secret canyon called Italia Perdida, where apparently an Italian cyclist had disappeared.

By sunset, we arrived in the tiny town of Mallcu Villamar where we had asked Willy to reserve a couple guestrooms in one of the two hostels. It felt like Baghdad Café, but with an elevation well over 4000m and no heating. We pulled out all our clothing and put it on before we crawled under the sheets.

Day 5 (Driving through Bolivia to Chile)

By sunrise we were on the road again, determined to see a few more magical spots in this delightful desert. Rubén drove the Fortuner above the altiplano, higher and higher until the car’s altimeter showed 4970m, the highest point of the drive. Even having driven all over Peru, the highest pass I’d ever seen was Abra Pirhuayani at 4725m. Bolivia bestowed a whole new world of topographic superlatives.

I couldn’t miss out driving in such stunning terrain, so soon I took the wheel from Rubén and steered us toward the famous Laguna Colorada. According to our Bolivian friend Natalia, the name comes from a mythical battle between the local Aymara and the flamingos, the latter being wounded so badly that their blood filled the lagoon with red sediment. Willy didn’t know about this legend but he did know that flamingos fed off the abundant salts and minerals of the lagoon.

We stayed just long enough to take some great photos but Willy wanted us to keep moving. He still wanted to show us a few more surprises before dropping us off at Hito Cajones, the closest border crossing to San Pedro de Atacama. To speed things up, Willy asked if he could take the wheel from me. “Imposible!” was my terse response. I had not come all this way to let a stranger drive my car through the most spectacular dirt roads in the world. Despite my arguably more conservative driving, we managed to visit the thermal geysers, the Desert of Dalí, and the Laguna Verde before noon. If it weren’t so cold at night, I could easily imagine spending a week camping and exploring this desert.

We soon figured out that that taciturn Willy was not really a guide, but rather a driver. This explained why he had reached for the wheel so many times and had not said or explained much of anything during our desert adventure. We had so many questions that were unanswered. Where were the lithium mines and why had Bolivia stopped using so many of them? Were they using the geothermal energy that seemed to be everywhere? Why did they make it so difficult for Americans to come here? And why on Earth was it so hard to buy gasoline? We’d heard so many stories about Evo Morales and the politics that have outlasted him since he left office in 2019, but it was hard to imagine that all these decisions, or lack-there-of, could be politically motivated.

To our relief, it was relatively easy to exit Bolivia with our car. We simply presented our documents, waited a while outside a windy office, and then proceeded to drive a few minutes toward the Chilean customs office. But nothing is ever simple when crossing borders. The young Chilean officials seemed to revel in intimidating Rubén with probing questions. When they discovered an undeclared apple in his backpack, they practically treated him like a terrorist. Might it have something to do with that Peru-Chile rivalry over who evented the Pisco Sour?

Since I was not supposed to be driving the car through Bolivia, I remained quiet until Rubén got so nervous that I had to intervene, lest he say something to the Chilean that would get the car impounded.

“Who is this muchacho,” said the agent, who was about half my age, to Rubén, pointing rudely towards me.

“I’m the owner of the car,” I replied, and then added dryly “muchacho.”

“If this is your car, then why is his name on all of the documents?”

And then, in what seemed like a surreal plot twist, we redid all the vehicle documents with my name as the driver instead of Rubén’s. We then each filled out the same customs declaration form four times each until the agent was satisfied, and then he proceeded to place every bag in our car in their X-ray machine.

“Do you need to X-ray those spare tanks of gas too,” I asked with genuine curiosity.

“Oh no,” we don’t put those in the machine or they will explode.

And with that, and surrendering our last few coca leaves, we crossed into Chile, where the roads were paved, the potholes filled, and the street signs actually told us which direction to drive. We drove past the Licancabur volcano and then an hour later arrived at San Pedro de Atacama. We said goodbye to Verena and Rubén who would take a bus to Calama and fly back to Cusco via Santiago and Lima. Tristen and I still had 3000 km to go to get to Buenos Aires.

Day 6 (Atacama, Chile)

Our couple of days in Chile were short on time but long on scenery. We loved the Explora experience, where they fill your days with outdoor excursions and your nights with gourmet food and wine. It reminded me of my years working at Backroads, where we road bikes for hours, partly so that we could eat and drink to our heart’s delight. Like Backroads, Explora has exceptional trip leaders. Our favorite, Fernanda, took us up a spectacular ridge where we were rewarded with a sprint down an enormous sand dune.

The next day we hiked to the Puritama Reserve where Explora has their own VIP hot spring, which we enjoyed while sipping cold beer with more Brazilians. At last, a bit of relaxation! That afternoon, we set out on mountain bikes and rode to the Quebrada de Chulacao. It was starting to feel a lot like Backroads, until some Brazilian guests decided to turn around after only 5 km because their bundas were hurting. I raced ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous Caracoles pedestrian street at sunset, where dozens of artisanal shops line up along a dirt road with the 5920m Licancabur volcano as a backdrop. Back at Explora, we joined our new friend from Blue Pineapple travel for another amazing dinner inspired by the world famous Peruvian chef, Virgilio Martinez. I joked to Tristen that when I’d asked Verena what kind of food to try in Chile, her Peruvian patriotism shined through, “They don’t have any cuisine, so they use ours!”

That evening, we toured one of the many telescopes in Northern Chile. Due to the high altitude, low humidity, and minimal light pollution, more than half of the largest telescopes in the world are located in the high desert bordering Bolivia, Chile and Argentina.

Day 7 (Chile to Salta)

The next morning, April 13th, it was time to hit the road again. It would be a long drive to Salta, Argentina and we had another border crossing to navigate. We had hoped to take the Highway 23 along the Chilean salt flat to cross Paso Sito into Argentina, and then visit San Antonio de los Cobres. But our Explora guides had warned us that the pass was closed to regular traffic. We didn’t want any more border crossing challenges, so we chose the road more traveled, Highway 52. After a gorgeous drive over mountain passes and salt flats, we crossed the border at Paso Jama. These border officials were much more friendly than the last ones and after driving through the gate and showing our papers we proceeded to another binational office where we were quickly processed by both Chilean and the Argentine officials. To celebrate our last border crossing, we filled the car up with unregulated diesel, and followed the signs to San Salvador de Jujuy.

The scenery continued to surprise us with both its diversity and stark beauty. We passed more salt pans, then grassy altiplano, finally descending through sandstone canyons carved out of the mountains like giant sand castles. The colorful Andean town (and people) of Purmamarca reminded us of Peru but quainter, cleaner, and with a welcome variety of things to eat! Although Peruvian cuisine may be world famous, those of us who live there can get a bit tired of caldo de gallina, trucha frita and even lomo saltado. We were thrilled to park the car and dine on fresh empanadas.

Not long after the 52 turned South into Highway 9, it started to rain. As if on cue, the arid Andes became the lush Yungas of the sub-Andean cordillera. We still had plenty of driving to go and with rain, traffic, and some road work, it took longer than expected. We pulled into our Estancia, or elegant farmhouse, just in time for dinner. A French Relais & Châteaux, Estancia Los Jasmines welcomed us warmly with an aperitif of Torrontés, a crisp white grape that grows bountifully in the high valley between the Salta and Catamarca provinces of Argentina. We took note of the wine maker, Domingo Hermanos, so we could plan our next day of wine tasting in Cafayate, the home of Torrontés.

Day 8 (La Ruta 40)

Our original plan had been to take the 160 km scenic drive down the 40 from Salta to Cafayate via Cachi. But after speaking to our local host, we learned, once again, that this dirt road would take us many hours and that the more direct route (Highway 68) was plenty beautiful and would give us more time for wine tasting. It was an easy decision, especially after all the driving we had been doing.

The drive was stunning and we enjoyed the beautiful Quebrada de las Conchas with its shimmering rock formations. We pulled over at the side of the road to hike around “El Obispo” an enormous sandstone monolith. Our Highway 68 connected with the famous 40 just North of Cafayate and we stopped briefly to take a photo of the road sign. This was the fun part of the journey! Behind us were the border crossings, high deserts, steep passes, and roadblocks. Ahead of us lay quiet country roads, prolific wineries, quaint towns and easy driving. We immediately pulled into the main plaza in Cafayate and ordered a menu del día paired with a tasting of three local Torrontés blends.

This was the only night we had not pre-booked so we were pleased to find a cute, albeit simple hotel around the corner from the plaza, Villa Vicuña. It would be a suitable base for today’s culinary exploration. Rather than hopping from winery to winery, we settled on one big, beautiful bodega called “Viñas en Flor” and spent the afternoon there tasting reds and whites, including their signature 1700 vintage, named for the elevation at which it is grown (1700m or 5600ft). This elevation is what gives Cafayate its unique terroir, and allows for very different red varietals, such as Tannat, as opposed to the more well-known Malbec from Mendoza.

Day 9-11 (Road to Mendoza)

Ideally, we would have spent days driving down the Ruta 40, stopping at ancient ruins (Quilmes), visiting cute towns (Belén, Villa Unión), hiking in majestic national parks (Talampaya, Ischigualasto) and even do more star gazing (Barreal). But our friends Ron and Julie were waiting for us in Mendoza and so we decided to keep our focus on food and wine. We’d heard about another remote Estancia, el Chañarmuyo, located in a lonely stretch of La Rioja, between the Catamarca and San Juan provinces. Here we would learn the history of this desolate expanse, and how winemaking had helped support the local population from fleeing to La Rioja’s capital to look for work. I took a photo of their Rioja wine menu and sent it to my friend Patxi from Logroño, the capital of the eponymous, original wine region of Spain.

There was enough time for a quick morning hike around the vineyard before we hit the road for the final 660 km to Mendoza. This time, it took less time than expected as we had La Ruta 40 all to ourselves. The only minor delays were entering each new town where inevitably we would be stopped by a friendly policeman checking our documents. We had our passports at the ready, but most of them were happy with the handwritten International Driver’s Licenses that we had picked up at AAA in California for $20. It felt so nice to be in a country where being an American was not a liability.

As we entered the Province of San Juan, the roads became much more crowded and we began to set our sights on Mendoza, our sixth Argentinian Province. Mendoza, the fourth largest city in Argentina, had grown to a population of 1.2 M, and it took us a while to cross the Provincial capital, until arriving at our boutique hotel in the upscale Lujan de Cuyo neighborhood. Our friends, Ron and Julie, had chosen to stay in the south of the city, with easy access to dozens of vineyards, in particular the world renown Valle de Uco.

The next three days were a blur of eating and drinking with tasting menus so elaborate it was impossible to remember the names of all the things we ate and drank. At Casa Vigil, home of the famous El Enemigo Malbec, there were 10 courses, each with a bottomless glass of wine. At Bodega Lagarde, whose Zonda restaurant boasts a Michelin star, we made our own bread rolls and sipped herbal teas in the gardens before indulging in another 8 courses.

This is not a food blog so I will not attempt to recount the endless delicacies we savored nor the wines we tasted. Suffice it to say that Mendoza is a foodie’s paradise and the level of service and presentation rivals some of the best restaurants and wineries we have visited in France, Australia, South African, and California.

Day 12 (Military Madness)

To compensate for all the calorie intake, we agreed to dedicate one day to hiking. And that would have to be a visit to the Aconcagua National Park. The 3 hour drive up the pass to Puente del Inca was well worth it, except for one ominous military roadblock. We were only driving about 100km when a burly Argentina soldier flagged us down, perhaps due to our Peruvian license plate. He told us to wait at the side of the road, as he allowed a large bus of Brazilian tourist to go in front.

“Maybe he’s trying to punish us for by putting us behind a bus of boisterous Brazilians,” I joked to my friends. A minute later, we saw him wave his arm forward ostensibly motioning us to continue behind the bus. We proceed cautiously, following the big bus slowly up the last stretch of the pass. Then suddenly we saw a military vehicle with flashing lights pass us dramatically and a soldier glared at us menacingly from the driver’s window.

“Pull over!” he screamed in Spanish.

It was the same burly soldier as before but this time his surly demeanor had become one of fury.

“I told you to wait by the road!” He was shaking in rage.

Realizing we were in trouble, I tried to apologize profusely. “I’m so sorry. We thought you were motioning us forward. I must not have understood.”

“Oh, you are going to understand now!” he growled.

With full military escort, he made me drive back to the roadblock and commanded us to exit the vehicle and present our documents.

While we nervously searched for our passports, I told Tristen, Ron and Julie to speak only in English. “He must have thought I was Peruvian,” I said. “We’re better off being American tourists here.”

We handed the soldier our three American and one Australian passports. I explained that we were tourists and that I was driving them around. We had come to Mendoza to sample the wonderful Argentine wines. Today we wanted to drive up the pass to Aconcagua. We weren’t planning to cross the border.

This simple story seemed to slightly calm him, especially when he opened up the back of my Fortuner and found only a case of Torrontés. But he wasn’t quite ready to give us the benefit of the doubt. We had directly disobeyed his orders and we were going to pay the price for it. A few minutes later, he brought out a large German shepherd, who began eagerly sniffing the leather seats of our car. To save time, we emptied the back of the car of our daypacks, cooler, blankets, and fire extinguisher. Only then, did our soldier stand down and return our passports to us.

“You can proceed.” He barked. “But don’t ever disobey an order again.”

And with this encounter the count was now balanced between all four of our tire-traveled countries: Peru, Bolivia, Chile and now Argentina; Each country had their own insanely unreasonable government official!

But we weren’t about to let one awful official ruin an otherwise wonderful road trip. We took a few deep breaths of relief, and continued driving up the Andes, until we arrived at the entrance to Aconcagua National Park. After registering at the Visitor’s Center, we set off on our hike up to the Laguna Horcones. Once we found our first clear view of Aconcagua, we made a K’intu blessing to this sacred summit, or Andean Apu.

Day 13-15 (Mendoza to BA)

When we returned to Mendoza in the late afternoon, we had a light meal in a casual bistro close to our Chacras de Coria posada. We still had a couple tastings left to do tomorrow at Casa de Uco and Bodega la Azul. One more day of debaucherous eating, I thought, and I would be ready to return to my vegetarian diet at Willka T’ika!

On April 20th, it was time to bid farewell to our friends. With a few cases on a wine in the car, and more than a few extra pounds around the waist, Tristen and I hopped into the Fortuner for the final 1000 km stretch to Buenos Aires. Originally, we had planned to spend a night in Córdoba, Argentina’s second largest city. But we thought we’d shave off a 100 km by stopping in Rosario, the third largest city, instead. It probably ended up not saving us time since we diverted from the main freeway and got stuck behind a convoy of trucks. But at least we got to see the 1928 birthplace of Che Guevara! (El Che had actually been killed in the Bolivian jungle in 1967 but we would have to save that for another trip.) In the morning, we took a quick walk around Rosario, dodging mosquitos along the Paraná River, and braced ourselves for our final destination, Buenos Aires.

When we pulled into BA’s famous Faena Hotel that afternoon, our odometer read 5728 km! We were so relieved that Rubén, who had just landed, would be driving our car back to Peru the next day. Over hamburgers and papas fritas, we reviewed the perils of Argentina’s police, Chilean customs, and Peruvian “poderes” with Rubén.

Day 16 (The Condor Flies Home)

Tristen and I spent then next four days at Emotions Travel Show in Buenos Aires and introduced Willka T’ika to Travel Designers from around the world. It was an entertaining and productive conference and we could definitely say we were the only ones to drive from Peru to Buenos Aires to attend a Luxury Travel Conference!

Leaving us at our trade booth, Rubén began the long journey back to Peru. To our surprise, he made the drive back via Chile in only 6 days, stopping in Mendoza, somewhere outside Santiago, Coquimbo, Antofagasta, Tacna, and Juliaca. Since he knew to avoid Bolivia, his return drive was “only” 4000 km, 1700 less than our arrival. As I’d feared, he was stopped at the same roadblock before Mt. Aconcagua – probably by the same surly soldier — and was searched up and down.

Then when he crossed the Chilean border, the customs agent tried to confiscate our 3 cases of Argentinian wine. So afraid was he to not return with my sacred stash, Rubén slipped the customs agent one of the $100 bills I had given him as emergency funds until he was casually waved across the border. But when Rubén finally crossed into Peru, thinking he was home free, the Peruvian customs official would also not let him bring the wine. Despite his pleas and subtle offer to pay any “necessary duties,” Rubén had to surrender two of the cases. Dejected, he made it back to Cusco with only 6 bottles of Malbec. He called me apologizing but I told him not to worry. The “condor” had returned safely to its nest in Willka T’ika and Tristen and I were on our way back to the US. We all breathed a big sigh of relief.