Being British in Argentina just a few days after the 30 year anniversary of the Falklands/Malvinas war made us nervous.
Seeing images on the BBC News website of your national flag reduced to a smouldering heap on the main street of Buenos Aires is certainly a little irksome, as was the stony face of the man sat behind the customs desk at the border crossing as he read slowly, and sternly: "Ingleterra." Everyone else got a smile.
So if pressed on the matter, we're Australian from here on in.
Our border crossing to Argentina, while spectacular (the customs office is at the foot of Volcan Lanin), has set a precedent for future border crossing in South America.
After our little fracas with the man at the border, I was just nodding my sleep-heavy head when our bus, freshly on Argentinian soil, screeched its breaks to a standstill. People on the bus started walking to the front and stepping outside, all speaking in fast Chileno Spanish that went way over my head, despite the lessons.
There was a protest, for what, I am still not sure. The road had been barricaded with a truck parked horizontally across the bridge and a group of roguish-looking men camping out behind it.
Everyone has heard a South American horror story, and I've listened to more than my fair share. But today we were lucky: the protest was peaceful (less the monster truck parked crudely in the middle of the road) and we were able to walk with all our bags to another bus on the opposite side of the bridge. The protesters even smiled and said "hola" as we passed them - not quite the hysteria I had anticipated.
It was striking to see the contrasts in the west and east sides of the Andes. While lush and green on the Chileno side, it was quite dry on the Argentina side - both tied together by mountains and stunning 'Monkey Puzzle' trees.
As we moved closer to our destination, the landscape changed from arid mountain plains to pine forests, golf courses, a ski resort and holiday homes. This was a playground for wealthy Argentinians, and not what I had imagined at all.
San Martin de los Andes is on the shore of a big and beautiful lake; houses are made of stone and wood; and the streets are lined with hundreds of trees. However, I was relieved to see the tell tale signs that this was still very much South American: stray dogs strutting around everywhere - they are the kings of these streets, but so friendly too.
Having started to feel the effects of meat and cheese, we bit the bullet and rented bikes for a day, up through the mountains and to the shores of Lago Lácar.
It was tough going as a lot of it was uphill up dirt tracks, mostly trodden by goats and cows. We had to pull into the side to let by two huge bulls being led by a local Mapache man, his children and a trail of puppies - it was good to see a slice of authenticity in this European-style town.
Our efforts were rewarded when we arrived at the mirador (viewing point) of the lake and surrounding mountains. It was good to get a bit of a sweat up but it was more fun on the way back, downhill and with the sun on our backs - we stopped only for lunch by the lake and to see the decorative shrines on the side of the road.
The next day I woke up with a very painful, bruised bottom; I should have taken the bull, not the bike, up the rocky, steep path.
So if pressed on the matter, we're Australian from here on in.
Our border crossing to Argentina, while spectacular (the customs office is at the foot of Volcan Lanin), has set a precedent for future border crossing in South America.
After our little fracas with the man at the border, I was just nodding my sleep-heavy head when our bus, freshly on Argentinian soil, screeched its breaks to a standstill. People on the bus started walking to the front and stepping outside, all speaking in fast Chileno Spanish that went way over my head, despite the lessons.
There was a protest, for what, I am still not sure. The road had been barricaded with a truck parked horizontally across the bridge and a group of roguish-looking men camping out behind it.
Everyone has heard a South American horror story, and I've listened to more than my fair share. But today we were lucky: the protest was peaceful (less the monster truck parked crudely in the middle of the road) and we were able to walk with all our bags to another bus on the opposite side of the bridge. The protesters even smiled and said "hola" as we passed them - not quite the hysteria I had anticipated.
It was striking to see the contrasts in the west and east sides of the Andes. While lush and green on the Chileno side, it was quite dry on the Argentina side - both tied together by mountains and stunning 'Monkey Puzzle' trees.
As we moved closer to our destination, the landscape changed from arid mountain plains to pine forests, golf courses, a ski resort and holiday homes. This was a playground for wealthy Argentinians, and not what I had imagined at all.
Having started to feel the effects of meat and cheese, we bit the bullet and rented bikes for a day, up through the mountains and to the shores of Lago Lácar.
It was tough going as a lot of it was uphill up dirt tracks, mostly trodden by goats and cows. We had to pull into the side to let by two huge bulls being led by a local Mapache man, his children and a trail of puppies - it was good to see a slice of authenticity in this European-style town.
The next day I woke up with a very painful, bruised bottom; I should have taken the bull, not the bike, up the rocky, steep path.
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