The mines in Potosí

The second stopping point I made in Bolivia was in Potosí, four hours’ drive along winding mountain roads from Uyuni. Founded in 1545, it is a small, relatively provincial city located an impressive 4070 metres above sea level.

Potosí has a beautiful central square surrounded by splendid colonial era buildings – including a cathedral and The National Mint (now a museum) – though away from the centre the ambience is less impressive. The edges of the city, apparently expanding rapidly, mostly appear to comprise reinforced concrete and red-brick utilitarian dwellings. In addition, the air is rather contaminated, due to a proliferation of aging city buses that belch out unsavoury clouds of black smoke. Although you wouldn’t think it now, the settlement was once the most prosperous in the whole of Latin America. The reason: Cerro Rico.

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The main square: Plaza 10 de Noviembre

Translated as ‘rich hill’, this mountain once contained seemingly inexhaustible reserves of silver. When the Spanish discovered this, they founded the city and set about pressing thousands of indigenous workers, as well as many more African slaves, into service. They mined the silver relentlessly in some of the most appalling conditions imaginable and invariably lived short lives. The metal, which was sent back to Spain, was a considerable source of wealth for the empire for over 250 years by which time the reserves were virtually depleted.

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Cerro Rico seen from the cathedral’s bell tower

Nowadays, mining continues to be a big business in Potosí. The mines are run as co-operatives, which means that the miners work for themselves and take home whatever they are able to extract. Each team of workers define their own area of the mine which is off-limits to everyone else. As there is no longer very much silver left, most of what is harvested from within the mountain is tin, lead or zinc.

As I learned more about Potosí in the days leading up to my arrival, I became increasingly keen to take part in an organised mine tour. Claustrophobia was never a concern for me, but I did fantasise about the mine collapsing while I was in it, something that happened in Chile some years ago leaving 33 men (affectionately known in Spanish as Los 33) trapped underground. Eventually, I decided that the chances of anything untoward happening were extremely remote, the oldest parts of the mine having been there for centuries and my foray inside being for only an hour or two. I was determined to explore.

So on the morning of my first full day in Potosí, I set off for the tour company office with a new Australian friend called Aaron. He was very hesitant to go into the mines, but between me and one of the tour guides that we spoke with the night before, we managed to convince him that it would be a worthwhile experience. From the office, a rattly old minibus took us and the other tourists to our first stop: the miner’s market.

Here, workers typically visit in the morning to purchase tools (dynamite, gloves, pickaxes, etc.) and food and drink. We were advised by one of the guides that we could buy gifts here to give to the miners once inside. His actual wording was, ‘it’s not obligatory but it is a bit necessary’; I found this contradiction rather amusing. I bought a bag of coca leaves (which all miners seem to be addicted to chewing on) and a pair of protective gloves.

At the next stop we were kitted out in full protective gear. This comprised overalls, Wellington boots and a hard hat with integrated headlamp. Curiously, the battery for the light was attached to a belt that we wore round our waists – perhaps it was too large, heavy or fragile to fit onto the helmet itself.

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Aaron and I in our protective gear

After a short visit to a smelter to see how the ore is processed (and where I nearly stepped on a fragile plastic pipe carrying noxious metallic liquids – oops), we were driven up the mountain where we arrived at the entrance of the mine itself. This was the big moment.

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One of the large machines in the smelter
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‘Consumption of alcohol is forbidden during working hours’

The six of us followed our Bolivian guide inside the opening. The twisting passageway was narrow and very low, but fortunately it opened up into a roomier cavern just as soon as daylight had completely disappeared. Here we encountered our first miner, who was hurriedly carting a wheelbarrow full of rocks out to the entrance. We were asked to move out of the way as he scuttled past.

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Entering the mine for the first time
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A miner carrying rocks out of the mine

The subsequent passageway was relatively large and propped up by wooden supports. Still, we had to be careful to avoid random holes and shafts that we could fall into (insert obligatory anglophile joke about lack of health and safety precautions). As we walked, I noticed we were tracing the route of a network of large pipes that gave off a high-pitched whining noise. It turned out that these were air pipes, which delivered pressure to pneumatic drills further inside the mountain.

Meeting a couple more miners – who communicate with each other in Quechua rather than Spanish – we were informed that there would shortly be a series of nearby dynamite detonations. This definitely got us on our toes!

We were lead into a quiet cavernous corner of the mine which was relatively safe from the dangers of falling rocks. Next to us as we sat down was an ominous looking ceramic figurine with horns, marbles for eyes and a large penis(!), lavished with multiple offerings of coca leaves and confetti. Empty beer cans littered the floor around him, and cigarettes had been placed in his mouth and lit. As the mines are hot and rather hellish underground environments, many miners conclude that they must be close to the devil, and that the metals they mine belong to him. Offerings are left at his shrine, therefore, in order to appease him so that they might avoid accidents – and, of course, strike it lucky in their hunt for precious metals. He is referred to as Tío (‘Uncle’) or Supay – but never as Diablo.

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El Tio’s shrine is littered with offerings

Our guide explained the customs and beliefs of the miners, after which he proceeded to pass round a small bottle of 97% rubbing alcohol. Following his suggestion, we each poured a few drops on the ground, as an offering to Pachamama (Mother Earth), before taking a small swig. As you can imagine, it is extremely nasty stuff to be imbibing, but nevertheless one must respect a miners’ tradition. Finally, we were told that we could ask Tío for a wish. Many of the miners ask for more girlfriends; a lot of them already have half a dozen, or so they claim!

There came some shouting, in Quechua, from another part of the mine. It was to warn us that the detonations were about to begin. The seven of us remained quiet, and waited with nervous excitement.

BOOM!

The explosion shook the mine with a deep and vigorous thud that permeated every atom around us.

BOOM!

I likened it to being in the vicinity of a warzone, something I’ve fortunately never experienced.

BOOM!

(Etc.)

And so the detonations continued for a minute or so more. It was a visceral and humbling experience that I suppose brought our little group closer together, in a primal sort of way. At last, another shout from a distant part of the mine indicated that the detonations were over, and we could now relax.

We left Tío’s shrine and continued exploring the mine further, passing through narrow passageways and climbing rickety ladders; the smell of dynamite wafted through the air. We came across more miners, one of whom was completely covered in white dust; he had been using a pneumatic drill. I was glad to see that he was wearing a respiratory mask, but I think he was the only one.

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Navigating the mine’s passageways was at times awkward
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A miner hard at work

The miners didn’t seem to express too much gratitude upon receiving their gifts, or for that matter really very much of anything at all. Our guide later explained that they become reserved around us Gringo tourists, and spending a large proportion of their lives underground, are often in awe of how different we look from local people. We must take into account, too, that Bolivians are generally very introverted from a cultural perspective. However, the miners are apparently rather gregarious between one another when tourists aren’t around, giving each other rude nicknames. Our guide, also a miner, reluctantly told us that he had been christened the Quechuan equivalent of ‘donkey fucker’.

These sort of jokes assist with keeping up morale. A miners’ life often begins in early adolescence and is one of hellish and relentless toil; conditions have hardly changed since colonial times. Miners typically work for 10-15 years before becoming afflicted with silicosis pneumonia, a result of continuous exposure to asbestos and other noxious gases, eventually leading to death. Staying in good spirits is therefore of the utmost importance, and we were advised several times beforehand that we should enter the mines with a positive disposition.

A second series of detonations, some more shimmying around narrow passageways, and a pause at another shrine followed. After this time, we were lead back outside for a little debrief and the chance to ask any final questions.

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A group photo on the top of Cerro Rico

Entering the mines in Potosí was a unique, once-in-a-lifetime experience that offered a glimpse into a totally different way of life from what I am familiar with. My lengthy write-up is surely testament to the richness of the tour. Even Aaron admitted that his earlier fears were mostly in his head, and that he too had enjoyed the experience.

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Uyuni and further upwards

I confess that it’s been a while since my last blog entry here. Actually, nearly two months have passed since I concluded my travels in South America and returned to England. I’ve so far documented the highlights of my seven weeks in Argentina from start to finish, but haven’t yet broached the latter six weeks spent in Bolivia and Peru. Rest assured I’m determined to finish my story, as a) I don’t like leaving projects half-way and b) I still have plenty of impressive photos and stories to share.

I ventured north from Salta to a small and dusty border town called La Quiaca, where I spent a single night before crossing on foot into Bolivia. From the other side of the frontier I would make my way up to Uyuni, a small city and gateway to the country’s fabled salt flats. I was pleasantly surprised to find out I would be going there by train: there is a narrow-gauge railway network that connects what I presume are the key mining towns of Bolivia together. Originally built to carry mineral exports to the Pacific coast via Chile, there are currently a handful of passenger trains each week.

A brief word about altitude sickness. Since Salta, I’d ascended from a modest 1,150 metres above sea level to 3,700m in Uyuni, and I would be ascending to a staggering 5,000m+ for a brief period during the salt flats expedition. The NHS website states:

Altitude sickness is a common condition that can occur when you climb to a high altitude too quickly. The decrease in atmospheric pressure makes breathing difficult because you aren’t able to take in as much oxygen. Most cases are mild, with symptoms that can include: headache; nausea; dizziness; exhaustion.

Proper acclimatisation to altitudes of about 2,500m (just over 8,200 feet) or more is the best way to prevent altitude sickness. It usually takes a few days for the body to get used to a change in altitude.

I was lucky enough not to experience any headaches, nausea or dizziness whatsoever. However, I did suffer from fairly extreme exhaustion for quite a few days as well as breathlessness when exerting myself physically.

After resting for a few days, I embarked on the Salar de Uyuni three-day expedition, in which you get taken to see the famous salt flats, and then up into the surrounding mountains. It is a breathtaking tour and is more or less the sole tourist draw to the city. Below are a selection of photos from the trip, which the iPad version of the WordPress website has arranged into a very nice mosaic-style grid.

Around Salta: Cachi & Cafayate

Moving on from urban Corrientes in northeastern Argentina, I arrived in Salta where I would spend several days. It is an attractive colonial city with plenty of old buildings, good food and a lively atmosphere. As part of the former Inca empire, the area has a distinctly more indigenous feel from other parts of Argentina that I visited.

At the hostel I made friends with two Brazilian ladies, Anelise and Ana, and we decided to rent a car together for a couple of days to see Cachi and Cafayate. These are a pair of pretty rural towns to the south that can be easily visited from Salta, and thanks to the interesting routes one takes to get to these settlements, make for a worthwhile excursion. I was excited to be driving for the first time in South America, though as the girls didn’t feel confident taking the wheel on Argentinian roads, the onus was on me for the entire 500km!

On the road. We drove along national routes 30 (to Cachi), 40 (to Cafayate) and 68 (back to Salta)
Some rather nice dahlias seen at a rest stop on the way
Entering Los Cardones national park, we begin to note the cacti adorning the hillsides
We look back along the winding road after a steep ascent into the mountains

The Los Cardones National Park that we drove through on the way to Cachi was the most impressive part of the journey for me. The mountainous desert landscapes were littered with such large numbers of Cardon Grande Cacti I couldn’t believe it. I think I’d only really appreciated similar plants in conservatories and glasshouses in Europe beforehand, so it was impressive to see them proliferating in their natural environment.

Cardon Grande cacti – also known as the Argentine Saguaro – were everywhere

I got told off by a rather surly tour guide at one of the viewpoints for stepping outside the designated walking area – apparently this can interfere with the reproduction of the cacti, due to the way they scatter their seeds on the ground. To be fair on me, there were no signs or other warnings posted to this effect.

Just the three of us (four if you count the cactus)

We were running well behind schedule by the time we arrived in Cachi, so we had a late lunch at 5pm at the first restaurant we found, followed by a stroll to the main square for a quick coffee/ice cream and back to the car for the journey on to Cafayate. The road from here onwards was unpaved and very twisty and bumpy, so care and concentration was needed, especially after nightfall. Local radio and music stored on our smartphones played through the car’s hi-fi kept us motivated, and after what seemed like an eternity we finally hit smooth asphalt road on the approach to Cafayate. We parked the car just as it started to pour with rain, and we hastily searched for two of the most important things in the world after a long journey: lodgings and a place to eat supper.

If the town of Cafayate had something to offer culturally or otherwise, I’m afraid to say we didn’t have a chance to find out what it was. Anelise had a 4pm bus to catch leaving from Salta, so we had to hit the road right after breakfast. This may sound hasty for a return journey of only 200km on a properly paved road, but the reality was that we were going to be driving through Quebrada de las Conchas. Here, we would encounter a myriad of impressive natural rock formations that would urge us to stop and explore.

The sign says: Hydraulic action has eroded the red sandstone layers of this canyon, inviting you to see the interior with its endless number of magical geological formations. Ideal for short hikes.
Me amongst the cacti in Quebrada de la Conchas
I thought these stuffed cacti at a roadside gift shop were very cute, and am planning to have a go at making some of my own when I get back to London. Note the price tags: $65 refers to Argentine pesos (around £3.50); I didn’t previously know that the $ sign was used to denote other currencies than US dollars.
La Ventana (the window) seen in Quebrada de las Conchas
El Anfiteatro (the amphitheatre) in Quebrada de las Conchas, our final viewpoint

The last part of our drive was somewhat rushed and after all that non-stop driving I did get a bit stressed, especially as we re-entered Salta with its congested roads and carefree Argentine drivers. But we made it on time, and once Ana and I had dropped Anelise off at the bus station, and subsequently left the car at the rental agency, I set about having a decent siesta at the hostel! A little more breathing space in terms of time would have been great, but having said that we packed a lot in and saw some wonderful areas of natural beauty, so really we couldn’t have asked for much more.

Exploring a swamp

In northeast Argentina lies Iberá Provincial Nature Reserve. It is a large wetlands, remote and difficult to access, with enormous biodiversity. Think caimans, capybaras, deer and a dazzling array of wild bird species, all living in harmony in their natural habitat. After getting caught up in the beaten tourist trail that is Iguazú, I was keen to have a deeper and more personal experience with nature. Iberá was, for this reason and many others, an attractive prospect.

The wetlands are accessed from the small community of Colonia Carlos Pellegrini. To get there, I had to get a bus south from Corrientes to Mercedes, and then take a privately run minibus early the next morning to the reserve itself. The latter journey is slow, as the road is unpaved and in particular difficult to pass after rain without a 4×4.

The rickety old bridge that grants access to Carlos Pellegrini

I arrived, along with a few other tourists, at around midday; the heat and humidity was searing. I found a simple lodging at a place called Hospedaje los Amigos, which to put it politely was not a well-loved place. Behind the shower curtain in my bathroom were hundreds of mosquitos taking their siesta, the net on the window having had a large hole ripped in it. The place overall was fairly unsavoury and unsanitary. I am not too picky regarding accommodation but I do prefer a reasonably clean and cared for environment; basic on the other hand is no problem.

Enormous toads came out in the lodging’s garden during a spell of rain, which unlike the mosquitoes in my bathroom I thought were very cool indeed

 

Here you get an idea of their size

 

Fortunately the other guests staying there were nice. I met two German ladies in their twenties (who may or may not have been in a couple), an older man from Argentina and an American chap called Gregory. We got to know each other over lunch and decided we would go down together to the campsite, where the boats launch from in the evening, for a tour of the swamp.

The boat tour itself was fantastic and the punter got us up close to several caimans, as well as groups of capybaras that were swimming about. I am particularly keen on this large rodent, perhaps for its exotic nature or perhaps simply for its cuteness. Gregory had a DSLR camera similar to mine but kitted out with an enormous telephoto lens. This allowed him to get some excellent close-ups of the various avian fauna and I do slightly regret only having brought a wide angle lens (but I will make sure to borrow my Dad’s zoom lens next time!). Greg is a man who has travelled extensively in his twenties and thirties, with many fascinating stories to tell, and has learned exactly what he most enjoys as a traveler. As such, while Iberá was just one of many stopping off points for me, visiting it was the sole purpose of his trip.

A heron is just about to fly off as we drift past it. The punters switch off the outboard motor near the fauna which I thought was a nice touch as it allows you to better appreciate the surroundings.
A family of seemingly laid back capybaras amongst the foliage
A different capybara swimming around the swamp in evening light
A caiman; we saw several and were told that they open their mouths to cool down when they are too hot. I was pleased to get this very nice shot of him (or her)…

Our boat. I don’t think anyone noticed me take this photo!
We set foot briefly on a floating island. Notice the dragonflies in the air behind me; they were in abundance.

The next morning, the two of us went for a walk outside of town to reach a few of the short trails that the wetlands offer in addition to the boat launches. The first was a raised wooden walkway that takes you some way into the swamp area. It was not the sights, but the sounds which most impressed me here. The harmonious combination of insect, amphibian and bird noises was out of this world: it was music to the ears and wonderfully enchanting.

Click here to hear the sounds of the swamp

The other two treks we made were in the jungle. Here, one is supposed to be able to encounter Howler monkeys, which are billed as being the world’s loudest land animal. After a little observation we did find one high up in a tree, but unfortunately for us it remained motionless and silent. So we did not see very much in the way of wildlife here, although the sounds were once again impressive. Gregory rightly mentioned that you have to spend a lot of time in nature to properly observe your animals of interest – the more time you dedicate, the better your chances – precisely why he had chosen to stay in the reserve for several days.

A large moth or butterfly seen on the trek through the jungle

Although I myself only spent a day there, the wetlands offered exactly the brief respite I needed from the air-headed tourist haven I had just come from. It was an enriching experience and I hope to someday visit another swamp!

Iguazú Falls

Here are my selected photographs from the Iguazú Falls, which I visited at the beginning of January. As mentioned in my previous article, the falls straddle the Brazilian-Argentine border and are accessed by tourists from national parks on either side of the river Iguazu, each offering a different perspective. The Argentine side is far more impressive and extensive, however; I’ve only selected two photos from the Brazilian side.

An full report of the falls is not really necessary, as the experience was mainly an aural and visual one. There were far too many self-obsessed selfie stick touting tourists for my liking though. Does one really have to have 500 photos of themselves in front of every single waterfall? A couple a day is enough for me, but it is a symptom of the whims of our generation, I suppose.

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The Brazilian side gives an excellent overview of the falls
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Yours truly #1
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Subsequent photos are from the Argentine side. This is the lower circuit walkway

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Now we’re on the upper circuit walkway

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I like how the colour and composition turned out here
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Hungry coatis hunting food – they look cute but can turn aggressive
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Capuchin monkeys
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Spotted hiding in the trees!
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This is the amazing, awe-inspiring Garganta del Diablo (Devil’s Throat). I visited it last of all.
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Garganta del Diablo
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Yours truly #2

Parque das Aves

After leaving Esquel, I made my way to Puerto Iguazú, stopping briefly in the cities of Bariloche and Mendoza. The Iguazu Falls straddle the Brazilian-Argentine border and are accessed by tourists from national parks on either side, each offering a different perspective.

Before seeing the falls themselves I visited the bird park (Parque das Aves) on the Brazilian side. It is home to nearly 150 different species of ‘exotic’ birds, many of which have been rescued by the park, having no longer been able to survive in the wild.

Below is a selection of some of my favourite photos from the park. I went to quite a bit of trouble to find out the names of each species of birds featured, so I could caption them correctly. Enjoy!

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In the foreground, a Black-fronted Piping guan
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A Bare-faced currasow (female)
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Moments later, the same currasow has turned around and appears to be flirting with me.
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A Green-billed toucan. I was impressed at just how close it let me approach. It seemed completely at ease with us humans.
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A Scarlet ibis perched on a branch
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A flock of Scarlet ibises feeding. Their bright red feathers are so striking
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A Toco toucan perched on a feeding stand. The toucans are without a doubt my favourite birds in the park, sporting amazing colours and exquisitely patterned bills. Observing their proud demeanour, they may already know this…
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A Blue-and-yellow macaw
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A Green-winged macaw
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A pair of Green-winged macaws. Perhaps they are a couple – macaws partner up for life.
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In the butterfly room I saw these cocoons. I was impressed at just how well camouflaged they are, appearing almost indistinguishable from leaves hanging off a branch
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A fully grown butterfly (sorry, I had to draw the line here in trying to find its correct name!)

La Trochita

In Season 9 Episode 22 of The Big Bang Theory (a sitcom about four science nerds), Bernadette asks Sheldon what it is about trains that he likes so much. Sheldon answers:

“When I was a child life was confusing and chaotic for me and trains represented order. I could line them up, categorise them, control them… I guess you could say they gave me a sense of calm in a world that didn’t.”

Bernadette and Sheldon in The Big Bang Theory

Sheldon’s explanation is insightful. While I don’t know if I would concur that life was necessarily confusing and chaotic for me as a child, I did find my model trains extremely satisfying toys for exactly the reasons he outlines. I would also enjoy many afternoons watching trains from my grandmother’s bedroom window, which faced the railway tracks of the London to Kent lines. Electric passenger trains and diesel freight trains passing by at speed in all sorts of different colour schemes, making all sorts of different mechanical noises was something that captivated and fascinated me on a profoundly emotional level. It was all that, plus perhaps the mystery of where they were coming from and where they were going to.

After a period of respite from the hobby during my teenage years, I’ve rediscovered my enthusiasm for trains as an adult. This has come with an added appreciation of their historic role in the industrialisation of society, linking up communities that would have once only been served by horse and carriage. Traditional British steam locomotives and the coaches they pulled, many examples of which have been preserved, are also wonderful reminders of the fine engineering and craft that came out of our once-prosperous manufacturing industry. When seen in steam, they kick up one hell of an atmosphere.

So, on my way up the western side of Argentinian Patagonia, how could I pass up the opportunity to ride La Trochita, the old Patagonian express? Although state railway operations between the towns of Esquel and El Maitén ceased in 1993, steam-hauled tourist excursions continue to be run once a week by volunteers. I visited the former of the two towns; El Maitén would have been more convenient, but I’d have had to wait several days for the next train.

The engine, German built

I walked from my hostel to Esquel station for the 10am departure and arrived to see the train waiting at the platform with enthusiastic passengers milling about. Before boarding I walked up to the front to take a good look at the locomotive in full steam, which I was told was German built, dating from 1922. However, it had at some point in its history been converted to burn petrol rather than coal, which is more environmentally friendly and cleaner; this fortunately did little to change its living, breathing character. The wooden-bodied carriages were of similar interest, being Belgian and of the same era. Inside were rudimentary bench seats and in the middle a stove, which was once used to cook simple foods and most importantly of all, to heat water for mate.

I had a look into the locomotive’s firebox
The stove, no longer in use, is a reminder of how passengers once travelled

I took my seat and the train eventually departed, leaving town before weaving across the arid and rocky landscape, providing stunning vistas. It all felt a little bit like being in an old Western. Onboard, a respresentative explained to us the history of the line and pointed out details in the passing scenery. Meanwhile, I got talking to a man named Norberto, an avid train enthusiast from Buenos Aires who was visiting with his wife and son. He told me about his experiences of the other two famous tourist lines in Argentina: el tren del fin del mundo (which I missed out on seeing in Ushuaia due to bad planning) and el tren a las nubes in Salta. I told him about the preserved railway lines in England of which there are numerous and he seemed duly impressed. The train finally arrived at its destination, which was the first station on the original route but could be better described as being the middle of nowhere. In reality, there was a station shelter, platform and a few log cabins with families selling tortas and artisan handicrafts.

On the journey
Me in the cab

This is where the first of two surprises occurred. After filling up on a couple of greasy pastries, I spoke with the driver who invited me up into the cab for the turning process. The locomotive detached from its train in order to move forward and turn round on a triangle (which is basically a formation of track that allows an engine to do a three point turn), after which it would couple up to the other end for the return journey. However, this could not go ahead as planned!

After passing the first set of points, an assistant switched the tracks so the engine could run backwards over the first leg of the triangle. It was then that the driver noticed something strange. A trench had recently been dug across the ground, towards and underneath the track we were about to cross. Had he not noticed this, the consequences could have been disasterous; a loco weighing hundreds of tonnes without support from the ground below could easily buckle the rails and topple over.

The trench that had been excavated by the water company

A couple of men came over to inspect the damage and the driver shouted from our cab, ¿Paso? (Do I pass?) The answer was a decisive no. It emerged that a water company had dug the trench to lay a pipe but had neglected to inform the railway about the work (or perhaps it was sabotage – then this really would be like an old Western!). Fortunately, with a bit of ingenuity it was possible to get the loco onto the triangle by a bit of maneouvering over other tracks. I did question for a moment whether we were going to be stranded in the desert.

A driver’s eye view of the track

The second surprise was back at Esquel station, after all the other passengers had left. I asked to board the cab once again as this time they were going to turn the engine around on the turntable (mesa giratoria), which I was keen to see. As we approached, a couple of assistants lined up the table for the engine to move onto. The driver released the regulator gently and we started moving. Suddenly, there came shouting from down below: we stopped sharply and I looked out to see that we had, somewhat alarmingly, derailed. The lining up of the turntable had been imprecise and for lack of a better word, sloppy. After a lot of humming and hawing, the driver and the assistants decided to back the engine off the table very slowly and fortunately for them, it did work. Nevertheless, it was quite a show for me!

Assistants trying to line up the turntable
Derailed! Look at the last wheel on the right