Mendoza. If their tourist office offered me a job I’d jump at it, seeing as I quite happily sing the city’s praises for free. Me and Mendoza clicked, the way some places just do; it felt right, very much my kind of town. 350 days of sunshine a year for a start; throw in fantastic food and wine – this is Argentina’s vineyard after all – wide, leafy avenues, gorgeous women, an unhurried pace of life, the Andes right on your doorstep and you have la ciudad perfecta. My planned four days quickly – perhaps slowly would be more apt – became seven.

A definite bonus was the fact that a friend of mine lived here; Nacho and I spent a fortnight working together on a Riojan winery, happily mocking each other’s respective homelands, and picked up where we’d left off this time round. Also in town was Dani, a Mexican girl I’d had a bizarre friendship-cum-relationship with out in Rioja and who was now working, randomly, for an architects firm in Mendoza. On my first night in town I met her for a drink, wondering if this time it would be any less awkward between us. No was the answer; despite having not seen each other for over a year conversation had all but dried up within about ten minutes. I went for a beso as we said goodbye and instead got offered the cheek. Plus ça change…

Dani hadn’t changed. Circumstances, however, had. I was in a city of stunning mendocinas and not in a small Spanish town bereft of options, a point amply demonstrated on meeting Nacho for his girlfriend Nati’s birthday drinks. Tatiana, Nati’s sister, was gorgeous, as was Nati’s friend Euge. Game on! Everyone eventually drifted home, save Nacho and Nati, Euge and I. I suggested we go on to another bar; old-timer Nacho was flagging and needed some sleep, so Euge and I headed on. She was 31, curvy and feisty: a fun night.

The days drifted lazily by. I saw the sights; a museum on the site of the former cabildo, or town hall, explained the city’s colonial past and the devastating consequences of a mid 19th century earthquake that slammed the city, killing half Mendoza’s inhabitants and giving rise to the modern city that grew out of the rubble. I also took myself round the Aquarium and Serpentarium, feeling like a 10 year old as I gawped at huge pythons – in distinctly unhuge tanks – venomous vipers and George the lonesome turtle. All good, until hordes of screaming over excited schoolchildren engulfed me, leading to a hasty retreat. Another afternoon I rented a bike and set off for the city’s main park, Parque General San Martin, a vast swathe of greenness intersected, somewhat to my surprise, by busy highways. The Oxford Uni Parks this wasn’t – not even any bikes allowed in there, let alone 18 wheeler supercamiones.

I struggled, sweated and cursed my way in the direction of Cerro la Gloria, a monument-topped hill with views out over the city and across to the Andes, stopping 4 or 5 times en route to check the bike. Why was cycling proving to be such an effort? The lack of gears on the bike wasn’t helping, admittedly, but I hadn’t had that much to drink the night before had I?

After clambering to the top and admiring the sunsoaked panoramas, I descended to the foot of the hill once more, regained the saddle and, after five or ten seconds pedalling, let gravity do the rest – the whole park sloped gently upwards, in the direction of the Andes. This would explain the difficulty of my expletive-laden efforts of earlier; I should perhaps have grasped this concept of mountains having to climb in height a little beforehand. Anyway, the next five minutes were sheer unadulterated joy, freewheeling a kilometre all the way across the park to a massive boating lake near the gates. The sun was shining down and Mendoza was helping me relive forgotten childhood joys: aquariums, biking on hot sunny days, and sultry latinas; a staple ingredient of any good Oxford upbringing 🙂

It was the wines that had brought me to Mendoza though, so on day 4 in Paradise I headed out with Belinda, an Aussie girl from the hostel, and after a few bus-related mishaps made it to Lujan, one of the main Mendozan winegrowing regions and just 15km south of the city itself. We hopped on bikes and set off in search of some bodegas. Some people might disagree, but for me life was meant for days like this – the sun blazing gloriously down, the perfumed scent of early summer in the air, and us off to go hunt down the perfect vintage.

First up, after a delightfully tranquil meander along tree-shaded highways and byways, was Bodegas Bonfanti, a small family run outfit where our guide was in fact the owner’s wife. It was obvious the wine, from vine to glass, received plenty of cariño – the end results were delicious. Mendoza has the perfect viticultural climate, as if blessed by Bacchus himself: hot sunny days, cool-ish nights, poor dry soil and little rainfall. The world-renowned Malbec varietal seems particularly suited to this Promised Land.

Post lunch we biked our way, after a couple of punctures, to the gates of Bodegas Norton, an international winery in stark contrast to small-scale Bonfanti. Here production, weighing in at a whopping 15 million litres of wine a year, was fully mechanized and wholly depersonalized – I like my wineries small and perfectly formed. Norton, however, was undeniably impressive; driven to the start of the tour in a stretch golf buggy, with champagne on arrival. Also interesting was the chance to taste the same grape (Malbec), same vintage (2008) at three different stages of the process – from the vat, straight from the barrel and finally from a cellar plucked bottle, the evolution of the wine clearly evident.

Bodegas 3 and 4 were small timers much like Bonfanti; the first a 4th generation family owned operation where the speciality, bizarrely, was communion wine. Not so nice. Number 4, however, was fantastic,  the perfect way to end the day. After being given a brief tour by the amiable owner he sat us down at a tree-shaded table next to a small plot of vines, brought us Chardonnay and Cabernet to quaff and amicably waxed lyrical on all things winey – hail, late frosts, pruning and the extreme love and care that each little grapelet needs. A good day.

Next afternoon Nacho and Nati gave me a tour of the countryside surrounding the city. We drove through Maipu, another of Mendoza’s wine growing regions, past Lujan and on into the lower reaches of the Andes before arriving at Potrerillos, where one dammed reservoir provides all of the city’s water. Mendoza is in the Andean rain shadow –  outside the city is all desert – and survives solely on snowmelt channeled down form the mountains. This year very little snow had fallen, and the reservoir level had dropped by a whopping 10 metres. I get the feeling Mendoza is unfortunately going to suffer this summer.

Back in town I met up with Euge and headed out to meet a couple of her friends at a restaurant in the city’s buzzing nightowl district. I’d already eaten – it was already well past midnight – yet the girls thought nothing of ordering. Neither, it seemed, did the rest of the city: where English streets would at this time of night be lined with drunken, possibly vomiting revellers, here it was the restaurants that were doing a far better trade than the bars. On we headed after food, the sun well up by the time we’d staggered home.

My last couple of days in time – rather like all of them now I come to think of it – were lazy ones. Sunday didn’t get started until 4pm, while Monday was all about soaking up summer rays on the hostel roof and asking myself exactly why I was leaving Mendoza; the place had worked its unassuming laid back magic on me. Buenos Aires was going to have to blow my socks off in order to compete with Mendoza for my affections.

Hannes and I hopped on the bus at 8am, headed for Rio’s bus terminal. From there on to Petrópolis, nestled in the hills an hour inland from the coast. Once there, bus no 3 dropped us at the end of the line – time to start walking. Our destination was the Serra dos  Órgãos National Park, a reserve punctuated by several peaks above 2000m – for Brazil, about as big as mountains get.

After a few wrong turns we made it to the Park entrance, paid our fees and had the route explained to us. We were going to be doing the Petrópolis – Teresópolis crossing, a route renowned which people were renowned for getting lost on and, in some cases, dying. Just as well then that we had no GPS, no guide and only a hand drawn map. We just had to pray for no mist, otherwise we ere going to be in trouble.

The first day was beautiful, the clouds all having burned off by midday. Beautiful, but steep as hell. The Park entrance was at 800m; we were going to be sleeping that night at above 2000m. The going was hot, sweaty and tiring with heavy backpacks on, but the views more than made up for it, becoming ever more impressive as we ascended.

We eventually crested a final ridge and reached the top. From here on another half hour’s walk on the ‘flat’ and we’d be at camp for the night. Except that someone had helpfully painted a big red arrow on the ground, that led back down the other side of the ridge. Hmmm. It seemed and felt wrong, but since when has a big red arrow ever been wrong? Well it was – after 15 minutes of fighting our way through head high grass we turned back and immediately found the right path. Bloody arrow.

As we hiked along the ridge we found ourselves at the same height as the clouds rolling in over the peaks. We felt like kings; mountain gods.Pretty asa they were though, the clouds eventually enveloped us in their wet, cold embrace, and by the time we made it to the Morro do Açu, our destination for the day, visibility was down to 40m. There was at least a rather grand looking two-tiered shelter for climbers, only recently completed and still kept under lock and key.

How to get in? Well they obviously teach you more than just Maths and Geography in South Africa, as Hannes had prised out a windowpane and has us inside before you could say floccinaucinihilipilification. Hell, the place had bunkbeds, a kitchen – with gas! – electricity: the works. Luxury! We rustled up dinner and both headed for an early night.

Next morning we were up at 5.30am in time to witness an absolutely breathtaking daybreak. The sky to the east glowed orange and pink, its pastel colours lining a sea of clouds beneath. We were up in divine domain. Around us the sky was crystal clear, and growing lighter every minute, while below us the world was waking up to a day of cloudy greyness.

It didn’t last. After breakfast we set off, and after a short descent found ourselves on the top of Morro do Marco, the first major point, as our written guide kindly informed us, at which people got lost. And then the mist rolled in. We were no longer looking at the clouds, we were in them. Not good. We waited for five minutes, seeing if the clouds would clear. They didn’t. Now we’d been told before leaving Rio that the trail was hard enough to follow at the best of times; in mist, impossible: you get lost, simple as.

We did. The problem with the trail is that is passes over innumerable granite rock faces, where the only thing to mark its presence is the occasional intermittent red dot. We obviously missed one somewhere, as we found ourselves in a little valley looking across at a steep hillside thick with vegetation. No path. We however had no idea where the path was, and finding it would have been about as easy as locating the proverbial needle. No choice but to try to forge our way through the forest. Or jungle: no word can truly do justice to the density, the thickness, the virtual impassability of the vegetation we found ourselves trying to make our way through. Uphill. With five metre visibility. We hacked, fought, slipped, battled our way through about 200m of creepers, bamboo, ferns, trees and six-foot high grass, spiky plants and thorny vines at every step; and all up a steep hill.

Almost two hours later we made it up onto the summit. It would be nice to write that we emerged out into blazing sunshine, except we didn’t – clouds, clouds and more clouds. After a 15 minute rest we forged on, certain we were now on the right track and would find the trail in no time. After inadvertently forward rolling into head high grass and finding myself swallowed up by the unforgiving vegetation, I was forced to accept that maybe we were still some way of the beaten path. Things were starting to get a little ridiculous.

And then a faded splodge of crimson beauty, as if placed there by the Almighty himself. The path: we were back on it! We had a lot of time to make up however – the hike for that day normally took 5 hours; after our scenic detours we’d already been going for over four and had covered about a quarter of the total distance.

Despite finding the path we’d lost it again within quarter of an hour, a pattern that was to repeat itself regularly over the next few hours. Our guide had detailed instructions, except they involved orienting oneself using the mountains around; we couldn’t see any mountains. Hell, we could barely see our own feet. I’ll admit it, I might have despaired a little. Having lost my down jacket back in Bolivia I had no coat, no hat. And this was no crisp, dry Andean cold; we were in a cloud, about as wet and humid as cold can get, the kind of cold that gets into your bones. The wind was howling, and we were traipsing around bare rock faces, lost, with no idea as to how steep the drops were below us.

Hannes definitely has more skill at reading the lay of the land than I do though, as he kept on finding those blessed little heaven-sent red dots, just when all, or more particularly we, seemed lost.

By about 3pm we had comme to a point which the guide, as if in jest, referred to as the most beautiful stretch of the crossing. And then – lo and behold, verily I say unto thee, didst the clouds part! Slightly. For about fifteen minutes. Still, after an entire day spent in soul-sapping misty obscurity it lifted our spirits like nothing else could have. Before us rose Garrafão and Pedra do Sino, at over 2200m the highest peak in the park.

And then back into the clouds; that was our alloted sun for the day. We were at least unmistakably on the path now, with less than an hour to go. Next up was an horrendously steep ascent, involving proper rock climbing (with backpacks) and getting over the ‘cavalinha’, a rock that juts out across the path which by this point was no more than a few feet wide, with a steep rock face on one side and an abyss on the other.

We staggered into camp at 4pm. The two guys working there looked at us in amazement – not only were we apparently the only souls brave – or stupid – enough to attempt the Crossing that week, it was our first time and we’d done it without a guide, map or GPS: our saviours had been our compass and our written instructions in Portuguese. Let’s just say that it wasn’t a late one that night, both of us safely curled up in sleeping bags before the light in the sky had faded; hoping that the clouds would clear and we’d be able to catch sunrise from the top of Pedra do Sino.

Our confidence was misplaced; we stumbled out of the shelter at 5am into bleak, wet, misty darkness, making it to the top of the mountain half an hour later. Masochism doesn’t even come close to describing it; we huddled behind a rock as the sky lightened, clouds enveloping us and then hurtling past, whipped onwards by the incessant wind. And then – the moon! It wasn’t the sun, but it was something. For all of five seconds. And then again, this time even briefer. It was like the scene in the Perfect Storm where they catch an all-too-brief glimpse of the sun before being hurled back into the maelstrom: it’s the hope that kills you.

Nothing. Nada. No sun. I gave up, my grumpy side winning. Coffee and porridge back at the shelter seemed a far better idea than sitting, shivering, in a cloud. Post breakfast  we began our descent. Would you believe it, after fifteen minutes the clouds began, little by little, to break up. Sunshine poured into gaps where once grey had been, flooding our miserable monochrome world with amber warmth. Finally!

The rest of the descent, tired legs aside, was an absolute joy. Within an hour there wasn’t a cloud left in the sky and we made our way downhill along a broad, well-defined path – what underrated, understated bliss! – through lush jungle, beautiful birdsong serenading us as we wended our way down. The world suddenly seemed an entirely different place. We passed little streams and waterfalls before coming to a road. Civilization. And, as if to remind us of what we’d not had to deal with over the previous two days, a whooping mob of schoolchildren passed us: we were back in the real world. No more mysterious misty mountaintops. Once back in Rio it was time for beers and a plunge in the heated rooftop pool, to soak aching limbs. Bliss.

Saturday I had a couple of things to tick off the tourist list before skipping town the next day: first up Corcovado and the massive statue of JC perched on its crest. Stunning views, spoiled only slightly by the thousands of daytrippers up there. Off the beaten track this wasn’t. Back on ground level I headed to the bairro of Catete and had a wander round the Museu de la Republica, housed in a fantastic former Presidential palace.

It was time for me to move on though. My 16 days in Rio had been fantastic; Florianópolis was next.