Las Lenas, Argentina

Thus far, my little hop, skip and jump around the world (well Argentina anyway) has been anything but planned and in this vein I found myself heading for the Portenos (because BsAs is by a port you see) winter playground - the apparently internationally renowned Las Lenas. Famed for being the home of the Marte chairlift, its off piste potential and the conditions (if you are lucky vast quantities of sun and snow - not mutually exclusive when it comes to this corner of the Argentinean highlands) Las Lenas is a resort whose image lives large in the mind of many a winter sports addict. This is the place the Argentinean elite come to get their winter kicks - oh and buy Volvos.

Deciding to head down for a few days tumbling headfirst down the pistes I boarded (sorry) the bus in Mendoza at 5.30am more than a little inebriated and knew nothing further until I awoke 5 or so hours later (I have discovered the key to sleeping on buses!) to find myself and (amazingly) my bag (I don’t remember putting it on the bus - mum, I joke, I do remember) in Las Lenas.

Scrambling in my bag I found the map and instructions provided to me by the quite intolerable Emi (such a comment will no doubt be taken as intended, as a compliment) who rather unfairly judged me based on personality and thus found me entirely distasteful to be around. Fortunately 1 pound a litre gin and a mutual loathing for certain other hostel dwellers provided the requisite bridge for our love - hate relationship to blossom and thus for me to garner the insider knowledge needed to secure accommodation and a snowboard without even breaking a sweat or stretching my Spanish.

And thus to the slopes and time to test whether the basic plans made in various messages, posts and drunken conversations would reap tangible results. To my surprise they did and the youngster named Oliver I had met in Mendoza was close to where he said he would be at around the time he said he would be where he said he would be at the time he said he would be there. I think he hails from that suburb of England called Australia - I say I think as when I asked him he seemed to seek clarification from me on the point (I spy 5 points for hackneyed Aussie inflection joke, a further 5 points for any subsequent criminal descent references).

Further meeting up with Ollie’s two flatmates Tom and Tom and every now and then joined by a group of Argentineans we made quite the merry band on and off the slopes enjoying all that Las Lenas has to offer - which is much.

Incidents of note include:

The lost glove - dropped carelessly from a chairlift the glove was never recovered after whatever the Argentinean version of a darned thief is made off into the distance with it before I could recover the flighty little blighter. Arguing against the quite excessive charge levied for the loss of one glove tested my Spanish to its limits and beyond - its more than possible that RIDICULO is not Spanish but the tone of voice and my facial expression conveyed the anger my linguistic skills could not. Alas, the force of my conviction, ill nature of my glare and stormy intonation of my voice secured the same success enjoyed on the many times my heckles have risen before at home (or abroad) - yes indeed, absolutely none. Oh the young lady understood, she felt my pain, agreed the charge was over the top, an outrage, a travesty for the working (or travelling) man, a pure con but, however, these things are what they are and thus Mr Englishman its time to pay up, its not me its my bosses you see and anyways the pound is strong no?! The last bit of the story is pure exaggeration.

The broken binding - making my way happily down the piste I once again fell (sorry, again) victim to gravity and a lack of skill and found myself sliding downhill headfirst on my back. Slightly surprised to see that one leg appeared to no longer be attached to my board further investigation revealed that the binding had decided to part company with the board quite of its own volition. As I trudged back uphill (the ever so slighter shorter and slightly less morally demeaning journey than stomping downhill) I contemplated that the bad luck of having a broken binding must be tempered by the good luck that the incident had not resulted in a broken leg. Has travelling given me perspective? I doubt it.

The face plant - OK so the incidents of note are taking on a decidedly dubious nature but stories of glorious sunshine and hours spent carving the piste are just dull. After ascending the pure insanity that is the Marte chairlift I found myself atop the mountain with only one way to go - down. Following those far more able than I we carved a path though the powder and I was cruising off piste (two metres to the left of the piste is still off piste) in a complete winter wonderland. Alas, such things rarely last and a moments indecision resulted in a face plant of quite epic proportions from which I emerged frosted from head to foot and with a rather sore leg. Rather pleased to have emerged relatively unscathed I had been wearing my limp as a badge of honour, until about an hour ago that is when I smashed my foot on a drain and thus I am currently the owner of a buckled knee and almost broken toe. A two leg limp is just a pain.

A quick mention to two other characters met in Las Lenas:

Sabrina - a rather lovely young lady who is paid to make the fiesta thump and who endured with good nature some of the lowest grade banter I have ever been victim to witness (and yes, partake in). OK maybe not that bad but not good.

David - my roommate for a couple of nights who I have to thank for making me appear as though I find material possessions an unnecessary burden such was the volume of equipment and clothing he brought with him for a few days snowboarding. A DJ from BsAs (What do you do for a living Glenn? Sorry, no speaka de Inglish) the point at which he brought out the battery powered screwdriver for the purpose of fixing his bindings I knew I was in the presence of greatness.

And so with no more snow in sight in the near future and having stayed an extra night for the workers party it proved time to leave LL (Las Lenas, I know - cool) and I am once again heading to Mendoza - hopefully for the last time - though never say never. I have decided the next entry will introduce some of the characters I have met thus far on my travels as all I have planned in Mendoza is a rather urgent trip to the laundrette - I refuse, I simply refuse to wear a t-shirt more than once - and even I, with my tendency for the verbose, my predilection for the florid, would struggle to extend such an event to more than 2 pages...