Travel blog: Gaucho lifestyle in Argentina

Rhian Nicholson has swapped the bright lights of London for a three month journey across South America from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. Here is her 12th blog entry:

Queuing to cross the border from Bolivia into Argentina is a mammoth test of endurance, patience and humour.

Despite arriving at immigration ridiculously early in the morning you still find yourself joining the back of an incredibly slow moving line with the blood quietly freezing in your toes as you shuffle about in the frosty sunlight and glare at the officials who are in no hurry whatsoever to let you leave the country.

But finally, after four excruciatingly long hours you're able to push your way through the crowd of Argentine protestors kindly blocking the road and suddenly the alpacas, potholes and thermal leggings become a distant memory.

Ah, the beauty of Argentina where the hills are gently rolling, the roads have tarmac, the supermarkets are fully stocked, the gigantic steaks satisfy even the most gluttonous and - most importantly - there is a seemingly unending supply of decent red wine at prices that have even a backpacker grinning like a deranged Cheshire cat.

Well, it would be rude not to sample as much of the local produce as possible.

Or indeed the gaucho lifestyle where, lasso in hand, you throw your leg over the nearest semi-wild stallion and ride off into the sunset to round up the cattle on the ranch. That was the idea at least.

The reality involves getting hoisted onto a bemused looking horse by an equally bemused looking gaucho dressed in an open neck shirt, neck tie, cowboy hat and bombachas (loose fitting trousers) and bobbing along rather painfully in the saddle along a dirt track.

Being South America, the mere thought of wearing a riding helmet never comes into the equation.

Then it's really time to say goodbye to any remaining traces of common sense or dignity as your previously sluggish mule breaks into a merry canter and you start bouncing up and down like a hyperactive jack rabbit, certain in the knowledge you're not going to be able to sit down comfortably for the next two days.

So three hours, two aching thighs and one near miss with a barbed wire fence later, your rumbling stomach is finally treated to a well deserved lunch.

And it was well worth building up an appetite - with enough steak thrown on the bbq to give a vegetarian nightmares for years to come.

How the Argentineans aren't a) obese or b) all suffering from colon cancer from their carnivorous ways is nothing short of incredible.

Throw in a spot of salad, a load of roasted vegetables and an unlimited supply of red wine and the evening passes in a rather pleasant haze.

Unfortunately things don't seem quite so rosy the next day, especially when you're confronted with the prospect of being suspended 100 metres off the ground by a rather small harness in the shape of a pair of Y fronts.

Indeed, ziplining is one of those things that seems like a good idea when you're insanely bored in a long queue at the Argentine border but when you're actually standing at the edge of a rather high valley with a raging hangover and just a piece of wire to grab onto for support it just seems plain insane.

Still, once your stomach has lurched in an extremely disturbing manner for the 17th time and your brain has finally registered not to put your hand in front of the pulley if you value your fingers, the sensation of flailing in mid-air like a sparrow with Tourettes is rather exhilarating.

So nine ziplines and one small panic attack later your feet are back on terra firma and your jelly legs start to feel he effects of two days of physical exertion.

Luckily that's nothing that another massive bbq lunch can't fix and before you know it you're back to waddling round once more like a lopsided penguin.

Equally impressive but slightly less nerve jangling are the views over the nearby colonial city of Salta and the Lerma valley from Cerro San Bernado via the teleferico.

With your adrenal glands begging for mercy, it's almost a relief to get back on a bus. And driving across northern Argentina is almost like being transported back to continental Europe.

Gone are the steep Andean passes, the suicidal alpacas intent on causing a six-bus pile-up and the desert landscapes with their weird but wonderful rock formations (which made staring out of the window a rather enjoyable past-time).

Instead, western-style shopping malls, service stations that don't look as if they're in danger of collapsing and flat ordered farmlands rubber stamp that feeling of familiarity after weeks of rough and ready living.

Tucked away in the north-east corner of Argentina and the south-west of Brazil, the Jesuit ruins are a crumbling reminder of what happens if you get on the wrong side of people in power.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, the Jesuits were happily going about their mission of converting the native Guarani people into accepting their interpretation of the Catholic faith (admittedly through art and music rather the usual violence and bloodshed).

But the Spanish and Portuguese authorities decided they were becoming a bit too powerful and sent them packing.

Still, if nothing else the Jesuits knew how to knock up pretty buildings to impress and house their newfound converts - and it worked.

At San Ignacio Mini, the best preserved of all the mission sites, there were once 4,500 indigenous Guarani people living within the walls of their own largely self-sufficient society and safe from the slave traders outside.

Nowadays the faded terracotta ruins have a calm dignified air reminiscent of the wat shrines in Thailand - certainly a preferable fate to being dragged off in chains to a life of unpaid toil.

Rhian Nicholson