We took an early morning bus back over the water to Puerto Montt, where we wanted to get a connection over the mountains to Bariloche in Argentina. Soon after we arrived at the bus terminal it became clear that this wasn't going to happen. I consulted the Lonely Planet to find us a place to stay for the night, whilst Christian went off with my Chilean mobile phone to try and get it unblocked for Argentina. We were both successful and Christian pointed me in the direction of a little stall of mobile phones. One of the difficulties with Spanish (and there are many) is that many words sound very similar. Like for instance the Spanish word for horse and the word for gentleman. I approached the stall and asked the lady about unblocking my phone, and for some unknown reason she answered with a story about a tall horse. I told her I didn't understand but she continued to tell me about this tall horse who also wanted his phone unblocked. It took an embarrassingly long time for me to realize that she was talking about a tall gentleman who had come in to ask about unblocking a phone. I don't know what I was more surprised by; the fact she was calling Christian a gentleman, or the fact that she was calling him tall. Either way she wasn't calling him a horse. She was unable to unblock my phone, and when she reached up behind her for a phone to sell me, she revealed the top of a very hairy bottom! Maybe she was a gentleman or a horse?
We booked bus tickets to a town in the direction of Argentina and had over an hour to waste. If any of you ever find yourself stranded in Puerrto Montt bus station, Chile, we can heartily recommend the bus terminal cafe. Christian had one of his best meals of the trip (for a few quid), a caserole, and with the use of the fantastic wifi, Christian skype-called his bank to sort out a new bank card. In in the meantime spent a happy hour people watching. On the next bus we ended up in Osorno, we were further east and slowly edging our way to the Argentine border. We then got in a local collectivo (bus) and bumped our way past green pastures and chalet-style homes. This is one of the parts of Chile which was colonised by the Germans and it really shows in the architecture, the gardens and the general up-keep of the area. (As an aside, I cannot think of two races of people more different than the Chileans and the Germans, it must have been quite a clash of attitudes when the two met).
The collectivo driver dropped us at our accommodation, and there we met the friendliest, happiest host we had encountered. Marie and her family run Cabins Panoramas in the small settlement of Entre Lagos (Between Lakes). The wooden cabins had a private but rocky beach onto the lake and a serene terrace for breakfast and relaxing.
There was nothing to do in Entre Lagos, but I could happily have done nothing for a bit longer than our one night stay. After a German style breakfast the next day, Marie climbed into the drivers seat of her pick-up truck, atop a fat cushion which meant she could see out of the windscreen, and drove us to where the bus to Bariloche would hopefully stop for us. We stood by the road like hitch hikers and hoped that the right bus would stop for us, and it did. A couple of hours and another tedious border crossing later, we arrived in Bariloche, at the heart of the Argentine Lake District. On the edge of a huge and beautiful lake, Bariloche has the look and feel of a ski resort, except that it was boiling hot. We stayed in a ski hotel called the Slalom hotel which oozed 60s style, and clearly hadn't been touched since then.
On our first day in Bariloche, we organsied a day of activities and set off in a mini-bus to the lakeside chalet where they began. On the mini-bus we met Emily who would turn out to be a travel companion of ours for the next month. At the chalet we were due to go kayaking on the lake, which filled me with some trepidation because the water was so choppy. We got into our life jackets, kayak skirts, helmets, and water proofs before the Guide came to the same conclusion as us; the lake was too choppy for us to venture out on. We all bundled into the back of a truck, the kayaks were attached on a trailer and we drove for about 45 minutes to another lake. It was still choppy but not as bad and in no time at all (which is quite a bit of time in South America) Christian and I were bobbing up and down on the waves in our two-man kayak. It was so much fun! We were kayaking with a couple from Alaska, two Argentine teenagers and an Australian couple. The teenagers had previously told us all that they had kayaked many times before, so it came as quite a surprise when they started kayaking around in circles and couldn't seem to stop. One Guide stayed back with them and we continued. After only about twenty minutes in the water, the Australian couple got scared and told the Guide they wanted to get out, it was too choppy for them. And so they sailed ashore and waited for us. And so out on the lake kayaked the brave British and the trained Alaskans. It was so much fun. Christian and I loved it and started talking about our possible entry into the 2012 Olympics.
A story Christian will not want told
At one point Christian said something that made me roar with laughter, and he will kill me for telling you all this... (but we are in separate countries as I write this and so feel safe). In a particularly choppy piece of water I heard Christian shout to the Guide who was a couple of metres away "Frederico! I have water in my face, what do I do?" Frederico couldn't hear him over the waves and so Christian kept shouting it "Frederico, I have water in my face, what do I do?". Perhaps Christian hadn't quite understood the set-up with a kayak, but being so close to choppy water, and splashing an oar into it is probably going to mean getting some water on you. As it was, Frederico didn't understand the question, or couldn't believe it was being asked, and ignored him (which by the way happens a lot in South America if someone doesn't think your question is worth answering). Sorry Christian! We kayaked on and I almost wet myself giggling. After we had drank mate, eaten facturas and picked up the shipwrecked Australians and teenagers, we headed back to the chalet.
It was then time to hit the stables and grab horses for an afternoon of riding. I had a jet black horse who seemed very sedate and followed the others with perfect discipline for about the first half an hour. 
When she saw a stream a good ten feet down a steep slope, she decided she was more of a leader not a follower, And there was nothing I could to stop her. Well, that horse led me to water and nearly made me drink! It was only by leaning back along her back as she plummeted down the slope that I managed not to fall over her head. From that point on, she wandered off to eat thistles when she wanted to, she stopped to look around when she wanted to, and she stopped for a drink when she wanted to. I still loved her though, she was an independent woman! The ride was great, and really varied, we waded across rivers and had to lift our feet onto the horses not to get wet, and we also strode through the lake. I felt like a proper cowgirl. Back at the stables we accidentally let a horse bolt out of the paddock and it started to cause havoc in the campsite. We went back to the chalet for tea, cake and a lie down in the sun. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable day.
Circuito Chico - not so chico
Circuito Chico (little circuit) is the name of a 30 km trail near Bariloche which gives you great views of the surrounding area. We hired bicycles to cover the distance which would have been easy enough if it were not for the god damn hills everywhere! The views were fantastic, my bottom was not. 
We returned the bikes to "Cordillera bikes" (highly recommended) and the guy gave us free beers and I laid in their hammock and stroked their friendly cat. Our next mission was to find a way of comfortably travelling the 1400km from Bariloche to El Calafate in the South of Argentina. We had been hoping to avoid Ruta 40 (Route 40), the famous road that Che Guevara travels in his "motorcycle diaries", since it is in notoriously bad condition and offers nothing to see. However, with no flights available, with no other direct buses, and with no other options jumping out at us, we resigned ourselves to our Ruta 40 fate. In the dust and motorcycle tracks of Che, we would follow.
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