Alto Images

Aconcagua, impossibly massive, shrouds itself from view. And then, as its might lies hid, a wind picks up, stripping strands of cloud from off the mountain's face until...

"Hola". The tour guide jumps up and down excitedly, pointing at fellow travellers returning to their tour bus. I take a last, lingering glance at almost-clear Aconcagua, but this would not be a good place to be stranded, so I trudge back over the scree to rejoin the bus.

I hate tours. I love what they enable me to see, but I still hate them. They are not really a sensible way for the photo-obsessed traveller to get his or her fill of picturesque sites. In order to have only 5 mins with the Western Hemisphere's tallest pebble we spent 30 mins at least looking at inadequate woven goods and mineral bunnies at Puente de los Incas, and 25 mins and at a service station where I had to bargain the owner down from $20* for a small Coke (the karma of my successful 50% negotiation was dented later when I had to pay $5 for a banana).

Having overreached myself the day before, I thought I ought not to go with the exciting option of hiking through the Silver Mountains and instead signed up for tour of los Alto Montagnes. The final warning from the tour operators was that the tour came with a Spanish-speaking guide, and they could not guarantee that they would speak any English. Resigned to this, I paid up and thought "I'm only here for the views".

And what views they were! It's been 11 years since I crossed the southern Alps (in a car with a speedily diminishing petrol supply, which was a bit distracting), and probably 5 years since I scaled Mt Kosciusko in Australia (not tricky, though my ex got a bit dizzy half way up and had to turn back). Aconcagua, its peak lost to view, is thrice the height of the latter and almost twice that of Cook. I was looking at some seriously pointy rocks, and the novelty was exhilarating.

British-built hot baths - like Tunbridge, but with extra yellow slime

Of course, with me nothing could be entirely straight forward. I tried my best to pick out Spanish words of which I knew or guess the meaning, successfully interpreting that petrolium was Mendoza's biggest economic activity, and the fact that the Rio Mendoza looked like flowing chocolate because of 'muchos sedimenta' didn't take too much work either.  That said, Hericka (sp?) the loquacious tour guide was concerned that I could not understand her, and arranged for me to transfer to another tour, with an anglophone guide, as the next rest stop. In the meantime, I practiced taking photos out of the window to get round the lack of scenic stops.

Having secured my discount Coke, I was introduced to Carolina, the English-speaking guide. I was slightly alarmed to find I could barely understand her but I thought, if she's got a bus full of English-speaking people that's got to be OK. I said goodbye to my new friends, the Argentinian family and Alessio, Daniella and Marco from Italy, and set off on the new bus.

It because rapidly clear that this was not the best idea. The tour was a bilingual one, in both English and Spanish.  Even the non-Argentine tourists admitted they found it easier to follow her Spanish comments. Worse still for me, not only was I no longer sitting by a window that opened, but the glass was twice as tinted as the first bus, meaning mobile photos were now entirely out of the question. Despite having a chance to chat to a very nice Swedish couple, I mostly sat and seethed at screwing up yet again.

My salvation came at the very next stop. As I sullenly rode down the $60 cable car at Los Penitentes, familiar faces greeted me in the other direction. Bus Numero Uno had stopped to look at a Hollywood built Tibetan bridge, Bus Numero Dos had not, so we had overtaken them despite their 20 minute start. After a moment's thought (and checking that my seat by the window was still available) I hopped back on. Like Quantum Leap, I had put right what once went wrong, but with Christ the Redeemer doing the hard yards instead of Sam Beckett. Don't worry, I'm not photoshopping that.

It didn't really matter that I couldn't understand the tour. The Italians and Argentinians filled in with helpful translations, and Hericka's enthusiasm was worth listening to even if the meaning was lost.  And then there were those lovely mountains. Reunited with my open window, I clicked myself silly, grumpy only at the short time at the view point for Aconcagua. We ascended right up into the mountain passes that originally joined Argentina and Chile, and an icy wind greeted us as we frolicked at El Cristo la Redentor and admired some of the Andes at their best.

No, it's not Scott Bakula.

* OK, it's only £2.50, but honestly. What is this, a minibar?