In the dim glint of a lone street light, my bus turned the corner and stopped. I climbed aboard, surrendered my ticket, stowed my suitcase in the overhead, my back pack in my lap and picked the window seat opposite the driver. In the dark-dark of the wee hours we eased out of El Calafate. Frost on the inside of the window, the rattle that only diesel engines make and a young couple in the back are what I remember. Our bus was really a shuttle van with 15 or 16 seats. We had been to see the glacier, Perito Moreno the day before. Other than that, you can shop all of the gift shops, museums and art galleries in town in the same hour so it was time to leave.
In any other direction the roads are smooth and they go somewhere. But to the west, all that waits is a narrow thread that turns tighter and climbs higher as you go. You doze off in little naps, waking up to bumps and sharp turns but no sign of daylight. Then you notice; it’s still dark but you can see up and down the mountain side, beyond the short, thin reach of headlights. A cloudy, overcast morning had arrived without fanfare and the view was less than spell binding.
Crossing from Argentina into Chile requires a breech, over the Andes. Unlike the Rockies, the forests are mostly hardwoods that drop their leaves in winter, where drab shades of gray prevail. There would be no lofty peaks or high passes that day but on my side, the drop off side; the road had turned to gravel, there was no guard rail and the margin for error would be measured in inches. From Calafate to Puerto Natales, you need an airplane or you have to drive this road. Under my breath I mouthed the words; Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou . . . but not being Catholic, not knowing the rest of it, I looked up ahead rather than down.
We slowed down, stopped for a short minute. There were sheep on the road. Our climb had leveled out in a high valley with small stands of naked trees, low hills and sparse vegetation. Up ahead, there were low buildings and pens, full of sheep, lots of sheep. In passing, the barns, sheds and houses were made of stone with gabled roofs but there were no lights on inside. Smoke leaked out from chimneys, dogs were running around and trucks parked here and there idled, exhaust ebbing from tail pipes in the cold, thin air. It was surreal, like little Billy looking through the window as the train crossed bridges and frozen lakes in the movie, Polar Express.
A few short minutes later, we were above the village in the woods, navigating a two track with rock outcroppings and mud holes. In the old days, people were Shanghaied, taken without their consent to work without pay on sailing ships. I wondered if that was our fate, working in a sheep camp. Up the way, the trees opened up into a clearing. The road split, one lane on either side of another stone building and a flag pole reaching high above the roof. We stopped short of the building, were told to gather our belongings, everything, and follow the driver inside.
Daylight had ushered us into the new day but the receiving room was dark. The walls were the same, unfinished stone work as the outside. With only the glass in the door and a small skylight, it was no better than under the street light back in Calafate. We stood and waited. Our driver told us, “Èl estarà aquì pronto.” I understood. My Spanish was better than I thought. He, whoever he was, would be there soon. Then a door opened at the back of the room. I thought, ‘This is better than a movie.’ He was fifty-ish, tall, balding with ruddy, coarse facial features and a paunchy stomach. His tan shirt was neither buttoned nor tucked in and his olive green uniform didn’t fit. He could have been a movie star and us, extras on the set of a John Huston or Steven Spielberg movie.
He processed the couple first. When my turn came I had a clue as to how it worked. I opened my suitcase on a table behind the counter and moved away. Still too dark to read, he manned a tiny flashlight to check my passport and probe through my stuff. He didn’t check my back pack but mumbled in Spanish, ending with a slight rise in pitch which indicated it was a question. I was good with the bus driver when he spoke slowly but mumbling was beyond me. I shrugged and said, “Perdòn.” I’m sorry. With a grumpy look and more mumbling he looked over to the driver who translated; “He wants to know if you have any alcohol and where you are going?” I could handle this; “No alcohol y Puero Natales.” He wasn’t impressed but he stamped my passport, turned and walked back through the door he had come from. We repacked, got in the van and drove again, up the bumpy road. Within a mile or so, we came to another building in the middle of the road. This one was modern with big windows and electric lights. The van turned around short of a swinging, railroad style barrier, unloaded; the driver wished us well, gestured toward the outpost and drove back toward Argentina. We had crossed the frontier a few hundred meters back.
Once inside, two young men in civilian clothes greeted us in both Spanish and English. “Welcome to Chile. You are safe here.” We did the border crossing protocol but with great attention to detail, more questions, had to empty my suitcase and back pack, checked pockets and containers. I passed easily, in my native tongue. An hour or so later, another van arrived from the west. It was our ride south, to Puerto Natales. The road was paved, down from the pass, through the valleys, the orchards and farmlands. The driver explained, on the Argentina side the village has a generator but they don’t make electricity unless it is something important like charging batteries, running computers or power tools. Each house would have several lanterns and maybe one light bulb, if they were hooked up to the grid. On both sides of the border, all over Patagonia, they heat with wood stoves or portable space heaters and they don’t heat unoccupied rooms.
Chileans are proud with a condescending attitude toward Argentina. They have a strong economy with good government which has eluded Argentina since the days of military dictators. Still, I found Chileans to be self centered and (‘ambitious’ is the word we use for ourselves when ‘greedy’ is the word we use for others with the same condition’.) - they were - “What’s in it for me?” greedy. Argentines on the other hand, especially when you get away from big cities like Buenos Aries, have less but care and share more. They practice what I have believed for most of my life; sometimes you have a live and sometimes life has you - and we are all in this together. Both countries take their borders seriously, with a greeting or a grunt. But then you don’t judge a book by its cover.
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