PATAGONIA 20 - WHEN IN ROME

Ushuaia, Argentina; It seemed I was the only long term resident at Los Cormoranes. People checked in, stayed overnight and left; musical beds with one stranger sleeping late in the bed next to me and a different stranger sleeping there when I came in at night. Tobacco addicts seem to be the norm in South America but the hostel was proactive with ‘No Fumar’, no smoking signs in all the rooms. They smoked in the office, study, lounge and kitchen but made good not to smoke in sleeping areas. I came in to find a new, old guy sitting on the bed across from me, shuffling through his belongings, a cigarette hanging off his lip half smoked with a long ash that was about to fall. He gave me a half-glance but no acknowledgment, nothing to respond to. I waited long enough to sense he wasn’t going to engage and asked, “Conoces sobre no fumar?” His Spanish was worse than mine still I got the drift; he wasn’t smoking, the cigarette was. I went to the office and complained to the older sister who was working the desk. She shrugged and said she would talk to him but she kept on with what she was doing. I asked, “When?” She shrugged again and said, “When I see him.” I went back to the room, propped the door open and raised both windows. He took his shaving kit and went to the bathroom. If I had to guess, I’d guess Easter European, maybe Czech or Romanian. He didn’t smoke again until the next morning and was going out the door when I woke up. He looked like a bad guy in a Liam Neeson movie; never saw him again. 

I practiced guitar for about an hour after breakfast. When I told Martín I had it with me I asked, should I bring it? He said, by all means; there would be enough guitars to go around. Ushuaia is stretched out from east to west along the shore line. The business district is on the east end, near the prison museum and the waterfront. Farther west, the barrio unravels several miles with the international airport on a headland that juts out into the channel. I walked down to San Martin Ave., took a taxi from there. The address on the slip read like a coded encryption with names and numbers in a seemingly random array but I figured, “When in Rome . . .” The driver looked at it and told me, “No problema.” 

The road leading out to the airport was good and the neighborhoods were similar to those I had walked. Then we lost the sidewalk on one side, the street narrowed and we turned one way or the other at every intersection. Pavement gave way to gravel and the sidewalk disappeared altogether, houses were only an arms reach from the car; just enough space for two small cars to pass. There were no street signs, no numbers on houses, no place to park. It felt like we were on a movie set. We stopped; “Estamos aqui.” he said. We are here. He gestured with his head to the small, low roof, yellow house on our left. With my guitar case over my shoulder I knocked on the door. It was 12:00. 

Martín answered the door, ushered me in, introduced me to his parents Miguel and Graciela. With Martín to smooth out translations we juggled two languages easily. For nearly three hours we talked about life, family, our values and certainly music. The charango came out and he walked me through some chord progressions. They strum it very fast with the finger tips. With the Latin rumba and flamenco style the Nashville 1-4-5 progressions doesn’t apply and I was lost. The instrument comes from Bolivia, popular with native, pan flute bands. My Larrivee parlor guitar was loved at first sight. They play gut strings on everything and the metallic steel ping from my Canadian guitar really lit them up. They passed it around, playing rumba rhythms. When it made it back to me it was understood, they wanted to hear my music. I played some blues riffs; they smiled and nodded at the walks and the turn-arounds. I played and sang “St. James Infirmary Blues”. I think enthusiasm is really hard to fake and their reaction was enthusiastic. Every so often a big jet would roar overhead and we would wait for it to fade away. I wondered if it woke them at night but I didn’t ask. Benjamin arrived with his guitar. He was a year out of high school, working but wanting something better. He was quiet and shy while Martín was confident and outgoing. I showed them the Nashville number system for playing any song in any key. Martín picked up on it but Miguel thought it only interesting.

We nibbled cookies and cake, sipped coffee. Miguel had been a musician/music teacher all of his life. He was 4th generation from Germany, family migrated in the late 1800’s. We were in sync on politics and religion; we didn’t like either one and obviously, we identified with los pobres, the poor. Martín’s daughter was there, a stunning 4 year-old. It occurred to me that he might be alienated from his wife and this was his day with Gabriella. It would certainly fit the culture. Graciela might have been sitting for her granddaughter, like so many do. In any case, the family was happy together and they made me feel at home.

We sat around a table in the main room. A sofa against the wall would double as a bed. Three rooms with a bath, small by any standard but they made it nice. I thought about how much money I blow through, making believe I’m tight with a dollar and how los pobres have to make every peso return something valuable. They were not poor-poor but their means were sparse. Before time to go, Miguel gave me a flyer for a gig he had coming up. He and another guitarist were doing a two man show on the weekend. He said he would save me a table at the front. When my taxi pulled up we had just finished writing a blues song in Spanish. Getting the timing was clumsy at first but it was fun and the blues resonate in any language. “No my baby she don’t love me, leaves me feelin’ oh so bad.” It was a great way to finish a great afternoon. Back at Los Cormoranes I had the room to myself; took a long, hot shower and trimmed my whiskers. 

PATAGONIA 19 - I AM A BUSY MAN

Ushuaia, Argentina: On this morning I had food in the refrigerator and in a box in the pantry. I fixed a 3 egg omelette with cheese, onions, peppers, an avocado and Argentina’s version of Spam. Before it came off the burner I had an audience so I shared those eggs with my new friends and started another omelette for myself. They watched intently as if the secret was in the spatula and I told them, if there was a secret it was simply a low, slow fire. I pulled the pan off the fire and let the eggs finish out in their own heat but that must have seemed irrelevant to folks who cook everything hot and fast. I felt smug in the fact that I knew the secret even if they did not.  

Outside it was sunny still the streets were in shadows. With the sun low in the north, shadows reached down slope, south to the water. Shadows had been confusing for me from my first day off the plane and it only got worse. I went into a tienda (shop) that sold a wide variety of goods but had little or no inventory, typical. If you wanted something, a clock, a pocket knife, a flash light, you bought the item on display as there would be none in back or under a counter. The vendedor would order a replacement and when it came, it would go on display. There was a charango hanging in the window. I first saw one in Lima, Peru at the air port. A busker was playing for coins at the gate when we changed planes: then again in Santiago’s subway and again in El Bolson. It’s a musical instrument similar to a ukulele with 5 sets of double strings and a bowl shaped body carved hollow from a single piece of wood. Glue on a spruce top and strum away. I found them for sale but vendors didn’t know anything about the tuning or chord shapes. I looked at the charango but had no clue as how to progress so I thanked the guy and walked. That was my first full day in town and I was still looking. 

I was on the high side of San Martin Ave. walking down toward the waterfront. Coming up the street on the other side was an old, gray bearded man with a felt hat and top coat. With him was a young man carrying a guitar case. Tucked in the crook of the old man’s arm was a charango. Like jumping onto a moving train, either you leap just in time or miss it all together. I hurried to the next corner and had to wait for the light to change. While I was waiting, they had crossed and were making good time up the hill. By the time I got across they were turning into a building half a block ahead of me. I didn’t run but I did hurry after them. Searching inside, they had disappeared into a doorway or up or down stairs. My gut said “Down” and I shuffled down the to next level. Looking in open doors, moving door to door I found them talking to an official across a counter. 

I stepped up, off to the side a little and looked at my man, watching him talk in too-fast Spanish. While I pondered what to do next, the man behind the counter sensed I wanted the other man’s attention and stared at me which in turn alerted the gray beard. He turned to see what it was and we made eye contact. Ready or not, the ball was in my court and I had to do something. “Lo siento,” I said, I’m sorry. “Quiero aprender sobre el charango.” I want to learn about the charango. Obviously I had pulled him away from a conversation that was important to him and there I was, a strange Gringo interrupting them. At about the same height, eye to eye, he paused for a few seconds, looked me up and down and replied. His English was about as solid as my Spanish. He said, “I am a busy man. I have no time for you.” He paused again, then, “Can you come to my home tomorrow?” I was taken aback. I said, “Sí, Yes I can.” He nodded, spoke to the man behind the counter, turned on his heel and was gone. 

My jaw must have been on the floor. The guy behind the counter was laughing. “I am Martín Gunter,” he said as he started writing on a piece of paper, “I work here at the bureau of tourism. That was my father Miguel and my brother Benjamin.” He handed me the slip with an address on it. “You will need a taxi, directions would be impossible to explain.” His English was perfect. “He wants you there at noon tomorrow. Any questions?” Of course I had questions. They were all musicians. Miguel was retired with a small pension, still taught guitar lessons and played several gigs a month. Martín, besides his day job at the bureau of tourism played base in a local band, ‘Vodevil’. I thanked him again and he dismissed it saying, “I’ll be there tomorrow too, see you then.” 

Down on the wharf, harbor taxis picked up and dropped off private sailors who were anchored out in the channel. Too cold for going ashore in a dingy, the taxis were busy. From all over the world, thousands of sailors live on their boats, sail one ocean to the next. One of the big, sailing ‘Bucket List’ adventures is to sail Cape Horn. With solar panels, GPS and satellite phones it’s not as risky as the old days but they still have to wait on good weather. Ushuaia is where they hunker down to wait. Even in winter, not the best time to sail around the Horn, a few fearless, cold natured vagabonds spend time in Beagle Channel before slipping out and up the coast to lower latitudes. Earlier, at the Beagle Hotel, I met a couple from Denmark who had been anchored there for a month. They apologized, said they wished they could invite me out for dinner but it was too cold for company. They loved showing off their boat but if you couldn’t be outside, it wasn’t any fun. They were spending the night at the hotel, a good night sleep and shoving off for Buenos Aires. 

Back at Fireland that evening I took my guitar. One way or another I needed to practice before going to Gunter’s house the next day. Someone was celebrating a birthday and I crashed the party, sampling cake and ice cream. Zoe introduced me to her cohort Paúla and their boss lady Madeleine even joined in. She had e-mailed the old German at La Montana in Bariloche who endorsed me as a good guy. They had a game night once a week where all of the students, young and old, beginners and advanced come in to socialize in English. It was still 3 days away but that’s when she wanted me to tell story. I got ice cream, cake, a Story Telling gig and hang out with cool folks, all in the same deed. 

Madeleine’s husband was an adventure outfitter. In season he guided sportsmen on whitewater kayak floats and salmon fishing trips. The rest of the time he did marketing online and spent time with his friends. I was surprised they included me in their man bashing session. She talked terrible about her husband; Zoe and Paula  went along with the insults and axe grinding. It all jelled with what I had seen in Santiago and the stories from Bariloche. Husbands were womanizers and worse; women get the short end but they made an art of getting even. Madeleine invited me to drop in at lunch time and chat. She liked talking Gringo with a native speaker. She really wanted to get the accent right. She torqued her face like she had something too hot in her mouth, reaching for that Mid West sound. I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. It was easy to forget that my skill set was rare in Ushuaia. I spoke Midwest USA. 

PATAGONIA 18 - GOING ON 3 DAYS

USHUAIA, ARGENTINA: The prison tour was self guided with information panels and kiosks. The prison itself was a high, stone walled, spider-like structure with a central commons area. Five, two story cell blocks radiated out in all directions. Four of those cell blocks were closed to the public but you could still see down those corridors through heavy, steel barred doors. The open cell block was well lit, painted and bore slim resemblance to the dark, dreary tunnels that were probably more authentic.

The first prisoners arrived in the 1850’s with their guards and an architect. What had been an Anglican mission morphed into a construction site. Tools and materials arrived from the north and they had one short summer to build a suitable, secure shelter for the long, cold winter. It took years to complete the prison and in that time, citizens started moving south to Terra Del Fuego in support of the prison and its needs. Sheep herders, small farms and small businesses set up shop in support a growing community. The few scattered missions with a thin, single tie to England were displaced by an Argentine community in regular contact to the homeland. Once the prison was finished the captive work force turned to public works and farming. The  prison turned as much to community service as it was for punishment.

Each cell block had a wood or coal burning stove at the far end of the passage, several stoves at the control point in the center. Mannequins manning the cells, maybe to help us imagine flesh and blood people confined to such a dank little room. A few grades up from Medieval dungeons but then I don’t think the inmates considered how lucky they were. The prison closed in the 1950’s and was converted to a museum. 

Traveling alone in Patagonia by bus and on foot, staying in hostels I met new people every day but not many old dudes like myself. Jos was a psychologist. What he did exactly, I never found out but there he was, traveling alone in Patagonia. We met on a tour, had lunch the next day and agreed to meet again. He was my age maybe, he spoke of his home near Rotterdam, that he needed some get-away time. His son, in his 30’s wanted him to retire and spend more time with his grandchildren. His girl friend, in her late 20’s, wanted him to keep on keeping on, to start a new family. So Jos did the noble thing, he ran off to Patagonia. My feelings about him and his dilemma swung like a pendulum between awe and pity, ultimately I sensed it was mostly pity. He never asked my advice and I never offered. We enjoyed our conversations, both of us surprised we shared interest in history and geology. He mentioned skiing. There was a single lift slope immediately above the city where locals went; not enough snow to start grooming the hill but there would be soon. Thirty miles back the way we came was a ski resort where people came from all over the world. Like everything else, El Fin De Mundo. It gave me something else to research. 

Down hill from Los Cormoranes I noticed a store front with a sign in the window; FIRELAND INSTITUTE. With a big awning, it was shelter from the weather and easy to see inside. The main room inside the door was an audio lab with listening stations, ear phones hanging from the ceiling, a language lab. It was early afternoon, no classes at the time. They taught English to kids whose parents could afford the investment and to adults whose career paths required it. I found Zoe in her office. Mid 20’s, she was the Argentine stereotype, dark hair and eyes and of course, all mid 20’s women are beautiful. We talked for a while; she was from Buenos Aires, came all the way to Ushuaia for the job at Fireland. Like other schools, most teachers worked part time. Zoe was the only full time employee other than Madeleine who owned the school. I shared my story, substitute teaching at The English Institute in Santiago, Spanish at La Montana in Bariloche and I inquired about telling my stories for their students. Madeleine wasn’t there and she would have to run it by the boss. She suggested I come back that evening when classes were in session. 

After supper, two classes were meeting. Another young woman was running the audio lab for a dozen adults while Zoe was rotating 1-1 with several kids. Madeleine was mid 40’s, all business. Her English wasn’t as good as the girls she hired but she was clear. Why would I want to work for no pay? Nobody wants to work for no pay; but she didn’t tell me no. Zoe dropped in and the conversation lightened up. I shared my experience with gypsies in Chile, the credit card crisis in Bariloche and let her know I’d be in town for a week or maybe longer. She told me to come back the next day. 

The best hotel in town was on San Martin Ave. with a man at the door and bell hops to ease your load. The lounge/restaurant had live music and was open to the public but you had to order something. A one man band was playing and singing. When he made light humor between songs he might as well have been alone in a cave, nobody was listening, nobody looked up. But the evening was entertaining. I had traded my jacket and hat at the door for a claim check; I was the only one there in shirt sleeves but nobody paid any more attention to me than to the guy on stage. I nursed a tall glass of cranberry juice and pretzel sticks for as long as I could and left. 

I was used to the cool-to-cold, blustery weather but when the sun goes down your hands go in pockets and zipper up all the way. Back at Los Cormoranes the place was a-buzz with new people. I had forgotten about late dinner. A crowd had assembled at the long table for spaghetti dinner. It seemed so “pale-white”, pasta with bread, butter and Alfredo sauce. The two girls (sisters) who worked the front desk were there and several couples. They offered me a plate but I thanked them and passed, too late for me to eat pasta. I had two new room mates who commented on the good meal and warm floor. I concurred. I was the old, go to guy with answers. I’d been there going on 3 days. 

PATAGONIA 17 - LA RUEDA

Roughly 70% of the earth’s landmass is located above the equator. That means, less than one third of the earth-on-earth is below, south of the equator. With Africa and Australia so far away, the narrow tip of South America is like the end of a diving board over a huge pool. Ushuaia is at the end of that diving board with its toes over the end. Calendar wise, winter was still a week away but snow on the mountain was there for good. Even though snow melted on streets and sidewalks, it was in the air all the time. 

Los Cormoranes in Spanish; in English we know Cormorants as big, black diving birds. Most commonly seen basking in the sun with their wings spread, they were the name sake for our hostel. The main building was a two-story on the corner at the top of a steep hill. An office was just inside the door and a stairway up to the study. French double doors on the right opened up into the commons area with lounge, kitchen and dining room. At the far end was another set of double doors leading outside. A narrow grass strip was flanked by private rooms on the left and a bank of elevated dorms and community showers and bath room on the right. Waking up there was pleasant with daylight spilling in the window plus something I couldn’t put my finger on. When my feet hit the floor I knew; the polished concrete floor was warm and I was surprised by how good that felt. Hot water heat in the floor made up for the steep climb.

On the bus ride the day before, there were four coeds across the isle, speaking French. In the last half hour before we reached our destination, one of them noticed my guitar and asked in Spanish, “Tocas?” Did I play. In my best Español I replied, “Sí pero solo un poco.” Her eyebrows shot up and she blurted out, “Oh my God, you speak English.” My gringo accent was too bold to suppress. It started a round robin conversation that lasted the rest of the ride. They were students from Montreal, figured this trip was a good time to practice their French. On the bus platform we decided to meet the next day. They were going on a Beagle Channel boat tour and wanted me to go along. So I had something to do the next morning. After the continental breakfast I went down to the booking office; the tour price was reasonable and I was invited so I reserved my ticket and went for a walk on San Martin Ave. La Rueda is a buffet restaurant out on the east end of the Avenue. It is a parrilla, a grill where they cook on an elevated, open hearth with chickens, sheep, beef splayed on steel rods over the coals. All you could eat for $7.50 American; I would become a regular. You take your plate up to the grill master, tell him what you want. With a cleaver and saw he carved out what he thought you could manage and you dragged it back to your table like a Neanderthal. Their salad bar was a lazy suzan with some veggies, jello and cottage cheese. Not that it wasn’t good, just that veggies in Patagonia are little more than garnish. They kept restocking bread and potatoes but I was the only lettuce and carrots person there. 

I made the boat tour with time to spare. Only a dozen or so tourists, the captain slipped into and out of Spanish, German and English leaving us to patch together and share anything we made sense of. The girls from Montreal were good at mix and match translation. The Argentina - Chile border runs straight down the middle of the Beagle Channel and we had to stay on our side. Port Williams, Chile is about 10 miles east, across the channel, a combination village and naval base. It is Chile’s Antarctic Provincial Capitol and a reminder that they take their borders very seriously. Technically it’s farther south than Ushuaia but not big enough to be a city; with a military and civilian combined population of under 3,000 they don’t argue. 

We got a history lesson about HMS Beagle and the discovery of the channel. It’s like Columbus discovering North America; millions of people already living there but he discovered it. The channel was well known to the native population but they didn’t have big boats or need to circumvent the horrible weather farther south. The channel was just big water that went all the way to the other side. The first sea duty for the newly commissioned HMS Beagle was in 1831. At the time, European powers were still jockeying for expansion and control in the Pacific. HMS Beagle, taking the southern route, hugged the coast and explored inlets, finding safe passage that had not been charted before. Like the Straights, unpredictable weather and treacherous currents made it a disappointment. Still, it was another way to the Pacific. Onboard was a newly graduated naturalist, Charles Darwin whose life and times are famously known, an entirely different story. 

Ironically, the channel was flanked on both sides by two newly liberated, Catholic nations and their border disputes had been passionately pursued. But the English were the only ones who actually went there and it was Anglican missionaries who settled on the north shore, saving savage souls. We saw the original mission only a few miles into the tour. As good as the stories were, nothing matched the stark isolation, harsh conditions, the interface of icy salt water and sheer mountains. There were several tiny islands, outcroppings where sea lions were hauled out; the air was warmer than the water. The only sea birds were cormorants, big, black diving birds. They were fishing, sharing space on the rocks with sea lions. I had wondered why our hostel was named for them but after watching them work, it seemed natural. 

I met a Dutch psychologist, Jos (Yohs). He was nearly my age, traveling alone. We made small talk and agreed to lunch the next day. My young girl friends from Montreal were flying out soon, back to Canada. I hadn’t decided how long to stay. It seemed moot at that point: where else was there to go? As you near the poles, north or south, darkness comes on without much warning. When we saw lights on the waterfront and in town, the sun was still well up above the horizon. By the time we set foot on shore a short half hour later it was pitch dark. Told the girls goodby and Godspeed, confirmed lunch with Jos at La Rueda and cruised San Martin Ave. Cerrado (closed) signs on most doors, bars and cafes still selling but too early for the drinking crowd. But it’s always a good time for an empanada. Some were sweet, others savory and I’d become partial to them: every bakery had them and every street had a bakery. I didn’t ask what was inside, only pointed and paid. I never got a bad one and the surprise inside was worth the suspense. 

Across from Los Cormoranes and down the hill was a laundry. Drop off in the morning, ready in the afternoon; I would have clean, dry clothes for a while. So I had things to do early, a lunch appointment and check into a tour of the prison. The French had Devil’s Island, an infamous penal colony from which there was no escape. About the same time, in Argentina, the government wanted a place to send habitual criminals who kept recycling into their jails and prisons. Long story short: repeat offenders were sent to the small community of British missionaries on Beagle Channel and given the task of building their own prison. Like Devil’s Island, even if you escaped, where would you go? As the story goes, the evolution of prison and prisoners set the stage for a Latino culture to take root there and that’s the story I wanted to discover at the prison-museum. 

PATAGONIA 16 - USHUAIA

Puerto Natales, Chile: It was dark when we got back from Torres Del Paine. The family was watching TV, they wouldn’t eat their late meal until after 10:00. I had a bed reserved in Punta Arenas the next night, only 3 hours away but it’s a big small city, bigger than Puerto Natales and not to be left unexplored. No reason to stay up late, Mexican telenovelas had lost their allure and I retired. What had breathed its first breath a pipe dream was now a foregone conclusion, I would go to Ushuaia. Next morning I took my time over the standard sweet roll & coffee, continental breakfast. I was packed just right, a small back pack, a large duffel and guitar. I could shuffle things between the back pack and duffel to meet my need. Since leaving Santiago, laundry had been an issue until you realize, nobody cares. Being a civilized Gringo I washed out underwear in the shower, wrung them by hand and let them dry. If they were still wet and I was traveling, I’d pack them wet in a plastic bag and hang them up wherever I was at the end of the day. Traveling light, you don’t wear the same dirty clothes, day after day. You put on different dirty clothes every day and make believe somebody cares. 

The bus terminal in Punta Arenas was on a busy street with no place to park. It seemed to me that someone would get it; drop passengers off a short block away, at their convenience. Pick them up in the next block. Walking with a suitcase wasn’t that difficult, they have wheels after all. But culture can be weird and they preferred the virtual traffic jam, screeching tires, blaring horns and screaming a lot. 

Coco’s mother booked me with a friend of hers in Punta Arenas; she was waiting when I got off the bus. We walked several blocks to her car and drove to the hostel, too far to walk. I went for a walk but exploring was more about exercise than about discovery. During the walk I thought about the globe about how, in relative terms, I was nearly upside down from my friends in Michigan. Outside, were you could see a distant horizon, it felt different. The country side is undeveloped, no power lines, no cell towers, no fences. Civilization has been limping along without much help since they invented trains but internet and e-mail are narrowing that discrepancy. 

Next morning the bus to Ushuaia was a big double decker, I got a good seat up front and we drove east, straight into a bright sun. We would be crossing the frontier again. This big bus could operate in both countries, not have to carry bags across the border or change busses. There is a border controversy and it is still good for an argument if not a fight, 200 years later. I’ve heard both sides with bias in both directions. Either way, their border history reeks of collusion and deceit. In the early 1800’s, all of what is now Chile and Argentina belonged to Spain. It was understood they would both gain independence but in the far south, the boundary was the continental divide and it petered out at sea level among the islands of the archipelago. Someone would have to decide where to draw the line in the far-deep south to separate the two new nations. Chile wanted the whole southern tip of South America. They knew the military/economic advantage of controlling Cape Horn, the Straights of Magellan and having a presence on the Atlantic coast. When Chile’s independence came in 1810, the new border gave them everything they wanted. Argentina cried “Foul” but to no avail. Argentina was hoping for the same deal in the opposite direction but they were slow getting their homework done. 

When Argentina got independence in 1816, Chile was embroiled in a war against Peru and Bolivia in the far north, not concerned with the border in Patagonia. In guarded negotiations, Spain’s deal with Chile could not be changed but Argentina’s new border was negotiable. Instead of dead-ending into the sea, they extended that boundary south, across the mouth of the Straights of Magellan all the way to what is now the Beagle Channel. It literally cuts the island of Terra del Fuego in half with the eastern half belonging to Argentina. It denied Chile its Atlantic coast. Chile cried “Fowl” and they are still fuming. Chile got the better of the deal but Argentina had the last word. Great story. 

My adventure was taking me to the far corner of that disputed, forfeited and reacquired wedge of Argentine real estate. Ushuaia is the southern most city on the planet, home to nearly 70,000 residents and my new home away from home. The bus ride had taken us south across the Straights of Magellan, back into Argentina and down its Atlantic coast. Motoring west again, through the mountains, it would seem we were bound to cross back into Chile but the road ends in Ushuaia, a few miles short of that line on the map. The only place to go is back. Late in the day, tired as I was you couldn’t not notice the landscape. The channel was 4 or 5 miles across with no sign of any civilization on the other side. Uphill behind us, the mountain overshadowed everything. Running parallel to the waterfront, one block in, San Martin Ave., pronounced (Mar-TEEN) is the main street. If what you want isn’t on San Martin, you will have to ascend some serious, San Francisco like hills. The information booth at the terminal had a concierge to help visitors find their way. Turns out I was only 5 blocks from Los Cormoranes Hostel, where my bed was waiting and it was an all up hill, forward leaning struggle. I stopped often to catch my breath, turning to look over the buildings below me, to the ships tied up at the pier. 

They were waiting for me at Los Cormoranes. My room had 4 beds but I had it all to myself. I stayed up a while. The study had a computer with internet connection for guests so I caught up on email and wrote in my journal. It occurred to me, here I am safe, warm and dry, at World’s End: El Fin de Mundo. I’m upside down as I’ll ever be and it doesn’t feel bad at all. 

PATAGONIA 15 - DECKED OUT IN LEMON YELLOW

Puerto Natales, Chile: The shuttle up to Torres Del Paine was nearly full, maybe 20 people and the views were quite different than coming down the day before. When I go someplace new, if I go that way again, it seems shorter the second time. Why is that? So the ride up the mountain seemed shorter and quicker, sort of a bonus. It snowed in the night up high and the line of sight ascending gives a different feel than when descending; the tour had started and we were barely out of town. 

At Torres Del Paine they split us up into two groups, in smaller vans.  We passed each other through the day, went the same places but not in the same order. My companions were German and Swiss. Our guide gave long accounts in German then brought me up to speed with a few sound bites in English. The Paine Massif or Cordillera is part of the Andes Mountains but also an independent formation. Recently as mountains go, 12 million years, sedimentary rock was uplifted then eroded away by who knows how many ice age glaciers. It exposed much older, harder granite peaks and spires that are still wearing away from the same forces. Torres (towers) is Spanish and Paine, as best I could glean has an indigenous origin referring to the blue color of glacial ice. The signature image for the park are the two most prolific peaks, locally referred to as the horns of the bull, “Los Cuernos del Torro”. 

The day was cloudy, threatening rain with gusty winds that you had to lean into. We enjoyed descriptions of breath taking views and looked at photographs of mountain peaks that were cloud shrouded on that day. Once in a while the clouds opened for a brief glance at the skyline but we had to rely on the photos. We stopped at a waterfall, walked a short walk from the parking lot to the observation deck. Not so wide or far to the rocks below but the volume of water churned with a roar and mist that rose up to meet us. The water had a pale blue cast to it; on a gray, rainy day it wasn’t the light. It reminded me of the Grand Canyon at the mouth of the Little Colorado where soluble minerals from up stream color the water. When you take photographs you learn quickly, whatever the conditions give you, that’s what you get. Direct, low angle sun light is what photographers pray for but you never know when poor, wet, low light conditions will capture an awesome image. So you take the shot regardless, and another and another. It was the last week of fall, snow, and wild flowers were blooming. In paper thin top soil and fractured bed rock, low, woody scrub was decked out in lemon yellow blossoms. I thought of Gibran’s essay on children; that it’s not about parenting or even about the child. He said it was about life, longing after itself. On a sunny day in summer those bushes would be barren, not a second glance. On this cold, gray day they were life’s instrument, longing for itself. Shutter-click, shutter-click.

Torres Del Paine is a rock climbers paradise. Within the park with its 10 or 11 major peaks you find 5 of the world’s top 10, technical climbs. Nobody there risking life and limb while we were there but they don’t close the park. Recreational climbing, camping and hiking are popular all year long, whatever the weather. Farther north and east, higher up there is a huge ice field spilling valley glaciers in all directions. Earlier we saw Perito Moreno, on the Argentine side. In Torres Del Paine one of its siblings runs down and into Grey Lake. That was our next destination. 

The good part about riding around in the dismal weather was there was no dust. Our ride to the whale museum in Puerto Madryn was without AC, windows open, a dust bath and I appreciated the humidity. At the lower end of Grey Lake the road ended at a big, 3 story lodge and visitor center. It was closed for the season but its restrooms and vending machines were at our disposal. We brought our own lunches and its covered deck was the best place to shelter and eat. Even with low clouds and dank conditions, the views were still spectacular. Sparsely clad, low rolling hills were mottled with gray, black and brown. The melt water lake below the glacier terminated in its outwash plain, just a short walk away with a boulder & cobble stone beach. 

Our guide explained our next option. “If you want to see the glacier itself, see its icebergs, we have to hike across the beach to the far side. It’s about a ten minute hike. The wind will be very strong so if you want to remain here, we will be back in about 45 minutes” I was surprised to see how many people chose to stay back. So our small group took the board walk down to the near beach. Walking required undivided attention. From a distance the beach looked very manageable but a careless foot placement could leave you with a twisted ankle or worse. So it was 8 or 10 careful steps and a quick look up the fjord. Slowly we made our way past the huge rock formation and mountain side that had blocked our view. The wind was strong, and gusty, making our trek longer than he had predicted. On the far side, some of us climbed over low boulders, up the shore toward the glacier. Icebergs were small but they were there, a stone’s throw away. “This is where the wind blows them. They will stay here until they melt.” He congratulated us for coming this far, conceding that this was a favorite place. You could see all the way up the fjord, to the glacier itself, snaking its way up into the clouds. In the terminal pool in front of us, ice bergs were no bigger than small cars but they were radiant blue. The closer to the water, the bluer the blue. Glacial ice is mysterious, magical. Once you understand the science the mystery is solved but it may be more enjoyable than the fact and you almost wish you didn’t know. 

Up the lake I noticed a dark gray patch between the clouds and the water, our guide was watching it too. “Is that a squall?” I asked. He nodded, not sure if he should grin or grimace. His directions gave us two choices. We needed to get back to the lodge. The rain squall was bearing down on us at 80 Km/Hr. and there was no way to outrun it. The shortest distance was the way we came but a longer walk, away from the beach would be easier, faster walking. He was going the long way and he would run. The group split, I went the way we came, hopping from stone to stone. At half way there was a powerful gust and rain drops big as grapes began to pelt us. I turned away as much as possible, slowed down a bit and kept hopping. It was the second time in recent time that I was smug faced; fleece layered, hood up in my Gore-Tex jacket. My feet and legs were soaked but hips up, I was dry. 

Back at the bus, the storm had blown through. If not for our wet feet and pant legs, there would be no clue. The folks who stayed back were glad they weren’t out in it. The ones who got wet were glad for the excitement. It’s lackluster and lame to recount the storm you didn’t get caught up in. Sandwiched between the ground and low clouds, the van ride started to feel redundant, second verse same as the first. At scenic overlooks, all we could do was listen to graphic descriptions of views that we were missing. We did see foxes at roadside stops, rummaging around waste barrels. They aren’t particular: an easy meal of Twinkies or chips would always be appreciated. Guanacos are basically Patagonian lamas, we saw some of them too. On placards at the lodge, we read about native mountain lions and small deer but the birds were perched somewhere else and the place felt deserted. 

By mid afternoon our tour was about spent. The lakes and waterfalls, all of it for that matter felt like Lord of The Rings. The dark, wet conditions just made it all the more so. Several times, the guide apologized. If you come all the way to Torres Del Paine, you should be see the towers, the horns of the bull. Several times he pointed to a spot far off in the clouds; “That’s where the towers are, right there: if only you could see them.” With Grey Lake behind us the sound of tires in soft, wet gravel was sort of a so-long, fare-well to the park. I know a man, one of his favorite expressions is, “When you least expect it, expect it!” This was one of those ‘Least expect it’ moments. Our driver let up on the gas, made a noise that could have passed for either pain or excitement and he got on the brakes. Face to the window and the big side mirror he said,”There it is!” We lurched to a stop, he opened his door and jumped out. “The Towers: the clouds just opened up and there they are.” I was next row back on the other side with my camera in hand. I was out in a flash, looked back and there they were. The view was not clear or unobstructed but clouds were moving through. It was like teasing the cat with a piece of string. The view of the towers went from barely to not at all and back to barely. Then there would be a gap and you could see the whole thing but only for a second, then back to partly obscured. I had been there before: you don’t wait for a better shot. I started taking pictures. In less than a minute the sky was socked in again and the chance of seeing more of the towers had gone from slim to none. 

PATAGONIA 14 - COCONUT TELEGRAPH

The Chilean border check point was as warm and inviting as the Argentine’s had been ominous.The agent welcomed us in both Spanish and English, told us how safe we were, noting to worry about after all, he knew how things worked on the Argentine side. It underscored what Marcelo Barrios had told me about Argentina, back in Santiago. “In Chile,” he said, “corruption is at the local level and we can fix that. Argentine corruption is at the top and the people feel helpless.” His analogy was that Chile is a Champion while Argentina is stuck in 6th place; not unlike the USA and Mexico, a condescending disregard from them that’s got and a collective forbearance from them that’s not. 

I asked about the remote location. That far south there are no highways across the Andes but the tour business on both sides wanted a shortcut. In season tourists want to see both the glacier and Torres Del Paine and the long way around was both time consuming and costly. So they upgraded existing roads and former trails. They fixed it just enough, it works until snow closes it down. I asked about the frontier itself; where could I stand with one foot in Chile, the other in Argentina? He thought that was funny; it might exist on the map but not on the ground. He assured me it was near by and we were on the right side. 

You have to change vans at the crossing; no overlapping. All the money made in Chile stays in Chile. The two are not hostile but neither are they amigos, nothing good to say about the other. The business of customs and border crossing was laced with humor and curiosity; why here and why now? He did concede that Bariloche chocolate was as good as it gets. We had to wait for our van to arrive. It was a late model transporter with headroom and plenty of space for baggage. On the downhill we shortly ran out of gravel back onto blacktop. A few more miles and we merged with a good highway from the east. The driver told us that tomorrow our bus would bring us back and take that route to the National Park. The rest of the morning was an easy, scenic drive down into valleys with farms and small, drive-by communities. It was past lunch time when we reached the bus station in Puerto Natales. 

I don’t think it’s unusual that the names of certain places are provocative in themselves. I know people who inflate to the sound of “New York” or “Dallas” but I mean really, inherently special, not about tribal loyalties. Just the sound it makes coming off your tongue, “Casablanca”, you don’t have to know where it is or anything about Bogart and Bergman. “Budapest” is another. They simply beg the imagination to go there. I’ve always loved maps, studied maps, played make believe with maps, learned the cities and rivers. Since can’t remember when, “Puerto Natales” has peaked my imagination. Far-away down in Chile, no reason to think I’d ever be, but there I was. We had come all the way down from the continental divide to sea level. Puerto Natales is on the water, a colorful place with lots of terra cotta and bright, primary colors in the tile work.

The terminal was crowded so I waited for things to thin out. With all my stuff in tow I started toward the big message board with its brochures and adds. A voice called out my name with the (ah) sound: “Fr-ah-nk”. I looked but couldn’t find the source. “Fr-ah-nk, yes you!” That voice of authority came from a tallish, 12-13 year-old girl angling toward me from the left. Before I could answer she turned and added, “Come with me.” She walked fast and I had to stride to keep up. I asked how she knew me. She said that her mother described what I would look like. Her name was Coco and her job was meeting travelers at the bus station and getting them to her mother’s hostel. Two or three blocks into the business district we stopped at a set of side by side, double doors, one to a street level pharmacy the other led up a closed stairway to the hostel. At the top of the stairs was their living room, full of people covering three generations, watching TV. Coco disappeared and her mother greeted me with the familiar, “Fr-ah-nk, bienvenido.” 

It seems that all over Patagonia, like Jimmy Buffet’s Coconut Telegraph, inn keepers have an e-mail network. When one makes your next reservation they set you up with a friend or cohort who reciprocates the favor. They share gossip and news but also helpful details about in and out bound travelers, like appearance, things left behind and personal quirks. That’s how Coco knew me on sight. They owned the whole 2nd floor of the building with the family dwelling in front and hostel accommodations in the rear, sort of a prototype Air B & B. She had my tour ticket for the next day, knew my itinerary better than I did. 

I went down for a walk-about, caught a late lunch. Nothing new about taco trucks in Los Angeles so the idea of a taco cart felt natural as rain. In Patagonia, bottled water comes “Con” and “Sin”, with or without gas. Natives like their drinking water carbonated and Gringos for the most part do not. So my agua was bubble free and my fish tacos were worth the wait. I kept looking for something sensational, there had to be something super in a town named Puerto Natales. But it was kids on skateboards, young mothers pushing strollers, old men playing dominos and Michael Jordan tennis shoes. 

A shuttle bus would leave early in the morning for Torres Del Paine and the tour group would organize there. It wasn’t even dark and I was sleepy so I headed back. My hosts were watching TV, a Mexican novella. Dialogue was too fast for me but body language was clear. Lovely ladies were intense with tension filled exchanges, either from anger or consoling each other. Men were either posturing Latino-machismo or trying to talk their way out of trouble. Occasionally a couple would reconcile and a new crisis would unfold, good until the the next round of commercials. It was dark, early dark but I turned in. Coco, her little brother and I were the only people not smoking. I opened my window a few inches and fresh air put me to sleep straight away.  

PATAGONIA 13 - GRAVITY WORKS

Perito Moreno Glacier was my first glacier, up close or other wise. My tour group hiked along the shore line for a while then up a path into the woods. How could one not be impressed with all that ice, the fact that it was skidding down hill under the burden of its own weight. Beyond that I was attracted to parallel groves and scratch marks in the rock outcroppings. I thought, ‘Must be black granite with flecks of pink feldspar,’ but my best guess was still a guess. The groves all pointed up or down stream, depending on your orientation, that was a fact. But the scratch marks were perfectly parallel, every one. Imagine a cat at the top of a greased flagpole. Claws digging in against the metal but  the cat can’t keep from sliding, slowly down the pole. Later, when you investigate, the grease has weathered away and all you can find are parallel scratch marks, up and down the pole. The cat ran off and the ice melted but the scratches tell the same story. Gravity works. 

On the ride up, I met another American. Ann LaBianco was a marketing exec. for a news paper in Hollywood, Florida. In her mid 20’s, she seemed a little out of place but it isn’t unusual for young women to travel in 2’s or 3’s. She was killing a couple of days before she met a friend. I didn’t need to know any more and we got along like thieves. I was told later by an older woman that traveling alone, they felt safer in the company of an older man. I took that to mean my little old grandfather appearance had a function I hadn’t considered. I was a harmless companion and by association, a deterrent to unwanted advances. 

The boat tour was great. From a distance our boat seemed great compared to the ice low against the water. But the closer we got the feeling reversed. It felt like we were under its shadow, even at a safe distance. Calving ice from the terminal wall could disable or destroy any boat that ventured too close. The top of the wall rose 100 feet or more above the water. Seeing ice fall meant you had to be looking directly at that spot when it broke loose. Otherwise, when you heard people react and turned to see, all you got was splash and the wave it made. I did see an ice fall but it was small and far down the face. We were all hoping for a big wave to rock the boat but no such luck. Our second wish was to stay warm and dry, and we got that. Returning to the visitor center, the last two hours of the tour was free time to hike and explore as you wish. 

With a high sun the glacier took on the classic, blue glow. Cracks and fissures in particular, they radiated a vibrant blue that had nothing to do with reflections from the water. It’s good science, all about glacial ice, absorption and refraction. I explained it to Ms LaBianco but I don’t want to take the space here. They had ordered box lunches for us and the troop set off to explore on their own. The two of us wanted a meal rather than a box lunch and were ready to sit for a while. She didn’t speak any Spanish save for “sí” and “que pasa”. It made my contribution seem more savvy that it was. After all, I had mastered “por qué” and “de nada”. So we checked out with the leader and went into the dining room. Our choice was either beef or fish. We both went with the fish and vegetables, bread and butter, it wasn’t fancy but we got linen table cloth and napkins, real silverware and crystal. A bottle of Riesling and a second loaf of bread sealed the deal, we agreed that life is pretty good. She was north bound in the morning and I was headed west across the border, back into Chile. 

Chile’s National Park, Torres Del Paine is their Yellowstone-Grand Canyon-Yosemite all in one. Being this close, I thought I’d better see it while I had the chance. At 2:00 a.m. I waited under the same street light at the Plaza de Armas in Calafate. Our transportation was yet another downgrade, to an old, white, 9 passenger van; not a box van with head room but a soccer mom’s van. One head light was dim, tilted down at an unauthorized angle and the exhaust rattled from a broken hanger mount. A young couple was already in the back seat. We secured my big bag to the roof rack and I settled with my guitar case propped up between my legs on the passenger side behind the shotgun seat. At the edge of town we picked up another man who had no luggage. 

We took the same route as the morning before, toward Perito Moreno. All trucks and busses, most cars in Argentina are diesel powered, they get great mileage and run forever. But they make noise, the older ones especially. Our engine rattled and clattered, you could hear every valve open and close as it went cha-pak-a-ta-pak-a-ta up the road. At the Moreno Glacier split, we took the other fork and immediately began to climb. I dropped off to sleep. It was intermittent but sleep never the less. I realized I was awake by the shifting-leaning, right to left and left to right; we were turning some sharp corners. The sounds also spoke to a lower gear, slower speed and we had graduated from black top to gravel. Out the windshield, all I could see with one good headlight was mountain side on the left, steep climb ahead, a turn coming up and nothing but darkness on the right. I closed my eyes and slept again but not as well. The next time I opened my eyes I could see the pale sky, no sign of a guard rail and a virtual drop off on my side of the road that dissolved in darkness below. It was the first time on my trip that I thought about mortality. 

First light overtook us. We passed through a steel farm gate and then another; I could see trees. Then there were fences and pens with mostly sheep and a few cows. We passed a low roof, lodge pole cabin with a lantern glowing in the window and smoke curling up from the stove pipe chimney, then another, and another. Deja vu! This was high pasture, summer camp - a border collie for every man. We stopped at a gate, a vaquero rode up on horseback and the lone man passenger got out. The driver knew them, they talked a bit and we drove on. Shortly we came into a grove of trees, maybe the edge of a forest. The road turned into a dirt two-track with big humps and deep swales. We had to creep along to keep from getting high centered. About a mile into the woods, the driver told us, “This is where you clear customs.” We needed to unload our baggage and have our passports ready. 

The building was gray and green, a  single story outpost with no signs of life. We waited at the door while the driver entered a code on the key board at the service window. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later the door opened and we went inside, into a dimly lit processing room. The only light was from a skylight in the ceiling. The border guard, the building, the whole thing reeked of a Quentin Tarantino movie. He was tall, awkward, unkept and sullen. Probably in his 50’s, it looked like he slept in his uniform. With disheveled hair and no hat, his shirt tail hung out where he couldn’t get it tucked inside his pants. His gruff mumbling was incomprehensible. He held his flashlight in his mouth as he checked the couple’s passports and rummaged through their belongings. My turn; OMG he was ugly. Seeing I was a gringo, he spoke with more precision. He asked what was in my bag; I answered, “Ropas, libros, regalos,” - clothes, books, gifts. He wanted to know if I had any alcohol. I said no and he asked again. I told him again, “No, no alcohol.” You play the guitar? he asked. I said, “Sí, lo toco.” yes, I play it. He opened my bag and reached in but didn’t pull anything out. Flashlight back in his mouth he looked through my passport, stamped it and walked away, through the door and that was it. Our driver told us, “De vuelta en el bús.” Back on the bus. 

The two track went on for a few hundred meters. In a clearing was a brightly lit, modern stone building with big windows and a steeply pitched roof. It sat in the middle of a well maintained, crushed gravel road. Where the two track ended and the gravel began we stopped short. Our driver said. “You must carry your baggage from here.” We off loaded, he turned around and left us there, 20 meters short of the border.  

PATAGONIA 12 - PAMPAS

When I first started thinking about a South American adventure, Bolivia and Peru were on the list but everything just kept pointing farther south. Santiago, Chile became the target but I never thought much about where I would go from there. On the map, it looked so far south initially that I thought I might stay put more and travel less. First Nation people consider that wherever you are, wherever you happen to be, that is the center of the universe. That idea can spin off in other directions and you can ruminate on them as much as you like. I like the thought of being centered. No matter where you are, if you want to go somewhere you have to begin where you happen to be. North of the equator, the reach to Terra del Fuego was so far; too far for me to imagine myself. But in Puerto Madryn, I was only 1200 miles from The Land of Fire. In Ushuaia they refer to it as ‘El Fin de Mundo’, The End of The Earth. I had gone from the Pacific coast, over the Andes, all the way to the Atlantic. If I wanted to see something new I would have to choose between north and south and that was no choice at all, Buenos Aires or the Pampas. There would be lots of new things to see and do, new friends to make. Even if I never made it to El Fin de Mundo, it would be an adventure. I bought a bus ticket south.

By now I knew what to expect on the bus. In line early, on board early I got a front seat with clear view through the second story windshield. Three bottles of water, maps, camera and a combination journal/sketch pad and I was ready as could be for the next 24 hours. Rio Gallegos is on the coast, all the way down to where the network of islands make up the southern tip of the continent. Highway 3 runs full length through treeless plains, pampas country. All my effort to get a good view was rewarded with a redundant landscape. Occasionally we saw a northbound truck or bus, likewise we were passed by pilgrims on motorcycles but on that stretch of endless highway you have to be your own stimulation. There were small towns, off the highway on bumpy roads; pit stops and passenger exchanges at unnamed intersections. I don’t think I slept at all but there were some cat naps and dozing. 

Once, in the wee hours, I realized the motor was running, heater was on but we were at a standstill. There was the gray/pink light that beckons the sun but it was still dark inside the bus. Looking closely out the window it was easy to miss the sheep. Winter coming, stockmen were moving herds up the highway. Thousands of sheep surrounded the idle bus, moving up stream at a sheep’s pace. As light allowed, I saw men on 4-wheel ATV’s but dogs were doing all the work. One of the attendants came up the stairwell with a towel covered, wicker basket. I took 3 or 4 empanadas but I still had water and passed on the fruit juice. After what seemed like hours, the sun had risen, the bus motor changed pitch and my seat felt like a subtle tuning fork as the clutch disengaged. I felt gears change and we were rolling again. 

It was lunch time in Rio Gallegos. They were remodeling the bus station. Most of the walls were plastic sheeting stretched over 2x4 frames with bare bulbs hanging overhead on extension cords. Even with the dust and wind whipping through the make shift shelter it felt good having my back pack and guitar in my own keeping. I had a two hour layover before my next bus. All I saw of the town was that it was low, no 4 story sky scrapers. But the city had a strong military presence. It was the marshaling area and jump off point during the Malvinas/Falkland Islands War. Twenty years later, feelings in the south of Argentina were still frayed over that defeat. Ultimately it led to an overthrow of the military regime and a new, elected government which was considered a great improvement but a culture of corruption was still prevalent. 

Just a layover, my destination was El Calafate. Our bus was scaled down in size, comfort and attention to detail. Maybe an 18 passenger van with no attendant to stow baggage or serve empanadas; it  reminded me of transportation for senior retirees back in the USA. If your bags fit in the overhead they went there, if not, you made space. It was still pampas but the countryside started changing. The road curved occasionally, a few trees here and there and bridges over streams broke up the doldrum. Calafate reminded me of El Bolson except the mountains were farther away. My hostel reservation had been upgraded from the men’s dorm to a private room. Two nights in El Calafate with my own bedside lamp and alarm clock; I felt special. Some stores were closed for the season but they were stocked for high dollar, big spenders and I was a trinket type. I was able to find a good meal and practiced a little Español with the waiter. 

At this point, 52 degrees latitude is as far south as Labrador and Newfoundland are north. South America is tapered from north to south like a big carrot. From the coast line of the Chilean archipelago in the west to Argentina’s Atlantic shore, it was only about 300 miles. The end of May, early June; winter was at hand but still, the weather was fair. Such a small land mass surrounded by so much ocean, it acted like a big hot tub, staying off the bitter cold, if just a few degrees, for just a little while.

El Calafate is where you stay the night before you go to see Perito Moreno Glacier. Argentina’s most famous, most accessible glacier is up the road several hours at the end of the blacktop. Ascending first through uplands and foothills, finally to the outwash basin with its melt water lake, small ice bergs and Moreno’s toe. Several other tourists were onboard; our tour guide picked us up in the dark, under a street light at the Plaza De Armas. The drive was long enough we had to make take a necessary break at a road side park; a gravel turn out with port-a-johns. Another hour and a half up the road, with low angle morning sun behind us we came out of the forest to a stunning view. The trees opened up to frame an imposing wall of ice over a blue water pool. Above and beyond the toe, the glacier was pocked with crevices and dark lateral moraines. The whole thing was flowing ever so slowly, down through a low hanging valley into the outwash plain. 

The road ended in the parking lot of a visitor’s center and restaurant. Complimentary coffee and a scone made me feel better even if the coffee was instant, from a cellophane sleeve and tasted like dirty hot water. The scone made up for it. Our guide would lead us on a 2 mile hike along the shore line and up the slope where we could look down on the ice. Then we would board the tour boat for a closer look at the ice wall. After that would be free time to explore the many trails, different views of the glacier and its outwash. It’s a rule; cold air wants to sink. On a mountain side, that means a cold wind knifing its way down through unobstructed corridors. The glacier was a virtual cold air duct and its wind had a serious edge. It was the first of many times I felt smug about my new coat. 

PATAGONIA 11 - BALLENAS

The sun was up, coming in through the front window on the double decker bus. The full reclining seats with leg rests lets you get some rest and I slept well enough. Bus travel is an adventure in itself. Most long distance busses are double decker with first class sleeping berths and luggage storage below. We never saw the driver but seated above lets you see out front, like riding in the front seat with nothing between you and the road but the windshield. Drivers have the status of airline pilots. Their outside door was separate and his inner door to the storage and sleeping areas was secured. With two male attendants, each passenger was tracked by seat, baggage checked, carry ons and destination. If you went down to use the toilet, they assisted to and from the door. Every hour or so one would come by with fruit drinks, pastry or empanadas. If you needed a blanket or pillow, just ask. Naturally, when you reached your destination you paid your tab and left a tip. It didn’t have to be much but the gesture seemed to be important; a show of respect. 

The bus station in Puerto Madryn was only a couple of blocks from the hostel. Naturally, my reservation had been made in advance. I left my stuff on the bed, locked the door and went to check out the city. A 10 or 12 stop light town, it lacked the high energy of Bariloche. Everybody apologized, said I was in between seasons and it would get better. No whale sightings had been reported yet but they expected them soon. I signed up for a tour that afternoon. We would drive in a small van, out to the whale watching cliffs and visit the whale museum.

My short trek about the business district left me unimpressed. It was neat and clean, they were nice enough but nothing to keep me there. It’s a summer escape destination for people from Buenos Aires but the beach any other season is just wet. At the tour office I met a couple from Cordoba who were going on the whale tour with me. Her English was alright but she wasn’t really interested in conversation. Our guide showed up in a 4 door sedan, spoke no English, spoke too fast and looked straight ahead as he drove. I thought the woman might help me out but she never did. We stopped at a clifftop overlook. Whales would gather in the cove below but not on that day. There were sea lions on the beach below but from a distance it was like watching grass grow. A 15 minute ride to the Whale Museum took us away from the coast, through a flat, bone dry highland with only small, brushy bushes for vegetation. The road was unpaved and our tires roared in the gravel as the guide talked. Even if I had been fluent, road noise drowned him out. 

What I did notice were ostrich like birds. When we got close enough, they ran. I learned they are Rheas, smaller but closely related to the ostrich. I suppose I would run as well. The roar of tires and a cloud of dust coming up behind us would scare me too. We saw several Rhea, all running. One bird ran parallel to our path rather than away. When we rounded a bend in the road it put us on a collision course. Our driver continued his story, never looking away from the road. The couple asked questions and got replies but nobody noticed the bird, closing on our port beam. Fully expecting the bird to give way, I gave it my undivided attention. In slow motion, like a hanging curve ball to a cleanup hitter, the car and the long striding bird closed. I did think of bat and ball arcing into the strike zone and the crack of the bat. But there was no crack, only a hollow thump that registered 3 or 4 on the collision scale. The car rocked a little and the Rhea disappeared. I don’t think my cohorts ever saw the bird. Looking back, only a dust cloud. 

El Museo de Ballenas, (The Whale Museum) seemed out of place in the barren scrubland, no water to be seen in any direction. We parked next to the only other car in the lot, that of the curator. The building was relatively new, a spread out one story with big slabs of black stone and lots of glass. The fact that I know something about the Cetacean Family, whales and Dolphins, and that we were in a quiet place let me absorb it at my own speed. More of a self guided tour, our guide became a spectator as well. Placards, posters and dioramas were helpful but still, nothing I didn’t already know. Fossils, video loops and bones, a skeleton in particular were well done. On our way back to the car, the lady who spoke English said to me, “You really missed a lot.” 

Headed back the way We came, she noticed something in the road ahead. Our guide identified it, “Es un Rhea.” Then as an afterthought, as we passed it, “Esta muerto.” it’s dead. I couldn’t help but think, ‘Really, you missed a lot.' Stopping again at the cliffside overlook in hopes, maybe, a whale might have surfaced, I couldn’t help but think he didn’t want to get back too early. The view had become stark with overcast and clouds racing up the coast. The four of us, we retreated more or less into our own thoughts. I already knew and was reminded; exploring anything is about discovery, there is no script. Without imagination, if you’re not curious to begin with and if all you expect is information, all you get is the ride.