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.
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