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.