I think that I inadvertently developed some interesting habits during the time I spent down here before the NOLS course, among them a tendency to always head South. At least, the inevitable result has come -- I'm all out of South.
I'm writing this from Ushuaia, Argentina. We've been here for a couple days now, and I'm starting to know my way around town. Ushuaia is a smallish city situated at the southern tip of Argentina, on the big island of tierra del fuego. The city is in a pretty location, ringed by steep, rocky mountains on one side, and water on the other. The town itself is otherwise relatively unremarkable -- just another city. Tomorrow we should be heading over to the national park, which is supposed to be beautiful.
The trip down here was an adventure. The bus running from Puerto Natales was both expensive and inconvenient (bad schedule) so we decided to set out hitching. It was a different experience waiting for a ride outside of Puerto Natales than it was waiting on the Caretera Austral -- there was a fair amount of traffic, but none of it would stop. After a couple hours of waiting, we flagged down a bus to take us to the fork where we would leave the main road. Two hours later and a few dollars poorer we were dropped off at a gas station in the middle of windy pampas.
The road stretched out in front of us and behind us for miles, running over flat land and brown grass. Otherwise, we were surrounded by a vast, empty land similar to many places in the American west. A dirt road, looking like it didn't get that much use, took off to the west. We looked at each other questioningly -- is that REALLY our road? We watched a truck turn a little farther up, and realized that there was a paved road just behind the next rise. We walked over and found a place on the shoulder of the road, near a small lake. The wind made white caps on the water as we waited for someone to pick us up.
After a relatively short while a truck stopped. The driver was an interesting guy -- born in bolivia to Pakistani parents, he left an unfriendly home at the age of 12. He found his way to Chile, where he built a life for himself. He took us another 100km to the next fork, leaving us about 15-20k north of the straits of magellen.
We found a pick up that was headed down to the ferry, and he took us to the boat. he was driving a company truck, and an alarm sounded whenever it exceeded 100km/hr, but the alarm didn't seem to discourage him so much -- me just spoke over the beeping sound. He left us at the ferry, headed back up the road a short distance. We crossed the ferry on foot half an hour later, hoping that one of the 20 or so cars or trucks on the boat would take us further. Thumbs extended, we watched the boat empty of cars and trucks, and finally leave for the other side. Another three or four boat loads of cars proceed in a similar fashion -- people would smile or wave, but no one would stop. Dark began to fall, and we decided to set up a tent at the ferry crossing.
The south side of the primera angostura, or first narrows, where our ferry crossed, is a weird place. We got off the boat, and started walking up the road. Two different signs welcomed us to Tierra del Fuego, the first reading, "bienvenidos a la gran isla de tierra del fuego," and the second, "peligro! campo de minas / danger! minefield". The same attitude seemed to infect the people working at the small restaurant / truck stop that was the only building on that side of the crossing. The inside was poorly lit, and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. A TV was running, showing a fuzzy version of some telenovela. We ordered tea and coffee and bought a package of cookies while we waited for the next boat, and consumed them in an uncomfortable silence. This wasn't the kind of place for idle conversation.
The night was crystal clear, with a full moon and not too much wind. Beautiful, and cold. We camped on a driveway between two old, rusting truck carcasses, not far from the fence that marked the start of the minefield.
The next morning we woke up and packed before the first ferry brought its load of cars across the water. Waiting on the curb, spirits higher with the new day, we watched another boat load of cars drive past without stopping. Half an hour later, another boat pulled in, and again all the cars drive past. As we're walking back toward our backpacks, though, a truck stopped further on, on the shoulder, waves to us. Happy, we cover the distance to the truck and climb in.
Our driver is Fernandez Jones, and he's headed all the way to Ushuaia with a trailer full of Coca-Cola. What luck! He's a fun guy, and quite a character. After a little bit of driving, we pull to the side of the road while he makes eggs for breakfast. Hungry, and out of quick food, McKenzie and I wait. The driver then takes out a load of bread, cheese, and mortedela (which we would later learn is horse meat) and tells us that we need to eat breakfast too. And eat we did -- one of the best tasting breakfasts I've had in a while.
The trip to Ushuaia will take around 13 hours in the truck, mostly on dusty, dirt roads over pampa. We pass the hours discussing how to swear in Spanish, in Argentina. We tell jokes -- its difficult to find jokes that translate at all, and more difficult to translate them. After he would get the joke, he would explain how it should be told in Spanish. Interesting and fun lesson. Near evening, we arrive at Rio Grande and stop for food. We share a dinner of sweet things from the supermarket (I like Argentine supermarkets!), and continue on toward the mountains that form the southern part of the island. Soon we begin to climb up a beautiful pass, and watch the sun set over flat lakes that reflect the mountains. Beautiful. A short while later, we arrive in Ushuaia and say our goodbyes. The next day our driver will exchange his load of soda for a load of plastic that will become more soda bottles, and start the drive back to his home.