CHAPTER 36
Our journey to explore the southern portions of Argentina and Chile started on a hot, balmy day. We left Buenos Aires headed south, a 1000 miles of flat featureless highway waiting to be traversed between BA and our first destination- the Peninsula Valdez. The air conditioning had broken almost two months before in northern Chile, which made for a sweaty and uncomfortable ride. Even with the windows down the air blowing in was super heated by the sun scorched asphalt.
Our planned route to the tip of the continent was what some might call a bit “circuitous”- a zigzag path from the Atlantic shores of Argentina to the Chilean fjords on the Pacific side, most of the time headed south, but sometimes backtracking north- we would end up crossing the continent from east to west and west to east three times, and eventually turned the 2000 mile direct route from BA to Ushuaia into a 3800 mile overland odyssey. But this was what we had been waiting for. All the way south from Mexico to Chile we had been dreaming of the rugged untamed wilderness of Patagonia, the jagged snow capped peaks of the southern Andes, and the milky azure water pouring off massive glaciers into the cobalt blue depths of the Southern Ocean.
The first thing to surprise us was the very liberal use of the geographical name ‘Patagonia’. At least it was liberal to our preconceived understanding of the word, which we thought was the area in southern Argentina right next to and including the Andes Mountains on the border with Chile. A wild place consisting of intimidating mountains cut through by deep valleys and raging rivers, all covered in scraggly ancient trees. There is no doubt that the area we thought of as Patagonia is a part of Patagonia, but as far as the Argentineans are concerned, the whole southern portion of their country, starting only a few hundred miles south of BA all the way to the end, is Patagonia. Even the Chileans get in on the fun, calling nearly the bottom third of their country Patagonia as well.
This is fine, they can call themselves whatever they want, but I think there has been a grave misinterpretation of the term by the mountain loving peoples of the Northern Hemisphere- namely me. For one, until you are within about 2 miles from the base of the Andes, which rise up like teeth out of a flat slopping plane that runs east all the way to the Atlantic, the land is barren and windswept, uninhabitable to the extreme. A huge rainshadow caused by the mountains traps all the moisture on the Chilean side of the continent, leaving only enough for the occasional scrub bush or tuft of grass to eke out an existence on the Argentinean side. Interestingly enough, this is the opposite situation experienced in northern Chile and Peru, where the weather is trapped on the eastern side, providing the water for the immense Amazon basin, which leaves most of the Pacific coast dry as a bone.
In the end, we would get to experience the ‘real’ Patagonia to the upmost, but at the time, I was understandably disappointed by this gross misnomer being applied to the whole of southern Argentina. I imagine it would be similar for a foreigner traveling to Colorado, expecting the whole thing to be a dense range of the purple snow capped peaks of the Rockies, when in reality, the whole eastern half is not much more than a mini Kansas.
Well, as bleak and barren as Patagonia was turning out to be, Peninsula Valdez was an extraordinary contrast. To be clear, the land was still as ugly and featureless as everything else we had seen in the last three days of driving, but for some strange reason, it was a veritable Mecca for mammals of the sea. The cliff lined shores where crowded with hundreds, maybe thousands of sea lions and seals. It wasn’t the right season, but for large parts of the year the surrounding bays are plied by hundreds of whales. And even now, when most of the sea lions where nursing their pups and getting ready to migrate north, the waters off shore contained a lurking menace, pods of killer whales, or orcas, biding their time for the clueless sea lions to enter the ocean.
Though, sometimes they don’t wait for the sea lions to come to them- we spent four hours (sadly unsuccessfully) sitting in a cold drizzling rain on the northern point of the peninsula, watching packs of lazy sea lions lounge on the shore as the tide slowly crept in. We were waiting to see an extraordinary, although rare, event in nature- occasionally when the orcas get ornery, they will swim in with the coming water, crash through the face of the braking waves onto the beach like a daemon erupting from a watery hell, toothy jaws gnashing, their thick heads wildly turning from side to side, their whole bodies undulating with power, carelessly devouring any poor sea lion that gets within reach. As gruesome a sight as it would have been, we were anxious to witness it. I love the ocean, and I willingly accept the risks of entering it with the knowledge that it is full of malevolent deadly creatures. But there has always been a certain feeling of comfort I get when walking along a beautiful, serene beach, knowing that all those nasty monsters are out there, and I am safe, here, on shore. The thought of a 6 ton leviathan surging from the water unprovoked and calmly removing me from my sandals on the beach, before I even have an idea of what’s going on, sends shivers down my spine. Just because the callous orca usually confine their terrifying behavior to this singular beach, doesn’t mean they couldn’t decide to do it anywhere at any time, given the right combination of sea, surf, and hunger. I definitely have a new found respect for the power of the ocean, and of the extent that it might go to harm me.
There was also an abundance of bird life crowding the shores of the peninsula. Penguins, cormorants, and seagulls elbowed each other for prime position on the gravel beaches. The penguins were the most comical, waddling back and forth on their unsteady legs- they definitely looked like fish out of water.
After a few days of the dreary overcast weather, we had our fill of wildlife, and decided to get back on the road. With a short stop off in the village of Gaimen we found another bewildering item to add to the long list of strange things we had seen on our trip. Apparently, of all places in the world a group of people might want to settle, a hardy band of Welsh immigrants decided to make the bleak planes of southern Argentina their new home in the 1870’s. To console their spirits in this desolate environment, they brought with them the tradition and joy of the Welsh tea house. There were dozens of them, quaint one-story brick cottages that looked as if they had recently been plucked, garden and all, from the rolling hills of Wales, and then deposited gently into the wild countryside of Argentina. We chose, rather hastily, to patronize a beautiful establishment which was made famous by the visit of the late Princes Diana of Wales in the early 1990’s. Unfortunately, the management was still milking this opportune royal publicity, keeping the building and its furnishings just how they had been when the Princes had graced them with her presence, but they had neglected to pay attention to the actual quality of their tea and pastries. What we were served, two plates with a variety of small sugary cakes and sandwiches, could only be described as ‘not fit for royalty’. It was disgusting, every last item, and even though we would optimistically pick up the next little cake with hopes of it tasting better than the last, we fell into the unflattering routine of: one bite into the mouth, one mouthful into the napkin. The tea was alright, but when it came down to it, we had just spent $12us a person for an alright cup of tea. We would have been better taken care of if we had visited a less famous tea house, who had to make their reputation on the quality of their food and service, rather than ridding the dusty and thread bare coat tails of a long past royal visit.
We drove west, into the heart of the continent. Hundreds of miles separated the small towns, and we stopped and filled our gas tank at every opportunity. The sun started to kiss the horizon, and we were miles from the nearest hint of civilization, so we pulled off the highway and drove into the desert. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I was sure that this place hadn’t received any rain in weeks, maybe months. After a delicious dinner of fried sausage and onion sandwiches, we bucked our normal routine of setting up the tent, and instead, situated our sleeping pads and bags on top of the roof of the truck topper. We carefully crawled into our cozy, yet precariously perched beds and gazed up at the open night sky. A brilliant swath of white diamonds was smeared against the jet black void of space, and stretched from horizon to horizon like a path through the heavens. The shear immensity of it made me feel small and insignificant, but at the same time delivered an overwhelming sensation of freedom and joy- being such a tiny piece of this puzzle called the Universe, we have the liberty to do what we will, and live life to the fullest, without fear of judgment by society’s standards, or history’s precedence. Can you say specifically what two average people where doing a thousand years ago today? In a thousand years from now, will anyone remember what we were doing? Will anyone even know if we spent our lives gallivanting around the planet in search of adventure, or if we spent the next fifty years pushing papers in some office cubicle? The answer is no. And so the choice is ours, the freedom is there for the taking. And then I fell asleep…
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