I’m afraid this blog posting is rather longer than
usual, but it describes a particularly profound travel experience that I wanted
to share. So, please grab a coffee and a biscuit, put your feet up for ten
minutes, and enjoy!
Excruciating embarrassment by
proxy is the best way that I can describe the unfolding scene.
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| Downtown Baja Caracoles |
The late afternoon Argentine
sun, filtered through dusty windows and casting long shadows, illuminates a
tranquil interior; five mustachioed gauchos, dressed in their traditional
working clothing of bombachas de campo (baggy trousers), black leather boots,
baggy shirts, neckerchiefs and berets, are enjoying cool beers
after a day of being sand-blasted by the wind and dust of Patagonia. Suddenly, a
car-load of European blokes/ tourists/ travellers pulls up outside our
stone building. On entering the bar/ shop/ petrol station one of the party,
without invitation, grabs a beer and rudely implants himself, posing for
pictures in front of his goggling mates, among the previously oblivious
gauchos, destroying their privacy and our moment of peace. A list of
coarse Anglo-Saxon idioms springs to mind!
The bar itself doubles as a
shop counter behind which, from floor to ceiling, are shelves bending with the
daily provisions of humanity being searched for tasty snacks by Lisi, Jane
and I. It is, apparently, the only shop for possibly 100 miles in every
direction – and the only petrol pump – hence our arrival at this wind-swept
outpost of civilization called
Baja Caracoles.
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| Heading east out of the Chacabuco Valley towards Argentina |
We had
set off in our Nissan four-wheel drive from the broad valley of the Rio
Chacabuco on the Chilean side of the Andes mid-morning. After 10 days we had
left behind the densely wooded mountainsides of Chilean Patagonia to be
replaced, in the space of a few miles, with sparse grasses and low mounds of
muted shrubs. The ripio track was forced ever closer to the bubbling, turquoise
river by brooding mountain casting a menacing shade. The valley funneled us
towards the eastern promise of Argentina through a gorge with a valley floor
occupied solely by the river and the track. Re-born, we emerged from the
claustrophobic confines of the gorge into the brightness of expansive, dramatic
skies and an unexpected, tortured Tokienien geography of impossible pinnacles,
rugged terraces, and emptiness filled only with the noise of the incessant
wind.
A
collection of small wooden shacks nestled at the base of a mountain and
surrounded by poplars marked the Chile – Argentina frontier at
Paso Roballos. As we were taking
a hire car through, the border rigmarole took a lot longer than it should have,
considering that we were the only people for miles in any direction. I asked
the Chilean border guard in embarrassing Spanish how many people passed through
this isolated border crossing every day. He answered, “Five on average”. We set
off into No-Man’s-Land across the eastern piedmont of the Andes, across a
plateau of freaky rock formations and a lake containing two pink flamingoes.
After a couple more miles of desolation, another motley collection of shacks
and poplars marked the Argentine border. Again, the hire car paperwork was
interminable. And, again, I asked the same question of the border guard. His
surprising response was 15-20 people on average! There were no turnings or
junctions or anywhere to come from or go to on the wild track between the two
border posts so, either 10-15 people per day disappear in this displaced
Bermuda Triangle, or someone can’t count, or they just made it up to humour me.
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Chilean frontier at Paso Roballos
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On this
journey we discovered one of Patagonia’s many enigmas: that distance indicated on the
map bears no relation to the time reality of getting there, and the routes
marked bear only an occasional and passing resemblance to what might have been
the reality some years before. As we drove through a post-volcanic landscape of
eroded lava flows and impossibly turquoise lakes under a majestic sky, it
dawned on us that, over the past few days, we have crossed the Patagonian Andes
from the Pacific to the Argentinian wilderness – another contributory factor to
our collective and growing bewilderment.
In four
of hours of driving to and from the border we did not see one other vehicle and
the only humans were the two border guards. The vibrations, banging, skidding
and dust plumes of our journey sent us into a kind of trance. And, although
there were three of us sharing the car space, the sense of isolation and
loneliness became almost tangible. The long periods of silence reflected not
our boredom with each other’s company, but introspection as we attempted to
make sense of just how and why this incredible environment had affected us so
profoundly.
The
occasional bleached skeleton cliches of unfortunate cows and sheep
sign-posted the harsh world outside our metal sanctuary, while large ‘suicide’
rabbits with extra-long legs played chicken under the wheels of our car –
probably the only car of the day. An armadillo scuttled across, similarly
suicidal. A rhea, like a South American ostrich, fled from our appearance,
trailing 16 mini-me youngsters. And, just for reassurance, the odd guanaco
looked down on us. There are evidently living domestic animals here too –
particularly sheep and cows – as we pass through large areas of overly-clipped
and sparser vegetation.
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| "When you reach a fork in the road, take it!" |
Getting
lost in this featureless terrain could be serious – there are no other cars, or houses, or petrol stations or anything!
Enigma number two: in this part of the world, how does anyone actually reach
their destination? Road junctions appeared from nowhere, they were not marked
on the map, and there were no signposts! At one such junction, Lisi/ Thelma
quoted that great travel philosopher Yogi Bear, who apparently said at just
such an instance, “When you reach a fork in the road, take it!” We understood
what Yogi was saying – go on instinct. We did at several junctions and
eventually reached our destination without running out of petrol or dying of
thirst or starvation. A minor miracle!
Relieved but dusty we arrived
at the single, rusting petrol pump in the windswept, run-down settlement of
Baja Caracoles on Argentina’s legendary Ruta Cuarenta (Ruta 40). Unable to
figure out how to use the pump, we entered an adjacent, single storey, stone
building – the Hotel Baja Caracoles, which seemed to be the only place with any
human activity, to enquire about the pump and its mythical petrol. The shop
doubled as the local pub for five authentic, mustachioed gauchos sipping
bottles of beer after a hard day battling the great outdoors. And this is where
this story began…
…We give up on the petrol as
the pump is apparently empty, or not working, and press on chasing the sun as
it sinks ever lower. I take over the driving. We are attempting to reach an
estancia out there somewhere in the featureless, windy wilderness, but we are
running short on those critical elements of travel survival – fuel and time.
(Food is not a problem as we stocked up with chocolate and biscuits in the
gaucho pub-shop!)
We are on the Ruta 40, which
despite being the main transport artery through western Argentina is still a
dirt road, albeit wider and generally straighter than what we have become
accustomed to. The road is gradually being upgraded to a tarmac version, which
will take years to complete the hundreds of isolated miles that it runs.
Occasionally, and for no more than a few tantalizing miles, a short section of
new black top is open to cars, before you are frustratingly diverted back onto
the gravel.
Argentina’s
awesome Patagonia is a stage built by geology and time upon which the sun,
clouds and wind act out their daily dramas – humans are insignificant, bit-part
extras. The horizons are endless, the sky is huge and the space is
overwhelming, simultaneously instilling insecurity. Psychologically, I don’t
know what to make of it and I know the others feel the same.
We plough
onwards into the loneliness, towards a sinking sun and its mellowing light. We
are aiming for the isolated
Estancia Menelik, recommended by Rafa whom we
originally met back in Pumalin Park’s Caleta Gonzalo what seems like years ago.
Rafa, an Argentinian gentleman, is working with various estancias in Argentina
to improve their environmental credentials and develop tourism. An estancia is,
essentially, the Argentinian equivalent of a cattle/ horse/ sheep ranch and
most of them are incredibly isolated, windswept and self-sufficient and can
cover tens of thousands of hectares. We are desperately hoping to reach
Estancia Menelik before it gets dark; however, we are running short of fuel,
it’s a long way to drive (at least two more hours) and, because of a
communication mix-up, we’re not even sure they know we are coming.
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| The road to Menelik |
For an hour we have been
driving south and parallel to the Andes, which occupy the horizon on our right.
Eventually we take a right turn off the Ruta 40 onto the gravel road west that
leads to the Perito Moreno National Park, as we know that 60 km back towards
the Andes is the Estancia Melenik. We pray that it will sell us some petrol
because tomorrow we will have to drive at least 150 km till the next town and
petrol station and we ain’t got enough juice in the tank to do that! Every 10
km or so we pass a small, wooden sign, hand-painted with the name of an
estancia and offering overnight accommodation, pointing to nowhere. But out
here in the mad, darkening wilderness we don’t know how welcoming that
accommodation will be.
We are tired and bewildered at
the sensory overload of the day; our situation levers us into partial hysteria
as we discuss the horror films of our youth that revolve around the notion of a
car of naïve travellers losing themselves in the wilderness, seeking help at a
lonely farmstead… At that point the car’s fuel indicator encourages us to make
a decision: we feel pushed to take a risk at the next estancia and seek fuel
and accommodation as the sun has now vanished below the horizon, leaving in its
wake a multi-coloured tapestry of clouds.
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| Rheas at sunset |
Turning off at a sign-post to
nowhere, we gingerly negotiate a track along the edge of a dry river cliff and
approach an unwelcoming, single storey, white building. As we get closer we
notice a beat-up old truck and the harsh light of an unshaded bulb invading the
twilight. We mutter between ourselves about the superficial similarity to
scenes in the film, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, just as Lisi and Jane release
garbled squawks of urgency; they’ve noticed the freshly butchered carcass of a
cow, hanging from a hook and chain, swaying in the wind, dripping blood into a
pool of red liquid beneath. We depart rapidly. If our fuel expires, then we are
happy to sleep in the car (locked!) or in the bush (hidden from
chainsaw-wielding murderers!).
I speed on along a skiddy dirt
road. In nine hours of driving, we have seen only ten cars! We eventually reach
the Estancia Menelik – an oasis of buildings in the middle of nowhere framed by
the residual pink embers of the day glowing above the Andes to the west.
Relieved, but hysterical, we’ve reached our destination to find that they were
expecting us, and invite us into their welcoming, comfortable dwelling, at the
end of one of the most bizarre days of my 44 years.
We spend a day in
the indescribably beautiful Los Glaciares National Park, visiting the Perito
Moreno glacier – one of the few in this part of the world that is not
shrinking. The glacier bleeds from the heart of Chile’s 16,800 sq km Southern Patagonian Ice Field to the west. After a 70km westward drive, for once on a
decent road, we enter the park’s tourist hot-spot. People of every nationality,
including the (very) occasional Brit, walk an engineering marvel that at first
sight appears rather hideous – a steel walkway that traverses and contours
around the rocky headland touched by the glacier we have come to see. It even
has a lift to provide wheelchair access. 
