From Nowhere to Nowhere through Nothing

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.

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.

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.

Chilean frontier at Paso Roballos

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.

"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.

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.  

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.