En Patagonia: Chapter Five

 

A good few weeks previously I had been sat in the dining room on station chatting to a friend about my travel plans. Sam had been to El Calafate before, and he recommended a visit to Punta Walichu – an archaeological site with ancient cave paintings and a nice little café down by the lake. He said that it was easy enough to hire a bike and cycle, or even walk there from the town. As much as I love cycling, I decided on the walking option for the unrivalled simplicity of it all. I packed a small bag with some water, a few snacks, and a book. I also put in a light jacket in case of rain. For something so easy though, the walking actually felt a little difficult at first. The day was warm, really warm, and there was not a speck of shelter from the sun. The irony was not lost on me that when Sam had been telling me about this place we had been sat looking out at icebergs on a grey, snowy day. My legs also felt a little stiff, a little bit like they had forgotten how to properly move – a sure indication that I had spent too much time on buses for their liking in the past few days. There was also a sense which I can’t quite describe – a sense that perhaps I needed some sort of permission to be here, to be walking these dusty backroads – a stranger in someone else’s home land. I felt that I was taking up a space that didn’t belong to me, and I felt almost overwhelmingly conscious of my presence there. My movement felt clumsy and almost comical – like it might be possible that I could trip over one of the many particles of air that I was blundering my way through.  But of course nobody stopped me, and no one really gave me a second glance if I’m honest. The few people I did see were simply going about their day, and if I was passing close enough, we would exchange a smile, a wave, and a hello. The more I walked though, the better I began to feel. It was as if with each step a sense of purpose was returning to me – a sense which I hadn’t even realised that I was missing until then. It is something that can suddenly slip away in the days immediately after leaving station – the time up until that point having been so very clearly defined. But then all of a sudden, the answer to the question of ‘what are you doing’ becomes as difficult to pin down as a plastic bag in the Patagonian wind. But now I knew that if anyone were to ask me, I would say that I was just going for a walk – and that would make sense, and I would be understood. It’s not exactly a revelation though – it is something we have known for such a long time. The virtue of movement is within the movement itself – whether you’re walking for ten minutes or if you’re walking for ten miles. I took my first steps on a beach in the North West of Scotland, and perhaps life has been a series of walks ever since. The walk to school, the walk to a friends, the walks that my mum dragged my three brothers, my sister, and myself on when we were young, the walk to collect your certificate at one, two graduation ceremonies, the walk to work, the walk to the polling station, the walk to take a penalty kick for Fulham FC that would win you the league, the walk to Santiago de Compostela and the walk away from there with a broken heart, the walk around the block, the walk to place a daffodil on your step-father’s grave, the walks in the deserts of the Wadi Rum, Antarctica, and now Patagonia, and the very best walk of all – the walk home.

The turquoise blue of Lago Argentino 

I walked on, and the enticing turquoise blue of Lago Argentino drew ever nearer, and before long I passed a sign welcoming me to Punta Walichu. It was exactly as Sam had said - a couple of small buildings nestled between the cliffs and the water’s edge. There were a few cars parked there, a couple of bikes, but that was it. There was a wonderful sense of quiet about the place – a calmness even amidst the relentless wind.  I went into the café which also served as the reception, and I paid my entrance fee to look around the archaeological reserve. I listened to an audio description in English. I looked at 4,000-year-old paintings on the walls of the cave. I had never expected to go to this place and feel so moved. It reminded me of something I had written a few years previously – my attempt to articulate the importance of art.

4,000-year-old cave paintings 

“Right from the very beginning, amidst the often-brutal battle for survival, humankind have drawn and carved their stories into stone. Creativity is integral to us as a species; it is our connection to each other and to the world. We have language and all the power and beauty that is in words; but what of the worlds beyond that, what of the words we have never spoken, and all the things we’ve not yet seen. For centuries we have encountered the same problems, time and time again. You can look back to the words of ancient philosophers and wonder if we have learnt a single thing. Perhaps language for all its wealth is limited in some fatal way; how can we possibly think up a new vision without the words to frame those dreams. But there is art, and there is music, to show us the future and to speak those wordless things.”

The view from the Punta Walichu caves 

I was in no particular hurry and the days were long, so I sat in the café, ordered some food, took out my book and read for a while. When I felt the impetus to move again, I headed off – this time along the lakeshore – as I made my way back towards the town. With the vast expanse of Lago Argentino and the wind whipping up the water into crashing waves it became more like the sea than a lake to my mind.

Sea-like waves upon the lake 

And the sea gives us different thoughts to a lake I find, and I felt so different now in myself than when the day began. My steps felt light, as did my heart, and I sang a Joan Baez song or two as I walked along.