En Patagonia: Chapter Three

 

It was raining as I made my way to the bus terminal. I clung as best I could to the brief shelter provided by the buildings, and smiled at the thought that we’re only ever a short downpour away from feeling like we are right at home. I ducked into a small currency exchange store near to the bus stop. The air inside was thick and heavy – a combination of cigarette fumes and an incense burner behind the desk valiantly trying to counteract the smell. I swapped some US dollars for Argentinian Pesos - all the while trying to breathe as little as possible. The rain drenched streets and car exhausts suddenly seemed quite inviting.

It was not a bad day to be spent sat on buses I decided, and the first leg would be a three-and-a-half-hour journey to Puerto Natales, Chile. Having travelled about by bus in Chile last year with Matt, I knew both how straightforward and how good it was. For longer distance journeys you book your tickets in advance, you can usually select your seat, and then you simply turn up 15 minutes beforehand, stow your big bag and jump on board. The smaller, more local buses were a bit more of a free for all. There was one in particular that springs to mind – one that Matt and I took on the Isla de Chiloé. The bus driver seemed to know everyone, and he would stop here there and everywhere – seemingly on a whim. There was no discernible system as to who paid and who didn’t – I remember Matt sitting there saying, “I have no idea what is going on!” The funniest thing was that the driver would open the bus doors long before he actually slowed down and came to a stop, so you had to make sure that you were holding onto something pretty tightly if you were stood up when the doors were opened as the bus was still hurtling along. But in comparison, on paper, today’s bus ride was set to be a much more sedate affair. There was a small amount of confusion as to when we could actually board the bus – I had put my big bag in the storage compartment and not long afterwards an announcement came over the Tannoy system that the bus was ready for passengers. A middle-aged woman who spoke better English than I did Spanish saw me hesitate, grabbed my arm, and told me that we could go on board. But when we were refused entry because the person with the ticket checklist wasn’t there yet, she got a little bit upset - the Tannoy announcement should never have been made if they were not actually ready – things were supposed to happen in an organised way! Just how much of a stickler for the rules she was became apparent when I found out that my allocated seat was next to hers. We were over fifteen minutes late leaving because she couldn’t get her seatbelt to work. She made me check that mine was working fine, and I got the feeling that she would not let it rest until I put it on. There was a sign saying that seatbelts must be worn, and while of course I was aware of the importance of wearing seatbelts I had had no intention of wearing one on this bus. I did look around though – I wondered if this was some really strict law that they had in Chile, but not another single person had put theirs on. I shrugged my shoulders slightly – probably just internally – then put my headphones on and tried to fall asleep. The bus was full, and it felt way too warm, and that was exacerbated by the windows being fogged up against the grey rain outside. What made it worse was that every now and then the woman sat next to me would take some food out of her bag which had the most god-awful smell. None of this was particularly helpful for someone who struggles with travel sickness even on the smoothest of journeys! It was all I could do to reassuringly pat the bag I had to hand, pop a Murray Mint in my mouth, and hope that I could keep the contents of my stomach in place. A little later on the woman tapped me on the shoulder, indicating that she wanted to go and use the toilet. So, I unfastened my seatbelt, shuffled into the aisle, and stepped aside to let her past. She thanked me very much and returned a few minutes later. I retook my seat, and she soon told me that I must put my seatbelt back on. This time I said no, and from then on, she was really grumpy with me. Whatever good relationship we had had as bus travelling companions had quickly turned sour – I think I did it out of spite to be honest, if only to see her reaction, and because of just how badly her lunch smelt.

I was so glad to arrive in Puerto Natales – I had about an hour to wait until my next bus to El Calafate. I spent as much of this time as possible outside – save for a trip to the toilets and checking in with my ticket and passport (this bus journey would see me cross the border into Argentina). Public toilets in South America could be an interesting experience – they ask that you don’t flush toilet paper down the loo, so there is a bin full of the stuff in each cubicle, and this can often stink to high-heaven. The other thing that I had noticed in some of the public toilets I had used in Chile, is that they don’t have toilet roll dispensers in the actual toilet. There will be one on the wall outside, and you take what you think you need before you go in. Thankfully, I seem to have estimated this fairly accurately each time!

The bus to El Calafate was more of a coach – it had two levels, and a lot more space. You could almost fully stretch your legs out. The seat next to me was free and given that this would be a six hour journey, I was glad for all of these things. Across the aisle from me though was the woman who I had sat next to on the bus from Punta. She looked at me, and said without smiling, “Oh, it’s you again.” It seems that she really did take that seatbelt thing quite badly. Not long after leaving Puerto Natales we arrived at the Chilean border control. We all got off the bus and walked into the building that housed the passport control, and our passports were briskly stamped with a Chilean exit stamp. We were now entering no-mans land, and the road stretched out somewhat imposingly into the early afternoon gloom. Some of the distances here and the amount of space are difficult to conceive. I later sent a few photos to a friend, and he asked if I’d seen any horses yet as it looked like cowboy land. “Not yet! But I did see one person riding a heavily ladened bicycle. I think you could ride these roads for several eternities – the skies never end.”

The road stretching into no-man's land between Chile and Argentina. 

The tarmac soon turned to gravel road, and progress towards the Argentinian border suddenly seemed slow. But eventually we came upon a small collection of huts, an Argentine flag atop a flagpole, and a sign that read - Rebublica Argentina. Escuadron 43 “Rio Turbio”. Once again, we all filed off the bus and queued up at passport control. I’m honestly not sure what I was expecting, but at the very least I suppose I was expecting a few questions. But the guy behind the counter seemed both young and bored – he flicked idly through my passport before handing it back to me without a word and without a stamp. I lingered there for a second wondering if that was that – and as he gave no indication of anything else I walked out of the hut and back to the bus. I did wonder briefly that if I didn’t have a stamp in my passport did anyone actually know that I was here – I had officially left Chile but had since disappeared off the face of the earth! It was a funny thought really, and symptomatic of a world in which we feel like our very existence must always be verified. But here I was, in Argentina – the continuation of a dream that was dreamt up long ago.

Arriving in Argentina.