En Patagonia: Chapter Twelve

 

I caught an early bus from El Chaltén– the first of three buses that day. I got a great seat – top deck, front row. I watched the landscape change – from Patagonian Forest to Patagonian Steppe. We’d pass the occasional heavily laden cyclist. I’d spot the occasional Guanaco – sometimes in the distance, sometimes dead in a fence near the side of the road. The first leg of the journey was a three hour hop to El Calafate with a fairly quick turnaround at the other end. Enough time though to check-in - the second leg to Puerto Natales involved a border crossing - and to use the facilities. None of the toilet doors had locks, and they were too far away from the toilet to hold closed with a foot. It really wasn’t the best of times to be on my period. I explained the situation to the person behind me in the queue - a woman with a European accent and a shaved head – she kindly stood guard for me.  

Cycle Tourer 

The second leg of the journey was the longest of the three – just over six hours from El Calafate to Puerto Natales. It felt quite a bit longer. I was sat next to someone who seemed incapable of sitting still. She talked to herself as well. I was irritated from very early on. My headphones did little to block it out, and I was too irritated to fall asleep. I happened to glance across at her phone for a moment and saw that she was applying different filters to selfies she had taken at a beach somewhere. She was giving nods of approval or clicks of disapproval to each one. This particular sound reminded me of someone I had worked with back in the Lakes – her jaw used to dislocate when she ate. I don’t know whether my bus companion detected my frostiness towards her – but that began to thaw when she offered me half of her sandwich. We also started talking to each other. She suddenly seemed a lot less annoying. Plus, I had been hungry, and the sandwich was really very good. This leg of the journey encountered a few delays. Firstly - we were pulled over at a military controlled check point and armed officers boarded the bus and asked to see everyone’s passport. They also looked in a bag or two. I had to explain what a tub of O’Keeffe’s moisturising hand cream was for. The longest delay by far though was at the Argentine border crossing. It was not the same border crossing that I had come through when entering the country. This one was much busier. But much as before, they merely glanced at my passport and handed it back without a word.

Queuing at the Argentine border

By the time we had got through the second border control – to enter Chile, I knew that I was unlikely to make my connecting bus in Puerto Natales. And all doubt was removed when, not 100 metres further on the bus pulled over, switched off the engine, and proceeded to sit there for the best part of an hour with no explanation or apparent reason. There was nothing to be done about it apart from to hope that I could catch a later bus back to Punta Arenas. Failing that, I reasoned that I could try hitchhiking or simply cut my losses and find a place for the night in Puerto Natales. But neither option was necessary. There was a bus with Punta Arenas lit up on its front when we pulled into the terminal. I hastily bought a ticket, and even had time to use the toilets (which had the great luxury of a locked door). It was just before midnight when the bus pulled into Punta Arenas, and I wandered through the dark and rain drenched streets to the hotel I had booked for a couple of nights. There were few people about. Perhaps they had all gone to bed, perhaps a few were still up in late-night bars. I passed a father and son chatting happily to each other, and I saw the bin truck moving noisily through the streets collecting black bags from the crates that serve as roadside bins. It was not a cold night, but the hotel reception seemed bright and welcoming. I spoke in Spanish, and a Canadian man who was propping up the reception desk commented on how funny it sounded to hear Spanish spoken with a British accent. I got the impression that the two women behind reception had grown a little tired of his presence there. But I, unlike them, had the option to leave. So, I hastily made my way to the room and gratefully got into the shower. I had spent the last sixteen hours on buses, and it was bliss to wash away the sense of griminess.

The Border Guards! 

I had a couple of days before my flight home to the U.K. I didn’t do much. I went to favourite cafes. I tried to bring a degree of order to my packing. I hung around gazing out to sea. Two of the BAS Twin Otter planes were making their long journey north to Canada – and they were in Punta at the same time as me. It was wonderful to catch up with the pilots and crew – we enjoyed evenings out at a steak house and a French restaurant. It was a perfect sort of end to the trip - sitting around, eating good food, and swapping stories with Callum, Ian, Tim, and Jen.

Last days in Punta Arenas 

I’d booked a taxi to the airport for 6am. The sun had not yet risen over the Strait of Magellan. The airport at Punta is small and uncomplicated. I checked in and dropped off my bags with plenty of time to spare. I got some breakfast. I sat people watching. I sat reading a bit of ‘In Siberia’ by Colin Thubron. At Santiago airport I found a quiet space to sprawl out and write a postcard to my friend Saz. On the first leg of the journey home, I listened to a Podcast that she had featured in. There was a delay at Sao Paulo airport – possibly the worst airport I have spent any length of time at. I once kissed a guy I knew in the disabled toilets there. It does not go down as one of the most romantic encounters of my life. But no such carry-ons this time. I quietly ordered a latte from Starbucks but was handed a milkshake instead.

I messaged my brother to let him know that the plane was going to be late into Heathrow – but he already knew. He had been following it on live departures or something. I found that I wasn’t all that bothered about the delay – it just drew out the excitement of heading home. I managed to watch about half of Oppenheimer on the plane before falling asleep. I still haven’t watched the rest of it. I was so happy to see my brother. I bought us some coffee. I posted the card I had written in Santiago airport. We listened to Simon and Garfunkel as we headed north on the motorway to visit our mum. It really is the best feeling in the world; to be known, to be understood, to be home.

Posting a letter at London Heathrow 

Postscript

I’ve been sitting on this final chapter for a few days. The Wi-Fi at the hostel rarely works well enough to upload a blogpost with photographs, and I haven’t felt in the mood to wander down to the Woolpack Inn to use their far superior internet. I’m grateful though that these things have stopped me from rushing. I’ve made several changes to it since I thought it was finished. It has been a good reminder to let things sit for a while. It has also given me time to savour the near completion of this ‘project’. There were moments when I nearly gave up on the whole thing. I’m so glad that I stuck with it – the writing, and the commitment to writing has brought me great satisfaction, and it has firmed up so many wonderful memories from the trip. I might read back on this in years to come and cringe at some of the things that I have written, but for now at least it is something that I am proud of. I hope to get it published someday – because having something that you can hold in your hands is always going to be better than something you read on a computer screen. That said, I am happy that I have been able to share it in this way. Thanks to those who have read bits of it, and thanks to those who have read every word of it. Thank you also for the comments, kind words, and encouragements along the way. It has meant more than I can say. All best wishes, K x