Parting Shot | Back Home
Parting Shot
If you haven’t already guessed, I’m already back home… in fact, resting in a condo in the Colorado Rockies near Keystone. Here are some black & white images of my last day in Patagonia from the streets and from the plane.
Last day in Ushuaia
Ushuaia
Images from Ushuaia on my last day in Argentina, and a long journey back home.
Tierra del Fuego: National Park
Tierra del Fuego National Park
A leisurely hike in Tierra del Fuego National Park, accompanied by Carole from Bern, Switzerland.
Beagle Channel
Cormorants in the Beagle Channel
Too tired to write today. Partook in one of those mass-tourism cruise and bus rides, but it was worth it for the limited time I have in Ushuaia and the surrounding area. Getting tired and hiking tomorrow, so I’ll keep this list short and dry:
- Spying on Cormorants
- Trying not to smell sea lions
- Paparazzi-style on Magellan Penguins (locals call them Jack-ass penguins)
- Visiting Estancia Harberton
- Spotting a beaver dam (beavers are not native to South America)
- Spoiling lazy house cats
- Making friends with Otto, the Siberian husky
- Walking along the Ushuaia waterfront
Lo-Fi: Tierra del Fuego
Beagle Channel
I heart Tierra del Fuego. I couldn’t break out the big gun (the Nikon D90) to take photos of the archipelago upon our descent, so I had to do my best with the iPhone built-in camera. Enjoy.
I would have gladly traded my 3 nights in Bariloche, for an extra 3 nights in Ushuaia – even if it would have snowed or rained. Ushuaia carries a more genuine character than the more worldly Bariloche. I’m almost sad to be leaving Patagonia in just 3 days… <sniff>.
Sunny Bariloche
Sunny Bariloche
“Te gusta mucho Bariloche?” taxi driver asked. (Did you enjoy Bariloche?)
“Si! Me gusta mucho,” I lied and smiled. “Es muy linda… (when it’s not raining),” I added in English.
“De China? Japon?” he asked where I was from. I’m not sure why it does, but I am always offended when every “foreigner” asks me whether I am Chinese or Japanese. I have nothing against the people. Then I was reminded by a Chinese tourist on my flight to El Calafate.
“Please, all passengers must be seated during our ascent,” the flight attended politely made a general statement but was clearly directly her comment to the turista who stood up two minutes into the flight. The plane was already rising at an angle, when he took off his seat belt, and raced for the overhead compartment for his camera. Damn… he’s justifying the stereotype, I thought.
She repeated the directions in Spanish. The other tourists tried to grab his attention, but he came to this country speaking neither Spanish nor English. I looked outside at the beautiful mountains that were getting progressively smaller. I started to wish I could claim blissful ignorance and start shooting away.
Damn you, Bariloche. Only when I finally realize my escape plan out of this hell hole, she reveals her beautiful mountains.
Snowstorm
Snowing in Bariloche
My legs burned trudging uphill. The climb was steep, and visibility clouded by thick snow that fell sideways. I looked down at my black soft-shell jacket now patched with white. Snow flakes melted and stuck to my chest and arms like dust bunnies to velcro. A car honked, a stray Lahsa-apso lapped water from an overflowing storm drain, and natives peered through cafe windows watching comfortably from inside as the snow punished the pedestrians outside. Yes, I’m in Patagonia. But no, I’m not hiking in the wilderness. I’m in Bariloche and it’s snowing like hell.
I left Puerto Natales just 36 hours ago, traveling hundreds of kilometers by bus and by plane to escape the rain. As the plane descended upon Bariloche, the captain beared news greeted by a dismayed silence from the entire cabin of turistas: “We’ll be landing in Bariloche in 5 minutes. It’s 2′C and it’s snowing.” The two young ladies from Buenos Aires next to me were not shy about leaning over me to look out the window and judge for themselves. “Esta nevando?”
Simyan and I had checked the national park information center this morning about trekking. Simyan only received alarmingly depressing news.
“No, the trail is closed due to snow and high winds.”
“How’s the weather tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Low clouds, rain, wind. Ehhh… Sunday… rain. Monday…. rain. Next four days…. rain.”
“Is there anywhere in Patagonia where it’s not raining?
The ranger looked at his monitor. “No, it’s just not the season for trekking. It might say rain today, but it could change. I don’t know.”
When there’s nothing else to do, you eat. I spent the rest of the day sleeping, fat from all the meals I’ve had while in Bariloche.
It’s still snowing outside as I type this. A girl from Brazil is watching the movie Sex and the City on the lounge TV. And an Irish lad is on a booking a flight out of here. I can only wish the ski resort is open tomorrow so that this trip up north isn’t a total waste.
Transit Day
View enroute to Calafate
I felt like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking bull, as I gripped the handle bar with my left hand and aimed (or tried aiming) for the toilet with the right. My shoulders alternated banging between the narrow walls, and my feet shuffled to stay upright. The toilet closet was located at the back of the bus, and nature called while the back of the bus jostled on the rocky dirt road of Rt. 40 – along the stretch of highway that ran between the Chilean and Argentinian border. It was like shooting an arrow while riding a mechanical bull… but I kept my pants dry.
After hiking in Torres del Paine for almost 5 days, Puerto Natales and the immediate area started to seem like a dead end. The weather reports promised rain in most areas, and boats and buses to adjacent points of interest – Ushuaia, Puerto Montt, etc. – required a few days of waiting in Puerto Natales before their departure. Staying an extra day to visit a cave with a replica of a prehistoric giant ground sloth was tempting, but there were other sights to be seen and hiked elsewhere in Patagonia.
Gan and Simyan concluded the same decision as I did to leave Puerto Natales by bus back to El Calafate on the Argentinian side of Patagonia. My flight for Bariloche leaves in about 3 hours, where I hope to escape wet weather. Now, just sitting in another locutorio (internet/Skype shop) passing the time. Ironically, it´s mild and sunny with happy, puffy clouds in the sky. Rather than hiking, we spent half the day sitting in a bus. It´s a transit day.
Border Crossing to Puerto Natales
¨Egils. EGILS! Wake up.¨ I shook Egil´s shoulder after his phone alarm played One Republic´s song Apologize for the fourth time. It was 7:15 am. ¨You have a bus to catch for El Chalten at 8:00 am. Don´t miss it.¨
I was already packing up to catch my own bus to Puerto Natales. Even though it was just a 10 minute walk to the bus terminal, we shared decided to share a cab. Egils slipped a beer out of his daypack. He tried opening it using the edge of a nearby dumpster. The lip of the bottle shattered. It foamed. He examined the contents of the bottle to see if any glass fell into the beer.
¨I need a cup,¨ Egils said longingly as he looked at the beer in his hand. We got into the cab, with the open bottle still in hand. He really needed the morning beer to recover from his six or so Long Island´s from last night.
¨Are you on facebook?¨ Yes, Latvia uses facebook. I shook his hand and we parted ways. He was going to join some french girls on a hike to El Chalten. I would continue on to Chile on the eve of the big W-trek in Torres del Paine.
I passed out immediately after sitting on the bus. Two and a half hours later, I awoke at the only rest stop on our trip. The gas station had a small snack bar, where everything was marked up 200%. I spun in a circle looking into the distance. Nothing but desert, this gas station, two long-distance buses, and 40 turistas queued up to buy snacks and drinks.
¨Vamos!¨ the driver said after 15 minutes.
We approached the first border crossing station – the Agentinian side. They simply processed our passports to check who was leaving the country. While we queued up, border control had dogs sniff our bags. The process wasn´t too bad, and took place in a small old building.
Thirty minutes later, we approached the second border control station – the Chilean side. Everyone had to carry their luggages and backpacks into the office for inspection. We were greeted by a nice woman taking mandatory surveys on our H1N1 status. I marked on the paper, ¨No.¨ As far as I knew, I did not have swine flu. I don´t remember the last time I saw a pig, for that matter. I glanced at the passports held in various hands. Almost all of the passports were maroon. No familiar navy blue of an American. I realized I haven´t met another American in a very long time.
After thirty minutes, everyone was back aboard the bus. We pass through dry hill country covered in native grasses. Yellow. Sheep and cattle grazed casually, and sometimes you would see a wild guanaco running away from the sound of the bus.
Suddenly, a mass of blue came into picture. We finally arrived in Puerto Natales, and on the other side of the body water were the mountains and behind them Torres del Paine.
Today is not a photo day. Today I would only speak Spanish. Not that I haven´t already been. Withdraw Chilean pesos? Check. Check into the hostel? Check. Drop off laundry? Check. Get a haircut from Julio? Check.
The host at the hostel gave be directions to a peluqueria (barber/haircutter) just a few blocks away and near the laundry service place. Julio was smoking outside when I arrived. He had euro-tight jeans, a white denim shirt, and Zohan-esque hair… but Chilean, of course.
I asked simply for short. In a flurry of scissor-happy hands, he gave me a conventionally short haircut. The days of shag also known as the asian afro was over.
Not that you really care, but I spent a few more hours updating the blog. The mocha here is good, but I´m ready to take a walk to the shore.
This will be the last post until October 21st, when I finish the W trek in Torres del Paine National Park. If you don´t hear from me after then, you can contact the authorities here in Puerto Natales. I intend to check back into Hostel Natales the night of Oct 20.
Ciao and wish me luck.
Perito Moreno Glacier
The foot of Perito Moreno Glacier in Los Glaciares National Park
I joined a group from the hostel on a small guided and unconventional tour of the ever-so-touristy Perito Moreno glacier in Argentina`s Los Glaciares national park. The glacier occupies the southern part of the park – the same park as Cerro Fitzroy, which stands in the northern sector.
We took a small ¨combi¨(their word for ¨shuttle¨) on an alternative unpaved road to the national park. Along the road we saw lots of animals you would normally miss on one of those mass tourist buses : condors, flamingos, rheas, eagles, falcons, native ducks, sheep, sheep and more sheep. We continued on to the southern face of the glacier, where we took a short one hour hike along the shores of the lake. We caught up with the combi and spent two hours of free time looking at the calving glacier from catwalks on the opposing mountainside. After lunch we went to a boat launch near the northface of the glacier to get perspective of the glacier face from the water.
Snow & Hike to Cerro Torre
Cerro Torre stands in the distance behind a veil of wind-swept snow.
He looked through the window pane at such an angle that the restaurant on the other side of the street reflected off his thick glasses. The sky was white. His focus shifted between the fast-moving clouds and some loose sheets of paper inked with his thoughts.
[SinglePic not found] I kept my glance down at my plate as I spread the ration of butter and jelly on a roll. After slicing the bread in half, the stale crumbs fell and scattered across the table. They managed to tumble either onto my dirty hiking pants or to the foot of the towering carton of “jugo de naranja” – orange juice.
It was snowing – whiteout conditions with visibility no more than a few hundred meters. The wind howled fiercely, and banged a few unfastened shutters against aluminum siding. There wasn’t much else to look at or do. I decided to strike first conversation with the guy, “Se habla espanol?”
“No. English,” he said in the accent of the empire. “I’m from India, but I’ve been living in New Mexico for the last few months. I’ve been working with the radio telescopes out in Socorro. I’m an astronomer.”
Interesting already. We exchanged advice about hikes we’ve done in the park. He glanced again through the panoramic window. This time, his glasses reflected gaps of blue in the sky and snow-capped mountains in the not-so-distant glacial valley.
“Ahhh. This was the forecast for this afternoon for 12:00.” He examined his watch. “11:20… early! We might have chances to hike after all.” He ran outside. I looked through the window pane. He stood there out in the cold, gazing in the distance, calculating the risks… the likelihood that it was safe to embark on an 8-hour hike at this time of day. He looked back in, nodded and smiled. The hike is on.
I had decided to post some photos online before heading out for the hike to El Lago de Torre – a glacial lake with views of Cerro Torre – another towering piece of granite in Los Glaciares National Park. This cost me a few hours of daylight, as I didn’t start until 2:30 pm. Non-stop it should take 3 hours to get to the lake and 2 hours back on a sprint. If I timed everything right, I should be back by 7:30 with enough sunlight to spare. The sun usually sets around 8:00 pm.
Yesterday’s 10 hour hike to Lago de Los Tres left me in a more conditioned shape. I was practically sprinting up the steep portions of this hike. I had passed a young man and his father along the way. Two hours later, I arrived at the “mirador” – the viewpoint of the distant glacier and Cerro Torre. The gusts of frigid air that barreled down the valleys roared and almost pushed me over. The sun was still another 2 hours from setting. I looked at my watch. “F**k”. I weighed the risks and the rewards.
I decided I could managed the calculated risks. If a freak blizzard decided to present itself, I had enough insulation, fat reserves and an emergency foil blanket (Thanks, Karin!) to avoid hypothermia and outlast the storm. There were enough dead branches to build a small shelter and even start a fire. There was also a small camp at the end of the lake, where I might be able to pay someone for food and a share of their tent. “F**k it. If anything, I’ll die with a nice view.”
I had removed one of my under layers earlier in the hike. I poked my head just enough so the collar wrapped around my head just above my nose. It warmed my breaths, and shielded my exposed throat from the chill.
[SinglePic not found]I sprinted on, but the reflection of the mountains in a small pond captured my camera’s attention. Suddenly, the bright red jacket of the young man from earlier had managed to catch up.
“Hello. I decided to leave my father behind, so I reach el Lago de Torre before sunset”,” he said with a German accent yet pronouncing each Spanish word like a native.
[SinglePic not found]I was relieved to have a hiking buddy in such sketchy circumstances. This was an amazing kid and made for great conversation. I could tell he loved telling me about his adventures and practicing his English. Jan (pronounced “yahn”) was a 21-year old Frankfurter who decided to travel for five months in South America by himself. It suited his budget and he was also fluent in Spanish. He spoke to me in English without pausing to find a word. His father was an art teacher, his mother a photographer, and himself – he wanted to go back and study theater. His father came for a week-long visit, and he grinned as he told me how he went from eating and sleeping for cheap on less than 10 pesos per day to private room hotels and restaurants while his father is here. What an inspiring young character. A kindred spirit – he too preferred the outdoors over the drunken night-life style travelling in the cities.
We reached the lake just as the sun was setting behind Cerro Torre, but evening winds began to bring with it another round of snow. The top of Cerro Torre was veiled in cloud of suspended snow particles.
[SinglePic not found]“F**k man.” Jan looked at Cerro Torre in both disappointment and hope that the clouds would part to reveal the sun and the pinnacle of Cerro Torre. We waited 20 minutes before giving up around 6:00 pm.
We headed back and discussed more about life, philosophy, the NBA, and the juicing controversy of the Tour de France. 8:10 pm we approached the end of the trail. Only faint traces of day lit our way as the snow began to fall again. We shook hands and bid each other luck in our travels.
Hike to Fitzroy
The reward after a 4 hour hike in Argentina's Los Glaciares National Park
Hiked to El Lago de Los Tres with views of the famous Mount Fitzroy.
Long Haul to El Chalten
Eastern Foothills of the Patagonian Andes from airplain to El Calafate
El Chalten – a small mountain village of no more than three hundred wonderful people near the foot of Cerro Chalten – better known as Mount Fitzroy in interior Argentinian southern Patagonia. I’m sitting in small mountain cabin that offers internet & computer services, and in a rush to upload some photos before I have to pick up some empanadas for tomorrow’s hike to Cerro Fitzroy at sunrise.
it was a long haul to El Chalten, which is a story of own but I don’t have the time to tell right now.
Buenos Aires: La Boca
Famous Colorful Buildins in Buenos Aires barrio of La Boca
Señor Tango
We went to see a tango floor show on our first night in Buenos Aires at 350 Argentine pesos (about $100) per person, which includes the food, the show and the door-to-door shuttle service. Unfortunately, they did not allow photography at anytime, so there is not much photography to display today.
Senor Tango. http://www.senortango.com.ar/
Street Crime within 2 hours
17:42 | Common bathroom at Hostel Suites Florida
The stains appear darker than the black material of my jacket. But the smell is stronger and hard to get out. I apply some bar soap and start scrubbing.
10:45 | Terminal A, Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Airport
I find Jenica sitting against a column on a bench in the crowded Terminal outside of the International Arrivals exit. She’s reading an eBook.
11:15 | Hostel Suites Florida
Jenica and I check into our hostel on Avenida Florida. At the center of a commercial district with a long pedestrian walkway. We walk aimlessly around town, and enjoy the architecture and the weather.
12:37 | Avenida Belgrano y Chacabuco
The sun shines in the blue-bird sky. It’s 68F with a gentle breeze. Some families are out on a walk enjoying the spring Saturday.
Jenica looks up and then at me: “Did someone just throw something at us?”
I look up. No birds. No air conditioners precariously hanging from the edge of a window sill. No children with water balloons. “No. I don’t think so.”
Suddenly a strong odor hits. A fresh yellowish-gray stain on her right shoulder. I glance behind, and there was an indigenous-looking woman (whatever than means), with dusty clothes and carrying a yarn-knit bag walking jut several feet behind our pace. She appears to be somewhat concerned for us and rambles something in Spanish.
“<F>”, I thought to myself. We’ve been targeted. “Jenica, just keep walking.”
Suddenly a short indigenous-looking man paces quickly alongside us. He’s dressed in humble clothing with an American baseball cap. He glances up and points to the sky. He rattles something off in Spanish, but all I hear is the word “… caido…” – “fallen” in English.
“Don’t stop.” We pick up the pace and keep walking. <S> is about to happen. “Do you have tissues? I’ll wipe it off.”
“No.” Jenica holds her gaze firmly ahead. She dares not make eye contact in the direction of the stranger.
“Hey!” The stranger tries to call our attention. “Hey!” as if he was concerned and keeps pointing upwards as if to explain.
My mind struggles send my mouth the signals to say, “No nos molestas,” but Jenica raises the back of her hand to them as we walk away. An “<F> off” gesture without wasting a breath.
The strange woman and man team give up. We find refuge in the nearest cafe. At first just for some napkins, but the server greets us and asks, “para dos?” (Two?).
“Si, gracias.”
She seats us at a nice table outside. Jenica takes off her purse.
“Turnaround.” Jenica’s back is covered in what smells and what we eventually discern to be mustard. Mustard. The rankest mustard I have ever seen, like 10-year-spoiled grey poupon containing real “poup”. I wipe the spots with the minuscule napkins found only outside of the U.S. those just too small to really clean anything. “Take the inner side of the table.”
As I take my camera bag off my shoulder, we notice there’s mustard all over it. “Jude, it’s all over the back of your leg.”
We stink. I notice the waitress glance at belongings and then our jackets. I wanted to explain that we were OK, but I just gave her a smile and a nod. “Buenos. Sta bien.”
A middle-aged woman passes by from the cross walk and notices the stain… and the smell. “<blah blah blah>… son robados?”. That was all that I could make out. “No, fortunadamente.” And I sit down and scan the menu like nothing happened, but I wasn’t really reading.
The waitress came back with a large moist cloth. She knew what just went down, and that we were lucky enough to avoid the scam.
The bastards managed to take nothing from us. “We were lucky. That guy and lady was a two-man team trying to feign concern that birds pooped on us and then they attempt to offer help by wiping it off…. while they rob you. No one is that enthusiastic about helping someone else that they yell at you to come back.”
We order “cafe” – that can mean almost anything. The waitress returns with small shots of espresso and seltzer water. A tourist bus cruises down the street from whence we came behind Jenica. I start to laugh from an image in my mind.
“You know what would be funny? Mustard vigilantes. If we got bottles of mustard and targeted mustard thieves while riding on the upper deck of a tourist bus.” I made the comment hoping to lighten the mood, but perhaps just a device to make myself feel better.
(Want to know more about the mustard scam? Here’s just one of hundreds of stories from similar victims. http://www.travbuddy.com/travel-blogs/26844/Victims-pickpockets-Mustard-Trick-222)
