Entering Argentina: Following Torres del Paine, my comrades and I left Chile for the first time in six months and crossed into Argentina. We were headed for El Calafate to see the Perito Moreno Glacier, known for its dramatic displays of ice collapsing as the glacier slowly advances. In actuality, crossing a border, an invisible line made real by offices with stamps and guarded by a bunch of stern-faced men in uniform and guns, is an incredibly insignificant act. However, none of us could deny the excitement felt by the concept of crossing an international border, getting out of Chile, entering Argentina, and feeling reminded of the power of a passport.
As is to be expected, crossing a border doesn't magically transport you to an entirely different world. Accordingly, the Argentinian side of Patagonia looked exactly the same as the country we had just left, but within half an hour the landscape changed dramatically. From snow-capped mountains to flat, dry, and endless badlands it's easy to tell which country got the "better" half of Patagonia. Still, this side of the "Land of Giants" was beautiful in it's own unique way. Looking around in El Calafate, I felt like I had landed in the middle of a western movie scene; which in some ways was a welcome feeling of familiarity and a sudden wave of homesickness for American culture. The mountains to the East reminded me of being in Montana or the Grand Tetons in Wyoming, while the rest of the landscape reminded me of Utah or Nevada – a rugged and dry badlands but surrounding sparkling, turquoise glacial lakes.
Loud explosions, like the sound of bombs dropping in nearby war zone, startled us as we approached the glacier. It was the sound of the cracking ice, large chunks breaking off and falling into the lake. Some fell right in front of us and some were well out of sight but heard loud and clear. The sounds, the immense size of the glacier – it was an incredible sight.
Blazing my own trail: After El Calafate, I was ready to break off on my own and head north. But this meant traveling solo, and I was nervous. Would I be safe? Would I be lonely? What will I do when I get there? Despite the questions, I wanted to move on and my interest in discovering Bariloche, in northern Patagonia, was my desired destination. However, travel in Patagonia is complicated by long distances and lack of adequate roads. I had two options for getting to Bariloche: 1). sacrifice some dough to pay for a flight, or 2). respond to advertisements for the 38 hour bus ride on the “legendary” Ruta 40…Legendary? Why? At the time, I was unaware what made this road so celebrated, but numerous t-shirts in the windows of tourist shops with the road sign splashed across the front told me something was up.
In the end, my decision was easy: a fan of long drives and eager to see more of the countryside, I chose the bus. Along the way I discovered the significance of Ruta 40: It’s considered to be South America’s version of Route 66, it crosses the entire western length of Argentina, and it’s one of the longest roads in the world. Most of the southern portion remains unpaved, and as such it has become somewhat of an adventure tourism attraction. Summed up, I don’t particularly think that’s enough to dedicate so many t-shirt designs to it; in the end there’s nothing all that “adventurous” about it, revealing all the hype to be an obvious tourist trap. Nonetheless, this was my chosen route – a slow and bumpy ride enjoying Argentina’s remarkably flat, barren landscape inhabited by little more than the occasional vicuña and herds of sheep. A 38 hour bus ride sounds crazy but the scenery made the long ride worth it.
Bikes, The Beatles, St. Bernards, and Swiss Chocolate: When I arrived in Bariloche, I expected to see something similar to Pucón in Chile but the two towns could not seem more different. While I found Pucón to be quiet and peaceful despite the fact that it’s still a big tourist destination, Bariloche is a rather bustling city and I had imagined a sleepy little mountain town. The scenery was quite different as well - Bariloche instantly reminded me of Lake Tahoe, except set in the Alps instead of the Sierras.
I was glad to discover that my hostel was a decent distance outside of town. The place was laid-back, refreshing, and felt like being at a beach house rather than a hostel (I can still hear the songs played by Bob Marley, Beck, and Slightly Stupid just thinking about the place). The owner, who was from Buenos Aires and walked around in flip-flops and board-shorts, was a fantastic host offering to cook me up a steak when I arrived late that first night just off the bus, no extra charge. Sitting patiently outside the kitchen window was a huge St. Bernard, and the owner tossed the scraps to the his thankful pet. I soon learned that this town seems to have an infatuation with these dogs. Locals walk around with them on leashes and wearing big colars labeled "Che" and chargin tourists to take pictures of the dogs. At the very least, they sure were cute.
The next morning I went for a long bike ride exploring the peninsulas, islands, and vistas along the lake. It started out as a beautiful day including a great lunch on the beach; but then, seemingly out of nowhere, dark clouds began moving my way from the other side of the lake. Moments later the downpour arrived and there wasn’t much to do about it other than ride on. As I peddled along through widening puddles, I laughed to myself at the turn of events and the sunscreen melting off my arms, legs, and surely my face as well, giving me a ghostly white appearance. Just as I pulled in to return the bike, the clouds parted and the sun broke through... Figures... Although it made the last length of my ride a bit of a rough go, the return of the strong, warm sun was kind enough to dry me off quickly.
When I returned to the hostel, I found the owner and a few other travelers watching an old concert featuring John Lennon and Yoko Ono on a make-shift theater screen made by tying a white sheet to the ceiling (it reminded me of my friends from home). I haven’t yet mentioned this but songs by the Beatles have followed me throughout South America. When I arrived in the Chile, the first song I heard on the radio during the taxi ride from the airport was Hey Jude. The song remained in my head for a solid week. After that, it was Here Comes the Sun, and then in Curanilahue I played Hello, Goodbye during my first lesson with the students as we reviewed greetings. Now here in Argentina, I was sitting in the hostel’s common room watching this video of John sing well and Yoko sound like a chanting nutcase. If there was a soundtrack for my trip, the Beatles would fill a good chunk of the tracks.
On a day trip into town, I joined a girl from Morocco and a lad from Ireland for a tour of the town. We had two goals: we were in search of some quality chocolate, as this Swiss-German Bariloche is famous for its chocolateries; and we were also following a rumor about the best ice cream shop in the city. We achieved both. Free samples of chocolate followed by the uncontested best ice cream I have had in South America.
With other activities including a day hike up one of the mountainsides to Refugio Frey to view the rock formations, a night on the dance floor, and tasting some locally brewed beer, Bariloche actually felt like an easy-going and relaxing destination. I spent four days there and was sorry when it came time to leave. I also knew that just around the corner would be another destination just as interesting from which I’d likely be sad to leave as well. Part of traveling, I was realizing, is being thankful for what’s been done in one place and then focusing on what’s next instead of dwelling on what’s been left behind. In addition, I felt a renewed sense of confidence after completing the first length of my independent travel marathon as well as the reassurance that, when traveling, you’re never really alone. There’s always someone interesting to talk to in the hostel, someone touring the same sites, someone taking the same bus. That brought a sense of comfort and curiosity about who else I might meet in the next town.
My Slice of Paradise: Crossing the Andes back into Chile was a bit depressing. I had been there for 6 months. Returning so soon felt painful…but then again I was headed to Valdivia to visit some family friends; and it’s also my favorite town in Chile. I went there once before with Erin and 2 of my students as a reward for their excellent progress in our classes. Now I was going to get the opportunity to enjoy the place on my own terms. Of all places I had seen, Valdivia is the one place where I would consider living in Chile. It’s peaceful, tranquil and home to a strong shipping industry that doesn’t overwhelm with an industrial presence. It’s full of life, youthfulness, and hip bars but without the airs of a party city. Green hills rise and fall along the wide river that leads to the sea; it's a place where sea lions can lounge as they please on the side walks amidst the “Danger! Don’t touch the sea lions” warning signs; and a busy fish market is open for business daily; I even enjoy the light rains that roll-in almost daily. Easy-going, aesthetically lovely, economically important, and full people who are equally kind and hospitable as those in the rest of Chile, Valdivia is my little paradise.
Christmas in Santiago: I met up with two other WorldTeach volunteers and their families in Santiago for Christmas. We had a small wreath to substitute for a tree, and a laptop playing carols in our hotel room as we opened gifts Christmas morning. But none of us felt in touch with the holiday spirit. After a lifetime of associating Christmas with winter, it was strange to be walking around in shorts and fanning ourselves from the heat; not to mention seeing Christmas paraphernalia in stores with Santa Clause still dressed as he always is while weather was so hot. A lot of people back home asked me if Christmas is just as commercialized down here as it is in the ‘Great North’. The answer is no, but things seems to be heading in that direction.
I went to Mass on Christmas day at the Catedral Metropolitana in Santiago’s Plaza de Armas. That was the only time I actually felt like I was celebrating Christmas – listening to familiar carols sung in Spanish with an acoustic guitar accompanying the choir.
The most interesting aspect of Christmas in Santiago was how completely dead the city was – there were absolutely no cars, buses, or people in the streets and nothing was open (except for the Chinese restaurant where we had dinner Christmas Eve and the Indian restaurant where we ate dinner Christmas night). The city of 6.2 million people had practically turned into a ghost town. I couldn’t believe it!
Still feeling the itch to get out of Chile and see more of South America, I didn’t want to stay long in Santiago. Having already seen much of the south, I was ready to pursue something different. Again, I'd be heading out on my own and this time towards San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile. It would be my launching point into Bolivia. I purchased my ticket for the 24 hour bus ride from Santiago (ever since Ruta 40, lengthy road trips had become the norm). The thought of heading into Bolivia was not without a tinge of apprehension; it’s the poorest country in South America, there are certain risks for travelers, and there was a chance I might get robbed for a third time. But at this point it didn’t matter, I had researched the risks, I knew to be extra cautious, there was plenty to explore, and my mind was made up. There was no doubt it was going to be an adventurous trip. And so, I raced north on my marathon towards the desert…
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