Patagonian Adventures

The very mention of the name "Patagonia" stirs vivid and fanciful imaginings in the minds of the world traveller. These imaginings are somewhat drab, however, compared to those held by Northern Argentines, who seem convinced that the entire bottom half of their country is under ten metres of snow and completely inaccessible by bus. Though this may not be entirely true, the mandatory stopover I endured in Comodoro Rivadavia bus terminal is reason enough in itself to believe their tripe and fly. No offence intended to the guy snoring in the adjacent toilet cubicle (after all, a man's cubicle is his castle, even if the front door has been kicked in), but it was one of those places where you'd rather stay on the bus watching recent Wesley Snipes movies. And I don't make that claim lightly.

On the drive South along the dry Eastern plains of Patagonia, you could be forgiven for thinking there is not much of anything there. But scrape below the surface of the non-existant ten metres of snow and you'll find grass. And nodding donkeys. OK, when reciprocating oil production equipment is the most fascinating aspect of the surrounding countryside, you can probably keep your camera stowed. To break the monotony, we did stop at one lonely roadhouse on the way to Rio Gallegos that reminded me a little of Nanutarra, but for the absence of corn jacks, flies and around 40°C. If anything, I think this intensified the desolation. As I'd spent the last five years of my life in Western Australia, I hadn't actually headed to Patagonia to see lots of nothing; so I headed towards El Calafate, on the Andean spine (just above the bum), where there's stuff to see. In such a touristy town, ordinarily my hostel wouldn't rate a mention unless it had particularly bad coffee (it did); or featured a rather nasty dorm-room incident that a) rather annoyingly cut short an otherwise pleasant sleep-in or b) left me so deeply emotionally traumatised that I still can't talk about it. It did, on both accounts. I choose to talk about it now. And often after a few beers.

I'm still not entirely sure why I awoke, though I naturally assumed it was my sixth sense of 'ninja attack' or something. As my other, lesser senses sprung into sloth-like alertness, I realised it wasn't actually my sixth, but just my fifth sense of 'wetness; thigh and abdomen region' that was ringing the neural alarm bells. Owing to the location (and that of my willy - normal spot), my first conclusion was that I'd wet myself during my slumber. Having not done this in a good while, I figured my old excuses (nightmares, still training, drank too much cordial, etc.) weren't going to cut the mustard with the hostel staff and I'd need something fresh and new (a dog did it!). While mulling over the believability of this claim, I realised that I still needed to, erm, go - first with relief (maybe a dog did do it?), then horror: "Oh God! I'm bleeding!" Adding some more firepower to this sensory man-o-war, I opened my eyes, which (along with a lack of pain) quickly dispelled any fears of a leukocytic leak; but that it was in fact, raining. In the bottom bunk.

At this stage I'll admit that it actually took me about ten seconds to figure out why the hell it could be raining in the bottom bunk, but nowhere else in the room. Leaping out of bed and noting the still-growing trail of urine emerging from the torpid Argentine in the top bunk confirmed my third worst fear: I got peed on. At least I had my mouth closed. So, you may ask, why does the hostel rate a mention? Because apparently urinating on someone in your sleep is NOT grounds for being kicked out - so pee freely, my Argentine brothers!

Doing work experience as a urinal lolly wasn't actually the main reason why I came to El Calafate (revised now to just below the bum of the Andean spine). On the other side of Lago Argentino are some of the biggest and most stupidly beautiful glaciers outside of Antarctica. I'll admit that before seeing them, I'd never really thought much about how glaciers are made - I think I just assumed they were frozen rivers left over from the ice age - it's squashed snow sliding down from the snowfields, which is pretty damn obvious at Perito Merino and Spegazzini glaciers. Now you know.

With the smell of urine all but gone, I headed a little way North to the climbers' and trekkers' hideout of El Chalten. The main drawcards of this town are Cerro Torre - a spindly tower that lures rock-climbers, in much the same way as a Venus Fly Trap lures flies - and Mt. Fitz Roy - a similarly spectacular geological and predatory formation. I walked to the lookouts at the base of both with two buddies from Calafate (Clare from Seattle and Rotterdamsel Lindsay), which were quite tough and long hikes in snow, but certainly doable. Owing to a lack of anything else to do in Chalten, we all headed back to Calafate for an amusing night on the tiles with a couple of Korean lads (one of whom inexplicably developed a thick Scottish accent when drunk) before Lindsay and I bussed all the way down to Ushuaia on Tierra del Fuego.

There is a little bit of confusion as to whether Ushuaia (with around 60,000 people) really is the southernmost city in the world. My Lonely Planet notes that: "while Ushuaia claims ... (what I just said) ... Puerto Williams - a Chilean naval settlement of 2,500 - is just a bit further south." Last time I checked, 2,500 men in tight white pants does not a city make - even the Swindon lot (who chime in with over 150,000 people) aren't recognised as a city in the UK and (from all accounts) no-one cares, so I think those Williams-folk have a bit of work ahead of them. I curse the incessant pedantry of Lonely Planet's authors. Besides, I've been to Ushuaia, so that's clearly the people's choice.

As the souvenir passport stamp getting only took about a minute, I had around 2 days, 23 hours and 59 minutes left to kill in Ushuaia; so I ate a king crab dish (apparently famous - not bad), went snowmobiling (cool, scary with Lindsay at the helm - no wonder the clogs managed to crash the Batavia into the side of Australia), dogsledding (super cool doggies, but the experience smells - unexpectedly, when you think about it - a lot like dogs' bums) and for a hike around the national park (I'm apparently going to die soon because I ate some seaweed from a red-tide affected area). This left me 5 minutes with which to run to my bus. I really shouldn't try to pack so much stuff into my holidays.

My next stop in Patagonia was Puerto Natales in Chile - the departure point for all things Torres del Paine (chile's version of Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy al crammed into one weather-permitting photograph). As it was roughly mid-Winter (with only one refuge open), I elected to do the five day (with one extra day for weather) 'W' route in and around the Southern side of the main peaks. In Summer, 500 people walk this track per day. On the day I started, it was just myself and two quality Venezuelan lads (Miguel and Daniel). The first day, we walked together up to the Mirador Las Torres, which was absolutely magic - we saw it at sunset with perfect blue skies, I couldn't understand how we had it to ourselves. Defrosting my socks the next morning at breakfast after fourteen hours in bed with less than four of sleep, I began to understand the seasonal unpopularity.
Unfortunately the weather and sock situation deteriorated over the next five days: camping and hiking through mud, snow, slush, ice and streams necessitated a ghetto wetsuit solution (plastic bags) for my frozen feet; which looked a little like cooked cod fillets after 102km of this treatment. Also resembling a cooked cod fillet was my brain after spending most of five days alone: after spending approximately half a day working out exactly what I was going to say in my press conference after defeating a man-eating puma armed with only a pocket-knife; I realised that maybe my mental wanderings had taken a slight turn for the unsound... think I'd best get back to society.