Rio Grande to Puerto Natales

The last blog ended abruptly.  Well, okay, not abruptly.  In fact it probably meandered like a muddy, drunk river, winding its leisurely way through the grasslands and depositing many an ox-bow lake along the way.

However, I did end it before getting anything like up to date with where I am now, and for that I sincerely apologise.  I just didn't think anyone could take any more verbose crap stimulating thoughts in one sitting.

So, I'll cover what's happened up until now, as I sit in a cold hostel in Puerto Natales.  It's an old wooden place with low ceilings, individually carved chairs, and landscape paintings, photos and maps everywhere.  And a small ceramic stove in the corner with a metal flue, but this is unfortunately not in use.

Me now, figured that now I am an official member of the adventurers guild, I can get away with dressing like this,

I stopped in Rio Grande for two days, at the only hostel in town, Hostel Argentino.  When you're the only option in town, you don't need to go big on inventive names.  Just reassure people that this is an Argentinian establishment, and not, say, a stray Madagascan collective that got swept up on the shore one day.  Mostly a workingmans hostel rather than a tourist/gringo one, I'm not actually sure I took any photos of Rio Grande, but if I had, you'd see why.  Not an unpleasant place by any means, and a friendly bunch at the hostel, but a total frontier town, and not in a romantic bear-trapping and whiskey bar kind of way.  The town was on a windswept plain by the shore, the outskirts all warehouses and tin houses, the centre was wide, bleak streets.  This impression was not helped by the constant gale that blew for the two days I was resident, making walking in the streets a matter of bending double and forging on ahead.  This was the reason I stayed for so long; if walking is difficult, cycling is nigh on impossible.

Unless it's a tail wind of course. However, it's never a tail wind.  The physics of hot/cold air currents just don't work that way here, indeed the direction of wind seems actually dependent upon my direction, in that it will always arrange itself to be hitting me diagonally from the left front quadrant.  10:30, in fighter pilot parlance.  So, I get the wind trying to knock me off the road, but also impeding my forward progress, making it akin to trying to cycle up a hill which often tilts suddenly and without warning.  Anyone who's every played Super Monkey Ball will know what I'm talking about.  Nothing like a pop-culture reference that most people won't get, eh?

I'm thinking this new (? probably not) concept in paranoid meterology, that the distant interaction of hot and cold air with the terrain is taking place with the sole intention to strike me and make me quake with rage, could be my Phd subject.  I could be to weather forcasting what Niels Bohr was to quantum physics.

Anyway, I'll probably return to inchoate rants about wind at some later stage.  In fact, it's pretty inevitable.  I would like to point out, however, since my last blog referenced the importance of wine in its creation, that this rage is a sober-minded thing.  It is 11:44 in the morning here, the sun is not over the yardarm, and even basking in the warm glow of a civilised town, it's a little early for a glass of wine.

By the second day in Rio Grande, I had been joined in the hostel by three other cyclists who were heading the same way and had been driven inside by the wind.  One of them, a South African lady, Leana, had been on the road pretty much non-stop for 3 and a half years, through Africa, the middle east, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, pretty much all of SE Asia and Australia, which puts my journey in perspective!  Anyway, one of them decided to get the bus to PN, one was going to stay in Rio Grande another day, and unsurprisingly, Leana set off some time before my lesiurely start of 12:30pm.

So, it was a steady slog northwards to San Sebastien.  Wind was making hard work of it, but not impossibly so.  The landscape was pretty uninspiring; endless flat plains, punctuated only by occasional automated gas pumping stations.  There were however, slightly more excitingly, a few small cantilever oil pumps dotted about, slowly rocking away.  The only real event of note happened when I was cutting my lunchtime dried salami in an inadvisable way with my pocket knife - managed to slice open my left forefinger.  Thankfully for music fans worldwide, it was deep, but not deep enough to hit bone or nerves, so you can all rest easy - I will play the piano again.  It's pretty much healed now, thanks to my proficency with a tube of Germolene and a dressing.  Anyhow, the day ended at San Sebastien, a collection of shacks by the sea, and the point to cross over into Chilean lands.  I asked at the petrol station / hotel whether or not I could pitch my tent in their grounds, as the hotel was closed for renevation (to be honest, the place looked like it hadn't been used since the mid-70s).  They very kindly invited me to stay in one of the rooms anyway, free of charge.

The landscape of northern Argentinian Tierra del Fuego.  Good bits are definitely in the south.

This pretty much sums up all my experiences with Argentinians and Chileans.  Almost to a man / woman they have been friendly, welcoming and helpful, whether they are dragging you to the bar to be bought Fernet and coke, helping me carry my bike to the airport bus in BA, and negotiating my passage on said bus with my monstrous amount of luggage (cheers Alejandro!), or helping me fit my front rack in Rio Grande.  The mechanic who helped me out with this last one didn't speak a word of English, but still we chatted for a long time about bikes, he showed me a large collection of photos of him cycling with his daughter, and wouldn't let me leave without a postcard of some Tour de France cyclists.

This kind of generosity and genuine happiness makes me realise I really need to do some knuckling down on the whole 'speaking Spanish thing'.  I've been learning so far more on a need to know basis, constructing phrases and memorising them when I need to use them, rather than any more structured study.  I fondly imagined I would be putting in a couple of hours a night after cycling, but even if I'm not ready to sleep immediately I tend to be so tired that I put off the Spanish in favour of either reading 'Fabric of the Cosmos', about current developements in string theory and cosmic evolution (yeah, languages are so daunting for me that this seems like a bit of light relaxation in comparison), or, at the moment, listening to 20,000 leagues under the seas.  I have fond memories of Journey to the Centre of the Earth, also by Jules Verne, from when I was about nine, so I thought this might be worth a listen (i prefer reading, but audio books are a wee bit lighter).  My advice to any prospective readers - don't bother.  It's more or less just a recital of species of coral, fish, and various underwater flora, including Latin order, genus, family, or a listing of the latitude and longitude of various islands.  It's also read by a selection of people who volunteer to record for a free audio book site, which is a laudable endevour, but seems to attract people with either a robotic, mogadon taking voice, or people who have considerable difficulty even reading the words out properly.

Enough sidetracking.  Woke up, went through customs rapidly.  A no-mans land of 15km awaited, which was bleak, but with a slightly more dramatic, rolling-on forever esque tone to it.  There were pink flamingos standing around in the salty lakes, guanacos and cows grazing.  Went through Chilean customs.  Another stamp in the passport.  Set off across the wide expanse of northern Tierra del Fuego.  My map shows a paved road for the next 140km, but such a construction was not in evidence.  Thankfully, it was a decent ripio, with only small corrugated sections, and thus reasonably easy to cycle on.  Even driving rain and hail didn't dampen my spirits, and I made a good 50km until I came upon a hut in the middle of nowhere.  I should emphasise that in this time I passed about 4 estancias (ranches), and for the first hour and half passed no traffic whatsoever.  Flat lands either side, no vegetation above knee height, occasional sheep.  I was ready to drive on, but the hut seemed a good omen.  Built for cyclists, or certainly used by them, it had cartoons and time/distance logs on the wall ofwritten by the people who had passed through.  Most of them were doing a similarly epic trip - loads of Alaska to Tierra del Fuegos, a few Santiago or BA to Ushuaias.  No door, the beds were steel frames, and the stove was a) trashed and b) there was no fuel for 60 or 70km in either direction.  But hell, any port in a storm, and this was more than welcome.

The hut and its walls

Oh, and there was porn on the floor.  Not a stash, or a magazine.  Just a single torn out black and white picture of those parts of a woman that a gentleman like myself cannot mention in mixed company.  Wouldn't want my wife or serving folk to hear such speech.  I just mention it because of the prevailance in the UK of the species bongobush.  It is a well known fact that under any hedgerow, in a lay-by or derelict building, you will invariably find torn out (always torn out, and scattered to the winds, the bongobush only lays its eggs singularly) pages from the Sunday Sport, or even from racier, more artistic publications.  Just wanted to let people know that even in a land the other side of the globe, with different customs and sensibilities, the bongobush still prevails.  Unless it's some Viz reading cyclist planting them in various locations and taking photos.  And there can't be that many of us that fit that description.

Pornography bottom right.  I'm not making this blog 18+ for that.  If it scars you for life, tough.

Awoke the next day at 6am, intentionally.  Was a bright and sunny day, although the sound of the wind whistling through the fence was an unwelcome threnody for the night (okay, i'm actually trying for the 'most pretentious word use' here).  Had some porridge, and then some salty pasta and sardines.  Water running low.  Then set off.  The wind leapt to greet me, and I probably struggled on for ten km.  I was pretty much alone on the road, but was fighting a constant battle to stay moving both forwards and in the right direction.  I'd be leaning into the wind, always ready to steer into the wind as it gusted and was going forwards at a walking pace.  A quick walking pace maybe, but not when you count the rests that were necessary.  But the most irritating thing, and when I say irritating I mean flashes of dark angry light in the mind, shouting at the sky, yelling anglo-saxon expletives into the heart of the tempest, pulling the handlebars up in such a rage that my heavily laden front wheel would buck into the air like a BMX.....the most irritating thing was being driven off the road into the deep gravel by the wind.  I must have looked a pretty crazy sight, balaclava, hat and sunglasses on, waterproof to protect me from the chill, screaming blue murder at the uncaring atmosphere.  I made less and less progress, resting more and more, in the lee of a hill, or a rock, as it became apparent that however hard I struggled, I was barely going to get any distance that day.

So, when a retired German couple from Munich pulled up into a motorhome, and asked if I was Ok and did I want a lift to Porvenir, I took them up on it.  The shame blossoms again writing this, and if I had really needed to I could have got water from some stream/ditch (the words are pretty interchangable at this time of year up on the plains), or, more sensibly, a nearby Estancia, but hell, this was someway from being fun, or even a fair challenge.  Goddam wind.  So, I rode with these guys for the 100km until Porvenir, after about 40km the landscape changed into a hilly place with canyons and arryos, it seemed considerably less windy and more hospitable, but hell, I'd taken the easy way out, and I might as well just ride all the way to Porvenir, where there awaited vast, steaming piles of empenadas, chocolate and juices.  But never again.  Never, for the remainder of this trip am I going to take a lift.  I've got to win back my lost honour - films and books have taught me there will be a hard quest ahead, fraught with peril, but it may be possible in the end.

Spent a night in Porvenir, colourful tin roofs aplenty, then took the ferry to Punto Arenas, where I spent four days in a beautifully restful hostel, El Fin de Mundo.  I forgot to actually take any pictures, but great, big, single beds with luxurious duvets (had my dorm to myself all but one night), a conservatory area with a massive pool table and murals everywhere, and a tv room where the owner and his friends were constantly playing classic rock.  And an effectively all-you-can-eat breakfast with cereal, bread, twenty different condiments, meat, fruit, juice, coffee.  Ahhhhhhhh yes.

Didn't really do a great deal, apart from quite a bit of writing, and read Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson (not nearly as good as Cryptonomicon, which is not a big slight, as I love that book, but still worth picking up).

Of course, I hadn't come this far to sit around reading and listening to classic rock.  I've probably done enough of both to last me a lifetime, and will probably have another couple of lifetimes worth under my belt by the time I ascend to Valhalla.  Now was the time to leave.

So, I set off on Friday 10th December, and this was the most joyous day of cycling by a long shot. Started off workmanlike, went through a freakish 5km strech where the heavens had obviously just emptied snow and hail several inches deep onto the road and surrounding fields....then just stopped at some invisible border.  But after this conditions were perfect. The sun shone!  The wind was slight, and was even at my back for one unbelivable stretch!  The road was smooth, and went through hills and plains, next to lakes, and mountains came distantly into view by the end of the day.  So, this day probably cycled about 165km in about seven hours, then slept in another roadside hut-cum-bus-shelter.  This isn't the transient/drifter like scenario it would be in Britain; there are huts opposite every Estancia so residents can wait for buses or hitch, but this is still a sparsely inhabited land, and most of the huts won't see anyone for days or weeks.  Besides, unfurling the tent, sleeping bag, mat, bags always leads to inertia in the morning as I lounge around, and takes time to securely fasten everything to the bike again.

The next day, the wind picked up again, and after I had travelled 50km I was a tantalising 35km from Puerto Natales.  A ridiculously small distance.....but not cycling into a near hurricane.  Seriously.  It was pretty damn close anyhow, so I camped behind a ridge, and slept as best I could whilst my tent whipped around me.


The view on the second day out....mountains approaching.....slowly,

The wind was hardly better the day after, but with a whole day in front of me I couldn't afford to lay up, so I inched, metre by metre, towards the town.  The spectacular mountain ridges became clearer on the horizon, wreathed with mist and cloud, the bay which Puerto Natales lies on sparkled beneath the late afternoon sun, and the ridge which streaks back from the town loomed, pointing at the journeys end.  So I made it in around 8:45pm last night, possibly the happiest I have been so far this trip! 

And I only wanted to make friends.....cows flee from my comradely embrace.

Me and Mr Beaver, making sure the message gets through

  

Approaching Puerto Natales, my glee can be seen shining off-screen,

What the hell.....more me, in current hostel.  There's a woody vibe.

Lovely hostel, town full of cafes and wooden buildings housing tour companies.  So, I'm going to lay up today, speak to my folks on Skype, hopefully watch Man Utd vs Arsenal, and eat a great deal of grilled meat and drink some wine.  And then....Torres del Paine.  Distinctive 'horned' mountains, around which there is spectacular trekking country, so plan on exercising some different muscles for a change.  Can't wait!

Dave x

PS, Small things that are great -

Peach yoghurt with fruit cake crumbled into it.
Chocolate.  However much I am carrying will get eaten.  No restraint.
1.5lt of drinkable wine for £2
Kiwis are cheap as hell
So are avacados
Guanacos hoppolling around the forests (yeah. don't bother. it's not a word.)