Our journey to explore the southern portions of Argentina and Chile started on a hot, balmy day.  We left Buenos Aires headed south, a 1000 miles of flat featureless highway waiting to be traversed between BA and our first destination- the Peninsula Valdez.  The air conditioning had broken almost two months before in northern Chile, which made for a sweaty and uncomfortable ride.  Even with the windows down the air blowing in was super heated by the sun scorched asphalt.

Our planned route to the tip of the continent was what some might call a bit “circuitous”- a zigzag path from the Atlantic shores of Argentina to the Chilean fjords on the Pacific side, most of the time headed south, but sometimes backtracking north- we would end up crossing the continent from east to west and west to east three times, and eventually turned the 2000 mile direct route from BA to Ushuaia into a 3800 mile overland odyssey.  But this was what we had been waiting for.  All the way south from Mexico to Chile we had been dreaming of the rugged untamed wilderness of Patagonia, the jagged snow capped peaks of the southern Andes, and the milky azure water pouring off massive glaciers into the cobalt blue depths of the Southern Ocean.

The first thing to surprise us was the very liberal use of the geographical name ‘Patagonia’.  At least it was liberal to our preconceived understanding of the word, which we thought was the area in southern Argentina right next to and including the Andes Mountains on the border with Chile.  A wild place consisting of intimidating mountains cut through by deep valleys and raging rivers, all covered in scraggly ancient trees.  There is no doubt that the area we thought of as Patagonia is a part of Patagonia, but as far as the Argentineans are concerned, the whole southern portion of their country, starting only a few hundred miles south of BA  all the way to the end, is Patagonia.  Even the Chileans get in on the fun, calling nearly the bottom third of their country Patagonia as well.

Kacey waking up from our snug little cave in the back of the truck- it was too windy to use our pop-up tent topper

This is fine, they can call themselves whatever they want, but I think there has been a grave misinterpretation of the term by the mountain loving peoples of the Northern Hemisphere- namely me.  For one, until you are within about 2 miles from the base of the Andes, which rise up like teeth out of a flat slopping plane that runs east all the way to the Atlantic, the land is barren and windswept, uninhabitable to the extreme.  A huge rainshadow caused by the mountains traps all the moisture on the Chilean side of the continent, leaving only enough for the occasional scrub bush or tuft of grass to eke out an existence on the Argentinean side.  Interestingly enough, this is the opposite situation experienced in northern Chile and Peru, where the weather is trapped on the eastern side, providing the water for the immense Amazon basin, which leaves most of the Pacific coast dry as a bone.

In the end, we would get to experience the ‘real’ Patagonia to the upmost, but at the time, I was understandably disappointed by this gross misnomer being applied to the whole of southern Argentina.  I imagine it would be similar for a foreigner traveling to Colorado, expecting the whole thing to be a dense range of the purple snow capped peaks of the Rockies, when in reality, the whole eastern half is not much more than a mini Kansas.

The sea battered cliffs of Peninsula Valdez

Well, as bleak and barren as Patagonia was turning out to be, Peninsula Valdez was an extraordinary contrast.  To be clear, the land was still as ugly and featureless as everything else we had seen in the last three days of driving, but for some strange reason, it was a veritable Mecca for mammals of the sea.  The cliff lined shores where crowded with hundreds, maybe thousands of sea lions and seals.  It wasn’t the right season, but for large parts of the year the surrounding bays are plied by hundreds of whales.  And even now, when most of the sea lions where nursing their pups and getting ready to migrate north, the waters off shore contained a lurking menace, pods of killer whales, or orcas, biding their time for the clueless sea lions to enter the ocean.

They were all lying on top of eachother like a pile of sausages

Though, sometimes they don’t wait for the sea lions to come to them- we spent four hours (sadly unsuccessfully) sitting in a cold drizzling rain on the northern point of the peninsula, watching packs of lazy sea lions lounge on the shore as the tide slowly crept in.  We were waiting to see an extraordinary, although rare, event in nature- occasionally when the orcas get ornery, they will swim in with the coming water, crash through the face of the braking waves onto the beach like a daemon erupting from a watery hell, toothy jaws gnashing, their thick heads wildly turning from side to side, their whole bodies undulating with power, carelessly devouring any poor sea lion that gets within reach.  As gruesome a sight as it would have been, we were anxious to witness it.  I love the ocean, and I willingly accept the risks of entering it with the knowledge that it is full of malevolent deadly creatures.  But there has always been a certain feeling of comfort I get when walking along a beautiful, serene beach, knowing that all those nasty monsters are out there, and I am safe, here, on shore.  The thought of a 6 ton leviathan surging from the water unprovoked and calmly removing me from my sandals on the beach, before I even have an idea of what’s going on, sends shivers down my spine.  Just because the callous orca usually confine their terrifying behavior to this singular beach, doesn’t mean they couldn’t decide to do it anywhere at any time, given the right combination of sea, surf, and hunger.  I definitely have a new found respect for the power of the ocean, and of the extent that it might go to harm me.

A running penguin

There was also an abundance of bird life crowding the shores of the peninsula.  Penguins, cormorants, and seagulls elbowed each other for prime position on the gravel beaches.  The penguins were the most comical, waddling back and forth on their unsteady legs- they definitely looked like fish out of water.

The Welsh tea house we visited felt a little out of place in the middle of the Patagonia

After a few days of the dreary overcast weather, we had our fill of wildlife, and decided to get back on the road.  With a short stop off in the village of Gaimen we found another bewildering item to add to the long list of strange things we had seen on our trip.  Apparently, of all places in the world a group of people might want to settle, a hardy band of Welsh immigrants decided to make the bleak planes of southern Argentina their new home in the 1870’s.  To console their spirits in this desolate environment, they brought with them the tradition and joy of the Welsh tea house.  There were dozens of them, quaint one-story brick cottages that looked as if they had recently been plucked, garden and all, from the rolling hills of Wales, and then deposited gently into the wild countryside of Argentina.  We chose, rather hastily, to patronize a beautiful establishment which was made famous by the visit of the late Princes Diana of Wales in the early 1990’s.  Unfortunately, the management was still milking this opportune royal publicity, keeping the building and its furnishings just how they had been when the Princes had graced them with her presence, but they had neglected to pay attention to the actual quality of their tea and pastries.  What we were served, two plates with a variety of small sugary cakes and sandwiches, could only be described as ‘not fit for royalty’.  It was disgusting, every last item, and even though we would optimistically pick up the next little cake with hopes of it tasting better than the last, we fell into the unflattering routine of: one bite into the mouth, one mouthful into the napkin.  The tea was alright, but when it came down to it, we had just spent $12us a person for an alright cup of tea.  We would have been better taken care of if we had visited a less famous tea house, who had to make their reputation on the quality of their food and service, rather than ridding the dusty and thread bare coat tails of a long past royal visit.

Sunset over the peninsula

We drove west, into the heart of the continent.  Hundreds of miles separated the small towns, and we stopped and filled our gas tank at every opportunity.  The sun started to kiss the horizon, and we were miles from the nearest hint of civilization, so we pulled off the highway and drove into the desert.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I was sure that this place hadn’t received any rain in weeks, maybe months.  After a delicious dinner of fried sausage and onion sandwiches, we bucked our normal routine of setting up the tent, and instead, situated our sleeping pads and bags on top of the roof of the truck topper.  We carefully crawled into our cozy, yet precariously perched beds and gazed up at the open night sky.  A brilliant swath of white diamonds was smeared against the jet black void of space, and stretched from horizon to horizon like a path through the heavens.  The shear immensity of it made me feel small and insignificant, but at the same time delivered an overwhelming sensation of freedom and joy- being such a tiny piece of this puzzle called the Universe, we have the liberty to do what we will, and live life to the fullest, without fear of judgment by society’s standards, or history’s precedence.  Can you say specifically what two average people where doing a thousand years ago today?  In a thousand years from now, will anyone remember what we were doing?  Will anyone even know if we spent our lives gallivanting around the planet in search of adventure, or if we spent the next fifty years pushing papers in some office cubicle?  The answer is no.  And so the choice is ours, the freedom is there for the taking.  And then I fell asleep…

We slept on top of the roof under the stars

 

Buenos Aires is the so called Paris of South America.  Broad, tree lined avenues cut the city into a puzzle of neighborhoods, each one distinct and exceptional in its own right.  From the hip and trendy Palermo neighborhood with its bohemian roots, to the old quarter of San Telmo where antique stalls choke the cobbled streets, to the dangerously independent La Boca, where allegiance to the neighborhood football club is practically mandated by the local government, and enforced by prowling street gangs.

Buenos Aires- a tree lined street in the Polermo neighborhood

Three million people call the crowded city home, but that number swells to a claustrophobic six million during business days.  With so many people coming in and out of the city every day, you would think that they would have an organized and efficient transit system… but you would be wrong.  Long highways originating in distant corners of the country converge on the city from every direction of the compass, forming a spider web of concrete and asphalt with Buenos Aires, El Capital, at its center.  The eight lane highway that circles the city is in a perpetual traffic jam, one that we came to know well.  The city streets are no different, and though we became quite proficient at navigating our way through the crowded maze in our trusty Golden Gringo, we found that using the public transit system was a much better and safer way to get around.

Their solution to moving millions of people about the city consisted of a decrepit and inconveniently routed subway system, and, what we and most people preferred, the bus system.  Thousands of private buses, or colectivos, zip around the city in every imaginable combination of routes.  For the most part the buses were frequent and aside from the morning rush hour, relatively not crowded.  But even these 4-wheeled behemoths left something to be desired- the $1.20 peso fare could only be paid with coins, which were in such short supply throughout the city that people and business alike horded whatever they could get their hands on.  It was virtually impossible to get change from anyone; they regarded coins as more valuable than bigger denominations of paper bills.  Even if you bought something from a shop, they would rather give you a discount in price, or round up your change to the next peso to avoid having to cough up those precious little disks of metal.  On one frustrating occasion, Kacey and I spent almost $8 pesos at 5 different corner stores buying individual pieces of bubble gum and candy, just to acquire the additional $0.65 centavos that we needed for our bus tickets.  We quickly learned to guard every coin we came across as solid gold, and contrary to my normally tight wallet, I grew into the habit of putting a $2 peso bill in the beggar’s cups, rather than the $0.25 centavo coin that was a more appropriate amount.

Check out the crazy keys to our apartment

By some great stroke of luck we were able to secure the same furnished apartment that our friends Nick and Rochelle had used, and where we had stayed for one night prior to our trip home.  Having a solid base of operations for our time in BA was truly invaluable.  We spread out and made it our temporary home.  We cooked, and ate on the patio almost every meal.  We slept in, and lounged around reading books between forays out into the city to see the sights.   And the best part about it is that it was cheaper than even a simple dorm room at the lousiest hostels in town.

A graffiti angel

We spent two weeks exploring the winding streets of the city, Kacey shopping for inexpensive, but quality, designer clothes and accessories, while I kept my eye out for anywhere that offered BA’s version of the ubiquitous empanada al horno: delicious mini calzones, oozing with melted cheese and almost any other ingredient you can think of.

El Obelisco looks like the Washington Monument in D.C.

We also made a point of visiting a few key sights that are sprinkled across the capital.  Our first stop was El Obelisco which is over 200 feet tall and was erected to commemorate the 400^th anniversary of the city’s founding, at the center of Avenida Nueve de Julio, purportedly the widest street in the world.  Later, we made our way to the weekend San Telmo antique market, which stretches for over a mile through the picturesque downtown neighborhood, and is second to none in its variety and quality of old collectable things.  Our hands were somewhat tied in what we could purchase by the fact that a lot of the most interesting things were either too delicate, or two big and cumbersome to realistically join us on our journey.  Here more than ever, Kacey’s wise words of “Dave, I know it’s cool, but how are you going to get it home?” could be heard throughout the market almost constantly.  We did end up with a few small gems though: Kacey with an old-fashioned lady’s evening purse from the 1920’s, made from hundreds of tiny interlocking metal rings, and my prize was an old silver zippo-type lighter that had the inscription “Manufactured in Hong Kong, The British Empire” etched into its base.

These old seltzer water bottles were some of the many items we wished we could have brought home with us

Another spot we were eager to see was the Ateneo Book Store.  The interior of this formerly luxurious theater had been converted into a sprawling book store, with shelves upon shelves of books taking the place of the old aisle seating.  Even the balcony seating on the 2^nd and 3^rd levels were lined with shelves.  You could pick out a new book and sit in one of the private boxes to browse through it, or take a table at the spendy café that now occupies the stage, with the full red velvet curtains and rows of hanging theater lights above still in place to give you the feeling of having a part in some grand acting performance.

The Ateneo Book Store used to be a luxurious theater

One of the most interesting, and peculiar sights we saw was the famed Recoleta Cemetery.  This eerie necropolis covered almost 4 square city blocks, and is home to the tombs of Argentina’s wealthiest and most historically influential families.  Row after row of massive mausoleums were built side by side and narrow alleyways zigzagged their way between them, giving the cemetery the distinct impression of being a city for the dead.  We stopped off at the tomb of Evita, the wife of Argentina’s former president Juan Peron, who at her time was one of the most influential women in the world.  She was iconized by a famous movie with the poignant lyrics of her song “…don’t cry for me, Argentina!”  We were surprised by the dozens of Argentineans and foreigners alike who still flock to her tomb to pay their respects.

It was easy to get lost in the maze of alleyways between the tombs

Many of the mausoleums did not fare as well as Evita’s though- it was astonishing to see the ghastly evidence left by of grave robbers who had broken into and ransacked hundreds of tombs.  Apparently no one from these unfortunate families remains in Buenos Aires to look after their ancestor’s mausoleums, and the debris of broken glass and stone lay scattered about the bases of splintered and upturned coffins.  I’m not sure why the cemetery keepers didn’t clean up the mess, or try a little harder to prevent the thieves, but some of the tombs dated back to the early 1700’s, and I guess that whatever money the family had paid for the upkeep of their mausoleum has long since run out.

Aside from seeing the sights, we also spent much of our time catching up and hanging out with some old friends of mine who happened to be making their home in BA.  When I was in college I spent one amazing semester enrolled in a study abroad program called Semester at Sea.  Me and 700 other students from all over the US boarded a cruise ship turned floating university, and sailed around the world.  I was lucky enough to meet Amy and Hannah on this voyage of a lifetime, and even though we hadn’t seen each other in almost six years, our reunion was heartfelt and joyful.  Along with Hannah’s Columbian boyfriend Filipe, and their entrepreneurial roommate Nathan, the six of us ate and drank our way through the nightlife of the Capital, with our time together culminating at a giant birthday bash for Hannah on our last night in town.

Hannah, Kacey, and I eating out at our favorite restaurant- Las Cabras

We knew we would be back to Buenos Aires at the end of our trip, so we left a few things that we wanted to see and do undone, and got ready for the final portion of our journey.  Southern Argentina and Chile lay waiting for us to explore, with our ultimate goal of Ushuia, the most southerly city in the world, drawing us like a magnet towards the tip of the continent.

 

The amazing Iguacu Falls

Before we left on this trip, Kacey and I sat down and brainstormed for a list of places and sights we wanted to see.  At the top of the list was the obvious Machupicchu of Peru, the Temples of the Sun and Moon in Mexico, the granite spires of Torres del Paine in Southern Chile, and Iguaçu Falls on the northern border between Argentina and Brazil.   This last sight was something of a Holy Grail for me, long sought after but never attained.  I have been to Brazil three times before- once in college and twice for my job when I lived in Angra dos Reis, which is a bit south of Rio de Janeiro, for a total of 10 months or so.  Each time I was there, I could feel Iguaçu quietly beckoning me, subtly inserting itself into overheard conversations, or screen saver photos of co-workers- leaving little tantalizing hints to its wonders scattered across my daily path.  My desire to see the falls grew exponentially, but my demanding work schedule left little opportunity to make the trip down to Iguaçu.  One time, I even went so far as to purchase the airline tickets, but fate was against me and I had to cancel them.

Then we planned our trip- 25,000 miles driving through Central and South America, which promised us more amazing sights and experiences than anyone should feel lucky enough to see in 10 lifetimes.  Somehow though, after all our lists had been made, and our route drawn on the map, it bewilderingly avoided Iguaçu Falls! They were just too far out of the way, it wouldn’t make sense to drive all the way up to them considering the other places we wanted to see in Argentina.  I reconciled my dismay with the idea that maybe we could fly to Iguaçu from Buenos Aires, or Santiago, for a little side trip and that we could figure it out later- but inside, I had a sick feeling that they would slip through my fingers once again.

Sometime after entering Chile, I started thinking about Iguaçu again.  Looking at the calendar, and our tentative route south, we were quickly running out of possible times to make the side trip up to the falls.  A flight was monetarily out of the question considering we had just purchased tickets for a visit home in February, but it looked like we might have a 8 day gap between Kacey’s birthday celebration in Mendoza and our flight home from Buenos Aires.  It would be a lot of driving, maybe 6 solid days in total, but it just might be possible if we wanted to see the falls bad enough.  Luckily for me, it didn’t take much to convince Kacey- she wanted to see them as much as I did.

A large majority of Argentina is the never ending, flat, grass covered pampas

The morning after our birthday bike tour in Mendoza, we resigned ourselves to the idea of four long days driving the straight, flat highways that stretch across the endless pampas of central Argentina.  For days we saw only grass and cattle, but as we worked our way north the landscape gradually changed.  We passed through a long tunnel under the Rio Paraguay, and emerged to dense groves of subtropical forest.  The consistently flat asphalt gave way to a circuitous path over undulating hills, and on the last day the road side foliage became decidedly jungle-esc.

Las Cataratas Iguazu

Iguaçu Falls are located on the Rio Iguaçu, which marks the northern boundary between Brazil and Argentina, therefore dividing the falls in half between the two countries.  Each government has designated the falls and the jungle around them as national parks, though they are separate, with separate entrance fees, and inconveniently, you can’t cross from one to the other.  Argentina calls their side the Cataratas Iguazu, and in Portuguese, Brazil has named them Foz do Iguaçu.  We were told that to truly experience the falls, you needed to see them from both sides, which would take us a day for each side and leave us just enough time to drive back to Buenos Aires in time for our flight home.

We found a hotel that also catered to campers, and parked the truck under a large shady tree on their sprawling lawn.  An afternoon in the pool with about 600 screaming kids made our evening cocktails especially needed, and we made a double batch of pasta for dinner so we could take the leftovers with us for lunch at the falls- unlike the rest of South America, Argentina (and Chile) have caught on to the unfortunate habit of extreme price gouging for food and drinks at tourist attractions, sporting events, or airports- just like the good ol’ US of A.  We got up early the next morning, and caught the first bus to the entrance gates of the Parque Nacional Iguazu.  Even though it was in the middle of the week, there was already a long line at the ticket window when we arrived, and when the gates finally opened, we were pushed through by hordes of vacationing Argentines.

The sound of the crashing water was deafening

Brazil and Argentina have taken different approaches to showing off their respective sides of the falls, with Argentina choosing to build raised walkways and platforms that cling to the sides of the cliffs and bring you within feet of the rushing waters as they tumble over the edge.  You get an incredibly up close and, more often than not, extremely wet view of the hundreds of individual falls that make up Iguacu.  This is an amazing way to feel the power of the falls, but you are so close that the constant spray of water makes using the camera a tricky business.  I spent most of the time with the camera hidden under my shirt waiting for the wind to cause a break in the mist, when I would pull it out and fire off a few quick shots before hurriedly tucking it away.  This only worked for a little while though, because after a few minutes, my shirt, along with the rest of me, was sopping wet- luckily, we also brought along a small waterproof point-and-shoot, which let me put the big camera back in the pack, though that was drenched as well.  I carry with me a small nylon dry-bag for just such an occasion, but it doesn’t help much if the camera is already wet when you put it in.  No matter, this might be just what I need to justify buying a new camera when we get home.

These enormous spiders were hanging at eye level right above the trail

In addition to the falls, the national park was an incredible place to see wildlife- hiding in the trees were dozens of small agile monkeys, and in the underbrush lurked sinister lizards, some as long as a man is tall- but for me the most alarming sight was the 5 inch wide spiders which hung in the middle of their giant webs that spanned many of the walkways.  Most people didn’t even notice them, because the webs were necessarily built at a height that allowed the normal Argentine to walk under without snagging their head on the bottom of the web.  Being a good head or two taller than the average South American, it was a different story for me- Kacey only just saved me from a face full of spider web, and the inevitable death bite from the overgrown owner, by yelling out when I almost walked right into the first one we encountered.  I spent the rest of the day uneasily gazing upwards for any sign of those most vile of creatures, as we walked along from waterfall to waterfall.

The Devil's Throat

The highlight of the day, and all of Iguacu in my opinion, was the thundering Garganta del Diablo, or the Devil’s Throat.  A long set of walk ways connected several of the small islands that dot the wide river at the top of the falls, conveying us over the seemingly placid, smooth flowing water.  Even though it looked so tranquil, it was hard to not think about the consequences if you were to fall in the river at this point- it would only be a short 100 yards or so before you were helplessly carried over the edge and down into the abyss that is the Garganta del Diablo.

Looking down the canyon-the right side is Brazilian and the left side belongs to Argentina

The Devil’s Throat is an immense water fall that flows over the edges of a long cul-de-sac shaped canyon.  The water relentlessly crashes from every side 270 feet down into the deep void of the chasm, though it is impossible to see the bottom due to the enormous plumes of mist thrown up by the violent impact of the waterfall with the unseen obstacles below.  I would venture to say that the light of day has never penetrated the depths of that canyon- what a hellish maelstrom it must be.

From our vantage point on the rickety platform precariously bolted to the edge of the cliff, the waterfall was at the same time surreal in its grandeur, and terrifying in its power.  The scene left little doubt why the indigenous people had named it Iguaçu, which means “great water” in their language.  They too were afraid of its power, and would try to appease it by ritually sacrificing prisoners they had captured during tribal warfare by taking them to the edge of the Devil’s Throat and, I am sure with little forbearance, dropping them in.

Our second day at Iguacu falls was spent seeing them from the Brazilian side.  A quick and easy hop across the border left us a little bewildered.  As we approached the immigration post, the bus driver asked us if we were just going to Brazil for the day to see the falls, and when we answered ‘yes’, he calmly drove right through the checkpoint without stopping!  Apparently, they’ll let you enter the country without a visa or even a stamp in your passport if you only intend to stay for the day, which really made me regret the $180usd and week long circus I had endured in Santiago getting my Brazilian tourist visa just for this 8hr visit to Foz do Iguaçu.  None of our guide books, nor the official at the Brazilian embassy in Santiago, had mentioned this little tidbit, and know I think I know why she was snickering to her coworker behind the counter as she accepted my cash and handed me back my passport.

Kacey couldn't believe what we were seeing

The Brazilian national park seemed a little older, the trails and walkways a little more run down, but it made up for it by the spectacular panoramic views of the falls.  Whereas Argentina had gone for the up close and personal approach, Brazil’s side was a photographer’s dream.  The cascading water on the far side of the valley stretched endlessly up and down the river.  Brazil’s own set of raised walkways led out to a platform at the base of the long canyon with the Garganta del Diablo at the far end, and offered amazing views from the bottom of the falls, as opposed to the top of them like in Argentina.

We weren't big fans of the pickled cow tongue

With one more “thing to see before I die” item checked off the list (my own list, not that poorly chosen list from the pompous book of the same name), we triumphantly returned to our campsite and grilled up a scrumptious asado of chicken and chorizo (our first attempt ever), along with a few liter-bottles of beer, to celebrate our accomplishment.  The next day was the start of the long 1000 mile journey south to Buenos Aires, but even with our immanent flight home, we made time to stop at an incredible amethyst mine, where we bought huge chunks of the purple crystal for mere dollars (these would turn out to be quite the burden to get home safely), we unwittingly had our first experience with pickled cows tongue, and we spent a night camping at El Palmar National park- so called because of the hundreds of thousands of Yatay palm trees that exclusively grow and are protected there

The sunset in El Palmar National Park

When we arrived to Buenos Aires, or BA as we came to call it, we found our old friends the RambleWriters, Nick and Rochelle at an apartment they were renting in the laidback neighborhood of Palermo.  They graciously let us sleep on their futon, and helped us make arrangements for storing the Golden Gringo at a nearby garage for the duration of our trip home.  With only a slight hiccup in our travel plans due to a terrible snowstorm ravaging the East Coast, we made it home to Colorado and surprised both of our grandmothers for their 80^th and 84^th birthdays.  We spent a week catching up with family and friends, a day on the slopes relishing the cold and snow that seemed so foreign to our South American sun tans, and before we knew it we were back on the plane for the 10hr flight to Argentina.