The circumstances leading up to this remote Argentine desert repair job had been a long time coming.  Over three months ago, the salt flats of Bolivia had been covered by a thin layer of water, which sprayed up into the bowels of our engine as we flew over them at 60mph.  When we emerged from the desert, there was a nice white coating of pure salt, a quarter inch thick in some places, encrusting every exposed surface.  We took the truck to a car wash where they used a high pressure hose on the undercarriage, but by that time the damage had already been done.  It took us a week sitting around in Antofagasta, Chile to be told that they couldn’t figure out what was making that awful grinding sound under the hood, but that it probably wouldn’t matter.  This answer didn’t sit well with me, but what could we do?  We hit the road south to Santiago in hopes that the situation wouldn’t get any worse before we got there, and if it did, we would have a much greater chance of finding the right parts to fix it.  Thirty miles down the road the sound got louder and louder, until a bang and horrible screeching sound replaced the grinding one.  I pulled over and after a little poking around found that a small tensioner pulley for the AC belt had seized up.  I removed it and could see that the ball bearings were completely rusted due to the intrusion of the saline desert water, and one had even exploded.  Thankfully, the engine had individual belts for the AC compressor, the power steering, and alternator, rather than a serpentine belt, so I was able to remove the AC belt and get us back on the road, albeit, without the luxury of air conditioning.

No one in Santiago ended up having the right parts, so when we flew home in February, I picked up a new pulley at the local CarQuest.  On our return to Argentina, my first attempt to fix the AC ended in failure when the head of the tensioner bolt twisted right off leaving the rest of the bolt welded in place by a thick coating of rust.  A few days, and many mechanics later, I finally found one that was able to drill out the rusted bolt successfully, but, due to the back water little village we were in, couldn’t find a replacement bolt.   The one good thing about the eccentric little tea house we had visited the day before in Gaimen, was that there happened to be a hardware store down the road from it, and they happened to have a nice new shinny 12mm dia. 60mm long metric bolt.

In the hot desert air, I laid down in the sand, trying to avoid a few cactus and ant hills, and crawled under the truck with my bag of tools…  Kacey woke to my triumphant yell, and the sweet sweet sound of the purring air conditioner!

We camped by a serene mountain lake - Lago Futalafuquen

The day would turn out to be a little less lucky than the morning gave us hope for- first a flat tire and later, the sinister red glow of the “check engine” light came on, maliciously staring out at me from the dash.  We took both problems in stride, but they set us back a few hours, and we finally rolled into our camp site after night fall.  In the morning we awoke to a magnificent sight- the crisp clear waters of Lago Futalafuquen stretched off down the valley, high jagged peaks encircled us on every side, and our camp was an oasis of tall shady pine trees, surrounded by wildflowers and chirping song birds.  We spent the day lounging on the shore reading books or swimming in the glassy waters of the lake.  The mosquitoes came out at dusk and we put up our bug net, but with dinner we built a fire, something exceedingly rare on our trip due to the lack of downed wood in most places we camped, and its heat and smoke were sufficient to deter the swarms of little gnats that had been small enough to work their way through the bug net fabric and drown themselves in my cold gin and tonic.

An amazing sunset over Lago Futalafuquen

We were now headed north, along the eastern edge of the Andes, into the area of Argentina know as the Lake District.  The capital of the region, San Carlos de Bariloche, sits nestled between the mountains and the shore of the enormous Lago Nahuel Huapi, and reminds you of a Swiss mountain village- the cobbled streets lined with stone lodges, peaked roofs, and wooden window shutters.  Indeed, like its unnamed doppelganger in Europe, the town is famous for its decadent chocolate factories, it’s incredible skiing, and there are even a number of huge Saint Bernards  that stroll the main plaza with little barrels of reviving spirits strapped to their collars, their owners charging tourists a few pesos for a photo.  Kacey had already been here during her year of teaching in Chile, and loved dragging me around, showing me her favorite spots in this picturesque little village.

The impresive cathedral of Bariloche

One day, we spent the better part of an afternoon walking from one end of town to the other on our very own “chocolate-a-thon”.  We visited a dozen stores and factories, where you would push open the polished double doors of the entrance, and stepping across the threshold, would arrive at someplace very close to heaven.  From wall to wall there would be cases full of chocolates and sweets of every imaginable variety and description.  The young girls behind the counter were more than willing to offer you a sample of anything you stared at for more than a few seconds, and given my tendency to stare, I must have eaten 2lbs. of free chocolate that afternoon.  I felt like the fat kid in lederhosen at Willy Wonka’s, greedily drooling at the velvety, cascading, 5 foot tall, chocolate fondue fountain in one storefront display.  Kacey had to slap me to get my attention long enough for me to hand over my wallet so she could pay for her pile of treats sitting on the scale- they don’t mess around in Bariloche, and simply charge everything at the same rate, by the kilo.

The mountains and lakes surrounded us on every side

Having eaten our allotment of sugar for the year, we thought it might be prudent to throw a little calorie burning into the mix.  After so many months sitting all day in the truck, it took awhile to convince our atrophied legs, and delicate derrières, that going on a 25 mile bike ride around EL Circuito Chico, the small circuit, would be a fun thing to do.  We rented bikes and started off on the all day adventure that took us on a circuitous loop between half a dozen crystal clear lakes, along the edges of precipitous cliffs, and up and down countless steep hills (the “ups” seem to stick out in my mind), where at the top we were routinely rewarded with amazing panoramic views of the region.

We took a 25 mile bike ride around the lakes called the Circuito Chico

Right here I will say that I feel a little foolish of the whiny tone to my voice- it really wasn’t that far of a ride, and if we had genuinely tried to stay in shape during our trip, it would have been a piece of cake- but what really humbles me, is that on our journey we met a number of people who were doing the same trip as us, north to south through the Americas, except that they were doing it on their bicycles!  When we told people at home of our plans to drive through Central and South America, 95% of the time we got a look of “man, you guys are crazy” in return.  I’ll tell you what’s crazy, doing it on a bike.  I can’t even begin to imagine how many hundreds of times more difficult and stressful this trip would be without the luxury and security of our truck.  It just goes to show that no matter what you do, there is always someone out there who can tell you to “lift up your skirt, Sally, and hit the ball like a man.”

Our French friend Ronaldo who we met biking in Southern Patagonia

Even though our short ride through the Andes wasn’t as epic as some choose to make it, we felt pretty good about ourselves.  We had just shown that our bodies could tackle a rather strenuous ride even though we started pretty cold in the saddle, it happened to be Saint Patrick’s Day, and it was also my half-birthday- add it all up, and it sounded to me like it was definitely time for a celebration.  We drove further north, around Lake Nahuel Huapi, to the quaint town of Villa la Angostura, where we discovered the best little Irish pub in all of Argentina.  The bar couldn’t have been any bigger than our living room, but they had a live band, free pizza and snacks for the crowd, and of course, the obligatory green beer.

We drank some green beer to celebrate St. Patrick's Day at the best Irish bar in Patagonia

 

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- 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.