The flight down from Buenos Aires was pretty uneventful. We were in darkness almost the entire way and most people slept. I listened to music and reflected. I usually enter a city with a song in my head and when I entered Buenos Aires, I should have had something from Evita playing on my internal sound track – Hello Buenos Aires or something. There was nothing. I needed to wake up and start the music. When I travel, I intentionally play music in my head – as it helps me remember so much more about where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I was now listening to a track James gave me called “Are I here” by Helado Negro. This would now anchor my sound track, followed by a bunch of other tracks on a mix I’d put together for dinner the previous Saturday. We’d gotten together with a bunch of friends and called it the last supper (Bernadette didn’t call it that – she thought it was a terrible name).

The Argentinians are interesting people (no generalization here). I would describe them as not so easy going as other Latin Americans – more deliberate – a little dour even, but I do like them (of course probably not all of them, but certainly the ones I have worked with or met). On the subject of their deliberateness. When I was getting onto the flight, I’d watched a woman try to put a guitar into the overhead locker. I will assume she was Argentinian. It wasn’t a big guitar, but it wasn’t a very big locker, and there were already a couple of bags in there. She spent fully 5 minutes trying to fit this instrument in, turning it around and around and trying it every which way. She was completely spatially unaware. She would step into the aisle try again, then step back to let the line move up the plane. Everyone who watched her seemed to nod in tentative approval of the effort being made. She was persistent. I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell she was thinking might magically happen to eventually get this all to work. In the end, a flight attendant came by and simply placed the guitar in the EMPTY locker on the other side of the aisle. Seriously! It kept me amused off and on for the 3 hours we were flying – just thinking about what wasn’t going through her head.

The Taxi driver in Rio Grande seemed terribly noncommittal when I asked him to take me to the “Boos Terminale” (actually they just say Bus terminal). I’d shown him the location written on a card and the name of the Bus Company. Of course the consequences for him not getting to the right place were infinitely less for him than for me – so why should he sweat this one. As I mentioned, there were two addresses given online for the location and, obviously, I wanted the right one, first time – because walking from one to the other with my sailing bag on my back was going to be painful – and I certainly didn’t want to be stood in one while the bus departed from the other – looking like a sad bastard.

My fate now lay in the hands of a taxi driver with whom I had no common language – or maybe anything else. In theory we were 6 minutes away and the bus wasn’t due to leave for almost 100 minutes. I now running well ahead of plan. The Main Street of Rio Grande is called “Islas Malvinas” – The Falkland Islands. This was evidence of the still held Argentinian claim to ownership of the Islands, which lie about 280 miles off Argentina’s coast and have been part of the UK since 1823 when the Spanish pulled out and the Brits moved in. At no point until the late 1940’s/early 1950’s did Argentina lay claim to the Islands. The basis of their claim? Proximity! Uruguay – watch out – you’re next. The terrible war that was waged for 72 days back in 1982 is still a source of national outrage in Argentina and clearly here in Tierra del Fuego – a lightening rod for local passion and emotion. I’m not surprised, though. I have friends who fought on the Argentinian side and they told me they only had summer fatigues (and when they invaded – they were in late Autumn heading into winter). Their rifles didn’t shoot straight and they had no food. Meanwhile, their generals spent a fortune on high tech weapons. There is a monument to the war at the end of the main street in Rio Grande where it meets the sea – I kept my UK Passport well concealed!

Within the 6 minute predicted journey time, we pulled up in something approximating to a desolate garage forecourt, but with an office with bus company logos and signs on it. I alighted from my taxi and paid the driver together with a handsome tip (this throwing him off the scent of me being a Brit). On the door of the office was a hand written sign announcing something about the Sud-Bus. This was the company from Chile who operated my bus. Now then – time for further angst. Did it announce that this was the official stop for the bus, or did announce something about it being the wrong location. I had no way of telling, but I took a photo and I was about to text it up to Boston to Alice for translation and assurance, when I noticed a kiosk on the other side of the door with another Sud-Bus sign on it. Two signs means business and certainty – doesn’t it? Clearly this was the right place – wasn’t it? I rested my pack on the ground outside and sat down on the concrete pavement, huddled up (it was cold and windy) and wondered why I hadn’t stopped to buy some vitals before I left Buenos Aires. My ticket promised drinks and snack on the bus, but I had been up for nearly 6 hours now and all I’d had was a cup of cold coffee and a small bag of mixed nut (no ‘s’ – singular) on the plane. Like an oasis appearing before my eyes, I started to make out people moving in the shop across the street. There was an old, closed, now derelict coffee shop along one side to the bus station, and everything else about us seemed either closed or of little use (like a tyre fitting place, a service station, and a kiosk bank). Not only was there life across the street, but I could see white coats and there was the distinct appearance now of bread sitting on a shelf in the window. I ventured forth to take a better look.

Upon close inspection, this was indeed a bakery, a fully functioning bakery. I entered and bought hot coffee (and it was hot) and a couple of empanadas. Sitting on the inside  window ledge of the shop – I had a most decent breakfast and even managed to buy a box of cereal bars for the onward journey, incase the bus snack turned out to be lacking. I was going to be traveling for eight hours. While I was there, not another soul entered the shop, yet this was a hive of activity and very well organized, spotlessly clean, but empty. I walked over the road back to the bus station just in time to meet a small minibus pulling in – from Ushuaia in Southern Tierra del Fuego. It’s the Argentinean port from where boats leave or arrive after sailing around Cape Horn. It was about a three hour drive south of where I was. The Chilean port of departure/arrival is called Porto Williams – much, much smaller. This small bus threw a couple and their bags out onto the pavement and sped off. I caught their American accent as I walked by. This time, I entered inside the station office and found a place to stand by the window so I could see the bus arrive. The recently arrived American couple came in and stood next to me, so I struck up a conversation. They were from Wyoming, retired and they were roving about Southern Chile and Argentina for a few weeks, just experiencing life. They were also getting the same bus as me. Further proof I was in the right place – or at least I wouldn’t be the only one stranded in the wrong bus station. The thing is – buses are how everyone travels in the more remote parts of Chile or Argentina – what I was doing wasn’t unusual at all.

A rather officious looking lady entered the building, opened the door to the kiosk with the Sud-Bus hand written logo on it and announced something loudly to the 20 or so folks standing around (there were two other kiosks, both manned and both advertising various bus companies). Her final word was something approximating to immigration. I twigged and walked up to the office.

“Do you speak English?”

“No.”

“Sud Bus – Punts Arenas?”

“Si,” was all she said and then shoved an immigration form across the counter. I reciprocated with my internet purchased, printed out ticket. She tore a small strip of unprinted paper off the bottom and stapled it further up my ticket. Interesting. She took my passport and checked the details against those I’d entered on the internet. They didn’t match. I had given my US Passport details online when I’d purchased the ticket, but then entered the country on my UK passport when the immigration official in Buenos Aires told me there would be no cost on one and $160 on the other – “you might as well,” he said. That meant I had to exit the country on the same passport. Argentina is fully automated and there are no forms to fill in – they enter you into their system and like many countries, take your photo and your thumb print. The form I had just been given was for Chile. I took back my UK passport and offered her my US. She looked at me for a full 10 seconds, whimpered and threw the passport back. I had no idea whether I was in trouble, or whether she was just being who she was, but I retreated quickly and hid behind my follow Americans! A passport misalignment wasn’t going to stop me hitting my objective.

The bus pulled into the station 40 minutes before departure time and it was impressive – the proper deal. Our bags were taken and stored and a receipt given. We were ushered on to the bus to find out seats and have our details checked by one of the two Sud-Bus officials (smartly dressed in uniform and fleece jacket). My chosen seat was an aisle seat – but next to the seat I was supposed to occupy – fully ensconced, was a larger lady who had already spread out. Let’s call her Petunia – after the cartoon lady from a public service announcement when I was young. Petunia had placed her coat over the seat back in front of her – raised the armrest that was the demilitarized zone between her seat and mine and she had placed her carry on bag firmly in my seat and she was unloading supplies and the like. Her face was painted Trump orange and her finger nails painted to match. I wasn’t winning this one, so I conceded defeat and went in search of an alternative seat. At first I tried the seats immediately behind – but they were Chip and Nancy’s seats (my new American cousins). I tried the one behind those, but after taking up occupancy, a couple of guys came and claimed them (Japanese I thought). However, the seat on the other side of the aisle from Chip and Nancy looked unclaimed and so I bagged it. At precisely 10.30 – the bus left the station and I allowed myself a little yelp – it seemed like I would make Punta Arenas and be on the flight to the Falklands the next morning.

The notion of spending eight hours on a bus would normally be daunting. However, set in the context of the overall journey it seemed to be just a means to an end and not terribly daunting, and in reality, it was going to be absolutely fine. The seats were very comfortable and there was more legroom than the majority of domestic airline flights (including on the three hour flight I’d just been on). Within minutes of the bus moving, one of our drivers (the boss I think) came by and took a coffee or tea order. I can stretch my Spanish to order coffee with hot milk and so I did – I learned how to ask for hot milk when we took Alice, as a baby, to the Canary Islands for a much needed break (for us, not her – she was only 8 months old) and each evening I would go to the bar and get some hot milk to make up her feed with. Memories! Our driver made his rounds with the tea and coffee and the much anticipated snack, which was a very dense cup cake wrapped in cling film. I accepted it and soon understood that this should be eaten in small bites and it could likely take me through the next 6 weeks with careful planning. It tasted delicious – but it was going to be hard work to get through it.

Chip and Nancy were excellent companions and we idly talked in between reading and listening to music. The bus drove for two hours north up the coast and then into the countryside, which was somewhat barren and increasingly undulating – right into the middle of nowhere. We then spent the thick end of an hour and a half getting through Argentinian and Chilean immigration. First, we all had to get off, go into the shed belonging to the Argentinian immigration people – this was definitely frontier territory – to complete formalities! The Chilean customs and immigration people are about 20 minutes North of the Argentinean. I have no idea what lies in between, or which country it belongs to – but I’ll bet the Argies have laid claim to it! So, after the Argentinian shed – back on the bus and on to a dirt track for a few miles and off again into a real shack of a place to be allowed to enter Chile. Our bags were unloaded and scanned in an other shack and then we re-boarded and drove for another two hours, mostly over unpaved roads – finally stopping shortly after we finally got back onto a concrete road. Here, the road dipped down to meet the Straits of Magellan and a working ferry was there to meet us. Again we all alighted, this time walking down a wide concrete ramp and onto the ferry. Our bus followed us and within 10 minutes we were sailing over the water. It was very windy and to one side we had dark grey storm clouds and on the other sunshine. It was quite a surreal, yet beautiful scene – Tierra del Fuego meets Patagonia. This was the tip of South America. I had been in Dallas just 36 hours ago.

Thirty minutes after stepping on the ferry we were off and back on the bus (same bus – hadn’t expected that) and within ninety minutes we were entering Punta Arenas. The eight hours had passed with ease and with interest. I was now overcome with hope – as we passed the Punta Arenas airport – knowing that I would be back there the following morning to catch my flight over to The Falklands. Punta Arenas bus station was a hub of activity, but then Punta Arenas seemed like a buzzing major town, set right beside the Magellan with easy access out into the South Atlantic. Significantly, my hotel was a mere 5 minute walk away, but the wind was howling and the rain had started. I arrived into reception of this high end place a little wet and wind blown, but extremely happy. The receptionist didn’t join in my delight and firmly brought me down to earth with a discussion about the rate I had bagged on-line. “I don’t think this is the right rate,” she announced.

“Really?” I said, “why not?”

“This is special rate for certain times and certain people.”

I tried to be funny, always a fatal error when dealing in a foreign tongue. “Well I’m certain this is the time and I’m equally certain I am the person.” Silence. Air blown between lips. Fingers tapped across the keys. Looks exchanged with a colleague. Head shaking from side to side. I gently passed my confirmation across the desk. She ever so gently ignored it. I pushed it a little further. She glanced at it. I presented my credit card. She ignored it and tapped away. Someone was getting a long email. One of us had to break. I was tired and while elated at making my destination, all I wanted was a cold beers and access to the internet to call Bernadette, Alice and James to confirm my victory. Now, there was an officious hotel clerk between me and the goal.

“Is that a bar behind you?”

“Yes it is – and a very good one.”

“Excellent – I’m going through there and when you’re finished recalculating things, I’ll be in there for you to find me.”

I could hear her brain working on saying something, but I wasn’t going to negotiate. I left her and deposited myself at a table in the really quite splendid bar – ordered a very cold local beer, and received it together with free nuts (this time with an S – plural). I made my phone calls. I also picked up a message from one of the group up in Santiago suggesting we all meet up that evening in the bar at the Holiday Inn at Santiago Airport – for a beer – at 7.00. I looked at my watch – 6.40. I replied to say “beat you by 20 mins – in Punta Arenas awaiting tomorrow’s flight.” I got a slew of replies congratulating me on making it. I felt relaxed, but tired. Then  – in came the clerk from reception and I was girding my loins for the showdown when she presented me with my key cards and requested my credit card. I didn’t ask what the rate was and she didn’t volunteer it. The transaction was done. I could now set upon the serious work of finding a local venue for dinner. All was good with the world and the nonsense of a plan I’d hatched less than three days ago had been executed and everyone had lived up to their word. Alice had been a star (we are so alike)! Planes, buses taxis and a ferry had worked. For a moment – the thought of sailing the Atlantic seemed like it might be an easier task after this. I knew I might come to live that down – and we will see. But for then, I was contented – no – very contented and ready for dinner, a sleep and an onward flight.

Pip pip

PS. The room rate was exactly the one Hotels.com had confirmed to me. Just because – I googled the hotel later that evening and checked the rate – it was exactly the rate that Hotels.com had quoted. Certain people and certain times indeed.