Stuck At The Bottom - Almost

I arrived in Punta Arenas, Chile toward the end of a grey winter afternoon, and immediately set out in search of a cheap bed - they had been getting rarer and rarer these days. I wasn't sure just how long I'd be sticking around - as far as I knew, there were only four ferries down to Isla Navarino per month: one each Wednesday, and here we were Monday. So if I didn't wind up hopping the next boat, I'd be sticking around for over a week, and while Punta Arenas was bigger than Puerto Navarino, I knew that having already had my dose of National Parks at Torres Del Paine, there'd only be so much to do there, especially in the heart of winter.

I found a decent little hostel to use as home base while I checked on the ferry times, and decided that boring city or not, I just wasn't ready to hop on another boat right away. It occurred to me that I had not surfed any couches in some time, and that that might be a decent option to flesh out the week until I caught my final southward ferry.

There were only a few people willing to host in Punta Arenas, but I was lucky enough to find one of them - a kindly Chilean woman (an empty-nester taken to hosting foreigners) who put me up for a few days in her quaint two-cat home. She worked days uptown, but we shared some pleasant suppers, and I learned a thing or two about Chilean language and culture that I surely would not have otherwise. She also lived plenty close to the docks too, so when the day came round to leave, I had only a short walk to the water.

This ferry was quite a bit smaller than my last, carrying only a few small vehicles, some steel storage bins and a wooden wagon or two. Apart from the crew, there were four passengers, two Chilean policemen being let off half-way, a young man from France, and myself. We were shown to our shared sleeping quarters - a slim hallway full of reclining chairs, not unlike those on a bus - told our dinner time and basically left on our own.

The weather, we were told, was not looking so friendly, but not so fierce as to hold us off departing on time. I primed myself for the worst once more, and was again pleased to find the bulk of the trip quite pleasant. Few if any waves disrupted our prompt dinners of simple food served alongside the usual quirky seaman-banter. The only down side as far as I could tell was poor visibility - despite being quite close to the shore at times, clear views of the beautiful mountains lining the Beagle Channel were rare and partial at best. After a 36-hour trip, the clouds finally broke on the morning of our arrival in Puerto Williams, considered by many to be the most southerly city in the world.

On our journey down, however, I had made a point of asking the crew about this title - surely they, who had sailed all over this region, would be the ones to ask about which place was really the furthest south. To my surprise, I was informed that some four hours onward by boat past Puerto Williams, if you hold fast to the northeast coast of the island, you will come to a little fishing port called Puerto Toro, which is apparently some 35km further south.

This little port, I was told, was the real southernmost city in the world. I had seen it on the map earlier, and wasn't sure what it represented exactly, for there are many naval ports further south than Puerto Williams, though these hardly count as cities. The cause for debate regarding which of the two cities deserves the title, the crewmen told me, hinges on the fact that while Puerto Williams is home to nearly 2400 residents, only some 50 or 60 people could be said to live in Puerto Toro - virtually all of which are fisher-people who come and go with the season - leading some to argue that it doesn't truly deserve the title of city at all.

It seemed city enough to me however, and I wanted to go there. I was frustrated by having come as far as I thought was possible, only to find some yet-further, more obscure little village at the bottom of the world. I asked the crew about options for getting down there at this time of year, and was told that only one official boat leaves for Puerto Toro per month, and that it had been the very one that I'd opted to skip out on roughly one week earlier, in Punta Arenas. So, it looked as though if I wanted to make it down to Puerto Toro, it would have to be by some unofficial means. I thanked the crew for the swift and safe journey, and wobbled out onto dry land once more.

There were a few other boats tied up to the small dock - most of them fishing vessels, full of young men unloading great baskets of glistening red spiny crabs, the majority of which were well over 18 inches across, their little claws snapping away, as they flew through the air, tossed into larger bins to be taken inland. I had read that Puerto Williams was little more than a naval base and fishing town, but I didn't know it was crab they fished here. Olivier - my french companion - and I made a mental note of this delicacy and set to wandering up the first and only road we saw, into the deserted heart of town - little more than a tiny plaza lined with a few shops all still sealed up tight. We would later come to learn that things in Puerto Williams don't really get moving until closer to 10 or 11 AM.

We managed to gain entry to one of the few hostels lining the plaza, by waking up the old Chilean fellow who ran the place. He was unphased by this intrusion and sat us down for tea and pastries. We two were hardly awake ourselves, but started to come around over the next half-hour or so as we chatted with our pleasant host. He fielded many questions for us - mostly about boats out of Puerto Williams. Olivier, like myself, was headed north to Ushuaia, Argentina, but was less interested in visiting Puerto Toro than I. We were told that there were a number of boats up to Ushuaia, at least three a week, on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, today being Friday. Olivier had a friend to meet there on Sunday and so decided he's like to leave on Saturday. I thought I'd likely do the same if I couldn't make it to Puerto Toro.

To make a long story short, many phone calls, and a several information-gathering missions around town later, the only option I had for getting to Puerto Toro within the next few days, was to charter a private boat to make the four hour journey around the bend of Isla Navarino, at a cost of US $300 - hardly a viable option for me at this point. It looked like I had little choice but to resign myself to the fact that I'd come as far as I was going to, and so I decided to enjoy my short time in Puerto Williams as best I could. I placed myself a reservation on the Saturday boat to Ushuaia as well, and our kindly host made a few calls to firm things up. That evening, Olivier and I savored a delicious crab supper at one of two open restaurants surrounding the plaza.

The following day, our boat arrived on schedule, and we two wandered down to the port captain's office, our bags packed and ready, to meet the crew and be on our way. As it happened however, the weather had fouled up some, and we were told that the port was closed until further notice. The two men who ran our boat - the captain and 1st mate, as it were - accompanied us back to our hostel - they were friends of our host, it turned out - to wait out the poor weather. We were told there was a chance it would ease up some by 6PM that evening, but come 6 the wind had only redoubled itself, chilled up significantly, and was now charged with snow - we would not be leaving that evening.

The seamen took a room across from Olivier and myself, and we all settled in for the night - surely things would be calmed down come the morning, we were told. One more night was nothing to me, these were all pleasant enough chaps besides, and we took our places around the little TV set and dozed. A few moments later, as if in response to our comfort, the power cut out. Our host assured us it was a common occurrence around here when weather was inclement, and hobbled out to the switchboard to see if he could fuse us back to normal. After a few teasing flickers of light and sound, he eventually gave up, and made for the candle drawer. At least we still had the fireplace, I thought. In truth, once we had the candles out, it wasn't so bad, really. With light enough to play cards, and/or chess, we managed to make due and have a few laughs, and before long, it was time for sleep.

Whatever hopes and dreams we had of clear weather, however, were shot through when we woke and looked out the front window at the fresh bed of snow blanketing the entire neighborhood - at least a foot on the ground already, and still coming down in earnest. This was the first snowfall of the year, we were told, and it looked to be a good one. Come to think of it, our host offered, a similar storm had hit last year around this time and not let up for a week or so. This was not encouraging news to my ears. The extra week I'd spent in Punta Arenas had meant that my schedule was now tighter than ever - simply put, I did not have a week to wait here in Puerto Williams if I was going to make it to Buenos Aires on time to catch my flight off the continent.

But nature, it seemed, didn't care much about my flight schedule, and the snow and wind kept on. It was not so bad as to keep us from leaving the house, but being that there is little if anything to do in Puerto Williams even on a fair-weather day, the five of us found ourselves clammed up for the better part of the day, still without power, crouched around the fireplace. We read mostly, leaving only for a quick walk about town to get some air, or a snack nearby in the plaza. Days are pretty slow in winter at the bottom of the world.

Conveniently, the old fellow who ran our hostel also owned the classier of the two restaurants surrounding the plaza, and so that second night, he had dinner delivered the fifty-odd steps to our door - a luxurious salmon and cheese gnocchi in cream sauce. The captain had taken the liberty of purchasing some beers which we chilled in a snowbank outside. By the time we had the table set, the beer glasses full, and the candles all lit, it seemed an embarrassingly romantic milieu for five men - basically strangers, after all - to be sharing a supper in, but we went ahead and enjoyed it nonetheless.

More cards and a few doozy chess games followed, as the snow continued to fall outside. Word had come in that the port in Ushuaia was now closed as well - a rarity according to our captain. What could we do but drink on, and hope things would clear up soon. I allowed myself to forget about my jeopardized flight schedule - the crew of our boat had already missed a flight due to the delay; that was just the way it went down here, they said - and we talked and laughed into the evening.

The following day - Monday - our luck seemed to change when news came in early that there was a break in the weather substantial enough to warrant the opening of both ports for a short period of time. So we downed a few quick cups of instant coffee, packed our things, and made for the yacht club where the boys had tethered their vessel. We'd have to act fast if we wanted to capitalize on this window of opportunity. Who knew when the next might come along?

The yacht club itself was built out of a big old old navy vessel that had been fixed in place and outfitted with office space, and a simple restaurant and bar. The whole place was still covered with snow, and the boys apparently had a bit of a time shoveling out their boat. There was a bit of a delay at the port captain's office regarding our passports however, which left us waiting for a short spell during which time the sun came out and slushed-up most of the snow crusting things over. This left us passengers - Olivier the Frenchman, myself, our kindly host, and one other local woman - some time to mill around the yacht club and snap a few photos of the lovely sunlit mountains surrounding the place.

Around 10 or 11, our issue had been cleared up, and we loosed our lines and set out toward Ushuaia. By this time, the wind was coming up once more, and the swells were rising accordingly. This little boat was equipped for the worst however, with two big Honda motors on the back, a reinforced hull, and a fully waterproof cabin outfitted with a dozen or so sturdy seats, and we sailed over those waves at upwards of twenty or thirty knots, frequently making good airtime.

It was a bumpy hour and a half, to be sure, but I was all smiles - I'd managed to escape from Isla Navarino, and would make it to Argentina with ample time to catch my flight.

I was on my way back home at long last.

The Pleasantness Of Plan B

There I was, back in chilly Oruro, getting ready for what I thought would be a harrowing few days of fly-by-night travel down the western coast of Chile. I had one crack at it, as far as I could tell, and was geared up to make it happen however I needed to. A stressful situation on the face of it, but I've actually grown to enjoy theses moments of tension at being unsure as to how exactly I'm about to get on with things. Shakes things up a bit. So, when the day came to catch my train, I made for the station first thing in the morning, to beat what I expected would be huge lineups of folks looking for a way out of town.

What I found were a few dawdlers milling around the grond gates, and before I even came within earshot, I could tell by their very posture that the trains were out too. I had asked around in the markets about train service in prior days, and had heard nothing unsettling. I had even seen a couple trains slowly poking around the outskirts of town, so it had not occurred to me that the angry folks in Potosi would have blockaded the tracks as well - but of course, they had. A small whiteboard sat out front of the main doors of the station indicating that train service was suspended until further notice, and appologizing for any inconvenience. Shit. There goes Plan A - foiled on step one. My head began swimming with ways around this circumstance...

If I waited until that evening and took one of the pricey detour buses down to Uyuni, I'd never make my 3:30 AM bus into Calama, Chile. I was going to have to try another tack. Could I maybe hitchhike (or as they sometimes call it down here, hacer el dedo - do the finger)? There would probably not be a whole lot of traffic in this already desolate place, let alone given the recent conflict in Potosi. It was not exactly the best time to thumb it in such a rush. I decided to head back to the bus station and see what I could make happen, stopping at my hostel along the way to gether my things - I would be leaving today, one way or another.

In the station, I was told that if I wanted to make it down south in a hurry, I ought to avoid travelling through Bolivia at all. Better to cut west into Chile immediately, where bus service was far more reliable, if a touch more expensive. My blood still hot, I bought a ticket for the next bus west, to Iquique, on the coast of Chile. That left me about an hour to spare, so I sat in the street outside the station and munched on delicious deep fried dough slathered with a sweet molasses sauce, and nursed a hot fruit drink - kind of like a steaming raspberry smoothy - called api, and watched the morning people wander about.

It occurred to me as I sat there, that if this bus of mine was really as fast as it claimed to be, I'd be on the coast of Chile by the end of the day, and could then be in Santiago within a day or so. I'd even have a couple of nights to relax there and enjoy the city before one final overnighter into Puerto Montt to catch my boat on the 20th - what kind of harowing journey was that? And so my great last-minute dash was over before it had even begun - replaced with a more-or-less comfortable, well-spaced ride down the coast. I suppose I should have been pleased, but was actually kind of disappointed. Having geared myself up for a big struggle, all I had to do now was relax, enjoy my doughnuts, and make chit-chat with pleasant travelling people until my bus arrived. Ho hum.

From then on, it was actually quite a pleaure all the way down. From Oruro we passed through all kinds of deserted landscapes, and the border crossing into Chile - at some lonely outpost out in the middle of nowhere - came and went without issue. We were in Iquique that evening, as promised, a touch late, perhaps, but with plenty of time to find a place to stay and a bite to eat. The only problem - apart from the shockingly higher prices; Bolivia had been a real treat - was that I had forgotten to change money at the border, and so had only a few Bolivianos, and a pocket full of American dollars. And here we were around 8PM on a Sunday night - nowhere to change money. My little hotel had agreed to let me stay on the promise that I would change my money and pay in the morning, but I had a feeling arranging such a service-before-payment deal might be a little trickier when it came to my supper.

Eventually, after much wandering, I took the advice of a local fellow and made my way through the somewhat greasy evening streets of Iquique in search of a particular Chinese food restaurant where they apparently changed dollars. I found the giant golden sign, as per my instructions, and sure enough, they changed my dollars, and I dined on Chinese that evening, to celebrate.

Despite the pleasant sea-side feel of the place, I decided the following morning, that I'd rather burn my two extra days in Santiago, and so hopped on the next bus out of town - it would be no less than 24 hours. Ian and I had taken a daylong bus or two back in Peru, so I was preparing myself for the worst that morning, but again I was to be disappointed. This turned out to be one of the most pleasant bus rides of my life - of any length.

The gorgeous double-decker bus was outfitted with comfortable reclining seats, leg-rests, silken curtains, and pleasant stewards doling out all the pillows and blanklets you could squeeze into your crannies. We were also treated to movies played at appropriate times (and, I remarked, at appropriate volume!), ample snacks and the cleanest of on-board toilets. Roads were well-paved and smooth making for a virtually bump-free ride. There was one aptly-timed dinner stop, at a beautiful bus-stop/mall waiting area. I felt like I was in another world.

And truly, I was - Santiago only confirmed this realization. When I stepped off the bus that first morning, and sat for a coffee in the bus station - I could have been back in Vancouver. Crowds of well-dressed busy-looking people bustling about, newspapers in hand, on their way to some obviously important daily dealings. I grabbed the busy morning metro into the heart of town, and a few stops later, rose back up to the surface, and made my way along the cool, grafitti-lined streets, staring too long, I'm sure, at all the hip-looking young people with their chunky haircuts ad thick-rimmed glasses.

This was a South America I had not yet seen, and over the course of the next few days, I drank it in, making a point of relaxing in the various funky cafes around town and doing my touristic duty of snapping far too many photos of the more impressive buildings in and around the busy downtown core. Parks and public gardens were easy to find, and I made the rounds of those as well, pausing here and there to devour another short story and/or hotdog piled high with fine savory closeslaw, diced tomatoes, avocado and mayonaise - completos they call them.

My overnight bus into Puerto Montt on the 19th went as well as those kinds of things can go, and I arrived early on the day of my boat's departure with just enough time to sit for a pleasant breakfast nearby and take a breather before boarding. Not originally designed as ferries, the ships run by Navimag have been making this three-day cargo run down to Puerto Natales for years. Ocasionally, adventurous travellers would have a word with the crew, and manage to weasel their way on board, for the three-day trip down the coast of Chilean Patagonia.

Eventually, as news began to spread that this kind of thing was being permitted, and tourists began to show up in greater and greater numbers, the clever seamen decided to start charging them hundreds of dollars, and soon enough the ships were equipped with some modest comforts, including cozy bunkbeds, lock-and-key washrooms complete with hot showers, and a kitchen and dining area more than able to accomodate and feed a boat-load of hungry tourists.

It being wintertime at present, the boat wasn't as full as it is in the tourist-heavy summer, and so the few of us onboard were shifted to nicer rooms if there was space. So rather than sleeping in a 16-bed dorm hall, I shared a 4-bed room. My three French roommates were pleasant enough chaps, and not at all difficult to get on with. Again, I'd more or less been expecting the worst from this trip as well, so this couple hundred-dollar upgrade was a nice way to start the trip.

My other concern had been food - eating on a boat, in my experience can sometimes be a bit of a drag - but sure enough, the crack crew served us up three squares, promptly and with a smile from dock to dock, and although it wasn't gourmet, it was far more agreeable (and varied) than the fare Ian and I had had to deal with on our river-boat journery back in Peru. It seemed I couldn't have a tough time of it even if I wanted to. Plan B was bound and determined to please.

The real treat of this trip however, was the scenery. Our route wound through all manner of canals and passes that cannot be reached by land, and so we had a chance to observe many mountains and rocky outcrops that can't be seen in any other way. The weather wasn't always ideal - there were a few instances of sharp sleety wind - but when it cleared up, it was mre than worth it to brave the cold and spend some time up on deck to snap a few photos. As far as waves go, there was one night where I was up to bed pretty swiftly after supper, but nothing in comparison to what I'd been through on my way down to Ecuador with Captain Tom. Overall, a delightful journey, and I arrived in Puerto Natales on the morning of August the 23rd in good shape.

I took a room in a pleasant little hostel run by a little dumpling of a lady called Teresa who has greeted me with freshly baked bread each morning for the past few days. Admittedly, there is not much to do here in the city of Puerto Natales itself, but not too far outside rests one of Chile's most prized national parks - the famed Torres Del Paine. Being that I am now quite close to the end of my journey, the pursestrings are pretty tight these days, but I thought I may as well take advantage of the wintertime prices and have a quick look around anyway.

As I mentioned above, weather this time of year is kind of crummy, but you've got the bonus of being able to view the place in relative privacy - when I ventured out by van the day before yesterday, it was just myself and a young Chilean couple with child. We drove around from 9AM to 6PM and made a number of stops throughout the sizable park, a few choice photos of which I offer here. (Unfortunately, the torres themselves - the impressive granite towers after which the park is named were not visible this day. The beautifully jagged mountains you see below are known as los cuernos - the horns - another main feature of the park.)

So, I'm off to Punta Arenas this fine snowy day, from whence I hope to catch my final ferry down through a variety of other Patagonian channels (including the famed Beagle Channel through which one Charles Darwin fatefully sailed all those years ago) to Puerto Williams on the little blob of land just south of Tierra Del Fuego known as Isla Navarino. This, many say, is the most southerly settlement (i.e. a place where folks actually live) on the continent - although who really deserves this infamous title is admittedly a hotly contested issue. At any rate, this could well be the final destination of this trip before I turn on my heel and begin the return journey.

We'll have to see what I can see when I get down there I suppose...

Ok, off to catch my bus! Talk to you soon!

Getting - As They Say - A Move On

So, at last check-in I was still in La Paz, having just snagged my mail, and thinking gleefully about all the things I could potentially get up to the coming week or so in Bolivia. One big to-do was paying a visit to the famed Salt Flats of Uyuni - apparently one of the most desolate and unique environments on the planet. Crazy wildlife too, including several rare species of flamingo. Also high on my list, as I mentioned earlier, was making the trip over to Potosi - famed as the highest city in the world (4060m). Since the latter was closer, I figured I'd start there, and then cruise southwest through Uyuni and the salt flats on my way toward the Chilean border.

Unfortunately, things aren't exactly peachy in and around Potosi just now - recent disputes regarding borderlines have erupted into violence and other general nastiness. While nearly all of the folks I asked told me that things ought to be calming down fairly soon, they added that I'd probably be wise not to go heading there just yet. That's fine, I could wait (not like I had a choice - bus service into Potosi was frozen until further notice anyway), but rather than hanging around La Paz for another few days, I decided I'd head down the road some to nearby Oruro. A pleasant little town, and railway hub, Oruro has provided me a lovely spot to sit and read and people-watch, and generally kill time waiting for this Potosi thing to blow over.

So, yesterday afternoon (Friday), I ask around about how things are going, and am told that the local government is now in the midst of talks with the concerned parties and that there's a chance things could be settled as soon as Monday. That's great, I think to myself, and have a look at my schedule. OK, so Monday, that's the 16th. Whoa, wait the 16th? My big ferry to the bottom leaves Puerto Montt, Chile on the 20th... that's cutting it a little close, no?

I pull out my map and instantly realize that there is absolutely no way that I will be able to 1) see Potosi (a day or so, minimum), 2) travel south through Uyuni, and visit the salt flats (most tours are at least three days in length), 3) cross the border into Chile, and 4) make the epic journey down to Puerto Montt (nearly two days straight travel in itself) in a mere four days. Seems I'd forgotten just how far I had to go. OK, I thought, so maybe I'll have to forget Potosi this time around. I'll come back when things are a little calmer. There's still the salt flats - that's all I really wanted to see anyway. Surely I can arrange a shorter trip somehow.

Having sliced Potosi off my list, all I had to do now was make it down to Uyuni, have a quick look around the flats and make for the border. It would be tight, but I could do it. I pulled out my guide book and did a little research about train trips from Oruro to Uyuni - apparently a lovely journey through some amazingly raw territory. Unfortunately, due to the relative remoteness of the place, service was pretty sparse, with only a few trains a week; the 1st-Class train departing at 3PM Tuesdays and Fridays, and the 2nd-Class departing at 7PM (well after dark) on Wednesdays and Sundays. At this point, it was about 6PM, on Friday, which meant that not only had I just missed a day-time train leaving earlier that day, but that the next train out of town headed for Uyuni was roughly two days from now, on Sunday evening. It would put me in Uyuni somewhere around 2AM Monday morning.

Well that sucks, I guess I'll have to bus it. I gathered my things and made for the main terminal to see about bus service to Uyuni. As it happens, since most people make this well-known journey by train, bus service is also quite infrequent, with one single overnight bus per day. I asked about prices and was told, that since there was a problem with the road at present, the bus had to make a huge detour, and thus the current fare was something like four or five times the normal rate - far more expensive than the train - and therefore not a very savory option for me at this point.

One moment I'm sitting in Oruro sucking on a delicious coffee while leisurely planning my trip, and the next moment I'm struggling in vain to find a way out of the city and make my boat on time! How the hell was I going to get out of here? I pulled out my guidebook once more and sat to think a minute. Leafing through the various sections on travel in this region, I noticed that some bus lines in Uyuni offered service to Calama, Chile - a little city not far across the border with Bolivia - at 3:30AM on Monday mornings, of all times. That meant that if I were to hang around Oruro until Sunday, and catch that 7PM train, I'd arrive in Uyuni around 2AM, and have an hour and a half to shuffle over to the bus station, and catch that (12-15 hour) bus to Calama!

That might work! By the time I got to Calama, it would be Tuesday (the 17th) afternoon some time, and I'd even have a chance to sleep that night! Plus, I'd still have two full days - Wednesday the 18th, and Thursday, the 19th - to make the massive drive south across the better part of Chile, and arrive in Puerto Montt sometime Thursday night, with plenty of time to catch my ferry the following day (Friday, the 20th).

This absurd blitz of travel has since become Plan A, a rather silly title perhaps, given the fact that there is actually no Plan B. In other words, this had better damn-well work. Thankfully, I can book some of the longer bus trips in advance online, but not the shorter ones. Moreover, since the train station here in Oruro is closed today (Saturday), I'm forced to wait and buy my train ticket on the day of travel - something my guidebook explicitly advises against. I'm hoping that if I arrive first thing in the morning Sunday, and work my magic, I should be fine. Then it's just a matter of whether my night train to Uyuni arrives such that I have enough time to make my 3:30AM bus to Calama. Fingers crossed on that one, I guess.

Anyway, I figured since I'll (hopefully) be on the move for the next week or so, I ought to drop this line now. My ferry is some three days long, so, if this works, the next time you hear from me, I should be pretty near Tierra Del Fuego. Talk to you then!

Wish me luck!