To the very bottom of mainland Argentina

   We spent Saturday morning at the beach and then the afternoon waiting for our bus to Rio Gallegos.  And waiting.  And waiting.  By the time it had arrived, two and a half hours late, we were a little concerned about making our connecting bus out of Rio Gallegos the next afternoon.  "No worries", the gentleman from the bus company assured us.  "The following bus will wait for your one, yes even if it is five hours late."  That was quite a relief because after a further delay of an hour and a half due to the bus electrics going down (see note 3 below) we were running over four hours late.  “Don’t worry”, the bus driver told us as he dropped us off in Rio Gallegos, “it will be here at 4pm”.  Actually, what he said was “don’t worry, they will be here at 4pm.” 

   When they turned up and opened the Andesmar bus company office they had no idea what to do about our predicament.  Four hours and many many words of uncomprehended Spanish later we left the bus station with assurances that a hotel and tickets for tomorrow would be sorted out for us.  I don’t think we were all that confident.  Thanks be to God, both these things did indeed materialise, and we are now bathed, refreshed and sitting in the final two seats on the El Pinguino bus to Punta Arenas.  However, we’ve not really succeeded in giving any of the people we met in Rio Gallegos (4 bus officials from two different bus companies, three hotel employees and a very helpful Mexican lady called Lina who offered to call her friends and find us a place to stay when we were getting desperate at about 6pm) a credible explanation as to why we want to go to Punta Arenas.  Suggestions on the back of a postcard please. 

   Our bus took us across the border to Southern Chile.  I provided the entertainment with my best impression of that tourist regularly featured on Aussie reality TV show “Border Control” who ticked the “nothing to declare” box whilst carrying a bag of fresh vegetables in his backpack … and then looked shocked when the dog found my backpack, of all the bags in the bus.  Paolo, a very nice Chilean chap gave us a caution and let us off without a fine, albeit feeling rather foolish.  Incidentally, we have now met up with two American couples in Chile and both of them also had "border control" moments crossing into Chile.  It makes me feel a little less foolish, and rather thankful that this didn't happen in Santiago airport where it seems they are pretty hardcore.

   Maps of our travels are below.  Not the most hi-tech I know.  The first one marks the main stops on our journey south from Rio.  Ans the second one shows the southernmost point that we got to - Fuerto Bulnes, about 50km north of Cabo Froward the southernmost tip of the mainland.  To get there would have involved 4 days of hiking there and back and 3 river crossings in each direction, and with maximums of about 10 degrees that didn't sound so appealing!

Down Patagonia way

    How strange things are at the bottom of Argentina.  Towards the top end of Patagonia (sort of like the beginning of the end of the world) lies Puerto Madryn.  The main attraction is the wildlife on the nearby Peninsula Valdes.  However, on arrival we were helpfully informed by a pleasant British chap, Jonathan, that the tours are quite pricey (about £55pp including park entry) and we had managed to turn up in time to see almost no wildlife.  Incidentally, Jonathan was travelling alone because, as he put it, it would be unfair to inflict his company on anyone for an entire 5 months.  Kizzy nodded sagely and reminisced at the 18 hours on the bus with me.  I bent down to tie my laces but sadly she was out of range of the cricket bat handle. 

   Puerto Madryn Is quite pleasant as a beach resort with blue seas, a sandy beach and a climate that’s lovely in the sunshine but turns chilly whenever a cloud gets in the way.  In other words, it’s a bit like Cornwall, which had me and Kizzy pining after pasties and cream teas.  After debating the merits of 18 hours on a plane and 4 hours on a train to have afternoon tea in Penzance, we stumbled across the somewhat surreal existence of “Welsh” communities that sprung up in this part of the world about 150 years ago. 

   Our trip to Gaiman, two buses and an hour and a half down the road was a surreal antidote to homesickness.  The Welsh settlers here found somewhere a little bit drier than Cardiff and now in their 8^th generation or so they still maintain a close affinity with the homeland, dual-language signage and truly embarrassing clothes for the kids and all.  Tris, I have to ask, is this really how your mum dressed you back on the borders?

   We stopped in one of the 5 tea houses in town to indulge in a “Welsh” tea with more sticky and sweet cakes than Kizzy could manage.  The proprietors were pleased to see us, as was the young man in tourist information.  We were the only tourists in town when we arrived.  We were later joined in the tea house by an Argentine family who looked a little bewildered by the place but clearly realised that this was it for the town and ordered the tea out of curiosity.  We were directed to the town’s first house, built by David Roberts.  Dave, if you’re reading this, your first house is nothing to shout about but at least you’re on the property ladder.  I don’t think you’ll convince Clemmie to move to Gaiman any time soon. 

   Incidentally, this blog is as you can tell about 4 days behind the times.  Today was the first day in which we started heading north.  We took a day trip to Fuerto Bulnes, 60km south of Punta Arenas at the bottom of mainland South America.  To put this in perspective I will put a map up with the next post.