Crossing Argentina

From the North to the South (December, 14th 2013 to March, 23rd 2014)

 

Mountains with multicolored rocks, giant cacti, a paved highway in the hollow of the valley—and soon, Salta, its central square clean and bright, its shopping streets, its delicious empanadas, its Christmas-y store windows… what a contrast to Bolivia. There are no more women in traditional dress and barely a few horse-drawn carriages. Back to the future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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When I stick out my thumb, people stop and pick me up without asking for money. On December 23, it’s 45˚C (113˚F), and I have my first experience with scooter-hitchhiking in a suburb of Santiago del Estero: a large gentleman who sees me dripping under my backpack offers to drive me to my friends’ doorstep, whom I’m meeting for the holidays… Merry Christmas ! Assados (barbecues), pool, air conditioning on full blast. Traditional music of the region is sung and danced until the early morning, sometimes until the afternoon. Every night. Alexiane (my French friend living in Argentina) and I make wallets with recycled material, invent the sport of the floating fry, and then hitchhike together up to the outskirts of Cordoba.

 

 

 

 

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Small mountains, streams, forests, campsites. Simple and sweet. It reminds me of the south of France, my summer spent in the Albi region. It’s vacation time here, too: it’s January. Our fellow hippie travelers freshen up in the rivers. It seems that UFOs and aliens sometimes light up the sky. For the full moon tonight, women are going to sing and dance the Satellite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After two months with Sébastien and then Alexiane, I continue the trip alone. Hard.

A big turn to the west to meet up with the famous Route 40 which crosses Argentina from north to south along the Andes Mountains. 

I savor the wine from Mendoza and the last rays of scorching sunshine.

I cross long arid deserts, flat or mountainous, black and volcanic and then green again.

Little traffic, no houses, just the regular movement of gas pumps. Paved highway or dirt road. My driver brakes abruptly and jumps from his car. He runs to catch a hedgehog-turtle to show it to me up close: it’s a tattoo. He drops me off later in front of the house of my Couchsurfing host. Almost every day, members of this virtual network of hospitality host me in different villages along Road 40.

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I soon reach Patagonia, and it’s dropped a few degrees along the way.

It’s a region of large blue lakes, small mountains, verdant nature, wooden chalets. You’d think you’re in Switzerland. Chocolate factories, cheesemakers… in fact, there was a significant Swiss exodus here, German too (Nazis among others), and French. A lawyer from Dordogne even came in 1860 to declare himself the king of Araucanía and Patagonia, before being imprisoned by the Chileans and interned in a psychiatric hospital. If the French government had supported the two years of the reign of Orélie-Antoine I, who knows, Patagonia would perhaps have stayed French. But it became a little Chilean, and mostly Argentinian. On Route 40, Max picks me up and offers his hospitality. 30 m2 and a few mattresses to share with him, his mother, his daughter, a friend, his brother Ivan, and Nicolas, a friend of his brother’s! They’re visiting for vacation. “Toma maté Flor, toma maté” (“Drink some mate, Flo, drink some mate”), his mother repeats, adding a spoonful of sugar to the infusion. For our walk around the lake’s edge, Ivan brings along his “son,” a giant yellow Titi monkey stuffed animal. Nicolas loves artisanal crafts, so we stop at every stand in the market. They are funny, and already refer to me as “cousin.”

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They marvel at my “mochillera” stories, which is to say my “backpacking traveler” stories. In South America, leaving for an adventure with your backpack is a more common practice than in Europe. A little like Che Guevara (cf. the movie “The Motorcycle Diaries”), young South Americans leave for several months in the summer or sometimes for a year to discover their continent. Hippies, often tattooed and pierced, they travel by hitchhiking or in a van and live on small savings, artisanal crafts, music, or juggling at stop lights. Seen as marginal, the mochilleros are sometimes subject to sympathy and admiration for their lack of pretention and their “courage.”

 

For the moment, it requires more courage to say goodbye than to continue on my trip. I promise I will see Ivan and Nicolas again, as they live near Ushuaia.

A few beautiful hikes. With a Colombian and a Lithuanian, I scale a mountain, dangerously. Upon exiting a village, I meet an American who is also heading to the same natural reserve as me, 1200 kilometers from here. We hitchhike together. An orange car stops, the driver and the passenger get out, shouting… it’s Ivan and Nicolas, my sweet-maté-crazy-nice-cousins-who-live-near-Ushuaia! The four of us spend a few hundred kilometers together and then our roads diverge again. For the American and me, it will still take three days to reach the village of El Chaten, one of my favorite places in Argentina for its hikes near glaciers, lakes, and mountains.

 

A large piece of glacier breaks off in a cracking noise and bounces into the lake with a gigantic splash. It is the glacier Perito Moreno, 5 kilometers long and 70 meters tall out of the water. One of the largest reserves of potable water in the world. Unlike most glaciers, it is not in decline, and grows many meters each year.

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I continue on for another few hundred kilometers. Eight months already on this trip, and I feel tired. I arrive in Ushuaia with the goal of resting and searching for a boat-hitchhike for Antarctica. The countdown is on, since it’s the end of summer and tourist season. I stroll along the port and learn that there are no more sailboat crossings to Antarctica. Within four weeks, there will be no more large luxury ships either. I bombard the companies with emails and Skype calls… the directors are almost all based in North America, Europe, or Australia.

Without a free cruise to the white continent, I am now a waitress at the port.

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Between two shifts, I climb up the chain-link fences of the port. I discreetly pass by the security gates and introduce myself on the boats to ask the stupefied captains if they can take me. No. I return every night a little more discouraged or motivated, and recount the progress of my research to the Schröder family. For a month, they’ve welcomed me, corrected my cover letters and resumes in Spanish, helped me with my research. Thanks to them, I can continue to dream of the white continent. Every night in the same bed. I eat hot and balanced meals, talk to the same people. It’s a gentle routine, reassuring and appreciated. Every day I take the same route toward the town center. I meet many people who “could help me,” lots of “maybes” which give me hope.

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Couchsurfing outings on Thursday nights, jogging, walks in the surrounding mountains. It snows, and I repaint the living room. I am on the radio, on TV. I contact the national navy and air forces of Argentina, Chile… I set up my headquarters at the port gas station for its free wifi and strategic placement. I keep a close watch on the boats, I know the names of those who leave and arrive, their nationalities, the number of passengers. I believe that the “search for the A39 permit” for Antarctica gets to my head a little bit. Well, whatever – I’m in Ushuaia! There must be someone in this town who holds the key to my quest, no?

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The end of March, the end of the cruises, the tourist season ends and then no more boats go to Antarctica. The army does not want to communicate. Sadness. Game over. Or rather put off, because I definitely plan to try my luck again one day in New Zealand, another port of entry to Antarctica.

 

I finally find a hitchhike-boat, but headed for Chile.

I leave Ushuaia rested and excited to leave for the unknown after a month of the sedentary life. Direction: Puerto Williams, a snowy island with the magical look of “Lord of the Rings.”

Translated by Sarah Craver

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