Ruta
40 - El Chalten, Argentina to Puerto Natales, Chile
This is part 2 of a 4 part series on our
experiences in hiking and trekking in various areas of Patagonia, Argentina.
For a look at the other parts of the series, please use the term “Patagonia”
when using the search function.
Transport
between the various regions of our adventure was via public coach-style buses
filled with dozens of locals and like-minded travelers. Much of our travels
were through the desert-like scrub of the remote plains and steppes of
Patagonia along the famed Ruta 40, Argentina's version of Route 66 in the U.S.
One particular segment from El Calafate, Argentina south to Puerto Natales,
Chile was typical of what we encountered:
High,
snow-capped Andes mountains punctuated the far western horizon. For hours on
end, they were the only contrast to the otherwise vast and open lands of low,
parched hills and mesas through which we traveled.
Herds
of grazing guanacos were seen frequently. Sometimes they were too near the road
causing the driver to slow down or swerve to avoid them. One unfortunate animal
was hung up on a barbed-wired fence, obviously there for some time, for all
that was left was its fully intact, bleached white skeleton.
On
occasion, we would see a stand of trees sheltering a remote estancia. Normally,
they were nestled along a river of fast moving water, still cold and full of
blue-ish slit from the distant glaciers. The side roads leading to these
estancias were sometime decorated with the rusting, cannibalized hulks of a few
abandoned vehicles. Nearby were one of several roadside shrines with statues of
the Virgin Mary, used and now melted candles, and miniature flags fluttering in
the wind, all covered lovingly by a small wooden shelter.
At the
crossings between the two countries, a lonely outpost of weather-worn buildings
served as the immigration and border control. Our approach to one of them was
via a rutted and pothole filled road. The bumpy ride ended at a flimsy gate
that you could push open with a light touch of your hand let alone ram through
with the bus if necessary.
We
stepped over a sleepy dog as we ascended the three wooden steps into the office
where border control agents stamped our passports, a task that appeared to
relieve their mind numbing boredom. One agent, with the envy of the others, got
to leave her desk and come outside to open the gate, something we could have
easily done ourselves, to let our bus pass into the next country.
The
buses were relatively comfortable. Luggage was stored underneath while personal
belongings were brought on board. It was clear that smelly feet were not to be
tolerated for there were signs clearly forbidding the removal of one's shoes.
Sandwich and snacks that we and other travelers brought with were consumed to
provide sustenance while on the journey, sometimes as long as 7 hours in
duration.
On one
of these longer rides, we had witnessed a partial solar eclipse. The dusk-like
light was just returning to normal when we stopped at a remote crossroads to
stretch and use a nearby gas station's restrooms and coffee shop. Run down or
vacated buildings, one a no longer used hotel, bordered the road. Weather
beaten motorcyclists, muddy and dusty from the ride, pulled in to gas up,
dodging litter and empty liquor bottles strewn about by thirsty, and
apparently, inebriated drivers that have long since driven off.
Several of the passengers surrounding our seats were hacking and coughing. It was if we were in a mobile tuberculosis sanitarium. We downed vitamin C and airborne tablets, hoping that their sickness would not become our sickness.
Several of the passengers surrounding our seats were hacking and coughing. It was if we were in a mobile tuberculosis sanitarium. We downed vitamin C and airborne tablets, hoping that their sickness would not become our sickness.
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