Docking in Ushuaia, it was time to jump ship. We were now at the place appropriately called the world's end. Ushuaia lies at the southern tip of the continent. It is the most important Argentinean town on Tierra del Fuego, the largest of South America's islands and the southernmost extension of the Patagonian mainland.
The land of Tierra del Fuego ("Land of Fire") is divided between Chile in the west and Argentina in the east by an arbitrary north-south line. This creates an artificial border, which we crossed more than once on this trip. The Parque National Tierra del Fuego, located just outside of Ushuaia, is located in Argentina while Torres del Paine where we would conclude our trip, is situated to the north in Chile's southern Patagonia.
For our two night's stay in Ushuaia, I had booked a room in the Hosteria Los Fuegos, situated 20 kilometers out of town in a forest of lenga trees. The hosteria has only nine rooms, each decorated in craft furniture and all with a view of the forest that grows along the shoreline of the channel.
Early the next morning, Juan, our guide, was waiting to take us for an all day excursion through the national park. Six others in the van were Spanish speaking and were scheduled to hike through the forest for the day. Jean and I opted to head off by ourselves. We were offered a chance to go to Isla Redonda—a desolate island in the middle of the Beagle Channel. Its attraction, Juan said, is that it possesses the southernmost post office in the world. Little did we know we had asked to be dropped off on an island uninhabited except for one hermit. Fernando is the postman and he has quite a reputation, we found out later.
"Did you see Crazy Fernando?" our guide asked us several hours after we returned from a somewhat bizarre mini-adventure.
Actually, our island interlude was the most positive event of a very long day!
A tiny zodiac boat hauled just the two of us across the Beagle Channel to an island in the middle. Along the way we were enchanted by the sight of diving penguins, cormorants, albatross, skua, and petrels flying overhead. Landing at a tiny dock, we stood, uncertain about what to do next. A narrow wooden staircase led up the hill. Wildflowers and thick shrubs covered the steep hillside. At the top stood a rickety shack, the so-called post office of Isla Redonda.
Fernando, a gruff bearded unsmiling man, stood behind a counter. He, too, spoke no English. In fact, he didn't speak at all, except for saying one word, "passaporta." He stamped our "passaportas" gestured for a moment or two toward a muddy rutted path outside, and circled his hands to indicate that the path circumnavigated the island. At least that's how we interpreted his pantomime. Then he disappeared.
That's the last we saw of Crazy Fernando.
What else should we do but climb up the mountain, we decided. Stepping carefully over ruts and deep holes, we maneuvered over obstacles on the foot-wide path. We stopped often to admire the multitude of wildflowers and flowering shrubs. The view of the Andes Mountains descending down to the edge of the many lagoons of the Beagle Channel was a spectacular sight as we reached a vantage point at the peak of the mountain.
About two hours later, we returned to the ramshackle shack and relaxed on a small deck, waiting for someone to bring us back to the mainland.
I reminded Jean that nobody had spoken any English to us. Our guide Juan had simply dropped us off at a remote dock in the national park and disappeared. Will he remember we are out here? We are only two people on this deserted island in the middle of the Beagle Channel, I reminded Jean. We could be left here and abandoned, I conjectured. As usual, that didn't seem to bother my friend.
After some time, we heard the welcome buzz of a motor. A different zodiac had arrived to hustle us back to the mainland.
Once again, we stood around waiting. What finally happened was a curious set of stops and starts that would have been unsettling for anyone who obsesses about a schedule that outlines their every move.
The afternoon went something like this. We got picked up by a stranger in a van. Different driver. Different van. Unfortunately, in the early morning van ride, Juan had presented us with our packet of vouchers for the remainder of our trip -- for hosterias, excursions, and transportation in Chile and Argentina. He insisted that we leave the packets in his van and promised he would return them to us on the way back to Ushuaia that evening.
However, you can guess what happened. We never saw him again---or that particular van---or that driver. We found ourselves transported through the back roads of Tierra del Fuego National Park to an unknown destination by an unknown driver. Finally, the van came to a halt in a picnic glade in the middle of the forest. The driver signaled we should get out. We understood we were to wait for our morning hiker buddies and a 2 p.m. barbecue picnic. We could hardly wait. We were starving.
As we departed the van, a group of young Argentinean hikers was enjoying their own barbecue fiesta at the picnic table. An abundance of fragrant hot sausages, hamburgers, and salads covered the picnic tables. The barbecue delicacies were disappearing rapidly in the mouths of the hungry hikers. We were not invited to join them.
We waited and waited, sitting in the middle of the forest. After what seemed an hour, another unfamiliar guide showed up. He had several Argentinean families in tow. Eagerly, we joined the strangers at the picnic table. The guide passed around hard boiled eggs, macaroni salad and sausages and poured red wine into paper cups. I don't mind saying, that I don't ordinarily drink red wine---or any wine at mid-day, but for once this wine hit the spot.
After the picnic, yet another van appeared. Again, like pigeons in a coop we were transported through the park and let loose at a park café. "Buy a ticket for the D4. Look for Ushuaia," I interpreted the instructions to say. "The bus will come pretty soon." The guide disappeared.
Numerous buses came and went. When were beginning to doubt that we'd make it back that day, we found the what seemed like an appropriate bus. We hopped aboard, hoping it would take us back to Ushuaia.
The most unsettling part of our adventure was about to begin.
[Go to Patagonia Part Eleven]
