Bottom of the World, Ushuaia, Argentina

For a place called Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire), it sure was cold.  When I disembarked the bus, my legs stiff and back tight after a 30 hour ride, I was kindly greeted by a blast of wintry air that lifted the previous storm’s white powder into my face.  The hour was late and the night’s sky glittered with the shining of the millions of stars overhead.  I was scheduled to meet my friend Carla at the bus stop but after running three hours late due to delays at border crossings (there are four in order to reach the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego), she was nowhere to be seen in the empty parking lot.  With little desire to let the wind slash at my face any longer I shouldered my bags and made for the main road in search of an internet café.  One was not difficult to find.  Even in the world’s southernmost city, roughly 1,000 kilometers from Antarctica, the modern world’s arms still manage to extend their reach. 

Close to the Port of Ushuaia

The city of Ushuaia was first discovered by Captain Robert Fitzroy of the British Navy while surveying Tierra del Fuego in 1833 on the HMS Beagle; the land originally belonged to the Yámana natives who are thought to have arrived to the land of fire roughly 10,000 years ago.  Soon after the expedition, British missionaries became to set up shop and are credited with first using the name Ushuaia in reports back to The South American Missionary Society, thus giving the city on the Beagle Channel its modern name.  More and more missionaries flooded into the small colony and by 1872 the first European birth was recorded.  Despite the British missionaries setting up the modern town though, the Chilean and Argentineans argued back and forth over the Tierra del Fuego landmass until they reached an agreement in 1881 which split the land among the two countries.  The accord, known as the “Boundary Treaty of 1881,” awarded the Argentineans with Ushuaia, which at the time was also being formed up to be a penal colony modeled after the one in Tasmania, Australia.  The prison did not receive its first inmates till 1896 though and closed soon after the end of the Second World War.  The port town continued to flourish in the late 19^th century and in 1904 the Argentineans recognized the town as the capital of the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego. 

Carla. The Fearless Gringo Guide

I touched base with Carla using the almighty power of the web and it was not long till I spotted her bounding down the street over slick patches of ice and around snow mounds that were pushed up onto street curbs; her curly brown hair whisking amongst her face in the perpetual breeze.  I first met Carla while in Argentina back in December as she led me around the Patagonian wilderness as my mountain guide with a group of other hopeless gringos.  Knowing my ability to wander aimlessly, Carla showed me to a cozy hostel not far from the town center where we dropped my bags and made off to a local Irish bar called the Dublin.  A destination much appreciated by locals and tourists alike.  Their Red Beagle Bear is delicious. 

Most travelers come to Ushuaia for just a couple of days to ski the snowcapped mountains of hike in the vast national parks.  My first visit to Ushuaia was just like that.  This time, however, I got to see the municipality in a much more intimate, local way. 

A couple days into my stay in the sleepy mountain town, Carla moved into her new apartment and allowed me to couch surf in her kitchen/guest room for the remainder of my time.  While residing with Carla and visiting with her friends I got to hear the local’s opinions on a wide range of topics from everything about Argentinean politics and pop culture to the cluelessness of foreigners who happen to find their way into the town.  It is not just Americans by the way, you brash Europeans who read this.  The town’s economy is an interesting mismatch of bustling port town and ecotourism.  I made sure to indulge in some of the ecotourism between sipping mates, the Argentineans version of hanging around sipping coffees, and hanging out with Carla down at the port.

More of the Port of Ushuaia

The Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse as dusk approaches

I booked a boat tour on the Beagle Channel with Carla’s company, Patagonia Explorer, where we did a grand loop of the channel as she announced to the other tour members some of the history about the channel.  During the ride we passed the famous brick built Les Eclaireurs lighthouse (“The Enlighteners” or “The Scouts” in French) which is sometimes called the Faro del fin del mundo (Lighthouse at the end of the world).  Not to be confused with the San Juan de Salvamento lighthouse made famous by Jules Verne which is further east on the Isla de los Estados.  We also sailed close up to a tiny island of seals and fur seals.  Our boat approaching close enough to smell their heady BO and listen in to them bark and gurgle at one another…or us.  As we sailed back to the port after a few hours on the water we watched the sun slip behind the mountains that encircle the bay, casting the town in long dark shadows.

Another afternoon Carla and I piled into the back of one of Carla’s mother’s friend’s car next to sets of skis.  To be frank, this horrified me.  I have never skied before in my life and have little desire to do so.  Something about falling on my ass onto hard packed snow for hours just does not do it for me.  I kept my mouth shut though and accepted the fact that I would not be sitting down without grimacing for the next few days.  Much to my surprise and delight, when we arrived at a group of log lodgings nestled in a valley amid fog covered mountains Carla’s acquaintances took off with the skis, as the two of us found our way into a warm cabin surrounded by dog kennels and houses. 

From inside the cabin, while huddling close to an iron wood stove on top of couches covered by animal pelts, we observed muscular huskies bound up all over their little homes and run circles around them; tangling themselves in their chains as they howled and yelped at each other.  There must have been close to 60 of the brawny beasts.

Explanation needed?

All around the wooden cabin walls there were grand trophies and blue ribbons hanging next to pictures of grizzled looking men leaning on large sleds that were tethered by dogs.  We warmed ourselves up and then walked out in the midst of the energetic animals.  It was not too difficult of a choice at this point to ride shotgun in a champion’s dogsled, as was being offered to us. 

We swaddled ourselves up in a wool blanket and sat down in the front of the sled and at the call of “Va!” the dogs bolted like a locomotive, kicking up snow and charging us into a light rain.  We raced on top of three feet of snow as the dogs seemed to pull us without problem, picking up speed down hills and slowing around turns.  At one point the young driver of 22-years-old, who had been competing in races since he was 13, stopped the sled and offered us a chance to stand in the back.  This was an experience that was truly exhilarating. 

Granted, the dogs knew the path and as far as steering the sled there was really little need but, ducking under branches as they whizzed overhead through tiny outcroppings of trees and over a frozen lake pulled by 12 dogs bred for speed is an experience hard to mount.  Carla and I switched after a bit of time and I have never seen a person revert back to a child as fast as she did that day.  Who can blame her though, those dogs were awesome.

Eventually though, my week in Ushuaia came to an abrupt end and I departed Carla’s apartment early in the morning to walk down abandoned streets as the wind whispered through alleys, avoiding black ice while admiring the white tipped mountains one last time.  The bus back north arrived promptly on time at 5 in the morning to take myself and two other passengers back north, away from the arctic winds as I mentally prepared myself for the next 30 hours of bumpy road and extensive border crossings.

A Much Needed Stop in Puerto Madryn

And you think you live in the middle of nowhere.

The road from Buenos Aries to Ushuaia is roughly 2,400 kms, almost 1,500 miles, of arid flat land specked with dusty towns.  The trip is made by most travelers by way of airlines on small jets that take around six hours to get to the world’s southernmost city in a hurry.  I am still working out in my head why opted to take the bus.  The three day ride is pretty dull.  Whenever the double-decker bus would happen upon a small town and momentarily unload its passengers whilst it filled its tanks, I half expected to see tumbleweeds blow by in gusts of wind.  After the first twenty hours of the ride, being constantly pestered by shrieking babies, poorly dubbed Hollywood comedies, stale air venting from the ceiling and a stiff chair that reshaped my spinal column, I came to the conclusion that it was a very good thing I had arranged to stop off in a port town on the Atlantic Ocean called Puerto Madryn. 

The tiny coastal town of 57,000 residents was settled by Welsh immigrants about 150 years ago, although, I could not find any remnants of Welsh culture around the town during my walks.  They did however put the town on the map after working with other European immigrants on a rail line to another city called Trelew in the state of Chubut.  Nowadays, most travelers visit the town while exploring the Patagonian wilderness or as a pit stop between the North and South of the country, as I did.  Without doubt or debate, the main attraction to this part of the country is the thriving nature that the Argentineans take extra care to preserve.  During the winter season, Southern Right whales frolic in the bay right off of the beach as onlookers with binoculars and oversized camera lenses sit in frigid temperatures to observe the creatures.

My bus arrived in the late afternoon as the sun was beginning to disappear in the west behind the plains of coastal Argentina, casting the town in a magenta hue while my taxi took me the short distance to my accommodation.  Sunset photography never gets old for me; the everyday activity of the earth seems to be anything but ordinary and no two days are ever the same.  Not trying to waste any time after arriving at an inn, I tossed my bags into my room, outfitted my camera and began to make for the beach to try and capture some of the suns closing comments.  Possibly spotting a whale was also on the agenda. 

Before I could reach the door though, the inn keeper offered me a cup of tea or coffee.  Begrudgingly I indulged him in his generosity as I impatiently watched the world outside turn shades of amethyst and ginger through the large windows in his front reception room.  I tried to do my best with friendly chit chat but, I think he could tell I was in a rush by my crude gulping of the tea and unabashed glances at the dimming world as I let his words wash over me.  I felt kind of bad but, after 20 hours on a bus I just wanted to be away from people in my immediate vicinity and outside where the air was crisp. 

We wrapped it up shortly after I had chugged my tea and when I made it out the door I damn near dashed for the beach to catch the light shimmer off the crashing surf and scarlet sand.  The bus trip the day before and the one looming before me on the morrow left all my thoughts when my bare feet sunk into the sand.  What a sinful sigh of relief escaped my lips once as I wiggled my toes deeper into the grain.  I contented myself with strolling down the vacant beach barefoot as a ceaseless storm of wind tossed invisible particles into my face, forcing me at times to turn my back and walk backwards against its will.  I skirted on sand dunes in between trapped pockets of water in the low tide towards the elongated wooden and concrete pier that reached out to the horizon line.  I figured that if I was going to see whales this late in the evening they would be out there and if not, at least I would watch the sun set over the city from afar. 

The pier of Puerto Madryn

I alternated between the lonely boardwalk and hushed beach till I arrived at the pier and made my way down its concrete walkway; scanning the water for breaching mammals or a spout of water breaking the surface of the swelling sea.  Along the way to the end of the dock I noticed a group of fishermen consistently pulling in fish that would flop and gasp on the ground as the men set down their lines and unhooked their catches.  Realizing that spotting whales was looking bleak, I stopped moving down the pier and posted up against a pole with my camera; snapping photographs of the fishermen’s backs as the sun dipped lower and lower.  The wind was still relentless and my fingers were turning shades of violet but, I inched forward in the direction of the group of silently working men.

Some of the group of fishermen on the pier

It was not long until I managed to put myself right in the midst of them as they alternated between sending their lines whizzing over the water or noisily crank them back in; creating a serene kind of blue collar tune.  I partnered up next to a father and a son who told me they had been at it for about an hour and would fish until an hour after the sun finished setting.  I struggled to understand why.   Their five gallon bucket squirmed with fish and my ears felt as if they were going to fall off and shatter from the frosty breeze that blew brackish mist into our faces.  People need to put food on the table and pay the bills wherever you go though. 

The son, who was 14 years-old, thrust his fishing pole out to me at one point, offering me a chance to join in and try my hand at catching a fish.  The last time I had even attempted fishing was when I was seven or eight-years-old with the cub scouts, and I do not even remember casting a line.  So I took it and hoped I did not look like too much of an amateur in front of the older men with unreadable wind cracked faces.  As I took the line, a bunch of the other fishermen had begun to pause in their routine and take a moment to squint against the sun to watch the gringo cast a line. 

The Father

So I stood on the railing and leaned against the fence, dipped the pole low and with a little jerk of my wrists brought it up and cast out the line over the water in an attempt to mimic the others.   The line hummed as I watched the weights pull it down to spelunk in the waves and snap tight in the tide.  I took a moment to look around right after the line had landed and everyone had gone back to what they were doing.  The boy looked at me, shrugged, smiled and made the motion of cranking back in the line.  I followed his tutelage and came up empty.  I cast out a few times more and still had no such luck with a bite.  His father laughed a little bit and I went back to taking pictures of the group.

One line, three fish

Eventually, taking photos became difficult in the low light and I rested my chin on my hands as I listened and watched the group cast and crank, cast and crank.  A surprisingly tranquil combination of noises blending in with the whistling of the wind, that if not for the wintry temperatures, may have put me straight to sleep.  The sun finished its act soon and a few fishermen began to pack up their stuff and pick up their writhing bags of fish, signaling their end for the evening.  I followed suit, shook hands with the father, bumped fists with the son and made my way back to the inn.

That night, myself and other guests of the inn ate together in the dining room.  I filled my stomach with savory red meat, snappish vegetables and drank a good fill of red wine; perfectly capable of conducting proper roaring banter with the inn owner now.  Gaston, an Argentinean of Irish descent, has clearly treated a journey weary traveler or two to an unwinding evening before.  Much to his satisfaction and my own, we carried late into the night agreeing to disagree on topics that I barely recall having argued for.  I laid down that night relaxed and completely oblivious to the fact that the soon I would be back on a bus for another 30 hours. 

A whale tail...I know, not the best of pictures.  Ya take what you can get though.

I arose the next morning feeling very well rested and made my way to the bus station after watching from the beach some whales splash and play.  Thoroughly prepared for all the screaming kids and dusty ghost towns the country was willing to throw at me.  Indeed, I may have to stop in Puerto Madryn this week as I make my way back north.