I had met Rich atop one of the hardest uphill slogs in the Torres del Paine National Park. A tendon in my thigh was flaring up and waving the white flag, and my knees were desperate for some anti-inflammatories. Apparently a small group of us had missed the correct turnoff, and had arrived at what was clearly the best viewpoint for the somewhat disappointing sunrise. The situation was vastly improved by my supply of Sahne-Nuss, Chile’s (strangely Germanic-named) national chocolate, and all of a sudden I had made a new friend.
Rich and I had caught up after he had successfully completed the full circuit of the National Park (with a wheeled backpack) and I had scampered after a few days of excruciating pain, nursing my inflamed joints. We were in Puerto Natales, base-camp for every Goretex soldier who is on their way to the Torres. Rich shares my penchant for a taste of the local brewery’s finest, thus we awoke on the morning of our mission a little dishevelled.
Blisters strapped, and rugged up for the cold (and magnificently windy weather), we hit the main road of Puerto Natales, with our only goal being Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. And all this to avoid a moderately expensive 13 hour bus ride. Thumbs out, roadside, our first friends were interestingly enough a couple of Jehova’s Witnesses. Upon attempted conversion of two strongly-minded heretics, the two women retreated down the highway, wishing us luck and suggesting that perhaps god would intervene and we’d be picked up in no time. The thought that there was a god of hitch-hikers lifted our spirits, and spurred my confidence, driving me to harass a truck-driver at the nearby petrol station, who, although initially cautious, was thrilled by two idiots trying to hitch-hike to the bottom of the world, one (Rich) a diabetic, possessing a large stash of sugary snacks.
A brief interlude hiding behind a ditch from the wind, eating dulce de leche on crackers (a formidable task in 80km/h winds), we were picked up by a gas-plant worker who was driving up to the ferry used to cros
s the Magellan Straits. Sharing stories in my abysmal castellano, we shot past his turn-off and were delivered all the way to the terminal itself. If you could call it that. A windswept ramp, on it a number of private vehicles (filled predominantly with German and Chilean tourists) waiting for the ferry that was battling white horses across the Straits. We received some odd looks as we boarded this car-ferry on foot, as though we had just appeared from nowhere, and I proceeded to offend another Chilean by asking him if he was Argentinean.
Apparently, stuck up tourists with roomy four wheel drives are not privy to the sharing and caring world of the hitch-hiker who is battling to stay vertical in 100km/h winds. Rejected from every vehicle leaving the ferry, we resigned to waiting for the next one in what reminded me of the Overlander, a roadhouse in north-western Australia. But a waterside, Latin American version. With no one in it. We had, however, successfully arrived in the Tierra del Fuego. The Chilean part of it at least. The people down here still seem to identify with their country, but there’s probably far less difference between Chilenos and Argentinos here than further north. The accents are still there, but more subdued, and they all drink mate.
After being offered a ride by Pablo, Chile’s biggest Colo Colo football fan (with the tattoos to prove it), we arrived at Cerro Sombrero, a gas town with a small population that was no doubt already drunk in preparation for the big football game that night. We suspected Pablo of being on his way already. We jumped out at the turn off from the highway, hoping to find another ride, and were blown into the door of another deserted roadhouse. The sun, despite the extra long days this far south, was on its way out, and we decided to call it a day and at
tempt the rest of the journey the following day. Cervezas all round, we pondered the best method to pitch shoddy tents in the aforementioned gale. I was an advocate for snuggling up to the side of the roadhouse (although the proprietor seemed less than keen), and Rich was a strong supporter of camping in the massive excavation ditch we had spotted by the highway earlier. With the wind now enough to lift pebbles off the road and send them hurtling away, we elected for the relative comfort of our own private hole, and even found a ladder to get us down there. A winning combination of cup-a-soup, pasta and fried chorizo sausage, a snifter of ron especial, and we were out, disturbed only slightly by the sound of golf-ball sized pebbles clearing the hole as they skipped past us.
Day two’s mission was to reach the border at San Sebastián, and we found a lift easily with another gas worker, who as further proof that the most generous drivers are local workers, and not tourists with lovely empty four wheel drives, drove us well beyond the call of duty, and even gave us a brief tour of his gas plant. Explaining to me that guanacos (a relative of the llama) were the Patagonian kangaroo, and that he’d love to move to Australia to work in gas plants there, he dropped us only five hundred metres from the border. Rich handed him a gift of chocolate (our chosen gift for a lift during the journey), and thanked him sincerely from the Two Chocolatiers.
Border guards always look a little confused when people arrive on foot and they’re not a local animal herder. The only foreigners at this crossing were in tour buses, cars, or on massive trans-American motorcycle journeys. We were dirty, hungry, excited and rather blasé about the whole affair. In truth, the border guards down here are neither hugely enthused about their profession, nor particularly interested in communicating in sentences, and so we passed through quickly and took up a spot on a bench that was hidden from the wind.
Harrassment of drivers was then initiated. Having learnt the term for hitch-hiking only days prior, I jumped on everyone exiting the building telling them we were haciendo dedo (thumbing it) all the way to the fin del mundo. After a combination of “get away from me” looks, genuine interest, and downright disgust at our attempt to beat the Man (or at least the bus Man), we had a solid yes. From a co-pilot. Whose driver then vetoed his generosity, and shot past us as we attempted to get in their car. Why does the modern world hate the hitch hiker so? Sure, we were two six foot lads dressed like criminals, but we were in one of the most desolate areas of the world, and we were heading to the largest tourist centre of the region. We were also smiling, and murdering Spanish in a comical way. Who couldn’t love that?
Rejection was consistent. We put away our egos, and bribed some bus drivers to take us on board for the rest of their journey to Ushuaia. This was of course cheating, but we promised not to feel too terrible about it as the afternoon was sliding away and we didn’t fancy another night roadside, especially when we couldn’t see any excavation ditches nearby, and the wind was still strong enough to kidnap small children. Polishing off the rum on the journey, we enjoyed the comforts of our roomy transport, and watched as the glorious greenery of the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego slipped by us.
Ushuaia was a pleasant surprise, surrounded by perfect hiking territory, and full of amazingly friendly people such as the couple that gave me a ride back from a hike out of
town, sharing mate and delivering me all the way to the hostel. It was the end of the road with my travel buddy Rich, but of course it wasn’t the end of the road that mattered. To quote Robert Louis Stevenson, “I travel for travel’s sake”. The road is the destination. The fact that the path is so beaten that I feel the need to reject conventional transport in favour of my dedo is the reality of much of the modern backpacking life. We met real people, with real stories, and experienced real generosity from complete strangers with completely different backgrounds. This was not my first hitch hiking mission, and nor will it be my last, but once again it made me believe in humanity that little bit more. Change attitudes. Hitch hike. Don’t plan too much. Offer help to a stranger. And if someone thanks you for a lift with a gift of chocolate, say hi to Rich for me!
