BARILOCHE TO PUERTO NATALES VIA MOTORCYCLE AND BOAT

From:  "Andres Carlstein" <carlstein007@hotmail.com

To:      tynda

Subject:  Fwd: Update 12: Boats and that sinking feeling

Date:  Sat, 01 Jan 2000 15:21:20 PST

    Subject: Update 12: Boats and that sinking feeling

Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 16:25:09 -0800 (PST)

Update 12: Boats and that sinking feeling

Bariloche was excellent. Amazing scenery, great people, and lots to do. Supposedly Bariloche has the best discos in Argentina, but I didn't check them out. What I really wanted to do was go parasailing off of the Cerro Cathedral, but the weather did not permit during all five days of my stay >there. One other thing about Bariloche—if you want to get fat fast, spend a >few days walking up and down the streets, sampling the wares at all the >various specialty chocolate shops. The Swiss descendents have taken the art of chocolate making to a new level.

From Bariloche I took the road to Chile. On the Chilean side as I pulled up >to meet a German girl who was traveling all of Chile and Some of Argentina >on her BMW bike. She had been going down route 40 in Argentina with two >other German guys when she had gotten sick of the wind and turned back to >Chile. Her plan was to ride around Chile until they made it back from >Ushuaia, then meet up again. We rode to Osorno together on some great curvy >roads, and then ate lunch. Apparently, she has been just about everywhere on >that bike of hers: Africa, US, Central America, India, Tibet, and of course

all over Europe. We took some photos, and then parted ways.

In Puerto Montt, there was really not much to do, so I wandered around, saw >the local museum, did internet, and watched a few stray male dogs fight over >a single female in heat. Darwinian evolution can be pretty depressing and unromantic to watch in action. I also ate some curanto, a curious local dish >that was recommended to me by my aunt and uncle in Bariloche. When I >ordered it, the waiter brought me some bread, a small fried empanada, kind of like a "hot pocket," and then some broth in a bowl. And then the waiter

placed this huge empty blue oven dish on my table and left it there. It >looked like something he would have used to clear away all my dishes, but it turned out to be for the scraps from my curanto! Then I realized why. The >waiter then came out with an enormous bowl stacked with what appeared to be >everything they had in the kitchen. There was a piece of chicken, a piece >of beef, a hotdog, a sausage, two boiled potatoes, a weird fried dumpling

with pieces of some kind of fat in it, like pork fat, a boiled version of >same, a truly bizarre seafood called "picoro," that I can only describe as >having a head like a crab claw shoved inside of a little barnacle-like cave, and two dozen clams and mussels, all open and gaping stupidly at me. I >gaped stupidly right back, because I didn't know whether I was supposed to >eat it or donate it to a hunger-relief fund. I tried my best and put a >pretty good dent in it all. The picoro was surprisingly excellent, the way

to eat it was to grab the little claw, twist, and pull the whole thing out >of its barnacle. All of the white meat inside was edible, and had an >excellent subtle flavor not unlike lobster.

Next it was onto the boat. The whole system was sort of chaotic. I got on

and Badass and I were lifted up to the main deck with the rest of the

passengers on a massive hydraulic lift. I had paid a month in advance, so I

figured that my room would have been arranged ahead of time—supposedly, we

all had room assignments—but I got to my room to find we had been overbooked

by one person. Soon our host, Gonzalo, came along to remove one of us, and

the people I was left with were Fil, John, and Ted. Oddly enough, we all

happened to be American (I was a bit surprised to find out later that most

of the passengers on the boat were English speakers from all over the world,

and the primary language among the tourists was definitely English). Back to

the chaos—we lucked out by comparison. There was a newly-wed couple who had

paid for an entire cabin to themselves, and they were accidentally given

more people in their cabin, and then there was a couple that had paid three

months in advance and was left without a room until 2 in the morning.

The boat, as you can see, is enormous. It has enough space on its decks to

carry one kilometer of trucks and about 60 cars. Plus it can carry over 150

passengers. It has two main diesel engines that generate 3000 HP each, and

uses about 10,000 liters of fuel per day. The trip took less than the normal

four days, because our Captain was certified for night navigation in the

channels, so we made a lot of time. I took tours of the bridge and engine

room, met the captain, engineer, and a couple of the pilots, and also had

some significant wanderings around the boat. Probably the most interesting

thing we saw as we traveled was a ferry called the "Capitan de Unidas,"

which had run aground about 35 years ago. It laid in plain view, about

100ft away, rusted, hole-punched, and covered with birds. When we passed,

the captain blew the horn and people threw coins over the side. At one point

during the night we also stopped in a place called Puerto Eden, a tiny town

on an island in the middle of nowhere, that has an agreement worked out with

the boat that it can pass its waters if it stops twice a week so that the

natives on land can move things to and from the town.

Basically I can sum up the boat ride as follows: The scenery was exciting,

the food was not. The boat captain was good and fast, the rest of the

service, was not. The people were generally friendly, the sheep were

generally smelly, and the only ocean crossing we had to do was not too

rough—but a few people were still getting seasick. It was often sunny,

occasionally raining, and always windy. We were all pretty well fed, even if

we did have to wait a long time to get it—at least we did not have to wait

as long as the sheep, several of whom were completely bald on their back by

the time we arrived (the other sheep had eaten the wool off of them). Last

but not least, the boat had a giant disco ball and lights to transform

itself into a 6000HP producing, 1km of sheep-truck-transporting, 165

tourist-touting, big-ass floating night club, and that is a lot to ask of

any boat. In fact, I am sort of surprised we made it.

To see some photos of the trip, check out www.reverendted.com and click on

photosetchile. To see photos of the boat and my cabin, click on

01Navimag.jpg-03Navimag.jpg, and 04OurCabin.jpg. To see the cabinmates Ted,

John, Fil (misspelled in the photo title) and me, click on

05TedOnNavimag.jpg, 19JohnAndPhil.jpg, and 21Andres.jpg. To see how they

crammed everything onto the main deck of the boat, including some very

unfortunate and odiferous sheep, check out 06GoodLoving.jpg. Lastly, see

51Passengers.jpg to see us all together on the giant chess board as we toast

with wine courtesy of John. The rest of the photos are of interesting, but

much less important things. Just kidding, actually, there are a lot of

photos of some of the really great people we met and places we saw. The web

server is a little slow, but the photos are cool. All courtesy of Ted who

had the digital camera and website to provide this service. Thanks Ted.

We got off, I went through customs with the bike, and a large group of us

had a final dinner together in Puerto Natales. We took photos and traded

e-mails. It felt like the end of summer camp.

The next morning I made my way to Torres Del Paine national park. It is

easily one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. There is a cold

and sterile sense of the power of nature up there—old trees are dried and

bent like broken scarecrows, the wind is bitter and constant, the mountains

are like giant jags of broken glass tearing at the sky. I got the feeling

that being caught outdoors in a storm around there would be a fatal error.

It was Christmas eve, and I was invited to dinner by the two newly-weds,

Carl and Brook. I had not talked much to them on the boat, but I saw them

in the park and we chatted. Through their Chilean connections they had

gotten a great room in the park, and they invited me over for a wine and

cheese and pasta with homemade sauce meal. (I provided the lame dessert of

canned peaches). We had a great conversation, and I am indebted for their

hospitality and insight into writing and politics. Thanks guys.

From Torres I rode to Calafate on the 25th. I got a flat and changed the

tire in a gas station. I bought some food at a grocery store, because all

the restaurants were outrageously priced, and then rode on to Perito Moreno

Glacier. The road was only slightly dusty and washboard laden, but all

effort was worth it to see that glacier. Robert had once described it as

"humbling" to witness. I could not agree more. The feeling of being so

close to such an active force of nature is indescribable—but I will try

anyway. The glacier is sort of shaped like an arrowhead, with a varying

width of 4-6km. The peaks of craggy ice range in height from 35-55 meters,

or roughly between 100 and 180 feet high. In its center, the Moreno glacier

is moving up to two meters per day. I stood on a wooden walkway and listened

to the deep gutteral sounds coming from the crater, signaling that the

internal pressure is still building. Occasionally a giant chunk would fall,

creating a horrible shotgun-like crack, and then a dull, tremendous slap as

the ice later crashed into the water. Huge swells would be created that made

the distant tour boats rock like toys in a bathtub. There is a fine of up to

500$US for straying off of the walkways, and I saw a sign that read:

"Danger—NO TRESPASSING—When ice falls, pieces are thrown violently dozens of

meters away. This action produced the death of 32 people between 1968 and

1988." What is not stated on that sign: "And it took us 30 years and 32

deaths to figure out we ought to put up this sign."

The night of the 25th I camped in front of the ancient glacier, cooked up

some meat and cheese ravioli, a salad with fresh squeezed lemon and salt,

bread, and chocolate for dessert. I ate by myself, and at one point some

English speakers had passed and I asked if they were Americans. They pretty

much coldly blew me off, but one of them did manage the courtesy to

acknowledge my existence as they passed and stated they were from Chicago.

Was that their excuse? I have been to Chicago, but I never met anyone as

rude as they were there.

I had hoped for the chance to get in touch with my spirituality on this

trip, to kind of find something in me that I suspected or hoped was there. I

figured that places like Torres del Paine and Perito Moreno would ideal

locations to work on this spiritual quest. Robert Pirsig claims in "Zen and

the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" that "the only Zen you will find on the

top of a mountain is the Zen you bring there". Maybe he is right, but I

think it is pretty hard not to be a little moved by the insignificance in

all of us when faced with such wonders as Torres and the Moreno glacier.

The next day I rode back to Calafate and received a disturbing e-mail. I am

out of money! My mom wrote me and told me that my account had about $800

left. Damn. What a shock. What a drag. I didn't know what to think or do.

What happened to all my money? Who the hell has been spending my money? I

went outside, sat down, and looked at my bike for a while. I tightened the

chain then lubricated it. I sat down and looked at the bike some more. I

pulled a piece of meat and bread I had saved from lunch out of my pocket and

split it with a dog. The dog looked at me and I looked at the dog. Here we

were, a couple of losers, without the foresight to carefully plan our

futures and conserve enough resources to accomplish our goals. Well, Ok the

dog has no goals. We are still both losers. Life sucks. Damn dog—give me

back my food, I am going to need it.

Well, I have enough money to make it to Ushuaia. Crap. At least I can do

that, even if I can't make it back. Crap, Crap, Crap. Maybe I have to sell

my bike and buy a scooter. Maybe I will have to get a job. Maybe I will be

forced to become a shepherd in Ushuaia in order to get out of town. Maybe I

can become a sheep pimp for all the local farmers and make some real cash. I

dejectedly got onto my bike and dejectedly rode my loser ass out of town

towards Rio Gallegos. The whole way there I was kicking myself. I spent way

too much money in Buenos Aires. I had a great time though—maybe too great.

What are my options? 1. Sell the bike, fly back and pay off credit cards.

2. Ship the bike back, have big credit card bills and no way to pay them

back until I can start making some cash.

As I rode, I came over the hill and saw a headlight of a motorcycle. This

is significant because a bike with its lights on in the daytime means it's

probably a traveler like me. I pulled over, and a couple on an older red

BMW 100GS pulled up. We chatted for a while, I would give their names, but

I can't find their card right now.  (Editor's Note:  This may

have been Eric and Gail Haws from the USA)  Anyway, they told me they had shipped

their bike from New Zealand or Australia to Santiago, and somehow they

managed to leave it in country for a few months while they went home.

Meaning that they travel to one place, then when they run out of cash they

don't send the bike home, they just leave it, go home for more money, and

then continue later. "It's cheaper that way" They said.

We took photos and parted ways. As I rode, I slowly realized what that

conversation meant. (The universe works in weird ways, I find.) What that

conversation meant was that this trip is not over baby! No way. It all

depends on my next immigration to Argentina when crossing over from Chilean

territory in Tierra Del Fuego. If I can get the customs people to give me

one year, or even just 8 months, on the bike permit, then I can leave the

motorcycle here in the country, go home and make some money, and then come

back and finish my trip. I was starting to get excited again. I sort of

felt like that dog. Here I am all alone in the hot sun, when along comes

someone who throws me an extremely tasty scrap—just what I needed. Maybe

that dog and I are not losers after all. Maybe.

Well, that is enough for this update. I was going to leave you the

cliffhanger of me being a loser without a decent option or recourse, but

instead I leave you with the cliffhanger of the hope that I can get a

serious extension of my bike permit here in the country and then finish my

trip later.

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