Day 512 - Ushuaia, Argentina
The Bottom Most City in the Southern Hem
There is a debate about which South American city is the world’s southernmost. For years Ushuaia has been the undisputed champion because it is home to 70,000 souls, a true city. But Chile and Argentina are competitive nations and have been for 150 years. So recently Chile officially designated Port Williams as a city just south of Ushuaia and just across Argentina's border in an attempt to unseat Ushuaia. Problem is it’s not much more than a naval outpost on the skirt of the Beagle Channel; a mere 2000 people walk its few streets. Nevertheless, Chileans, wherever possible, let you know that change is afoot.
Either way, we were now hanging at the uttermost part of planet earth in search of a place to settle in. We tied up our bags with blue ribbons and headed to lunch where we said our goodbyes to so many of the good Australasians that we had met. Rick Remmel, my fellow hiker and artist from Ohio; Marilyn, the aging Brit who said this was her last trip but had travelled throughout the world and just walked the 207 steps to the top of Cape Horn….all of the fascinating people with whom we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner each day — Arthur and his wife Brenda who spent over 40 years working with the poor in Brazil and Africa, beginning first as 20 somethings who volunteered for the Peace Corps; French journalist Valerie who had been locked last year in a hotel while working in Israel during a Covid outbreak. "I screamed and swore into the phone in French until finally they sent the police!" She told me. It took 14 days before she was released. Then there was Brice, a talkative French photographer who loved life and everything about capturing pictures of the world he adored, and Michael Klemm and his wife Caren. Michael it turns out was more than an an economist and expert in finance, he was also a deep sea cave diver and he and Caren owned a 55 foot yacht that he had built in Ushuaia which they sailed across the Atlantic to Holland, up and down both North American coasts and everywhere in the Caribbean. We were hoping to meet them later in the year in Norway.
Once we cleared the Ventus gangplank, Ushuaia awaited. Viking, Quark and Australis expedition ships each sat anchored along the docks. Clattering machines and men calling out instructions filled the air as they unloaded or hauled goods in and out of the cargo bays and warehouses.
Argentina's customs agents had little to say to us as we entered the country; nothing like the scrutiny that attended us on our way in and out of Bariloche. A sign pointed us out of the docks, another sign said to walk through a square, nondescript building. I thought there we might find some evidence of security, but a somnolent guard simply waved us ahead, “No controls," he said, which I took to mean none of the security apparatus worked. Another guard waved us out saying in broken English, “Welcome!" And then we were on the streets.
Our phones' GPSs gave us some idea of where our hotel was located. It didn’t appear terribly far so we began hiking. But after about a half a mile we came up against a hill and 200 vertical steps. How, I wondered, could I get all the bags up the steps without leaving any behind because at the time Cyndy was dealing with a wrist she had sprained on a hike two days earlier. Just then a man pulled up in a brand new black Toyota pick up. He leaned out the window. "Taxi?"
I suppose we stood out, gringos hauling multiple bags down the street. He did not look like a taxi driver, nevertheless he sung out, “Aeropuerto?"
“Hosteria restaurante America.” I answered. This was the small hotel that we found online; fine reviews and reasonable prices. "Si, si,” he waved at us.
“Cuanta? I asked. He waved his hands, as if it was nothing, "2000 pesos." I did a quick cost-benefit analysis: a couple of dollars. Well worth it. I nodded. He leapt from the truck.
"Vamos, vamos," he said, twirling his head around. He knew he wasn't a legit taxi driver and could get into trouble with the police. We hustled our bags into the back of the truck and piled ourselves in.
Muy Armano was his name. He was compact with thinning black hair. His beard was dark and rough. Beneath his eyebrows, thick as small rugs, I saw quick eyes, and enough energy to charge a small building. He jabbed his card it into my hand, pointing to one of several phone numbers. “Inglese,” he said.
We Spanglished back-and-forth and I learned he had a transportation and tourist business – "take you anywhere – parks, trips, excursions…,” he said, as he whipped the truck up and around bends at alarming speed. He pulled out his phone and showed us pictures of three vans that were his apparently.
He patted his chest with one hand and drove with the other looking back at both of us. "See! Very good! No hosteria,” he rubbed his fingers and thumb. "Mucho dinero," which I took to mean he could provide much better deals than the hotel could.
“Muy bien,” I blathered repeatedly, hoping somehow this would focus him enough to avoid sending us all over a ravine or into a hapless pedestrian. "We'll get in touch!”
Suddenly, the truck skidded to a halt. We had made it to the hotel. Muy was outside in a trice and had our bags on the sidewalk. I shook his hand and gave him the last of the Argentinian pesos we had left over from our Butch Cassidy escapade, about $5. He had, after all, arrived like an angel and solved an enormous problem for us. And I loved his energy. We turned to carry our bags into the hotel and when I turned back to wave our thanks, he had disappeared like a phantom. It is sometimes difficult to avoid believing in angels. But then, they keep showing up.
In the evening the bright sunshine disappears and the wind kicks up to gusts of 40 mph. We met Mike, Caren, Brenda and Art for dinner at the La Parrilla Restaurante. The big, vaulted eatery is famous for its lamb, the torsos of which are stretched like textiles over metal grids that stand beside the open fire in the front window. That's the specialty and we told our very French looking waiter that we would all try it. He tells us four helpings, rather than six, will be enough along with salad and roasted potatoes and a fine Malbec.
Dinner ranged from one subject to another just as it had during our meals on the Ventus: questions about the Peace Corps; how to help poor nations when we know nothing about the cultures themselves; the history of the Templar and Teutonic Knights (personal fascination), and stories of the Mamluks, the fierce warrior class that ruled Egypt for 300 hundred years. The world, I was reminded, and all of its history, was vast and fascinating and beyond comprehension.
Walking back, the town is quiet except for the night’s gusty winds, a reminder off that we are at the bottom of the planet. After saying our goodbyes we headed off to our respective hotels, hoping we would see one another again. If only we didn’t live in completely different parts of the world.
Once in bed, I lay thinking about how far we had travelled, and how far we had yet to go. I listened to the rattling wind and, in time, fell asleep to the sound of the blinds knocking steadily against the open window. Far away I heard the loan howl of a dog somewhere out among the spiking mountains above us, and fell, at last, into a deep sleep.
Recommendations
If you find yourself in Ushuaia, or considering a trip, we’re thrilled to offer a few recommendations. You can see all of our Ushuaia suggestions here.