March 1, 2011
Going to Tierra del Fuego.
It often gets where not having had a shower for a week is noticeable when opening the sleeping-bag of a morning: but never mind; I open the tent and let in air and this morning see distinct long shadows cast by the rising sun. And my view is of small birds flying low and landing in a crest between two hillocks beyond the fence which follows the road.
Chile snapped up the Magallen Straits and the territory on either side through to the Atlantic Ocean early (1840s); and the port of Punta Arenas was founded soon after which prospered as a stop-over supply port on the ocean route to California. Today, the reality of Chile, a Pacific seaboard country, but here at the Magellan straits stretching to the Atlantic, means that the triangle of Tierra del Fuego at the bottom belonging to Argentina can only be reached overland through Chile.
As I cycle South West the early sun that was is now gone for the day replaced by thick inky blue cloud and it gives all the indications that the rain will soon be on; it's raining already up-ahead. The thing is there is no place to take shelter out here when the rain does start: and the wind has swung round to West North West, so I'm struggling along in wind that tries to hold me and prevent me cycling any further. Meanwhile, the sky lightens to dirty grey so I suppose it won't rain after all.
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By 10.30 I was glad to reach Rupe Aike, a hamlet with a roadside hosteria truck-stop. I enter as I needed water. The breakfast tables are still laid and the maid, the woman was dressed in a black uniform with white apron and cap, at once directed me to an outside tap at the rear. The Chilean accent I hadn't heard for months and apart from the basic information in the dialog I didn't understand more as it takes a few days to accustom the ear to the sound.
A little later at a turn-off to Punta Delgado, or where the ferry crosses to Tierra del Fuego; the wind was to make the choice to turn for Ushuaia easier: continuing to Punta Arenas would be to struggle the rest of the day in the wind. I turned for Ushuaia.
The wind bowls me along effortlessly the 16km to the ferry which has just disembarked a string of cars and motorbikes I've met, and a queue of cars are waiting for the word to drive-on. A tour-bus drives up and stops at the quay; off step a couple; the man is in shorts and tee-shirt and the woman wears a light summer dress which flutters in the cold wind. He directs her to pose for a photo, a here's me at the Magellan Straits memoir: while the background is a slate gray sea and a as gray sky with a misty ridge of land across the water. "And this is me...": they took a few more like photos before getting back on the bus shivering.
A motorbike with silver panniers covered with stickers came to a halt behind me. "Is thet a free shup", asks the rider that had now left his bike and stood by my side. The accent said New Zealand: I didn't get his name, but he'd bough the bike, a BMW K100 in LA and had ridden South.
The ferry was indeed free: he had a camcorder and filmed the diminishing port of a few corrugated iron houses as we sail away in a foamy white wake; and turning around filming the approach to the equally small corrugated iron port, Bahia Azul, where there is a steep ride up a concrete ramp with green algae; and I appreciate the smell of sea-salt which reminds me of seaside fishing villages at home.
I follow the road along the quay until it turns inland past the few houses one of which is a shop, but I didn't have Chilean pesos and anyway had enough to live on. I cycle on a few kilometres and find a place to stop and eat my lunch of Sardines and rice then doze.
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I awake with a weak air-horn sound which was barely audible over the howl of the wind: it sounded three times before I opened my eyes and see another cyclist complete with front and rear panniers and an awful lot of stuff under a cargo-net and strapped on all-over the bike. "You prefer I speak English" he says, after an awkward Spanish start to conversation. His Name is Damian and he's now riding home to Mar del Plata in Buenos Aires after 4 years on the road from Alaska and he delighted in giving me all the information I'd need for the road ahead. "You find refugios every 30km on this road" he took out his camera showing me a photo on the LCD of a yellow hut.
The road or the wind most have swung around sufficiently because it took all afternoon battling with a crosswind to cover 35km until approaching the village of Cerro Sumbrero where the road swung noticeable with the wind where there is a confusing split in the road and I stop a while to see which way most of the traffic is taking, so followed: ahead I see dust blowing up in the wake of vehicles and sure enough I come to the sign "200m Fin Pavemento": the end of the paved road and the beginning of the gravel.
It is now time to stop and I'd reached one of those refuse huts referred to by Damian. It is basic and clean inside cared for as Damian said by the estancia whose land it's on. I sit at the table making use of the remaining daylight to write my diary and my glance is suddenly drawn to the little window where now brilliant yellow sunlight streams in: the sun having reappear over the hills in the West. I took the camera and rushed out to get some photos while the wonderful light lasted before the sun disappeared behind the hills
Today's ride: 92 km (57 miles)
Total: 11,353 km (7,050 miles)
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