February 28, 2011
Paso Austral: Monte Aymond.
The track back to the road was 1.7km; that's over an English mile: and the something of which has a perimeter fence where I'd camped along is a power-station was also a similar distance. So it's safe to say no one saw me as Is far enough from anything to be seen.
I had to cycle back into town to the supermercado: could have shopped yesterday evening, but that would've meant the stress of Sunday evening in the shopping isle full of people and a long long queue at the check-out. Monday morning, I'm one of a handful in: I take a trolley and go straight for the biscuits. I so miss Digestive biscuits which cannot be found in South America; the biscuits here content too mush sugar and no substance. The only reason I'm buying biscuits today is firstly; I am crossing the border into Chile which exercise strict control, disallowing the entry of fruit and veg, and any animal produce, thereby, stopping the entry of meat and dairy produces, in a measure to protect their agricultural sector from pests and diseases. Secondly; I've many days ahead without a village en-route for resupplies, so I most capitalize on processed foods which provide lots of energy as well as being light-weight and not too bulky.
The music in all these modern supermercados, "wallpaper or piped-music" or whatever they call it, to stimulate shoppers filling their trolleys and thereby milk the money out of their pocket; but I'm sensible of the reason; I select rice and put a kilo in the trolley while The Police "Message in a bottle" plays: play tunes like this and I'm happy. Anyway, I prefer rice to pasta, as I find it more substantial and takes less fuel if the boil for a minute and turn-off and leave to steam for ten in the boiling water method is used; by which time the rice grain has swollen having absolved the water and is al dente. I am getting to like porridge again: the secret is getting the Oatmeal to water racio right and then the rolled grain swells absolving the water, but it only works with good quality Oats. The Oats I put in the trolley maybe good, I don't know, I'll see: meanwhile Foreigner "I want to know what love is" plays; and I push my partly full trolley towards the check-out where there's no queue and I'm through and back to the bike in no time.
The sun shone briefly outside the supermercado and on the way back out of Rio Gallegos; until it was blocked out by woeful inky blue cloud with visible rain ahead: but I still had a tailwind and the traffic was very much reduced; mainly trucks now, which give me a wide berth on passing as there are no longer the egoistic RVers to box them in. The landscape remains the same today, yellow tufts of grass with Camel hump hills ahead. I pass a turn-off to Punta Virgenes, the most Southern point on mainland Argentina. There is a Penguin colony there, but it's about 130km of gravel road, one way, then you most cycle back, likely in a mad headwind; so that's why few would contemplate such a ride.
It is 66km South to the inspiring named Monte Aymond and I stop in the shelter of an old gravel-pit roughly two thirds of the way for lunch of crusty fresh bread spread with cream-cheese. I dice a little garlic and sprinkle it on; and complete the open sandwich with slices of tomato; all of the above I most use as there's no taking them over the border.
Onwards, I pass sections of the old gravel road where Merino sheep stand looking at me. They have curly wool, look content and there's no-longer traffic to shoo them off. Approaching the border the first buildings are the "Gerdameria, Secion Monte Aymond"; that's where the olive-green uniformed border-guards live. And it's hard to know what to expect at frontiers: one hopes to get a cool officer that glances at the passport and stamps it; instead of a bad-tempered officer that looks at every page and every stamp and asks lots of questions. The officer today was nice and liked that I was traveling by bike; and even filled in the slip of paper for me when I complained I'd need my reading glasses, as the print is so small and you don't want to tick or put particulars in the wrong box.
A little farther, the ash-felt ends under a Gantry sign "Benvenidos a la Republic de Chile", and the road there-onwwards is concrete which I think I prefer as it remains level. And then there's the Chilean customs; quick and efficient too; followed by the SAG, Sociadad Agricole y Ganadar, I'd hazard a quest at what it stands for: anyway it's the control to prevent fruit, veg, meat and dairy produces entering the country. I declare my garlic and run my bag through the scanner to make sure I'm not hiding anything. Finally; the man with the SAG logo on his warm green jacket, the German as he looked German, opened the gate outside so I could go. He inquired of me "Punta Arenas or Ushuaia". "I don't know" I replied.
And so at that point I didn't know. I thought I would cycle South West to Punta Arenas; but now as I put pen to paper, the idea of cycling that bit farther, to Ushuaia is increasingly attractive. For those interested; I found a good wild campsite not far after Monte Aymond, on the old road, where both new and old road drive up a hillock: the new road continues straight through a cutting on top while the old swerves a round the slope. The high part between the two provides a degree of cover from the road; though, truck drivers are high enough to see the tent, and they give a friendly honk when passing.
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Today's ride: 85 km (53 miles)
Total: 11,261 km (6,993 miles)
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