Coyhaique

The biggest town in Chilean Patagonia. About the size of Inverness. We started near Bariloche which is the next big town north and is, in equivalent distance terms, Manchester. Continuing the theme, the plan is to get to the coast of Greenland by the end of February. Think I better ask for more leave.

We arrived yesterday afternoon, our route here an impression of violet Lupins, soaring Condors and a hard Wind. At one point a boy was fixing a fence with his father. Is there a more reassuring sight in the world? I made an attempt at conversation and failed. In reference to the fence, I think I asked ´Is that for a sheep or a steak?´ He politely answered ´no´and went back to work.

Our hosts are great. As Chilean campsites charge for the pitch and double their prices for éxtranjeros´we usually end up rolling into a village at the end of the day looking for lodgings. Doors are shut to keep out the wind so pick a commercial-looking one and knock. Our hosts start off like the door but appreciate a bit of effort and then open up to reveal themselves, without exception yet, as kind, quietly humorous, proud and female. Fortunately sympathetic too, as little linguistic sophistication is on offer from these guests.

The food. A couple of weeks ago an Israeli ´traveller´at an adjacent table was bemoaning the lack of menu. Her Slovenian companion curtly stabbed Áre you hungry or not?´and that´s the deal. You´re hungry, you sit down, you get fed. Half a plate of animal, half a plate of potatoes or rice. I love it; the longer I´m in the saddle, the more I love it.

Happy New Year from us when it comes.

Degrees South: 45.34
Miles cycled: 273

Manihuales.

Images better than words for the last couple of days.


1. Ventisquero Colgante - Hanging Glacier.

2. Colgante Glacier at sunset.

3. 16 switchbacks out of the Queulat Valley - atmospheric.

4. Our Boxing Day family.

5. The road today.

Termas de Puyuhuapi



Feliz Navidad. It is only in the heart of darkness, when to despair is the only road, all inner strength has gone and progress is hopeless, that you truly start to learn about yourself. It´s fair to say I´m learning nothing about myself just now. Thermal baths, masaje, fitted wardrobes, Pisco sour, as much as you can eat breakfast; Welcome to Puyuhuapi Lodge and Spa. The brochure says ´A Secret South of Silence´. The bedroom menu offers Balneotherapy, Talaterm Algae treatment, Pressotherapy, Lympathic drainage and Wine Therapy. Wine Therapy! I´ve been on Wine Therapy for twenty years and it hasn´t brought ´young and vital elasticity´to anything, I can tell you. I´ll give it a go.

Met the Chilean Rich in the thirty seven degree volcanic pool. He left for Australia in 1970 before Allende got in and gave all his money to the poor. He´s back to visit the glaciers. I call him Él Colonel´.

You can only get here by boat as we´re across the fjord from the Carretera, in an inlet. A truly sumptuous place. Last night´s Christmas Dinner was a four-course affair followed by guitar and songs in Spanish. A red flare lit up the bay as four of the staff approached in a boat, dressed up as Tehuelche indians. They dished out presents. Then the dancing started.

Its going to be hard leaving this afternoon, from the comfort and warmth of our inlet, reborn onto the Carretera. Oh well. Must go. Off to the forty degree pool with the Colonel. The horror, the horror!

La Junta

Leaving Rio Futafeulu and the consequent torquoise jewel of Lake Yelcho meant we are headed for the famed Carretera Austral. This is Pinochet´s geopolitical road to tame or claim Patagonia for his Chile and was only opened in 1983. Our first contact was two despondent hitchers standing on it´s flank in the rain trying to escape the village of Santa Lucia.

I´ve never been in such a ramshackle place. We stayed, Kirsty´s view being it was better than wild camping in the pouring rain, my view- ´How bad could a $5 B&B be?.´It was touch and go though as the town couldn´t afford an alcohol license. Principal entertainments twofold: Watching two dogs chase a horse down the street and unarmed soldiers doing army jeep wheelspins round the barracks courtyard. We got round the alcohol thing. La Senora in the shop was persuaded to sell us an under the counter can of beer, wrapped in brown paper. A nervous moment. Drank it in our room [ four plywood walls, six nails for coats and a bare bulb].

Our first day on the Carretera was tormented. The Spanish for storm is ´La Tormenta´. There´s so little traffic on the road the hawks and even, I think, a juvenile Condor have forever to pick at the limited roadkill. May´s eruption of Chaiten not only left ash everywhere but also part destroyed the northernmost town on the Carretera. All the people were forced to move to Puerto Montt at the other end of the Gulf of Ancud, which might account for the missing traffic.

For us the day got wet. Initially we sheltered in a bridge until we succumbed to the torment. Then wetter. Four Israeli pensioners in a jeep gave us tea from a flask. Then it got windy. A powerline had come down which we gingerly cycled over and then a small tree cowped over as we sheltered next to it in a bush. Then windier. Finally the tempest came to a head and a proper tree fell and closed the road entirely. It took six of us to clear the way. Before I knew it Kirsty and bike were in a pick-up [ha!] with a guy with a dodgy eye and I left cycling. On the positive side the wind was behind us, my panniers were in the pick-up and we weren´t in Santa Lucia.

Futaleufu.

Patagonia; According to one definition, ´Regio Gigantum´, after Magellan and his men where intimidated by the giant footprints left in the sand by the native Indians.

In the last couple of days we have been channeled by the narrow valley of the Rio Futaleufu into the Andes and we are now in Chile. Trout fishing is popular and last night´s campsite, provided for, but unpopulated by, the fishermen, was idyllic. A green meadow amidst trees with pre cut wood for a fire and showers and on the shore of some sort of freshwater lagoon. I caught no fish but took a swim.

Cycling here we passed a couple of other cyclists - we´re certainly not alone in our choice of transport - including a Dutch fella with a big ginger beard cycling from Tierra del Fuego to Alaska.

Futaleufu is the place where a friend of ours very sadly lost his life. Lost his life doing what he loved on a beautiful, savage river. He was a giant of a man in many ways with a huge heart who chose to live courageously. Mentioning ´Fox´brings smiles from those that knew him in this town. It´s Kirsty´s birthday today so a few drinks in order tonight.

Trevelin.

You travel to the far end of the world and you end up eating ice cream in a North Wales tearoom. This lovely Chubut town was planned out by the immigrant Welsh of the late C19th and they are maintaining the great tradition of Welsh tourism. We just visited the grave of pioneer John Evan´s dead horse. The only thing making our tearoom out of place in Llanberis or Machynlleth is the bright sunshine warming it´s walls and the white dust blowing about on the path; the product of the eruption of the volcano Chaiten in May.

Cycled in from Esquel this morning and saw our first Patagonian sheep and curious roadside birds rather like Lapwings on steroids. We´d hoped to meet the environmentalist Fernanda in Esquel and find out the current situation on a local gold mine and cyanide in the water supply. She´s holidaying in the woods just now so possibly we´ll catch her on our way back round. Daffydd from Anglesey, thoroughly decent fella, was in our hostel in Esquel and was visiting Trevelin, as pilgrim, as part of his South America travels. I was doing OK until I asked what it was like growing up in Holyhead in a tone that suggested it might not have been High School Musical. Thankfully, being a thoroughly decent fella, he took it well and he hadn´t organised to have me set upon by the Trevelin crew when we arrived. Watch this space, though, our tent might be burning down on the campsite as I write.
Note to self- Keep mouth shut unless speaking Spanish.

Degrees South; 43.06
Miles Cycled; 18

San Carlos de Bariloche

We've spent the last three days in a small room with Kati learning Spanish. She liked her whiteboard, we liked writing down verbs. Very old school. Non of your groupwork here, thank you, although how that would have panned out with just the two of us, I'm not sure. We now feel confident, successful and effective in our ability to ask a myriad of questions to our South American hosts. We just don't understand the answers.

Kati, our 23 year old teacher { imagine, I didn't think you could get decent teachers under 25} was really good as long as you kept her off politics. One nod towards the political elite and her eyes would roll then bulge, her fists would clench ready to strike down on the table and she'd curse President Cristina Kirchner and her inflation and corruption. I think some of her spittle landed on my verbs. Not a problem; the Argentines are very passionate on such matters and I like it. Her solution did, unfortunately, seem to be to get out and on one occasion showed an interest in whether Kirsty and I had younger single brothers. No se puede, Kati, lo siento.

Degrees South; 41.11
Miles cycled; 4.

San Carlos de Bariloche

You travel for 48 hours to the other side of the world and somehow you end up in Zermatt. This mountain town seems pleased with itself, its downtown inhabitants a mix of raucous students, adventure-clad tourists and the Argentinian rich. Che Guevara passed through on his Norton in the 50s, before the Revolution, but obviously never stopped or staid. Things might have been very different, although he wouldn't have sold as many posters to undergraduates if he'd been wearing ski goggles.

Things were different yesterday, down on the Pampas, and not just the twenty degrees extra heat. We got here by 22 hours of bus from Buenos Aires with barely a change in direction or gradient for the first 18. At one point it got interesting as a terrific lightening storm closed around us. Some children cried. The night was alight.

Degrees South; 41.11

Miles cycled; 0

Thats our life, in a box, for the next few months. I just wanted to try and upload a photo. One last quote before we go.

"We were not long in scrambling up the dunes to get a sight of the country beyond. At last, Patagonia. How often had I pictured in imagination, wishing with an intense longing to visit this solitary wilderness, resting far off in it's primitive and desolate peace, untouched by man, remote from civilisation."

W.H. Hudson Idle Days in Patagonia.

We leave for Argentina on December 8th. I've been reading the maps and found some evocative places; Golfo de Penas (Gulf of Distress), Last Hope Sound, Islet of Madmen, Desolation Island, Obstruction Sound, Puerto Eden all give a taste of the welcome that met the pioneers. My favourite discovery so far is the single Yahgan Indian word Mamihlapinatapai which means

' to look at each other, hoping that either will offer to do something which both parties much desire but are unwilling to do'

'There were no voices here. There was this, what I saw; and, though beyond it were mountains and glaciers and albatrosses and Indians, there was nothing here to speak of, nothing to delay me further. Only the Patagonian paradox: the vast space, the very tiny blossoms of the sage-brush's cousin. The nothingness itself, a beginning for some intrepid traveller, was an ending for me.'

Paul Theroux The Old Patagonian Express
Esquel