Travelogue: Hitching

I recently spent six days on the road, hitchhiking from Ushuaia, in Tierra del Fuego, to El Bolson, in the Northern part of Argentine Patagonia. My original hope was to hitch from Ushuaia to Bolivia, but I found getting rides to be harder than expected in some places and, on two occasions, had to ultimately take a bus. Hitching in Patagonia is neither easy nor comfortable, but, having talked to other travelers, I knew it was at least possible and had to try.

I logged over 2000 km of Northwesterly travel, and ended up splitting the distance between hitchhiking and buses. I rode in one long-haul cargo truck, one truck carrying pipes for oil rigs, four pick-ups, and two cars. The drivers were as diverse as their vehicles: Raul owns sawmills in Brazil, works as a part-time translator of Portuguese for the government, and drives for fun; one guy who's name I didn't get was just driving an unrelated old woman to her hometown so she could vote in congressional elections; Dario and his son Felix were driving to Rio Gallegos to check in on the family business, which maintains gas and oil distribution networks; Sergio drives a truck carrying equipment to and from the oil derricks outside of Comodoro Rivadavia; Pedro is a soil environmentalist working for an American oil company; the other guy who's name I didn't get works for a state-run agricultural institute; Sebastian made a bundle when the Argentine peso collapsed and, despite being trained as a lawyer and holding a government job, makes his money renting houses and selling produce from his land; the other Pedro, who saved me during the most perilous of my waits, works for the government and was traveling to Bariloche, consistently doing over 100 mph, to visit a mysterious "amiga."

Conversations, obligatory in such situations, were easy and interesting, although, topically speaking, they became somewhat repetitive: our backgrounds, U.S. and Argentine politics, football, the weather (my fault), and Swine Flu. Instead of being tiresome, the common themes allowed me to draw some conclusions as to what might be the "Argentine opinion" on a certain topic: All are frustrated with Argentine politics, most dislike Chavez (their president is cozying up to him), all like Obama, most think the climate is changing, most wanted the U.S. to beat Brazil in the Confederations Cup, and all think the current fuss about Swine Flue in Argentina is a misguided campaign fueled by a self-interested government and press.

I was surprised to uncover a certain self-loathing of Argentina in almost every conversation. Sergio grew up in a working family and only studied through second-grade, yet travels in Argentina and Chile with his family, when he can, and, judging by our conversation, thinks deeply about the world beyond his trucking job. He abhors what he perceives as Argentine disinterest in culture and learning and thinks it puts the country at a disadvantage. Raul, as we discussed the poor maintenance of the icy road between Ushuaia and Rio Grande, told me about the entrenchment of corruption in local politics and mused that "Argentina would be a wonderful country if it were not for the Argentines." In answering my question as to why Argentina exports 100% of its crude oil and imports refined products, Pedro asserted, quite sincerely, that Argentines are lazy. A supervisor at the oil company, he told me that he can always count on the Bolivians and Paraguayans to have completed their assignments, and then some, whereas the Argentines can be counted on to spend half of their time working and half drinking mate. Each conveyed the sentiment that Argentina has not lived up to its potential, and, from an economic standpoint, may be irreparably broken.

Outside of the cars, I did a lot of walking and a lot of waiting. The best place to wait for rides is at the final exit of a city. Getting there sometimes involved a walk of several kilometers which, with a 60+ pound pack on my back, became quite a workout. On several occasions I did the walk out and, in defeat, back in to town. Twice, I was picked up within moments of reaching my spot, but in most places I spent several hours standing on the side of the road. I did plenty of thinking, but the hours were long and thinking became dangerous, so I turned to music. The iPod saved my life.

Rio Gallegos was the big distaster. A transportation and shipping hub, it is the first city in continental Argentina as you travel North from Tierra del Fuego. Despite the volume of long-haul traffic and the fact that I spent the better part of thirty-six hours thumbing on the roadside and asking around the truckstop, I could not get a ride. Battered by the cold wind and losing hope, I gave in on second day and bought a bus ticket.

The gas station in Gallegos was near the bus terminal, and, mostly for convenience, I slept two nights in the terminal waiting area. The first night I shared the room with another hitchhiker, an Argentine, and slept rather fitfully as I kept expecting to be kicked out. Amidst my tossing and turning, a cute little black dog showed up to sleep under my seat. I woke from my half-sleep some time later to find that he had taken my gloves out of my boots and chewed a hole in one of them. More distraught than angry, I gave him a hard smack. His puppy dog eyes made me regret it, and, making sure to stash my belognings carefully in my bag, I let him sleep with me the next night.

The biggest obstacle was the cold, with temperatures in the daytime at or below freezing. Moreover, because the sun does not really come out until after 9 AM and I wanted to get early starts, I often began my walk in the dark. It is hard to stay warm standing on the side of the road, no matter what you wear, so I paced, jumped, clapped, jogged, and rattled my body like an insane person.

The act of "thumbing" became problematic in and of itself. I wore a thin pair of liner gloves because my thicker ski gloves did not allow for an adequate extension of the thumb. Better than nothing, these gloves nevertheless left my fingers almost numb and I would sometimes have to abort the thumb as a car passed to tuck it underneath my fingers. Aside from the cold, I actually developed a slight case of tendinitis at one point and had to change thumbing form to avoid the pain.

Simple as it seems, hitching took some learning and some getting used to. Aside from having to learn where to wait, who to look for, and how to ask around, I had to overcome a subtle sense of embarassment. At it's essence hitchhiking is begging, something which is, to me, completely foreign and decidedly uncomfortable. At the start I would reluctantly and timidly stick out my thumb, always a split second too late to avoid outright rejection. After a few short hitches in and around Ushuaia, however, I warmed up to it, lost my inhibitions, and boldly begged everyone that passed.

Even once I became accustomed to thumbing, I had trouble looking drivers in the eye. I did not want to see the disgust and disapproval I imagined to be emanating from behind the wheel. After a while, though, I began to feel ownership of my role as a hitchhiker and to even take some pride in it. I started to look at the drivers because to not look at them is to let them off easy. "Not picking me up is one thing," I thought, "but at least acknowledge me." Another benefit to looking at people is that many people that don't stop will visually apologize. For example, many drivers will look at you and gesture that they are heading somewhere else, or simply wave to acknowledge your wait and apologize for the pass. Instead of saying "I reject you," they are saying, "I really would like to help you, but, for some reason that is out of my control, I can't, and I wish you the best of luck." Even though you are still out in the cold, these looks are great for morale.

All told, the scorecard is not that impressive: I saved about $60 dollars on transportation costs, but added more than four days to my travel time (with different luck, however, I could have saved double the amount in half the time). I slept very little, walked a lot, and shivered more. At a couple points in the trip I was quite distraught, wanting to give up quickly but feeling as I did that I owed it to myself to keep trying. When I finally arrived to El Bolson I was so exhausted and dirty that I was pretty worthless for the next two days. As the days wear on, however, it is harder for me to remember the bad times and easier for me to remember how, every single time I got out of the car, the driver shook my hand, looked me in the eyes, smiled heartily, and wished me good luck. A few of the drivers even hugged me.

I would now advocate hitchhiking as a personal exercise, something akin to shaving your head completely, fasting, or running a marathon. Not only do you learn about yourself, and your limits, but you pick up a little bit of empathy along the way. I certainly did not set out on the hitchhiking trip with grand visions of a social experiment, but I did, on this selfish endeavor, learn a little bit more about what it's like to go without. Key for me is the idea that you don't have to go out of your way to make someone's day. Sometimes, all you have to do is stop.

Travelogue: Sailing

A week ago I walked onto the docks at the yacht club here in Ushuaia and, in what was for me an uncommon feat of audacity, asked for a ride. I ended up three days later on Tranquilo, a 57-foot boat captained by a Dutchman named Bart. Bart made millions developing and marketing Vox Vodka. After 17 years of work he decided to hang it up, at age 34, and commissioned a world-famous boat builder--the guy who designed the Maltese Falcon--to build him a state-of-the-art beauty. Like a nice black suit, his boat conveys class, luxury, and confidence in an improbably subtle package. Despite Bart being a relative newcomer to the world of sailing, his boat has afforded him entry to the most exclusive of sailing circles and is the envy of many an old hand.

Bart himself designed the interior in a luxury minimalist style (think this), packed the boat full of toys (jet boat, skis, scuba gear, deep-sea fishing rigs) and set off around the world. Three years later, having crossed the Atlantic and sailed solo to Antarctica, he is exploring Tierra del Fuego and planning to continue up the Pacific coast of the Americas.

In Puerto Williams we moored Bart's boat against another, the Kiwi Roa, from New Zealand. This aluminum-hulled 50-foot boat looks like a tank and was built by the captain and owner, Pete Smith, who has been sailing around the world for 30-years with his wife Jo. Between those on the docks and those moored away, the Micalvi Yacht Club was hosting dozens of sailboats, but almost all were empty, locked up for the winter as their captains have gone home to various places around the world. In fact, aside from Kiwi Roa and Tranquilo, the only boats with owners present were Ocean Tramp and Santa Maria Australis. The town is small (pop. 2500), but the yacht club community is smaller, so within a couple minutes I knew everyone.

Ocean Tramp is owned by Charlie Porter, a legendary American climber turned scientist. Charlie has pioneered solo routes of El Capitan, kayaked through the Patagonian fjords and around Cape Horn, patented a type of climbing nut, made maps for the Chilean Navy, and hunted seals during a winter living with natives in Greenland. He now works as a glacial geologist, studying climate change by monitoring the glaciers of the Southern oceans from his sailboat, which he has converted into a scientific super-station.

Wolf, a German captain not nearly as grizzly as his name, runs charter tours on Santa Maria Australis. He bought his first sailboat at 22 and sailed it around the Mediterannean until it was crushed, made money importing and exporting in Germany, and relocated to Chile 15 years ago. His trips are high-octane (kayaking/climbing/scuba) customized adventures to Cape Horn and Antarctica for Europeans with deeeeeep pockets.

These boats, and the others moored at Puerto Williams and Ushuaia, are made for long-term, offshore "cruising." Bart's and Pete's boats, which are sturdy enough for world travel and can comfortably house a few people, are two of the smaller ones. The larger ones, such as Wolf's and Charlie's, are upwards of 70 feet with two masts and covered cockpits. Below deck, they have sleeping space for 8-10 people, at least three bathrooms, common areas for dining and seating, a well-equipped galley for cooking, and storage space for toys, supplies, luggage, and food (boats going to Antarctica are required to have one year's worth of food).

Certain paradoxes infuse the world of sailing and make it all the more intriguing. Hardy, brave, and practical to the core, each and every one of these captains keeps a clean, organized cabin (shoes off before entering) and, while they will face the harshest of elements to bring in a sail or tie down a line, they just as readily expect to enjoy hot tea and a good snack once below deck. They take pride in their adventures, and in being hardcore, but they place an equal premium on class, cleanliness, and comfort. They can be hard-headed, "type A," and narrowly focused on their boats and their journeys. The yacht clubs, however, are places of sharing and cooperation. For example, due to limited dock space boats must moor against each other, three and four deep against the docks. It is thus necessary to walk on other boats to reach your own--just wipe your feet first and nobody minds. Likewise, when you arrive, the crew of the boat you will moor against should be there to help you tie lines. When we arrived, the couple in Kiwi Roa were cooking or sleeping or otherwise unavailable. Bart blew a loud horn to get them out on the boat, and nobody thought twice about it.

The atmosphere is convivial and familial, with captains hosting each other for dinner, swapping stories, sharing weather reports, and generally looking out for one another. The world of ocean cruising seems relatively small, as sailors who have never met can triangulate their relationship to each other with reference to the names of other boats they have encountered in distant ports and anchorages. A kind of self-monitoring membership system exists in that anyone who sails into these docks has done serious ocean crossings and most have been to Antarctica. Necessarily then, each is worthy of the other's respect and trust.

Supporting the captains in these nautical dramas is the crew. Most larger boats, save for the Maltese Falcon, cannot be sailed safely by one person over long distances. Putting up and taking in sails, making repairs on the fly, mooring, night watches for safety, and, for charters, taking care of clients, generally necessitate an extra hand or two. Some boats have regular crews, some pick them up as they go. Some couples, like Pete and Jo, handle the boat themselves, but for longer trips they might also solicit crew members. Some crews get paid while others share expenses with the captain for the privilege of passage. Others sail in something of a volunteer capacity, working for their bunk and food.

Thilo, from Switzerland, is a 23-year old I met in Puerto Williams, and had just crossed the Atlantic on a six-week voyage crewing for a private boat. He had no prior experience sailing and is simply traveling the world like me, but ended up on a fantastic voyage with an old, party-loving German captain, his girlfriend, and two young fellow crew members. They shared cooking duties, night watches, and general work onboard to keep the boat above water and on course, but otherwise had a free, fun, and priceless journey.

Martin, a former geography teacher from Holland, is in Ushuaia trying to score a job as a crew member on one of the Cape Horn or Antarctic charter boats, such as the one Wolf captains. He sailed down from Buenos Aires and is hoping to get around the world by crewing. He worked as a sailing instructor in Holland and knows what he's doing, so thinks he might find a paying gig, at least one that will cover a plane ticket home at some point.

Websites exist that serve to connect those seeking boats with those seeking crews, but the positions offered are usually for "shared expenses" arrangements (expenses include diesel, food, port fees, etc.). The really great trips, on private boats going to fantastic locations, require patience, diligence, and luck. Thilo, for example, spent two months waiting for his lucky day and Martin has spent three months in Ushuaia cultivating relationships with the sailors here. The season does not begin again until late October, so he has to kill time until then.

It appears that I, too, may have a chance to join the company of these modern-day explorers. Charlie Porter invited me to accompany him and his group of scientists on a three-month trip later this year to the islands of South Georgia and Tristan de Cunha. Not set in stone yet, but this is the trip of a lifetime, so I have accepted the offer. Before entering the open Southern Atlantic, however, I need to address a less exciting aspect of sailing and test my resistance to seasickness.

Photos: Carretera Austral, Tierra del Fuego, Isla Navarino

Photos from the last three weeks.  As always, over-captioned for your enjoyment.

Carretera Austral,Tierra del Fuego, and Isla Navarino

If that doesn't work try: http://picasaweb.google.com/JSant27/CarreteraAustralTierraDelFuegoAndIslaNavarino?feat=directlink 

Re: The Docks

I went back to the Docks yesterday and found the mysterious Dutchman with the beautiful sailboat.  After a brief chat, Bart agreed to give me a ride to Puerto Williams, 5 hours across the Beagle Channel.  The trip usually costs $100 for a 20 minutes ride on a small Zodiac motorboat, so I'm pretty proud of having secured such a superior alternative.  Furthermore, due to Chilean territorial ambitions and the arbitrary nature of political boundaries, Puerto Willliams is actually part of Chile's Antarctic claim.  Thus, assuming all goes to plan, on Thursday I will be able to claim having visited all 7 continents (although there will be an asterisk by my name due to the tecnhicality).

Cultural Connections: All your 80s ski wear

Every Southern Chilean town, no matter how small, has at least one shop that sells "Ropa Americana."  These second-hand clothes come by boat from the United States and Canada and are bought up by enterprising merchants throughout Chilean Patagonia.  By the looks of the merchandise, an enterprising exporter in the U.S. or Canadaa buys up a quantity of clothing and then lets it "age" before releasing it to Chilean importers.  Right now, the 1985-1988 vintage is hot.

Chile is home to several super ski resorts, but few of them are in Patagonia.  When it comes to being warm, however, style matters little in this part of the world.  Consequently, what would only pass for ski clothing in the U.S. is everyday wear during frigid Chilean winters.  

I am primarily talking ski bibs.  At some point 10-15 years ago, savvy American skiiers decided that a bib with suspender straps was no longer either necessary or acceptable.  Discovery of the magic of elastic, and the modernization of ski jackets to include advanced features such as powder skirts, ushered in an era of fancy ski "pants" with all sorts of nooks and crannies built-in. A sea change also took place in terms of colors.  Bibs had been available in a veritable neon rainbow of colors, but the era of pants has been dark hued.

The World's carpet littered with bibs, Chile stepped in to vacuum.  If you can handle the color, there are deals to be had.  Having sifted through bins and racks and more bins and racks of neon green and fuschia, I am convinced that we made a mistake.  The only thing that has stopped me from buying 13 neon ski bibs (most with polyster inlaid somewhere) is the size of my bag.  These bibs are national treasures, and I plan to start a business exporting the imports back to the U.S. Note the superman suit below, one of my personal favorites.

The Docks

Greg is from Vancouver, but left five years ago to sail around the world.  He looks about 65.  He told me he bought his first sailboat before I was born, and is on his third.  His wife is with him for a couple of months but will return to Canada in August.  I asked him if I could hitch a ride to Puerto Williams, a Chilean settlement that is the actual Southernmost town in the world.  Trying to be polite but trying to say no, he explained that there is not much space and if the weather is bad he may have to anchor somewhere for several days, in which case I would be stuck with them.  "I can handle that," I said desperately.  "Well," he stuttered, "what I really mean is we would be stuck with you."  

No hard feelings, we continued chatting for a while.  He had crossed the Pacific Ocean from French Polynesia to Chile and is now rounding the Southern tip on his way to the Falkland Islands and then up to Buenos Aires to have some repairs done.  I was curious about Antarctica seeing how Ushuaia is fewer than 700 miles from the polar continent.  "In my younger days I was ballsy," he explained, "but now I'm more careful and the ice just makes me nervous."

I was at the docks with some fellow travelers, Enrico and Casey, looking for a cheaper alternative to the sightseeing trips that take tourists around the Channel.  The city has a dock where people can pay to anchor as they  pass through.  The "club" also has a kitchen, bathrooms, and lounge facilities.  We found a man on shore who said to just go ask around the boats.  Somehow feeling that we were trespassing, we tiptoed onto the docks, marveling at the array of sailboats.  Some were old and basic, some were new and fancy, but all gave the impression that they had known wondrous voyages.

After our chat, Greg told me to check with a Dutchman moored nearby, who has a large, beautiful sailboat all to himself.  To get to the boat I had to walk on another.  It belongs to a French guy and is chartered for 25 day trips to Antarctica.  After a few timid attempts at "hello?", I decided nobody was home and skittered back to the dock.  

We spoke with a local man who keeps a small sailboat at the club.  We told him we wanted to just take a spin around the channel, maybe see the local penguin colony.  He pulled on his cigarette, looking a bit disgusted by our ignorance and a bit confused as to why we did not just go to the tourist agency.  "There aren't any penguins," he said, squinting through his own smoke.  He lightened up after that with some joke about how they didn't like the cold, and suggested we ask Mickey, who goes to Puerto Williams and Cape Horn.  

We couldn't find Mickey, so we took our by then well-practiced query to a sailor on one of the tourist boats.  He had a perfectly formed, silver handlebar moustache and hunched down in his coat as he smoked.  Openly pessimistic about our prospects, he pulled out a cellphone, saying he knew of one person that might help us.  Phone to his ear, we saw his eyes light up as the line connected. "Mickey?!" we heard him say.

After some hefty laughs, a brief explanation of our situation, and friendly banter we didn't understand, he passed the phone to Enrico.  Enrico told him we had heard he might be going to Cape Horn and that we would love to come along if possible.  Casey and I listened with glee as we heard Enrico answer that, yes, we did have raingear, warm clothing, and shoes.  We were convinced we had just scored a free trip to Cape Horn--surely such details would only be discussed at the conclusion of a successful call.  Then we heard Enrico say "1500 dollars?" and sank back to Earth.

The captain of the Antarctic-bound charter boat, a French expat, emerged at that point, and I asked him if he knew anyone going to Puerto Williams.  "This is a really bad time," he explained, with a touch of condescension.  "There are not many people going and you may get stuck."  After a bit of an awkward conversation in which he presented problems which I insisted didn't bother me, he suggested I call Wolf, who would be going in a few days. Thrilled, I waited giddily for the number and off we went.  Wolf's wife Jeanette was lovely on the phone as she explained that yes Wolf would be going soon and could take me, but that he might stay for a week.  "No problem," I answered.  She went on to mention that the cost would be $100 each way.  Too expensive, another defeat.

Our mission, though unsuccessful in terms of finding a cheap excursion, was nevertheless encouraging.  What I learned is that private boats come in and out of the docks going in all directions, and that most of the sailors are happy to talk with visitors.  People like Greg, for example, are also travelers and are not out to gouge anyone.  I am convinced that, if I keep trying, I'll meet someone looking for help or even just company.  If I do meet that person, regardless of where the boat is going, I'm getting on.

People: The Cyclists

Ushuaia, because of its generally accepted status as "Southernmost City in the World," attracts travelers with pretty amazing itineraries.  I have met two cyclists here whose trips blew my mind:

Daniel is about 40 years old, from the province of Buenos Aires, and works in the family business selling bicycle equipment.  He is going to bicycle all the way from Ushuaia to the Northern reaches of Alaska on a trip that will last more than one year, and has been ten years in the planning.  His budget is 25000 pesos, which comes to about 6,600 USD.  He also spent about 15000 pesos on his gear (about 4000 USD), which includes a bike, a trailer, and good camping gear.  In 2001 he cycled the whole of Argentina, from North to South, but his family thinks he is too old for this trip.  

Jaffie is 24 and from Nepal.  A UCLA graduate in Anthropology, he has spent the past 20 months cycling through the Americas.  He ran out of money in Ecuador, and has since earned money writing the occasional travel article, working odd jobs, or selling musical equipment he left back home.  A girl in Costa Rica pitied him after he was robbed and he ended up staying in her house for a month.  A police officer in Bolivia helped him cross the border illegally to avoid paying a visa fee.  

Having seen the mania that is the Central American highways, I asked them if they feared getting hit. Both downplayed the danger and have covered thousands and thousands of accident-free kilometers.  Daniel uses a small mirror to monitor oncoming traffic.  Jaffie pointed out that on long stretches of road in Latin America, most of the traffic is commercial trucks with professional drivers.     

Los Antiguos Border Crossing

The border towns of Chile Chico (Chile) and Los Antiguous (Argentina) face off somewhere between Northern and Southern Patagonia.  Both have beautiful surroundings and small town charm, but serve mainly as gateway cities.  I spent a lovely evening in Chile Chico, chatting with the senora of the hospedaje, a city councilwoman and ardent socialist, before boarding a morning mini-bus for Los Antiguos.  On the way I chatted with a local guy who was crossing over to shop for flour and other supplies in Argentina--its much cheaper there.  He asked about typical salaries in the U.S., the cost of my North Face jacket, and, with a look that said he would be very sensitive to my answer, my opinion of Chile.  I evaded the last question, explaining that much of my time in Chile had been on the "campo" with foreigners.

Chile bid me adieu with no problems.  Argentina stamped me through and bid me good trip.  As I walked back to the mini-bus, however, the driver called me back.

"Oye," he called. "There is a new woman here who wants to check your bag.  Usually they don't ask but she's new..."

"No problem," I said, hefting my backpack, which is by now a delicately packed behemoth, into the customs office.  I had a few apples and a cucumber and said so immediately, not wanting to appear evasive and knowing they would not be allowed.  Head's shook: "We have a plague of apples right now."  Oops.  Argentina, unlike Chile, does not fine for such indiscretion, but they certainly wag their fingers at you.

The real problem was the pills.  My dopkit is full of them.  When I left I took about 60 ibuprofen out of a large bottle and put them in a clear ziplock.  I didn't anticipate a problem but now it is clear to me why it might not be a great idea.  This anonymous, suspicious baggie full of Argentina-knows-what lent a certain suspiciousness to everything else: the bottle of tylenol, the ziplock full of antibiotics, the generic Mexican stomach meds, the multi-vitamins!  That and sheer quantity.  Several times I heard other guards ask the bag-searcher how many pills I had, obviously implying that if there were few, it would not be a problem.  Her pained response, after a sigh, was "there are lots."  

These two poor customs women, I'll call them Stickler and Amenable, were flummoxed.  Pills abound and no way to identify them, and now a smug backpacker on his way to irate, indignant that his well-traveled pills would meet their fate in this forgotten backwater of a border town.  I insisted that I was not parting with anything unless they could show me the written law. Amenable seemed to understand my displeasure and sought to ameliorate it, calling other offices for clarification on the rules and advice on this situation.  

Meanwhile Stickler proceeded to dismantle the whole of my luggage.  She held at arms length, pinched between the tips of cautious, condescending fingers, my collection of plastic baggies, my scraps of newspaper, my pieces of string, my packets of soup, my Argentine Playboy magazine (traded for my last New Yorker in a hostel, but just for language practice).  I curtly identified each item, lingering close, exuding distrust.

My driver had already left once to take the other passengers across the border and returned to get me when I realized I had been at this border station for almost 2 hours.  While Stickler insisted that I could not bring any medicine into the country Amenable was attempting to identify the mystery pills.  There seemed to be a lack of agreement in policy.  Despite the initial statement that transporting meds was not allowed, full stop, they were allowing me to keep the seemingly more "heavy" amoxicillin.  Also, despite their contention that the ibuprofen was a problem because it was "loose" and unidentifiable, they did not have a problem with the open bottles of Tylenol and vitamins, nor with the several blue Advil PM (if anything the most dangerous of all) floating loosely in the dopkit itself.  

Seeing the hour, I pleaded, although not desperately, that I did not have time, that I had a bus to catch and did not want to hold my driver any longer.  Still, I had to wait.  I realized that Amenable was trying to form a collective identity between us all, trying to foster a sense that all of us in that amateurish border station were in it together against the larger Argentine bureaucracy.  I wasn't having that bullshit and maintained my emotional distance.  She said we had to wait for a call from some other office, and offered me a smoke in the meantime.  I coldly refused.  

The much anticipated phone call was of no help, and at this point ouAmenable informed me, with complete apology, that she was going to the local hospital to see if they could identify the pills.  I threw up my hands and almost screamed, completely amazed at the ridiculousness of the situation, and tried once more to say, I give up, let's pretend I never protested and you can have all my pills.  "I can't," she lamented, "now we have to find out what this is."

I knew the driver was losing money--all he does is go back and forth with border-crossing passengers all day at frequent intervals--so I told him he could leave.  He accepted my offer, kindly explaining how I could walk across the border and into Los Antiguos, and then, ever so sheepishly, told me he still had to charge me.  "It wasn't my fault," he said with a shrug and some sort of squishing up of his face that was meant to convey sympathy.  He had been nice to wait this long, but I was still a bit hurt by the desertion.

Amenable came back from the hospital with no luck and said they had to keep trying.  Stickler sat at her computer, having been silent for quite some time.  I could tell she felt bad about having launched this fool's crusade and, to augment her regret, I subtly played the part of dejected and persecuted innocent, far from home and all alone in an unforgiving place. 

In fact, the place was supremely pleasant, and if I had to be stuck at a border crossing I could have done worse.  Warm, with beautiful views of the Patagonian steppes through plentiful windows, I was quite comfortable and did not at all feel threatened.  Having made my traveler's rights stand and having tired of doing so, I decided to read my book and wait it out in peace. Thirty minutes later my allied official waved me outside and said, "ok, we're done."  When I asked what had changed she answered "nothing."  She explained that they still could not identify the pills, but neither could they continue to hold me.  

To top off the weirdness of it all, she offered me a ride to town in the customs department car, which I heartily accepted.  She explained the recent problems they had been having with drugs, I explained that, traveling for an extended period of time, I had to be vigilant about my stuff. She said sorry, I said sorry, we chatted about this and that, I made it in time for the next bus South. I lost two apples, a cucumber, and more than 60 ibuprofens.  Having made it across with the rest, I call it a victory.

Photos: Cagalandia

This is a well-captioned set of photos that should explain a lot about the "farm" I worked on in Chile.

http://picasaweb.google.com/JSant27/2009TravelsCagalandia#