Haukur Sigurðsson

A quick interlude...

A lot of people have been sending me compliments about the photos I post on here. It should be known that I did not take these photos, I just do the writing. 99% of the pictures you see on this blog are taken by Haukur Sigurðsson, our little blonde photographer. Haukur is truly gifted with his lens and has the eye of a professional. If you want to check out more of his stuff go to his Flickr site. It´s amazing work.

-Chris

El Bolsón

Pétur?

Pétur didn´t arrive to El Bolsón until the next night.

He, like us, had no luck in Tecka, only he got tired of waiting and left the town on foot. By the time Haukur and I passed him he had already walked several kilometers.

Eight hours of walking and still nothing. Frustrated and exausted, he saw some Ostrich-like birds in the distance and gave up trying to get a ride to chase them down for a shot.

Night came. He had a tent, food, and a camp stove. Haukur had the pot. For Pétur this was only a minor problem. He found a rusty tin can on the side of the road and cooked his dinner in it. A hearty hobo meal and a day in the sun had left him wiped out. He slept like a baby amongst the desert brush.

It was another five hours of walking the next day. Finally, a Chilean traveling from Punta Arenas to Santiago stopped. There was already two hitchhikers, also from Chile, in the cab who played bongos and made bracelts for Pétur as they made their way down the road. They were obviously heading for El Bolsón as well.

Haukur and I, while Pétur was stuck in the desert, were laying in the grass in El Bolsón eating waffles, drinking artesenal beer, and talking to beautiful hippie girls. We had to arrainged to meet in the plaza and when the sun started to go down we began to worry. We were heading back to camp when a band preforming on the street caught our eye. We stopped to listen when, walking in front of the band, Pétur appeared. High-fives, stories, and bed. We did it.

The 40 Day Seven

I hate Tecka. If there exists a Heaven and a Hell, Tecka would be Purgatory.

We were set up opposite of the gas station. It´s not like there wasn´t traffic, there was more than we had come across the whole trip, but no one would stop for us. We decided to split up to increase our chances. We sent Pétur, who knew about five and a half words in Spanish, to the edge of town on his own.

Haukur and I waited another two hours. Finally, I walked across the Route to the gas station, sat down, put the Ruta 40 Norte sign at my feet and pulled out my guitar. Still nothing.

At 4 p.m. another hitcher was dropped off, heading the same direction as us. Lucas was from La Plata and came to El Bolsón during the summer to sell hats he made in the fair. Haukur and I talked. No luck and now more people. We decided to check if we could get a bus. Thankfully, at that moment, a pickup stopped. Lucas hopped in the back with us and we left that god-forsaken town.

There was no sign of Pétur as we entered the open road so we assumed he had been picked up. We were relieved. Fifteen minutes later we flew past a figure on the Route. ¨Pétur!¨ By the time we realized it was him it was too late, he was gone. He would have to take care of himself.

The pickup dropped us off at an intersection. 10 kilometers to our west was Esquel and 151 kilometers north was our goal, El Bolsón. The sun was starting to go down. Lucas got tired of waiting, he had friends in Esquel and figured it best to walk into the city for the night. He invited us along but Haukur and I wanted to stay and stick out the evening, we were too close to backtrack.

I had started to gather wood to make a fire for the night when I heard a screeching and saw a little Toyota Yaris pull off the road. Before we knew it the trunk was popped open and a very exited European was throwing our packs into the back.

"Hold on man, are you going to El Bolsón?"

"Yes, yes," in heavily accented English, "El Bolsón, Bariloche, all of it! Let´s go, let´s go, let´s go!"

The driver, a Belgian, was accompanied by his lover, the erection inducing Suzanne from Switzerland. They had met the previous week on the road. The car they had rented from a Chilean police officer. In three days Suzanne had to catch a flight out of Santiago, Chile, and if they aren´t dead, then I guarentee she made her flight.

There were two empty beer cans in the cupholders up front. Suzanne turned around, "I´m sorry, we have a bottle of wine but no bottle opener."

"I have one," I blurted. Thinking before I speak is sometimes a foreign concept to me.

"Ah, bueno!" replied our driver, "it´s warm but it will do!"

Wait. Our driver wanted to drink it too? Thankfully as that realization came to me the cork broke. They would have to wait till later for the wine.

The Belgian flew down the road. 160, 180, 190, 200 kilometers an hour. He exceeded the spedometer. I looked at Haukur, "I´m seriously scared right now, dude." He didn´t even look at me, he simply wiped his palm on the back of my hand. It was soaked.

I now have scientific proof that hot girls love dangerous guys. Everytime the Belgian would weave in and out of traffic, barely missing the cars, Suzanne would squeeze his leg and smile. We stopped at a gas station. They got out of the car and ate each others faces. If they could´ve, the probably would have fucked right then and there. The gas station had no gas. It did have beer though. They bought two liters. Brilliant.

Our captain chugged the beer as we sped through the mountain pass. When the bottle came back to Haukur and I we pounded as much as possible. The more we drank, the less the Belgian could.

We made it to El Bolsón, 151 kilometers, in less than an hour. I kissed the ground at my feet. Hakur and I celebrated our survival with a dinner of salami sandwiches and beer that we ate on the ground next to the supermarket. We were exausted. We didn´t even bother looking for a campsite, behind the store would do. At the back of the building we we got in our sleeping bags and passed out.

7 days and 1500 kilometers. Mission complete.

Almost.

The 40 Day Six

To our utter dismay, horses were completely our of our budget range. The dream was crushed, we had to move on.

All of the luck we had in the beginning of our trip was gone. We set up at the edge of town, taking turns between extending our thumbs and hiding from the Patagonian wind. Eight hours later, an old beat up sedan stopped in from of us. Horacio, 60, had spend the weekend drinking at the festival. His eyes were glazed over and there were empty bottles of Quilmes on the floor. He was hammered. At this point we didn´t care, we had to get out of that town.

We chugged along at 40 kilometers and hour, other cars honked as they blew by us. Horacio told us why Brazilian and Paraguayan women are better than ¨those Argentine bitches¨while he tried to keep his car on the road. He only took us 10 kilometers, but progress is progress.

Shortly thereafter we, as always, hopped in the back of a pickup and went onto the next town.

Tecka is essentially the gas station that everyone stops at on their way through. The sun went down without a ride. We unrolled our sleeping bags on the side of the Route and slept in the dirt under a clear sky.

The 40 Day Five

Two gauchos in an old Ford pickup pulled over. There was a mattress in the truck bed which made for a perfect afternoon nap. They were headed for the small town of Gobernador Costa.

When Haukur and I started talking about our trip back in September we had one goal in mind, buy horses. We wanted to cross the desert on horseback. It was all we could talk about. Pulling into Gobernador Costa there was police directing traffic. The town was in the second day of the Festival Provincial del Caballo (The Provincial Horse Festival). Our dreams had come true. Every gaucho and his horse in the province of Chubut had come to participate.

We would inquire about the horses, but the smell of asado and the rumbling in our bellies took priority. Walking through the crowd, following our noses, the attention of the people left the horses and was fixed on the three dirty travelers. Gobernador Costa is the furthest thing from a tourist attraction.

Surrounding the horse ring were un montón of little stands where the locals prepared food. We found an establishment with a little squat Argentine woman roasting lamb on the parilla. The meat melted in our mouths. We devoured a whole leg each. Stuffed to the brim, we asked our proprietor if we could leave our backpacks in her stand while we explored the festival. She did us one better and offered it to us for the night.

The festival was an Argentine Rodeo. We watched on as the gauchos, in their elaborate outfits, rode the bucking broncos with the occasional interuption from an ambulance.

The gaucho, Argentina´s cowboy, lives in a man´s world. They ride horses, eat meat, and drink beer until they can´t walk straight. I don´t know who is tougher, the American cowboy or the Argentine gaucho, but the gauchos certainly have more style. In town that evening the three of us stopped into a local pool bar. There was not a woman in sight. It was filled with the participants of the festivities, in full attire, from the young gaucho to the old, for the sons and fathers do everything equally.

Returning later to our home for the evening we found the whole family gathered around the parilla. The father, a short man with a waddle and a warm smile, insisted on serving us choripan and beer to the displeasure of Haukur´s already irregular bowel movements.

The 40 Day Four

The police at the edge of town took our information, ¨Por las dudas,¨ as if we were another car driving through. The Argentines think we are crazy. Hours passed. We decided to walk.














After some kilometers a worker from Comodoro Rivadavia, who liked to smoke cigarettes with the windows up, allowed us into his truck. He had been stationed in the Islas Malvinas, not the Falkland Islands, during the war. His bitterness had not yet faded for the Argentine government. He did have a kind heart though, and took a longer route home to assist us on our journey.

There was a river, Rio Senguer, that the locals liked to camp by in the summer. It flowed under the Route and our driver dropped us off on the bridge. We slept under it. We offered our neighbors, a Chilean family, a spot by the fire. The didn´t join us, but thanked us for the invitation with a bottle of wine.

The 40 Day Three

My little tent couldn´t take it. The rain wouldn´t cease. Jonas left early to try his luck . We knew better than to waste our time in the storm. No one would pick up three dirty, soaking wet locos with backpacks. We found a cheap cabin to pass the day and dry our things.

The 40 Day Two

Over breakfast we met Juan, the homeless singer who hails from Spain. He wanted nothing more than companionship and could still carry a tune.

The Route continued outside of town. We hiked past the run down homes and sheep as the people wondered what the gringos with huge backpacks were doing in their little community.

It only took ten minutes. A Chilean with a new Ford pickup stopped and we went with him 400 kilometers to the town of Perito Moreno. The Chilean was a man of few words. The day was spent watching the desert pass by.












The campground in town was fifteen pesos a person so we walked out to the desert where we could sleep for free. Jonas, a 22 year old German we had met in El Chaltén, was at the edge of town trying to hitch. It was getting late and we invited him to camp with us for the night. He willingly accepted. He had no more clothes that those that were on his body, no tent, nor sleeping bag. In fact all that he did have in his backpack was a box of wine, some bread, and a little cheese.

Pétur tried to interview him for the film.
¨Jonas, what are you doing on your travels?¨
¨... I don´t want to be on film because I´m going to kill you,¨ he said in a German accent, followed by a pause a little too long for my comfort, ¨no, I´m kidding I came to see the Andes.¨

Jonas prefered to sleep by the fire. Rain came. He had nothing to cover himself. Haukur and Pétur were already in Haukur´s tent, leaving the only option mine. Jonas squeezed into my one man temporary home. Between the two of us, and our packs, we were quite cozy. I spent the night spooning the German.

The 40 Day One

We stocked up with enough food and water for a nuclear war, not having any idea of how long we would be stuck in the desert. Our thumbs were oustretched by 9 am. I read half of my book that day. At 5 pm we were listening to some French guys tell us how impossible it was to hitch on the 40 when, to their dismay, a car pulled over and we headed out of town. We were elated. Our driver said he would take us 90 kilometers to the first intersection. We even picked up two other kids from Buenos Aires on the way who had got fed up waiting and left El Chaltén on foot. Stuffed in the back of the van we compared road stories before splitting, them going South with the driver. We didn´t even get the chance to put our bags down when a small tour bus who had seen us in town stopped and took us the remaining 30 kilometers to the beginning of the dusty Route 40.

Hours passed. We read, juggled rocks, made up stupid games, and napped. Three cars drove by, one every hour. Finally, a bus stopped. Not to pick us up, no, it was dropping off three more Argentine hitchhikers. Two guys and a girl. Competition was not something we needed with such scarce traffic.

There was a small town a couple of kilometers away and, it already being late evening, the Argentines were going to walk in to get some wine for the night. Haukur, already resigned to the fact that we were gonna sleep on the side of the road, gave them 10 pesos so they could buy wine for us as well.

We never got the wine. As soon as our new companions were out of view a pickup stopped in front of us. They were going to Gobernador Gregores, 150 kilometers away, and we could sit in the back if we wanted.













We watched the sun go down over the Patagonian steppe from the truck bed. After it was gone the wind froze us to the bone and we huddled together to keep warm.

We hopped out in Gobernador Gregores around midnight. I thought my legs would never warm up. It took a jog down the block and back to get my teeth to stop chattering. But we made it, almost 300 kilometers in one day. We found the municipal campground was free and fell asleep as soon as the tents were up.

The 40

Our next destination was El Bolsón, 1500 kilometers away along the unpaved Ruta Nacional 40. The 40 is a legend in Argentina, comparable to Route 66 in the States. It is hundreds of kilometers of dirt road from town to town, and the only thing one finds between them is beating wind and the occasional Guanaco. We had to hitch it. They said it was impossible due to the huge distances and the small number vehicles that pass through. We set out from El Chaltén on the 3rd of February and arrived in the hippie capital of Argentina a week later, dirty, exausted, and sucessful. Nothing is impossible.

El Chaltén

Located inside the northern part of Parque Nacional Los Glaciares, El Chaltén is the ¨Trekking Capital of the Nation.¨ The town itself is only 24 years old, with a population of 600, and is dedicated to the swarm of people that come to spend their summer hiking and climbing in an adventurer´s paradise.

Haukur, Pétur, and myself are not what you would call ambitious travelers. We like to find nice spots and spend our days relaxing, doing stupid things, and have a good time with minimal effort. We were the only idiots in El Chaltén. Scarlett, however, was in heaven with all the extremely active people that devoured the trials by the day.

We did do some work. We hiked to Lago Torre, and spent two days there at a campsite at the base of a glacier. Above this glacier is the 3000 meter high spine of Cerro Torre, one of the most difficult climbs in the world. The campsite consisted of Scarlett, us, and 100 world class climers that spend whole summers there waiting for clear weather to conquer the peak. It´s a two day climb and they have to pass one night on the side of the rock face, thousands of feet in the air on a two foot ledge, to reach the top.

To the frustration of Scarlett´s ceaseless energy, we had no desire to hike to other sites and she left us on the second day. My Nordic teammates wanted to stay so they could jump off the glacier into the lake.

I watched on as they debated the safety of a 25 meter drop into shock-inducing water. To my relief, I was spared the work of having to hike back to town for a med-evac team. I will give them credit for the 15 second swim they took in the lake to make up for it. Though, the cold did make them scream like little girls.

Back in town there was an annual bouldering festival and the climbing junkies came out in multitudes. There was a slack line competition, reggae bands, and marijuana in the air. Somewhere along the line the climbing and hippie communities had melded into one. It was the first night on our trip that we got drunk and, stumbling back to our tents, we passed out while staring at the stars.

El Calafate

El Calafate is a heavily visited town due to the tourism of Parque Nacional Los Glaciares and it´s monument of glory, the enormous Perito Moreno glacier. The only glacier that is, to this day, still advancing.

My Icelandic companions couldn´t have given a shit less. They have glaciers in their backyards. I, on the other hand, could not leave without seeing it, and Marina wanted to go as well. We decided to split up. Scarlett, who had already seen the park, and the boys would head on to El Chaltén and Marina and I would catch up with them later.

My companion, in accordance of all Argentine women, was petite, with dark hair and olive skin, so we decided to use her femininity to our advantage to hitch to the park, a mere 70 kilometers away. Easier said than done. The traffic was light, and most that passed were tour busses. After three hours I took over the thumb and with my dashing good looks we were picked up shortly. Our drivers were an English couple who told me about the future role of America and how global warming is a corporate scam.

They were kind enough to leave us at the enterance of the park. The glacier itself was still too far off to walk and we were fortunate to get a ride fairly quickly with Gustavo and his beautiful girlfriend from Cordoba, Eugenia.

The Perito Moreno Glacier is an immense living creature. Not only is it massive in size; for it requires the whole of your peripheral; but the sounds that come from the ever growing beast fill the cold air coming off the ice. A large piece would break off occasionally and, falling into the water, the sound was as if a demolition crew were tearing down a city block.

Gustavo and Eugenia were leaving at the same time as us and invited us back into their car. We drank maté, stopped by Punta Bandera for fotos and chatted the afternoon away by the water. We couldn´t have been picked up by more wonderful people.

They left us in town, but it was getting late and we would have to spend another night in El Calafate. Our friends were not at the campsite from the night before, so we assumed they had made it to El Chaltén. We weren´t going to pay for accomodations just to get a couple of hours of shut eye, so after a beer we decided to sleep in the bus station. Unfortunately, there was a little boy in an army outfit with a walkie-talkie who liked his power a little too much to let us sleep at the station. It was past midnight and we were exausted.

In the main square there was a church with open doors. We went in, curled up in a corner, and slept. They can´t kick you out of the house of the Lord, right?

The Border

We thanked Eduardo for the advice by staying at his place upon our return. Fully rested, our next mission was to cross the border back into Argentina and get to El Calafate.

The border was only about 60 kilometers away, and we hitched a ride to Chilean customs without much trouble. The border itself, to cross into Argentina was another eight kilometers on, following a dirt road of no man´s land between the two countries. There was little traffic so we walked it. Only four cars passed the whole two hour trek and our optimisim was dropping as we crossed the desert plains. Getting to El Calafate proved to be a little more difficult than we had predicted.

We got stuck on the border.

No one would give us a ride. Every vehicle that came through was either full with a family or a tourist bus whose driver wouldn´t even consider letting us on. At ten P.M. the border closed.

Martin, one of the National Guard members posted on the border, had come outside a couple of times to hang out with us over the course of the hours that we spent there. He thought we were crazy and loved the company, being stuck in the middle of nowhere for a month at a time. When the border closed he offered us the abandoned building next door to sleep for the night.

There were old matresses, a fire pit to cook on, and best of all, beer given to us from the Argentine National Guard to help pass the night. We were warm, full bellied, and out of the neverending Patagonian wind.













We wrote Martin and the guys a recomendation for the thier hospitality and got a ride on the first bus in the morning, convincing the driver to take us for half the price. It just so happened that it was the same bus that Scarlett and her new Argentine friend, Marina, were on. We became five and went on to El Calafate.