Ushuaia, as seen from a boat that may or may not be headed to Antarctica

Ushuaia - pronounced “oosh-WHY-uh”.  Alleged southernmost city in the world.

Puerto Williams in Chile argues this claim, but Ushuaia is at the very least the southernmost place where you can visit a casino and a strip club in the same night without walking more than three blocks.  Also, Puerto Williams has a population of around 2000, and Chile itself defines “city” as “an urban entity with more than 5000 residents,” which means they are the clear loser here by their own wording.  Unfortunately, this battle over nomenclature is an ongoing source of strife between the two countries, as Argentina makes it difficult for ships and services to reach Puerto Williams, strictly to hinder the growth of a potential rival in the quest to be “southernmost.”

Sunrise from the window of the plane, minutes from landing in Ushuaia

From the t-shirts, signs and other assorted tourist kitsch, Ushuaia clearly gets off on being called “The End of the World,” though upon stating that’s where I was on facebook, responses made it seem as though friends thought I was experiencing some sort of existential crisis.  A series of ice-capped mountains trail off into hills that eventually drop off into the sea, with the large town of Ushuaia rolling down the slope to the water’s edge.  A large port made up of equal parts cargo ships and luxury cruise vessels spreads out at the bottom of the city into the Beagle Channel, which is the body of water connecting the city to the meeting point of the two massive oceans.

After being “discovered” by Captain FitzRoy of the HMS Beagle in the late nineteenth century, a township was established which later led to the construction of the city’s infamous prison.  Using Britain’s knack for sending dangerous convicts to as remote and inescapable a place as possible (see: Australia), Argentina established the jail in Ushuaia because it was at the southernmost tip of the island of Tierra del Fuego.  As they were now forced colonists, the prisoners spent their days chopping wood, building most of the early structures in the town as well as the End of the World Railway, which still operates today for train afficianados.  Not being one myself, I opted out of the ride.

The tall mountains of the Martial mountain range frame the city on all sides but the one perched over the Beagle Channel

Being the only significant port city in the south where Atlantic meets Pacific, it remains a major stopping point for vessels traversing between the two oceans, despite losing a great deal of business when the Panama Canal opened.  Unlike Puerto Williams, Ushuaia and its 64,000 inhabitants are undeniably a city, with fully functional airports, hospitals, school systems, mass transit and all the other fun benefits and pitfalls that come with city-dom.  It’s also the capital of Tierra del Fuego (literally “Land of Fire”), the large island south of the Strait of Magellan that, despite being surrounded on all sides by Chilean territory is considered part of Argentina.  Its separation from the Argentinian mainland stands out a bit on South American maps, but no moreso than Alaska’s does in maps of the United States.

In addition, Ushuaia is the name of the ship (the MV Ushuaia) that will be taking me to Antarctica, thus giving me a reason to be this far south (over 1000 kilometers more south than the tip of Africa) in the first place.  Planning out this marginally epic trip over half a year ago, it was uncertain which March cruise I would be able to secure a spot on, so I went ahead and gave myself the whole month to explore down here.  It’s Patagonia, after all, and if it’s scenic enough to inspire a line of international outdoor-wear, there should be enough ways to fill a couple weeks.  I’d only just flown in from Buenos Aires, where I’d spent the night at the airport passing through from Sao Paolo.  Arriving at eight at night, only to depart at five the following morning left little time for urban exploration.

San Martin, the equivalent of Main Street.

Dense, red wooden beams line the ceiling of the airport giving it the appearance of a ski lodge — an image that seems to be embraced throughout the town.  Main street, filled with fancy restaurants, travel guides and ski/snowboard supply stores could be mistaken for being found in any upscale Colorado ski town.  Glacier Martial overlooks the town from nearly any vantage point, a permanent blanket of ice over one of the largest mountains bordering the small city.  Year round, a chair-life brings tourists up to the glacier, though serves skiiers more in the winter months (May-October), despite there being only a single, marginally interesting trail descending from the primarily forest-covered slope.  A far more interesting and diverse mountain for winter sports lies about ten minutes outside of town, though remains closed down entirely during the warm season (which March occasionally teeters frigidly on the edge of).

The Hostel at the End of the World

Several nights into the Freestyle Hostel, I wake to a British girl complaining about the bass-heavy, all-night dance party that permeated the door of our room and prevented her from more than cursory sleep interludes.  From my perspective, it’s a downside to a hostel with some of the best personality of any that I’ve stayed at thus far in my journey.  Though upon returning to the hostel several weeks later, I opt out of the notorious “room #3″ which receives the brunt of any late night festivity’s overlapping.

My friend Patrick torments Rasta-Max while he works.

“Hey.  Hey.  Check out this lighter.  It’s, uh, cool.  The flame is green.  Go ahead,” implores the imposing figure with a long beard and dreadlocks swinging down far below his shoulders.  His accent is Argentinian, but the cadence takes on a slight Jamaican flair.  Or maybe it’s just what in the States would be called “the stoner accent” applied over standard Argentinian English.

“But Rasta-Max, it’s just going to electrocute me like your gum did the other day.“  It didn’t even look like a real pack of gum, though admittedly I expected more of a mousetrap style of accidental self-torture than the surprisingly potent electric jolt it supplied.

“Hey.  No.  This is good.  Check it out.”  His hand has been making a steady offering gesture towards me with the implement of pain loosely disguised as a lighter.  Bulky as he is, “bear-like” is a perfectly valid descriptor for Rasta-Max, though his penchant for hugging everyone that walks into the hostel and a steady grin that comes off as warm and genuine despite his occasional electric torment of clientele limits him to the realm of the “teddy” or “panda” varieties.

Antarctic cruise ships, freshly returned from the seventh continent or preparing to depart

“Will it make you really happy if I use your lighter?” I sigh.  A crowd of newcomers has now gathered around expectantly.

“You–” he breaks off into a slight snicker.  “You love it.  It’s green.”

“Ok, Rasta-Max.  Fine—AHHFUCKGGGT!“  The faux lighter drops involuntarily to the floor as my hand seizes up in a jolt of temporary, localized paralysis that includes much of my forearm.  Despite full awareness of the punishment that was to come, I was unprepared for the strength of the burst.

“Are you happy now, Rasta-Max?” I ask.

He picks up two pieces of metal from the ground with a slight frown.

“Aww,” he says sadly, walking back to his desk.  “You broke it.”

The dining area is small, but has that undefinable property that quickly brings travelers together.  Many comment on this over the course of my stay — that Freestyle is undeniably a “social hostel” — though we fail to put into words precisely what causes this phenomenon.  On paper, it’s no different from many other hostels I’ve stayed at, but has a definite life and character to it that transcend the sum of its parts.

“I got here three weeks ago and just haven’t been able to leave.  This is probably my favorite hostel I’ve been to in South America,” an Irishman tells me.  His opinion has to be taken with a grain of salt, though, as this is the same person that arrogantly told my similarly Irish friend “you know, you’re the only Irish person I’ve met around here that’s as interesting as me…”

A group of us — equal parts male and female — are eating dinner together when a girl suggests checking out the town’s strip club.

“Which one?” I ask.

“There’s more than the one?” she asks.

“There are three,” someone says.

“Four,” I correct.

“You really know your strip clubs…” someone directs at me.

“Look, the tourist section of town is small.  It’s hard to miss giant billboards of slutty, near-naked Argentinian women over seedy, windowless buildings.”

From the sidelines, a long-haired child of about five that we assume to be a girl walks up to us and presents the entire group with a pair of emphatic middle fingers and a tremendous grin.  Most of the group laughs.

“I just can’t find this funny,” says an American woman.  “I’m a teacher back in the States and this is just the worst kind of behavior to encourage in kids this young.

“Hey, what are you guys doing with my son,” Rasta-Max yells at us from behind the counter.  The boy quickly runs away from us and back towards Rasta-Max.

The city, as seen from above

A plan has been in the works all evening  to check out the city’s lone dance club, but like most clubs in Argentina, it won’t get interesting until around two in the morning (going on until around seven) and we’ve now come up with an interesting way to kill an hour before dancing.  A pink palace sits four blocks from the Freestyle with non-functional windows and a sign in English proclaiming it to be a “men’s club.”

“Is this a strip club?” someone asks.

“I think so,” I say.  “Between being listed as a ‘Gentlemans Club’ and the two fat, rounded palace spires on the roof that are clearly meant to be giant tits, I’d be surprised to find a family restaurant inside.”

I lead the way into a dark, smoky room comprised of an L-shaped bar taking up two walls, while dark, mismatched sofas line the remaining walls of the small room.  My entrance breaks up a conversation between a stout, muscular man behind the bar and two women leaning slightly against it that quickly bolt upright upon noticing me.  Only women sit upon the sofas, and they all adjust their postures and stare at the newly entered group intently.

“This is a whorehouse,” one of our group says to the entire room.  Those in the doorway immediately shuffle back out without even glancing inside, leaving me furthest in the brothel as everyone else makes a quick exit.

“So..,” I say to the bartender.  “Well, thanks anyway.”  I make a halfhearted wave and turn around.  His impassive stare sits latched on me, unchanging, as I uncomfortably follow suit behind the others.  Two of the other strip clubs are closed, including one whose prominent billboard proclaims it to be a “Nihgt Club,” leaving us but one option.  A small wooden stage along one side of the room has a single topless occupant, not dancing so much as talking to two cheaply-dressed men that don’t appear to be tourists.

“NO!” a short, older man with a mustache barks as he walks briskly towards us.  “Nonononononononono!  No chicas!”

What kind of strip club doesn’t allow girls?  It seems odd to kick out nine potential drinkers from a strip club due to some inexplicable form of propriety, but the girls leave and we head out after them.

“Your strip club sucks anyway, man!” someone says.

“No chicas,” the man retorts.

Kayak Patagonia

Gray skies and mist add a subdued, ethereal tone to our kayaking experience

“So you want me to set up the canoe trip for you,” Rasta-Max asks us.  Only a girl from California and myself have any interest in the trip, but we’ve got enough to have asked Max about it several times.

“You mean the Kayak trip?”

“No,” he says.  “No, that’s different.”

“Yeah, I know — we want the kayak one.  With the kayaks and the meat and stuff. You know if it’s gonna rain tomorrow?”

“It’s Ushuaia,” he answers.

Posing from a lookout point with Lago Escondido in the background

It’s a valid answer.  The weather here has fluctuated wildly every day, as cold, bleak clouds give way to sunny days that are surprisingly warm for “the southernmost city in the world.”  Nights are always chillier, and bring about strong winds that exacerbate the situation, but I still never required more than my hoodie at any given time.  This was a good thing, as I owned nothing warmer.  Every day here is rainy and sunny and gray and beautiful.  They generally take turns.

Sunday at seven in the morning — some people are just getting back to the hostel to pass out into their beds — it’s rain’s turn.  Our guide and driver ushers us into the rear of his SUV with most of the gear; two of his friends already are firmly in place in the backseat.  Their English is as choppy as my Spanish but we make light conversation as slightly frozen rain slushes upon impact with the windows of the car.  A large, hollowed-out gourd of mate (”mah-TAY”) is passed around the car, though I’ll give a few paragraphs to the ubiquitous tea in my next “Food and Drinks” post.

Setting out

At Lago Escondido (”Hidden Lake” — Two discrete lookout points along the drive displayed the large, mountain-framed lake quite visibly, so the name is confusing), as I stand in the icy rain with a cotton hoodie on, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.  Our guide has a few spare articles of clothing, and the windbreaker and hat are useful.  The gloves go to his female friend and there isn’t a second pair.  I cram my hands into my pockets and ball them into cold fists.

“Oh my God,” the Californian girl says.  “This is horrible.  I almost don’t want to go.”

A perpetual whiner, one of my projects for myself was to cut down on complaining during my time abroad, especially about things I had no control over.  My primary rule was to never be the first in a group to complain about any source of misery.  As the seal was now broken, I poignantly added:

“Yeah, this fucking sucks.”

A double kayak is lowered into the water and the Californian girl and I get in.  She’d had a good sales position in the States before the weight of never having traveled became too much, causing her to optimistically drop out of everything at 30 and head out for at least a year, covering much of South America and Australia.  Recently, the weight of not learning had been weighing her down as she contemplated staying somewhere for a few months to pick up a new skill or hobby like surfing or Capoeira (Brazilian dance-fighting).

No explanation was given for while all the trees along the beach were dead

Whether it’s chemicals or nutrients in the water, weird reflections from the clouds or some ethereal quality of being this far south, both of us are hypnotized by the rich, blueness of the water.  Putting my hand in, I’m surprised that it’s not very cold either, though this could just as easily be related to the sickly white frigidity of my hands as to any unnatural warmth endemic to the lake.  The effort of propelling the large, two-person kayak forward steadily warms me and then, eventually, my hands as well.  Blue sky cuts through the clouds at times, hinting at a bright, vivid warmth that never actually stays.

A forest of dead, leafless trees with long spindly branches dots the beach we park along, adding to the eerie effect of the cold, gray morning.  It’s unnaturally quiet and creepy, but any trepidation about our current situation is eased by the unloading of a stockpile of meat large enough to fill more than twice our current party.  Forget soccer.  Asado is the national sport here in Argentina.  It’s like our guide explains while stacking wood for his slow-burning barbecue:

Starting the fire for our asado

“Forget soccer.  Asado is our national sport here in Argentina.”

American men (sorry, “men from the United States” — a subtle distinction that matters to a lot of South Americans) do pride themselves on their ability to char meat to acceptable flavor levels, but there’s an impatience to the barbecuing that doesn’t seem to exist in Argentina.  A proper asado raises the meat high enough above the burning embers to require a solid hour or two of slow roasting before serving, even in the woods under sub-optimal, rainy conditions.  As wet leaves burn their way down to viable kindling, I follow a stream inland in the shadow of imposing, snow-capped Patagonian mountains until it trickles down to a massive beaver dam blocking the passive of water from above.

An hour passes and I make my way back to the asado site, which is slightly protected from the drizzle of rain by a thin canopy of trees and the grillmaster who has apparently spent every moment of the past hour gently maneuvering the burning embers to ideal grilling specifications.

The Beaver Dam

“How you like meat?” he asks.

“Rare,” I say.  He’s confused by the term, which surprises me (and continues to surprise me months later — in the land of meat tourism where giant, bloody slabs of beef are the norm, how is this word still in any way foreign?) and I resort to broken Spanish to attempt to clarify myself.  “Rojo.  Sangre.  Mucho Sangre.” (”Red.  Blood.  Much blood.”)

MEAT

“Ahh,” he says.  “Si.  We say ‘vuelta y vuelta.’  ‘Vuelta’ is ‘turn,’ and so, ‘turn and turn.’  You turn meat once.  Then you turn again.  No more.  No more cooking.”

“Yes.  Yes, that is what I want.”

Like most tourist excursions in Ushuaia, the trip is fairly expensive.  Eighty dollars for a five-hour kayak excursion including a way-more-than-all-you-can-eat meat barbecue would be relatively inexpensive in the States, but it’s a high end experience in South America.  Sticking to my budget, an average day shouldn’t surpass twenty dollars, so by this point I’m cramming more than a week’s worth of savings into less than half a day’s entertainment.  But as the bottles of wine and Quilmes (the “Budweiser” of Argentina, this pilsner is basically pronounced “Kill me’s”) start to flow, it’s clear that they don’t intend for any tourist to feel short-changed.

Vuelta y vuelta

As the wine flows like wine, so does the meat.  Far past the point where the succulent, dripping meat has evoked any joy in those devouring it, the grillmaster continues to fill freshly emptied spaces on his makeshift grill until every last dripping chunk from his large cooler has been mildly charred and doled out to the long-since-filled crew.  The air mists up occasionally still, but it’s warmed enough now that sitting around the fire digesting an irrational amount of red meat is at least mildly palatable.  Looking at the massive pile of meat remnants I’m reminded that a friend’s annual “F-Day” (”F” for exorbitant amounts of Food amongst other things) is less than a week away, and while I’d rather be here than anywhere else, the surplus of short-term friendships with little in the way of anything more significant does get to me at times.

Not working is still pretty sweet, though.

My First Glacier

Glacier Martial overlooking the town. The range pictured was fully covered less than a hundred years ago, but melts back a little bit every year.

Glacier Martial shrinks down significantly every year, but seeing as this is my first visit, it’s still fairly impressive for my first glacier.  The trail upwards from the chairlift died close to a quarter mile ago (I’m still not thinking in kilometers yet, which makes gauging anything around here difficult) and we’ve pulled ourselves exhaustingly up rocks that take on additional ice with each meter’s ascent.  Ice covers the last of the viable hand or foot-holds, theoretically blocking further passage up the glacier.  Futilely, I form my hands into a taut claw shape and attempt to drag myself just a few feet more, instead falling sharply to my knees and scraping my hands along the sandpaper-y, jagged sheet of ice before rolling down awkwardly onto the glacier’s rocky border.

Ice spreads out above me in a massive inverted triangle.  It’s only impresive until we make our way downwards far enough to see just how immense the glacier stretches out above the speck of a triangle that only recently spread out before me imposingly.  In the end, the highlight of the trail is the spectacular view of the now insignificant southernmost city in the world.

The ride up to the start of the trail.

End of the line

Me, at the end of the world