Okay, so my holiday greetings are a bit delayed, but as you are about to see, I have been a busy girl. I had to tear myself away from Ushuaia, but I was propelled on by my desire to see more of the Patagonian wilderness.
My bus ride from Ushuaia to Rio Gallegos was quite eventful, and I think demonstrates some of the ways in which I have grown in my time abroad. The busride is horrendous, typically 12 hours or more with the added complications of a ferry ride and not one but two border crossings (reentry to Chile, then reentry into Argentina). We left Ushuaia at 4:40 am, and around 8 a.m. arrived in Rio Grande, where our one bus combined with other passengers in two different buses going to the same destination. For some reason, immense confusion ensued, and for roughly two hours, passengers went back and forth between the two buses, trying to find where they belonged. I could not quite understand the confusion, since there were two distinct lists with our names on them, but I stood back and surveyed the chaos, more bemused than frustrated or impatient. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been ready to explode, infuriated at the lost hours of my life, at having to stand for so long and reboard the same two buses over and over. In the United States, passengers would demand free tickets to their next destinations. The Argentines definitely seemed more frustrated than me, but in the resigned sort of way that told me that this sort of confusion is not out of the ordinary. I have adopted a much more easy-going lifestyle down here, and found myself unmoved by the hassles, because I had nowhere to be, really. It would have been better to be on my way to my next destination instead of participating in mass confusion, but it wouldn't do me any good to get pissy since I couldn't change any of it. Therefore, shortly after at our first border crossing, when it was discovered that we were all still on the wrong buses, all I felt like doing was laughing, which I did. I also befriended my seat-mate and had my first real conversations with an Argentine in Argentina in Spanish. I was not prepared for the Argentine accent, and had to ask my new pal to repeat just about everything he said. Little did I know, it would take me over two weeks to feel even vaguely comfortable speaking to Argentines.
The few days leading up to and following Christmas ended up being a bit of a wash. I was trying to get to Parque Nacional Monte Leon, a beautiful coastal park in Argentine Patagonia. I was told it would be possible from Rio Gallegos, but after spèaking to the tourist office found I would have to go to Puerto Santa Cruz, three hours north. After wasting two days in Rio Gallegos trying to discover this information, I hit Puerto Santa Cruz on Christmas Eve and checked into a hotel, where I spent the next two days watching the four Fox stations here because they played all sorts of interesting things in English (please don't be disappointed in me for missing American television!), including reruns of Ally McBeal, How I Met Your Mother, Conan O'Brien, and movies such as Brokeback Mountain and the more trivial Miss Congeniality and Never Been Kissed. It's amazing, but I really will watch anything if it is in English. Christmas was a bit pathetic, since Santa Cruz is tiny and the only thing open in the entire town was a gas station, where I collected my Christmas dinner: cookies, crackers, a chocolate bar, and a box of wine. Pretty meager. Luckily, I had been able to spend five hours on the phone on Christmas Eve eve with the fam, so my heart was filled with enough holiday cheer to carry me through the pathetic display. However, I learned that Argentines light fireworks at midnight on Christmas Eve, and I enjoyed the view of the sunset over the river from my hotel room (pictured above).
The day after Christmas, I was devastated to learn that even from Puerto Santa Cruz, some 50 kilometers from the park, I would still have to pay a taxi driver about 100 US dollars to drive me to the park, a price my meager travel budget could not support. After spinning my wheels for four days trying to get there, I decided to just say fuck it and head straight for Buenos Aires, the big city, where it would be easier to make things happen. By head straight, I mean take a 35-hour busride, sleeping two nights on the bus, one night next to some sort of small child that liked to smack me while I was sleeping so I would give her attention! Real cute, kid. Real cute.
Around this time, I started to get a bit lonely. For one, I was annoyed that without a travel partner, it was much more difficult for me to get to places like Parque Monte Leon because I would have to foot the bill on my own. I also underestimated how diffiuclt it would be to travel by myself. Not only do I miss having a partner to help watch my bags (or my back while I am taking pictures) or share the burden of making decisions, but I definitely miss the companionship of people I know and love. I realize now how important my host family in Chile and my friends were. They really did take the place of my loved ones for eight months, and I completely took them for granted. Have I met cool and interesting people on the road? Sure. Have they made a lasting impression on me and my life? Eh...debatable. As a whole, yes, and this trip continues to be thrilling and unforgettable. But I know I will never see these people again, and while there is beauty and surprises in those kind of relationships, I need a mix of both: the disposable people that pop in and out of my life, and the ones that are there forever. I don't mean to sound depressive, needy, or ungrateful of my experiences, only to communicate the difficulties I have encountered, especially around the holidays.
I also thought that, traveling in the part of the world that has always called my name so loudly and clearly, I would meet fascinating people, especially other foreigners in hostels, who would have similar interests and philosophies as me. But in general, I find I am not that interested in my fellow-travelers, since their presence often is an obstacle to interacting with local people. You can feel insulated in your little gringo bubble unless you actively pursue a more genuine experience. Also, being around Europeans all the time often makes me feel more alone. I feel like we have shared experiences because we are gringos traveling in South America, but I often have trouble connecting to them. We have different senses of humor, history, and adventure. I often find myself wishing for the presence of another American (even though some Americans can be quite apalling in foreign countries), and when I find my countrymen we often connect very easily and comfortably. Again, I am surprised by my emerging patriotism!
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