Puerto Madryn & Peninsula Valdes

Puerto Madryn / Peninsula Valdes

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Wind blew my eyes shut, hail reddened my cheeks. With my back to the raging cloudburst I reached my frozen fingers into my backpack to dig up my mittens, in between which I clumsily clasped the carton sign I just made. “Al norte” it shouted. Please take me along on your travels up north, it’s time to leave Patagonia’s most southern city, Ushuaia… I’m longing for Puerto Madryn.

Through the upcoming snow shower I saw the first approaching car slowing down. Carlos. I didn’t know what to think of this man, odd vibes dominated his aura, but he had a vehicle and the heating was on. And I had my knife resting comfortably in my pocket, my ever reassuring friend with whom I have zero fears to team up if that moment may ever come. Carlos talked a lot and I talked a lot back, because that’s the secret pact of hitchhiking. You help me travelling, I help you feel less lonely on your journey. The fact that he had a massage function in his chair which uncomfortably aroused me in the presence of this unattractive stranger weirded out the whole situation a bit more however, and the moment he took a swift detour on some remote sand path I had Mr. Knife unfolded and ready-to-use clenched into my fist…

Calm down, calm down. This lonesome stranger cherished a soft affection for this place called Tolhuin and never had anyone to share its beauty with. Some Dutch passenger might want to explore a bit of its grace while being treated on a fresh cup of caffeine? Hm… while letting the waves, kissing the shore, cool down my sentiments I mildly concluded most people indeed do mean well, even the ones that don’t seem to show it. Break down the wall.

After Carlos brought me all the way to the Chilean border, 70km further than Rio Grande where he actually needed to be, I learned I arrived exactly at the right time. Chileans like to strike a lot, even if that means innocent citizens that are not the cause of the problem are dragged along with it. The last few weeks they had been opening the border [which is located in the middle of bloody nowhere amidst 150km/h winds that literally turn cars upside down] just two hours a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The moment I stuck my head into the border control office they just opened their desks. While chatting with some Colombian National-Geographic-Channel-filmcrew who were recording the Patagonian motorbike-journey of some filthy rich North Americans I hussled my next ride.

Only to the other side of the border, it seemed. An Argentinean trucker had overheard their conversations once I walked out of the building and as he’s a father of three girls he felt he needed to step up… “I don’t ask from you to trust me, but make sure you don’t trust them either… I heard what they planned once you were out of sight.” I decided to take my chances with this friendly old chap listening to the name of Javier. While I paid attention to his life story of how he climbed up from the slums to having his own truck company to lose everything again by government’s tax frauds I watched the ostriches, armadillos, rabbits and skunks parade by on the roadside in the show that’s called Patagonia.

Once we took a turn to approach the ferry leading us out of Tierra del Fuego I soon learned I had a whole lot of more time to admire this very specific part of the country, limited to a few distinct meters. Due to extreme winds and dangerous weather conditions the ferry was suspended for an unlimited amount of time, making it impossible to leave (or go back, the next village is 3,5 hours away). 8km of trucks were already lined up at both sides and we could do nothing but join.

While Javier prepared the highly necessary mate to deal with this situation in the heavily rocking truck, a playtoy for the wind, I wondered how I would pee all that liquid out again. The storm was so intense we couldn’t even leave the vehicle and even if I would manage I would spray myself all over the moment the stream would depart from my body. Plus there were no bathrooms, no trees and a solid trucker-audience who have nothing else to do than stare out of the window for something to happen. Problems for later.
After six hours of waiting the ferry started moving again. Once an hour, transporting all cars first and then 5-6 trucks per ride. Remember that I said there was an ever-expanding 8km line? Yeah, that was going to take a few days. I weighed my options: It was getting dark, right now I had a dry and warm shelter and a safe environment with a guy cooking me dinner… I would spend the night in this truck and once the sun comes up start walking to the ferry to fetch a new ride. Sorry Javier! I already had to pee at midnight under the truck half-naked, while holding my jacket in front of my female parts (and YES, I needed a shower after that adventure), I didn’t feel like waiting for #2’s arrival.

I started walking at 5AM and after six (!) I had walked passed this side of the line. Completely ignoring the heated gestures of the angry traffic regulators I bluntly ran onto the ferry, only meant for vehicles. I waited 14 long hours, I was now taking control of my own fate again, thank you very much. Good man who can stop me now. While holding on to the poles to not blow off the boat and pretending I didn’t speak any Spanish, I passed by the sailors trying to remove me from the ship and knocked on a random truck’s window. Marco immediately opened his door and laughing thanked me for the amusing performance he had been following through his mirrors. While handing me a cup of mate he said he was heading to Puerto Madryn, did I want to join?

Ok readers… Now you probably all think something like “Ahhh a happy ending at last, finally the girl can go to her meant destination.” *NEGATIVE BUZZER SOUND* We weren’t ready to cut the bullshit just yet! You know I told Chileans like to strike? Well, Argentineans do too, hurray! And what do you do if your boss doesn’t give you a raise or your government doesn’t want to give you the allowances you hoped for? Right, block the main national transport route for truckers, who didn’t cause your problem and can’t solve it either!

There we go again...

Marco had a little surprise in store for me however, to make the most out of the waiting in this little hamlet called Caleta Olivia. Grabbing my hand he took me down to shore… where seals and sea lions (or either one of them, hey give me a break, I’m no bloody Steve Irwin) were taking their daily dose of sun. Seals! Two meters away from me! Hellooooo! Quiet and content, enjoying their natural habitat not determined by the borders of a zoo. Animals are so beautiful when we just let them live without interference

At 10PM we were ‘allowed’ to continue again, after which it took yet another two hours to leave town, as about 900 trucks were trying to do the same. I passed out in Marco’s truckerbed behind the chairs (the #1 advantage of hitchhiking), while listening to him calling with his three different girlfriends, and only woke up at 7AM when he warned me Puerto Madryn was in sight. From there another truck drove me into the center and after a 1-hour walk I finally knocked on the door of Couchsurfer Gaston’s beach cabaña.

While I greeted this tattooed and pierced man with his playful boyish grin, outlining his out of the blue refreshing and raw-looking appearance, I suddenly realized it was quite warm here in northern Patagonia. I took off my snow jacket and 3 layers and let the 25-degrees-sunrays caress my pale skin. In a state of zombie I hugged his inviting couch while he made my bed (his bed, he slept on the couch for me) and jumped on his motorbike to immediately fetch me some breakfast. The moment my head hit the pillow I plunged into a deep coma, to wake up from the smell of coffee around midday. While hearing the 100 activities of this popular coastal town roll over his lips I rolled up in the comfortness of the instant deep connection I experienced with this bohemian dive instructor. Some people just click. As I’m a dive enthusiast myself that was my #1 choice, but unfortunately the (still Patagonian) winds wouldn’t allow us… so we settled with snorkeling.

In his car he drove me passed the southern shore still untouched by tourism, but apparently full of extraterrestrial activity. I get them aliens, those stunning dry steppe landscapes fiercely interrupted by the savage sea would be exactly my pick too. Gaston picked the best windfree spot and helped me into a tighter than tight but very much needed wetsuit.

Water of 9 degrees sounds alright, but it definitely feels different. While screaming through my snorkel I dipped under the chilly surface, where I saw my companion making wild signals. While I was trying to figure out what he meant two sea lions (or seals, djeez, stop correcting me!) were chilling right behind me. Oke, again: Two sea lions… were swimming… RIGHT BEHIND ME. If you ever dare to say to me the world is not a magnificent place I will never speak to you again.

Back in the house we reflected on this short but successful little excursion, screaming over the death metal grunting and roaring out of the speakers [“You can put on the music you like.” – “You sure? Be careful what you wish for… maybe I can find something more mild.” – “No, what YOU like!”… alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you.] While he smoked the plants out of his garden I brewed my famous home-made gnocchi’s, almost making him choke in his wine because of the finger- and penis-shapes they turned out to be. With a full belly and small smoky eyes he asked me if I knew what’s even more beautiful than Puerto Madryn by day? Puerto Madryn by night! While he opened the curtains to show the bright flickering stars I knew my only option was to follow my sidekick to the beach that forms the partial framework of his querida Argentina. Sand tickling my toes, the breeze brushing my manes and the comforting vibes of the feel-good coastal center warming my consciousness… I fell in love with Puerto Madryn, beyond control.

And I didn’t even come for Puerto Madryn, imagine that. Its proximity to Peninsula Valdes reveals my true motives of my long journey to the northern Patagonian east. Because whales. Because orcas. Because penguins. Why paying a ticket to go to something as pathetic and cruel like Seaworld, where the elite of our Earth’s mesmerizing marine life is held in captivity to entertain ignoring crowds, when at the same time nature is flourishing in all its might around us? Let’s keep it ethical, shall we? While I downed my organic breakfast I looked how my private guide prepared his car for this communal venture

After I entered for the local price Gaston smiled at me and asked if I ever heard of El Principito? Eh hello, Le Petit Prince, my favorite book that enticed my passion for the French language and, why not, the beauty of life in general. YES. Well, then I would for sure recognize the shape of that island next to me (Isla de los Pajaros, red.). Indeed, the islet did remind me of the snake that swallowed an elephant. That’s what Antoine de Saint-Exupéry must have thought when he arrived here at the age I have now. I didn’t matter what else Valdes would offer me after that, my day was made.

Good for me, as I wouldn’t see any whales that day. Or orcas. Gaston’s friend owns the biggest whale-watching-boat of the peninsula on which we were invited to join for free… but obviously that offer vanishes if the tour already sold out by wealthy customers. Also, it doesn’t matter if you hang around 3 hours on different viewpoints to spot a squirting orca, they come whenever the hell they feel like it. Nature shan’t be commanded. Unfortunate, but nature had a consolation price for me: Penguins and sea lions. Lots of them.

And they moved too, screamed, man, they even had sex right in front of us. Why not. Enough to see already!

For me it’s not enough to look at a penguin and conclude that what I’m seeing is indeed very much a penguin, to subsequently move homewards. No, I have to watch them two full hours, paralyzed and eyes maniacally wide open.

The Earth never fails to impress me. I got treated on some bonus ostriches, guanaco’s and endless variety of animals I didn’t even know the name of…

… and even relived my times at Bolivia’s Uyuni salt flats on this Argentinean version Valdes offers its spectators. This place simply holds you captive.

The While I forced Gaston to watch Free Willy with me while stuffing ourselves with the left-over finger-penis-gnocchi’s he suddenly let his hand sink into his backpack. Sorpresa, he winked with his in the meantime familiar but forever triggering boyish grin. I smiled at the plush orca that would forever remind me of today… to the ocean and back again.

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