While we were at his place, Cesar also showed me an impressive collection of arrowheads belonging to the decimated indigenous population, along with fossils and whalebones collected from this rich coastline. He also promised to catch and clean a sealion of oil (a promise on which he duly delivered though we had to wonder how much benefit this offered the animal). When we returned to la Franja after our second day as volunteers, a scene of impassioned bizarreness awaited us - Cesar on his knees, digging with his hands while directing the rest of his posse as to how the pool for the sealion was to be constructed from the available sand and plastic. Listening, I also learned rather more heavy words of the Spanish language than I can imagine ever needing to use.
Later in the evening, the boss also offered his views on Che Guevara, complaining that Guevara though Argentine fought for freedom for other Latin Americans and was killed in Bolivia. He also gave a monologue on the Malvinas (Falklands) war, opining that this was the government's method of ridding itself of leftist rebels after the world started watching what was going on during Argentina's dirty war (to which I have referred elsewhere in this blog). There might be something in this last claim, who knows, but for me the version of Che Guevara that Cesar has seems pretty holey.
We tried to leave Comodoro Rivadavia early, hoping to take advantage of the northerly winds we'd encountered on the beach the previous day, and which could have carried us away even without the help of our huge yellow coveralls, but neither plan came off. The north wind would have made a great difference to our travels as a tailwind, but it was not to be. We didn't see Cesar in the morning, but still only managed a midday departure after talking with some of our new volunteer mates, fueling and the like.
We still banged out more than 600 km on the bike though, including a stop for a roadhouse dinner at a place called Comandante Luis Piedra Buena, an odd little town on yet another Rio Grande, or Big River. After dinner we kept going until almost dusk, at about ten thirty, then set up camp on the edge of a salt lake, just marginally protected from the wind by the road embankment. We were 50-odd metres from the road, and it seemed all drivers honked and waved as they passed.
Windy at night, windy in the morning. After such an early night and an earlier start than ever before, we headed out with the end of this seemingly limitless stretch of Patagonia in sight. During the day we crossed into Chile for the first time, then shortly afterwards got onto our first longer stretches of dirt road, or ripio as it's called hereabouts.
The border crossing was quite uneventful, but took about two hours in total. They confiscated our pumpkin, which would otherwise have made us a nice dhal, and this we seem to have taken as a sign to eat 'paty' and mash at the ferry terminal. Mmmm, frozen hamburger patty. Fair enough to confiscate the pumpkin though - an import like that could no doubt do untold damage to the Tierra del Fuego pumpkin crop.
Onto the famous ''Land of Fires'' by a few dozen miles, we camped up at a place called Cerro Sombrero, as uninspiring as its name (Hat Hill in English). A comfortable night in recently-installed portable changerooms on the football field - try as we might we could not avoid scaring off the kids that came down to play futbol.
On Tierra del Fuego, on to the end of the world. Back across the Chilean - Argentine border, the formalities are easy but a pool of oil beneath the bike tells us the rear shock absorber has not enjoyed the first decent ride on dirt. See how it goes without oil, then - there's not much chance of a roadside repair - and in the first twently km or so there appears to be little effect on the way the bike rides. Em buys chocolates at the border and then we eat enough of it to get sugar-grumpy. Hmmmph. Pizza at Rio Grande, then on, on down the road.
Signs and bumper stickers claiming that ''The Falklands are Argentine'' are all over the place - seem to me like preaching to the converted, and the signs emphasise the heavy military presence in the town. Skies are appropriately grey as we refuel and head out of Rio Grande for the last stint to Ushuaia. There's drizzle as there has been all day but this is a welcome change from the wind. There also seems to be more chance that the drizzle clearing than of the wind abating.
Tierra del Fuego changes vastly in the last 100km before Ushuaia. Gone are the flat, green-tinged ''pampas'', and the steep little hills of river pebbles too. These are replaced by the Cordillera Martial, jagged, dark and snowcapped, its ridges fall to forested slopes separating valleys rounded by glaciers, many of these filled by crystalline lakes. The Andes in miniature, as we are to discover later. The brooding sky showed hints of blue as the drizzle cleared. And the newish asphalt road snakes its way through these peaks, over Paso Garibaldi and southwards.
''Sinuosa'' is how the warning signs describe the road, warning against incautious antics. Here and there, patches of missing tar leave the underlying river pebbles strewn over the surface to underline the warnings. USHUAIA The sign at the Ushuaia city limit bids ''Welcome to the Southernmost City in the World''. The view over the town, the Beagle Channel and the Chilean islands beyond is a more spectacular greeting. The police stay in their little cabin, disinterested. It's tourist season, after all, and plenty of motorcyclists, drivers and motorhomers make the trek down here in the summer.
We are greeted by motorcyclists as we roll up at the Rio Pipo campground, and have a quick chat before setting up camp in the forest on the riverbank. Our first paid camping in months, and it looks great. We celebrated with a bottle of local cerveza.
Later we join Margaret, Mick, Ted, Tobias, Uschi and Arthur (just think of the King...) for a yarn by the fire - the sort of easy yarn that comes up between those who start from a point of understanding, often shared by those who choose two wheels. It's pretty easy to lose a couple of days at the end of the world, and camping at Rio Pipo helped that along. Hot showers, a well appointed kitchen, pot belly stoves and a huge parilla (BBQ) indoors. Beer and wine are cheap and good, and with good company and late sunsets it's easy to yarn until all hours, then sleep all morning.
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