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The long Road. Part 4 of 9: Argentina and Chile

The crossing of the Atacama Desert After eight days of uninhabited high altitude desert and mountain landscapes of southwest Bolivia I was back in the inhabited world in San Pedro de Atacama. I walked with my bike through the streets lined with adobe houses, in search for a hotel. It was Friday night and almost all the hotels were booked. The desert town was packed with tourists. Bike tours in the desert in the Valle de la Luna, jeep tours to hot springs on the Altiplano, ascents of high volcanoes in the Andes and surfing sand dunes in the Atacama Desert, the offer of the tour providers was versatile, but not cheap. The price level was ten to twenty times as high as in Bolivia. San Pedro was no budget destination. I myself lived on a budget though. That meant that tired of the heavy Salar and Laguna route I had to continue my odyssey for an affordable place to sleep. After two hours of searching and asking I finally found a tiny room. Relieved, I laid down on the small bed. But I had not enjoyed my rest for a long time. The hotel owner knocked on the door. He explained that he had made a mistake. The next few days were already reserved. I was thrown out of the hotel unscrupulously. I was not fully recovered yet from the Salar and Laguna route of the last days and so I found myself looking for another overnight stay. Again I walked with my fully loaded bicycle in hand through the streets with adobe houses, looking for a new place to stay the night. I walked past the hip cafeterias from the small desert town. Bizarre, alienating rhythms of trendy electronic music filled the streets. It was weekend and everyone had a good time in San Pedro. If not the Lonely Cyclist. After several hours of searching I still had no overnight. And so at twelve o'clock in the morning I still did not find a hotel and so I stood on the edge of the driest desert of the world, with my fully loaded bicycle, without supplies and without ideas. To blow the story up to Biblical proportions: the Lonely Cyclist knocked on the doors of the houses of San Pedro, but the people refused to let him in and sent their guest without mercy in the desert. And so, I rode into the Atacama Desert in the hottest part of the day. A bit more than a hundred kilometer southwest from San Pedro is the major mining town Calama, where there are hotels again. I passed through pure arid landscapes of the Valle de la Luna. The so-called Valley of the Moon with her whimsical red rocks and white sand dunes are a fascinating piece of the Atacama Desert. After the quirk Valle de la Luna followed a climb up a mountain range that appeared to be significantly higher than it actually was. Only after over a thousand meters of climbing I finally reached the pass. Above there was an unpleasant surprise. The whole day the wind was blowing from the east but now the wind had turned to the usual westwinds. Now I had a real problem. It was now three o'clock in the afternoon and I had only emergency supplies with me. I had almost ninety kilometers to go against a sudden, violent storm. The road dropped happilyy, but under these extreme wind conditions I could not develop any speed. There was very little to enjoy in the monotonous, gray landscape. Not only did I have to face the wind, the wind also carried large amounts of sand. Occasionally there was a truck or a passenger that came along and once in a while someone put a thumbs up from a window. That was certainly not representative of my gray mood, but the involvement of the people made me feel good in these difficult times. On the road from San Pedro to Calama for the first time I felt a strong temptation to stop and hitchhike. But even in this I failed. Not a single car passed me by. Eventually I cycled all the way, a battle against the elements that was joyless rather than heroic. The sun had already set when I reached the city. Calama was not a romantic destination. The only reason that there a hundred thousand people are living here in the middle of the desert, was the guaranteed source of income of the Chuquicamata copper mine, the largest open copper mine in the world. I managed to find a cheap hotel in the center. I plopped on the bed with the sole purpose to fall asleep and not to wake up. There were few villages and towns in the Atacama Desert. A random map nonetheless displayed quite some settlements, but in the reality of the actual landscape there were no houses. Three quarters of the places on the map began with 'Oficina', followed by the surname of a long-deceased senior army officer. After this area was conquered over Bolivia around the turn of the century, the resources were quickly removed from the soil. Today, the nitrate mines are abandoned and so are the cities where the miners lived. Both the abandoned mines and the abandoned mining towns still were shown on the maps, perhaps because the map would otherwise be not much more than a large white area for the country and a big blue surface of the ocean. So the maps of northern Chile are full of villages that are not villages. Cycling in the Atacama Desert proved to be an empty experience. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, nothing that held the attention in any way. There were no plants, no animals, no people. Nothing. As far as the eye sees and much further. The straight road forward passed through an indifferent gray landscape. All color seemed drenched from the stones and rocks by the dry heat. The camino had brought me to a new and memorable benchmark. I had looked for a sensation of infinity and I had found her. This did not manifest itself as a meditative experience of unlimited space, but on the straight roads in the Atacama Desert, she had the form of an empty shell without form or substance. Over time, I began to focus on that what was apparant. Road signs and kilometer markers. In three days I had crossed Chile from east to west, from soaring heights of the Andes on the Bolivian border to the port town of Antofagasta at the Pacific Ocean coast. That proved to be more than four hundred kilometers. I could not help but come to the conclusion that Chile is a wide country. I found that a remarkable observation, because everyone knows that Chile is a long country and not a wide country. A look at the world map shows that Chile is not just a long country, but that Chile is an extremely long country: the distance of the far north to the far south is just as big as from the North Cape to the middle of the Sahara. The country is divided into twelve regions, the most northerly is number I, the southernmost is number XII. I found myself in Region II, still in the far north. Chile is a country of extreme geography. From north to south there are deserts (hot and extremely dry), Mediterranean landscapes (hot and dry), temperate rainforests (Dutch temperatures and wet) and arctic landscapes (cold to extremely cold and wet). In addition, there are cold, extremely dry plains on the Altiplano in the far north and the cold, dry steppes in the extreme south. Only the Mediterranean zone and the subsequent moderate zone have a pleasant climate for people. That is, therefore, the only part of the country that is densely populated. Chile is geographically isolated, not only globally, but even within South America. In the east the boundary with Argentina is formed by one of the highest mountain ranges of the world, the Andes. In the north, the border with Peru and Bolivia is formed by the driest desert in the world, the Atacama Desert, and the equally inhospitable Altiplano. In the west is the biggest ocean in the world, the Pacific, and in the south lies more ocean and Antarctica. In addition to the geographical element Chile also has a historically grown political isolation. In the Pacific War at the end of the nineteenth century, Chile conquered a lot of land from Peru and Bolivia. The last country had lost its seaport Antofagasta in the process is landlocked now. The relationship with Argentina was always bad, but it was not getting any better when Chile let Britain use its military bases during the Falklands War. Chile is a bad neighbor. In Antofagasta I reached the ocean. The port town had quite some casinos and brothels. The desert is not a romantic place, and there are only the raw, primary feelings. And we are therefore once again confirmed in the clichéd image that money and sex are indeed the primary human motivations. Lately the supply in Antofagasta has been expanded with giant shopping malls for a more socially accepted form of entertainment. While I was making a picture at the boulevard of the gray apartment blocks with the gray fog in the background and the gray ocean on the foreground, a cyclist passed by. The Russian Boris traveled on a road bike through Latin America and had only two panniers with him. He did not camp and he traveled light. And he explained that he covered very big distances. He had cycled in 43 days from Mexico City to Antofagasta. That is an average of at least 250 to 300 kilometers per day. His calves and thighs were at least four times as thick as that of other mortals. On the climb to the Panamericana I was just able to keep the pace of the man with the concrete muscles, but once on the Panamericana we reached the terrain of Boris. The road was more or less flat again. Before I realized that I was too slow, the iron man cycled two hundred meter ahead of me. He passed a coffee stall, probably the only tavern in the next four hundred kilometers. From Antofagasta it is more than four hundred kilometers on the Panamericana to the first settlement. I actually wanted some caffeine doping, but I passed the coffee stall to reach Boris. It turned out to be a hopeless mission. I saw Boris ever further ahead of me. Fifty kilometers further, at the exit where I would leave the Panamericana for a more attractive route along the coast, he had not waited. He was only fixed by cycling. In hindsight I could just as well drink my cup of tea. I decided not to cycle behind Boris. I left the Panamericana for another straight line through the empty landscape. An empty landscape, but no flat landscape. The road climbed more than two thousand altimeters. That is more altitude difference than any pass in the French Alps. But above came the reward: a descent of more than two thousand meters to the ocean. I found myself far above the hundreds of meters thick fog layer, which hang almost permanently above the northern Chilean coast. Under the magical light of the setting sun I descended into the sea of clouds. The landscape appeared to be quite different from the rest of the Atacama Desert with mysterious, luminous green plants that looked very different from any other vegetation on our planet. The plants can live from the moisture that they withdraw from the fog. Plants that rely on rain cannot survive here. There are almost always clouds but it almost never rains. In the fog-drenched landscapes I carried on to a remote fishing village, w here I found shelter against all odds. I knocked on the door of a tiny guesthouse that was run by an old lady. While I showering, the lady spontaneously made a meal for me. While we were dining togther, we had an interesting discussion: "If you ride through the world o your own, you need a lot of help." "Well, it is not that bad actually," I assured her, "I'm completely self-sufficient. I have enough food and water with me for three days and I have a tent with mattress and sleeping bag for overnight. That is enough to survive. Even in the Atacama Desert." "The World is a dangerous place. Therefore you need a lot of help." "Yes, if they put a gun against my face, I can not do much." "That's why you need help, help from above." The next morning at breakfast she gave me a parting gift. I had to take a card out of a pile. The cards proved Biblical or religious texts. I took a card with the text that you cannot buid a happy and meaningful life on worldly goods, but on friendship. When we parted, the woman pressed her cheek against mine and held my hands. She wished me a joyous and meaningful journey. There was only one continuous road from north to south in the Atacama Desert, the Panamericana. I cycled a few hundred kilometers further through the Atacama Desert. Through an empty landscape, under a burning sun. Occasionally I passed an abandoned mine or an abandoned ghost town. To break the monotony I did some interesting excursions to national parks along the coast, where the mountains rose two to three thousand meter straight up out of the sea. At the end of the desert was the city of Copiapó. The city lies in a broad valley, bright green of the vineyards. The flanks of the valley on the other hand were just as bare as in the Atacama Desert. South of Copiapó the landscape became slowly but surely ever a little less dry. The first flowers appeared and a bit later the first cacti. A day later I cycled through entire seas of flowers, all in bloom. This phenomenon of flowering desert happens only once in five years, and only in the transition zone of the desert to the Mediterranean landscapes. The first animals showed themselves, the first butterflies and beetles, and a bit later also larger animals such as wild horses. I had finally crossed the Atacama Desert. The road up In the city of La Serena begins the second biggest climb of the world. From the Pacific the road leads up along the river Elqui to the Paso del Agua Negro, a climb from 0 to 4,779 meter altitude. On the other side of the pass lies Argentina. Only in Peru is a route with a few more meters of altitude difference, a route that I had already done during my trip in 2003, not as a climb but as a descent. The climb to the Paso del Agua Negro started easy, through a wide valley with vineyards, on a paved road and with a tailwind that accelerated during the day. After sixty kilometers of pedaling I reached the littl town Vicuña, the last town of any significance. Here I worked briefly on my coffee addiction. I asked the locals about the possibilities of finding supplies in the next villages. "Do you know if there is a grocery where I can find water and food in Rivadavia? " "Sure, no problem." "And in Guanta?" "No problem." "And what are the accommodation options?" "You can stay everywhere in the Elqui valley." With a storm in the back, I flew thirty kilometers over te road up to Rivadavia, the next and largest village on the way up to the pass. When I reached the village, it appeared to be completely deserted. What to do now? Did I have to return? That was the safest option. But then I had to go back thirty kilometers against the storm. I decided to continue in the hope of better luck in the next village. After another twenty kilometers I reached Guanta. A small grocery store was the only place where I found human life. The offer was limited. They had a bottle of water, they had a bottle of coke and they had twenty roles of biscuits. "Do you have to give me a bottle of water, a bottle of coke and all your stocks of biscuits?" "All the biscuits ??" "Yes please." "Well, at your service, sir!" A bit of spaghetti, two cans of tuna, one can of peas, two packs of the horrible Bolivian soup powder and stocks of biscuits were all I had for the next two hundred kilometer before I would reach civilization again in Argentina on the other side of the Andes. I felt sorry that I did not have a little more food, but it was not supposed to be. I would not go back fifty kilometers with storm against. Instead I made use of the storm. I flew another sixty kilometers up through a narrow river valley with several thousand meters high, bare mountain slopes. The obscure villages that were marked on the map had an unclear to non-existent state. One time the appointed village was nothing more than a collapsed house in reality, another time there was not even a trace of something that looked like a house. It was getting late. The evening light gave the rocks a magical golden glow. I experienced the magic of the moment, but I had to look for a place to stay as well. Within fifteen minutes the night would fall. The Chilean border complex stood like a lonely fortress in the landscape, a last bastion of humanity before the total uninhabited region of the high Andes. I could not pass the border in the evening, but there was a pleasant surprise. I was invited to stay in one of the guest rooms of the complex. I could use the shower and the kitchen too. In the cooking process I used nearly all of the limited supplies from my pannier: spaghetti, a can of tuna and one of the suits packets of Bolivian soup powder that I still had in stock. After the more nutritious than appetizing meal it was time for entertainment. The staff of the border complex invited me for a small video evening. The four of us watched a factory-made Hollywood film without storyline with unshaven men with machine guns and running around women with long legs and exciting lingerie. Since my stocks were not on the generous side, I wanted to cross the pass in one day. The previous day I had climbed over two thousand altitude meters, so I had some 2,700 vertical meters to go. That is on a tarmac quite a challenge, but after a hundred meter cycling the asphalt road ended. Tghe rest of the route would be a gravel road. Still I held firmly to the plan to cross the pass today. It was important to reach the civilized world as soon as possible with so few supplies. Against expectations, I was not completely on my own on the lonely road. Two dogs followed me faithfully. I expected that they would soon return to the boundary complex, but after an hour they still followed me, driven by the hope that I would share my limited resources with them. But unfortunately that is not the way the world is turning. I had little food with me and even under the most positive calculations I would hardly have sufficient stocks to reach civilization on the other side of the mountains. At the first stop the dogs did not get any biscuits. Even the last crumbs of coconut biscuits that I could scrape from the pack were for me. The dogs were not giving up easy. When I continued my way up, they choosed to follow me. As friendly as the dogs were to me, so unfriendly were they towards each other. Like a mediocre marriage the dogs apparently felt that they were condemned to each other. They could not live with each other and they could not live without each other. Personally, I also thought the company of the dogs not too inspiring. During one of their fights I tried to squeak away. After a blind curve I pedaled as fast as I could. A few minutes later I reached the next blind curve. I looked behind to see whether they had already arrived at the previous turn, but there was no dog to be seen. I was finally out of sight; I was finally on my own again. A few kilometers further, I took another shot of biscuits, this time with strawberry flavor. While I was eating the honey-sweet biscuits, my four-legged friends came casually strolling around the bend. After they saw my biscuits, they rushed to me with wagging tail - so happy were they to see me again. But I was implacable. Again. The dogs were allowed to look how I ate my biscuits, but they did not have to expect that they would get something too. They had to learn the hard way but in the end they slowly realized that I was a bad friend for them. After the second biscuits break the dogs followed me a number of kilometers more, without any communication moments. After this new confrontation with the existential meaninglessness of life the dogs gave up and returned for the long and arduous way back to the border complex. I had gained a lot of altitude in the meantime. I found myself in a wild landscape of more than six thousand meter peaks. The diet was one-sided: biscuits for breakfast, biscuits as in between snacks, biscuits for lunch. There was hardly any traffic in the uninhabited mountains. On the whole day only a motorbike and two cars passed me. All three road users stopped to ask if I needed anything. But no, I had my water supply and I still had a lot of biscuits. At six o'clock in the evening I reached the pass. The temperature had dropped spectacularly in the meantime and it was already freezing. On the Argentinian side the wind was blowing hard to stormy. It was an icy cold sensation to feel my sweaty clothes tightly blown against my body. It was important to use all the remaining two hours of sunlight to descend as far as possible, partly to avoid an extremely cold night and partly to avoid high altitude sickness. The Argentine flanks were still mostly covered with snow fields, but the road itself was snow free. Swinging back and forth on the many hairpins I rushed down one and a half hour. Down down deeper down into the dizzying deep valley. The road was better on the valley floor and I could make morespeed. In the two hours of daylight that was given to me, I had lost plenty of altitude. Both a cold night as the undesirable phenomena were of altitude sickness were avoided. I found a suitable camp site and I quickly pitched my tent. It was high time for dinner. I had a meal of the last can of tuna and two packs of biscuits: vanilla and strawberry. The last pack biscuits I kept despite the rattling hunger for the next morning. After a breakfast of coconut biscuits I had no supplies any more. Luckily there were no more climbs. After a few hours descent I reached the first Argentine village amidst the pampas, against the breathtaking backdrop of the massive wall of the Andes Range. Besides the beauty of the landscape there was another boost. I was back in the inhabited world. That had to be celebrated. I gave myself a second breakfast, this time with fresh croissants, pastries, fresh coffee and fresh orange juice. That was something of a change after the eternal biscuits. Between wine and snow fields I did not see much fun in the first town of Argentina. The streets of San José de Jachal were empty. It was well over forty degrees Celsius and the stagnant air in the streets was stifling. It was not clear to me whether I was in a ghost town or the residents were having siesta. After some searching, there nevertheless appered to be a hotel that was open. The evening brought some coolness and the Argentinian life bloomed suddenly. Gorgeous Argentinas strolled the streets and there was an exuberant, festive atmosphere in the town square. I was not distracted by the trappings of Argentinian beauty and the next day I found myself back on the bike. I reached the illustrious Ruta 40 at kilometer marker 3,605. Kilometer 0 is the beginning or end of the road, in the south of the South American continent at the ferry harbour to Tierra del Fuego. Even over the shortest route I had at least another 3,605 kilometers to go until the end of the continent. Ruta 40 of Argentina is the loneliest road in the world. The road is largely unpaved and counts more than five thousand kilometers from northern to Southern Argentina, always at the foot of the Andes, without even once crossing the mountain range. This part of the Ruta 40 was paved and I could easily cover distance. On the first day Ruta 40 I pedaled the first 150 kilometers away on the largely flat terrain. Ruta 40 lived up to her name and fame. It was lonely indeed. The route between San José de Jachal and San Juan consisted merely of pampas without villages. But above all it was hot. For the first time on the trip, I was suffering from a typical cyclist ailment. Because of salt irritation due to intensive sweating the bottom was red-colored like a baboon. A second day of cycling on the Ruta 40 carried 160 kilometers further over the casserole of the Argentine plains. At the end of the day I reached the city of Mendoza, surrounded by vineyards at the foot of some of the highest mountains in South America. Of the typical leafy avenues I cycled to the center of the Mediterranean city. After a long day of cycling in the shimmering heat, I was a bit low in my energy, but I got immediately happy from the atmosphere in the streets. The energetic vibe was apparantly infectious. Not only the young were fizzing with energy. At dinner on a square in the center I sat opposite an old couple. The whole evening the oldies were flirting with each other. It was endearing to see how much fun the seniors had together. After a few glasses of wine, the man kissed the hand of the woman gracefully, which she accepted with a radiant, open smile. They were not the only seniors that had a good time. My waiter had interviewed me in depth during dinner about my trip and after checkout the man gave me an energetic high five. After two days it was time to leave the Ruta 40 and the hot lowlands. I rode straight to the snowy mountain range from the Andes, a solid wall which rose up six thousand meter from the plains. The road was good. I cycled on the main link between Argentina and Chile, from Buenos Aires to Santiago de Chile. A problem were the heavy trucks, which swooped by recklessly close on the road without shoulder. Another problem was the stormy headwind. The conditions gave the opportunity for a perfect wind tunnel test: a narrow valley with slopes of hundreds to thousands of meters high and a storm against, which had ample opportunity in the narrow valley to to swell and accelerate. I fought the elements and the elements won. The next day the wind was less powerful. I passed the Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Americas. Moments later I was heading to another steep ridge, which marked the border with Chile. The traffic does not climb over the mountain range, but takes the tunnel. Cyclists have the possibility to climb up to the pass on a dirt road and descend on the Chilean side of the mountain range. So I took the unpaved road. Since it was far from summer, there were still fields of snow on the road. Some of the landslides from last winter had not been cleaned up yet. I was able to overcome all the diffcult passages only with great effort and not without risk. Until I reached a steep, icy and long snow field, only twenty meter from the pass. The ice field was too dangerous to cross. Especially with a fully loaded bike. After some searching I found a route through the rubble above the snow field. To my surprise I met a fellow cyclist on the pass. He had done the climb without luggage. He said that the descent on the Chilean side was not possible. He had seen a sign on the Chilean side of the pass that the route had been closed because of the snow conditions. So I had to go down the same way that I came up and subsequently take the road through the tunnel. Afterwards I heard that there was a misunderstanding. The Chilean side of the pass was just open. In fact, the road would have been significantly better than the road on the Argentine side. I went down the road where I had just come up and reached the tunnel that led to the Chilean side of the mountain range. The tunnel was prohibited for cyclists for understandable reasons. A truck driver gave me a lift to the other side. A long descent divided me from the Chilean coast. "Down down deeper down!" With the rhythm of the (semi) classic Status Quo song in my head I rushed down from the snow peaks of the Andes to Mediterranean Chile. I reached the Chilean coast in the fashionable resort of Viña del Mar. On the boulevard I saw men with big reflective sunglasses and women with a plaster of makeup that would envy Tutankhamun. Arms, legs, neck, everything rattled with bling. Among the many apartments was a lot of green. The trees were different from what I was used to in the Andes. As some men cut or trim their facial hair, so were the trees and plants. Some trees were cut globular, others had the shape of an equilateral triangle. Nature was apparently too sloppy, and therefore the people have made an artificial remake of the created universe. Even better than the original. Viña del Mar was not only a mecca for hair, makeup and other stylists, the city was also a motorist paradise. There were no speed limits and they were basically allowed to do whatever they want. There was no need to take account of cyclists, they were prohibited. I had to get away here anyway and I ignored the warning signs. With some difficulty I managed to cross Viña del Mar. I reached the next big town, neighboring Valparaíso. The hills of Valparaíso rose steeply from the sea. Houses in all colors clung to these so-called Cerros. These were so steep that the houses seemed to be stacked on top of each other. Impossibly steep roads meandered between the houses to the many stunning viewpoints. Valparaíso was a fascinating, chaotic, three-dimensional world of steep, green hills, the deep blue sea and houses in all possible colors. Many of these houses were painted with frescoes and murals. Or with graffiti, the frescoes of the modern era. Valparaíso was the artistic city of Chile. Everybody was an artist. Or pretended to be. And of course those are the real artists. Along the Chilean coast and through the hills and valleys of the Coastal Mountains and the Central Valley I moved south. I cycled through one of the world's best wine regions, the Colchagua Valley. A German winemaker explained that good wine, just like great art, thrives under suffering. Because of the dry climate, the many sun-hours and with the cooling influence of the ocean on the one hand and the Andes on the other hand, there are plenty of stress factors for the grapes. The daily battle against the conditions resulted in characterful wines. All internationally appealing grape varieties were represented in Chile: Merlot, Pinot Noir, Cabernet Sauvignon Shyraz and above. But the big star of the Chilean wines is the Carmenère, the grape that has become extinct in Europe. A good Carmenère guarantees a triple explosion of flavor. The first sensation is full and fruity, berry-like. After that a dry, spicy taste world manifests itself, which is catapulted to the final stage. The intense bitter sour aftertaste of the third and final taste explosion is in turn the perfect prelude to a new sip of fruity Carmenère. The Wandering Ways of the Lonely Cyclist Chile was the first of the former Spanish colonies that gained democracy, in 1886, two years after the end of the Pacific War. President Balmaceda tried to reform the country and to change the extremely unequal distribution of wealth. The oligarchy of Chile consisted of traditional landowners and a small group of people that got rich from the nitrate mines. When Balmaceda wanted to nationalize the nitrate mines, the military made a coup. Balmaceda committed suicide and the status quo was restored in favor of the landowners and the industrial elite. The second democratic and progressive period of Chile was not permanent either. In 1970, Salvador Allende won the election. He wanted to nationalize the copper mines and the banks and insurance and he wanted a redistribution of the land. Salvador Allendes policies provoked the landowners and the industrial elite. And the Americans, who were de facto expoliting the copper mining operations and with Richard Nixon they had a president that whatsoever was not into socialist experiments in their 'backyard', such as South America was considered at the time. When Allende was reelected in 1973, the Chilean army staged a coup once again, with the help of the United States of America. Allende was killed and Augusto Pinochet came to power with the military junta until 1990. During this period, at least three thousand people killed and many people disappeared without a trace. One of them was the popular protest singer Victor Jara, whose poignant song 'Te recuerdo Amanda' was a dramatic statement against the regime. It is a love song about Manuel and Amanda. Manuel goes to the factory every day, until one day he does not come back because of an 'accident'. Amanda since then waits in despair and in vain for his return. The life of Victor Jara would lead to a similar fate as that of his character Manuel. He wrote his last song at the age of 35 at the stadium of Santiago, the place where many criticizers of the junta 'disappeared'. I wanted to cross the Andes back to Argentina. The first reliable option to cross the mountain range was the Paso Pehuenche. I had traveled far enough south, to leave the extremely dry landscapes behind me for good. Through vast forests I cycled up through the Andes and I passed deep blue lakes. Occasionally a snowy white volcano towered above the green landscape. To my surprise I spotted some parrots. Great macaws with blue wings were fluttering through the air. After seventy kilometers climbing I reached the Chilean border complex. The officer welcomed me warmly: "You can not pass through." "I can not get through ???" I asked flabbergasted. "The road is closed." "Yes, but ..." "We are working on the road." "Yes, but ..." "You really cannot..." "Yes, but what I mean is that ..." "They are working with explosives." "Oh." There was not much else to do but to return. But it was a beautiful day and nothing was lost. I would not have to cycle back the two hundred kilometers back to the main road, because after fifty kilometers there would be an obscure secondary road. I started the morning for the way back. After twenty kilometers on the road, I reached an unmanned roadblock. The company COBUN, which generates electricity from the reservoir and the supplying rivers, had closed the road. They apparatly owned the road and wer allowed to close it. There was no way to get through. A passionate curse escaped my mouth. After backtracking twenty kilometers on the same road and ten kilometers cycling further down I had a third and final possibility to avoid a detour of four hundred kilometers. I enetered a new secondary road. This one was of unusually poor quality, but in any case I cycled in the right direction again, to the south. After twenty kilometers over the abominable gravel road waited another surprise: a roadblock with fencing of three meters high. Behind the fence an asphalt road leaded to civilization. Once again it was a little surprise from the company COBUN. There was an emergency telephone and desperately I tried to contact COBUN. "I am a cyclist, I stand before a closed gate. Could you please be so kind to open the gate for me? " "This is a private road." "I hear what you say. But my question does not concern the status of the road, but if you could open the gate." "This is a private road. That means that the road is not opened. "You could have stated that at the beginning of the road..." "That may be so, but it remains a private road." "But I'm almost there!! Now you force me to return to the route that you want to close." "The only solution is to return. On the other side of the reservoir you can pass by." "That road is also closed, I checked it out for you this morning..." "Rules are rules." Just at the moment that I wanted to give up, a car drove up from my side of the fence. With a press of the remote the gate creaked open. Meanwhile, the telephone service continued: "No one is allowed to trespass here." "Well, I see that there's a car that seems perfectly allowed to trespass..." "But that's impossible!" "You can believe me and you may not believe me, but I see a car coming. And I think that I can do business with these people." "Yes, but ..." "A nice day! And consider for the cooperation ..." "Yes, but ..." "Later ..." "Yes, but ..." Relieved, I cycled through the opened gate to freedom. The trifle with my friends of the company COBUN fit into a broader framework. Pehuenche Indians were forced to leave their territory for the benefit of reservoirs COBUN. Not only the Indian population was victim. The reservoirs also have replaced thousands of acres of rare temperate rainforests. Chile was both the first and the last major country in South America that acquired democracy. After two brief periods of democracy, in 1990 finally emerged a third democratic period. This time democracy seems to stay for long. Politics has since 1990 been dominated by social democratic governments, which have ensured prosperity and stability. That's a small miracle in a country that traditionally was torn by sharp conflicts of interest and a very poor distribution of the income of the vast natural resources. But old reflexes still prove difficult to overcome. After the nitrate mines and copper mines, water is the new gold mine. In southern Chile Indians were exiled from their territory and pristine rivers were channeled in favor of energy. The political elite shares the profits with foreign companies at the expense of nature and the local population. At this time, the company COBUN in cooperation with the Spanish-Italian company ENDESA started major projects in two of the major rivers of Patagonia and there are plans to channel all major Patagonian rivers for hydraulic energy. Numerous action groups try to prevent this. The Experimental Garden of Darwin The last days there were some dreadful moments, but all in all I could look to a wonderful trip so far. My head was dizzy with impressions: of the beauty of the landscapes and of the encounters with the people. The Lonely Cyclist had lived up to his name only partly on his camino in South America: I was cycling enough, but I was certainly not alone. While I was musing about the achievements of the trip, the angels in heaven gathered to take a closer look to the progress of the Lonely Cyclist. The project angel, who chaired the meeting, spoke: "As you know, I have called you together with the question how we could make it a a little more difficult for the Lonely Cyclist. You know that until now everything went smooth on he calls himself his camino. He has been cycling for just a few and he calls himself the "Lonely Cyclist', he is talking fine words all the time and he thinks that all the girls like him. It is high time that he will land with both feet on the ground again. As you know, we regularly directed him on a dead end road the last days, but he seems to still make a lot of fun and he smiles and jokes himself out of all situations. He still makes many photos and usually he is singing on the bike. " "What does he sing?" asked one of the angels. "Everything from Radiohead to country music." "Country music??" "Yes, I do not understand either." "What a nut, do we really must make such an effort for him to intervene?" asked one of the angels surprised. "Mission From Above." "Why in God's name?" The angels themselves could not completely approve the policies yet. "You know that He likes to see His imperfect counterparts on Earth suffering. A little character development. " "I have an idea!" the geological angel stated triumphantly, "Tomorrow the Lonely Cyclist will ride on the flanks of the Volcano Llaima. We will let the volcano plop!" "That seems a little too much credit. In addition, some people live on both sides of the volcano. And you have made a leak in the volcano two years ago, don't you remember?" "We do not have to let him vomit, we can also let him burp or fart. A bit of toxic fumes and hot air will learn him a lesson!" "I still think it's too dangerous with all the day-trippers who jeeps will visit the area." The climate angel intervened in the debate: "Then we do just hot air. We let the sun deliver some extra megawatts!" "That's a good plan." said the project angel. The angels looked at each other contentedly. The evolution angel also gave it a shot: "I have a great idea: we can try our newest fabricate of the evolution factory at the Lonely Cyclist." "You mean that new creature with the working name bumblebee giganticus?" aked the project angel. "We've got him all the way through our Survival of the Fittest Test Program and we have just realized the latest improvements. It now comes in ultra large format with extra sharp sting and double buzz." "Double buzz?" "A really annoying sound. A soprano buzz as loud as a jackhammer. The Lonely Cyclist will not only have to endure the physical but also the psychological terror." It was the turn of the civilian angel to make a contribution: "I have a great idea: we will turn up the road with excavators. He will have to push his bike through loosely stacked heaps. He won't have fun with that!" The Project Angel was happy about the good input from his team and summarized the actions: "Climate angel, it is up to you to screw up the solar power locally. Evolution-angel, do you care for the bumblebees? And if the civil angel will send some males with excavators up fast, they may be just in time before the Lonely Cyclist will arrive. The Geological angel does not have to do anything." I had made good progress on my way south and I reached the lakes and volcanoes region of Chile. Here I had a nice dirt road on my mind, on the flanks of the Volcano Llaima. I cycled up through green alpine meadows and dense forests with tree species that only occur in Chile such as the sleek and high Coigue, massive Alerce trees that can become more than three thousand years old and bittersweet scented Araucaria with its striking umbrella shape. Above the green seas of alpine meadows and dense forests throned the Volcano Llaima out. Around the top were gigantic snowfields laying like a dot of whipped cream on the cake. The white volcanic cone was surrounded by earthly dark, only two year old lava fields. I reached the first large lava field. The volcanic grit gave little grip and I was forced to walk with the bike. That was just a foretaste of what awaited me on the other side of the lava field. The road was cruelly and severely beaten, as if a giant mole had churned up the mess. Cycling was impossible; my bike sank deep into the loose stones. I could barely push my bike through the loosened stones mush. Only a hundred meter before me I saw the excavator at work. So that was the culprit. If I could pass over the monster, I might again be able to continue my way on a 'normal' road. The reality was that I did not have a chance to ever catch the excavator, because it made the road impassable. I saw the accursed excavator ever further before me. Bitterly I realized that I was just a minute too late to prevent this tragedy. Meanwhile, the sun had come out of its hibernation. I thought that I had arrived cooler climates by now, but it was even hotter here than in the Atacama Desert. While I pushed forth my bike through the loose stones, the sweat was pouring down my face. I was looking for a small river to cool down a bit. Especially for children between five and fifteen years old the Dutch singer Henky was very popular in the Netherlands with his song about a sweet little bunny with a fly on his nose. I was not just a fly on my nose. During my attempt to cool off in the stream I was visited by a swarm of giant bumblebees. These were not normal insects anymore, these units were as big as birds. They had big, ugly sunglasses. Would these flying machines stab? Could you survive that? I ran quickly back to my bike. I failed to shake off the animals. They hung a few centimeter before my eyes. When I tried to scare them off, they sat down on my nose. I got crazy of the buzz and I was afraid that the howling overtones might incur serious hearing damage. Sometimes, suddenly the sound went off and I could not hear anyhing no more. That could possibly mean two things. They had gotten away ... or they were stabbing me. After a fat bumblebee had stung me, the sunglasses lit fire red. That was the way that the units teasingly let you know that he was the onethat had taken hold of me. When I finally arrived at the pass, I was surrounded by a cloud of dozens of loud buzzing specimens, all with fire red sunglasses. When I began the descent, the bumblebees finally left me. Meanwhile there were suddenly clouds, which brought the necessary cooling. A refreshing headwind made for additional cooling and the excavators were put aside. I could enjoy the beautiful weather again, and mountain lakes and the new lava fields. I felt joy again and I found myself singing on my bike: "Sweet little bunny with a fly on his nose... and he buzzed up and down ... Ooooooohhhh swwwwweeeeet small rabbbbiiiiitttttt ... " In the Lake District I had reached the Chilean Lake District and I headed in the direction of the Argentine Lake District, on the other side of the Andes. In the vicinity of Pucón and Currarrehue the Mapuche Indians were living in tiny settlements. Three old Mapuche women were standing in line along the roadside. The richly ornamented silver jewelry made for a striking contrast against their black, wrinkled skin. The women had a deep, mysterious look, the eyes directed to a point beyond the horizon. After Currarrehue the way up led up in the mountains through dense forests and along many cascading waterfalls. After the climb I reached a plateau, flanked by snow-capped mountain ranges. The volcano Lanín towered above the plateau. After many hours I reached the pass and the border. The lush green, temperate rainforests of Chile had made way for the vast pampas of Argentina. After twenty kilometers descent, the road was paved again and with a storm in the back I flew over the road, a straight line through the vast grasslands. Very bad weather was coming from Chile, but I was faster than the clouds. I reached the first village of Junín de los Andes just before the torrential rains descended over the endless steppe. In San Martín de los Andes, I learned that the nearby volcano Puyehue was very active at that time. The volcano produced huge clouds of dust and ashfall. Photos on the Internet were extreme: the sticky ash lay inches deep on the roads. According to residents in the affected area you could not see your hands before your eyes. My intended route southward seemed an unpassable road. I decided to cycle back over an alternative route to Chile. That was a detour of more than three hundred kilometers, just to circumvent the ash cloud. If the wind would turn, I would still end up in the ash cloud, but that seemed unlikely. The chance seemed small and it did not happen. But the weather had deteriorated further. The downpours followed each other at a breakneck pace. The stormy winds chased the rain horizontally through and the rain drops hit like projectiles on the Lonely Cyclist. After several long days with strong headwind I reached Puerto Varas. The weather had improved after some very bad days and I had free views on the chain of snowy mountain ridges and volcanoes of the Andes again, including the still fiercely smoking volcano Puyehue. I dined with the Chilean señorita Katharine, who had dived deeply in the mythological and spiritual world of the Mapuche Indians. It is generally known how the Spaniards in current Peru and Bolivia had subdued the Incas and other Indian groups, but the fate of the Mapuche of Chile was even more brutal. Like the tribes in North America, they had undergone a nearly complete genocide. Today the Mapuche live mostly in isolated reserves. Partly because people like Katharine nowadays we learn more about their living and thinking. Katharine wore the Mapuche name 'llanka' or pearl. And also the Lonely Cyclist had meanwhile got a Mapuche name: 'Alen'. That means literally 'the man who looks bright in the night.' Like all Indian languages the mapuche language is one of metaphors. The words can be read like someone who has deep contact with his inner dreams and thus looks far ahead. As someone who can see in the night. Of course I was fond of my mapuche name and I also had a new Mapuche name for my cheerful Chilean señorita: Puyehue, to the volcano that still produced tonnes of smoke above the Chilean-Argentinian border. Puyehue supposedly smoked a giant peace pipe for the fraternization of the world at large and that of the old enemies Argentina and Chile in particular. A ferry brought me to the island of Chiloé, an island that is almost as big as the Netherlands. At the far southern tip of the island, I had a ferry to catch. Only once a week the ferry was running between the island and the village of Chaitén in Chilean Patagonia. I did my Mapuche name little honor. I did not look further than my own nose. The route through Chiloé was much larger than I thought. A day before I would reach the ferry I heard that I had to be at the ferry two hours before the actual departure. I had a hard headwind that day and I had to race the last hundred kilometers to possibly reach the ferry in time. Chiloé is known for its wooden churches that had become part of the UNESCO World Heritage, but the Lonely Cyclist raced rapidly along the churches to be in time for the ferry. Afterwards I had plenty of time. It turned out to be completely untrue that I must be present two hours in advance. Moreover, the boat was four hours too late. Along Fjords and Ice Fields The northern half of Chilean Patagonia is more or less isolated from the rest of Chile and Argentina by mountains, ice caps and the ocean. The Carretera Austral connects the villages and settlements of the sparsely populated area with one another. The road is one of the classic routes for bicycle travelers in South America. She starts in Chaitén and ends 1,400 kilometers south in Villa O'Higgins. Chaitén was a disaster area. The small town was buried under several meters thick layers of ash as a result of a burst of a previously existing volcano in 2008. The community tried to scramble out of the misery. During my presence an ATM was ceremonially opened. A happy event, since the residents had to rely on an ATM five hundred kilometers away the last three years. The Carretera Austral was largely unpaved, but the road was good and the bike did not sink away in deep layers of sand. I was originally lucky with the weather. It was sunny and warm, where it is usually rainy and cold in Chilean Patagonia. Unveiled by clouds the landscape presented herself in full glory. I could surrender with heart and soul to photographing the mystical beauty of this part of the world that is so difficult to access. I was in a stunning green landscape, untouched by human activity. In Chilean Patagonia are several tree species that are found only in this part of the world. Jagged rocky mountains with large amounts of snow and ice tower above the green sea of trees. But above all there was water. Gigantic rivers tumbled down from the snowfields, glaciers and ice caps towards the Pacific. I was not the only cyclist in the ever changing landscapes of Chilean Patagonia. Nowhere in the world I met so many bike travelers as on the Carretera Austral. On the whole route I camped only one night on my own. All other nights I had company. I camped once with a couple who had biked a lot in Mongolia. I spent another night with a Venezuelan cyclist. Another night my tent was next to the tent of two handsome Chilean sisters. The following day we rode together on an alternative route parallel to the Carretera Austral. The road surface was composed of large stones and there were some very steep climbs, but the sisters were extremely sporty and could perform very well in the difficult terrain. Except cyclists there were other travelers too. For transport they had to rely on the good will of the local population. In this sparsely populated part of the world there was hardly any organized public transportation available. In addition to meeting fellow travelers, there was also the loneliness of immense, sprawling landscape. Further to the south the Carretera Austral passed through ever less populated areas. Once in a hundred kilometers I reached a tiny settlement. further there was nothing but pristine wilderness. I rode along to Lago General Carrera, a turquoise lake that stretches far beyond the Argentinian border and cycled along Chile's largest river, the fast-flowing Rio Baker. The Carretera Austral led to Cochrane, which calls itself the new frontier of Chile. It was the place where the world more or less ended. South of Cochrane were only two settlements, until two great ice sheets make any land route further south impossible. Tortél is hundred forty kilometers southwest of Cochrane at the end of a dead-end road on a fjord. I headed to another settlement, Villa O'Higgins, at the end of the Carretera Austral, two hundred thirty gravel kilometers south of Cochrane. The last part of the Carretera Austral would be the most lonely part of the route. I anxiously looked forward to the last part of the legendary route. The daily breaking burs from my carrier began to seriously worry me. The carrier was severely damaged by a number of large cracks by now. Various hose clamps held the construction still together, but every day new sidecracks emerged. I had to ensure that at least the carrier would not degrade completely before arriving in more inhabited areas where I could organize a solution. The first day between Cochrane and Villa O'Higgins went smoothly. Until the day ended in a terrible downpour. It was the first really bad day on the Carretera Austral. I saw the storm coming so I could just in time find a suitable campsite. I put up my tent next to an Austrian group. The three cyclists were each in their seventies years old. Despite the massive amounts of rain the old adventurers were still a heartwarming, positive spirit. While I set up my tent in the rain, I saw three pairs happy eyes through the cracks of the tent. The senior cyclists asked if I needed help. I declined; they would just get wet. In five minutes I had put up my tent and everyone withdrew to his tent. Because I had already counted on bad weather, I had enough food with me that I did not have to cook. So while the rain hit the tent I was comfortable eating tuna, peanuts, chocolate and dried peaches in my tent and so all necessary nutrients were complemented again. The next morning it was still raining cats and dogs. I grabbed all my wet stuff together and cycled further towards Villa O'Higgins. I reached the mouth of the Rio Baker. The river worked its way in mighty meanders between the steep mountainside in its rush down to the Pacific. The landscape was even greener than the rainforests of Ecuador. Everywhere water clashed down from waterfalls, coming from the mist-shrouded mountain slopes above. Not only the rivers and waterfalls carried massive quantities of water downwards, also many a torrential shower delivered a big contribution on the already wet landscape. In the icy cold downpours I climbed steeply to a small pass between the basins of the Rio Baker and the Rio Bravo. A beautiful but also an intensely cold and horriby wet experience. I descended to the mouth of the Rio Bravo, where a ferry had to take me to the other side. The ferry would only go once or twice a day on a rather flexible and utterly unknown schedule. So I had to wait for an unknown time to cross the river. I had heard of fellow bike travelers that there was a cafe where they could serve very nice Kuchens with equally tasty empanadas and great coffee. To my relief the cafe turned to be open. I only had to replace a freshly broken nut of my carrier. I was just busy when I had to remove the whole repair stuff, because the owner of the cafe thought that it was in the way for customers who wanted to go inside - customers that were non-existing. I was all alone, let alone a group of construction workers. The men of the construction were busy building a concrete quay for the ferries. Despite my intense numb hands I had reapaired my bike after fifteen minutes. I could finally go warm up in the cafe. To my surprise the door appeared to be locked. I looked through the window to see what was going on. I could not discern any sign of life anymore. The manager apparently found no reason to keep his business open. Too bad for the manager because I would be a very good customer for him. But far worse for me, because this cafe would probably be the only place in three days where I had an opportunity to warm and dry myself and my luggage. Who did not mourn for this little personal drama were the construction workers. They did not work in the rain and they were sheltering under a roof in a closed and for me unreachable place. To the amusement of the men they did have a dry place where I absolutely did not have a place to shelter. The five centimeter wide overhang of the cafe was totally inadequate for the icy rain drops that floated with high horizontal speed. While the Lonely Cyclist tried to defy the raging storm and the successive and mercilessly cold, heavy rainstorms, the construction workers had the time of their lives. It may be spiritually inferior to distract pleasure from the suffering of your fellow man, but that surely did not spoil the party by any means. They were laughing continuously, seeing how the Lonely Cyclist suffered from the cold rain. And even funnier was that they did not do anything to help the Lonely Cyclist in his ordeal. The malicious pleasure proved an endless source of joy. When after three hours the ferry finally arrived, it was the signal for the final joke of the construction workers. On their ease they came from their shelter and walked to the cafe. To my surprise, the doors were opened for the workers. Long will the construction workers tell to audiences at parties about this precious day in their lives. The day that they saw the Lonely Cyclist suffering in the little harbor. "Never had such a laugh ..." If the audience would ask, what is so funny about that, they would reply that they saw the dire need of the Lonely Cyclist, but did not offer him shelter. If the people, despite new laughter, would still look with glassy eyes, the construction workers would confess that they had waited deliberately to go to the cafe until the ferry came to make sure that the cafe would remain closed for the Lonely Cyclist until he was on board, so that he could not be able to warm up and moreover, he would not be able to eat too. Probably, at this point of the story, they could not keep their eyes dry from laughter and tears of joy wouldd be rolling down their cheeks. If they would still meet incomprehension from the audience, they would say: "You should have seen his flabbergasted face, when the cafe opened... ", rolling on the ground out of sheer fun. When the ferry reached the other side, it was still raining. I was removed another hundred kilometers from civilization, as far as you can call a totally isolated settlement civilization. I would not be able to reach Villa O'Higgins today. Still, I wanted to cycle as long as it continued to rain. If the sun would break through, if only for a small moment, I had a chance to dry my luggage a little bit while I was riding. After many hours of cycling through wind, cold and rain, it became clear that it would not get dry today no more. I was stiff frozen after an afternoon of icy rains. Further cycling in the rain would result in even number fingers, so that I might have problems setting up my tent. I pulled the brakes at eight o'clock in the evening. I had progressed well. It was only thirty kilomters from here to Villa O'Higgins. Setting up my tent seemed hardly possible. I could barely move my wet, numb fingers. After a three quarter slog my tent finally pitched. Inside the tent it was not warmer than outside. Everything was wet. Even my sleeping bag was no longer dry. At least two hours I lay in my sleeping bag with chattering teeth, before I got back some body heat. After that I had a reasonably good night's sleep. The next day I reached Villa O'Higgins, a hamlet of 465 inhabitants, but with all the facilities that I needed. Shivering, I snuggled at the burning fireplace, that I would not depart the rest of the day. The Mountains and the Pampas Villa O'Higgins is the end of the world. Or at least a dead-end of the world as it is almost completely enclosed between ice sheets and large lakes. Still, for cyclists there is a way out, albeit an obscure and very uncomfortable way. A ferry took me across the length of Lago O'Higgins. On the other side of the tens of kilometers long lake was a 22 kilometer connecting road to the Argentinian Lago del Desierto. This lake could be crossed with a ferry too. The first Chilean sixteen kilometers of the connecting road between the lakes were a cross something in between a jeep track and a footpath. The tiny terrain carts of the Chilean customs were the only motorized vehicles that were powerful and agile enough to use the track. I was sometimes barely able to cycle, but often I had to push the bike. How difficult this process was, I was at least moving forward. The remaining six Argentine kilometers proved that that even this basic requirement was not fulfilled. An overgrown trail of ten centimeters wide zigzagged through the dense forest. Trees lay horizontally across the walkway or formed such a narrow passage that even walking with the bike was an extremely complicated task. Even if the bike was stripped of all luggage, there was no getting through. I had arranged to climb with the bike on my back over the fallen trees. With four panniers, a handlebar bag and a large bag with my tent, sleeping bag and mat, this was a logistical nightmare. It meant that I had to cover the same distance five times. First with my bike plus handlebar bag, then walk back, then with my two rear bags, then walk back, then with my bags plus tent bag. I was not quite having a great time and if God exists, I hope that he has not listened to what I currently had to report. Eventually I reached the ferry with all my luggage, soaked with sweat. I had all the luck in the world that the ferry was delayed, otherwise I had to wait a full day to the next crossing. Just in time I could jump on board. An hour later I was on the other side of Lago del Desierto, where I immediately took possession of a beautiful camping site. In El Chaltén I began a two-day trek through the mountains. The weather was gorgeous. I met some comrades whom I knew from my route through Chile on the Carretera Austral. Together we camped at the foot of the Fitz Roy, a famous mountaing in the history of alpinism and one of the most impressive mountains of the world. The next morning we got up early. With my Israeli friends and an Austrian woman I experienced the sunrise over the mythical mountain. The granite obelisk of the Fitz Roy reflected in the calm water of the glacial lake. The rock towers and mountain lake colored from pink to orange to red. For several minutes the world around us was bathing in a fiery orange-red light. Everything had the same unearthly color, as if the world was in a kind of celestial harmony for a brief moment. Thankful we underwent the poetic beauty of the moment. We descended to the campsite, where we parted. Through forests of Coigue trees and the in all directions growing Lenga trees I walked in a few hours to another glacial lake at the foot of Cerro Torre. The lonely rock tower of the Cerro Torre stuck out like a pool cue more than thousand meters up from the surrounding glacier landscape. The tip of the cue consisted of gleaming ice, caused by the frigid jet winds that blow around the peak. I climbed to the glacial lake at the foot of the granite rock tower. A few icebergs were floating in the glacial lake, coming from the glacier that ends in the lake. It was the second moment of iconic beauty that I experienced this morning. Regarding glaciers and ice there is a location that is even more spectacular than El Chaltén. The Perito Moreno Glacier, with its crumbling ice mass, is one of the most impressive natural phenomena of our planet. In two days I cycled to El Calafate over the windswept pampas and subsequently up to the glacier. The Perito Moreno Glacier is several kilometers wide, many kilometers long and tens of meters high. A massive wall of ice in white and blue. The wind blew some rain and snow showers over the millions crevices cleft ice sheet. Lago Argentino was packed with ice floes in all possible dimensions. The icebergs were literally falling from the sky. Slabs of ice as big as apartment buildings broke down and collapsed with a thunderous crashing into the icy waters of Lago Argentino. I cycled on the Ruta 40 in the direction of Puerto Natales in Chile. The loneliest road of the world begins more than five thousand kilometers north, in the sweltering heat of the north, and runs south to the icy southern tip of mainland Argentina. As strong as the climatic conditions change from north to south, so little variation offers the landscape of infinite pampas. In the north of Argentina I cycled three hundred kilometers over the Ruta 40 at temperatures of above forty degrees. Now I was back on the Ruta 40 in the extreme south of Argentina and it was barely ten degrees. With the perpetual storms that rage over Patagonia, it felt much colder. Ruta 40 was largely unpaved in the south and there were no villages, no rivers, no trees and no people. I had to rely my own stocks. I cycled through a landscape that did not have any visual beacons, except for the road that was leading to an imaginary point on the horizon. All meditative experiences of the surrounding emptiness were offset by the concentration that I needed to find a route between the large rocks on the road. In addition, I had to brave the daily storms, that chase over the pampas. After a hundred kilometers, I left the Ruta 40. I crossed the border with Chile where the pampas made way for the mountains of the Andes. By far the most famous phenomenon of the extreme south of Chile are the Torres del Paine, a massif of vertical walls and rock needles that emerge from the pampas as if from out of nowhere. I cycled in a bow around the massif and after crossing a minor mountain range I reached Puerto Natales in the far south of the South American continent. Two Penguins In Puerto Natales I booked a day trip to the Torres del Paine, Chile's most well-known national park. Since recently, a large fire had destroyed half of the nature so a multi-day trek seemed a bit too much. Besides, a few days ago I had done a beautiful trek through similar landscapes in El Chaltén with much better weather. I was richly rewarded for my laziness. On the tour I met the fifty year old American motorcycle traveler Robert and the Chilean painter and saleswoman Margarita. Together we were the Tres Amigos, The Three Friends, to the movie with Steve Martin. Margarita mastered the art of temptation to perfection and flirted with delight. The two men let it all happen. So it happened that I was in one of the most beautiful places of the Earth, but that I had very little eye for it. After the long day we were neatly brough back from the National Park to Puerto Natales, where the Tres Amigos dined. After dinner Robert said goodbye. Margarita and I visited a cafe, where we sat down on a luxury sofa. A CD of Amy Winehouse provided the musical background. Through the window we saw the nightlife passing by. We saw a man of about fifty, with stoical look, completely cut off from the outside world. "What a passion !!" Margarita commented ironically. At that time a woman cycled along with an intensely desolate expression in her eyes. It looked like there had not happened a whole lot of fun in her life for a very long time. I felt compassion for the lonely woman: "We have to follow our dreams in our lives, that is the best remedy. You must move a way forward." "Yes, we need passionate life!!" said Margarita with surrender. A man with an intensely bored face walked in our view. W laughed at the same time. Margaritas eyes were tightly fixed on my eyes. For a timeframe that could have been both a fraction of a second as an eternity our eyes were caught in each others. I took her in my arms. "Have you led a passionate life?" "I have known a lot of grief in love," Margarita said, "some people never find the right person - as Amy Winehouse - maybe I am one of those people." It felt good to have beautiful margarita in my arms, but we had to finish. The cafe was closing. "Can I have a kiss?" I asked innocently. "No," she replied sternly, "no kisses will be handed out tonight." I brought Margarita to her hotel. We said goodbye and through the night streets of Puerto Natales I walked back to my hotel. After the romantic evening on the sofa followed the solitude. Two hundred fifty kilometers separated me from Punta Arenas and the Strait of Magellan, in the extreme south of mainland South America. Nowhere was the blowing harder than in Patagonia and the more south, the more extreme is the wind. At the moments that I had tailwind, I rode forty kilometers an hour over the empty landscape. If there was headwind, I had a pace of at most ten to twelve kilometers per hour. I needed an incredible effort to merely move forward. The landscape consisted of pampas, hundreds of kilometers of vast plains without trees and flowers, without cities and towns. It was home to the mysterious Nandu, the South American variant of the Ostrich. Like the ostrich, the Nandu has got big wings, and like the ostrich, the nandu cannot use them to fly. The need to fly is very little though, since the environment is the same everywhere. Pampas, pampas and more pampas. Besides the birds with the useless wings, there was nothing to see. Hours and hours I cycled through the Great Nothing until I reached the Strait of Magallan. On the other side, I could see Tierra del Fuego, more extensive pampas. After 15,300 kilometers cycling through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina I had reached Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost tip of the South American continent. In Punta Arenas I emailed Margarita. I asked if she wanted to come to me. I attached a photo of two kissing penguins. One day later she had traveled to me and we were together at the end of the world. She was my Pinguinita Magallanes, named after the little penguins in the Strait of Magellan. I was her Pinguino Rey, to the great King Penguins in Patagonia. Most Latinas are emotionally and direct from nature, but with her extroverted character and artistic temperament these properties were reinforced in Margarita. Suddenly other South American women seemed timid and shy creatures. The plan to bike to Ushuaia came to a standstill. Four flat, easy days on the pampas separated me from the southernmost city of the American continent. Instead of four days cycling in solitude on the pampas, Margarita and I found ourselves in a bus to Buenos Aires. We swapped the Arctic Magallan region for the sizzling tango city. The tango originated in the early twentieth century in the brothels and bars of the port of Buenos Aires, the city that had many more men than women. The wild west world was a fertile ground for the dark, angular rhythms of the tango. From the very beginning was tango music made for dancing. The dance leaves little to the imagination. The man is the hunter, the woman the intended prey. A vertical expression of a horizontal passion. Vocals are sensual or melancholy and always passionate. The compelling, obsessive rhythms are produced by the bandoneén, the accordion of the tango. Since the early years, the tango tapped more and more emotional layers and the music has incorporated various musical timbres. The best known bandeonista is Astor Piazzola. He has blended the tango music with other musical styles. The country's most famous tanguëro even wrote a classical concert for an orchestra with bandonéon. Nowadays Adriana Varela is the voice of the tango with her smoky voice. In the course of the years tango has perhaps lost some of its raw sensuality, but the music has gained in melancholy. There was a place that was even hotter than the tango city. We left Buenos Aires in a bus to travel to the tropical Iguazú on the border of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay. The jungles harbored a spectacular tropical wildlife, including numerous parrots and toucans. The eighty Iguazú Falls formed a giant arena. Some waterfalls were dozens of meters in height. It provides a three-dimensional sound landscape with low, deep, floating noises, caused by the falling water. The Perito Moreno glacier in southern Argentina is the ultimate fairytale world of ice, the Iguazu Falls in the tropical north of Argentina might be the most grandiose waterfall world of our planet. During the holidays with Margarita I felt that I was not ready yet with my camino, that there was a second part to come. I bought a ticket to Quito in Ecuador, the place where Part I of the Camino also started. I would not head south this time, but I would be cycling to the north, towards Colombia and Central America. The plan was loose and not worked out at all. I did not know when I would reunion with Margarita. Whether and how our relationship would develop in the future was shrouded in the mists of future. Que sera, sera. Map of the route through Argentina and Chile