The Impromptu Drive Across the End of the World
Expect the Unexpected
I confess that I get my kicks out of fulfilling two goals at once by combining my quest to speak Spanish with my love of globe-trotting. Theoretically, it is a good plan. In reality, one goal inevitably gets kicked to the curb in favor of the other shortly after I arrive at my destination. The fun of my dual-goal escapade is that I never know which will prevail until the winner takes the lead – Spanish studies or globe-trotting.
I thought I had mastered the dual-goal concept when I decided to study Spanish in Ushuaia, Argentina—the Southernmost City in the World, also known as the End of the World.
Ushuaia, population 60,000, is the Argentine capital of Tierra del Fuego, the archipelago south of the Strait of Magellan on the southern tip of South America. The city is 680 miles (1,094 km) north of Antarctica and it is the largest port in the world for cruise ships departing for the frozen continent.
As the Queen of Seasickness, I would NOT be among the polar adventurers cheerfully waving farewell to Ushuaia, while sailing off to encounter the most turbulent waters on the planet. Not a chance! My feet would remain planted terra firma in Tierra del Fuego.
Ushuaia did not make a good first impression on me. I expected it to look like the quaint seaside town in the photos. Instead, I encountered a chilly, damp, dreary town covered with a thick grey canopy of cloud cover. If this was summer, I didn’t want to be in Ushuaia in the winter! My goal was to travel to the end of the world and visit the Southernmost city on the planet. Been there and done that within the first hour of my arrival. Thank goodness I still had plans for my Spanish Immersion Program to fall back on!
That was before I met Wart.
Wart was a German man about sixty-ish who was also a student at the Spanish Immersion Program staying with the same Ushuaian host family as I was. We struck up a conversation shortly after I arrived, even though he came across with a snarly demeanor. Wart mentioned that the next day would be his last in the Spanish Program because he was going to Antarctica. Being a generally polite person, I listened to his plan.
He REALLY captured my FULL ATTENTION when he said his expedition was FLYING across the Drake Passage.
Flying? Across the Drake? Did I hear that right?
It took me less than one second to decide I could go on an expedition to Antarctica in a heartbeat IF I could FLY OVER the Drake! Sign me up!
I peppered Wart with questions. The prospect looked promising because he made the arrangements through a contact at our language school. One slight problem – I had to have all my arrangements finalized the next day.
Oh sure! I could get myself hooked up with an Antarctic Expedition and on my way within 24 hours. No sweat!
For the record, I did go to the Spanish School the next morning; I just didn’t attend any classes. I immediately sought out the person in charge of the Antarctic expedition and plunked myself down in a chair in front of his desk.
There were only three obstacles preventing me from getting connected with the Antarctica expedition with such short notice.
It had to be paid in full right away. No problem. My trusty Presidential One credit card came in handy when I needed it.
The plane was leaving from Punta Arenas, Chile. The expedition bus leaving from Ushuaia was full and there were no commercial flights scheduled that would get me to Punta Arenas in time. If I wanted to make the Antarctica flight, I would have to hire a driver for the 12 to 14-hour trip across the southern tip of South America to Punta Arenas. Wart also had to get a driver, perhaps he and I could split the cost. The quote was reasonable. The fee had to be paid to the driver in U.S. dollars. No problem, provided Wart agreed to share his driver. Next?
I needed insurance coverage to transport my body back from Antarctica if anything happened to me. International law prohibits the burial of any corpses in Antarctica. Perhaps that was a not-so-subtle hint there was a high risk to this crazy escapade? Once again, my trusty Presidential One credit card came in handy when I needed it. (Note: This card is no longer available. The benefits were so good I wouldn’t be surprised if it promised to transport me back from the moon!)
Oh, by the way. There’s just one slight wrinkle in the plan. The flight is ONE WAY. The plane lands at King George Island, where the passengers are transported to the ship. After touring Antarctica for a week, the SHIP will CROSS the DRAKE PASSAGE and return the passengers back to the Port of Ushuaia.
Oh by the way. I suddenly remember I am the Queen of Seasickness! I just signed myself up to sail the most violent, treacherous, unpredictably dangerous waters on earth! Me! I’m the one who barfs on a dolphin watch in a calm harbor!
My friend at the school said he’d let the ship crew know I was Queen of Seasickness and see what they could do for me. From my perspective, a trip to Antarctica wasn’t going to get any easier.
The next morning, Juan, the Argentine driver, Wart, the snarly 60-ish man, and I set out to drive across the southern tip of South America from Ushuaia, Argentina, to Punta Arenas, Chile. Our journey took us through Tierra del Fuego and over the Strait of Magellan to approach Punta Arenas from the north.
I fell asleep in the back seat. Occasionally, Juan and Wart would wake me up when there was something to see. The road wasn’t exactly an international speedway or even a main highway. However, it did have some interesting cross-traffic.
As we approached the San Sebastian border crossing between Argentina and Chile, Juan gave us very explicit directions for clearing through the border control. If the customs officers found out we hired Juan to drive us to Punta Arenas, Wart and I would be detained at the border until the agents could arrange for a driver from Chile to take us on the remaining segment of our journey. If that happened, we would miss our flight to Antarctica. To avoid this scenario, Juan instructed us to tell the border agents that we were cousins. Wart was from Germany; I was from the US. We were traveling with our Argentine cousin, Juan, to a family reunion in Punta Arenas, Chile.
Note: I have previous experience being detained at the Argentine-Chilean border, and I was NOT interested in a repeat performance. See the October 16, 2023 posting: A Dud Day in Chile.
Wart and I had to go to a different agent than Juan, so we all made arrangements to meet back at the car. The border control office was packed, wall-to-wall people. All the traffic must have been detained at the border because, aside from the odd guanaco wandering across our path, we drove for miles without seeing another vehicle. FYI, guanaco are native to South America and are members of the camel family.
I stood in the line designated for visitors from foreign countries other than Argentina, and surprisingly it moved quickly. Within minutes I was giving my passport to the border agent. He said something to me in Spanish. I didn’t understand him because he spoke too fast. I looked at him blankly. While I contemplated whether I should ask him to speak slower or ask him if he spoke English, he solved my dilemma by picking up his stamp and thumping it down on the open page of my passport. He waved his hand for me to move on as he said, “Bienvenida a Chile.” It doesn’t get any easier than that!
I started to walk toward the door to go to the car when I spotted Wart—standing in the line for commercial truckers! Maybe the guy didn’t understand Spanish as well as I thought he did. I walked up to him and said, “The line you need to be in is over there; this is the commercial trucker line.”
He ordered, “Get in line.”
Overlooking his belligerence, I told him I was ready to go.
“You don’t have your passport stamped,” he growled. “Get in line.” Jutting his lower jaw out, he whipped around to face forward in the line and turned his back on me. I gathered that meant I was dismissed.
I decided to refrain from ripping his lips off in the middle of the trucker line at the San Sebastian Border Crossing Customs Office because I consider myself a civilized woman.
I went back to the car where Juan joined me within minutes. I simply said to him, “There’s a problem with Wart.” Juan dealt with the Wart problem, and eventually, we were back on the road.
My trusty Presidential One credit card came in handy for many things, but it did not make up for the serious lack of communication with the expedition's organizers. I had a flight voucher with DAP Airlines to fly from Punta Arenas International Airport the following morning, but I DID NOT have an itinerary. I was told my driver would have my information, but that was news to Juan. Furthermore, his efforts to get the information for me proved futile. For lack of a better plan, Juan and I decided he would drop me off at the airport and I’d get myself situated from there. Wart said he “had it under control,” but according to him, he had everything under control when, in fact, he was blatantly out of control. When we arrived in Punta Arenas, Juan was in a time crunch to drop us off and get back to the San Sebastian border crossing before it closed at midnight.
Wart, the 60ish snarly man kicked up some more dust.
Apparently, Wart decided it would be prudent NOT to have the money to pay Juan. He reasoned that he would only pay up if Juan ACTUALLY drove him to Punta Arenas.
Really? Did Wart think the guy was going to dump him off in the middle of nowhere with the guanacos?
When he got to Punta Arenas, Wart thought he would be able to withdraw US dollars from an ATM to pay Juan. LUDICROUS! Why would there be an ATM in a small town in the far regions of the tip of South America that conveniently doles out US dollars?! Wart had Juan drive from one ATM to the next in search of one that dispensed US dollars.
Juan’s time was running very short if he wanted to get across that night. I asked if he knew how long it would take us to drive to the airport.
That was when Wart, the snarly 60ish man dealt himself the fatal blow. He turned to me and sniped, “Shut up, you SCHTUPID WOMAN! I’ve got it under control.”
He yapped off his cantankerous flapper once too often with that one. I shot back, “I saw how you have things under control at the border.”
He waved his hand, brushing me off. “I don’t pay attention to such a SCHTUPID WOMAN!”
Bad move, Wart, the snarly 60ish man. My name, Lois, means Battle Maiden. My inner Battle Maiden does not take kindly to provocation.
My response was simple: “Juan, please stop the car and put Wart’s luggage on the side of the road. He can’t pay you, and I don’t want him riding with me.” Juan pondered what I said, then stopped the car, popped the trunk, and unloaded Wart’s belongings. Wart continued to sit in the car.
I looked Wart square in the eye and gave him his marching orders. “GET OUT A%$HOLE! You’re in my car!” He got out.
Juan and I drove to the Punta Arenas International Airport, which is 12 miles from Punta Arenas. As Juan was helping me unload my luggage he said, “Miss Lois, you’re a nice lady. You did the right thing. He shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
“Thanks, Juan. Have a safe journey back to Ushuaia. I’ll see you when I return from Antarctica. Adios, Amigo.”
Watch for the next episode of Expect the Unexpected and join me as I travel to the White Continent!
Cool story! You certainly handled the “Wart problem” effectively.
Whoa! Tiera del Fuego and Drake’s passage in the same post. Incredible stuff!!