Day 23 - Argentina 2025: Esquel to Bariloche

All good things must come to an end, and today is my last day of road trip. I only had to drive less than 300 km, so I took my time getting ready to go, organizing the many bags that I have accumulated over three weeks. Most of the stuff will not come with me once I return the car at the airport, but is amazing how many things one accumulates on the way (instant coffee, sugar, salt, shampoo, fruit, crackers, an emergency sausage, two types of cereal for breakfast, a yogurt for the last breakfast, etc.). I also wanted to be attentive to the comings and goings of my host, because I needed to pay him before he went to work. My vigilance was rewarded when he came out of his apartment to say goodbye to someone, and we moved to the office where the credit card machine was stored. And then we started talking, and I had the Cliff Notes version of his life as an immigrant (he and his wife came from Chile), his 21 years working as a special ed teacher (after which he had to retire by law, at the tender age of 47 and with his full salary), the immigrant mentality of saving and investing on property, and his reasonable prosperity now he is in his 50's. His main job is managing his cluster of 4 rental cabins (Cabañas Aladino), and I think his son manages a restaurant just across the street (Parrilla Aladino). 

At some point the conversation drifted into all that ails Argentina today: inflation and the loss of acquisition power, high cost of medicines for the elderly, low average income particularly for the elderly (US$ 250 per month; when bread is US$ 2, and meat is US$ 8 per kilo), and antiquated industry being replaced by cheap Chinese imports, and so on. He was not impressed by the actions of President Milei, who has defunded social services and eliminated many jobs, and is now brown-nosing Trump to obtain yet another mega-loan to keep the government going. Poor Argentina has become an impoverished country, and many live by the miracle of buying on credit, making minimum payments on their overloaded credit cards.

When I finally left Esquel I was deeply depressed, but soon became cheered by the change in the landscape. After seeing harsh and monotonous desert for a few days, driving toward the mountains was simply wonderful. I was also coming into the forested foothills, and the lake region, so all of a sudden there is water everywhere. I am thinking that this is the memory I kept with me from 30 years ago, when I had crossed the Pampa for several days and reached a less touristic Bariloche, which with its mountains and lakes seemed like a dream.

I think this is the end of this chapter. Tomorrow morning (Friday) I will fly from Bariloche to Buenos Aires at 7h45 to arrive in Aeropark by 9h00, and then will have to mark some time before trekking to the international airport, EZE, 30 km away, for my 21h00 flight to New York (arriving at JFK on Saturday at 6h00 to leave at 17h00 and arrive at SFO at 21h00). I think I will buy a ticket for the bus that goes from airport to airport, rather than trying to navigate the bus network. Tomorrow will be all about hopping from one conveyance to another, which could get screwed up at several different points, but is not likely to be of interest to you. Saludos!

Finis

Day 22 - Argentina 2025: Comodoro Rivadavia a Esquel

My prior to the last trip will take me across the "green" part of Patagonia. To start with I will follow the path of the former train from Comodoro Rivadavia to Sarmiento. The landscape changes significantly, following a broad canyon bound by dissected hills that remind me a lot of the landscape around Maricopa and Taft. It is a welcome change after the endless plains of scrub grass I have found to the south. The canyon itself has greener scrub grass and even some small clumps of trees. Sarmiento itself is located in a very broad portion of the valley, where the river has a very low gradient and plenty of meanders, ox bow lakes, and wetlands (in fact, I suspect that the main problem faced by the farmers is a very shallow water table). I didn't see ag per se, although I saw some very healthy steers, but there were plenty of signs advertising cherries.

Unbeknownst to me, Sarmiento is the home of a clever little devil who, upon seeing that I went down to one bar in the gas gage, whispered in my ear assuring me that I had enough gas to get to the next town, Facundes. Shortly after leaving Sarmiento the highway climbs out of the valley and--surprise, surprise--starts crossing the flat, endless landscape characteristic of the rest of the lowlands of Patagonia. I felt I was crossing the Mojave Desert, and felt the pinprick of fear in my scalp as I looked at the "low gas" light turn on. Well, only 30 kilometers to Facundes; I can make it. Facundes itself is 7 kilometers off the highway, down into another fertile valley. It looked quiet and very rural, and I didn't see the gas station entering the town. Hmm ... I drove around looking for it when I saw the police post. Surely they would know where it is. Then again, it was 8h30, and the place looked deserted. I crossed the street an walked into a driveway, where the always present dogs started barking, and that brought out a lady to whom I posed the question. "The gas station" ... "We don't have one here in town" ... "Oh, where is the nearest station? ... "Rio Mayo, 50 km from here".

Rats, could I go 50 km on the gas I had? Nothing to it but get going, so I went back to the highway, and there learnt that Rio Mayo was 65 km away! Goodness gracious, lady, details count here. So there I go, driving through the lonely desert floor, hoping against hope that there would be 4 or 5 liters of gas in the tank. I tried to remain calm, imagining that at some point the motor would quit and I would hitchhike my way to town, buy a gas can, pick up 5 liters, and come back to my dying steed. I anxiously saw the distance fall to 50 km, then 40, then 30. What is the point really? Whether I run out of gas 30 km, or 1 km, or 500 m from the gas station the end result would be exactly the same. I drove "sweetly", tried to make myself "light", and stolidly ignored the now flashing "you are completely out of gas" sign. By some sort of miracle I made it to Rio Mayo, navigated a tortuous left and right and left path and made it to the gas station! The gas tank holds 50 liters, and it took 53 liters to fill it up, which shows I was in an anti-volume parallel universe and once again my Guardian Angel had saved my bacon!

The remaining 300 km were uneventful, and I was happy to come into Esquel, which is a city I know and where I will be staying at the same place I stayed on my way down south. I am home.

Day 21 - Argentina 2025: Around Comodoro Rivadavia

I have to confess that the day did not promise much. Comodoro Rivadavia is an oil-producing region and the main port through which crude is shipped to Buenos Aires for refining and further distribution to the country. For some reason that I don't understand a refinery has not been built here, which in a way has protected the town from being boring to being ugly and contaminated. Well, when life gives you lemons ... so I decided to start my tourist day by visiting the Petroleum Museum. The museum was probably established a few decades ago, and it is beginning to show its age, but there was a very interesting topographic model showing the petroleum and gas producing areas, which confirmed my initial guess that the Mesozoic black shales I first met in Torres del Paine extend in a belt on the back-arc portion of the Andes, from Salta in the north to Tierra del Fuego in the south. This belt is the gas-producing region of Argentina, whereas the basin where Comodoro Rivadavia is located is the only petroleum-producing region.

The museum also had a good collection of tools, drilling towers, pumps (what we might call donkey pumps but are here called stork pumps because the up and down of the pump resembles the movements of a feeding stork), and vehicles from the early 20th century, which I found particularly informative. A special valve to control gushing or gas wells that get out of control was developed here, based on the clever idea of smashing the two halves of the valve together, just as if you were clapping your hands. Clever.

My next stop was a visit to the railroad museum, which really had not much to show but chronicles the establishment of a train line between the heart of the fertile region of northern Patagonia and the port through which the ag products of the region reached the port, and from there Buenos Aires or the European markets.

My last serious attempt at tourism was a visit to the Museo Patagónico. To reach it I had to walk through the commercial part of the city, soaking all along the friendly vibrations of the humming town. Nobody seemed to know where the museum was, so I walked and walked until I practically stumbled unto the small museum in the middle of a wide portion of the median of one of the boulevards. Like in many other cases, the museum receives very few visitors and the Director, Anahí, was only too happy to have someone to chat with. Anahí is a historian of the First Nations of Argentina, and she was very happy to exchange tales about the Mesoamerican cultures with those of the Patagonian cultures. Of course I had to tell her about Cantona and my work there in the early 1980's, which cemented our friendship and culminated in an invitation to have a cafecito while she regaled me of tales about the Tehuelches, the Mapuches, and the genocide of the Tehuelches in Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego by the "invading" northern Europeans.

I am having a quiet afternoon at home (where fortunately I have free access to Netflix), and tomorrow I will head for Esquel. 

Day 20 - Argentina 2025: Puerto Santa Cruz to Comodoro Rivadavia

Another long day of driving, but with the prospect of a stop at Puerto San Julián 150 km away (where I made it with barely any fumes left in the tank). Turns out I should have spent the night here, rather in Santa Cruz, because this town is at least making a valiant effort to become interesting. For example, as I got to the shore I found that I had come in close contact with three important personages of history. In 1520 Ferdinand Magellan and Juán Sebastián Elcano stopped here, at the first place they reached in the New World, to celebrate their first mass and prepare them for their voyage of exploration (Magellan died in The Philippines, but Elcano made it back to Spain with one of the five original vessels, thus completing the first circumnavigation of the world). A replica of Elcano's vessel, Nao Victoria, has been built by the shore, and is now a living history museum. Magellan is famous for discovering the Strait of Magellan on his crossing from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Sixty years later, in 1578, the English Francis Drake also stopped at the bay where Port San Julián is located. He also found a unique passage to avoid Cape Horn, the Drake Passage, thus enabling the Brits to pirate their way across the "Spanish Lake" or Pacific Ocean. Finally, in 1834, HMS Beagle damaged its keel in Punta Quilla (in Puerto Santa Cruz), and after repairs were made moved up the coast into Puerto San Julián. I think that is a pretty distinguished resume for a little unknown port along the coast of Patagonia.

Puerto San Julián also has a couple of cool small museums, who are not heavily visited, so the curators are delighted to take the time out of their busy schedules to walk with you and tell you all about the estancia that has been moved from somewhere out in the middle of nowhere to the center of town, and is now labeled Museo del Campo. Argentina received many immigrants after both World Wars (and every time before and since that someone has to start anew), and many of them moved to Patagonia to manage vast sheep estancias. It was not an easy life, but through ups and downs wool and mutton have been mainstays of the Patagonian economy.  Another cool spot if the Museo Rosa Novak, which started as an art museum but with the donations of the community has become an eclectic history museum. Unfortunately the young man who took it upon himself to be my guide talked and talked and talked, so I could not quietly enjoy the old artifacts. An interesting piece of historic trivia is that the French aviator (and author) Antoine de Saint-Exupéry spent four years in Argentina, flying a monoplane, to explore optimal routes for the aerial mail service.

Finally, the municipality has put some effort on creating a 35 km coastal drive that takes you to charming (and extremely desolate) viewpoints and beaches that in the spring and fall might be an interesting tourist attraction. I was puzzled by a thick (2 to 5 m) sheet of rounded small gravel (maybe 1 to 2 cm in diameter) that blankets broad expanses of the shore and extends deeply into the feeding fluvial valleys. I thought it could be a debris flow deposit, but the pieces are too rounded and the sorting is too good. Maybe debris flows later winnowed by the action of the waves?

I was just coming out of the 35 km of dirt road, and joining the highway when it started to rain. No big deal, except that the guanacos decided to congregate on the highway because of the light rain, which made it hard going. Eventually I figured out that guanacos were taking advantage of the water ponded in potholes to enjoy a nice drink of water. In this sandy landscapes there are precious few puddles for the guanacos, so this odd rain gave them the chance to store supplies for a few weeks to come (allow me to remind you that these are camelids, well adapted to life in desert regions). 

Day 19 - Argentina 2025: A day of stagnation at Puerto Santa Cruz

I made it to Puerto Santa Cruz, which is wind swept and desolate. I planned to spend a day here, but I must confess that it is going to be a very uneventful day because there is little to do. I read and played with my computer, but by 11 am I had cabin fever and had to go out. I am staying at a very nice A-frame cabin at the very entrance of the town, and from there I had the option of following the coast south to Puerto Punta Quilla (Keel Point) or go into downtown. So I headed for Keel Point, 10 km away, which is a restricted-entry naval port (the name comes from the fact that Captain Fitz Roy had to beach HMS Beagle here to replace the damaged keel; I feel as close to Darwin as I will ever be). 

I found a friendly marine at the gate, who told me there was a pingüinera 4 km along the beach, so I parked just outside the gate and stepped in on foot to walk along the beach. It was tough going because the shoreline was strewn with cobbles, so I only covered a kilometer before taking the wise decision to head back (I could see far along the shore, and there was not a penguin in sight, so I did not have enough encouragement to keep going). I did cross over the bedrock for a few hundred meters, and found it to be a compact mudstone with lots of fossils of turritella, a coiled gastropod that in California is particularly indicative of the Miocene. I bet somewhere in those cliffs there is a whale skeleton to be discovered.

On the way back my friendly marine ambushed me and invited me to come into his post. Obviously he was lonely and welcomed the opportunity to talk. He was delighted to hear I was from Mexico, and a geologist, but most of the time he engaged on a long tirade about what is wrong with Argentina. He blames many of the ills of the country on the arrival of immigrants from Paraguay, Bolivia, Chile, and Perú, which the previous administration welcomed and supported with generous allotments (sounds familiar?). He has high hopes that new president Milei will stop that (another "populist" politician who is promising to "drain the swamp"). 

On a slightly more informative conversation, he told me some of what he knew about the Islas Malvinas (Falkland Islands), and the 1982 war. The traumatic event is plastered all over town, where old guns are used as public monuments, and where signs claiming Argentinian ownership of the islands are all over the place. That is because Puerto Santa Cruz is the closest to the Malvinas (650 km away), and it was the main port from which soldiers and munitions were deployed, and where many of the dead and wounded were brought back after the conflict. 

The islands have been a hot potato since the first European, the French explorer Bougainville, set foot in them in 1764 and claimed them for France. The following year, 1765, Britain claimed them for itself, and a few years later Spain claimed them and managed to kick everyone else out of there (1776 to 1811). After the Spanish withdrawal, Argentina claimed them in 1820 but failed to establish permanent colonies there. In 1833 the Brits came back, just months before the arrival of HMS Beagle, which carried both Charles Darwin and Captain Fitz Roy and his guns. By 1845 an English colony had been established at Port Stanley, which the California Gold Rush soon made a bustling midway station for all sorts of people going to the goldfields. The shores of the Falklands were strategic locations for WW I and WW II. 

Perón made a half-hearted attempt to buy the islands for Argentina in 1953 (and was laughed at by the Brits), and under the bravado of two different military juntas Argentina entered into military conflict with England in the late 1960's, and later in 1982. In both cases Argentina lost, but to this day still claims the islands belong to Argentina, and every year spins its diplomatic wheels repeating the claim. Argentina and Britain re-established diplomatic relations in the late 1990's.

In the meantime, the quasi-independent government of the Falklands has been a busy little bee promoting oil exploration in the offshore region, and has some promising prospects in a Jurassic failed rift to the north (not unlike the North Sea) and in Paleogene folded basins to the southeast and southwest. So far no big discoveries have been made, but exploration is in its early stages. The promise of petroleum deposits, gold deposits in the Proterozoic core of the islands, and the broad exclusive economic zone around the islands make it very unlikely that the Islas Malvinas will ever become part of Argentina.

Day 18 - Argentina 2025: El Calafate to the Atlantic coast

Time to head back to Bariloche, but just for kicks I am going to make a counter-clockwise loop by following the Atlantic coast. My hostess came to say goodbye and gave me a lovely bouquet of lavender to aromatize the car (she has the largest lavender plant I have ever seen). I thanked her by sharing the notion that it is a delightful spice as well, in rice or when baking bread.

I first drove 250 km south to Rio Gallegos, and from there 250 km north parallel to the Atlantic coast until I got to the Parque Nacional Monte León. I must say that they were 500 km of wind-blown steppe, where the flat landscape was only broken by small herds of guanacos. Guanacos have very few natural predators, so they have been multiplying rapidly, and now there is a call for thinning the herds.

When I got to the national park, which for all practical purposes looked like the thousands of square kilometers I had just driven through, I learnt that guanacos have a natural predator, the puma or cougar. Now, I associate cougars with the mountains, but apparently the big cat has adapted well to the steppe. I didn't see any, but there were plenty of signs about not walking alone through the steppe, or making yourself "big" and loud if you encounter one.

The reasons for being of the park are the coastal cliffs, the sea lions colony, and the pingüinera or penguin rookery. The cliffs are formed by flat-lying Miocene sediments that remind me of the Monterey Formation in California (which gets me going about the potential petroleum resources of this part of the country and the nearby Islas Malvinas). The coast, thus, reminds me of the California coast, with its many coves and protruding sea stacks. In theory this would be a warm shore, because of the equatorial current that moves from the Equator south, hugging the eastern coast of South America. As it happens it is a very cold shore because the Circum-Antarctic current intrudes itself to the north, just about as far as Puerto Santa Cruz, shoving the warm current to the east, toward the Islas Malvinas (which English speakers know as the Falkland Islands). This peculiar intrusion of super cold water allows for cold water species to thrive at this latitude (50 degrees south).

A beach strewn with sea lions is not as impressive for a Californian, particularly when seen from the top of a 50 m cliff. What is exciting however, is to find on the other side of the cliff a pingüinera. I had imagined that the penguins would be standing side by side, but the beach they chose is wide enough that there is no crowding. From this height the penguins look like ants, of course, and I didn't have binoculars, but imagine my surprise when I discovered, hiding under the thorny bushes all around me, hundreds of young penguins, escorted by a few adults. This are Magellan penguins, maybe 40 cm tall, and with a black-and-white adult plumage that forms interesting bands around the wings. They have very long toes, long beaks, and beady eyes, so they look a bit like Yoda. The youngsters are about the same size as their parents, but they are fat and are covered by a gray fluffy down that is not water proof. Hatching happens in November, and now in January the young are fully (over)grown. They have been fed and protected by Mom and Dad, and fattened so they can survive their first couple of months at sea, while they learn to fish. They should be molting out of their down and developing their adult plumage any time now, and from there they will spend most of their time at sea.

The penguins around me were obviously sheltering in the thorny bushes and they looked hot and thirsty (in fact, I spotted a good dozen dead penguins who I suspect died of dehydration). Why would they walk in their awkward big feet up a 50 m steep slope to be miserable? Well, the life of a penguin is not an easy one, for they have many winged predators that can easily pick a fat chic waddling on the beach, as well as foxes and pumas on land. So the parents, or a kind uncle, push them up the slope to the bushes, where at least they are protected from birds of prey. The kids still need to be fed, however, so either mom and dad keep going up the slope back and forth, or the highland penguins walk back to the ocean at night, to hydrate, feed themselves, and bring a few choice morsels to junior. By April the youngsters will have the plumage and fishing skills that will allow them to survive at sea, and the whole colony will move out, to spend the other half of the year in the high seas. Interesting little guys.        

Day 17 - Argentina 2025: A day off at El Calafate

Yesterday was too long a day, so I woke up late (at 7 am) and decided that it would be good to take a day off. El Calafate is a nice touristy town, and I figured I could spend the day strolling through it. I started by going for a walk along the shores of Lago Argentino. The actual shore is a wetland that gives way to a few hundred meters of shallow water (which I was told freezes during the winter so the kids can go skating and play hockey), before the water deepens and becomes baby blue (this part does not freeze at any time of the year). 

At about 10 am I stepped into the main commercial street and started window shopping. I am very impressed at the number of shops that sell containers to drink mate! Christine buys magnets, and I buy souvenir caps, but Argentinians overwhelmingly buy mate containers with the logo of the place they are visiting. I imagine they have dozens of them at home. There are also the usual assortment of handcrafts (wooden salad sets, knitted scarves, and hats), lots of clothes for winter sports. I felt tempted by some nice looking knives, presumably part of the gaucho outfit to cut a piece of churrasco grilling over an open fire. The tourist knives are of course useless, but they have very nice handles and prices that go between US$ 100 and $ 300. Who buys such useless stuff at those prices?

Speaking of churrasco, some of the fancy restaurants had already started the fire on their display windows, and had carneros al palo, whole mutton opened in cross and mounted on a cross of steel rods, which is tipped forward hovering over the coals. From time to time the cook, or the gaucho, turns them to expose the other side (we do the same thing in northern Mexico, but we use kid goat). The slow grilling goes on for two to four hours, so the morning display is really for the sake of the lunch or dinner crowds. Looks absolutely delicious but a portion of cordero al palo will set you back US$ 60 (plus appetizers, wine, and dessert). I think I will wait until I go back home and can grill myself some of Chico's tender lamb.

I did buy myself a "Patagonia" cap as a souvenir, but window shopping loses its charm very quickly, so I came back to my lodgings for a home-cooked lunch and later in the afternoon went for a long drive along the shore of the lake, taking advantage of a beautiful boulevard that extends for several kilometers. I believe the shore boulevard is an investment of the municipality, which is getting ready to sell lakeshore lots for the wealthy people who are sure to follow the expansion of tourism in the area.

Tomorrow I will start toward the Atlantic coast, the Parque Nacional Monte León, and Puerto Santa Cruz, where I will spend a couple of nights.