Why hello world,
I was not expecting to be able to write for several weeks
but alas, I was not expecting much of anything that has happened in the last 48
hours.
Warning: this is a long post. Apologies for my venting.
All prepped and ready to leave my house by 5am Tuesday, the American Airlines
cyborg called to mechanically inform me that my very first flight was
cancelled, thanks to single-digit temps, ice all over the place, and the classic issue of
Albuquerque not knowing what to do with themselves when things get cold despite
it happening every year for the months of winter… shocking. This earned me a
couple more hours of sleep that had me waking up to believe that the entire
Torres del Paine plan was just a dream. Nope, got on a plane that eventually
took off despite loads more delays due to neither the plane nor the equipment to fix the inactive
plane actually working.
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| Thanks, Albuquerque. Notice the "Feels Like -6
°F"
|
Those delays earned me a great time in Dallas, airport 2 of 7. The plane
landed at 1:54, before taxi. My next plane was set to take off at 2:05. Guess
who miraculously made that connection? Add another reason to keep running
marathons to the list—sprinting 20 gates in the Dallas/Fort Worth International
Airport with a backpack and carrying a 35-pound rolling suitcase (yes, carrying. More maneuverability). The fun part of this was when the entire front of the plane that I was
seated near cheered for my running ally and me when we bolted out of the plane
as soon as the jetway opened.
Miami was one of the worst airports I have ever flown through, considering it
was gigantic without a train or moving walkways, and that I had to leave
security, re-check in while trying to explain my fairly ridiculous itinerary in
Spanglish, go back through security, then speed walk while on the phone with my
mother, having my first episode of questioning why this madness is worth it.
Oho, past Emily, it has yet to begin.
That flight was fantastic, a welcome change from day one: nine
hours to pass out after one of the best airline meals I’ve ever had. I learned
long ago that the trick with airline food is to always, always go with the
pasta option; this gem has seriously never failed me. The family of three daughters near me were
very nice (although really made me wish more than anything that my sister were with me), I was surrounded by beautiful Spanish, and wine was not an option
with dinner: the option was vino tinto o blanco. A tricky way of getting all
the passengers at elevation to sleep for the flight, which I did quite happily.
Buenos Aires Ezeiza has easily been the best airport, even if it was under
construction. Still, I never had to leave security and just had to follow the
way for transit passengers, where I encountered no lines before being passed
through a single metal detector with my shoes on by a very tough-looking security woman before entering a rather new,
empty, and sunny terminal at 6am. Got some help from a nice desk clerk and
camped out in front of my gate to observe my first Sudamericano surroundings and
have a great conversation with an Australian student en route home. This flight
was also quite nice, where I woke up from a short nap to see the Andes and Aconcagua out my window. It was breathtaking, easily. This is
near Mendoza, and got me pretty excited for that next chapter.
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| Volcanoes while landing in Puerto Montt |
Santiago is when the fun really started. The airport was
more reminiscent of the most depressing hallways of the basement of my job in a
laboratory a few years ago, and I really was beginning to feel like a herd of
cattle being led to the slaughter… without knowing exactly what the slaughter
was. Instead of following transit passenger signs like in Buenos Aires, I was
redirected to pay the reciprocity fee to enter Chile and go through customs
even if I was far from my final destination. Unfortunately, customs was a
three-step process and the second step I had to go through twice thanks to
paperwork misinformation on my Argentina-Chile flight. Before step three, I had
to collect my checked bag from a carousel and re-check; however, I had checked
my bag straight from Albuquerque to Punta Arenas, to avoid this.
When I got to the carousel for my flight, it had already pumped out all the
bags… and mine was nowhere to be seen.
Queue the panic beginning to bubble to
the surface. I had no choice but to go through this security anyway and my
barely two hour connection was now at 20 minutes. I speedily bought food for the
first time in my travels (just pointed to something on the menu and asked for
the internet password) before frantically contacting my parents and my
volunteer group. Many thanks to Carl for being on Gchat and calling my mother
to summon her on Skype somewhere around 8am on a Wednesday in Albuquerque, and
my volunteer group told me to just be persistent and grill any desk attendants
for my flight about my bag. Three attendants later, a guy seemed to seriously
check and then tell me that, yes, my bag was scanned onto my next plane.
HALLELUJAH.
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| Anyone recognize this? I don't believe it is Cerro Fitz Roy |
On the final flight I had a grand time translating between most of the
passengers and the only-Spanish-speaking attendant, getting me ridiculously
excited about Spanish. This route was even more incredible than flying over the
Andes as we just flew along them directly and, after Puerto Montt, there was
nothing but lakes, volcanoes, glaciers, and incredible mountains the entire
way. As we stopped in Puerto Montt, I turned to my new French friend Felipe, en
route to his own 10-day Patagonia tour, to comment on how beautiful it was. He
just said with a big grin, “I can’t wait.” I was finally starting to believe
what I’ve gotten myself into and more excited than stressed for the first time.
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| Incredible glaciers near Argentinian Patagonia |
Punta Arenas was the final test. The baggage carousel did bring my
gateside-checked bag, and yet… I waited and waited and my backpacking pack
never came. All of the attendants in Punta Arenas spoke rather broken English,
if any, so I translated for myself and an American man who had just come from
Easter Island and lost his pack as well. While filling out the contents section
of my missing bag report, I straight up started crying as I realized the extent
of everything that is currently lost somewhere on two continents and the fact
that I know each and every single object that is in that pack. This report was
thrown together in about 15 minutes before a bus to Puerto Natales arrived by
the fellow American’s reservation. Having already missed my own chance at a
bus, I heckled my way on in pretty ridiculous and fairly desperate Spanish—the
bus was full but they granted me standing room for the three-hour bus ride for
4.000 CLP (about US$8). It was sitting in the aisle of this bus that I really
just wanted to give up.
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| Chilling on the floor of the bus |
Mind you, giving up is not a common feeling for me at all,
but this is the situation I have found myself in: at the bottom of the planet
with none of the belongings I depend on to fend for myself and completely alone
for who knows how long. I have a toothbrush but no toothpaste. I have my few
electronics, but do not have the near US$3000 worth of gear I have amassed over
my life of outdoors escapades. I have my handful of summery clothes for Mendoza
but have no jacket or hiking boots whatsoever. I have my old prescription
glasses but not the new prescription I just recently attained. I have lost many
a gift from friends and family that have meant so much to me and to them. And at this point
on the bus I had no way of contacting anyone when all I genuinely wanted to do
was just turn around and take another two days to fly all the way back
to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to burrow myself into my own bed and not emerge for
the next month or so.
Instead, I rolled off the bus at 11pm while light still
lingered in the sky from the recent sunset, speedily figured out the Puerto
Natales map and trudged over to the Erratic Rock hostel where I have a
one-night reservation. Now, my friends, I am quite delirious from flights and
staring at some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen while flopped on
the floor of a bus for a couple hours. When I walked into the Erratic Rock, I
quite seriously thought I was dead and perhaps in heaven. It was toasty from a
cast-iron stove in the corner, the walls were covered with posters of Torres
del Paine and ancient snowshoes, quickdraws, and guanaco pelts, there were a
few cats rolling around on the floor, and two women about my age were perched
on a couch watching Almost Famous. I met the owner Julie, who told
me not to worry: AMA volunteers are extra-welcome at Erratic Rock and I can
stay here for free as long I need and will get a free ride into the park to
meet up with the AMA group whenever my bag arrives.
So for now, I do not know what I will be up to in the next hour let alone few
weeks and I’m feeling like the biggest failure of all time, but hey, I am alive
and I am safe, so things aren’t too awful. There is so much more to write about,
but I have already ranted on for long enough and it’s looking like I’m going to
be here with very little to do for awhile so I’ll probably be writing again.
Postcards may happen. Email me and I would love to talk to you. Anyways, off to
hunt down lunch and bumble down to the water here in Puerto Natales with my new
flock of five business school student friends who are heading off to do the W
route for 5 days this afternoon.
There is a reason no one ever goes to Patagonia--it is ridiculously difficult to an extreme just to get here. I am so close, and yet so far away.
Much love,
a very defeated Emily
