There was I calling it Rio Gallegos and all the time it’s Rio spitohawk*o. The accent in these eastern, Atlantic parts is less sympathetic to the ear. We arrived about 4pm after a 5 hour drive across sheep and horse country and along the Magellan Strait. Towards the coast there were isolated oil refineries and estancias, and gnarled old gentlemen got off at request stops, carrying small bags. Either they worked there, were visiting relatives, or were very subtly disguised H & S inspectors, calling at a weak point in the cycle. Given the state of electrical fittings, pavements, overhead wiring, scaffolding, construction work etc. any dedicated H & S man would look wizened and worn by his early 30s. Or perhaps blithe and unconcerned, as an essential person spec. This was not a tourist run; there were no other non-Spanish speakers on board, and no English speakers anywhere on the journey. By dint of Toblerone, and photos of Antarctica, we chatted to the elderly gent opposite and the ‘flight attendant’. We declined the pink lint butties and mistakenly accepted the cherryade. Both border posts were grim, uninviting places costing 15p for a pee and nothing closer than a rifle-shot away, and that another border post. Engagingly, one man had a Pekinese/Yorkie cross pug as his travelling companion, for whom we had to stop at grassy patches for discreet tiddles, while throughout, he and his son polished its exquisite fur inside a blue blanket. Despite the admonitions against animal products, and the lurid posters of foot & mouth symptoms (look for these on your grandparents…) it seems that live creatures without wheals, carbuncles, goitres, pustules or visible weeping sores can pass unmolested. Provided you’re not Israeli, it’s reputed. (Maybe I made that up as a result of having only 10 pages left in my passport and 7 years to run. Adrian has only 3 pages left, but only 2 years. We may need 2nd passports. How debonair!) We have hip-hopped the border in fascinating footwork, so the checkout chap at the supermercado where we adjourned (for dulce de leche and a Garfield birthday card in Spanish for Frankie) to sit out the disconcerting thunderstorm was polite, but perplexed by the Chilean pesos we offered: 20p for a £2 bill. Nice try, Europeans. Unusually, people ask where in Europe we’re from, not which part of America – do they know about the USA? Or is it a tactical ignoring? The maps in public places utilise to the full the space in the bottom left hand corner released by the convenient sweep of Tierra del Fuego to insert a bold image of the decisive wedge of Antarctica claimed by Chile as settled territory – ten bases are marked (2 men and a computer register every 6 months?) Crude but potentially effective propaganda? In ‘el Périodico’ today (Argentina) a p.3 article repeats the government’s resolution to reaffirm the rejection of the U.K’s occupation of Las Malvinas and to urge new negotiations. The Spanish is difficult, but I think this is about right. Page Three in our own dear tabloids might read somewhat differently. Slightly concerned about our ‘Jonah’ reputation, I read p.17 with trepidation. El Calafate was Page One news, with an awful disco fire killing 182 young locals and tourists. The tsunami in Indonesia and SE Asia has understandably eclipsed it from the news, but is no less tragic for the families involved. The BBC internet news reports criticism of Tony Blair for not returning to UK from holiday to lead relief exercises. What? Our UK press is losing perspective. US travellers say the same of their president. Who needs to be more worried? Blair takes over G8 presidency this week and Gordon Brown has already called for debt relief (his pet theme). Does this look like abdication of leadership? But to travel! The Lonely Planet describes Rio G…. as (from memory) ‘a wool-packing, fish-processing, oil-refining dump.’ Now that’s a bit unfair – we have seen wide pavements (crumbling, but some under repair), avenues of trees (some dead but some saplings too), attractive shops (and some burned-out shells) strugglingly proud, if drearily monotonous municipal estates, and the usual limbo land of urban sprawl round an essentially commercial port. This has spawned El Commercio Hotel (where we are in Room 127, off the Internet) and the Restaurant del Club Brittanico, where we ate tonight. After an exhaustive study of ‘el centro’, finding three decent eating places, we decided the irony of our last night on proper holiday spent at the CB was too great to resist. The wood panelling, etched glass, leather armchairs, velvet card tables and excellent meal – crab, langoustine, asparagus and bubbly for £30 was ridiculous. But true. Some words we used today that surprised us: tumbril, filament.