Yet another border hop today, this time flying over the Andes, where even the Ozzie trekkers haven’t ventured – yet. In the flurry to leave El Comercio, I forgot to pay, but phoned from the airport with my VISA number. The breakfast was the worst yet, but as we’ll be living on our humps for a month, it’s of little consequence. Besides, we had two airline meals and an evening dinner. Oops. Rio Gallegos airport is very new, shiny, attractive and already starting to wear out as weak design reveals itself in bent doors, worn carpets, ill-fitting everything. But at least they’re trying. Probably did a deal with Peregrine so we had to fly from there: no other explanation for our route seems credible, but at least we’ve seen Patagonia, in all its wide, rough, friendly glory. The international feel of Buenos Aires and Santiago airports tell us we’re on our way home, plus the back packs of diminishing numbers of clean items of clothing – we’re not still long enough for laundry today! (And they don’t take kindly to washing hanging off the under-carriage). Much sitting, therefore much reading – Tracy Chevalier’s ‘Falling Angels’ and now Arundhati Roy’s ‘The God of Small Things’. Also ‘If nobody speaks of remarkable things’, a first novel by Jon MacGregor loaned to me by Ruth. Into Santiago, we had three seats, which is pleasant, and generous quantities of bubbly as standard but the Chileans don’t do it, so we are investigating Casa Real’s Santa Rita Sauvignon Blanc. Perhaps one day we’ll visit the vineyards.
Crossing Buenos Aires was dispiriting, partly because the bits we saw were unattractive, the Rio Plata is brown, and we had all our foul weather gear when everyone was in beach wear. A brief swim in Santiago at least rinsed the black sand from Deception Island out of Adrian’s fluorescent togs. Interestingly, we are on a plain surrounded by mountains, not far from the Atacama desert, so water may be at a premium. I have also discovered there are mosquitoes. Drat!