Stage 4, Leg 3: Punta Arenas to Rio Grande

The French had obviously been converted and asked for another fry-up before catching the ferry the next morning. In turn, I have also been inspired by the French, and will be wearing my padded spandex tights for the first time. English to the last, I will be protecting my modesty beneath my baggy cycling shorts however, so no need to add a 'child filter' to the blog just yet. The reason for the switch is the fact that Punta Arenas is the first place to be consistently bloody cold. Rain or shine, it's freezing here. We arrived at the dock early and saw that the water was absolutely flat. We were incredibly lucky to make a crossing of the Magellan Straights in these conditions because we had been told that the journey time can often be doubled from 2 to 4 hours becase of the wind and the turbulent waves.

In our case we passed an enjoyable and comfortable two hours drinking coffee and watching dolphins play in the wake of the boat. Aboard the boat we were confronted with our Carretera past in the shape of 'Pisco' Pete, a large gruff bike tourer from Poland who drinks neat Pisco before bed. It was nice to see him, although we were unsure about cycling together with a Baltic sailor in his fifties that looks like he may have killed a man. Pete's a nice guy but he has a habit of drawing his thumb accross his throat at inappropriate points in the conversation, and he studies you in such a way that makes you concerned that you are unknowingly being added to his list of 'no good people'. The criteria for joining this list seem to be quite open, as it currently includes 'Moroccans' and 'Peruvians'. The decision was his however, and as we chugged past huge comorant colonies to dock at porvenir, he was saddled up and off down the road before we could say a proper goodbye. Despite being sad to begin the last leg of the journey, it was an exciting feeling setting foot on Tierra Del Fuego; the distant and mysterious land that features in a variety of stories about explorers, early penal colonies, epic whaling expeditions, antarctic expeditions and doomed yacht races. The excitement continued as we checked provisions and left Povernir to set off into the interior, where the remoteness of the western side of the island surrounds you very quickly.

For the rest of the day we followed the unkindly named Bahia Inutil (Useless Bay) on a rolling dirt track that hugged the beaches and occasionally lifted us up onto the cliffs for amazing panoramic views of the straights and the dwindling Andes, faraway on the mainland. A highlight was standing on a deserted beach watching the dolphins surf the waves almost to the shoreline. This is why cycling is such a good way to see a country; there are no coaches taking backpackers to see the 'amazing surfing dolphins of Bahia Inutil'. There are no viewing platforms here, just a couple of bewildered cyclists stood on an empty beach watching the dolphins doing what they do on a Sunday afternoon.

After a slower start from the ferry, the French boys had caught us up again and we all camped together in a canyon out of the wind. It was only after we had put the tents up and started dinner that, whilst looking around for firewood, we found a large number of skulls and bones. Sometimes even whole legs. Presumably the birds had gone to work on the sheep at some point. We thought it would make an interesting picture to put a jawbone on the fire. Never do this. Just as I learned a few moths ago never to extinguish a fire by weeing on it, the smell of burning bones is hard to remove from jackets and hair.
The following day we shooed foxes and sheep from the campsite and re-joined the coastal track heading eastwards. Eventually the bay ran out, taking the beautiful sea views with it, and we were back in endless pampa again. By now we were almost constantly frozen and completely covered in thick gloves, tights and thermal tops.

This is bad for cycling however because as soon as you hit a hill, you overheat and have to peel all the layers off again. You then set off downhill and freeze to death in the wind. After many costume changes, we completed 100km of ripio and eventually reached the borderpost at San Sebastian, where we camped for the night behind the only hostel in the settlement. Despite the doors of the hostel being jauntily plastered in the stickers of touring clubs from all over the world, the owner treated us as if we had just hidden his moustache comb. He came dangerously close to destroying the recent hard work of Puerto Natales and Punta Arenas in making us think that Chileans weren't all humourless and ill-equipped to work in the field of customer services. We slept within sight of the border and Catherine stayed up into the night plotting what foodstuffs she could traffick this time.

The Chilean border guards were typically grumpy and the Argentine guards were typically jolly, full of questions about the ride. The no-man's-land between the two was ruler flat but as we got closer to Argentina, a streak of silver appeared to divide the grass from the sky; the Atlantic ocean was visible for the first time this holiday and it felt amazing to have now crossed the continent from the Pacific to the Atlantic ... albeit at the narrowest point.

Because of the fierce tailwind blowing us southeast, we hurtled along the Atlantic coast at speeds up to 65km/hr, covering 50km before 11:30am. When the road occasionally turns westward however, facing accross the wind, we had to cycle with the bikes on a 60 degree tilt to stay 'upright'. The wind was gusting that day at well over 100km/hr. We ate lunch in the shelter of one of the many oil pipeline stations along the coast, although I still question the boy's decsision to smoke next to the pipes. Tsk ... the French and their Gauloises.

We arrived earlier than expected into Rio Grande and found the road was blocked by a demonstration made up of teachers striking for better pay. They were blocking all traffic in and out of town, although they seemed to have a soft spot for cyclists, and so let us pass with no problems at all. We got talking to one of the spokesmen and his friend and they offered to take us out for the rest of the day, showing us around the town ... and into a few bars. We spent a great afternoon and evening drinking with Paula and César (and Vincent and Pierrick), eventually eating an obscene amount of meat in a parillada restaurant. When we asked César, at 1am, after many beers and more bottles of wine, whether the strike would continue tomorrow, he said: 'It's up to the governement'. We got the feeling that it would depend more on his hangover.

Day 50: Povenir to Bahia Inutil - 49km
Day 51: Bahia Inutil to San Sebastian - 100km
Day 52: San Sebastian to Rio Grande - 96km