Ruta Cuarenta

Route 40 runs down the length of Argentina, east of the Andes and the Chilean border. The highway is part of South American folklore. For backpackers, taking Rt. 40 is a rite of passage in South American travel. It is discussed with both reverence and malice. Despite its historic nature, few improvements have been made to the highway. Once it passes into the Patagonian region of Chubut, the pavement gives way to ribbed dirt and gravel. The road´s poor condition deters most bus companies from traveling it. The few companies that do, send their most outdated vehicles to endure the abusive journey. After hearing horrid accounts of Rt. 40, some travelers opt to enter Chile and take the Transpacific highway south. While I briefly considered this option, in the end I knew I had to take Rt. 40 to my next destination.

The journey south from Bariloche to El Chalten was estimated to take 36 hours. When purchasing my ticket, I chose the first seat from the driver. I figured it would give me the best view. The price of this view was a miserable aisle seat where the leg room was eaten up by the driver´s chair. For 36 hours my legs were set at 90 degrees with my knees painfully pressed against the divider. The seat reclined the slightest bit and overhead, two vents whistled warm air. The bus was divided into two rows of two, with a latrine in the back. Later, the passengers learned that the bathroom lacked sufficient water to flush the toilet. The scene only got more interesting when the two drivers stepped up from the street and greeted their passengers from the aisle.

One of the men was mildly overweight and had olive black hair that curled at his shoulders. The other had a compact stature and revealed missing molars when he smiled. They wore matching uniforms that showed creases in the same spots as if they were just removed from their packaging. The heavy set driver took the first leg of the journey. When the bus pulled out of view of the station, he yanked off his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt to just above his naval. A series of necklaces spilled out on to his stomach. He lit a cigarette and fished for something caught between his seat and the door- A CD. Drawing deep on the cigarette, he inserted the disc and thumbed the volume clockwise. Suddenly Cydni Lauper´s ´Girls just want to have fun´came blairing over the speakers. The driver bounced jovialy in his seat. Looking up into the mirror , he surveyed his cargo with a smokey smile.

Hours passed and the bus subdued me into a sleepy state. Real sleep was impossible. Rather, I floated in a muffled state of consciousness. Light faded into darkness, and night silenced the voices of the bus. The next morning, the bus pulled into a gas station in a one horse town called Rio Mayo. Squinting in the sunlight, passengers huddled on the dusty road. There I learned that the rest of the journey was to be off road.

For the next 24 hours, the bus vibrated violently without relief. On one occasion, the bumping bus caused me some embarrassment. Crossing a particularly rough stretch, my overhead compartment shot open and gave birth to my overhead luggage. First came three hefty travel guides. Then a bag of groceries exploded on the floor in a confetti of cookies and fruit. Next a pouch of camping equipment rained down in high pitched pangs. Just when I thought the scene could not get any more embarrassing, the absolute icing came down. An Argentine swimsuit edition I had bought back in the Bariloche bus station slipped out from above. The magazine landed perfectly on its spine causing it to open instantly to the centerfold. A mostly nude model lay seductively across the pile of my belongings. The bus driver screamed out in excitement.

The road was like no other. In the vast openness of the Patagonian planes, there was little to identify the highway. It was like driving aimlessly in an enormous construction site. Mounds of dirt were piled everywhere. The passing scenery seemed to be changeless. There was nothing visible to indicate any progression. With no signs, lines, cement or anything else indicative of a highway, it was like driving in an endless sea of beaded sand. On more then one occasion, the driver had to turn the bus around, and backtrack for a half an hour to find the correct route.

After 36 hours, I wobbled down from the bus and met the deep Patagonian wind of El Chalten. The real journey had only just begun...