No, I don't want to take the plane!

I ignored all signs and words that advised against another bus ride, this time to Punta Arenas, the southernmost city in the world. At times, my inner voice shifted towards magical thinking and whispered, 'It's not meant to be! It will have a purpose! Understand the signs of destiny! Take the plane!' and I almost believed the voices. But only almost. Because I had already landed on the track and I didn't want to give up so easily.
Therefore, despite the lack of information on the internet, I continued my research and ignored the advice of 2 fellow travelers and Christian, who had been there himself, to take the plane. Arduous. Boring. Tedious.
And when I missed the last bus ride of the day because of poor eyesight and a crumpled bus ticket, I could have just gone in the other direction. But I didn't. And it was good!
Instead, I found an incredibly helpful bus company that provided transportation to Puerto Montt. From there, the journey was supposed to take 23 hours and mainly go through Argentina.
The lady next to me was delighted with my company, and when she noticed my interest in the landscape, she offered me her window seat. At first, I thought we would take turns during the journey, as she also seemed to enjoy the view. But perhaps that's precisely why she stuck to her offer and declined every time my hand tried to initiate another switch.
The bus had already made its way up to the border, and without any fuss, we entered a beautiful no man's land. A river curved multiple times, cranes sat by the water, and several observation platforms had even been set up. It was several kilometers to the Argentine border, and the road went higher through bends and switchbacks until the forest abruptly changed color and shape. Where once dense greenery stood, now thousands of branches stretch bare to the sky. A sea of dead wood glistens silver in the sun and tells a story that remains hidden from me to this day and created these imposing giants. Only a few have been released from the earth and let them fall. The rest stands as if it were winter and the leaves have fallen. But with the leaves, the bark is also missing, and no spring can awaken what slowly decays here and wonderfully radiates morbidity.

The journey continues through mountains and small towns until sunset, where tourist attractions entice. The mountain slopes glow gold, and dark blue lakes fill the valleys. Not without joy, I notice that the landscape on my side is more varied and share some of the views with my seat neighbor. Dinner is served at a truck stop, where I brush my teeth between the trucks, before we head into the night. Blankets are distributed, a luxury that I have not experienced on any other bus journey, and I do my best to shut down my senses, wedge my feet in front of me as best I can, and actually sleep for a long time. But not well.

In the morning, the road is flat, and the sea is next to me. I'm not really sure why the drivers, there are two of them taking turns, went so far east, but that's just how it is. We are going south, and I am entertained by trying to spot whales or dolphins. But only the spray dances on the shore and curls the breaking waves white. My watch tells me that we should be there soon, and it's slowly becoming clear that the journey will take longer than expected. The part where we head west towards Chile again is unsurprisingly boring, and it is only after the border that the deep blanket of clouds offers my eyes the desired change. As if entering a bus station, the layer of clouds appears in streaked white, so close that you could touch it. Half sheep clouds, flat facing the earth, stick lazily and low in the sky. In between, there are glimpses of sky blue, and slowly the sun emerges through the roof of clouds. Late at night, with a 12-hour delay, we arrive in Punta Arenas.

The author of the travel guide must have never seen a beautiful city, otherwise he wouldn't write such nonsense. Because it is different beautiful, and even the few historicist buildings with a touch of Art Nouveau cannot change that fact.

But I am enjoying myself here and marvel at humpback whales, whose blowholes draw our attention to them. The call upon sighting is probably the same as in whale hunting, but instead of harpoons, cameras are whipped out, and we marvel at this impressive animal cruising calmly and majestically just 15-20 meters from the ship, slightly curved, rising and sinking with each breath.
The curiosity is on our side, the whales seem indifferent. They dive down and allow us to catch a glimpse of their tail fin. There are exclamations of awe and cameras clicking before these gentle giants dive deep for minutes, only to resurface elsewhere with their steep, erupting blowholes, announcing their presence.

When there are no more whales nearby, the photographic trophies are compared below deck, and no one has any more attention for the incredible surrounding landscape. I try to resist the cold and dampness for as long as possible and have the rocking platform all to myself. The rugged, forested island world of Patagonia passes by. Cloud fragments, spray, snow, and rainbows - a landscape that is unparalleled in its dramaturgy. A whale spout in the distance. Sea lions frolic in the water, and just because they are smaller, no one is interested in the same swimming image that their small bodies create.
I absorb all these wonderful impressions with amazement and joy, repeatedly thinking to myself, 'Patagonia! I'm in fucking Patagonia!'
When the penguins are spotted, everyone gathers at the railing again, as they do when the glacier in front of us becomes visible, its ruggedness melting in the sun, radiating blue. A piece of floating ice is fished out of the water, followed by a photo session with the chunk of ice in quickly cooling hands. Afterwards, drinks with glacier ice are served.
A small flirt with one of the crew members treats me to three rounds of Pisco Sour, whose ice in the plastic cup refuses to melt and lingers in its condition since the last Ice Age longer than usual. Until finally, I melt the piece of the past in my mouth.

And I finally got to experience the penguins that were withheld from me in La Sarena. These little creatures, which nest on Magdalena Island, busy themselves on the island. We, the fascinated crowd, are led along a path on the island and have to yield when the waddlers queer us with their flappy wings. They do this with a busy nature, as if they were late for a meeting, and they seem like a group of old men, participating in a symposium on world-changing matters. Compared to their brisk little feet, which romp over the crumbly ground, their bodies exist in a parallel universe of speed. Constantly balancing the bustle with arms out like oars. Perhaps it is this touch of perceived clumsiness that makes these black-and-white-dressed birds so adorable to me.

I also crossed over to Tierra del Fuego for a day. There, as in Patagonia, they entice with the indigenous people who, after living there for about 11,000 years, were robbed and successfully exterminated about 100 years ago. The Selk'nam have no living souls connected to Tierra del Fuego, yet they finance a large part of the local population's existence. Some things never change, and history repeats itself, enjoying the privilege of the victors, renaming itself, and what was once exploration, gold rush, and settlement is now called worth seeing, tourist attraction, and souvenirs. So it happens that the few recordings of various indigenous people, here the Selk'nam, are multiplied and modified, adorning T-shirts and refrigerator magnets in the end.

Then I continued to the Torres del Paine National Park, which was highly recommended to me and where I am currently. The mountains are getting higher, and the blanket of clouds gives way to the ground, moving past picturesque milky blue-green mountain lakes and over rugged granite. The wind can reach speeds of over 125 km/h in some areas here, and at night it rattles at the house as if it were the Big Bad Wolf himself. At first, I settled for day trips, but yesterday I returned from the W Trek, which takes 4 days and is worth its own story, but that still needs to be written.

And then it's almost over. I have 5 days left before I fly back to Santiago.

Wishing you a beautiful winter. I heard that snow has finally fallen, which makes cuddling and excursions even more enjoyable. I'm looking forward to hearing about it and say goodbye for now with warm regards from rainy Patagonia, where all 4 seasons can be experienced in one day and the trees wear beards.
More to come soon,

Petra