La Difunta Correa's Forest

We pick up our story as we arrive back at the camper after a tough two days hiking through Torres del Paine National Park. We decided that, for the sake of the cats, we needed to get out of the park that night. So reluctantly, I packed the van away while Lee added some extra fuel from our spare reserves we’d carried in with us.

We headed for the northern exit we’d driven past on the way in. It’s not too far to drive, but the condition of the roads in the park is appalling. You’d think, considering the fairly sizeable entrance fee, coupled with the huge number of people paying it, that they might have at least made proper roads. The infrastructure, though, is surprisingly lacking. There’s not really much in the way of facilities out here. The roads are heavily corrugated by the frequent and heavy coachloads of people, so if you care at all about your car’s suspension, or you simply don’t want to cover the floor in turmeric again, you’ll be driving slowly.

Our last concern was passing the gate to exit, but we had heard that no one checks tickets when leaving, so we approached it with the same technique as we approach police checkpoints: a steady 20 km/h, no eye contact, and no stopping unless someone physically blocks the route. Fortunately, no one cared and we were out. We’d managed to visit the majority of the highlights and get away with the pets — we were feeling pretty victorious.

Despite the fact that we were now back on tarmac roads, we still drove slowly. This is the spot where our friends had spotted pumas only a few weeks earlier, and so we hoped to catch a glimpse too. Our speedy visit to the park, where it is common to spot them, had meant we didn’t stand much chance of seeing them there. Out here on the barren pampa we hoped we might have more luck, but unfortunately they were nowhere to be seen.

We continued onwards, hoping for a magical spot without the wind, which was now howling across the flat, rocky land around us. There weren’t a whole lot of options, especially ones away from the road where the cats could come out. We turned off down a small side road, parking up in a field next to a bridge. Ironically, it was so windy we didn’t let the cats out anyway, and we just hoped that, as my phone promised, the wind would drop later on as the sun set. It was about this time we discovered that we'd lost the fuel cap. Lee had forgotten to put it back on when he filled up the fuel and now, we'd lost a complete set of keys as well as the cap. The worst part about that was the amount of dust that we'd just driven through and I could only imagine how much of that had gone in the fuel tank. For now, it was looking like a duct tape kind of repair. We cooked dinner with the roof down, parked into the wind.

Then, when it really was time for bed and it seemed the wind had dropped a little, we risked putting the roof up. Unfortunately for us, it was a short-lived victory. The wind got much, much worse in the early hours of the morning, and when we went to put the roof down, it broke again. So the end result was us driving to the shelter of the nearest village, Cerro Castillo, at 2:30am. I sat in the back, trying to bodge one roof bar back together enough so that we could go to bed once we got there, and Lee drove. The wind was so violent that it flung up small rocks from the side of the road, hurling them into our windows with the same force as if they’d come off a lorry’s wheel. It was only a half-hour drive, but an unpleasant one.

In the village, we took refuge behind a large abandoned building. Despite it being in the perfect direction to act as a windbreak, somehow the wind curled around the corners and still rocked the van. It was now at least at a level where the roof bodge would hold though, and we got some sleep — if not the best.

In the morning, we wasted no time in heading for the border. It was only ten minutes away after all, and there was little left to do in this windy wasteland. Not only that, but it was the last day that our pet papers were valid, and although they might not check us, it made sense to go when it would be a guaranteed easy trip. All we really cared about at this point was a decent night’s sleep. We heard that this re-entry to Argentina was a relaxed one, and it seemed generally people’s cars were not inspected, so we didn’t bother doing much to prepare. Of course, our experience seems to differ from the norm.

We did the usual sign-out of Chile easily enough. Then the Argentinian papers were done — they did check the cat paperwork, so despite being tired that day, we were glad we’d left on time. Then we pulled up to the final stage: the vehicle inspection. It’s funny, every time is different, and generally every time they inspect something that no one has ever checked before. This was no exception.

The guy didn’t care about vegetables, fruit, or meat. He seemed to be on a completely different mission. The VW hippies are surely smuggling drugs, and no doubt if they wanted to stash them somewhere… they’d put them under the floor mats! He dramatically whipped the cab mat aside, revealing an embarrassing amount of grot and absolutely no drugs. I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind would attempt to hide anything there anyway. But he wasn’t done. Next he inspected under the seats — not the cupboards inside, not the roof rack full of boxes, or the rear storage. No, he was onto something chair-related.

He poked his head under the driver’s seat and made a noise: “Aha!”

Even though I knew I didn’t have anything like that, I still panicked. What if he finds your secret cocaine stash that you don’t have, my brain said. But what if someone has PUT SOME UNDER THE CHAIR… it reasoned completely illogically. Do you know that no one has done that, eh? EH?

We all leaned over to see what he had found, hidden under the depths of the seat at the back. He drew out a shiny foil packet, and his slightly triumphant look vanished as he realised it was a packet of chicken-flavoured Whiskas.

“Ahh… gracias!” I thanked him. “I always lose those down there.”

Now rather disheartened by his failed drug raid, he waved us on into Argentina.

Our plan now was to head towards El Calafate and the famous Perito Moreno Glacier. To enjoy that though, we’d need some sleep. We picked up the Ruta 40 here, which winds its way all the way from the east of the country over to the west. The Argentinian landscape down here is honestly boring — it’s flat pampa as far as you can see. The only points of interest happen when you come in close to the mountains, and there was a fair way until the road would bring us back round there. Our only mission was to find a wind-free spot, of which there weren’t many.

We decided to stop and check each one as we passed to see if it was any good. A couple were just roadside pull-offs with no protection whatsoever. The next one coming up wasn’t anything much either. Still, I told Lee to slow down. A small scraggy heap of poplars was just off the road, with a shrine to La Difunta Correa (which I’ll explain later). He didn’t look impressed. I wasn’t either, to be fair, but nevertheless, with very little choice, I walked down to see. I couldn’t imagine this sad little thing would do much, but as I got near, the wind dropped and went silent. The wind protection was perfect — infinitely more effective than a giant concrete wall, in fact. It seemed the moving trees better absorbed the gusts, leaving a space behind them so quiet I could have cried.

I waved Lee down. He looked sceptically at the tiny clump of trees. I waved more enthusiastically. He nosed the van off the road and down to the spot. I instructed him to pull up right by the trees, almost into them, before stepping out.

“Oh my god,” he said. “I can’t believe that worked!”

It was hard to believe indeed that this was a far more effective windbreak than an enormous solid building, but it definitely was. the other bonus is that we could fall asleep to the sound of rustling leaves rather than wind screaming through gaps in the concrete.

• 

• 

It was amazingly appropriate that it was a shrine, really, to the legend of La Difunta Correa. The legend speaks of a woman who set off on a trek across a harsh desert to find her husband and tragically died of thirst in the process. According to legend, when her body was found, her baby was still alive and nursing at her breast. She is now revered as a protective folk saint, and people leave bottles of water on these roadside shrines to alleviate her thirst in the afterlife. We may not have been thirsty, but this little roadside shrine certainly helped out these weary travellers.

Even though we were close to the main road, it was a quiet one, and we let the cats out hoping they’d prefer exploring the bushes rather than the road. Our little bubble of calm was perfect. We were so happy with our little find that we spent two days there, moving the angle of the van to follow the bushes as the wind changed, and making sure that we had two peaceful nights.