Kindness of Strangers

Monday, January 19, 2009

What is it like at the end of the world?

I imagined Ushuaia to be a frosty outpost perched precariously on shards of ice. There would be few people, a sense of the inhabitable permeating everything. As our plane dipped out of the clouds, the craggy, snow-capped peaks of the Andes, sputtering out at the end of the world, appeared. They were taller and more rugged than I had imagined, the emerald treeline an unexpected wash of color in what I thought would be a barren landscape. I was surprised when we turned a bend and laid eyes on Ushuaia, a compact cityscape packed into a crescent of land that abutted verdant forests, giving way to jagged hills. Small cruisers and mammoth cruise ships bobbed in the harbor, reminding me of a Scandinavian port town, not the world’s southernmost city.

More than any place on our trip, we came to Ushuaia simply to say we’d been here. Most visitors end up here by necessity: it’s the ending point for their Patagonian adventures, a stopping-off place before catching a ride to South America’s major transportation hubs. Or, it’s the beginning of a trip to Antarctica, the city being the major embarking point for cruises to the final continent. We would have loved to have been in the latter group, but with tour prices soaring towards many thousands of dollars, it was impossible (last-minute deals can sometimes be had for the staggering price of $3,500). Instead, we found ourselves here by choice, curiosity-seekers hoping to get a glance at life at the ends of the earth, which, as it turns out, it’s not so different than life anywhere else.

We immediately set out for Tierra del Fuego National Park, whose transportation and admission fees cost a princely sum of $70. We hiked for hours, determined to get our money’s worth, and were rewarded with alternating stretches of breathtaking scenery and throngs of obnoxious tourists. The Antarctica-bound tour groups swarmed like bees to the World’s Southernmost Post Office at Bahia Lapataia, draping themselves over the “Bahia Lapataia” sign before scurrying off to have their passports stamped for six pesos (I still have yet to figure out why people enjoy taking photos by signs of absolutely no significance). Luckily, the crowds thinned as we delved deeper into the park, where we were greeted with lush greenery, slate-colored mountains, and unusual birdlife. We made our exit as the drizzle settled in, sniveling only slightly at the 10 peso homemade hot chocolate.

A walk through town that evening surprised us with hordes of snow-white people choking San Martin, Ushuaia’s main drag, where people clambered for all things penguin. There were stuffed animals and stone-carved figurines, and for $80 I could take a tour and actually walk with the little guys. The most clever item was the penguin-shaped box in a jewelry store window, whose tuxedo middle snapped open, perfect for an Antarctic proposal. “You think you’re the first one to think of that?” asked Maikael, sarcastically. We browsed through a boutique bookstore whose entire stock was end-of-the-world themed, from coffee table books of Ushuaia to Antarctica memoirs. But the most popular stores seemed to be the brightly-lit behemoths specializing in overpriced outdoor gear, the distinguishing factor between locals and tourists being the absence or presence of Columbia, North Face, or, yes, Patagonia outerwear. The most significant reminders that I was at the world’s end were the light pouring through my window at bedtime, and the fact that I was wearing a heavy coat at the peak of summer.

After browsing through a number of outrageously priced menus, we settled on the Lonely Planet-recommended Bodegon Fueguino for dinner, a cozy place specializing in local lamb, homemade pastas, and handcrafted ice cream. I realized during that meal that I’ve been to the ends of the earth a number of times on this trip, places like Bhutan and Easter Island that felt impossibly far from home. While I was technically at the end of the world in Ushuaia, I felt that, apart from the proliferation of penguins to remind me of my place, I could have been just about anywhere in the world. I had to come to the end of the earth to realize I’d already been to the ends of the earth.

After a bottle of Trapiche Fond de Cave malbec, our new favorite tipple, we were left feeling a little happier about our place at the end of the world. We were here to be tourists, too, right? We strolled the streets of town today, taking in the colorful alpine houses decked out in corrugated tin, reminding us of Reykjavik, Iceland, more than anything. We purchased some carefully-selected postcards, hoping for, but not receiving, a special “fin del mundo” stamp. I posed by a mural of marching penguins, trying not to look completely humiliated. And we made sure we got that end of the world stamp in our passport, proof that we were really here.