Argentina
HIS NAME IS Alberto Zorro, but they just call him Zorro-"the fox." He lives in a dusty little town with a stray-dog problem called El Calafate, set in a wasteland so vast and wind-blasted, it's driven better men than him to drink.
You can find Zorro in the bar at the crumbling Hotel Esplanade, in the back streets of El Calafate, in the heart of Patagonia, with a glass of sugar-cane liquor cupped in his dirty hands.
"I'm not an anonymous alcoholic," he told me. "I'm a well-known drunk."
Already a broken man, Zorro arrived in town 30 years ago from up north after his young wife died. He took his only possession, a flatbed truck, and drove down Route 40, a gravel road that runs along the western side of Patagonia. You can drive on it for days without seeing a soul. It's a landscape of parched scrubland, distant mesas and winds so fierce they can flip a car.
Tourists come to El Calafate to see the Perito Moreno Glacier-a 200-foot-tall wall of ice marching out of the southern snowfields straight into the emerald waters of Lake Argentino. It moves two meters a day on its death march to the lake, where massive shards break off on contact with the water, crashing down to float away as icebergs. Like the people of Patagonia, the glacier is locked in ceaseless battle with the elements-a fight none of them will ever win.
When you look at a satellite map of the world at night-little orange glowing cities tied together by the delicate threads of superhighways-there are still a few places where the web of light doesn't reach. Siberia. The Australian outback. North Korea. And Patagonia.
Twice the size of France, but with fewer people per square mile than Western Sahara, Patagonia stretches from the Rio Colorado in central Argentina down the tip of South America to Tierra del Fuego. After the native tribes were driven out, it was settled by waves of Europeans, who managed to scratch out a few cities along lakes and the Atlantic coast. There are towns where German architecture prevails, villages where Welsh is still spoken and ranches that are run by sun-scarred men with names like Reinhart and O'Grady.
You don't go to Patagonia for a cultural experience. The food is poor once you get past the steak. The museums are pathetic. The only live music you're likely to hear is bad tango for tourists. You come to Patagonia to erase yourself, to feel like a cockroach against the awesome scale and beauty of one of the most rugged, remote places on Earth.
Argentina was once as expensive as Western Europe, and Patagonia an exotic destination for rich adventurers. But after the 2001 crash, when the Argentine peso was floated and cut loose from the U.S. dollar, the country became affordable. A decent dinner with wine that was $20 is now around $7. By budget-travel standards, it's neither cheap nor expensive. But with some of the best hiking in the world and a name that's synonymous with adventure, Patagonia has become a stop on the international backpacker trail.
The place is far from being ruined the way, say, Thailand has been ruined. With distances so formidable, it's hard to believe it ever will. Hostels have popped up at the major destinations, but tourism isn't the main industry. English is rarely spoken, it's still easy to lose the crowds, and the locals aren't obsessed with milking visitors. In our month in Argentina, we didn't have a single hassle. The people were kind.
If you're coming to Argentina from North America, you'll start in the capital, Buenos Aires, at the country's only major international airport. The sprawling, almost European city of eight million is home to tango and Evita, some classic barrios and an ultra-chic club scene. Spend as much time there as necessary, then head south, skipping the Atlantic beach resorts along the way.
Getting to the heart of Patagonia takes several days overland. Renting a car gives you the freedom to explore but comes with added hassles and expense. The long-distance buses are clean luxury liners with reclining airplane-style seats. But after a day and night on one of these, you're in zombie mode until you crash in a bed. To save time, it pays to take a domestic flight for big leaps, then do shorter jaunts by bus.
The eastern side of Patagonia boasts the Peninsula Valdes-one of the richest marine wildlife habitats in the world-and Welsh villages like Gaiman, Trelew and Rawson. The coastline here is stark and jagged, with the population thinning out as you go south.
We skipped this leg, flying straight from Buenos Aires to Tierra del Fuego and Ushuaia, the world's southernmost city, at the end of the inhabitable world. Crouched on a slope between snow-covered peaks and the wide gray expanse of the Beagle Channel, Ushuaia is a fit setting for civilization's last stand. From here it's 60 miles of deserted bog to land's end. The next stop is Antarctica.
Ushuaia's origins are as severe as its beauty. The city started as a penal colony and naval base, but the growth of tourism has lent new life. Cafes, bars and restaurants line the waterfront, and cruise-ship passengers rub shoulders with local sailors in the casinos and whorehouses. The boomtown feel is somehow fitting for this frontier outpost.
With weird weather patterns and wide-open horizons, the Patagonian sky is overwhelming, and nowhere more than in El Calafate, reflected in the blue of Lake Argentino. Winds whip the clouds into enormous cataracts and towering cumulonimbus, their ranks marching away to infinity. The 19-year-old kid in charge of our hostel, who'd fled his home up north to become a rock climber, said, "The sky is free here. That's the most important thing."
It was a day's ride north to El Chalten, the village that serves as base to explore the FitzRoy section of National Park Los Glaciares. Three days and two nights in the park takes you to some of the most dramatic and downright evil mountains on the planet, including the legendary FitzRoy massif and the Cerro Torre, towering over 10,000 feet above a glacial lake. Cloaked in mist, these jagged shards of crystalline rock are set amidst glaciers, swamps and southern beech forests. While not as famous or as extensive as the Chilean park Torres del Paine just south, FitzRoy offers a similar setting without the swarms of daytrippers.
The challenges of the three-day trek did nothing to prepare us for what came next: 28 hours on Route 40, the gravel road that stretches up the western side of Patagonia. The endless procession of sun-blasted hills and mesas lulled us into a dream state. There were no towns, no gas stations. Cattle, sheep, ostriches and native guanaco were more common than cars. The bus would stop in the middle of nowhere and we'd stand by the side of the road, pissing into a wind so strong it threatened to lift us off the ground.
It took us to the Lake District and El Bolson, a laid-back mountain town set between two chains of peaks, populated by Argentine hippies who smoke a hard-to-find local herb said to have psychedelic effects. The town is also a center for microbreweries, and the jumping-off point for hiking a nearby trail to a stunning alpine river gorge and glacier.
Just north of El Bolson, the more popular Bariloche is a haven for Argentine college students, who spend their vacations hiking and partying here on the shores of Lake Nahuel Huapi. The town was founded by German settlers, as is still apparent in the architecture, though the old town is quickly being swallowed up by commercial development.
The surrounding mountains are home to the best hiking and rock climbing in the Lake District. After a few days on the trail, Bariloche's cheesy dance clubs and party scene can seem a bit surreal. But if you're looking to sample a bit of Argentine romance, the student crowd in Bariloche is your best bet in Patagonia. And there's no better way to end a trip than that.