South: Punta Arenas to Ushuaia?

Day 12:

The 8 1/2 hours of sleep on a horizontal mattress was pure bliss.  I planned on waking up early so that I could walk around town and take pictures of cars, but I am still tired and it's windy outside.

CNN is doing a story about how Unilever is profiting in Kenya by selling consumer goods like soap in single servings.  This reminds me of my friend's parents' liquor store in Los Angeles, which sells individual cigarettes to the poor because they don't have the money to buy an entire pack.

I get on the bus to Ushuaia.  Most of the passengers are European; many are baby boomers.  Judging by the way they speak Spanish, I'm going to guess they're Germans.

Though Ushuaia is only about 150 miles away, as the crow flies, it takes 12 hours to get there by bus.

The bus route to Ushuaia.  Note the little blue line near the top of the map is the ferry crossing.

I'm writing in my journal with a liberated hotel pen.  The German lady sitting across the aisle from me has a fancy pencil and uses a whetstone sharpener.  I wonder if she's writing the same observation in her journal, only in reverse.

It's 11:40 a.m. and we're waiting in line for the ferry.  It's too windy, so we're stuck here until the wind dies down.  It could be a while.

Ferry crossing queue.  Our bus is beyond the flagpoles.

I step out of the bus.  I feel like one of those brave (or stupid) TV reporters doing live shots in the middle of a hurricane.  I take one step with my right foot.  The wind blows my right leg in front of my left leg and I nearly trip myself.  My jacket's hood acts like a parachute and nearly carries me away.  I fight my way back into the bus.

The bus is rocking, big time.  Think of that LAPD bus that was being rocked by protesters during the Rodney King riot.

Here are my journal entries, verbatim:
Waiting + 1 hr 00 m: Getting hungry.  Shall I wait another hour before I eat?  Bus rocking just as hard, if not harder than beginning.  Toilet in back of bus starting to stink.  I hope [my wife] knows I will be late.
+ 1 hr 32 m: Chassis groaning.  Costanza: The sea was angry my friend, like an old man soup.  Wind more fierce.
+ 2 hr 06 m: Rumor is bus has to turn back and try tomorrow.  The white caps are scary.  Is this how Magellan felt?

My view on the bus, looking left.

+ 2 hr 31 m: Just finished Bad Trips (the book).  Last book, a Pablo Neruda, is in the checked bag inside the belly of the bus.

+2 hr 35 m: Is the ferry even on our side?  I don't see it.  It must be stuck on the other side.

+ 3 hr 00 m: It's getting windier and the sea is looking menacing. I know we practically stole Panama from Colombia, but I can indubitably declare that the canal is a good thing.  This sailing round the tip of South America thing is bullshit!

+ 3 hr 04 m: You know where they should build a wind farm?  Here.  Have I mentioned the bus has been rocking for three hours, four minutes now?

+3 hr 40 m: I'm bleeding.  I had gone out to the "diner" to see if there's net access.  The diner only had ham and cheese-- they'd run out of bread.  Well, as I walked back to the bus, I pulled up my jacket hood, a gust of wind pushed my thumb into my eyebrow.  Ouch.

+ 4 hr 00 m: I have nothing to say.  I want to ask my neighbor for her copy of The Penguin, Punta Arena's daily.  But she's reading it cover to cover, for the 3rd time.

My view on the bus, looking right.

+4 hr 11 m: Does the Strait of Magellan have Southern Cross constellation as their flag copied Alaska?

+ 4 hr 12 m: I wonder if my neighbor is annoyed by the way I eat my peanuts, one at a time?

+4 hr 17 m: I would pay $ to watch a Kirk Cameron movie now.

+ 5 hr 21 m: I nap and snore so loud, I wake myself up.

+ 5 hr 37 m: The water is even worse now.  Obi-wan, you're my only hope.

+ 5 hr 43 m: People are passive-aggressive to the max.

+ 6 hr 25 m: Serving booze on the bus now would help and hurt the situation.

+ 6 hr 43 m: Bic makes pens and lighters.

+ 7 hr 00 m: People must get really bored in prison.

+ 8 hr 37 m: Ferry not coming.  Bus leaves tomorrow @ 6 a.m.

It takes another two hours to slowly drive back to Punta Arenas.  I have a late dinner at Lomit's.  It's like Applebee's, but with a griddle in the center, Benihana style.  I sit at the counter and order a lomito pobre sandwich.  It's pork, onions, mayo, and two fried eggs.  I ask the guy next to me what he's drinking.  It's a Fan-Schop-- half orange Fanta, half draught beer.  When I tell my waitress that I want one too, she rolls her eyes and thinks-- guys are stupid.  I quickly down two.