Coffee vendor at Osorno bus station. Beats Starbucks.
Day 10:
When I wake up, I'm 150 km from Osorno. Outside the bus, I see rivers, GREEN, and fog! It's like Oregon. Osorno, with its sidewalks and parks, is just like any medium-sized Pacific Northwest town, except it needs a fresh coat of paint.
I get off the bus and it's nippy. The air is refreshing. I wonder if I'm getting more O2 because of all the trees here.
Down here, long distance buses have trailers because they also act as package delivery vehicles. They remind me of the Greyhounds I rode in the Yukon and northern British Columbia.
I've got six hours before my bus for Punta Arenas leaves. I take a hobo shower in the bus station restroom, buy a Styrofoam cup of coffee from one of the strong-backed vendors, and walk to the center of town for breakfast.
My destination, Cafe Central, does not open until 8:30 so I grab a newspaper and wait in the central plaza. It's always interesting to read the local news. The headline in El Austral: "John Mann, 19, is the primary suspect in the murder of his pregnant ex-girlfriend." The story goes on to say how he's an introverted, but good, kid and how he was raised by his single mom. I wonder if he didn't want the child to grow up without a father, like him. His ex was seven months pregnant. This is the second time recently in this area where a young pregnant woman was (allegedly) killed by the father of the fetus.
My paper placemat at Cafe Central has two themes. The left side has a Mapuche (the local Indian people) vocabulary list. The right side has a list of items and how long they take to completely decompose into the soil.
I continue to read the paper. A local kid was killed in that huge prison fire. He was in for robbery, found god, and was about to be released early for good behavior.
The 77 year old statue of San Bernardita in front of the local church was smashed by vandals. The priest refuses to judge or condemn the perpetrators.
A man and his seven year old son come in for breakfast. It's very sweet. I notice that the father can't talk. He communicates with loud yelps and grunts. It's a bit disconcerting, but the boy handled it like an adult and helped his dad order. There is hope for humanity.
I go back to the bus station. It's misty and cold. I felt bad for this stray dog.
I board the bus at 12:45 p.m. I should arrive in Punta Arenas by 5 p.m. tomorrow. As we drive off, heading east toward the Argentine border, I see a lot of old Subaru wagons, a Lada Niva pulling a trailer, and a car museum.
We had a long-ish wait on the Chilean side of border. This is the Pajarito border crossing:
The drive between the Chilean and Argentine border posts is just like Gran Turismo's Deep Forest stage, plus snow. Here is the Argentine side of the border:
Our bus was a Marcopolo. I dug the two flags.
Non sequitur: The Chilean police are called carabineros (like the Italians). The Argentine police are called gendarmerie (like the French).
The Lake District around Bariloche is beautiful. It's akin to the area outside Geneva. I hope to return here for a proper stay, rather than see it through a bus window at 100 kph.
These vividly yellow and purple flowers were everywhere.
We stop for dinner at a little restaurant in front of a waterfall. It is rustic and awesome. Their toilet tank in the bathroom is overhead and you flush by yanking on a cord. Inside the dining area, there are pictures of locals with their restored pick-ups trucks, flyers for local car shows, and big Dakar posters.
After sunset, we reach sparsely populated Patagonia. The moment I look out the window, I see a streaking meteor. I also see thousands of stars, even with the bright glare of another bad American movie playing inside the bus.
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