Esquel

One of two books that inspired me to visit Patagonia was Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. I have always admired Chatwin's sparse travel prose. But this sparse region also fascinated me. Whenever I imagine a boundless lonesome place, it's not the US west, the deserts of Australia, or the tundra of Siberia, that comes to mind, but Patagonia with its vast vistas. Perhaps because it's at the bottom end of the world. Perhaps because Patagonia supports life but is nonetheless thinly settled. Stretching from latitudes 37 to 51 south, it's an area of a million square km, with a population of 2 million, and most of those in population centres. It has some of the most dramatic landscapes on earth like the Torres del Paine national park which is still on my list of places to visit.

There were many (Argentinian) Indian looking passengers on the bus. Their faces looked passive or resigned. Was it a cultural thing or the result of decades of being ignored? Many alighted at intermediate stops. We arrived in Esquel at 0630, an hour ahead of schedule. The town was sleeping at that hour. I had coffee and medialunas in a confiteria. The guide book had no map so I walked around looking for the private lodgings listed in the guide, but it seemed the season had not started yet. So I settled for the Hotel Ski. It had a cozy dining room. If I had known I could have had breakfast there. But I did have a tasty lunch of trout, which I reckoned would have been caught locally.

The other book that inspired my visit, in particular to Esquel, was Paul Theroux's The Old Patagonian Express (1979). The service in question, from Ingeniero Jacobacci to Esquel, was the last link in a chain that stretched all the way from Boston, with an excision at the Darién Gap. Today the chain is no longer whole as railways everywhere except perhaps Europe, Japan and China have gone into decline and lost patronage to road and air. This book and The Great Railway Bazaar (1975), an account of a marathon rail journey through Europe and Asia, celebrate a nostalgic era of rail travel.

Partly due to the fame brought by its namesake book, La Trochita continues to run for tourists. The woman in the hotel desk had very helpfully phoned to ask about the schedule, but the day tour started at 10 am on Saturdays, and I had to move on to Bariloche. However I could visit the grand iron lady in her home, the railway shed. She's lovingly cared for by a band of enthusiasts who do their best to keep her running.

Esquel was also founded by the Welsh as they advanced westwards. Today tourism is the main industry. It serves skiers, hikers who visit Los Alerces national park, and of course rail enthusiasts who come to spend time with La Trochita.

I was now in the foothills of the Andes. The distant snow tipped peaks seemed luminous in the unfiltered golden sunshine.

Late in the afternoon I walked out to buy groceries and my onward ticket. Then I decided to try a Welsh teahouse which also doubled as an art naïf gallery. I made the error of asking for no pieces with dulce de leche, which as I have already mentioned, I don't like. The dueña was affronted. They wouldn't make anything that common; it was a classy teahouse, thank you very much. A little later, seeing that I was embarrassed by my solecism, she was conciliatory and showed me her family album. She wasn't Welsh but married to a Welshman. Many of the members of the Welsh community in the photos didn't look Welsh but like what you'd expect from intermarriage with other Argentinians.

It wasn't that cold outdoors but the wind was constant and enervating. So I decided to skip a cooked dinner and eat pastries in my room instead.