Between Frontiers
A roadtrip around South America
The subtle sound of my alarm began to infiltrate my deep sleepiness. With a blurry view, I immediately jumped out of the bed hoping that I wasn’t late: It was 4:30 in the morning. The crack between the curtains of the room revealed a tulip garden immersed in the calm and silent darkness. A brick path was highlighted by the artificial light, contrasting with the trees that framed up the landscape of the hotel Espacio y Tiempo located in La Junta, Chile.
“Please put your bags in the car before breakfast”, my dad whispered while my sister and my mom were still sleeping by my side.
In our early breakfast briefing we established that the aim of the day would be to arrive at the Argentinian city of Perito Moreno, known by the land travellers as one of the main stops before going down to Ushuaia, the southernmost city of the World. Our first stop would be Mañihuales, a small village sustained by fishing and located at the underfoot of the Andes mountain chain.
We left the warm and cozy hotel to throw ourselves on the road again. It was the 6th day we had been following this script since we left our garage in São Paulo, Brazil: waking up early, getting into the car and doing almost 620 miles per day, towards south, with an uncertain destination.
Through my window I could see the landscape changing fast and revealing itself as unique as it was before. From that same right-sided window I had seen mirrored skyscrapers and fields with jumping guanacos. Abruptly, my thoughts were interrupted by noisy alerts coming from our cell phones. Connection had came back. My entire family was now completely absorbed by their distractive screens as if each one of them were following their own imaginary road. As they scrolled down the feed, I started to fall asleep in my solitude, while observing the beige grass blowing in the wind.
After a couple of hours, the pavement of Ruta 45 led us to gravel roads, that slowly began to camouflage the car in the dust. Under the sunlight, the fresh atmosphere accompanied by translucent lakes and snowy peaks started to fade away from our sight. The farther we went towards east, driving away from the Pacific Coast, the drier the landscape got.
The transition of the shining sun to dark-orange shades marked the compass of our day. Watching the sun coming along with us allowed me to maintain calm while my legs were begging for a walk. It was late afternoon when we arrived at Puerto Ibañez, the last city before crossing the frontier between Argentina and Chile. One of the three GPS’s set on the car panel showed a tiny moving point on the map, that followed the sinuous path between the mountains. This small dot had accumulated around 350 miles in 13 hours. From the monotony of watching it moving, I turned aside to appreciate Chile’s sight for the last time. After a while I glanced back to the navigator and saw the small dot crossing a line.
Without any change of atmosphere and no welcoming signs we were then in Argentinian territory. I was certainly expecting to see a small frontier house, waiting for us, but while looking at the vast breathtaking landscape I could see no control house, no officer. There was absolutely nothing beyond the mountains and guanacos. Have we missed it?
Forty clueless minutes were spent on the road when finally a small white-and-green construction started to reveal itself in the middle of the arid mountains. This time I wasn’t sure of where I was. I saw myself somewhere in a gap of the map. As if in a “Nobody’s land”, I saw nobody, no walls, no sign at all. It was a stretch of a peaceful and heavenly land. I looked down and saw the only visible frontier, seamed on the leather seat dividing not more than our spaces. It took me 8.015 miles and 21 days travelling between the Atlantic and the Pacific Coast to understand that the frontiers that matter are not drawn in maps, but they are mentally sewed up between us, everywhere we go.
