Other places in Argentina

Buenos Aires Patagonia

On the road

From the Mail on Sunday
Look at a map of South America. Notice how insignificant the southern tip of Argentina below Buenos Aires seems. But then look at a map of England on the same scale, and Patagonia's awesome size sinks in. Now consider another, even more significant fact: in the southern half of Patagonia, there is only one tarmac road.
'The plains of Patagonia are boundless,' wrote Charles Darwin, 'for they are scarcely passable.' And by golly, he was right. Incredible landscapes of remote beauty await intrepid travellers prepared to cross these brown plains. Just don't try it in a rented Fiat Uno. My reason for getting into this lightweight Italian car, which I hired in Rio Gallegos, was to see Argentina's world-famous Moreno Glacier and the Fitzroy mountains to the north.
The Moreno is one of a number of mighty glaciers pouring off the South Patagonian icecap. Unlike the others, it is advancing. A 200ft wall of ice inches into Lake Argentino, groaning and sending out ear splitting reports like rifle shots as it moves ponderously forward. Every so often great frozen chunks break off with a crack, and 150ft of ice slides noiselessly into the water.
The other glaciers are no less spectacular. Uppsala, three times the size of London and named by pioneering Swedes after their hometown, is in retreat. A jumble of icebergs jam the channel below it barging and bumping into one other in a monster game of slow motion pinball. A small town, Calafate, consisting mainly of hotels, has arisen in the vicinity, and the sole tarmac road has been extended to reach this lonely settlement. After that, you're on your own.
A few miles out of Calafate, Route turns north towards Tres Lagos. It was the route I had to take to reach Mount Fitzroy and it was the spitting image of my father's farm track in Wales. That is yards long. I had to drive miles along Route
I finally limped into Fitzroy, which consisted of about three houses, on a bald spare with precious little petrol and sought directions to a filling station. The nearest, I was informed, was miles away in the wrong direction up another farm track.
Begging petrol when you don't speak Spanish, and you can't get it out of your head that your countries were at war years ago, is tricky. But I needn't have worried. 'Inglaterra!' beamed my chosen victim. 'I like Beatles very much!' Pretty soon he was syphoning petrol from his car into mine. I offered him dollars. He accepted. Then I realised I'd left my money in my Calafate hotel room.

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