Salon Wanderlust | Camel Trophy's grand finale

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
Reminisce about a favorite old ride -- whether a classic car, rickety bicycle or charming row boat -- in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
When tempers fly
By Dawn MacKeen
How should airlines deal with unruly passengers? British Airways is going to "yellow card" them
(08/31/98)
Burning love
By Gale Walden
Elvis devotees and wannabes gather in Memphis
(08/28/98)
Angela, the Upside-Down Girl
By Emily Hiestand
First encounters with Boston -- and with a stripper extraordinaire named Angela
(08/27/98)
My junior year abroad
By Edith Pearlman
A 60-year-old's adventures in a classroom called Jerusalem
(08/26/98)
My Hawaiian honeymoon
By Cintra Wilson
Of a 1,300-pound pop-ukulele star, teenage bikini queens and the best wave on earth
(08/25/98)

Browse the
Wanderlust Feature archives

____^{CAMEL TROPHY'S}grand finale

Our correspondent reports on Week Three of the Camel Trophy, a wild road trip through South America that screeches to a halt at the end of the world.

WEEK TWO | WEEK ONE
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BY MELANIE D. GOLDMAN | Hotel del Glaciar, Ushuaia, Argentina; Aug. 20: I just finished reading Bruce Chatwin's "In Patagonia." In it, he writes, "I left Ushuaia as from an unwanted tomb." But when I arrived here, nothing could have been more welcoming. Ushuaia is on the southern coast of Tierra del Fuego, an archipelago at South America's tip that is split between Chile and Argentina. I am almost as far south in the Southern Hemisphere as the bottom tip of Greenland is north in the Northern Hemisphere. At one time, Ushuaia was the prison where Buenos Aires sent Argentina's second-time offenders. Later, it was a naval base, and now it's simply known as the "southernmost city on earth" or "the end of the world." It doesn't sound like the most hospitable destination -- but I'm here, and I'm alive, clean, warm and fed. In Camel Trophy, that counts for a lot.
I left the U.S. team -- Dean Vergillo and Greg Thomas -- for the last part of the Camel Trophy and made my way down here to explore the town where the event will end in five days. The hotel is in the Andes and looks down at Ushuaia and the Beagle Channel, bordered by more blue mountains and named for Darwin's HMS Beagle. It snowed about a foot yesterday, covering up the gray houses that face every which way on helter-skelter roads. They all are designed differently, and they all seem to be under construction, as though money ran out mid-project. Without exception, each home has a tin roof and white lace curtains, both as common in Patagonia as mountain roads and sheep farms.
The toughest thing about being stuck in this cozy hotel at the end of the world is that the wind forcing its way through my window sounds like a bazooka, and the huskies across the lawn howl all night. So I didn't know what to say when Greg called from the road -- in Puerto Natales -- to check in.
"How's Ushuaia?"
"It's a different pace here," I said, diplomatically. What I didn't tell him was that my days on the road with the team seemed far, far away. I have a fuzzy memory of sitting in a car for hours on end and racing from a kayaking checkpoint to a mountain biking checkpoint, and I know that I went 48 hours eating nothing but chocolate and Clif Bars, and I didn't shower for five days at a time. But now, without hesitation, I'm back in the conservative world of people who sleep in beds, eat at tables and change clothes daily. The power of a long, hot bath is incredible.
Today, I met Tony Ocanto. He is the hotel's 50-year-old activity coordinator, and he lives in the room right across from mine on the third floor. He also is a musher. Mushing refers to any dog-powered sport -- in this case, a team of eight huskies pulling me in a sled. The musher is the guy who stands behind them, barking commands. Tony is about 5-foot-6 and has a salt-and-pepper beard, Santa Claus spectacles and cheeks that look like cherry tomatoes. He speaks Spanish, some French and very little English. I speak English, some French and very little Spanish. With him behind me in musher position and dogs pulling us at 15 miles per hour, we yelled to each other in Franish -- a creative combination of the three languages that worked fabulously.
Tony taught me the "international mushing commands," some of which come from Eskimo words. "Gee" means go right, "whoooo" means go left and "deten" means stop. "Gogo" means forward, and "goodboy" simply encourages the dogs. Tony says it's very important to let the dogs know when they're doing the right thing, just as with children.
We went on a 20-minute ride on snowy roads and paths behind the hotel, making a tricky U-turn halfway through. Tony told me how he races all over the world, living six months here and six months with his dogs in the Pyrenees, where he is an outdoor guide in Barcelona. Tony talks about himself in the third person: "Tony race with dogs in Antarctica in 1989 ... Tony also race bike in mountains in Spain and Argentina." As we were mushing along, we ran into Jen, the coordinator for the U.S. Camel Trophy team, who was walking back from skiing. She hopped on the sled. "You see?" Tony smiled broadly. "Tony is Latin lover; he leave with one woman and return with two!"
Tonight, I met Tony at the hotel bar, and he showed me hours of professional dog sled racing videos, where he pointed excitedly whenever he was on the screen. He was drenched in cologne and wore jeans, a T-shirt with a husky on it, argyle socks and loafers. At 11:30, when he started naming his dogs on the screen, I gathered the courage to tell him, "Melanie is tired." I thanked him in three languages, trying to match his enthusiasm and his smile with my own, then came back here to my room where the wind is still honking and the dogs never sleep.
Cafe de la Esquina, Ushuaia; Aug. 21: I'm sitting in the corner of a busy, smoke-filled cafe on San Martin, Ushuaia's main street. It's siesta time, and all the stores in the city are closed from 12:30 to 3:30 p.m. I'm not convinced this is a city, but for purposes of being one up on Chile, that's the name Argentina has given this 43,000-person plot of civilization. The two countries have a history of fighting over borders, land, mountains and titles, and the current battle is over which country is home to the southernmost city on earth. Chile says it's Port Williams, just south of here. And Argentina says pshaw to Chile; Port Williams isn't even a city.
I just ordered an hamburguesa. I haven't had more than a bite of red meat in a decade, but I can't leave the country without sampling the world-renowned Argentine beef, and besides, I'm feeling a little adventurous today.
N E X T+P A G E | A little hair gel with your salami?


	T A B L E_T A L K Reminisce about a favorite old ride -- whether a classic car, rickety bicycle or charming row boat -- in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y When tempers fly By Dawn MacKeen How should airlines deal with unruly passengers? British Airways is going to "yellow card" them (08/31/98) Burning love By Gale Walden Elvis devotees and wannabes gather in Memphis (08/28/98) Angela, the Upside-Down Girl By Emily Hiestand First encounters with Boston -- and with a stripper extraordinaire named Angela (08/27/98) My junior year abroad By Edith Pearlman A 60-year-old's adventures in a classroom called Jerusalem (08/26/98) My Hawaiian honeymoon By Cintra Wilson Of a 1,300-pound pop-ukulele star, teenage bikini queens and the best wave on earth (08/25/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		____^{CAMEL TROPHY'S}`grand finale` Our correspondent reports on Week Three of the Camel Trophy, a wild road trip through South America that screeches to a halt at the end of the world. WEEK TWO \| WEEK ONE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY MELANIE D. GOLDMAN \| Hotel del Glaciar, Ushuaia, Argentina; Aug. 20: I just finished reading Bruce Chatwin's "In Patagonia." In it, he writes, "I left Ushuaia as from an unwanted tomb." But when I arrived here, nothing could have been more welcoming. Ushuaia is on the southern coast of Tierra del Fuego, an archipelago at South America's tip that is split between Chile and Argentina. I am almost as far south in the Southern Hemisphere as the bottom tip of Greenland is north in the Northern Hemisphere. At one time, Ushuaia was the prison where Buenos Aires sent Argentina's second-time offenders. Later, it was a naval base, and now it's simply known as the "southernmost city on earth" or "the end of the world." It doesn't sound like the most hospitable destination -- but I'm here, and I'm alive, clean, warm and fed. In Camel Trophy, that counts for a lot. I left the U.S. team -- Dean Vergillo and Greg Thomas -- for the last part of the Camel Trophy and made my way down here to explore the town where the event will end in five days. The hotel is in the Andes and looks down at Ushuaia and the Beagle Channel, bordered by more blue mountains and named for Darwin's HMS Beagle. It snowed about a foot yesterday, covering up the gray houses that face every which way on helter-skelter roads. They all are designed differently, and they all seem to be under construction, as though money ran out mid-project. Without exception, each home has a tin roof and white lace curtains, both as common in Patagonia as mountain roads and sheep farms. The toughest thing about being stuck in this cozy hotel at the end of the world is that the wind forcing its way through my window sounds like a bazooka, and the huskies across the lawn howl all night. So I didn't know what to say when Greg called from the road -- in Puerto Natales -- to check in. "How's Ushuaia?" "It's a different pace here," I said, diplomatically. What I didn't tell him was that my days on the road with the team seemed far, far away. I have a fuzzy memory of sitting in a car for hours on end and racing from a kayaking checkpoint to a mountain biking checkpoint, and I know that I went 48 hours eating nothing but chocolate and Clif Bars, and I didn't shower for five days at a time. But now, without hesitation, I'm back in the conservative world of people who sleep in beds, eat at tables and change clothes daily. The power of a long, hot bath is incredible. Today, I met Tony Ocanto. He is the hotel's 50-year-old activity coordinator, and he lives in the room right across from mine on the third floor. He also is a musher. Mushing refers to any dog-powered sport -- in this case, a team of eight huskies pulling me in a sled. The musher is the guy who stands behind them, barking commands. Tony is about 5-foot-6 and has a salt-and-pepper beard, Santa Claus spectacles and cheeks that look like cherry tomatoes. He speaks Spanish, some French and very little English. I speak English, some French and very little Spanish. With him behind me in musher position and dogs pulling us at 15 miles per hour, we yelled to each other in Franish -- a creative combination of the three languages that worked fabulously. Tony taught me the "international mushing commands," some of which come from Eskimo words. "Gee" means go right, "whoooo" means go left and "deten" means stop. "Gogo" means forward, and "goodboy" simply encourages the dogs. Tony says it's very important to let the dogs know when they're doing the right thing, just as with children. We went on a 20-minute ride on snowy roads and paths behind the hotel, making a tricky U-turn halfway through. Tony told me how he races all over the world, living six months here and six months with his dogs in the Pyrenees, where he is an outdoor guide in Barcelona. Tony talks about himself in the third person: "Tony race with dogs in Antarctica in 1989 ... Tony also race bike in mountains in Spain and Argentina." As we were mushing along, we ran into Jen, the coordinator for the U.S. Camel Trophy team, who was walking back from skiing. She hopped on the sled. "You see?" Tony smiled broadly. "Tony is Latin lover; he leave with one woman and return with two!" Tonight, I met Tony at the hotel bar, and he showed me hours of professional dog sled racing videos, where he pointed excitedly whenever he was on the screen. He was drenched in cologne and wore jeans, a T-shirt with a husky on it, argyle socks and loafers. At 11:30, when he started naming his dogs on the screen, I gathered the courage to tell him, "Melanie is tired." I thanked him in three languages, trying to match his enthusiasm and his smile with my own, then came back here to my room where the wind is still honking and the dogs never sleep. Cafe de la Esquina, Ushuaia; Aug. 21: I'm sitting in the corner of a busy, smoke-filled cafe on San Martin, Ushuaia's main street. It's siesta time, and all the stores in the city are closed from 12:30 to 3:30 p.m. I'm not convinced this is a city, but for purposes of being one up on Chile, that's the name Argentina has given this 43,000-person plot of civilization. The two countries have a history of fighting over borders, land, mountains and titles, and the current battle is over which country is home to the southernmost city on earth. Chile says it's Port Williams, just south of here. And Argentina says pshaw to Chile; Port Williams isn't even a city. I just ordered an hamburguesa. I haven't had more than a bite of red meat in a decade, but I can't leave the country without sampling the world-renowned Argentine beef, and besides, I'm feeling a little adventurous today. N E X T+P A G E \| A little hair gel with your salami?