Crossing bloody borders

I was not looking forward to leaving Ushuaia - partly because the bus left at 5 in the morning and even more because it arrived at my next stop at 2am. And also because I'm fairly sure I'll never be back. Had I really soaked it up, poked my nose in every end of the end of the earth, as I ought?

Once the sun rose I saw, from my reclining coach seat (free coffee and croissants for breakfast, free sandwiches and lemonade for lunch - these help each the pain of a £50 bus ride) how unique Ushuaia really is. Its dramatic setting is a gorgeous blip in a notably dull landscape - miles and miles of flat scrub and straight roads with an occasional llama-type animal looking unbothered. The only 'excitement' in a very long day was the utter bollocks involved in crossing from Argentina into a tiny strip of Chile before crossing back into Argentina. 4 times we disembarked from our bus, 4 times we filled in forms in quadriplicate, 4 times we collected our luggage, put it all through x-ray machines, had our hand luggage searched and our bodies bleeped. I now have 4 new stamps in my passport - 1 Leaving Argentina 2 Entering Chile 3 (30 minutes later) Leaving Chile 4 Entering Argentina. Fruit was confiscated and I was told by our bus waiter (he served our snacks - what else should I call him) to eat my cheese sandwich NOW or chuck it away. Chile is apparently very proud that it doesn't have fruit fly or mad foaming at the mouth disease or something. More to the point it is unhappy about sharing the cash mountain (the beer! the wine! the bus rides! the trips! the park entrance fees! the stamps!) that is Patagonia with Argentina. These two countries need their heads banging together.

Finally we left the island of Isla Grande and crossed the Magellan Straits at its narrowest point. This mythical piece of water is desperately disappointing - it's like the Bristol Channel without the bridge. I wanted galleons and explorers and messages in a bottle - and headed up into southern Patagonia and Rio Gallegos, a state capital/dusty town with a very small bus station. I walked along a huge ring road with cars whizzing by in the dusk and a flaming memorial to the Falklands dead to the centre of town. Like Rio Grande, Rio Gallegos ought to be depressing but was a cheerful place with students piled into coffee bars, busy parks in squares and cold CHEAP beer.

By the time I returned to the bus station it was dark and noisy and packed, with double-decker buses and passengers milling around, waitng for their night journeys to begin. I asked one driver how long it would take to get to Jujuy (which is what it said on the side of his bus and where I think I might want to go) - we arrive on Sunday evening he said. Bloody hell - it was Friday afternoon.

As for me, I arrived at my destination, El Calafate, at 2 in the morning. 22 hours on the road. I can't describe how grumpy and fed-up I felt despite the handsome smiling man at my hotel, a large comfortable bed and a hot shower. Sometimes nothing makes things better.