Our option was a simple one. A flight from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia, at the far bottom of Argentina, would take four hours. A bus trip would take forty-eight hours. One promised a swift and uneventful passage. The other held possible boredom, sore backsides and potential insanity – but also a great adventure. What better way to see something so vast, so epic as Patagonia.
I’m always genuinely surprised when I successfully manage to get through an airport and onto the plane. Thanks to a litany of travel screw ups, I always fear I’m moments from disaster. An employee turning to me and asking flippantly,
“You’ve got your B7236 per-authorisation form right?” or even the worryingly frequent “this flight is actually tomorrow sir”. On this day however, and despite the body complaining loudly about the rambunctious evening the night before, I breezed through.