March 2020
Pawel and I are on a hike up to the Martial Glacier in Ushuaia, in Tierra del Fuego, Argentinian Patagonia. Ushuaia has the geographically literal moniker “El Fin del Mundo” because of its position at the southernmost tip of the Americas. Today, the name seems more prophetic than anything else though.
Tomorrow we’re scheduled to embark on an expedition to Antarctica, but the coronavirus situation is rapidly changing and it’s become increasingly clear that we’re not leaving on that ship.
Just a couple of days earlier, we had arrived in Argentina: our first country on a lengthy list of long-dreamt-of destinations. But things were not going according to plan.
The outlook wasn't great when the day we left the country for a year of global adventure turned out to be the same day that the WHO declared a global pandemic. During the weeks leading up to our departure news reports had warned of a new coronavirus spreading in Asia and Europe, but South America had appeared largely untouched. We felt the risk only vaguely in the States, vaguer still on plane en route to Argentina.
The outlook got worse almost immediately, however, when the first tourist site we visited in Buenos Aires had a makeshift paper sign that read, “Cerrado.” The excitement I had felt about our travels was abruptly turning to dread as the global situation spiraled more quickly than we could have imagined.
Within 48 hours, the world shut down. The Argentinian government issued a decree that required us to leave the country or else get lodging, register with the national health authority, and quarantine for a minimum of two weeks—but potentially indefinitely.
That’s how, instead of mingling with fellow travelers over beers in Palermo, I found myself miserably gulping down Malbec on the roof terrace of our Airbnb apartment building while speaking on the phone with a stern employee from the US Embassy in Argentina. He responded to my tearful questions with long sighs and repeated variations of the same message: “Ma’am, I strongly advise that you return home to the US immediately.”
Did I really sound old enough to be a “ma’am”? That called for another heavy pour of wine.
I quickly gave up on trying to explain that we didn’t have a home in the US anymore when he reminded me that the only alternative would be to call the health ministry and explain my situation to them, in Spanish. Hablo un poquito de español was definitely not going to cut it.
We chose a third option, one last hope of salvaging our trip until all of this surely blew over. We had been in constant contact with the expedition company running our planned cruise to Antarctica, and they continued to insist that the ship would be departing as scheduled. If that was really the case, then we’d be leaving Argentina in accordance with the government coronavirus mandate. So, ignoring the sinking feeling in our stomachs, we hopped on the next plane and flew down to the end of the world.
That’s how I find myself scrambling up a mountainside above Ushuaia, desperately holding onto hope that the next three months of travel I’ve booked around South America will somehow pan out. I’m compulsively refreshing my email for updates from the Antarctica expedition—which have become more dire in the hours since our arrival in Ushuaia: first, temperature checks and testing will be required before boarding the ship; then, no passengers from China will be allowed on board; and, most recently, the company is keeping an eye on the situation as the government has just announced that all cruise vessels will be required to quarantine off-shore for two weeks before re-docking.
All the while, Pawel does his best to convince me that we should just hole up in a cabin in Patagonia for a couple of weeks while we wait for this to all blow over. The tension is causing plenty of bickering between us, and it’s really not helped by my huffing and puffing as I struggle up the path. (I ended up having a rather abrupt surgery to remove my long-troublesome gallbladder just ten days before we left the States, and it’s becoming clear that I probably shouldn’t be hauling a hiking backpack up a mountain just yet.)
I implore Pawel to go on ahead of me. I hate feeling like I’m slowing him down. I know he doesn’t mind the slower pace, but I also want time to myself. It’s usually nice to have a partner during a crisis, but when you don’t agree on the solution it can be even more isolating than being alone.
When I catch up to him later at the glacier, I’m confused.
“Is this really the end of the trail? It doesn’t look like we’ve reached the glacier yet.”
Pawel gestures to the sign marking our arrival in response.
The grainy photographs of the giant ice shelf I had seen when Googling the Martial Glacier pale in comparison to the paltry thing here at the top. It continues to melt in front of us, and we watch the streams of freezing water sliding down the rock face like they’re a future disappearing before our eyes. The long struggle uphill all for this small chunk of ice would be laughable if it weren’t so completely jarring.
For a moment, my own problems seem grossly unimportant compared to the reality so starkly confronting me. I pause. My breathing settles into a healthier rhythm but my thoughts get even more out of sync.
Nothing is turning out as expected on our journey so far. Yes, a meticulously planned execution of a dream to travel is rapidly unraveling. But also, a virus a world away has shut down a country with a total of only twelve confirmed cases. And a glacier is nothing but a patch of snow. The problems of tomorrow are here, today, and I’ve just been smacked in the face with them.
The next day, we board a plane back to the US instead of a ship to Antarctica. We’re not returning with memories of a grand adventure, pictures of whales and penguins, tales of seasickness on the Drake Passage, the shock of a polar plunge—and the heartbreak of missing out on those memories feels like defeat. But that’s all tempered by what we do carry back: some much-needed perspective. It will take me some time, but I'll realize that our personal woes are just that: personal. And, for us, it's not really the End of the World.
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