It is 8 in the morning at the bus station in El Calafate. Outside, it is pitch dark and we are rubbing the sleep from our eyes.
This bus station is like any other bus station in the world. Glass-covered counter windows, orange and yellow flyers with rates to glamorous destinations, sleeping bums and dirty toilets.
There are seven of us. A German, two Irishmen, and four Americans, including Kelly and myself. There are others, but we’re not sure who they are yet. Later, there will be a Frenchman, a Spaniard and a couple of Danes, and a few others whose nationalities, much less their names, we won’t remember. There are some Argentines who aren’t traveling to the destinations on the flyers for glamour. They are the quiet ones. Just a few hours ago, none of these people existed.





