In the brisk embrace of 5:30 am, the mercury hovers near freezing, a stark departure from the previous day’s sun-soaked high of 28°C. RB awakens, wrestling with contemplations of a prostate procedure, mirroring the concerns of King Charles, a contemporary figure in RB’s reflections.
The serene atmosphere is punctuated solely by the melodic symphony of roosters and local birds, harmonizing with the dawn devoid of the intrusive hum of vehicles.
Despite a transient head cold, RB faces it with characteristic nonchalance, seeking solace in the tranquility enveloping him. The Renault Kangoo wears a coat of white dust, a badge earned through gravel-laden escapades in Parco Nacional the preceding day—akin to the Lone Ranger, embodying the spirit of Dire Straits’ Telegraph Pole song, a leader forging ahead as the masses trail like the pied piper.
Throughout the day, RB navigates the familiar terrain of Butch and Sundance, garnering nods of recognition from the historical backdrop. Yet, the calm ambiance transforms into the formidable Patagonian winds, flexing their muscles. Undaunted, RB shields against the gusts, retreating beneath the duvet for a few more hours of slumber, embracing the road’s twists, turns, and the promise of new encounters that lie ahead.
