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by Alison Aitken

It seemed that the bus journey would go on for ever. Although we were after all, travelling to the end of the world. As the coach inched the final solitary miles round the snaking mountain road, the snow fell thick and deep on the ground outside.  Eventually, the amber glow of diffused street light bled into the enveloping darkness. The few other dozing passengers slowly stirred and blinked at the snow-flecked windows in sleepy uncertainty. Then the lights came on. After 16 hours, multiple border checkpoints and a ferry crossing, we had finally reached Ushuaia, "the Southernmost city on earth". We stepped off the bus to find that the late hour and weather conditions had rendered the hilly streets deserted and softly silent. As we peered doubtfully around us seeking orientation, the midnight blackness gave no hint of the dramatic setting that would be revealed with the advent of the coming day.

By morning, the sky had cleared, revealing a picture postcard scene. Brightly coloured boats dotted the glassy surface of the glinting bay, peppering the otherwise flawless mirror image of a last few wisps of cloud elongated across the cerulean sky. Over the tin roofs of the layers of wooden buildings behind us, rolling forest gave way to towering peaks of the Martial range, each wrapped in a mantle of twinkling fresh snow. As we paused to absorb these views, the vapours of our every exhalation hung briefly in the lung- tinglingly fresh air. It was strange but thrilling to think that beyond the mountains stretched an entire continent. Not an end, but most definitely a beginning.

Once little more than an isolated outpost and notorious penal colony, Ushuaia is now a thriving city and popular tourist destination. Sited only 1,000km north of Antartica, Ushuaia has long been the jump-off point for adventurous expeditions to the frozen South and the Pole. Whilst the weatherbeaten, fur-clad pioneers of the late 18^th century are of course long gone, modern cruise ships now glide out of the port, laden with expectant tourists certain of a spectacular but altogether more comfortable voyage.

Cruising it seems is not the only magnet drawing people to this far-flung corner. We were impressed by the wide range of outdoor activities such as hiking, golf, fishing, and of-road driving which are on offer for much of the year. Even more surprising was the revelation that in winter (July to September), skiers and boarders flock to the area to hit the white stuff at the newly developed Castor Mount ski resort.  Sadly for us, the season had yet to begin, so we settled for a brief but energetic snowball fight instead.

Whilst the luxury of cruising was not within our simple means, an afternoon boat trip into the Beagle Channel most certainly was. With the sun still high in the sky, our sturdy little craft set out on what was to be a four hour trip. After bouncing haphazardly across the open bay, our cheerful flat-capped captain steered us towards a rocky islet, where hundreds of portly sea-lions were lolling lazily in the sunshine. As we inched closer towards the heaving colony, the endearingly blubbery beasts yawned, flapped, barked and scratched themselves, near oblivious to our tentative intrusion. Their days of being hunted by the once indigenous Selk'nam and Yamana tribes long gone, any fear of humans has now been replaced with corpulent complacency and disregard for curious tourists.  As our boat wheeled around to resume progress, we were amazed to see these hitherto languid creatures speeding sleekly along behind us, gracefully leaping into the air in playful pursuit of our frothy wake.

Continuing our passage to the emblematic Les Eclaireurs lighthouse, our small vessel was frequently overtaken by rapid flocks of cormorants, whose sleek forms were silhouetted against the pastel white of the mountains behind them. Their elegance in flight was in direct contrast to the entertaining chaos of their landings on overcrowded outcrops, on which they joined chattering congregations of feathered monochrome. As the sun started to dip in the greying sky, we rounded the lighthouse and headed for home, expecting little more from our enjoyable afternoon. Luckily for us, the captain and his first mate had a more upbeat finale in mind.  Cranking up the stereo, they passed round eagerly received glasses of the very drinkable local Beagle beer. A few merry toasts and refills later, we were delivered back to the harbour, where we slithered our way home and out of the icy cold.

On the basis of a handful of enthusiastic recommendations, we set out the next day to explore the local Maritime Museum. Housed within the foreboding former prison, this eclectic collection chronicles the fascinating but often harsh local history from within and around the steadfast walls. Here, tales of the ground-breaking endeavours of "pirates", prospectors, and Antarctic pioneers contrast starkly with the spirit-breaking struggle of exiled prisoners. A common theme runs throughout – the fight for survival in often inhospitable conditions.

 Most of the exhibits are found in the confines of chilly whitewashed cells, complete with explanatory notes and detailed background information. The adjacent dank and unadorned wing was eerily undisturbed, facilitating uneasy imagination of the hardship endured by once notorious inmates, now nothing but ghostly images in grainy photographs.  Glad to have visited, but relieved to be at liberty to leave, we beat a hasty retreat to a nearby café to digest this striking exhibition over Mate and a hearty slice of cake.

In less than three days, we had discovered that Ushuaia had much more to offer that the simple realisation of a catchy idiom. Intriguing history, striking natural beauty, and a plentiful array of activities combine to create a destination worth reaching. As we stood in the slowly thawing street, waiting for the early morning bus, the looming journey North didn't seem so bad. With a month of exploring Argentina stretching in front of us, we concluded that the end of the world had been a very good place to start.