into the wild (and back)

In the bus from Puyunhabi, which I thought would be a regional gem but is more appropriately described by co-traveller Michael as a "Drecksnest" - pueblo de mierda ?
It takes 230 k´s to Coyhaique (yet another unpronouncable name) or 5 hours on an unpaved road. My shoes are wet, my clothes clammy, I´m wearing five layers and goosebumps. This is how I imagine the English moor in novels like "Wuthering Heights"; I understand why the heroines catch pneumonia and die in a jiffy. We amble past dense forest, then wild bushels, out of which the white trunks of bald trees are glimmering, rough mountains and fat glaciers in the distance. It is really beautiful.
The days before, I got quality dirt from the incredibly dusty roads in Argentina, missed out on the busses that were all booked out but hitched with a Chilenian truck driver (and cowboy, he claims. for the visual, think jockey) from Villa Angostura to Osorno, got a bus south and waited there for five hours to see whether I could get on the ferry to Chaiten (twice weekly, completely booked out, cancellation chaos). In the end, I was lucky: my overpriced dorm-style bed turned out to be a blessing in disguise on an overfilled ferry with many little children and crying babies; I got help from Chilenos Michelangelo and Jesus (yess....) and Belgian Antoine, we played poker, and halfway through the the trip I found out that the local volcano had practically erased Chaiten, Pompeji-style -was that on our news? In retrospect it seems to ring a bell, or am I making this up?
Chaiten was one of the most bizarre places I´ve ever been. Heaps of ashes, toxic-looking rivers, deserted and demolished houses, the volcano beautifully sublime and threateningly smoking in the background, and defiant banners everywhere: We are not leaving! Save Chaiten! Government go home, we live here!

Four mochiledas and hardly a car are not a winning combination. Gentlemanly, I was given the first (short) ride. Getting in for the next one - two middle-aged truck drivers - was not the best feeling in the world. They had actually come back for me, explaining that I was weighing on their conscience, huddled alone in this deserted area. I thought of Helmut (the jockey-truck driver) and decided to trust my instincts and refuse to be scared, or to understand insinuations). The insistence on curious small-talk in Spanish was tiring however, in all senses of this word: Are Germans romantic? Are the guys, the girls, are you? What do Germans think of Chile? What do you think of Chilenian guys? What kind of guys do you like, white or "negro" (an apparently important distinction for their own skin tone variations)? Are all German girls like me - tall, white, without make-up? When are German girls getting married, are you, do you want to and when; the same for kids.. Are you not scared to be alone here/to hitchhike (by far the most annoying question) and Can you swim ? (?!) at this piont I suspected him desparate and starving for conversation...
Then luck ran out for a couple of hours. It was now early evening, windy, freezing cold, and soon raining profusely. Finally, a Belgian family, whose car was already badly crammed, took pity on me and fellow German Michael who I had met waiting at La Junta´s Pinochet memorial.
An exhausted search for accomodation followed, more rain, wet shoes and an aching back. I´m running perilously low on cash. There no ATMs in town. There is no internet, there are about five supermercados (with sad stock).