Hey there, how’s it going? Long time no see around these virtual pages. Honestly, the months have slipped through my fingers. Since last October, I’ve been anchored in Ushuaia, trying to navigate this so-called “summer” down here in Tierra del Fuego—and yes, the quotation marks are dripping with irony. For those used to December or January sun that scorches your back, this is a whole different story. Here, summer feels more like a timid winter peeking out cautiously, as if it’s too afraid to let go of the cold.

Bahía Lapataia, Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego

The Never-Ending Daylight

What still blows my mind is the endless light. By mid-December, the sun finally dips below the horizon well past 10 PM, and twilight drags on like it’s afraid of the dark. Sometimes I’ll glance out the window at 11 PM and the sky is still washed in blue or purple hues. It’s like what you’d imagine in Norway during July—except here, at the southern edge of the world, with the Beagle Channel as a witness and the Fuegian Andes as accomplices.

The other day, I went for a walk around eight in the evening (night doesn’t exist here). By the time I got back, the clock read nearly midnight, yet the light clung to the sky like a lazy sunset clinging to the horizon. It’s surreal, like living in a limbo where time stretches and gifts you extra hours.

The Green Challenge: Gardening in Hostile Territory

But it’s not all postcard-worthy landscapes. Since arriving, I’ve thrown myself into the absurd quest of growing things in this stubborn soil. And I say “quest” because even lettuce here seems to have a Fuegian attitude: it grows slowly, stubbornly, as if testing whether I possess the virtue of patience.

The locals warned me: “If you want to harvest more than just nostalgia, you’ve got to play chess with the calendar and seasons.” So I’ve rigged up makeshift greenhouses, thermal blankets, and a hope that borders on delusion. I started with basics: kale, spinach, some herbs. No tomatoes (still in the experimental phase) or peppers—they’re far too melodramatic about the cold. But guess what? Rocket holds its ground. Parsley and chives too, though they grow at a snail’s pace.

The wildest moment came when I tried radishes out of curiosity (they were part of a local seed bundle). I sowed them in November, and only now, februay 4th, did shy little leaves appear. But when I pulled them up? They were the size of grapes! Tiny, but packing a spicy punch. A modest victory, but a victory all the same.

Gardening here is like being in a turbulent relationship with the climate. One day it gifts you 10°C and radiant sun; the next, you wake up to hailstones the size of marbles. I’ve learned to read the sky like a treasure map: if clouds huddle over Mount Olivia, better sprint to cover the seedlings. If the wind’s from the south, layer up and pray for the lettuce.

Nothing here is taken for granted. Not the sun, not the warmth, not a harvest. Everything’s earned through patience, observation, and a sturdy pair of gloves. Well, let’s not get carried away—it’s all just part of experimenting at the edge of the world. Until next time! 🌍✨