We are in the Patagonia wilderness. That's middle-of-nowhere, no one-to-turn-to country. Inhospitable, impenetrable country, where even if you could force your way into the bush, you would lose your bearings within 10 metres.
Carlos is a tall, burly, powerful man with a scruffy beard. He wears a black military-style beret pulled low over his left eye. If you were casting for a movie, he certainly wouldn't be the good guy.
He stares me straight in the eye, a steely glare. "Strip," he orders. With his Spanish accent, it comes out as "Streeep" .
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