Journey – 2012
Navigating this
South American
Diary:
Diary of a Journey to South America – Part Four
Penguins!
Sunday, December 30, 2012
– in the Falkland Islands
Thump! Schlop! Vroooom! Splatter of mud from spinning wheels. Shrieks of laughter from the two women in the back (silence from the man, nursing a bump on his head after hitting the roof of the vehicle in an earlier horrendous lurch).
“I’m sure glad,” said the driver in his British accent, “that we have a man of the cloth on board because he’ll have to forgive me for this!” He spun the steering wheel as an axle of the 4WD Toyota dropped into a mud hole, then he stepped heavily on the gas and the vehicle heaved up and leaped forward again. 19
We had just travelled 40 miles over dirt roads in the Falkland Islands, and were now roaring overland, with the last ten miles of our journey requiring us to cross fields and bogs and mudholes, on our way to a remote penguin colony. It was raining pretty steadily, making our progress rather messy.
Driving through mud, and bog, and water that was at least two and a half feet deep
And, you cannot imagine how far away from everything this was. The Falklands are about as remote and barren a place as exists anywhere on earth – they’re in the middle of the South Atlantic; disturbingly close to the Antarctic Circle; treeless, shrubless, and they have a population density of half a person per square mile. When we were bouncing overland in that Toyota, the town of Stanley (capital city of the Falklands with a population of less than 1,000) was over 50 miles away, and the nearest human habitation was an empty house on an ocean estuary.
And yet if our vehicle had become hopelessly stuck, we weren’t really in danger, because we were in a 10-vehicle convoy, and more than once, when one of them got stuck, another towed it out and we all got moving again.
Except once. After we had driven through water that was at least two and a half feet deep, a gasoline-powered Land Rover gave up the ghost. Most of the other vehicles were diesel-driven, and their engines can keep going even underwater, but gasoline engines stop running when the electrical ignition gets too wet. So that car stopped. No amount of towing would make it go again. The two paying passengers got out, and slogged through the mud to another car. They did not look pleased, but as someone in our car observed, “If they wanted a pleasant drive on a superhighway, they should not have signed up for this excursion!”
Heather and I and Werner and Mary had signed up for this long before we ever set out on this cruise. The literature had proclaimed, “One of the last untouched landscapes on the planet;” “strenuous;” “bumpy, unpaved roads and tracks. Not recommended for pregnant women or guests with neck and back conditions.” And this: “...then you see them: the penguins. Hundreds of them. Gentoos and Magellanic, mostly.”
Of all the things we hoped to do on this voyage, it was driving overland to a wild and remote place to see real penguins in their unspoiled natural environment. Far away, in Winnipeg Canada, we had signed up for this tour, and now we were on it, in a mud-splattered Toyota, lurching and bouncing over peat and gorse and mud to an enormous colony of penguins.
It was worth every second, and every penny. The penguins themselves ran down a cold white-sand beach and threw themselves into the surf, then came bobbing back out, sometimes approaching the strange two-legged creatures who had appeared on the edge of the beach, sometimes ignoring them, and gathering in little clusters before running back into the water. Their manner of walking, their ease in the surf, their ungainly manoeuvers when dumped back on the sand strike anyone who sees them as amazingly cute and totally funny. We could have watched for hours.
Even Werner, who had bumped his head quite badly in the vehicle, began to laugh and point and exclaim at the antics of these extraordinary creatures. And of course he (and I) took plenty of photos.
Not far away was the actual penguin rookery, where up to 1,000 birds were standing on their nests, and little fuzzy penguin babies were just beginning to poke their heads out to take a look around. The air was full of a cackling braying sound, which has led many locals to call this breed the “jackass” penguin. 20 A gull swooped down, seemingly intent on having a baby penguin for dinner, whereupon several adults gathered around the potential victim, braying, and taking swipes at the gull with their beaks. The gull thought better of its plan, and took off.
It was all breathtaking and magical, and we were ecstatic. The rain had even let up enough for us to walk about and enjoy these wonderful creatures up close. Not too close in the nesting area, mind you, or a person could get a serious injury from those sharp beaks. Down on the beach it was another matter. We had been told that we might approach birds quite closely, but if they turned their backs on us, we ought to desist, because that move meant that we were upsetting them. We saw that happen to a man who was walking towards a group of birds with his camera; they turned their backs, and when he kept coming, they ran into the sea.
We were also told that if one were to stand really still, some penguins have been known to approach within two or three feet. As it turned out, that didn’t happen for us, but we cared not a whit and were delighted with everything we that saw.
Our driver, Roy – (U.K. driver’s side of car, of course) |
The 1982 Falklands War
Eventually we had to begin the two hour journey back to Stanley, but on the way we saw various signs of the war that had taken place in 1982. Argentina has always claimed these islands as part of their own territory, and in 1982 the Argentine military invaded. Margaret Thatcher sent the British navy, and within six weeks (despite several mistakes on the part of the U.K.) the Argentines had departed.
The Falklanders have not forgotten. They call Argentines “Argys” and the tone of resentment and anger is unmistakable. Everyone knows someone who was killed, or injured, or kept prisoner (or hostage) by the Argentine forces. Battlefield sites are permanent memorials. Frighteningly, the authorities are still clearing away landmines, because the location of these horrifying weapons were not carefully recorded by the Argentine military.
Our own driver – we only know him as “Roy” – was just a child when the conflict began. His parents saw the invasion coming, and moved to the U.K. to keep their children safe. Roy grew up in England, got a good trade, married, and became a parent. But his own parents eventually moved back to the Falklands, and when they grew old, Roy decided to return as well, in part to care for his parents, and in part because he felt the Falklands tugging at him.
Landmine warning
His wife and children have taken to their new surroundings enthusiastically, and Roy is very happy. He evidently enjoyed showing these four tourists his country, because he didn’t just drop us off after bringing us back from the penguin colony. He showed us the wreckage of a downed helicopter in the Falkland conflict, he drove us around Stanley, and he even showed us the house where he lives with his family! He was warm, and personable and a delightful individual.
I noticed at the Stanley hospital that all the ambulances were Four-Wheel-Drive vehicles. Large Land Rovers, mostly. They have to be. Many of the outlying farms have no road access. In fact, Roy says that there were no roads at all outside of Stanley until after the 1982 conflict. People went from farm to farm on horseback. Or in the sturdiest of All-Terrain vehicles, as the technology for such machines began to improve. Roads were finally put in because the British military thought they would be a good idea, should there ever be another outbreak of hostilities.
But I myself think that it will not be the roads that will help defend the Falklands; it will be the absolute grit of the inhabitants, whose burning rage and hostility would make any attempt at occupation by Argentina completely intolerable. 21
New Years Eve. The sun is bright; the ocean spray sparkles, blown by the near-gale force winds. The ship motors along towards Puerto Madryn in Argentina, hardly pitching and rolling at all, because the wind and waves are from the south – directly behind us – pushing us towards our destination at a merry clip.
It is Heather’s and my 37th wedding anniversary today, and this evening, as the year draws to a close, we will be having dinner with our friends in the Crown Grill (the ship is treating us, and we will treat Mary and Werner).
Meanwhile, the day is relaxed and easy, so right now I’m trying to catch up with this blog.
Happy New Year to all my friends and family!
Friday, January 4, 2013
The Cruise Ends.... A New Adventure Begins
Our first sight of Buenos Aires wasn’t very auspicious: giant holding tanks for petroleum right across the pier from where our ship was docked; cranes and shipping containers in the near distance. Looking down from our stateroom balcony at 6:00 AM, I could see ship’s crew milling about, and busses lining up to take passengers from the ship to the Terminal (allowing 2,500 tourists to walk unaided through a busy commercial seaport is just not a good idea).
An oil terminal – our first view of Buenos Aires
Our cruise is over. We had to to be out of our room by 8:00 AM, although we were not supposed to leave the ship for another hour, since passenger departures were being staggered (presumably to prevent a great crush of humanity at the Terminal... little did we know!).
With our bags packed and whisked away by porters, we went up to the cafeteria for a leisurely breakfast. There we found some of our favourite waiters and were able to say a fond farewell to them. Then it was down to the assembly area – where we would be sent off the ship in small groups.
That’s when things began to go awry.
The assembly area – an enormous dining room – was full of passengers. Some, who should have been off the ship forty-five minutes earlier, were still waiting for the number of their disembarking group to be called.
“Apologies to group ‘brown five,’” said a voice over the P/A system, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. I’ve just learned that your luggage is not yet off the ship.” People around us were speculating that Argentine customs agents were going through the luggage at a snail’s pace. Others, recalling the armed conflict over the Falklands, wondered if the ship’s staff were being deliberately tied up in government red tape because our ship had called at the “enemy-occupied” islands. Indeed, it had once been rumored that the President of Argentina might not allow our ship even to dock in Buenos Aires, because we had called at the islands that the Argentines call their “Malvenas.” Of course this would have put a small hole in the Argentine economy, since more than two thousand people were planning to visit the country and spend lots of money there!
Leaving the cruise ship
(note a second cruise ship in the distance)
But, rumors notwithstanding, the ship had definitely come alongside the Buenos Aires wharf and was disembarking passengers. But maybe there was substance to the idea that the government was throwing around a bit of red tape just to annoy the cruise line.
An announcement: “All those with ‘black eight’ luggage tags: you may now disembark.” A cheer went up from a segment of the crowd. Fifty people stood, and filed out of the room, led by a member of the ship’s crew.
We were sitting with a couple who turned out to be from Montreal. Their group was supposed to leave about fifteen minutes before ours, but had not been called.
Time passed. The voice on the P/A suggested we help ourselves to coffee, and a few snacks that had been laid out. More time passed.
“‘Brown five,’ you may disembark now!” Another cheer, and fifty more people left the assembly area.
Finally, after they had waited well over an hour, the couple with whom we were sitting were able to depart.
Neither Heather nor I were really too upset by all this delay, because check-in at our hotel was not to be until 2:00 PM. So, when our group (‘Red five’) was finally called, we contentedly filed out, and got on a waiting bus. I took a “farewell” photograph of the ship (see inset) as we entered a brand-new phase of our adventure.
Pandemonium!
The bus took more than ten minutes to get from the ship’s gangplank to the Terminal, passing countless cranes and trucks and railway cars and what looked like whole city blocks of cargo containers.
Getting off the bus, we soon found ourselves in a building that was absolutely crammed with people. The noise of thousands of voices – some raised in anger and frustration – was deafening. Thankfully, I was able to find our bags in an area with a vivid red sign: “Princess Cruises: Red Five.”
Now came the work: Heather, planning carefully, had organized a month’s worth of clothing for both the tropics and Antarctica – and she knew that there would be periods when we would have to push, pull, drag, or carry our own luggage. Thus, each of us was to pull two rolling suitcases and carry one shoulder bag. Apart from the fact that Heather has some difficulty walking, this should do the trick.
A man motioned us into a long line that was threading its way through a single door. On the other side of that door, a number of customs agents were standing about, but they indicated that we should keep moving, and didn’t ask us to open anything or to show them any papers. Evidently they had examined our papers on the ship. And possibly our luggage.
But where were we supposed to go? There was a huge crowd before us, both inside the building, and outside in a steel fence-enclosed courtyard.
At a single door, thirty or forty cab operators were standing with carboard signs bearing people’s names. Pre-arranged transport. Another line, outside in the hot sun, with hundreds of people in it, was under a sign reading Taxis →. Obviously, if you had not arranged for a taxi, that line is where you had to go. But over a period of five minutes, it did not move at all. 22 It just got longer and longer as more people got off the ship.
Not just our ship, as it turned out. There were as many as four giant cruise ships disgorging passengers into this same terminal simultaneously.
Heather has had a pretty bad sunburn from one of her shopping excursions, and I’m just getting over mine, so I was highly reluctant to go and stand out in the semi-tropical sun in that motionless line. Part of me wanted to just wait quietly in the terminal until the line thinned, and then go out to get a cab. But officials in uniforms began herding those of us inside the building to leave and go on our way. They spoke aggressively in Spanish, with gestures that clearly meant: “get moving.” But the taxi line was not moving. It was just swelling, and standing stock still in the blistering sun.
There were a couple of women with young children waiting indoors along a wall. I asked Heather to stand among them and stay with all our bags while I reconnoitred.
A taxi-driver holding up a sign saying “Mr. McGregor,” was clearly expecting English-speaking customers, so I chose to ask him, “How difficult would it be for me to walk out into the city and get a cab there?”
Oops. I was wrong. He spoke no English. He motioned to a place inside the building and said “Turista!” Hmmm. Perhaps there is a tourist information office in that other part of the building? I dashed off, pushing my way through the throngs.
Then I noticed something: busses with the logos of about three cruise lines were pulling up to the terminal and disgorging hundreds of passengers. The cruise ships were not just disembarking great throngs, they were about to take on an equal number for the start of new cruises! Later, I calculated that more than 16,000 people were processed through that terminal in the space of a couple of hours.
And the terminal was not equipped for it. In the slightest.
Conscious of Heather sitting with the bags, and of uniformed men trying to shoo her out of that space, I pushed my way as politely as I could in the general direction indicated by the unilingual taxi driver. Eventually I came upon a booth under a sign with the words, “Información Turística,” in large letters. A girl was drawing directions on a handout map for a heavyset man. Ahhh.
I ran back to get Heather, and the two of us, dragging our great bags, threaded our way together through the mob, back to Información Turística.
But, when the young lady turned to assist me, it quickly emerged that her English was minimal. Huh? The crowd was swelling by the minute, and I heard English voices all around (“Is this the line for Princess Cruises?” “Where is the Costa cruise line?”). But the tourist desk was being staffed by someone who doesn’t know any English.
I can’t complain. If a Spanish-speaker were to land in Winnipeg, few would be able to understand their language. However if it was known that sixteen thousand Spanish speakers would be trying to find their way through Winnipeg’s airport or train station all at the same time, I think that organizers would hire a few Spanish speakers to help direct them! Well, apparently this hadn’t occurred to the Argentine tourist office.
All I wanted was to know whether, if Heather and I were to start walking, we might quickly come out to a thoroughfare where there would be cabs for hire. It’s a simple question, but tough to ask if you can’t speak Spanish, and tough to answer if you can’t speak English.
However, the girl did give me an English-language map of Buenos Aires, for which I was very grateful, and she marked on it (when I showed her a paper with the address of our hotel) the location of “IQ Callao by Temporary Apartments.” One glance showed me that it was too far for us to walk. But she could not grasp my question about “walk” or “street” or “near” or any word except “taxi.”
But she gestured in a direction that I had not yet gone, and said, “Inglish!”
Again, I left Heather with all the bags and trotted off. Perhaps there was an office, or a bureau, or a taxi dispatcher.
Instead I found myself in a maze of shops. No information desk of any kind anywhere. A couple of women in a clothing store, in response to my signs and queries, pointed me back to the Información Turística desk!
Frustrated, I was on my way to Heather and to the unilingual girl, when I noticed something: not only were hoards of people getting off large busses to press their way into this terminal, some individuals were arriving in taxis. I was now quite far away from the lineup that was standing in the blistering sun, perhaps I could engage a cab just as he says goodbye to a passenger! I told Heather my plan, and the two of us pushed through the incoming crowds to the platform where busses and cabs were disgorging their passengers. Soon I had spotted two people who were in the process of paying off their taxi driver. Signalling to him, I pointed to my bags, and showed him my paper with the hotel’s address on it.
“Si” he said, and motioned us to get into his cab. “Americano?” I asked, showing him some U.S. currency. “Si,” he said again.
And we drove off.
This whole process in the Terminal had taken nearly two hours, and what with all the shouting, and the press of people, and the officials trying to shoo us out, and the unilingual help desk, Heather and I were not in the best of moods. When that happens, we don’t speak to each other with complete courtesy, so I must draw a curtain over that part of the morning. Let’s just say that in the back of this cab, we slowly returned to our normal condition of being a happily married couple having a whopping great adventure!
From the ridiculous to the sublime
The young woman at the front desk of IQ Callao by Temporary Apartments spoke flawless English; evidently she has lived in San Francisco for several years. “Your apartment isn’t going to be ready for another hour,” she said, “would you like to wait in the lobby? Or perhaps catch a bit of lunch at the restaurant next door?”
The lobby was beautiful, opening on to an exquisite little garden. There was original artwork everywhere. But it was 1:15 PM, and we hadn’t eaten since early morning, so we opted to have some lunch at the restaurant. There we were served by Edgar, a medical student at the nearby university, who also spoke flawless English. And the food we were served was delicious.
Can you sense two people beginning to heave a great sigh of relief?
When we finally got into our apartment, we thought that we had died and gone to Heaven. 23 Clean – indeed spotless. Spacious. Plenty of cupboards. Original art on the walls. A modern kitchen, with a full set of dishes and pots. And a delightful little balcony overlooking the same garden that we had seen from the lobby. Songbirds singing in the trees.
Werner and Mary are staying at another hotel, and as soon as we were settled into ours we left them a message. Heather waited for them to call back, while I went out to get some basic supplies. The woman at the front desk told me about a grocery store nearby (we intend to eat some of our meals in the apartment). She also directed me to a place where I could get an adapter for my electrical cords (Argentina uses the same 110V power as Canada, but the configuration of the actual plugs and sockets is different).
Thus it was that we soon had food in our fridge, our cellphones were charging, and our computers were running (with free wireless Internet!). I had accomplished this with the help of some English-speaking staff in the hotel and restaurant, a Spanish-English dictionary on my iPhone, and a lot of pointing and gesticulating. I had succeeded in my first hour of my first day in a land where I know not the language. I am, accordingly, quite proud of myself.
We have arrived in Buenos Aires.
IQ Callao by Temporary Apartments – view of kitchen and dining area spotless, well-equipped, in a safe and attractive neighbourhood |
Sunday, January 6, 2013
– in Buenos Aires
Writing this blog (and trying to capture for you the “feel” of the great adventures that we are having) is quite time-consuming. If you were me, don’t you think you’d be out there exploring and getting used to things – instead of sitting at a laptop, writing? Well, Heather and I are certainly doing a bunch of exploring, but I thought that I should at least post this quick update. Hopefully I’ll be able to do a much more complete blog when things settle down... which may not happen until we’re back in Canada. We shall see.
Our perfect little apartment hotel is in La Recoleta – an historic district of Buenos Aires, named for an extraordinary cemetery (where “Evita” – Eva Peron – is buried, among other notables). We’ve explored the cemetery, we’ve taken some tours of the city with Werner and Mary, and we’ve done some exploring on our own. Given that I’m a pretty competent communicator in my own language, it’s incredibly challenging to be in a place where I cannot speak or understand a word, and must get by with signs, nods, consultation with a dictionary, and written addresses for our taxi-drivers! But, oddly, I’m enjoying the experience very much, and am soaking up this place that is so far away from my home.
Heather enjoys the fact that the weather is hot. Buenos Aires never gets the type of winter that we have in Canada, and right now the place is at the height of summer. And, outside our apartment there is a garden, and songbirds are singing in the trees. What’s not to like?
It’s Sunday today – the Feast of the Epiphany – so I’m off to church in a short while. It’s also our daughter Rachael’s birthday today, but she’s in Boston and we’re here, so we must content ourselves with electronic greetings. Hopefully we’ll be in Toronto next week, and then we’ll celebrate with her.
Next: Adventure Tourism
FOOTNOTES:
19 My video camera was running when our driver said this, and the resulting video is now online. Click here to see it. It also gives you an idea of the roughness of the off-road portion of our drive!
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20 From the little research that I did, the true “jackass” penguin is only found near the African coast, but many Falklanders refer to these Gentoo penguins by that name, due to the braying sound that the creatures make.
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21 At the time of writing, ominous rumblings could once more be heard. On January 14, 2013, an article appeared online entitled, “Britain Preparing For New Falklands War?” You can read it here.
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22 Heather and I think that one of the reasons that the lineup for taxis was stalled might have been that the cabs with designated patrons had parked willy-nilly, blocking the path for the available and open-for-business cabs! We don’t know for sure, but we think that this is a very likely explanation for why that huge line did not seem to move at all.
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23 We gladly recommend the IQ Callao by Temporary Apartments (click on the name to see their website). Advertised prices are US$74 per night and we paid less!
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