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Penguins at last!

Another fantastic day yesterday. After a really windy night when the house was shaking, creaking and I began to wonder whether there would be anything left of it by morning - of course there was - we were collected by our guides, Santiago and Augustin, funny guys with a good line in back chat, and headed east towards Harberton Estancia, which Thomas Bridges, the first missionary, established. It is still owned by the family - the government gifted it to them, under an agreement which means that they cannot sell it, and they run it as a very large nature reserve. They lost all their cattle and sheep some years ago when there was an extremely cold winter, and the cattle starved and the sheep were buried in the snow. So now they preserve the habitat as much as possible and make it possible for the likes of the Brother and me to visit. Beavers were introduced to Tierra del Fuego for their hides in the last century, but this was a disaster for two reasons: firstly, because the fur is only valuable when the beaver feeds on conifers, and there are none here, and secondly, because the indigenous nothophagus trees will not tolerate a very wet soil, and many of them have drowned behind beaver dams. On the islands which dot the Beagle Channel, there is little that can be done to control them, although there is apparently a programme to restrict their numbers on the main island, although little in evidence of this at the moment. The weather was still very windy, so we hiked to a sheltered bay and hopped on an inflatable with outboard to an Argentine naval island, where we had a picnic lunch under the flagpole, on the leeward side of the island, overlooking the Channel, and in full sun. My vegetarian packed lunch consisted of four vegetable pasties or empañadas, a Baggie of cheese cubes, two delicious cakes, and a lovely bag of sliced chorizo. Brother received the latter with glee. Then a trek through the wilderness of the interior, past gun emplacements for the Argentine/Chilean face-off in 1978, a large beaver dam, glorious peat bogs with glowing reds and lime greens, and the ever-present nothophagus (3 kinds; the tall deciduous, the small deciduous and the evergreen - all known as southern beech). The inflatable picked us up again and took us to the penguin colony, where we floated gently at the edge, and enjoyed the fishy whiff of penguin ordure, but mostly just gazed at baby Magellan penguins. One of my life's ambitions finally achieved. They are so sweet and comical, and were really curious about this odd rubber thing which visits them every day and clicks a lot. They kept coming up to peer and pose perfectly, and seemed to enjoy diving and swimming around the boat. Lots of lovely pics of baby and adult birds were duly taken. I don't know if the inflatable was enough for the Brother, but he was all right because we then went to Estancia Harberton, which has a lovely mature garden and large vegetable plot, and then to a secluded bay where we donned huge plastic trousers, boots and life jackets and paddled down the river and into the bay, seeing cormorants and and ibis, before beaching at the old Harberton slaughter ground, with its old greyish fences, and backcloth of a splendid mountain. Finally a stop to admire the light on the Channel and some trees bent double by the wind. Then back to Ushuaia to buy a scratch supper of simple cans and bread, which the Brother enjoyed so much that he insisted we do it again tonight and tomorrow.

At the end of the earth

We left El Calafate in glorious sunshine and took a short flight to Ushuaia, which is on the Beagle Channel, and the last outpost before the Antarctic, so has historical links with many of the great expeditions. It's on the edge of the Tierra del Fuego National Park, and, apart from a couple of small settlements on Chile's Isla Navarino across the Channel, is the southernmost city in the world. It is not the world's most charming place, rather sprawling and untidy, with a port which entertains both large cruise ships and container ships. It was originally established as a penal colony, and the maritime museum is housed in the old prison. This was a Brother-fest - lots of lovely scale models of the ships which discovered and subsequently charted this area, interesting bits of radio equipment, maps and photos of wrecks. There is even, oh joy of joys, a crumbling locomotive in the grounds! The museum also recounts the prison's history, as well as that of some of its inmates, among them Carlos Gardel, the original tango star, whose music I know and have danced to. There's quite a bit about the Yamana people, who have now died out, a reproduction of one of their bark canoes and some interesting artefacts belonging to Thomas Bridges, the missionary who documented their language and customs (see B Chatwin for further info). A large section on Antarctic sailors had one obvious omission, Shackleton, but given the fact that the Argentine claim on the Malvinas is very evident here, and that Drake is portrayed as an evil pirate (which, let's face it, is largely what he was), it's hardly surprising that Brits of note are ignored. Yesterday afternoon we went for a beautiful hike through Lenga woods along the coast. We passed charming bays with crystal waters, a pair of nesting kelp geese, sundry rabbits, sparrows and unidentified ducks. All clearly unfussed by our presence and happy carrying on with life regardless of humans passing through. It had snowed the night before on the mountains, so the backdrop was particularly picturesque, and in all a very pleasing landscape, with tree-covered peninsulas receding into the distance, the Channel always before us and the mountains surrounding it all. The temperature here is a chilly 10 degrees by day, down to -1 at night, with torrential rain and strong winds a pretty constant feature, and this is summer! Today another walk, with the first of our organised trips tomorrow.

Lunch amid lupins

One of the things I particularly wanted to do was to visit an estancia; I imagined myself in the saddle, helping to round up the cattle. A slightly unusual role for a vegetarian, which stems more from a love of horse riding than a desire to see things through to their logical conclusion on someone's plate. Isn't there a bit of the gaucho in all of us? To be out there under the sky, ranging? (What is ranging, anyway?) With only the grass, birds, cattle and dogs for company, and, of course, your trusty steed. So it was off to an estancia yesterday, the Brother being less than bothered about it, both of us half expecting, half fearing something cheesy and overblown. A Teutonic driver (whose nationality was never revealed) picked us up in an old rattler of a van and took us the 25 kilometres on an unpaved road, through sparse, arid country. The estancia is in the national park, and, as we drew nearer, the land grew greener, we crossed crystal streams, hares darted across the road, and the mountains loomed larger. Before entering the park, we passed a large estancia, with sheep gathered in front; it's shearing time, and this estancia has over 2,000 sheep all needing to lose their dust-encrusted fleece and emerge creamy white and fresh for the summer. Our estancia is not allowed to keep more than 200 head because the Park has limits on grazing, and there is a sharp contrast between the arid landscape around the large estancia and the green surrounding "ours". This is on a peninsula between Lago Roca and the southernmost arm of Lake Argentino, the deep blue of the former contrasting with the icy hues of the latter. Paint yourself a picture of a perfect alpine scene including verdant vegetation, lakes, streams and mountains, and you have it. Then add a field of lupins, self-seeded over more than a century by the wind, and gradually making its way up the hillside. Then plonk down a few one-storey buildings, liberally clad with corrugated iron and painted cream and green, add in a tall chimney and some rustic stonework, and that is what greeted us. Perfect! The Brother elected to go for a guided walk while I, of course, opted for the horse ride. An hour wending our way gently up and along the hillside enjoying the spectacular views, followed by a sheepshearng demonstration, a display of gaucho horsemanship, and lunch in the small restaurant - the full asado (assorted meats) for the Brother - a generous helping of salads fresh from the garden for me. All done almost coyly, with no bluster or show. The only other guests for lunch were a retired couple from Cordoba province, who spoke only Spanish. After selling their plastic coffin factory, they spend their time enjoying life, taking the odd trip here and there, and generally living for the day. A British couple were staying at the estancia (oh, how I wish I'd spotted that opportunity back in March!), who have sold their house, and are spending a year travelling round the world. And here's the slightly surreal moment: when we discussed occupations, it turned out that he had done a lot of work with wrinklitourist's employer - is there no escape? Back to El Calafate, for a free afternoon, a bodge around the town, some souvenir window shopping, and a plateful of delicious veggies for me - a light sandwich after all that meat for the Brother - and both of us fully disabused of our weary cynicism.

Walking in the lenga forest

Up with whatever the Patagonian equivalent of a lark is - we've seen a wonderful woodpeckerlike bird with a long curved bill which makes a loud, piercing call, not at all like a lark, but it will do - and onto the minibus for today's trip to El Chalten, founded in 1986 purely to service the tourism generated by its proximity to some fantastic hiking country. The driver was tearing about, and in such a rush that he banged his head on the door when jumping back in,and gave it a nasty gash. Blood all over the place, driver on his knees, and wrinklitourist to the rescue with antiseptic wipes and words of comfort. Some indecision, followed by a change of driver, before setting off on the 3-hour drive through the foothills of the Andes, passing estancias, rivers and llamas (which are actually known as "guanacos".) There are so many types of grasses, green, sage, red, yellow and brown, and it is so colourful under a wide sky, with mountains in the distance, that it is not, as I expected, at all a barren landscape. So many different shapes and textures of clouds; some fluffy, some smooth and long, some almost like a classic UFO shape, some thin and wispy, and all somehow much more three-dimensional than I'm used to. Perhaps it's the scale and the quality of the light that gives them an individual character, standing out against the sky. It is so beautiful, boundless and vast, this place could really get under your skin. A walk through lenga forest up to a perfect mountain lake (Lake Capri) under Mount Fitzroy, which determinedly hid its peak from us within the cloud, sparkling waters and a peaceful packed lunch, before making our way back down. Views of a lazy, winding, wide river valley with brown, snow-streaked mountains in the distance and on the other side the blue of Lake Viedma. Today we also had our first experience of Patagonian wind, no, not that sort, the sort which comes in strong gusts...oh, never mind. Classic dust swirls, creaking rooves and clanking wires in the one street town, whistling and whooshing about and blowing you over. Tough stuff. Today, the Brother saw, but did not take photos of: an old rusty engine, some buses, a burnt out car, and other sundry machinery. Perhaps his finest hour was when one of the guides handed him a pair of huge binoculars so that he could look at the landscape on the drive back. He took them and held them up to his eyes, and fiddled around with the focus and spacing with a slightly puzzled expreession until it was pointed out to him that the lens caps were still on.

And still the mighty condor...

We saw something even older than us yesterday. Awoke to a huge cloudless sky and a bright sunny day - for once the curse of the wrinklitourist was in abeyance - with the hotel in deep shadow but the expanse of lake and Andean foothills stretched out in front sharp and clear, and already slightly shimmering. Picked up by a minibus, with a bilingual guide, which drove the 40 or so kilometres to the National Park of the Glaciers. On the way we passed estancias, the main buildings clustered inside wind-protecting stands of poplar, learnt about the Calafate bush (a kind of berberis), the fruit of which turns your mouth purple and guarantees that you will return to Patagonia. Taking their wool to the Atlantic, the early Patagonian farmers would shelter from the cruel winds of the pampa behind it. Further on there were condors picking over the bones of a sheep, and a brown eagle perched on a lichen-covered boulder by the roadside. As we approached the Park, we could see the peaks in the morning light. And then the glacier. This stretches out into Lake Argentino, the largest in the country, and rears up above as you sail towards it. The contorted shapes which centuries of pressure on the packed snow have twisted and forced into huge jagged pillars are lined with a deep lapis lazuli, on the surface a powdery greyish white, and sometimes striated with brown where they have picked up mud on their way down the mountain. The leading edge is constantly shifting and cracking and we saw several calvings while we were there. There is also an extensive network of walkways all over the adjacent hillside, and we were mesmerised by the views. It is so vast, and has a chill air of age and ponderous power as it oozes into the lake. We could have stayed there all day watching. After all this wonder and natural beauty, the Brother was so deeply moved that he had to take a photo of an old tanker lorry slowly crumbling at the lakeside. So much for Glacier Perito Moreno.

View from the Co-pilot's seat

Sister has gone for some "fresh air" so I have the machine! This is now my second atte. pe at getting sometiendo on to the famous blog. I tríed last night, only to be told in the morning that for some reason, it didn't post up! We are having a wonderful time, much of it down to S's careful and efficient arrangements but having had the chance of reading said blog so far, I think a degree of clarifying would not go amiss. Firstly, I arrived at the correct platform and deny any knowledge of confusion with digits, that's what we do at work. Whilst on the subject of platforms, things did not bode well when, as I approached the barrier to get out, I could not find my ticket to put through the machine. I had definitely put it in my shirt top pocket but it was not there! Then followed an extensive search of all other pockets, backpack and wallet, supported by unsavoury muttering, but still could not find it. I wa just about to fish the printed booking ref out to show and explain to the member of staff at the barrier when It did appear in my jacket top pocket! Secondly, I do enjoy comfortable accommodation as those who have come with me on my famed, Tibet by Yakback and Welsh mining towns in February will testify. I just think it is nice to connect with the local population. Thirdly, Iberia have has a lot of trouble with their tables, that's what the stewardess reassured me anyway. Fourthly, I was completely open-minded about the clouds. Anyway, we arrived in BA. S then took me on a tour of the city to include the famous squares and sights, including numerous tango buskers. Off then by taxi, another experience, to the cemetery, passing the railway museum on the way which I made certain to point out and refer to a couple of time afterwards. Not enough apparently since after lunch, we went for some "culture" at the National Art Gallery. I must say this was impressive. Small and mainly 19thC artists but all the big names and pictures I never expected to see here. Not only big names, probably the "best in show were by a Spanish artist, Borolla, of boats landing on beaches. They were stunning, although he's not hot on trains. he next day we did go to the dock area and, yes, I did cross the road to the waterfront but only because the info board mentioned this was the area of the first settlements because it was at the mouth of a river. So, in the interests of history, I recorded said river mouth. It so happened there was a barge picking rubbish from the river, but this wa only incidental to the composition of the picture, and a (well two actually) transporter bridges but they were again, incidental. S tells me the first of the briges wa built in 1884 on the semi-cantilever principle and fell out of use in 1967 when the second wa built to take the new road. having all those issues up, we spent today viewing a glacier about which S will wax lyrical. When she does, please ignore all reference to rusty old tanker. Quick, she's back, bye!