I'M AT: Albergue Patagonia, El Chaltén, Argentina. A cosy and really friendly gaff in the newest town in Argentina. Turned out to be veeeery cosy; one of the French blokes in the tight dorm snored louder than Bud.
Coming here was a major reason for coming to Patagonia. And it turned out to be worth every cramped hour on the bus.
The Fitz Roy range of the Andes is deservedly famous. Cerro Torre and its two close brothers are thin, granite peaks, needling into the sky. And Cerro FitzRoy, AKA El Chaltén, the Smoking One, is a thick butt of rock, snowless and pink. They're two of the most difficult climbs in the world, not for the altitude, but for the profile, which is truly vertical. Anyway, we were just hiking.
The National Park is organised beautifully. On arrival, everyone troops off the bus and gets told about the various hikes on offer, the times and distances involved, and how to conserve the park. From there, you're on your own. So, with map and route, and a bag of empanadas, we mulched off, with Bud wheezing on the slopes. We had just enough time for an 8-hour circuit which would give us views of both Cerro Torre and Cerro FitzRoy.
The ground was covered with fallen branches, scattered by the incredibly fierce winds that rack this side of the Andes. They were dead and grey and white against the brilliant green of the grass. And we stopped amongst them, by a lake, to eat a few of the empanadas, and drink water from the lake, and to cool our feet. And the walk certainly took 8 hours, at quite a pace, and despite it being cloudy and overcast, throwing a scarf of white around the peaks, it was truly breathtaking to be amongst vast beauty. We ate well that night.
And, the next day, on pulling out of El Chalten at 6.30 in the morning, we turned our heads in the sunlight to be gently shown the incredible views of the peaks that we'd missed the day before, pink and jutting and glowing. Awesome.
Tuesday 21 November 2006
PATAGONIA: Tales of tails of whales of Wales
I'M AT: Hostel Choiques, Puerto Madryn. Cheap, bit scraggy, Claudio the jefe is a brilliant geezer, forced me to speak castellano while we all played cards over a beer. The place was full of 18-year-old students, full of pride at their home town, Santa Cruz, which was to me just a name on a motorway sign when we headed South.
So, we're in Patagonia. It deserves its own section, I feel, because it's markedly different in culture, climate and landscape to the rest of Argentina.
For a start, the East coast is almost entirely featureless. Low bushes squat, in their millions, over a gravelly soil, for thousands of miles. We saw the ocassional weatherworn sheep. That was about it, for twenty hours, at 90kph.
Secondly, the recent history and thus ancestry of the current residents is quite different. The place was settled by the religious and the brave. Madryn itself was settled in the 1860s by a group of Welshmen, who sought solace from England's tyranny and a place in which to develop their beliefs. After establishing the port, they moved pretty quickly to the valleys of the Chubut River. They founded the cities of Gaiman, and Trelew, and Rawson, which remain pretty Welsh today, even if your man on the omnibus, Lewis Jones, speaks only castellano. You can go for a Welsh high tea in Trelew. We didn't.
And thirdly, Patagonia is different because it's a lot, lot more touristy than the rest of the country. Initially divided by Northern Europeans into massive sheep ranches, much of the place is now state-owned, and the population live from the tourist pocket. This is no bad thing, but it means that national culture is a bit thin on the ground here, and you could easily be in Europe, or North America.
Anyway. Puerto Madryn is visited because of its proximity to Peninsula Valdes, an area of land jutting into the cold Atlantic, blessed with some of the best coastal wildlife in the world - seals, sealions, penguins, Commerson's dolphins, killer whales, and the highlight of our visit, the Southern Right Whale. The elephant seals that feed and fight and fuck here do so in complete ignorance to the fact that they are the only ones in the world to do so. Mostly, they sit around, entombed in a blubbery landscape.
And so we saw the penguins topple and clown their way to the sea, and sit on hatching eggs, and it was nice and all. And then we went on a boat trip out to the dolphins, which are coloured just like killer whales, but much smaller, they zip and twing through the waters. Really very fast, and pretty elusive. I didn't think the boat was going fast enough to amuse them.
The Southern Right Whales, however, were just - spectacular. We paid a bit more to go out on a semi-rigid boat, which meant there were only 14 of us in the launch, and we could chop across the water much more quickly than the bigger craft. As a result, we made it right into the heart of a group of nursing whales. The pups are curious, and came across to swim right under the boat. They're huge. And they're just the nippers. The mums are a bit more placid, sticking a barnacled head out of the water to let off low sonar rumbles.
And everyone was very pleased because we managed to capture the Money Shot. The whales occasionally rest vertically in the swell, with their blueblack tails raised out of the water, and on this occasion we were lucky, the motor was cut and we drifted round the enormous tail, glistening in the morning light. Just beautiful, and very moving, and I felt stupid and hot and complex next to these graceful beasts.
But they do lack fingers with which to type.
So, we're in Patagonia. It deserves its own section, I feel, because it's markedly different in culture, climate and landscape to the rest of Argentina.
For a start, the East coast is almost entirely featureless. Low bushes squat, in their millions, over a gravelly soil, for thousands of miles. We saw the ocassional weatherworn sheep. That was about it, for twenty hours, at 90kph.
Secondly, the recent history and thus ancestry of the current residents is quite different. The place was settled by the religious and the brave. Madryn itself was settled in the 1860s by a group of Welshmen, who sought solace from England's tyranny and a place in which to develop their beliefs. After establishing the port, they moved pretty quickly to the valleys of the Chubut River. They founded the cities of Gaiman, and Trelew, and Rawson, which remain pretty Welsh today, even if your man on the omnibus, Lewis Jones, speaks only castellano. You can go for a Welsh high tea in Trelew. We didn't.
And thirdly, Patagonia is different because it's a lot, lot more touristy than the rest of the country. Initially divided by Northern Europeans into massive sheep ranches, much of the place is now state-owned, and the population live from the tourist pocket. This is no bad thing, but it means that national culture is a bit thin on the ground here, and you could easily be in Europe, or North America.
Anyway. Puerto Madryn is visited because of its proximity to Peninsula Valdes, an area of land jutting into the cold Atlantic, blessed with some of the best coastal wildlife in the world - seals, sealions, penguins, Commerson's dolphins, killer whales, and the highlight of our visit, the Southern Right Whale. The elephant seals that feed and fight and fuck here do so in complete ignorance to the fact that they are the only ones in the world to do so. Mostly, they sit around, entombed in a blubbery landscape.
And so we saw the penguins topple and clown their way to the sea, and sit on hatching eggs, and it was nice and all. And then we went on a boat trip out to the dolphins, which are coloured just like killer whales, but much smaller, they zip and twing through the waters. Really very fast, and pretty elusive. I didn't think the boat was going fast enough to amuse them.
The Southern Right Whales, however, were just - spectacular. We paid a bit more to go out on a semi-rigid boat, which meant there were only 14 of us in the launch, and we could chop across the water much more quickly than the bigger craft. As a result, we made it right into the heart of a group of nursing whales. The pups are curious, and came across to swim right under the boat. They're huge. And they're just the nippers. The mums are a bit more placid, sticking a barnacled head out of the water to let off low sonar rumbles.
And everyone was very pleased because we managed to capture the Money Shot. The whales occasionally rest vertically in the swell, with their blueblack tails raised out of the water, and on this occasion we were lucky, the motor was cut and we drifted round the enormous tail, glistening in the morning light. Just beautiful, and very moving, and I felt stupid and hot and complex next to these graceful beasts.
But they do lack fingers with which to type.
Sunday 12 November 2006
ARGENTINA: Boca Juniors 3 Quilmes 1
I'M AT: Firstly, The Millhouse, which was annoyingly youthful and full of cocaine, cos it was Creamfields Dance Festival that night, and which I was glad to leave early the next morning for The, erm, Chillhouse, in posh Palermo, and it really was chilled out, and very friendly, and all the better for it.
I was incredibly pissed at my first Boca game.
Knowing me well, Corinne had warned me that there was no alcohol for sale inside the ground. So I filled an empty bottle of Pure Glaciar mineral water with Pure Cloaca vodka, and proceeded to drink it over the course of the match.
The stadium's called La Bombonera because it looks like a box of chocolates from the air. It was hot, and packed, and we were stood on the terraces, and I was glad when the sun sank below the West Stand.
And it was absolute magic.
The fans opposite us, the barra brava, hooligans, unfurled a huge 'number 12' shirt, and sang and shouted and screamed, whilst a fat, hairy bloke in a Boca ski hat climbed the nearby fencing to help put up flags, and pendants, and banners. It was sooo hot. I'd met a Kiwi lass and an Irish girl, and one of them had sunblock, and otherwise I would have died, pruned from the vodka. I forget both of their names.
(As luck would have it, we met the Kiwi lass again in El Calafate, I apologised for my state, she told me they thought I was on drugs, and we arranged to meet later so I could buy her a drink. We arranged to meet outside the supermarket at eight. Found out the next day, there were two supermarkets....forgive me.)
I woke up the next day not knowing how I got home. La Boca is a bit of a dodgy neighbourhood. I remember buying a flag after the game, and waving it around until it fell of the stick, and pushing it crudely into my back pocket. I'd also stuffed a page from the sports paper, Olé, into the same pocket, as I wanted to show Bud what the Argentinians make of the two West Ham players - the headline said When The Argentinians Play, West Ham Lose.
I don't remember the trip back, apart from being on the last Subte home, at 11.30 or something.
And I had to buy Olé the next day as well, to find out the final score. 3-1 Boca. It meant they were virtually guaranteed to win the Apertura, the first half of the season. It was a blur at the end. I found out there'd been a penalty. I then watched it on the TV as I waited in the arrivals hall of Eziaza airport for Bud's delayed flight to arrive.
Then I looked at my camera and found out that not only was the penalty at our end, but that I'd taped it.
Damn you Boca, if you sold beer this would never have happened.
I was incredibly pissed at my first Boca game.
Knowing me well, Corinne had warned me that there was no alcohol for sale inside the ground. So I filled an empty bottle of Pure Glaciar mineral water with Pure Cloaca vodka, and proceeded to drink it over the course of the match.
The stadium's called La Bombonera because it looks like a box of chocolates from the air. It was hot, and packed, and we were stood on the terraces, and I was glad when the sun sank below the West Stand.
And it was absolute magic.
The fans opposite us, the barra brava, hooligans, unfurled a huge 'number 12' shirt, and sang and shouted and screamed, whilst a fat, hairy bloke in a Boca ski hat climbed the nearby fencing to help put up flags, and pendants, and banners. It was sooo hot. I'd met a Kiwi lass and an Irish girl, and one of them had sunblock, and otherwise I would have died, pruned from the vodka. I forget both of their names.
(As luck would have it, we met the Kiwi lass again in El Calafate, I apologised for my state, she told me they thought I was on drugs, and we arranged to meet later so I could buy her a drink. We arranged to meet outside the supermarket at eight. Found out the next day, there were two supermarkets....forgive me.)
I woke up the next day not knowing how I got home. La Boca is a bit of a dodgy neighbourhood. I remember buying a flag after the game, and waving it around until it fell of the stick, and pushing it crudely into my back pocket. I'd also stuffed a page from the sports paper, Olé, into the same pocket, as I wanted to show Bud what the Argentinians make of the two West Ham players - the headline said When The Argentinians Play, West Ham Lose.
I don't remember the trip back, apart from being on the last Subte home, at 11.30 or something.
And I had to buy Olé the next day as well, to find out the final score. 3-1 Boca. It meant they were virtually guaranteed to win the Apertura, the first half of the season. It was a blur at the end. I found out there'd been a penalty. I then watched it on the TV as I waited in the arrivals hall of Eziaza airport for Bud's delayed flight to arrive.
Then I looked at my camera and found out that not only was the penalty at our end, but that I'd taped it.
Damn you Boca, if you sold beer this would never have happened.
Sunday 5 November 2006
ARGENTINA: All work and no play
I´M AT: Alaska Hostel, Bariloche. $6 for a piece of idyllic tranquility, AKA silencio.
I´m typing this in the living room of a hostel that can sleep perhaps twenty-five people, and there´s no-one else here.
The manager went to bed a quarter of an hour ago. The TV behind me is showing the Sarsfield v Estudiantes game. Juan 'Saba' Veron, of Estudiantes, has just been sent off for a second amarillo. He´s no better here than he was in England.
I ate my tea with a biege cat, annoying type, kept pushing a lumpen nose into my plate. And a brilliant puppy dog who ate my toes and gently bit my hands after I rubbed his stomach. They were both only in it for the cheese, though.
I tried to organise a couple of tours today, for a bit of rafting or hiking and the like, but it´s low season. Very low. It couldn´t get much lower if you killed its relatives and made it drink its own piss. So the trips are either not-happening-until-more-people-get-here, or they are happening, but to make it worth their while they have to charge-each-person-double.
The guide book said this was the best time to come, cos it´s not so busy and you can get a room more easily.
They should have added that it´s just like spending time in the Overlook.
I´m typing this in the living room of a hostel that can sleep perhaps twenty-five people, and there´s no-one else here.
The manager went to bed a quarter of an hour ago. The TV behind me is showing the Sarsfield v Estudiantes game. Juan 'Saba' Veron, of Estudiantes, has just been sent off for a second amarillo. He´s no better here than he was in England.
I ate my tea with a biege cat, annoying type, kept pushing a lumpen nose into my plate. And a brilliant puppy dog who ate my toes and gently bit my hands after I rubbed his stomach. They were both only in it for the cheese, though.
I tried to organise a couple of tours today, for a bit of rafting or hiking and the like, but it´s low season. Very low. It couldn´t get much lower if you killed its relatives and made it drink its own piss. So the trips are either not-happening-until-more-people-get-here, or they are happening, but to make it worth their while they have to charge-each-person-double.
The guide book said this was the best time to come, cos it´s not so busy and you can get a room more easily.
They should have added that it´s just like spending time in the Overlook.
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