Capital Times Part Two

You have to feel for Montevideo, really. A stone's throw away across the Rio Plata from Buenos Aires, the result is that almost the entire population moves to Argentina as soon as they are old enough to catch the ferry. Consequently what is left feels a bit like a leftover or an afterthought. The tourist board does their best, but you can't really hide the fact that there's very little to see in the Old Town. A few months ago we were confidently told (by a Canadian) that you can exhaust all Montevideo's possibilities in five hours or less, so we thought we'd put this theory to the test. This also gave us a good opportunity to continue our game 'I Spy Diego Forlan', the Uruguayans paying homage to this particular national patron saint with multiple advertising campaigns and a selection of tasteless crockery*.

If you don't like football, there really is- I must confess- no good reason to visit Montevideo. There's nothing much wrong with it- wide streets, lots of trees, a few good shops- but there doesnt seem to be anythng really right with it either. The one claim to interest is that it houses the Estadio Centenario, the location for the first World Cup in 1930 (or thenabouts-it was a hot day) and a small but interesting Museum of Football which exhibits amongst other trophies, the very shirt worn by Geoff Hurst for England in the 1966 World Cup Final.

Can someone explain this to me? I would have thought such a pivotal item of footballing memorabilia would be residing somewhere in London, with an armed guard, some dimmed lights and an outraegous entrance fee. I made enquiries to this effect and was informed that the British Foreign Office had donated the shirt as a gesture of friendship towards the Uruguayans. Ok, fine- I'm happy to be friendly towards the Uruguayans but surely the Foreign Sec. could have given them some Cornwall fudge and a paperweight instead of a crucial part of the nation's sportng heritage? I was so peeved that I drank almost their entire water cooler (it was a very hot day)

It's possible that I over-reacted slightly due to a lack of sleep. This was caused by a lunatic man in the dormitory who set his alarm clock to go off at 3am and then went to sleep with earplugs in. Happily, he also snored like a rhinoceros on steroids- the sort of snoring that makes the walls vibrate, and was impervious to all my hissed promises to make him eat his own testicles if he did not immediately cease and desist. Eventually I actually got out of my own bed and went and kicked his repeatedly. That didn't work either, but someone else must have said something as he checked out after breakfast. Good riddance.

We left the next day for a dinky little beach town called Punta del Diablo, where I managed to get sunburnt through a thick layer of cloud on the first day, followed by two days of pretty consistently rubbish weather. Not a problem- the bar was well stocked (less so by the time I had finished with it) and all our friends from Buenos Aires and Ushuaia showed up, so we had a jolly old time watching sport and being raucous. The only real downside, apart from a dangerous lurch towards cirrhosis, was the presence of a mosquito in our dorm room, which gorged itself upon my tender flesh. So now I itch like a demon and look like a bubonic plague victim. But I do have the best news to report: The Museum of Corned Beef is back on. We arrived in Fray Bentos just this evening. The Old Pie Factory awaits us tomorrow. And if you're really lucky I won't write a whole blog about it.

* seriously- if you don't know who Diego Forlan is- stop reading my blog. You and I have nothing in common :-)

Capital Times Part One

When we last met, I was in a state of post-cetacean bliss and inner peace. I know where that ends: incense-sniffing, indian print smocks and trying to have sex with a bongo. No thank you! Goodbye, Nature! Hello, Buenos Aires!

To say that the city had a lot to live up to is an understatement- I had lost track of the amount of people who had told me that Buenos Aires is my sort of town, the highlight of the continent, vibrant, sexy, cool, fountains of beer, party all night, art, culture, history, madness- and for this reason it was bound to be a let down. I'd also been warned about the natives- the biggest snobs on the planet (outside of Paris- the perpetual worldwide champions of uppity) Incidentally we'll not be following the crowd and calling it BA for the simple reason that it encourages Chris to do his rather poor Mr T impression.

Happily, it's a wonderful city. The only tosser we met was a travel agent. Hurling ourselves headlong into the action we did a guided city tour, inspected the presidential palace ('The Pink House'), and the balcony where Evita/Madonna did their respective thangs. I resisted the urge to break out into song- the security guards didn't look at all like Lloyd-Webber fans, and there was a feisty looking Falklands/Malvinas demonstration outside, of the sort that didnt inspire extroversion.

All that pent up singing had to go somewhere though, so we headed down to La Bombonera, home of the mighty Boca Juniors. I've wanted to go here for ages: apparently the maddest, most passionate football fans on earth. Craven Cottage it certainly was not- I learnt an awful lot of rude spanish words for lady bits. That said, our neighbouring fans were most obliging, teaching me all the words to the (really quite complicated) football chants and reassuring us that yes, it was normal for the whole stadium to sway because of the jumping and drumming. Later we went to a bar and then another and got hopelessly, horribly drunk, resulting in a World's Top Five Hangover. Happily, despite their fiery reputations not one Boca fan decided to murder us. Happy Days.

A few days breather seemed to be the ticket and so we headed off to Uruguay. Hands up anyone who knows anything about Uruguay that isn't football related? Thought not. Our first stop was Colonia, an old smuggling port directly across the Rio Plata. This is a seriously lovely place to be, with beautiful sunwarmed cobbled streets and colonial buildings, fabulous fish restaurants, a huge expanse of sandy beaches, and smelling bewitchingly of jasmine. Despite being the jewel in the crown of this part of the coast, it is surprisingly unspoilt. They do have an odd fondness for golf carts though. We watched a gorgeous sunset and had some beers, and wondered if it was worth going to Montevideo- billed as 'a smaller, crapper Argentina' by practically everyone else.

To be continued...

Whales and the Welsh

Time for a quick lesson on the history of the Welsh settlement of Patagonia. Several or more years ago the welsh pioneers (who for the purposes of national stereotyping we shall call Dafydd and Llewelyn, along with their sheep, Myfanwy) decided to up sticks and leave Wales- an understandable decision. They chartered a lovespoon and, using leeks for oars, crossed the dangerous and wild Atlantic ocean. Turning their noses up at the tropical beaches of Brazil and the gleaming spires of the Southern Andes, they fetched up upon a grey, flat, rainy and windswept peninsula, whereupon they narrowly bested the natives at rugby and, after an Eistedfodd of Thanksgiving, stuck a daffodil in the ground and claimed the land for the Welsh Empire.

I know all of this because we visited the Museum of All Things Welsh in Puerto Madryn. Actually, that's a lie: we had intended to visit, but it was too far away. Instead we went to the oceanography museum where they had a giant squid in formeldahyde, so I have filled in the gaps in the above historical narrative slightly.

However or whyever the Welsh arrived, apparently they did and their lasting legacy is a number of Welsh teahouses selling 'torta galesa' at ludicrous prices and an unshakeable devotion to Diana, Princess of Wales (you see what they did there). The tourist blurb promises an authentic welsh village experience. I suspect the tourist board were rather banking on no-one from Real Wales ever coming to check the veracity of this claim. Although I suppose there is a passing resemblance to the outlying buildings of the power station at Port Talbot. Anyway, there was little of the Pembrokeshire villages to coo over on the rainlashed Friday morning we visited. No one was speaking welsh either, although there was a school in which people were taught in both welsh and spanish. In vain we searched for alumni- imagine the accent!- but there was no one about. Even the tearooms were shut;they don't open until 3pm when the tourist horde arrives- another fact carelessly overlooked by the guidebook. Reasoning that we weren't going to pay for these anyway, since we required all our arms and legs, and since we were becoming dangerously hysterical at the underwhelming nature of the trip we had embarked on, we bought a welshcake from the supermarket and determined to get as much value from the experience as possible we conducted it around town doing an impromptu photoshoot before we caught the next bus home. Supplemented with wine, the welsh cake was rather good. Later the Welsh won the rugby and we didn't, which seemed reasonable revenge for all my sniping.

From Wales to Whales, the other reason that people flock to the Valdes Peninsula. This is a breeding and feeding ground for the Southern Right Whale (look it up). They spend half the year here having babies and congregating offshore. On a clear day you can walk out from puerto Madryn to a beach where they come in close to the shoreline and watch them gliding around like friendly submarines, or you can go out on a boat to get a bit nearer. We did the walk first and were rewarded with several wonderful whales. We were close enough to hear them breathing. They make a weird sound when they do- like someone with a deep voice saying 'whoooooooorrrrr' down a metal dranpipe. For all I know, there could be someone hiding in the dunes with a metal drainppe, but the sound seemed to go with the whale. Later one followed us along the beach waving his flippers at us.

If this was as far as we got with the whales it would have been pretty damn cool but of course it got much better than this when we finally made it out onto the water for a close up encounter. The weather had been crap for several days prior to our trip, sending us slowly mad with cabin fever, and we had decided that come hell or high water we were going on Monday. Fortunately the sun came out although the sea was choppy enough to make Chris distinctly queasy and green. Fortunately as we all know I am exceptionally brave and was wearing a Captain Birdseye rubber cape so I managed to hold onto my sea legs.

If you ever get a chance to do whale watching, just do it. It is quite simply one of the most extraordinary things you will ever see. Southern Right Whales win no prizes for beauty, being knobbly all over and covered in patches of what look like barnacles, but the majesty and elegance with which they glide through the water is utterly compelling. You can feel your heart rate slowly down and all your muscles relaxing as you watch them. Whales are, it turns out, giant floating tranquilisers for the soul. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Eventually after some jumps and tail flicks we were rewarded for our patience when an inquisitive calf the size of a family car and its gigantic mother swam right alongside the boat. I could just about have touched them, if I was willing to fall in the ocean. I think I would have been.

Later we walked along the coast path to a look out point where you can see over the entire bay. From here you can watch distant waterspouts of twenty or thirty different whales and watching them rolling over in the sun and waving their fins in a slow salute. Argentina has declared the whales a natural wonderand part of the patrimony of humanity. Quite right too, and it quite made up for the tearooms.

Land of Fire and Ice

I was a bit angry at the end of my last post. I’ve calmed down now. Having left the monstrous carbuncle behind and passed a not-altogether uncomfortable night on the bus station floor, we finally arrived at El Calafate and let out a huge collective sigh of relief. We were back in Patagonia again. There were the lakes and mountains . There was the melting snow and the cheerful streets. There were the souvenir spoons. And best of all, there at the bus station was a backpacker type with a flyer offering us a cosy logfire in a cabin for a reasonable price. We were back on track.

El Calafate is a smallish town perched on the shoreline of Lago Argentino and within striking distance of Los Glaciares national park. It positively screams for you to spend the days doing wholesome rosy-cheeked outdoor activities before settling in with a good book in front of a fire. We took some bicycles and cycled for miles round the lake on one of those afternoons where the sun dances on the water and makes your heart sing. Later we ate a barbecue. As previously noted south Americans do this quite differently. On the menu for this one, marinated beef intestines (“it’s alright! they clean all the shit out of them!”) and kidneys (bleurgh). The more conventional meat was very tasty although it transpires there is an awful lot of meat on a cow and it is really best not to try to eat it all in one go.

The real reason to come to El Calafate is of course to visit the glaciars. On the way we pooled our combined knowledge: to wit, glaciers (not sure whether you pronounce with long ‘a’ or not) make U-shaped valleys. And are cold. And quite powerful. Erm… that’s it. We had decided against a guided tour which would have answered these questions, on grounds of cost. Fortunately it doesn’t matter whether you know how the things are made or why or what they do because the Perito Moreno glaciar is just awesome. We had been given varying reviews ranging from ‘the best thing ever’ to ‘it’s just a big block of ice’. It IS a big block of ice- bigger than the city of Buenos Aires. It does some wicked shades of blue. And it makes the most incredible noises because it is still advancing and bits crack off it with a gunshot noise). It is enormous and immense and you can stare at it for hours. Then you can look it up on Wikipedia if you wish to become enlightened. If you are not a big girly weed frightened of falling into a crevasse and having to gnaw off your arm you can walk on the thing, and drink it (they mix it with whisky. Fortunately that's about the one drink I won't walk on ice for). Or you can wander around its perimeter on ten kilometers of metal walkway constructed for the purpose examining it from different angles and in different lights and listening to it creak and groan. There is even a bit shaped like a dragon’s face on one side. Cracking day out.

There was nothing left now except to start the long, long run into Tierra del Fuego. Feeling like we had earned another break from gorgeous scenery and reasonable prices we broke the thrity hour journey in an irritatingly expensive hotel in Rio Gallegos, mainly because the other choices were a bit too reminiscent of Chernobyl. The next part of the bus journey- they don't seem to mention this in the guidebooks- involves crossing into Chile and back out again. This means four tiresome bag checks searching for apples and/or kidnapped children. Fortunately the second fifteen hours of journey through Tierra del Fuego itself involves some of the flattest, most non-descript scenery on the continent, enlivened by one miserable ham and cheese sandwich with the crusts cut off and an endless loop of Vin Diesel films. Against the odds, we made it to Ushuaia. We looked and smelt like corpses, but we had finally reached the southernmost city in the world.

We made a lot of friends in Ushuaia, although I tried my best to ruin their goodwill by spending half the week in advanced states of obnoxious drunkenness. Five of us hired a car and got up very early on a tip-off that if we got to the national park before the park rangers, we could avoid paying the park entrance fee. of course this is morally reprehensible and very bad indeed because everyone should pay park fees but we reasoned that the Argentine government had had enough of our money by this point. The cunning plan worked beautifully and we had the place to ourselves for hours until the fee-paying daytrippers turned up and we smugly left them to it. We then spent all our savings for the day on beer and sweets and I learned to make sushi and craft wasabi leaves from an Argentine chef in the hostel while also preparing the ingredients for a Top Five hangover the next morning. Bleurgh.

There's another glaciar in the mountains that overlook Ushuaia and over the course of the next few days we visited it a couple of times, trying to decide whether the weather was good enough to pay the 55 peso fee to go on the flying chairs up into the mountain. Eventually, it was, so we did. Fourteen minutes of rather scary chairlift later Chris and I were standing on the top of the world at the end of the world in the most amazing snowscape I have ever seen, looking down at the Beagle Channel miles below. The silence was incredible. If you listened hard enough you could hear the snow melting and trickling away.

Of course, what we had really come all this way to do was to slide down the glaciar sitting on plastic bags. I believe I may have actual approached the landspeed record on my first go, shredding the plastic bag and most of my arse before wiping out and fetching up in a heap a mere foot from a patch of exposed rock. Figuring that this was about the funnest way to die I had another go and it was even more brilliant. We ran out of plastic bags long before we ran out of enthusiasm. If I lived here, I would do it three times every day before breakfast. Reluctantly we set off back down to civilisation through the forest with the icicles glinting in the sun. It was like Narnia up there, I tell you.

So, unforeseen trips to Antarctic research stations notwithstanding, we will never be more south than here. We're officially on the return leg of the trip. Cry me an icicle.