RESTFUL AND JOYFUL

zapato amarillo

PUERTO OCTAY: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18

I am eating proper family breakfast: a family of mother, father and two children. These are the owners and builders of Zapato Amarillo. I have slept in a comfortable bed under a goose-down duvet beside an immaculate bathroom. Everything functions, everything fits, everything is very Swiss. So it should be. It has been designed and built by a Swiss trained as a mechanical engineer. These must be the only doors in Hispanic America which shut with a slight wush of expelled air. Breakfast is enormous: fresh baked bread, butter, homemade jams, eggs from free-range hens, fruit salad, coffee or tea. I am immensely happy. Dominik, eleven, is an artist. His sister, four, is a minx.

GOLDEN BOOT

lake view

PUERTO OCTAY:
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17
At over half a million acres, Lago Llanquihue is Chile's second largest lake. I am heading for a small town at the head of the lake, Puerto Octay. The next bus leaves at 11 a.m.The road passes through rolling country reminiscent of my own Herefordshire, a country of small paddocks and woodland, of dairy cattle, sheep, fruit trees. Mimosa and daffodils glow in the Spring sun. Orchards are beginning to flower. Roses and camellias are in bud while early magnolias are already fading. Werner of Casa Cecilia in Puerto Natales has made a reservation for me at Hostal Zapato Amarillo. The owner, another Swiss German, waits my arrival at Puerto Octay's bus station.

PUERTO MONTT

SUNDAY MIDNIGHT: SEPTEMBER 16
The weather has been exceptional. We dock in Puerto Montt twelve hours ahead of schedule. Disembarkation is after breakfast on Monday morning. We say our good byes. The Frenchman is cool. The British students are immensely polite. The two students from the US mooch in their private huddle of near despair. I catch a cab to the bus station.

ANGLO FRENCH WAR

FERRY: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16
Our last dinner on board: sadly, we have entered a war zone. Music is the fuse. The Frenchman is incensed by the non-Japanese Brit student's opinion of the Blues. The Frenchman is totally ignorant of the student's opinion. The student is a typical Brit; ten years of school French and he remains monosyllabic. The Frenchman is typical in loathing the supremacy of the English language. He wishes me to translate his contempt for the Brit student's musical taste and knowledge. I have been translating for three days. The student of Japanese parentage and I are enjoying our own conversation. The Frenchman departs for bed in a huff. Too bad. He is a nice man, intelligent - though somewhat dogmatic. His wife left him a few years back. Not for another man. Perhaps his retirement drove her out. No longer a few evenings and weekends. The full Monte. Imagine, three hundred and sixty five days a year. Bernadette would show me the door...

I AM NOT A POLAR BEAR

cambridge students


CHILOE: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16
Cloud finally closes in and as we sail up the east coast of Chiloe island. We view the coast through a thin drizzle. We have no complaints; Chiloe suffers or enjoys an average of three hundred days of rain each year. The Belgian woman and Cambridge student of Japanese parents are determined seekers of marine mamals. The student reads the temperature from a large thermometre screwed to the bridge bulkhead: three degrees centigrade above freezing. Good. I thought that I might be sickening for something. Reluctant to desert, I crunch myself into a corner out of the breeze.

NO WHALES, ONLY A LONE SPHYNX

lone sphynx

FERRY PUERTO EDEN:
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16
A third morning of brilliant sunshine. I share the bridge deck with two Cambridge University students and a charming Belgian woman. The Belgian scans the sea through binoculars. Both she and one of the students are indefatigable in their search for whales. The student´s parents are immigrants from Japan. They own a Japanese restaurant off Piccadilly on Half Moon Street. I have walked past the restaurant, glanced with longing through the window, accepted the financial realities that forbid my entrance.
The second student studies physics. He wants to study music.
Later I talk with a young couple from the US. The young man is a math student at Cambridge. He has a grant to study at Cal Tech over the summer. Math and physics have always fascinated me: that a mathematician or physicist can have an original thought, think where no one has ever thought before.
The math student should be writing a commentary on an equation. He doesn't understand the equation and doubts that he has the mind for original thought.
His girlfriend studies chemistry at Cal Tech. She has left behind important notes for her summer project. Both are deeply depressed. They cling to their open lap-tops as wrecked sailors cling to a life raft.

HGH SEAS AND SEASICKNESS PILLS

HIGH SEAS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15
The French scientist reports that a friend voyaged on the Puerto Eden last year. Rain fell continually. The coast was barely visible. Our second day on board, not a cloud and a mere breath of breeze. The coast glows in sunlight, snow peaks glitter.
Midday and we face a notoriously stormy sea passage. Twelve hours before we regain shelter. The ferry carries a male medical assistant. He issues pills to combat seasickness. Our guide advises us to stay on deck in the open air; should we suffer badly, take to our cabins and lie in the foetal position.
A dozen heifers moo occasionally in an open truck on the upper vehicle deck. Their ancestors came from Herefordshire - as do I. I wonder how they will fare. Were they fed seasickness pills?
The ferry edges out from behind the islands. We meet a gentle swell.
The swell remains gentle.
This is the calmest passage the crew can recall.
We watch for seals and dolphins and wales.

MONUMENT TO CUPIDITY

FJORDS AND CHANNELS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15
A statue of the Virgin guards sailors navigating the narrows of English Channel. Currents swirl in from the open sea. A wrecked Greek sugar ship from the 1920s perches on a reef mid channel. The wreck is a monument to cupidity.
The Greek captain reported that the sugar melted into the sea.
Insurers asked whether the non-existent sacks had melted.
The captain had sold his cargo in Uruguay.

VALIANT WOMEN

FJORDS AND CHANNELS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15
4 a.m. and the ferry lies off the one village in 1000 kilometres, the village after which the ferry is named: Puerto Eden. Fishing for King crab sustains a community of some one hundred people. Some are mestizo descendants of the original inhabitants. Those "Indians" also lived from the sea. Men built canoes and fished. Women dived naked for mollusks in water a few degrees above freezing. So physically tough and resilient, they died of despair and alcohol.
I wipe the condensation from my window and try to imagine the lives of these modern residents. Twenty or so street light are the only sign of habitation. Sailing north and south, the ferry passes twice a week.

BOOK NOW

FJORDS AND CANALS: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14
Book a passage with Navimag now. Out of season would be best for the mature traveller, or the traveller with a distaste for crowds. I have travelled much of my life. The beauty of these fjords is staggering. As always in Patagonia, the clarity of light is extraordinary. Not a house nor single sign of man besmirches the forested shore. Snow caps tower above the forest. The sky is cloudless blue. The barest breeze faintly marks the sea. I look and look and look.
And talk during meals with a retired French scientist who has adopted me as his companion for the voyage.
He is insistent on the superiority of French culture and language (he speaks no other), yet carries four music DVDs of US jazz, Blues and the Doors which he has the Purser play over the DVU.

PRIVATE YACHT

FERRY PUERTO EDEN:

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14
I am cruising the fjords and chanels of southern Chile on a private yacht. So it seems. We are twelve passengers on a ferry with accommodation and crew for 200. Vast meals of adequate quality are served at a cafeteria in the lounge/dinning room: breakfast at 8 a.m., lunch at 1.30 p.m., supper at 7.30 p.m. Cabins vary in price from economy-dormitory to upper-deck swank. Top berths run at US$690 in a two berth cabin. US$300 buys a dormitory berth. Meals are included. Oldies earn a 20% discount. A guide offers a commentary on geography, fauna and flora in Spanish and English. The ferry sales Friday morning. Arrival in Puerto Montt depends on weather, but sometime between midnight, Sunday, and noon on Monday.

ECSTATIC

NAVIMAG FERRY:

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14
We sailed at 4 a.m. Dawn and we creep between islets, the channel a bare eighty metres wide. Each island is a Japanese garden of rock tufted with bonsai. The shore is as perfect in proportion and differs only in scale. Above tower the mountains. Rock and snow and ice glow in the early sun. The sea is silk smooth. Duck and moorhens momentarily crease perfect reflections.

FORTUNATE IN CHILE

cute tin cottage


PUERTO NATALES:
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13
Puerto Natales exists for tourism and the ferry. Foreigners and outsiders own most of the businesses. Why? Because few locals have capital and banks charge 20% on a business loan or mortgage - extortinate in a stable economy with low inflation.
Casa Cecilia is a way station on the tourist route. The owners (Werner is Swiss, Cecilia Chilean) are helpful beyond the call of duty. Mattresses are plump, water is hot and Werner´s bread baked for breakfast is delicious. How much? US$20 for a single. Two bathrooms are a hop away. Last night I ate good fillet of fish a block off the main square at Esperanza. Add a half bottle of good red: US$$10.
Passengers board the ferry this evening at 8 p.m. A tourist with two good legs would spend the day touring the national park, gazing at volcanoes, frozen lakes, waterfalls. Unfortunately all the highlights are a good walk from the track.
I explore the town on crutches, photograph a couple of cute tin cottages and the church. I walk too far, eat a mediocre lunch in a restaurant packed with locals. Better is a sybaritic chocolate shop/cafe a block back from the waterfront: chocolate brownie served with alcoholic cream and excellent coffee. Better still is the welcome on board the ferry. Our guide for the voyage is a young woman. She shoulders my pack and leads me to a cabin with private bath opposite the lounge restaurant. The cabin is two grades up from that for which I paid! I have four births to myself and a large window. Water is piping hot in the shower. The lavatory flushes.
We sail at dawn.
Time for early bed.

EXHAUSTED TOAD

PUERTO NATALES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13
My apologies, readers. I have over walked and am on my last leg. I will BLOG properly from Puerto Octay. Where? At the head of a vast lake north of Puerto Montt.
I board the ferry tonight here in Puerto Natales and disembark at Puerto Montt on Monday morning. A bus takes me to Puerto Octay where I will rest out in the country for a couple of days and gaze at snow-capped volcanoes.
And, yes, I will bring this BLOG up to date with tales of fjords and ice caps, delicious fish, good wine and chocolate brownies doused in brandy cream. And I will post photographs, including one of my naked ankle which right now is as fat as an old elephant´s trunk. Yuk!
I would be in a worse state but for an excellent mattress at Hostal Casa Cecilia.

PUNTA ARENAS: CITY OF HOPE

PUNTA ARENAS:

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

I am arrogant and impertinent in judging a town on the evidence of a single day. I have hobbled a few blocks, bought tickets for bus and ferry, found a bank that accepts my VISA card (Banco Santander).
EL Chocolate is a chocolatierre a block from the main square at Bories 852. I sit at a table in the window, sip hot chocolate, people watch and read the newspaper. The hot chocolate is orgasmic. I ask a cab driver where he would eat fish the day before pay day. He drives me to the waterfront. Up three steps into a four-table workman's cafe: shellfish stew sets me back $3 and is delicious.
And evidence of optimism?
Trees newly planted in gardens and in the sidewalk. People plant trees because they believe in a future.
Freshly dug flower beds are a further sign.
Builders at work embellishing homes.
Parks free of rubbish.
People want to be here. 90% of people in Rio Grande want to be somewhere else.
No building in Rio Grande is worthy of a second look. No one cares.
People are proud of Punta Arenas, proud of the architecture - as they should be. Those first estancia owners in the 19th century built splendid mansions on the back of a boom in wool. The cathedral is charming. Modern domestic architecture is simple and in keeping with the past: clapboard or corrugated, sloping roofs, dormer windows, fresh paint. And trees: avenues of trees, squares shaded by trees, gardens with trees. On this Spring day the sea sparkles blue at the south end of every street, the first emerald shoots glow on garden shrubs, roses are in bud. I am joyfully free as I hobble on my crutches. Drivers stop at every intersection and wave me across. Such acts of courtesy are jewels in an old man's journey. Thank you, people of Punta Arenas, thank you for a great day..

TATY´S HOUSE

plaza and cathedral

PUNTA ARENAS: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Of all my travels last year and this, TATY'S HOUSE offers the greatest home comforts. Pay attention anyone travelling to Punta Arenas. Claudia has only five rooms. Call or email well ahead for a reservation.
TEL: (61) 241525
MAIL: reservas@hostaltatyshouse.cl
Check out the web site at www.hostaltatyshouse.cl

I soaked in a hot bath this morning. The ankle is back to normal, back of the calf a little stiff. Breakfast waited me in the kitchen. Claudia found me at the computer in the sitting room.
"You're up early."
"Quarter past nine?"
"Quarter past eight," Claudia corrects.
Time in Chile is an hour behind Argentina. No wonder I found restaurants closed last night.

PUNTA ARENAS

wool boom mansion



PUNTA ARENAS: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10


The bus stops on the same block as the Tourist Bureau. A change bureau operates on the corner. The young lady at the tourist bureau calls hostals. Hostal Taty's House is a block down and four blocks east on O'Higgins, then a block south at Maipu 1070. US$20 is more than I would normally pay. US$20 is cheap for Paradise. The room is big, the bathroom is vast, the mattresses are perfection (trust in the opinion of one who suffers from a bad back).
Hostal owners come in three categories. Those who offer the minimum that they can get away with. Those who calculate a reasonable norm. The very few who truly care for their guests and add those small touches that make the guest feel at home.
Claudia is the best of the third category.
Vases of dried spring flowers in bedroom and bathroom, scented candles, thick towels...I could go on and on.
Walking from the Tourist Bureau, I begin to tire on the last block - pain in the outside of the ankle and back of the calf. Claudia tells me that restaurants open at 8 p.m. I walk up O'Higgins. Everything is closed. I walk on and on. The pain increases. I realise that I am following the same pattern that lead to my downfall when riding on ice. I turn back to the hostal, take off my sock and elastic bandage. The ankle is red and swollen. Dumb...
Forget dinner.
I lie in the glory of a warm bed and watch cable TV.

GREYS OF GLORY

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
This is my goodbye to Tierra del Fuego. I will remember clarity of light, immense distances. Today the sky is every shade of grey from charcoal to near white. Rain softens the greens and greys of the moors. Hills on the eastern horizon glow topaz blue. The dirt road follows a valley through hills reminiscent of the Scottish borders. Wind and weather has rounded every crest. Burns overflow their banks. The lee side of a hill has broken away under the weight of rain; a curved pink cliff rises above the fallen waves of grassed earth. Fifteen guanecos stand on a ridge by the road side. Wild geese face west into the wind. Hereford cattle face east towards our homeland. Spring approaches. Geese pair. Freshly sheared sheep cringe beneath low scrub. Horseman are blue balloons in rain suits worn over puffa jackets and pants. A small drive-on ferry crosses the Straits of Magellan. Sun sneaks between the clouds and transforms the sea into a shimmering sheet of aluminum foil, pale side up.

OFF

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10
Tecni Austral runs a bus service to Punta Arenas from Rio Grande six days a week. The bus leaves at 9 a.m. and arrives at 5 p.m. The fare is US$25.
The bus is half empty. A double seat to the rear enables me to prop my feet up on the arm rest. Meeting a truck, the driver slows. Not so the truck driver - not so any of the truck drivers.
We climb the last hill before the Chilean border, the hill where the truck ran me down.
I am an old familiar to immigration and customs at both Argentine and Chilean frontiers - no queues for Grandfather Hoppity-hop, merely congratulations at being mobile.

LOST WEEKEND

mobile phone marginales

and my new hat

RIO GRANDE: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
I have been going stir crazy. I need to be out of here. Each new act of kindness adds to the pain of separation from new friends soon to be my past and adds to the guilt of wishing to be gone. My Friday barbecue was saddened by the ex-future's absence. Saturday Carlos from the Petroleum school drives me to his novia´s home for beer, tapas and conversation. Graciela cooks a delicious stew of squid and shrimp. The ex-future, Graciela, Pedro of the viviendas and I eat at the kitchen table. Sunday I join in devouring a final meat mountain with the Sunday gang at the ex-future's car port. The doctor´s novio has copied the files from my laptop to CDs. The mobile-phone marginales present me with freshly crocheted black woolly hat. I will be gone in the morning. How will I cope?