NEGUEN: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
I have a three hour wait at the bus terminal for the AndesMar connection to Buenos Aires. I discover that the AndesMar bus takes an indirect route. The direct route taken by other companies is six hours shorter. Damn! However I will see more of the country and I can't change my ticket. The connection is down at the bus terminal's smart Internet cafe. I eat ravioli in the slow-service fast-food restaurant. Service is slow because the male staff are watching football on TV. I chatted with a young Chilean woman on the bus. She is studying Tourism and Hotel management in Buenos Aires. She was home for Chile's national holiday. Her mum gave her a new laptop. Argentine Customs wouldn't let her through without a certificate from Chilean Customs. She was in tears when the bus pulled out. Now I see her pushing a luggage trolley. She spots me and we hug. She tells me she hitched lifts on a couple of trucks and a car - more evidence of the indefatigability of the indigenous Mapuche. The Inca failed to conquer them. The Spaniards failed. Now the Argentine Customs have failed. We sit together. She tells me to prop my foot up on her luggage. The swelling ebbs from the ankle.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
A DESERT IS A DESERT IS A DESERT
BUS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
We have left the mountains behind. The land slopes towards the vast coastal plane. Soil is ochre and brittle. Scrub is dry and brittle. Sparse grass grows in coarse tufts. We pass a Hereford steer. Five minutes later we pass a second. Two horses scavenge for fodder. A few sheep pretend that they don't know each other. So this is a ranch...for a Texan. An Argentine landowner would refer to his estancia. Two steers eight sheep and a couple of horses in ten miles? I'll stick with desert.
We have left the mountains behind. The land slopes towards the vast coastal plane. Soil is ochre and brittle. Scrub is dry and brittle. Sparse grass grows in coarse tufts. We pass a Hereford steer. Five minutes later we pass a second. Two horses scavenge for fodder. A few sheep pretend that they don't know each other. So this is a ranch...for a Texan. An Argentine landowner would refer to his estancia. Two steers eight sheep and a couple of horses in ten miles? I'll stick with desert.
PLEASE KILL MY KID
BUS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
I reach Buenos Aires tomorrow evening, a long bus journey, time to muse. We pass a pickup. A small boy - at most five years old - kneels on the front seat and smiles. This is a mountain road with potholes and patches of wet snow. The city is as bad. Are Moms and Dads ignorant or stupid? Not the type of question that a tourist can ask...
I reach Buenos Aires tomorrow evening, a long bus journey, time to muse. We pass a pickup. A small boy - at most five years old - kneels on the front seat and smiles. This is a mountain road with potholes and patches of wet snow. The city is as bad. Are Moms and Dads ignorant or stupid? Not the type of question that a tourist can ask...
Monday, September 24, 2007
SATIATED DESIRE
ON A BUS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
I am crossing South America with AnderMar - US$80 from Temuco to Buenos Aires via Neguyen for a fully reclining seat in First class. Mile upon mile of eucalyptus bring me close to tears. Trees are planted in what were rich pasture land and on hillsides already scarred by soil erosion. We climb into the Andes and finally escape the rain. Eucalyptus gives way to plantations of spruce, more food for paper mills. We travel through a long tunnel and emerge on the fringe of the snow line. The bus stops briefly at a charming mountain village, Lonquiney. This is tourism country, horses in paddocks. I spot black face sheep. Snowploughs have left piles of snow along the road edge. The bus slushes through fresh snow. We cross a plain below mountain peaks. A thin scattering of monkey puzzles trees stand in the snow. Ahead lies the Chilean border post. My crutches earn me sympathy and a place at the head of the queue. I chat with a young Chilean woman studying Hotel Management and Tourism at a college in Buenos Aires. Back in the bus and we drive through a sparse forest...A forest of monkey puzzle trees!
We reach the Argentine frontier. I am joined by an Argentine Customs officer as I photograph trees. We laugh together as I relate my disappointed search for the ancient Araucaria in its natural habitat only to find it here travelling by mainline bus. Such is travel, full of surprises...
I am crossing South America with AnderMar - US$80 from Temuco to Buenos Aires via Neguyen for a fully reclining seat in First class. Mile upon mile of eucalyptus bring me close to tears. Trees are planted in what were rich pasture land and on hillsides already scarred by soil erosion. We climb into the Andes and finally escape the rain. Eucalyptus gives way to plantations of spruce, more food for paper mills. We travel through a long tunnel and emerge on the fringe of the snow line. The bus stops briefly at a charming mountain village, Lonquiney. This is tourism country, horses in paddocks. I spot black face sheep. Snowploughs have left piles of snow along the road edge. The bus slushes through fresh snow. We cross a plain below mountain peaks. A thin scattering of monkey puzzles trees stand in the snow. Ahead lies the Chilean border post. My crutches earn me sympathy and a place at the head of the queue. I chat with a young Chilean woman studying Hotel Management and Tourism at a college in Buenos Aires. Back in the bus and we drive through a sparse forest...A forest of monkey puzzle trees!
We reach the Argentine frontier. I am joined by an Argentine Customs officer as I photograph trees. We laugh together as I relate my disappointed search for the ancient Araucaria in its natural habitat only to find it here travelling by mainline bus. Such is travel, full of surprises...
MONKEY PUZZLE TREES
TEMUCO: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Temuco is a big industrial city. It is magnificently ugly. It could win prizes for ugliness. Even the central square is ugly. I have consulted two guidebooks. Both recommend that travellers don't stop. I am here to stay a night in Chile's oldest hotel, the Continental. Established in 1888, my guidebooks report that nothing has changed. I telephoned yesterday for a reservation. No one answered. I sent a fax. I give my destination to the cab driver at the bus terminal. The cab driver is nonplussed. He radios base. The Continental has been closed for a year. The driver takes me a modern hotel in the city centre with a US$30 room rate. An elderly woman with a kind face runs reception. I suggest a pensioner's discount and she drops the price to US$12. Next stop, the Tourist Bureau. I want to see 1000 year-old monkey puzzle trees (Araucaria) in their natural habitat. The National Parks are unsuitable for an hoppity old man on crutches. Defeated, I book myself a seat on the morning bus for Buenos Aires.
One bright jewel in a rainy day: a charming bandstand.
The best I can do for dinner is vacuna soup.
Temuco is a big industrial city. It is magnificently ugly. It could win prizes for ugliness. Even the central square is ugly. I have consulted two guidebooks. Both recommend that travellers don't stop. I am here to stay a night in Chile's oldest hotel, the Continental. Established in 1888, my guidebooks report that nothing has changed. I telephoned yesterday for a reservation. No one answered. I sent a fax. I give my destination to the cab driver at the bus terminal. The cab driver is nonplussed. He radios base. The Continental has been closed for a year. The driver takes me a modern hotel in the city centre with a US$30 room rate. An elderly woman with a kind face runs reception. I suggest a pensioner's discount and she drops the price to US$12. Next stop, the Tourist Bureau. I want to see 1000 year-old monkey puzzle trees (Araucaria) in their natural habitat. The National Parks are unsuitable for an hoppity old man on crutches. Defeated, I book myself a seat on the morning bus for Buenos Aires.
One bright jewel in a rainy day: a charming bandstand.
The best I can do for dinner is vacuna soup.
CRIMINAL EUCALYPTUS
ON A BUS: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Today I travel by big bus to Tembuco. We ride through mile after mile of eucalyptus plantation, food for paper mills that pollute the rivers. Has no one warned landowners or Chile's Ministry of Agriculture that eucalyptus sucks all the goodness out of the earth and transforms rich land into an infertile desert?
Today I travel by big bus to Tembuco. We ride through mile after mile of eucalyptus plantation, food for paper mills that pollute the rivers. Has no one warned landowners or Chile's Ministry of Agriculture that eucalyptus sucks all the goodness out of the earth and transforms rich land into an infertile desert?
CHILEAN BREAD
VALDIVIA: THURSDAY: SEPTEMBER 20
Rain drizzles from a grey sky. I walk (hop) along the waterfront to the fish market. Heaps of monster clams and mussels cover concrete slabs. Cormorants and gulls hop on the parapet and lunge the instant a stall holder is distracted. Yesterday I travelled though mile after mile of eucalyptus plantations. Boatmen tell me that the rivers are polluted by pulp factories.
Two oarsmen skull by in racing shells.
Drizzle turns to rain.
I am cold. My ankle aches. Valdivia is depressing. Or I am depressed by Valdivia.
I might cheer up were the sun out and joyful, optimistic students milling in the streets and crowding cafes. I eat grilled fish for supper and drink an excellent local beer blessed with the Real Ale insignia. Back at the hostel I chat with a bright and funny young American woman from San Francisco teaching English at a Chilean school. Her mother is Mexican. She is familiar with Mexico and Central America. Chile depresses her. The food depresses her. Particularly the bread. Her companion is Chinese teaching Chinese at the same school. The Chinese loathes Chilean food, especially the bread. She complains that bread isn't part of her home diet, yet Chinese bread is infinitely preferable to Chile's variety.
I am travelling onward in the morning.
Rain drizzles from a grey sky. I walk (hop) along the waterfront to the fish market. Heaps of monster clams and mussels cover concrete slabs. Cormorants and gulls hop on the parapet and lunge the instant a stall holder is distracted. Yesterday I travelled though mile after mile of eucalyptus plantations. Boatmen tell me that the rivers are polluted by pulp factories.
Two oarsmen skull by in racing shells.
Drizzle turns to rain.
I am cold. My ankle aches. Valdivia is depressing. Or I am depressed by Valdivia.
I might cheer up were the sun out and joyful, optimistic students milling in the streets and crowding cafes. I eat grilled fish for supper and drink an excellent local beer blessed with the Real Ale insignia. Back at the hostel I chat with a bright and funny young American woman from San Francisco teaching English at a Chilean school. Her mother is Mexican. She is familiar with Mexico and Central America. Chile depresses her. The food depresses her. Particularly the bread. Her companion is Chinese teaching Chinese at the same school. The Chinese loathes Chilean food, especially the bread. She complains that bread isn't part of her home diet, yet Chinese bread is infinitely preferable to Chile's variety.
I am travelling onward in the morning.
PINOCHET: A GOOD CHAP
VALDIVIA: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Valdivia is an ugly city in a beautiful location on the delta of two rivers. The orginal city was flattened in 1960 by the stronget earthquake ever recorded. What remains of the old is a fine University and a reputation for sea food. I am here for the food. I arrived yesterday on Chile's national day. All restaurants were closed. However there is a fake Chinese at the city centre shopping mall. I ate shrimp with bean sprouts and rice. Edible. Today I lunch beside the fishmarket at La Perla del Sur. Paila de Marisco is Chile's national dish, shellfish stew: king crab claw, massive mussles, two type of clams, a big limpet, abalone, conga eel, squid.
Good? Yes.
Great? No.
I discuss the deceased General Pinochet with a pleasant woman. She tells me that foreigners don't understand: Pinochet saved Chile from a Communist Dictatorship. Allende surrounded himself with foreigners, Russians, Cubans, East Germans, even Communists from Europe.
I discuss General Pinochet with a young man. I wonder that people's opinions of the good General weren't changed at discovering that he had robbed the country and salted away millions of dollars in foreign banks.
I am told that some have changed their opinions. His true suporters either ignore the evidence or believe the evidence is fraudulent.
Chucking your tortured victims from helicopters into the sea doesn't leave much evidence.
I am shamed that Pinochet remains a Good Chap for some of my fellow Brits, ...
Valdivia is an ugly city in a beautiful location on the delta of two rivers. The orginal city was flattened in 1960 by the stronget earthquake ever recorded. What remains of the old is a fine University and a reputation for sea food. I am here for the food. I arrived yesterday on Chile's national day. All restaurants were closed. However there is a fake Chinese at the city centre shopping mall. I ate shrimp with bean sprouts and rice. Edible. Today I lunch beside the fishmarket at La Perla del Sur. Paila de Marisco is Chile's national dish, shellfish stew: king crab claw, massive mussles, two type of clams, a big limpet, abalone, conga eel, squid.
Good? Yes.
Great? No.
I discuss the deceased General Pinochet with a pleasant woman. She tells me that foreigners don't understand: Pinochet saved Chile from a Communist Dictatorship. Allende surrounded himself with foreigners, Russians, Cubans, East Germans, even Communists from Europe.
I discuss General Pinochet with a young man. I wonder that people's opinions of the good General weren't changed at discovering that he had robbed the country and salted away millions of dollars in foreign banks.
I am told that some have changed their opinions. His true suporters either ignore the evidence or believe the evidence is fraudulent.
Chucking your tortured victims from helicopters into the sea doesn't leave much evidence.
I am shamed that Pinochet remains a Good Chap for some of my fellow Brits, ...
YOUTH HOSTELS
VALDIVIA: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Riding a bike, I have the freedom to circle the centre for a hotel. On crutches I consulted guidebooks. Airesbuenos International Hostel is recommended. I telephone for a reservation. My room is on the ground floor. US$30 is the most costly of my nights in Chile. No bedside lamp, the only light comes from an overhead energy-saving bulb draped in one of those round Japanese paper shades made in China. The light is too dim for reading anything other than big print. I have to get out of bed to turn the light on or off. The lounge area is a training ground for expeditions to the Antarctic. Breakfast is powdered coffee, no milk, and that factory-made sliced white bread that remains soggy even when toasted. YUK! My fault. Hostels are invariably a ripoff for anything other than a dorm bed. And all the guests are foreigners. Why travel...?
Riding a bike, I have the freedom to circle the centre for a hotel. On crutches I consulted guidebooks. Airesbuenos International Hostel is recommended. I telephone for a reservation. My room is on the ground floor. US$30 is the most costly of my nights in Chile. No bedside lamp, the only light comes from an overhead energy-saving bulb draped in one of those round Japanese paper shades made in China. The light is too dim for reading anything other than big print. I have to get out of bed to turn the light on or off. The lounge area is a training ground for expeditions to the Antarctic. Breakfast is powdered coffee, no milk, and that factory-made sliced white bread that remains soggy even when toasted. YUK! My fault. Hostels are invariably a ripoff for anything other than a dorm bed. And all the guests are foreigners. Why travel...?
JAILED
ON A BUS: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Travelling by bus is being in jail: you can't get out. I shouldn't complain: the views from the windows change (and I get a pensioner's discount on the fare). I am travelling by small bus that stops on the roadside to drop and collect passengers. Such country buses give an illusion of freedom. I could get off. I don't through my own choice or indolence or nervousness at finding myself abandoned. We travel through a rich dairy country of green paddocks and woodland. Rain falls steadily. A black and white saddleback sow snouts up a patch of mud beside a small wood hovel.
Travelling by bus is being in jail: you can't get out. I shouldn't complain: the views from the windows change (and I get a pensioner's discount on the fare). I am travelling by small bus that stops on the roadside to drop and collect passengers. Such country buses give an illusion of freedom. I could get off. I don't through my own choice or indolence or nervousness at finding myself abandoned. We travel through a rich dairy country of green paddocks and woodland. Rain falls steadily. A black and white saddleback sow snouts up a patch of mud beside a small wood hovel.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
CONVERSOS
farmhouse and lake
LAGO LLANQUIHUE: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
My hosts have arranged for an elderly gentlemen to show me the countryside. He drives an equally elderly eight-seater minibus. We make a fine threesome, creaky but functional. I am in questioning mood. Agricultural land sells for 1,500,000 pesos a hectare - US$3000. Dairy farming is profitable on farms of a hundred hectares or more. US$20,000 builds a good house such as the Golden Boot. The monthly minimum wage is around US$240, a wage on which a Buddhist monk would starve. Chile's Government is Centre Left. Last week two Government Ministers were appointed to the Supreme Court. The Cardinal officiated at a family memorial mass for General Pinochet.
We drive through country that holds continual reminders of northern Europe: rolling hills, green paddocks, trees, dairy cattle, wooden barns and houses.
Spanish Jews who converted to Catholicism in the 16th Century are known to historians as conversos. Lutheran conversos founded a tiny village midway down the lake between Puerto Octay and Frutillar. They built a small church on the landward side of the road. Austrian Catholics arrived some years later and built their church exactly opposite on the lake-side of the road. The churches are built of wood and are indistinguishable. We pass a small hillside cemetery shaded by fine trees. Snowdrops and daffodils have become naturalised and spread between the grave stones.
My family built the first Catholic church in England after the Persecution. The church is in the tiny village of Hanley Swan. Members of the Church of England immediately built a bigger church with a taller steeple. Their church is hideous. Ours is pretty. I shall be buried in the graveyard.
My hosts have arranged for an elderly gentlemen to show me the countryside. He drives an equally elderly eight-seater minibus. We make a fine threesome, creaky but functional. I am in questioning mood. Agricultural land sells for 1,500,000 pesos a hectare - US$3000. Dairy farming is profitable on farms of a hundred hectares or more. US$20,000 builds a good house such as the Golden Boot. The monthly minimum wage is around US$240, a wage on which a Buddhist monk would starve. Chile's Government is Centre Left. Last week two Government Ministers were appointed to the Supreme Court. The Cardinal officiated at a family memorial mass for General Pinochet.
We drive through country that holds continual reminders of northern Europe: rolling hills, green paddocks, trees, dairy cattle, wooden barns and houses.
Spanish Jews who converted to Catholicism in the 16th Century are known to historians as conversos. Lutheran conversos founded a tiny village midway down the lake between Puerto Octay and Frutillar. They built a small church on the landward side of the road. Austrian Catholics arrived some years later and built their church exactly opposite on the lake-side of the road. The churches are built of wood and are indistinguishable. We pass a small hillside cemetery shaded by fine trees. Snowdrops and daffodils have become naturalised and spread between the grave stones.
My family built the first Catholic church in England after the Persecution. The church is in the tiny village of Hanley Swan. Members of the Church of England immediately built a bigger church with a taller steeple. Their church is hideous. Ours is pretty. I shall be buried in the graveyard.
UP-MARKET BROTHEL
view from hotel centinelaPUERTO OCTAY:
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
German settlers founded Puerto Octay in 1850 or there abouts. Chile is a Catholic country and the Germans were Catholic - so they claimed and were given land grants.
How long did they pretended to be Catholics and how thorough was their pretence?
Eventually they shed their camouflage and built a Lutheran church. Amusing to discover that the town's one upmarket hotel was built as a brothel. The Hotel Centinela occupies the tip of the peninsular that shelters the town. It has the feel of a turn of the century hunting lodge. Views over the lake are superb. For the better-off, this is the place to stay. I prefer family life at the Yellow Boot.
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.
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...
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 studentsCHILOE: 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.
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.
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.
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