URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
Two busses follow me out of Colonia. Intent on watching them, I nearly cross an intersection with lights at red. A straight road shaded by palm trees runs over gentle hills. Double yellow lines mark the centre of the road. I slow and ease onto the hard shoulder. The busses hang back untill we have crossed the next crest. A driver waves as he slides by. I could learn to love Uruguay.
Friday, October 19, 2007
WHY AM I SO STUPID?
URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
No high-rises in Colonia. The heart is Hispanic Colonial, nothing grand - small houses and cobbled streets. A fast ferry has docked ahead of us. Cars queue in three lines. A Uruguayan Customs officer asks for my Immigration fiche. He tares off the original, hands me the copy and waves me through. I suspect that I should have said, "Wait a minute. Don't I need my passport stamped or register the temporary import of the Honda?"
What will happen when I try to leave Uruguay?
Weren't my difficulties in leaving Argentina sufficient?
No high-rises in Colonia. The heart is Hispanic Colonial, nothing grand - small houses and cobbled streets. A fast ferry has docked ahead of us. Cars queue in three lines. A Uruguayan Customs officer asks for my Immigration fiche. He tares off the original, hands me the copy and waves me through. I suspect that I should have said, "Wait a minute. Don't I need my passport stamped or register the temporary import of the Honda?"
What will happen when I try to leave Uruguay?
Weren't my difficulties in leaving Argentina sufficient?
GEOGRAPHIC CONFUSION AND CRUELTY
URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
The ferry is comfortable. I sit beside a splendid lady in her eighties. She is visiting a friend in Montevideo. The friend is frail and in her early nineties. My companion celebrated a replacement hip last year by touring much of Europe. She was four years old when her father and mother emigrated to Argentina. In her father's youth the family village was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It became Italian after World War 1, Yugoslav after World War 2. Now it is Slovenia and she travels abroad on an EU passport.
The daughter of her eldest son had an emergency operation last week.
My companion telephoned her granddaughter this morning.
Her son answered the telephone.
Her granddaughter was resting.
"I'll wait," she said.
Her son put down the telephone.
He hasn't spoken to his mother in nine years.
She doesn't know why.
There was no fight, no argument. He simply ceased talking to her.
Why are we so cruel?
The ferry is comfortable. I sit beside a splendid lady in her eighties. She is visiting a friend in Montevideo. The friend is frail and in her early nineties. My companion celebrated a replacement hip last year by touring much of Europe. She was four years old when her father and mother emigrated to Argentina. In her father's youth the family village was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It became Italian after World War 1, Yugoslav after World War 2. Now it is Slovenia and she travels abroad on an EU passport.
The daughter of her eldest son had an emergency operation last week.
My companion telephoned her granddaughter this morning.
Her son answered the telephone.
Her granddaughter was resting.
"I'll wait," she said.
Her son put down the telephone.
He hasn't spoken to his mother in nine years.
She doesn't know why.
There was no fight, no argument. He simply ceased talking to her.
Why are we so cruel?
WEEP FOR ME, ARGENTINA
TO URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
The ferry company, Buquebus, runs fast boats and slow boats across the River Plate to Uruguay. I choose the slow boat to Colonia. The fare for myself and the Baby Honda is US$48. The passage takes three hours. The fast boat crosses in an hour and costs twice as much. New and gleaming apartment buildings dominate the Buenos Aires water front. Most developers and apartment owners are foreign. Few Argentines can afford the prices. Of those that can, few would risk their savings within Argentina. Mortgages? In Pesos? Don't be silly. The President has announced a ceiling on bank rates. The ceiling is 10% below the true rate of inflation. Banks aren't lending. Argentines hold their breath and close their ears and close their eyes and wait for the next crash.
Weep for me, Argentina.
I prefer to weep for Argentines.
THE ANGEL MARIA
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16
The section head at the Customs Office is Maria de Angeles. Is it impolite or sexist to remark that she is woman of good looks? Note that I dare not write beautiful. Helpful is permissible as is considerate and sympathetic. She checks my bike papers, searches records for the statement I wrote for the Customs in Rio Grande, places in front of me a dossier that I must sign in three different directions, allows me to kiss her hand (twice) and wishes me well on my travels. I am free to leave Argentina.
The section head at the Customs Office is Maria de Angeles. Is it impolite or sexist to remark that she is woman of good looks? Note that I dare not write beautiful. Helpful is permissible as is considerate and sympathetic. She checks my bike papers, searches records for the statement I wrote for the Customs in Rio Grande, places in front of me a dossier that I must sign in three different directions, allows me to kiss her hand (twice) and wishes me well on my travels. I am free to leave Argentina.
Monday, October 15, 2007
TWO-LEGGED HEREFORDS
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 15
I will be back in England in March. I have a date to talk with the Over 50s Club at the Baptist Church in Hereford. I often boast to Argentines that I live in the Province from which come their cows. I add that our Hereford beef is better than their Hereford beef. And I stop sometimes at the roadside and chat with a young fellow, ask if he knows whether his great great grandfather came from Hereford or Ledbury. The young won't give an old man much time for fear of what their friends will say. However, sometimes I believe that I see a slight grin.
Perhaps some of the Over 50s Club will read this diary and keep me company on my travels. Two-legged Herfords must have more to say than the four-legged variety.
I will be back in England in March. I have a date to talk with the Over 50s Club at the Baptist Church in Hereford. I often boast to Argentines that I live in the Province from which come their cows. I add that our Hereford beef is better than their Hereford beef. And I stop sometimes at the roadside and chat with a young fellow, ask if he knows whether his great great grandfather came from Hereford or Ledbury. The young won't give an old man much time for fear of what their friends will say. However, sometimes I believe that I see a slight grin.
Perhaps some of the Over 50s Club will read this diary and keep me company on my travels. Two-legged Herfords must have more to say than the four-legged variety.
DUMB OLD TOAD
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 15
OK, so I should have looked. I didn't. My entry stamp for Argentina gave me ninety days. I presumed the temporary import permit for the bike would be identical. Not so. Thirty days. I was up at dawn, showered, packed, loaded the bike and said my farewells to the staff at my home from home here in Buenos Aires. the GRAN Hotel Espana. I rode confidently down to the ferry port. I cleared immigration and waited to board the ferry astride my massive steed. A Customs officer inspected my documents and discovered that my bike had overstayed its permitted period by eight days. I ride back to the GRAN Hotel Espana. Drag my gear up into my old room. Call my cousins in Uruguay that I will be a couple of days late for dinner. Today is a national holiday. Tomorrow I apply for the extension. The lady in charge of the Department is Maria de Angeles. Hopefully she will be angelic.
OK, so I should have looked. I didn't. My entry stamp for Argentina gave me ninety days. I presumed the temporary import permit for the bike would be identical. Not so. Thirty days. I was up at dawn, showered, packed, loaded the bike and said my farewells to the staff at my home from home here in Buenos Aires. the GRAN Hotel Espana. I rode confidently down to the ferry port. I cleared immigration and waited to board the ferry astride my massive steed. A Customs officer inspected my documents and discovered that my bike had overstayed its permitted period by eight days. I ride back to the GRAN Hotel Espana. Drag my gear up into my old room. Call my cousins in Uruguay that I will be a couple of days late for dinner. Today is a national holiday. Tomorrow I apply for the extension. The lady in charge of the Department is Maria de Angeles. Hopefully she will be angelic.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
DAKAR MOTO IS A BIKER'S HAVEN
bikers' havenBUENOS AIRES:
I haven't slept too well. Today I must ride the bike back from Dakar Moto to the city centre. The autopista scares me. I can deal with the traffic ahead. I am scared of a truck or a car smashing into my rear. Rain threatens which doesn't help. I imagine slippery road surfaces and being unable to see clearly through fogged spectacles.
I take the metro and suburban train out to Florida. Eight of us eat a great assado in the workshop at Dakar Moto.The meat is cooked by Javier. Preparing the salad is more time consuming - women's work, no applause.
Is that nit picking?
Yes, I know...Get on with the story.
An Argentine rose grower drives us to the pizza parlor to watch the England-France rugby match. The rose grower helps run his family's nursery in Ecuador. He hopes that he remains a biker but carries a thick scent of inevitable marriage, four wheels, four kids, an expanding paunch and executive desk . That's the way it goes and he knows it.
The match is a breath-taker right to the final whistle.
Lots of hugs and I saddle up and head for the city.
The clouds have cleared. I ride in evening sunshine. Drivers on the motorway imagine that they are competing in a Selectric race.
They weave, overtake on the inside, flash lights, not as a warning, but to express ill temper.
I survive.
Little by little, my confidence returns. No implication here that I am comfortable in the saddle, merely nervous rather than scared witless.
The motorway becomes a fourteen lane avenue. The Gran Hotel Espana is one block off to the left. I park on the sidewalk, take the elevator up to my floor, lie on my bed and call Sandra and Javier. They are part of my Pantheon of Argentine saints, Argentinians who came to my aid when I was badly down and helped resurrect both me and the Baby Honda.
I am deeply grateful...Yes, and a little jealous of Sandra's new gleaming-black Honda 250 trail bike.
Though not really.
I am not a true biker.
The Baby Honda does me very well.
Only forty thousand kilometres separates us from our destination.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
SAINT SIMON
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11
I have enjoyed a celebratory lunch of tripe a la Madrilleno and a big glass of excellent red wine (US$3.80). The celebration? I have sorted all the photographs of last year's journey and sent those that are relevant to my publisher. I have completed the final editing on a piece for Elli Cobb at Lonely Planet for an antholgy to be published in August and I have emailed my column to 50 Connect. I expect to see a halo when looking in the mirror. I am sure the halo exists, maybe a little dimmed. Global Warming is a worry to the Creator. He is conserving Power.
I have enjoyed a celebratory lunch of tripe a la Madrilleno and a big glass of excellent red wine (US$3.80). The celebration? I have sorted all the photographs of last year's journey and sent those that are relevant to my publisher. I have completed the final editing on a piece for Elli Cobb at Lonely Planet for an antholgy to be published in August and I have emailed my column to 50 Connect. I expect to see a halo when looking in the mirror. I am sure the halo exists, maybe a little dimmed. Global Warming is a worry to the Creator. He is conserving Power.
DON'T AVOID BAD NEWS
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11
I have been avoiding newspapers. Local politics is too depressing. Had I read the newspapers I would have known that this is a holiday weekend. I dropped by the Bouquebus ticket office yesterday for ferry passage tomorrow to Colonia in Uruguay. Sunday at 10 a.m. is the first available space! Frankly I am glad. I can ride to the City centre from Dakar Moto on Saturday evening: traffic should be minimal. Sunday, truck traffic will be nonexistent. Good! I don't like trucks, particularly the Argentine variety.
I have been avoiding newspapers. Local politics is too depressing. Had I read the newspapers I would have known that this is a holiday weekend. I dropped by the Bouquebus ticket office yesterday for ferry passage tomorrow to Colonia in Uruguay. Sunday at 10 a.m. is the first available space! Frankly I am glad. I can ride to the City centre from Dakar Moto on Saturday evening: traffic should be minimal. Sunday, truck traffic will be nonexistent. Good! I don't like trucks, particularly the Argentine variety.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
TENTATIVE
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 10
Dakar Motos is in the suburbs. Lunch hour in the rain is a good time for my first ride since the smash. I am nervous as I ride the baby Honda slowly down almost deserted suburban streets. I fear being ambushed. The commissioning editor at Lonely Planet emailed me this morning with some minor suggestions to a piece. The editing is a respectable excuse for delaying my departure. And my book publishers want thirty photographs - a further excuse. My cousins suggest that I stop at their estancia in Uruguay. They go for the weekend. The road is paved bar the last ten kilometres and little used. Maybe my confidence will return after a good run.
Dakar Motos is in the suburbs. Lunch hour in the rain is a good time for my first ride since the smash. I am nervous as I ride the baby Honda slowly down almost deserted suburban streets. I fear being ambushed. The commissioning editor at Lonely Planet emailed me this morning with some minor suggestions to a piece. The editing is a respectable excuse for delaying my departure. And my book publishers want thirty photographs - a further excuse. My cousins suggest that I stop at their estancia in Uruguay. They go for the weekend. The road is paved bar the last ten kilometres and little used. Maybe my confidence will return after a good run.
DIVIDED CITY
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 10
Bar a miracle, the present President's wife will be Argentina's next President. A weekend opinion poll reports the two greatest concerns of the voters are economic instability and corruption. The same poll reports that only 2.7% of voters will vote for the President's wife because they believe her to be honest. Meanwhile newspapers report that the equivalent of sixteen-hundred-million US dollars has been spent by the President without Parliamentary permission or oversight. Much of the funds are reputed (by the newspapers) to have been channeled through the Minister closest to the President, a Senor de Vido. I, a foreigner, have no reason to believe the reports are other than scurilous. People make jokes about Un nacion devido. Here are two photographs to accompany the pun.
Bar a miracle, the present President's wife will be Argentina's next President. A weekend opinion poll reports the two greatest concerns of the voters are economic instability and corruption. The same poll reports that only 2.7% of voters will vote for the President's wife because they believe her to be honest. Meanwhile newspapers report that the equivalent of sixteen-hundred-million US dollars has been spent by the President without Parliamentary permission or oversight. Much of the funds are reputed (by the newspapers) to have been channeled through the Minister closest to the President, a Senor de Vido. I, a foreigner, have no reason to believe the reports are other than scurilous. People make jokes about Un nacion devido. Here are two photographs to accompany the pun.
READYING MYSELF FOR DEPARTURE
dinner & Carmensita being considerate of an old man in his cups
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
Javier at Dakar Motos reports that the baby Honda is finally ready. Am I?
My cousins, Carmen and Brian, give a small family dinner for me. I am deeply touched that Tony came. He is not well and the three flights of stairs up to the open-plan living room demanded great determination. My cousins have a young daughter studying film. My youngest son, Jed, studies film. He also speaks Spanish, though of the Cuban variety. I would love for them to meet and keep this sense of family alive for a further generation.
Javier at Dakar Motos reports that the baby Honda is finally ready. Am I?
My cousins, Carmen and Brian, give a small family dinner for me. I am deeply touched that Tony came. He is not well and the three flights of stairs up to the open-plan living room demanded great determination. My cousins have a young daughter studying film. My youngest son, Jed, studies film. He also speaks Spanish, though of the Cuban variety. I would love for them to meet and keep this sense of family alive for a further generation.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
FAMILY
BUENOS AIRES: SEPTEMBER 26 to OCTOBER 7
As a novelist, I hide my beliefs and emotions within an undergrowth of invented detail. My characters suffer. I remain invulnerable. Reporting is more complicated. I have to raise my own head above the parapet. I have been in Buenos Aires a fortnight. I have been occupied mainly with meeting family. Writing of family is both difficult and embarrassing. What do I include? What do I exclude?
Tony Deane was my introduction to these Argentine relatives. I am the younger by a few years (very few).
An outsider might take a quick glance at Tony and recognise a bluff Brit of the old school, rancher, polo player, a Conservative, something of a Blimp.
The same outsider might presume that I, an Old Lefty, must step carefully in Tony's presence.
Ah, well...
On my last visit, Tony gave me a book of naval history, Neslon's Favourite. The book relates the life of the 64 gun Agamemnon and is published by Chatham House in England. Many of the illustrations come from the British Maritime Museum in Greenwich. It is a fascinating and beautifully written account, meticulously researched. The writer shows a remarkable understanding of both officers and sailors. Tony is the author. The book betrays much of who he really is: his openness of mind, his warmth and sincerity, his commitment to his work and his determination and courage in carrying a tough task through to its conclusion.
I suspect that Tony will be embarrassed by this description. It is no more than he deserves. I read his book late into the night and have sent it home for my wife, Bernadette, to enjoy. In my dotage, I will take it down from the shelf and stroke the cover as book lovers do. I will think myself privileged to have known the author. I will think how very fortunate he was to discover a wife in his later years who cares so well and deeply for him.
Enough!
Dangerous stuff, this raising my head above the parapet...
As a novelist, I hide my beliefs and emotions within an undergrowth of invented detail. My characters suffer. I remain invulnerable. Reporting is more complicated. I have to raise my own head above the parapet. I have been in Buenos Aires a fortnight. I have been occupied mainly with meeting family. Writing of family is both difficult and embarrassing. What do I include? What do I exclude?
Tony Deane was my introduction to these Argentine relatives. I am the younger by a few years (very few).
An outsider might take a quick glance at Tony and recognise a bluff Brit of the old school, rancher, polo player, a Conservative, something of a Blimp.
The same outsider might presume that I, an Old Lefty, must step carefully in Tony's presence.
Ah, well...
On my last visit, Tony gave me a book of naval history, Neslon's Favourite. The book relates the life of the 64 gun Agamemnon and is published by Chatham House in England. Many of the illustrations come from the British Maritime Museum in Greenwich. It is a fascinating and beautifully written account, meticulously researched. The writer shows a remarkable understanding of both officers and sailors. Tony is the author. The book betrays much of who he really is: his openness of mind, his warmth and sincerity, his commitment to his work and his determination and courage in carrying a tough task through to its conclusion.
I suspect that Tony will be embarrassed by this description. It is no more than he deserves. I read his book late into the night and have sent it home for my wife, Bernadette, to enjoy. In my dotage, I will take it down from the shelf and stroke the cover as book lovers do. I will think myself privileged to have known the author. I will think how very fortunate he was to discover a wife in his later years who cares so well and deeply for him.
Enough!
Dangerous stuff, this raising my head above the parapet...
FAMILY
BUENOS AIRES: SEPTEMBER 25 to OCTOBER 7
I have written previously that my very distant Argentine cousin, Tony Deane, used to visit England regularly to play polo and buy pedigree Hereford cattle. He sold a polo pony to my elder brother (another Antony) some thirty years ago. Tony's younger brother, Brian and his wife, Carmen, have shown me extraordinary hospitality over the past days here in Buenos Aires. At their home I have met many of the younger generation. They are a very varied bunch in what they do. One is an immensely successful banker. Another is in Government service and entrusted with the integrity of the coming elections.
Why, I ask: Government salaries are small by any standard; he is a highly qualified lawyer?
He replies that his countrymen deserve better. A better future demands that people of integrity serve the country.
Integrity is a dangerous quality.
He is a brave and honourable young man.
He is also very fortunate. He has the support of a charming and intelligent wife.
I have written previously that my very distant Argentine cousin, Tony Deane, used to visit England regularly to play polo and buy pedigree Hereford cattle. He sold a polo pony to my elder brother (another Antony) some thirty years ago. Tony's younger brother, Brian and his wife, Carmen, have shown me extraordinary hospitality over the past days here in Buenos Aires. At their home I have met many of the younger generation. They are a very varied bunch in what they do. One is an immensely successful banker. Another is in Government service and entrusted with the integrity of the coming elections.
Why, I ask: Government salaries are small by any standard; he is a highly qualified lawyer?
He replies that his countrymen deserve better. A better future demands that people of integrity serve the country.
Integrity is a dangerous quality.
He is a brave and honourable young man.
He is also very fortunate. He has the support of a charming and intelligent wife.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
DAKAR MOTOS ASSADO
are they having a relationship?
SATURDAY: SEPTEMBER 30
Javier and Sandra have an assado for bikers on Saturdays. I take the Metro and the train out to Florida. An East German is the only other foreigner. He is a computer engineer (mamoth computers), works as a consultant for a couple of years, then does a runner for a year, wandering Latin America on a big bike. Back home his friends think him crazy: all that money he could be earning and hoarding in the bank. Ming would understand; he is about to do another runner. So would the Polish software expert I met last year in Porto Bello, Panama. The Pole was director of a software company in Boston, Mas. He gave lunch to a client in a restaurant over looking a marina and spotted a FOR SALE sign on a small sailboat. He walked down to the marina after lunch, bought the sailboat and never went back to the office.
What do these men have in common?
High earning capacity and discovery that money isn't a sufficient goal. Nor is it a satisfactory foundation for society. There has to be more. The East German talks of social morality. Why is shooting people a greater crime than being responsibile for people starving?
I listen and nod my agreement, drink red wine and eat meat...
Javier and Sandra have an assado for bikers on Saturdays. I take the Metro and the train out to Florida. An East German is the only other foreigner. He is a computer engineer (mamoth computers), works as a consultant for a couple of years, then does a runner for a year, wandering Latin America on a big bike. Back home his friends think him crazy: all that money he could be earning and hoarding in the bank. Ming would understand; he is about to do another runner. So would the Polish software expert I met last year in Porto Bello, Panama. The Pole was director of a software company in Boston, Mas. He gave lunch to a client in a restaurant over looking a marina and spotted a FOR SALE sign on a small sailboat. He walked down to the marina after lunch, bought the sailboat and never went back to the office.
What do these men have in common?
High earning capacity and discovery that money isn't a sufficient goal. Nor is it a satisfactory foundation for society. There has to be more. The East German talks of social morality. Why is shooting people a greater crime than being responsibile for people starving?
I listen and nod my agreement, drink red wine and eat meat...
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
COUSINS
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
My cousin was a banker. One of his sons is a banker. Thursdays are a family get together at my cousin's home. I am proud of myself. I have climbed two flights of white marble stairs at their town house and a circular staircase to a large open plan living room that opens to a roof garden. Twelve of us sit at a square table, three to a side: my cousin and his wife, their two sons and their wives, their daughter and a blond English girl for whom statuesque or trouble are equally accurate descriptions. Various members of my family back home would never ask me to such a dinner. They think of me as inhabiting the extreme left wing of the left and worry that my politics will give offense. I have never been against people being rich. I am against people being poor.
My cousin was a banker. One of his sons is a banker. Thursdays are a family get together at my cousin's home. I am proud of myself. I have climbed two flights of white marble stairs at their town house and a circular staircase to a large open plan living room that opens to a roof garden. Twelve of us sit at a square table, three to a side: my cousin and his wife, their two sons and their wives, their daughter and a blond English girl for whom statuesque or trouble are equally accurate descriptions. Various members of my family back home would never ask me to such a dinner. They think of me as inhabiting the extreme left wing of the left and worry that my politics will give offense. I have never been against people being rich. I am against people being poor.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
CRASH
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
I was riding on ice on a dead straight gentle climb. Visibility was perfect. A driver coming from behind would have seen me from a mile back. I would have been a dot in the road, then a man on a bike and finally a man on a bike travelling at a few kilometres an hour, a biker scrabbling for purchase on the ice with his feet and clearly with minimal control. The driver that hit me didn't slow. He sounded his klaxon to warn me to get off the road. I was trying to get off the road when he hit me. I can remember the sound. I think that I heard first the plastic above the rear wheel shattering. I remember my shoulder hitting the ice and the black fender above me and knowing that the wheels of the truck were a few feet back from my skull. I knew that, I was fully aware of it. I expected to go under the wheels. I didn't. I was sliding on the ice. I wanted the driver to slow. I kept thinking why doesn't he brake? Why doesn't he slow? We slid and slid. The klaxon was holding me. The klaxon mounts had snapped. The two electrical cables to the klaxon held. I remember the cables. The driver and the driver's mate dragged me and the bike out from under the truck fender and helped me to my feet. The klaxon was dangling by the cables. It must have been trapped behind my knees.
The driver held me in his arms. He called me hermano and was crying. The Chilean cops came. I told them that the accident was my fault, that the driver wasn't to blame in any way. They accepted what I said. They wanted to get me to the first aid post. They didn't take a statement from the driver. I am glad they didn't. I shouldn't have been riding on ice.
I have made jokes about the accident up till now - how it is to be hit by three trucks - orthopaedic trucks because my back hasn't hurt once since and I had been in continual pain for the four months prior to the accident.
It wasn't a joke. I should be dead. That I am alive is almost inexplicable. Two electrical cables probably made the difference between life and death, between being crushed and being alive. I would have felt the wheels hit the back of my head. There would have been a few seconds of sliding with the tyre against my head before I was crushed. I was fully conscious. I would have felt it all happen quite slowly and known all the time exactly what was happening until the tyres finally crushed my head. I needed to write this down. I have been feeling increasingly shaky. I suppose that I am suffering delayed shock...And being alone now, no longer amongst the guys at the Hotel Argentino, I don't have to maintain an act. You know? The tough upper lip Brit? I got hit by three trucks, Ha Ha Ha...
I was riding on ice on a dead straight gentle climb. Visibility was perfect. A driver coming from behind would have seen me from a mile back. I would have been a dot in the road, then a man on a bike and finally a man on a bike travelling at a few kilometres an hour, a biker scrabbling for purchase on the ice with his feet and clearly with minimal control. The driver that hit me didn't slow. He sounded his klaxon to warn me to get off the road. I was trying to get off the road when he hit me. I can remember the sound. I think that I heard first the plastic above the rear wheel shattering. I remember my shoulder hitting the ice and the black fender above me and knowing that the wheels of the truck were a few feet back from my skull. I knew that, I was fully aware of it. I expected to go under the wheels. I didn't. I was sliding on the ice. I wanted the driver to slow. I kept thinking why doesn't he brake? Why doesn't he slow? We slid and slid. The klaxon was holding me. The klaxon mounts had snapped. The two electrical cables to the klaxon held. I remember the cables. The driver and the driver's mate dragged me and the bike out from under the truck fender and helped me to my feet. The klaxon was dangling by the cables. It must have been trapped behind my knees.
The driver held me in his arms. He called me hermano and was crying. The Chilean cops came. I told them that the accident was my fault, that the driver wasn't to blame in any way. They accepted what I said. They wanted to get me to the first aid post. They didn't take a statement from the driver. I am glad they didn't. I shouldn't have been riding on ice.
I have made jokes about the accident up till now - how it is to be hit by three trucks - orthopaedic trucks because my back hasn't hurt once since and I had been in continual pain for the four months prior to the accident.
It wasn't a joke. I should be dead. That I am alive is almost inexplicable. Two electrical cables probably made the difference between life and death, between being crushed and being alive. I would have felt the wheels hit the back of my head. There would have been a few seconds of sliding with the tyre against my head before I was crushed. I was fully conscious. I would have felt it all happen quite slowly and known all the time exactly what was happening until the tyres finally crushed my head. I needed to write this down. I have been feeling increasingly shaky. I suppose that I am suffering delayed shock...And being alone now, no longer amongst the guys at the Hotel Argentino, I don't have to maintain an act. You know? The tough upper lip Brit? I got hit by three trucks, Ha Ha Ha...
RELATIVES AND AFTERSHOCK
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
I have a tribe of cousins here in Buenos Aires. They are cousins at three or four generations distance. Thirty years ago one of them was over in England playing polo and sold my brother a pony at the end of the season. That was the only contact until I called on my way south to Ushuaia and was invited to lunch by the seller of the polo pony and his wife. A brother and his wife were present. They have been sending me emails since the accident, worrying and fussing, wanting me to come stay while I heal, be checked over by the doctors they use. This phlegmatic Brit is embarrassed at writing of how much this family connection and support has helped me over the past weeks. I get weepy. I am weepy. I have suffered a shock. Pepe is up here from Tierra del Fuego and visiting patients. We were in a cab earlier on the way to an art exhibition. He made me face what really happened on the road. I guess he felt it was time - or he was bored by my romanticised account. Now that I have faced what happened I feel sick in the stomach. I want to throw up. My hands shake. As I write, I feel weepy.
I have a tribe of cousins here in Buenos Aires. They are cousins at three or four generations distance. Thirty years ago one of them was over in England playing polo and sold my brother a pony at the end of the season. That was the only contact until I called on my way south to Ushuaia and was invited to lunch by the seller of the polo pony and his wife. A brother and his wife were present. They have been sending me emails since the accident, worrying and fussing, wanting me to come stay while I heal, be checked over by the doctors they use. This phlegmatic Brit is embarrassed at writing of how much this family connection and support has helped me over the past weeks. I get weepy. I am weepy. I have suffered a shock. Pepe is up here from Tierra del Fuego and visiting patients. We were in a cab earlier on the way to an art exhibition. He made me face what really happened on the road. I guess he felt it was time - or he was bored by my romanticised account. Now that I have faced what happened I feel sick in the stomach. I want to throw up. My hands shake. As I write, I feel weepy.
DAKAR MOTOS
BUENOS AIRES: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Javier and Sandra of Dakar Motos have a bunk room for visiting bikers and a garden where bikers can pitch a tent. A Scotsman and his girlfriend on a Beemer are staying as is an East German Computer engineer. Mostly I feel a fraud when I chat with fellow bikers. Real bikers don't ride baby Hondas. Being hit by three trucks is a passport to the inner circle. I talk with an Argentine. Javier joins our conversation. Javier enjoys speaking English which irritates the Argentine biker. The biker has strong views. Everything has gone to hell since the return to democracy. Kids lack discipline. They don't work. They don't study. They drink, they fuck, they take dope. Parents are as bad, lazy, always expecting a handout. I recognise the biker. I drove Don's Hummer behind his twin last year in Dallas. Fun to put them in a small room. Would they kill each other before they discovered they shared such similar beliefs?
Javier and Sandra of Dakar Motos have a bunk room for visiting bikers and a garden where bikers can pitch a tent. A Scotsman and his girlfriend on a Beemer are staying as is an East German Computer engineer. Mostly I feel a fraud when I chat with fellow bikers. Real bikers don't ride baby Hondas. Being hit by three trucks is a passport to the inner circle. I talk with an Argentine. Javier joins our conversation. Javier enjoys speaking English which irritates the Argentine biker. The biker has strong views. Everything has gone to hell since the return to democracy. Kids lack discipline. They don't work. They don't study. They drink, they fuck, they take dope. Parents are as bad, lazy, always expecting a handout. I recognise the biker. I drove Don's Hummer behind his twin last year in Dallas. Fun to put them in a small room. Would they kill each other before they discovered they shared such similar beliefs?
BABY HONDA
BUENOS AIRES: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
The metro runs direct from Avenida del Mayo to the bus and rail stations at Retiro. A Belgrano train to Florida gets me close to Dakar Motos. The journey is easy. Uncomfortable is seeing the hovels teetering on every available piece of wasteland. Poverty is the flip side of Buenos Aires.
Javier at Dakar Motos speaks English. He is a tall man, red hair, a biker from his boots to the top of his head. The baby Honda sits on a mechanic's pedestal. It has no back wheel, no rear suspension. It looks small. It is small. Even in one piece it would be dwarfed by the BMWs, Africa Twins and whatever. Ming's Monster looks small. Ming has given it to a friend. The friend will pick it up next week. Javier says the baby Honda should be ready for next Wednesday.
The metro runs direct from Avenida del Mayo to the bus and rail stations at Retiro. A Belgrano train to Florida gets me close to Dakar Motos. The journey is easy. Uncomfortable is seeing the hovels teetering on every available piece of wasteland. Poverty is the flip side of Buenos Aires.
Javier at Dakar Motos speaks English. He is a tall man, red hair, a biker from his boots to the top of his head. The baby Honda sits on a mechanic's pedestal. It has no back wheel, no rear suspension. It looks small. It is small. Even in one piece it would be dwarfed by the BMWs, Africa Twins and whatever. Ming's Monster looks small. Ming has given it to a friend. The friend will pick it up next week. Javier says the baby Honda should be ready for next Wednesday.
COSTS?
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
Buenos Aires is a light, clean and beautiful city with many parks. For much of the architecture, imagine Paris late 19th century. What are the costs?
Room with large double bed and a good bathroom half a block off the Avenida del Mayo which is as central as you can get: $19
Big container of fresh fruit salad from the greengrocer on the same bloc: $1.15
Take a left and walk a block and a half to the Chinese: The best ever hot and sour soup: $2.20
I keep a bottle of wine at the Chinese and drink a glass when I ever eat there - often late in the evening to watch a movie on cable TV. $6 will buy a good steak and fries in a brasserie. A cab to most places is $2 or less. Metro is $0.25 a ride. Urban train fare five stops to Dakar Motors to check on the bike is $0.50. I saw the third Bourne movie at a clean movie house: $1.20
Buenos Aires is a light, clean and beautiful city with many parks. For much of the architecture, imagine Paris late 19th century. What are the costs?
Room with large double bed and a good bathroom half a block off the Avenida del Mayo which is as central as you can get: $19
Big container of fresh fruit salad from the greengrocer on the same bloc: $1.15
Take a left and walk a block and a half to the Chinese: The best ever hot and sour soup: $2.20
I keep a bottle of wine at the Chinese and drink a glass when I ever eat there - often late in the evening to watch a movie on cable TV. $6 will buy a good steak and fries in a brasserie. A cab to most places is $2 or less. Metro is $0.25 a ride. Urban train fare five stops to Dakar Motors to check on the bike is $0.50. I saw the third Bourne movie at a clean movie house: $1.20
GRAN HOTEL ESPANA
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24
The Gran Hotel Espana is my home away from home. The Gran is a misnomer. The hotel is small. I have a quite room and bath at the rear on the third floor. Were cynicism an Olympic support, the manager would be a shoo-in for the Gold medal. I sit in the tiny lobby and chat with the afternoon receptionist, Gustavo. He telephoned Rio Grande as soon as he read of the accident. Such small acts of kindness and concern are heartening on a long journey - knowing that you have the support of friends.
The Gran Hotel Espana is my home away from home. The Gran is a misnomer. The hotel is small. I have a quite room and bath at the rear on the third floor. Were cynicism an Olympic support, the manager would be a shoo-in for the Gold medal. I sit in the tiny lobby and chat with the afternoon receptionist, Gustavo. He telephoned Rio Grande as soon as he read of the accident. Such small acts of kindness and concern are heartening on a long journey - knowing that you have the support of friends.
SLAUGHTERING INDIANS
ON THE BUS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
Eight hours to Buenos Aires, look out of the window and the land is flat. We saw a hill four hours ago. We won't see another. I have read the newspaper. I don't have a book. For sport, I list other similarities shared by Argentina and the USA.
Both countries slaughtered their indigenous population around the same time and mythologised the killers.
Cowboy and gaucho are equally romanticised.
Both gaucho and cowboy duelled and murdered each other, gauchos with knives, cowboys with revolvers.
Both Chacara and Country and Western music celebrate loneliness and the broken heart.
I discussed similarities with an Argentine sociologist in Rio Grande. He wrote his doctoral theses in Arizona. He claimed one essential difference: North Americans are optimists. They believe in a better future.
Argentines are fatalists. They have no belief in a better future.
Eight hours to Buenos Aires, look out of the window and the land is flat. We saw a hill four hours ago. We won't see another. I have read the newspaper. I don't have a book. For sport, I list other similarities shared by Argentina and the USA.
The bulk of the population are descendants of comparatively recent immigration (beginning in the late 1890s).
The bulk of immigrants were poorly educated and driven from their birth countries by war, poverty and persecution.
Both countries slaughtered their indigenous population around the same time and mythologised the killers.
Cowboy and gaucho are equally romanticised.
Both gaucho and cowboy duelled and murdered each other, gauchos with knives, cowboys with revolvers.
Both Chacara and Country and Western music celebrate loneliness and the broken heart.
I discussed similarities with an Argentine sociologist in Rio Grande. He wrote his doctoral theses in Arizona. He claimed one essential difference: North Americans are optimists. They believe in a better future.
Argentines are fatalists. They have no belief in a better future.
ARGENTINE/USA
ON THE BUS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
We are on an airfield one thousand miles long by five hundred miles wide. Farmers have ploughed bits of the airfield, planted crops and a few trees. Travelling by train from NY to Dallas was the same - totally flat. Look out of the window and you wonder what quirk sited a town where it is rather than ten or twenty miles south, east, north or west. The wastage of land is similar. We Europeans treasure every square metre. A business fails, someone rebuilds on the same site. Not so in small town Argentina or in small town USA. Abandoned buildings abound. Land is cheap. Easier to build new on a green site. So the urban sprawl spreads.
We are on an airfield one thousand miles long by five hundred miles wide. Farmers have ploughed bits of the airfield, planted crops and a few trees. Travelling by train from NY to Dallas was the same - totally flat. Look out of the window and you wonder what quirk sited a town where it is rather than ten or twenty miles south, east, north or west. The wastage of land is similar. We Europeans treasure every square metre. A business fails, someone rebuilds on the same site. Not so in small town Argentina or in small town USA. Abandoned buildings abound. Land is cheap. Easier to build new on a green site. So the urban sprawl spreads.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
MAPUCHE ARE INDEFATIGABLE
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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..
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..
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
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