Category Archives: Antarctica to Alaska

30. Armadillo

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Monday, 21 January 2019

Jose Ignacio, Urguguay

 

450km drive through English countryside again to Jose Ignacio. Takes 6hrs. As I’m driving out of San Jose de Mayo, see a man standing by the roadside with something strange in his hands. Slow down to see what it is. Two disembowelled armadillos. Probably the most bizarre photo I’ll take on this trip (see photos below).

Another gaucho poses for a photograph by the roadside as I’m having a leg stretch. Very friendly and accommodating.

Long straight roads. Stretches are toll roads so quite good quality but there’s plenty of activity. Not remote like Patagonia.

Arrive Jose Ignacio. Only found out about this place from an article in the New York Times (https://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/09/travel/09next.html) a few months ago. As soon as you arrive you can tell this is an upmarket place. The Porsche Cayennes, Audis and Mercedes line the roads. Staying at Posada del Faro (www.posadadelfaro.com). Home for two nights. This is nice. Very nice. Girl who checks me in is a full on straight talking type of girl. Becomes clear why. She was raised in New York City. Absolutely stunning view from room across the sea and bay to Punta del Este on the horizon.

30C today. Hottest day of the trip so far. But there’s a cooling breeze coming in off the Atlantic.

Walk back from dinner. Sky is inky black. Stars shine bright like a diamond. Orion is upside down compared to my normal northern hemisphere view. The full-ish moon rising above the sea.

Loving Uruguay.

29. Fray Bentos

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Sunday, 20 January 2019

Fray Bentos, Uruguay

 

Think of the most perfect English summer’s day. Lush, rolling countryside, green fields, hedgerows, cows and horses in the fields, trees wafting in the light breeze. That’s Uruguay. I could be driving through Nottinghamshire today.

Every so often, on the open roads in the middle of nowhere, you have to reduce speed to 45km/hr. There’s a solitary building miles from anywhere. It’s a ‘rural school’. Just a single, small building.

Great music on all radio stations. British 1980s music. Just like Radio 2’s Sounds of the Eighties all day. But without Ooh Gary Davies on your radio.

First major town is Carmelo. Must be a Uruguayan thing as all the buildings are single storey and all set out on a grid basis. Most roads are one way. Can tell it’s getting rural as overtaken by horse and cart as I trundle along looking at the architecture. Town sits on the River Plate and, bizarrely, there’s a glorious white sandy beach along the river shore. Assume this must be imported sand. The River Trent it is not. This is a nice place. People sitting in the deckchairs with the obligatory flask of hot water and their cups of mate (a green leaf high in caffeine) sipping through the metal straw which is a shared straw. Nice relaxed vibe about the place.

Between Carmelo and Mercedes, there are hundreds of birds just sitting on the rural road sunning themselves. Only as the sound of the car approaches do they suddenly take flight. The consequence is that for about an hour it’s like constantly driving through a flock of birds. Like a scene out of a Hitchcock thriller. Have about six bird strikes. One with such force that it knocks my wing mirror inwards. Find myself constantly ducking and diving in the driver’s seat, for no real reason.

Just before Mercedes, spot a gaucho on horseback riding towards me. Flag him down and ask if it’s OK for a photo. He turns his horse and poses for the camera. His beret suggests a Uruguayan Frank Spencer.

Arrive at Fray Bentos. The British reading this will instantly recognise the name. For those that aren’t, Fray Bentos is synonymous with tinned meat pies. The like of which you wouldn’t put in your system. I’ve always been intrigued by Fray Bentos ever since an incident in Braunschweig, 20 years ago. Suffice to say, the incident is not repeatable for a public forum such as this blog (to protect the guilty). You’ll have to email me for details.

I’m on a pilgrimage.

Here to visit the former Fray Bentos factory. A UNESCO World Heritage Site. Told the tour is in English too. It starts in Spanish. And continues in Spanish. Erm. Ask if any of the tour is in English. She doesn’t understand my question. So that’ll be a no then. Which also surprises the five other non-Spanish speaking tourists who had also been told the tour is in English. Fortunately, a Uruguayan tourist gives us bullet points in English. Very friendly chap and thankful for his input.

Potted history. Originally set up as Liebig’s Extract of Meat Company (LEMCO) in 1865. Liebig being a German chemist who managed to mass manufacture meat extract. In 1924, it became Frigorifico Anglo and expanded operations to be a meat packing centre due, in part, to the needs of World War 2 to supply the British military, with products such as meat pies and corned beef branded as ‘Anglo’. Factory shut down in 1967 but soon reopened under the Fray Bentos name. Factory finally closed down in 1979. 483 cows were slaughtered on the final day in 4hrs 15mins. In the 2000s it opened as an Industrial Museum and subsequently gained UNESCO status in 2015.

You see. Like the BBC. I like to educate, entertain and inform.

Care to join me for a little Touring Taurean typed tour of the factory?

The first building we enter is the machine room. WOW. Love industrial architecture and engineering. It’s the central plant room where all the mechanical plant is located. Just sitting there, quietly rusting away. Staggering to think this is the original 1920s plant. A photo on the wall from 1922 shows the plantroom. Hasn’t changed one bit. The adjacent electrical room houses a massive switch panel. Its ammeters and voltmeters and large hand operated circuit breakers look like they could be in an old fashioned horror movie.

Beyond the main entrance, is the workers’ accommodation blocks. As they entered the factory, they put their numbered token in a slot in the wall. Tokens then collected by admin staff who marked them in and out. Old fashioned clocking in and out.

An outside photographic display shows the factory at its peak in the interwar period. Fascinating because so much of what we see is still standing.

The cows were brought to a holding shed to try and relax them as, I’m sure you all know, a tense cow doesn’t make good meat. The cows were then herded into a concrete duct which had overhead water sprays to clean the cows before they entered the factory to be slaughtered. From there, the cows were herded up a wooden walkway to the top of the processing building. Why spend energy carting dead cows to the top of a tall building when the cows can walk to their death, was the philosophy. A green wooden walkway runs up the side of the cow ramp. This was for the workers to prod the cows to make sure they moved forward, as by this time, the cows were reluctant to walk to their death.

Walk up a staircase to the top floor of the processing building. We all go WOW. It’s exactly like the photos from the 1920s. But without people and cows. The high level conveyors, hooks, cogs and machinery still in place. It’s staggering. Concrete channels on the floor follow the path of the high level conveyors. To catch the dripping blood. The cows were brought in, killed, strung up, then butchered, all the while moving along the high level conveyors.

A link bridge with a high level conveyor connects the slaughterhouse processing floor to the biggest building on the site. The refrigeration building. It’s massive. As we walk in the temperature drops considerably. Although not refrigerated, its cork lined walls about 200mm thick prevents the heat of the day getting in. Absolutely fascinating.

Return to the old admin offices. They’re in a large hall with wooden floors. The original desks, chairs and office equipment perfectly preserved. Shown a desk which has two indentations in the wooden floor. It’s where a clerk sat. He worked at the same desk for 40 years. The indentations are where he had worn away the floor with his chair and feet over the years.

Chat with fellow non-Spanish speakers. Estonian biker couple. Toronto couple. Estonian biker couple have been travelling for 18 months thus far. Estonia overland to Australia, via Europe, the Stans and Asia. Shipped the bikes to Chile. Now travelling from Ushuaia to…Alaska. Wow. Thought my trip was epic. Nice to meet a fun and interesting girl who knows how to hold a conversation and has a nice firm handshake. Toronto couple ask for a lift to the local bus station, which we eventually find.

Hotel tonight is the best option in town. The Gran Hotel Fray Bentos. That’s not to say it’s the best. Just the best option.

Another Sunday night. This time last week was a jam sandwich in Perito Moreno. Have no such trouble this evening. Restaurants are open. Short walk along the river road. This afternoon as I drove along it to the museum there was no one about. Now. It’s heaving. Long queue of traffic slowly trundling along looking for a parking space to watch the sunset. People sitting on the public benches, sitting in their deck chairs, sitting on the pavement. All have one thing in common. They all have their leather cases (flask holders). They all have a flask of hot water. They all have a cup of mate. They all drink from the same metal straw. It’s a wonderful atmosphere.

Uruguay does sunsets.

28. Battle on the River Plate

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Saturday, 19 January 2019

Colonia, Uruguay

 

Grumpy little ogre this morning. There’ll be blood on the walls before the end of the day. Not much sleep. Don’t do mornings. Alarm call at 0600hrs.

To the Buquebus ferry terminal. Catamaran to Colonia the other side of the River Plate in Uruguay. Rather surprisingly, have to have my right thumb fingerprinted upon exiting Argentina. Uruguay passport control is in kiosk nearby so won’t have to faff with that the other side. Only takes 1hr to cross the river on a high speed cat. When I say river, think English Channel wide type river. It’s incredibly wide.

After disembarking, all bags have to be X-rayed by Uruguayan customs. Which adds to the chaos in the arrivals hall and those descending on escalators into said queue is quite amusing as everyone is falling over each other trying to alight escalators.

Car hire a short walk from the ferry terminal. Meet the car hire guy. Think Dave Gahn out of Depeche Mode but wearing braces on his teeth and a bit weedy looking. That’s the car hire guy.

Go through the paperwork. Walk to car. Have booked a Group E, automatic saloon so I that I will have plenty of leg room.

It’s a knackered old Chevrolet with plenty of dents and scratches. Just about to sign it off when I notice the driver’s windscreen wiper blade is literally hanging off. There’s a reason for that. It’s completely broken. The bit that connects blade to the arm is severely dented and crushed. Oh, he says. No worries. We’ll change the car.

Great.

Thought I.

Back to the counter. He puts a key down on counter for new car. See that it says group C. A typical group C car on the list of pictures on the counter is a VW Gol (Polo sized thing). And a few grades below what I’ve ordered.

That’s a group C car. I say.

No. It’s a group O. It’s the same size as the one you’ve booked. Says he. And points to a picture of the group O car on the list on the counter.

But it says group C on the fob. Say I.

No. It’s the same size car.

He’s lying through his teeth.

Full on grumpy ogre mode now.

No. It’s a VW Gol size car. That’s what the fob says.

I’ve paid for a group E. I want a discount then.

No. It’s the same size car.

Still lying.

You have to speak with Montevideo if you want to change.

I can tell it’s way above his pay grade to do anything.

Walk out into another car park to check out the new same sized replacement car. That’s a group O.

And there. In front of me. Is…a…

WV Gol.

You are taking the whatsit sunshine!

It’s a group C car.

Oh. And exceptionally small.

I’m kicking off. He tells me there’s nothing he can do. It’s the only spare car.

I have to go to Montevideo if I want a different car. He says.

My reply is not printable.

Montevideo is over 2hrs away. And is where I’m dropping car off at the end of the week. So will not be going there now, he is told.

I try contorting myself to get into the Gol. Admittedly, I’ve got size 13 hiking boots on so that doesn’t help but my knees are up to my ears and touching the steering wheel such that if I try and turn my hands are stopped by my knees.

There’s simply not enough leg room.

We’re still arguing that I won’t be going to Montevideo to change the car and that there’s nothing he can do about it, when all of a sudden he just turns and leaves with a, ”I have another customer”.

I’d like to say I leapt out from the car and continued the argument. But the problem was that I couldn’t. Because, dear reader, I was stuck. With my legs wrapped around my ears and the steering wheel it was a struggle.

I can tell it’s a one car type of car rental place so not hopeful any further discourse will achieve anything. Drive to hotel very carefully. Ponder my next move over a drink. Will put on my normal shoes and see if I fit in car wearing them. Then I’ll get him to sort out Montevideo.

Slightly improved driving position with normal shoes rather than size 13 hiking boots. Not ideal for driving. But I can tell I’m going to get leg ache with all the angles I’m having to contort my legs to drive.

Return to car hire place.

Round 2.

He’s not at his desk. I wait. And wait a bit more. Eventually he returns. He’s seen me standing there from afar but as he walks towards me he’s pretending to nonchalantly look in the other direction for about the 15 seconds it takes to cross the concourse and walk past me.

As I said at the start. There’ll be blood on the walls before the day is out.

I could crush a grape right now.

He blatantly ignores me and goes about shuffling papers on his desk when a young blonde woman appears and sits down at the computer. Dave says something in Spanish and then goes to speak with another customer. Ask Blondie if she speaks English. She puts the palm of her hand out towards me. This doesn’t rile me at all.

Dave finishes with other customer and returns to speak with Blondie. Still ignoring me. She’s now on the phone garbling in Spanish. Then she speaks with Dave. Dave, finally, speaks with me. He says he can get a new car by 1400hrs tomorrow.

Nope. I want a new car tonight.

More Spanish intercourse between Dave, Blondie and other person hanging on the telephone (see what I did there?).

We can get a new car by 1000hrs tomorrow.

Nope. I want a new car tonight.

Repeat the process.

We can get a new car by 0900hrs tomorrow.

Nope. I want a new car tonight.

More Spanish conversation. Hear a lot of ‘Si, si, si’ (yes, yes, yes) and phone is put down.

Dave explains. We can get a car tonight for 2100hrs tonight.

Good. That’s more like it.

But it means that either Dave or Blondie have to drive to Montevideo now and drive back, in that, it’s a problem for us type of way.

Not my problem. Get on with it.

Chop, chop.

Oh. And you can drop the car off at my hotel as well whilst you’re at it. I’m not turfing out again.

Can tell he’s not happy about doing this but that’s the price you pay for presenting a car that’s not fit for purpose mate.

Swap WhatsApp details so he can text me when he’s arriving.

We shake hands.

Off I pop, squeezed into my Gol, back to hotel. It’s all of 5mins away but when I jump out of car see that Dave has texted. I’m to go back now. He’s got a new wiper blade sorted and original car is fixed.

Hmmm. That was a bit quick and convenient.

Back for a third time.

Do all the paperwork and he cheekily checks the Gol over. Change the paperwork again. Return to Chevrolet to do the handover. He sits in driver’s seat and washes the windscreen to prove it’s working. But in doing so, I get squirted with washer fluid from a wayward nozzle. It’s not been a good morning so far.

Inspect the blade. It’s not a new blade. It’s the original blade that he’s just fixed. It’s a bodge job. This is pointed out. As I take it apart to show him. I’m then accused of damaging the car and told to leave it as it is. Blood. Walls.

He rams the blade in as best he can so that its fixed. As it’s unlikely to rain and I can see that the blade is relatively firmly half fixed in position I decide to take the car.

What a palaver. It’s now 1130hrs by the time this rigmarole is done. Just under 2hrs of faff.

Back in Colonia.

Lunch in the old town. Pay the bill with someone who wasn’t my waiter and nip to the loo. As I’m exiting loo and walking back waiter accosts me in a jovial manner saying, “Tip not included, Sir.” Oh right. Will do. Subtly does it.

Colonia old town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and it’s easy to understand why. Set out on a grid basis, the old cobbled streets are a delightful meander. Especially as there are cars and lorries from the 1950s dotted around, much like you would find in Cuba. The buildings are single storey and the streets lined with trees providing the required shade from the fierce sun. A small yacht marina looks quite enticing and assume it’s a weekend play ground of Buenos Aires’ rich.

The old port town on the River Plate houses a lighthouse at one of the points. Steep climb up but the things I do for you, dear reader, knows no bounds. No one told me that at the very top, to gain access to the gangway around the light that you had to squeeze up a very narrow ladder, clunk your head on the metal bulkhead and through a tiny hole in the metal plate. But, you know me, I persevere. You actually enter the lamp room and then through a diddly little access point in the window frame. Was hoping to see tiled roof tops of the old town but it’s just a mass of green from the tree canopy. Buenos Aires’ skyline can just about me made out on the horizon through the late afternoon haze. That’s how wide the River Plate is at this point.

Refreshing mint and ginger lemonade in the beer garden of the Charco hotel overlooking the river. All rather relaxing. So much so that I book in for dinner later.

Return to my hotel, the Don Antonio Posada, a former mansion house built in 1875, the other side of the old town. Enroute, pass a cannabis shop. Apparently, it’s legal here. They have a cannabis plant growing in a small greenhouse under a purple light in the corner of the bar.

Dinner at Charco Bistro. Maltik Irish Red beer in the garden beforehand followed by al fresco dining watching the sun set over Buenos Aires and the River Plate.

The bright blue sky gradually morphing into oranges and reds.

Very pleasant end to the day.

27. Don’t cry for me, Argentina

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Friday, 18 January 2019

Buenos Aires, Argentina

 

Walking through Recoleta suburb of Buenos Aires reminds of Paris or Berlin. The quiet leafy residential streets lead towards Recoleta Cemetery. For avid readers of this blog, you will recall I visited Punta Arenas’ cemetery a few weeks ago. That was nothing compared to Recoleta. A large entrance announces that this is where they rest in peace. And they rest in peace in some style. There are hundreds, if not a few thousand, family mausoleums located here. Most are about 5m tall, very ornate structures. Apart from the architectural delights, a primary reason why there are bus loads of tourists is that one small family mausoleum, the Duarte family, has the remains of Eva Peron.

Evita.

You just need to follow the tourists to find it. Its black marble walls are adorned with anniversary plaques celebrating the life of Evita, who died of cancer in 1952. She being the First Lady of Argentina. Married to Juan Peron, President of Argentina in the 1940s and 1950s. And again briefly in the 1970s. The ornate brass doors covered in flowers.

Around the corner are two workmen seemingly refurbishing one of the mausoleums. The floor plate has been removed to reveal a shaft 8m deep, with spaces for coffins either side. It can hold fourteen coffins. A small narrow staircase leads the way down. Workman says this is unusual as the mausoleums are normally 4m deep. I’m conversing in basic English with an Argentinian labourer. Can you imagine an Argentinian trying to converse in basic Spanish with a British labourer?

Thought not.

The grey rain clouds have now disappeared to reveal a deep blue sky as I walk along to the Museum of Modern Art. Having been to New York’s Museum of Modern Art, I’m expecting great things. Sadly, not a patch on MOMA. Comprises one level of modern art plus a level dedicated to the art of Pablo Suarez. A speciality seems to be naked men and women. Weird. Very weird. Don’t do art. I’m more science and engineering.

Torrential rain shower as I approach the city so pop into Retiro Railway Station. Vast ticket hall and an even bigger engine hall, the likes of which you would see in St Pancras or Cologne railway station. Across the road is the English Tower, built by the British as a gift to the Argentinians in the 1910s. Not called the English Tower since the Falklands. Now the Monumental Tower.

The Falklands War Memorial is across the road. I last came here in 1999 and it’s not as I remember it. Don’t remember there being a fence around it and had a feeling there was an eternal flame on the ground. Back then, a local was a bit miffed that we were English and had shown our faces. Back then, I recall it being quite busy. Now, there’s no one about and it just appears a little bit forgotten about.

As it’s raining, jump in taxi to Casa Rosada, the Pink Palace. Government House. Built in the 19th century. Taxi driver buys some nuts from a street seller and starts munching. Arriving at Casa Rosada, I ask how much and get a few bits of nuts in my direction as he tells me the fare. Nice.

Small museum at the back charts the progress of the Republic of Argentina. Surprisingly small section on Juan Peron and Evita. Displays show television pictures of the 1970s onwards. The military junta came to power in 1976 following a coup and General Galtieri came to power himself following a coup in December 1981. However, by March 1982 his popularity was low and at the end of March 1982, the newsreel shows locals rioting and protesting on the streets against President Galtieri. Four days later, to alleviate his domestic woes, on 2 April 1982, Galtieri invaded the Falklands. The newsreels show locals celebrating his dictatorship in the streets. What a difference a few days makes.

Walk along Florida, the main pedestrianised shopping street. Every 10m, there are locals shouting “Cambio, cambio” (Exchange) but there seems to be an excess of supply over demand. No one seems to be taking them up on their offer. Pass one shop that sells…wait for it…remote controls. Yep. Nothing but remote controls.

Dinner at El Cuartito. Bit of a Buenos Aires institution. A famous pizzeria. Could almost be in New York City. It’s that sort of place. The walls are lined with signed photos of famous South American sports stars. Not that I know who they are.

Have a ferry to catch to Uruguay tomorrow.

Except.

Can’t find the ferry ticket.

Guess which muppet put ferry ticket (and a train ticket for Ecuador) in with all the bumpf he’s just packaged up and sent to the UK by DHL yesterday.

Yep. This muppet.

26. Strike, strike, strike

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Thursday, 17 January 2019

Buenos Aires, Argentina

 

Flight at 1015hrs to Buenos Aires. Arrive airport 0815hrs. There’s just me and about thirty other passengers. None of the check-ins are open yet. Not even security is open yet. My flight is the first of the day.

Bariloche airport is small. Very small. Rucksack has gained a few kilos the past few weeks. Like its owner. All flights are going to Buenos Aires apart from three. Low risk of heavy bag going astray. Having made a manly attempt at sewing up the split rucksack yesterday, I’m not convinced it will stand the force of some baggage handler throwing it around. Decide to get it wrapped up in one of those cellophane machines. You know the ones. They wrap up your luggage in a mile of cellophane as a security measure. That should do the trick. Now walking about with a bright fluorescent green package. It won’t get lost now.

Now find myself at the back of a long queue. It’s 0900hrs and wondering why check in hasn’t opened. American girl behind me is fretting. And anxious. Boyfriend is trying to calm her down.

And then.

An announcement.

In Spanish.

None around me understand as we’re not Spanish speakers.

Ask a local.

Basically, there’s a pilots’ strike.

For 48hrs.

WHAT?!?!?

Another announcement will be made at 1030hrs. To confirm if flight is cancelled or merely delayed.

Oh crap.

Go and speak with a LATAM rep. She explains that the pilots’ union is meeting the government right now. If the strike happens it will last 48hrs until Saturday.

But. I need to be in Uruguay on Saturday.

If the strike is called off, the aircraft will be able to take off from Buenos Aires.

They won’t know which way it’s going until 1030hrs.

Keep an eye of Flight Tracker.

As soon as I discover that the flight has actually taken off at 1020hrs, the display signs show a delayed departure time of 1310hrs. 3hr delay.

Strike is off.

Phew.

Aircraft is in the air. Aircraft lands. We embark. Take off. Land at Buenos Aires.

Phew.

A couple of nights at a nice little boutique hotel called Casa Calma Hotel. Rather pleasant and in the middle of the shopping district, it seems.

Off to DHL. Oh yes. I have to send cold weather gear to Vancouver to be picked up from a friend there, in preparation for Alaska, and send a box of sundry stuff home that has accumulated in rucksack.

Need bubble wrap to wrap a mug I bought at the Russian Antarctic Station in Bellinghausen. Sweet shop next door to DHL should have some form of wrapping? No. But he directs me to a shop a block away.

She sits all alone in a dimly lit stationery shop. She speaks English. She’s very friendly and seemingly pleased for a customer.

But.

She doesn’t sell bubble wrap.

But.

She knows a shop that does.

A block away.

Off I trot.

Oh yes. They sell bubble wrap. Great big rolls of it. Buy a metre.

Pop in to Miss All Alone to say thank you on the way back. She’s well pleased to talk to someone.

Decide against sending winter clothing to Vancouver. It’s £90 to send plus another £90 to send sundry stuff home. I can buy any winter stuff I need when I’m in Alaska. So send everything home. It’s bloody expensive at £120!

Pack everything tightly in a DHL box. It’s bulging a bit. Not a problem. They’ll put some DHL tape around it. Young girl gets a bit carried away. She must have used 100m of the stuff. A fellow customer offers to translate. And with that, I have a very taped up box!

So that’s two DHL packages up in the air. Let’s hope they both reach their destination.

Everyone I have met in Argentina has been so friendly and helpful. Not what I thought when I first came here and thought I’d have to pretend to be German.

Nonsense.

I’m happy to say that I’m British here.

 

 

25. Schnorbitz

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Wednesday, 16 January 2019

Bariloche, Argentina

 

Quite cold this morning as I drive into Bariloche. Fond farewell to the trusty Toyota Hilux. Grown quite attached to it the past 2,700km. Shall miss its tank like engine rumbling reliably away.

Pull into the tiny Hertz compound on Elflein Street, It’s full of shiny new saloons. An old bloke is coiling a hosepipe as I draw up towards him. He gives me that look that says you’re in the wrong place mate. My splattered and butterfly encrusted Hilux is not meant to be near his shiny cars that he’s just washed. I’m lowering the tone. He looks like Max Mosely’s Argentinian cousin (Max Mosely being former FIA Motorsports chief and Oswald’s son)

Spouts off in Spanish. British. I say. Spanish some more. Jump out of Hilux. Its white front bumper is completely splattered with the dead bodies of hundreds of insects. The inside of the left front wheel is worn. There’s a tracking issue. Its steering wheel shook at 60-70mph. Follow old man up to the front office above. Busy with tourists booking in. Young girl says to wait whilst old man checks car out. Eventually he returns. He’s marked up the damage exactly as it was when I picked it up. Three chips on windscreen. One bit of bodywork missing. Don’t have the signed damage form from when I picked it up. Waiting for extras to be charged. She must have it on her system though? Finally. A print out. On the old fashioned dot matrix printer with paper with holes down the side so the cogs can move it forward. Which you then have to tear off. Remember that? Millennials reading this will be going like so what’s that. Balance is zero. Jolly good. No arguments then.

Post office next call. Have eleven postcards to send that have been gathering fluff in the rucksack since Bellinghausen in Antartica plus others from Ushuaia, El Calafate and Bariloche.

Needless to say. There’s a queue of about six. Counters 2, 4 and 6. 2 seems to be a dedicated counter for something I can’t work out. 4 is general services. 6 is retrieving parcels delivered to the post office. Slow going for 4. My queue. This is going to take ages. After 10mins decide I’ll wander over to 6 and just check I’m in the right queue, play the stupid tourist who doesn’t know the system and hope he takes pity on me and gives me the stamps there and then because that’s a quick transaction right?

As I wander over, a young girl cuts me up and beats me to the counter. As soon as she does that, my phone rings.

It’s Mum.

I’d spent some time last night writing out the whole process of what she has to do today to send credit card by courier to friend in Brasil who I’m staying with end of next week. It necessitates septuagenarian parents going to the local town and a DHL Service Point in a WH Smiths. Had written that they were to ring me if there were any problems.

There’s a problem.

Have to exit the post office and go outside so I can speak loudly and clearly.

Miss Brasil’s postcode isn’t recognised by DHL. Computer says no. I’ll ring you back with confirmation. Hold on two ticks. In WH Smiths.

Ring Miss Brasil. At the worst possible point the 4G signal drops and I go to dodgy GPRS signal. Sod it. Miss Brasil’s mobile won’t connect. Hear some Spanish/Portuguese blurb. Assume it’s because of dodgy signal.

4G drifts in again.

WhatsApp her. Only get one tick.

Which means it’s not sent to her handset.

4G drops and no signal now.

Sod it.

Of all the sodding times.

4G is back.

Google Brasilian postcodes. Had been give a number in the format 12.345-678. Dots and dashes. DHL’s system doesn’t do dots and dashes. Must be a 5 digit code. Google suggests it should just be 12345 but what about 678. How significant is 678? This is critical stuff for the safe delivery of one’s credit card.

GPRS kicks in. Sod it. I want 4G now.

4G kicks in. This is taking the whatsit now. Why can’t it just be stable for 10mins??

Two ticks appear on WhatsApp.

Delivered to handset.

Phew.

Try phoning again but no connection. Phone signal keeps dropping. Sod it.

Ring Mum.

She’s not picking up.

Blue ticks appear on WhatsApp.

Miss Brasil is typing on WhatsApp.

Oh the suspense.

Receive two text messages to say I’ve two voicemails.

It’ll be Mum trying to ring me. They’re along the lines of: hello, can you hear me.

Miss Brasil confirms postcode is OK as just 12345.

Ring Mum. Goes to voicemail.

Ring Dad. Goes to voicemail.

Oh come on.

My phone rings.

It’s Mum.

This is hard work. For both of us.

Postcode should just be 12345. DHL computer says yes.

Don’t forget the customs declaration either.

They’ll need a cup of tea after all this. Thank you parents for sorting!

Right that little issue is sorted.

Back inside the post office.

Oh.

For.

 

Sake.

Where did this lot come from? Now about a dozen people in the queue for general services. A queue for counter 6 pick up as well.

This is going to take ages.

But counters 1 and 5 now open.

Slightly speeds up things.

Still another 10-15mins.

Though slightly quicker than my village post office!

At last.

Counter 4 is mine. All mine.

In my best Spanish, courtesy of Google Translate whilst in the queue.

Hello I’d like 11 stamps to England and Germany by air mail please thank you.

No problem.

Taps in the order.

That will be ARS1,870.00.

That won’t mean much to you.

Let’s just try the sterling equivalent.

For 11 postcards.

That will be £38.00.

What?!?!?

You.

Must.

Be.

Joking!?!?

No. He says.

£3.50 postage per postcard. Postcards were only 30pence each.

Even he’s embarrassed.

Oh well. They need to be sent as I’m fed up with them cluttering up rucksack.

Hand over credit card.

It’s a post office.

Of course it’ll take a credit card.

Nope.

Not today.

Card machine is broken.

You.

Are.

Having.

A.

Laugh.

Check wallet for cash.

I have ARS1,650.00.

I’m short.

It’s taken me 40mins to get this far since I first walked in the post office.

Harumph.

Saunter out.

In search of a bank. Needed cash anyway.

Return to post office loaded.

Join the queue of about 10 this time.

This is going to take ages.

Counter 4 finishes with a customer after a few minutes.

He’s motioning in my direction.

What.

Me?

Find myself pointing to myself.

Yes. You.

Come on over.

Stride over the rope queuing system.

Bypass six others.

11 was it?

Er. Yes.

Here you go. And gives me 11 stamps. Well, I say stamps. They’re more large stickers.

Hand over cash.

Muito gracias. I say.

So.

It’s taken just under an hour to buy 11 stamps and help parents out.

They’re expensive stamps. So hope they’re actually delivered to the recipients after all that.

You few. You lucky few.

Quick look around Bariloche. Not quite as I imagined. Was expecting a more Alpine ski resort feel but it’s more modern and messy.

Cathedral built in the early 1940s looks like it has a concrete frame. Quick lunch. Ask for a cheese toastie. She takes a cheese and ham from the shelf. Opens it and takes the ham out. Good job I’m not a vegetarian.

Main square has Germanic style architecture housing the tourism board. Also has a number of locals flogging photos with their St Bernard dogs. With a small rum barrel under their chins.

Who remembers Bernie Winters and Schnorbitz??

24. Toyah Wilcox

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Tuesday, 15 January 2019

Bariloche, Argentina

 

Scenic drive around the Llao Llao Peninsula recommended by the young girl on reception. Reminds me of my lighting fairy number one. Same mannerisms. Same good looks (see what I did there…). I don’t imagine my light fairies are reading this, but if they are, I know they’ll be arguing over who is number one. By way of explanation, I’m an amateur theatre lighting designer in my spare time.

Scenic drive not too scenic as it’s driving through a dense forest. The only views are at panoramic points which, are, very panoramic.

Highlight is lunch at Patagonia Cerveceria micro brewery. The view from the terrace is stunning. Driving so unable to try the various brews on offer.

Cable car up to Cerro Campanario. About twenty buses had parked up this morning with long queues. Now they’re all gone, it’s a short queue. Which I join. And wait in line. A Gino d’Campo (British TV chef) lookalike ambles up and jumps in right at the front. Not sure if he’s with one of the groups that are queueing in sequence. He looks like he needs a slap just by looking at him. Ticket collector has got his number though and tells him to clear off to the back of the queue. Ah. He says. Sorry. He says. He thought all of us were queuing for the chairlifts. He knows full well that’s not the case. It’s quite obvious we’re queuing for tickets. Definitely needs a slap. He saunters off to the back. And queues. Like the rest of us.

Very windy today. Yesterday evening upon arrival in my spa suite (sorry, I mean really basic hotel room), the handyman came and put up the Union flag on a little pole outside on my terrace. All the rooms have little flags outside them denoting guests’ nationalities. What a good idea. Never thought I’d see the Union flag fly in Argentina again.

I say ‘again’.

Not since myself and a colleague cheekily flew a 4ft wide Union flag in the main avenida in Bueno Aires in 1999. A weekend trip from Porto Alegre, Brasil, where we working at the time. We didn’t get lynched. Surprisingly.

Anyway, hotel’s Union flag is upside down. And you all should know that’s a signal for being in distress. Rectify the flag. Take it apart and tie it up the correct way. It’s flying proudly now.

Receive email from an acquaintance in the village asking if I would like to do the theatre lighting for Toyah Wilcox in a few weeks. She’s doing a gig in the village. Blast. Would love to do that. Have already lit Beverly Craven and Paul Young the past couple of years.

Oh yes, folks. I mix in famous circles.

23. A pleasure

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Monday, 14 January 2019

Bariloche, Argentina

 

Went to sleep last night dreaming of a substantial breakfast. Ham. Cheese. Scrambled Eggs. But no. Instead. You’ll never guess. Jam and bread. Third consecutive jam and bread meal. With a fourth at lunch to look forward to.

Route 40 all the way to Bariloche. Another day of fuel management. Pancake flat and featureless landscape. Pass no cars in the first hour. Just me and the Hilux. All alone. Quite literally in the middle of nowhere. No phone signal. And don’t see any SOS Emergency phones either. Praying I don’t break down. Driving on a massive, parched brown plateau. After 127km drop down through a gorge in to the lush green oasis of Rio Mayo and the first fuel stop at the YPF station. Cannot emphasise enough that there is absolutely nothing in between towns. The YPF’s other redeeming feature, apart from having diesel, is freshly baked mini baguettes. The sort you get in Sainsbury’s. That’ll replace the two day old bread I was going to have.

Drive up on to the plateau again. For 232km. Flat. Featureless. Nothing. See photos and video below. Roads are really good quality and average 110km/hr. Drop down into the flood plain to Gobernador Costa. A one horse strip town. Spoilt for choice. There are two fuel stations. As I jump out of car at pump there’s an almighty thud. Large, black dog has been run over by a local across the road. Everyone rushes to the dog’s aid. It’s making exceptionally loud noises, the like of which I’ve never heard from a living thing. Quite stomach churning. Alive but obviously such pain. Poor thing. Lots of people on phones. Assume they’re ringing the vet. It’s eventually put in a pick up and driven off. It’s wailing gradually getting quieter.

Ah ha. This fuel station has some sliced cheese for sale. That’ll make a change from jam.

Only about another 80km to Tecka but fill up anyway. Worst case should now have enough fuel to Bariloche, about 400km away. Only 4 pumps but one attendant. There’s a short  queue of only five cars for diesel as only one attendant attending. Time for a cheese baguette. The unadulterated joy of something that’s not bread and jam. A fresh baguette with cheese.

You don’t fill up yourself in Argentina. Still have fuel pump attendants. They’re great. Clean your windscreen too whilst fuel dispensed. Pay the man in cash and say, “Muito gracias.” To which he replies in cheerful English, “A pleasure!”. Makes you smile. Loving Argentina.

Very hot, bright blue sky and sunny. Can tell I’m heading north now. Roads are fabulous and fast. No traffic.

Approaching Esquel, the scenery thankfully changes to rugged snow capped mountains and forests. Just like driving in the Rockies.

The flat featureless plateau is no more. Twisty mountainous roads now. Esquel to El Bolson road is a bit bumpy in places and a few stretches of potholes and bits of missing road. More traffic now. First time I’ve had traffic this trip. Plenty of roadside signs pointing to holiday cabins and camping sites. Busy holiday area. El Bolson has a German influence and appears quite nice. I’ve been averaging 100-110km/hr all day, so think I only have another hour to Bariloche.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

This is slow going. Up and over the mountain pass. Too many vehicles. This is lakes and mountains territory. People driving slowly looking for a spot to park near the lakes. Like being in Austria. Very popular road. There’s a nice relaxed holiday feel to the place now. Drop down to Bariloche. I thought Bariloche was a nice place but entering the outskirts, it’s a bit of dump. A tarmac lorry and gang are shovelling tarmac into potholes as the lorry moves slowly forward. They let the cars driving over it do the compacting.

Minor diversion and end up driving down a narrow gravel dirt road towards the lake shore. Turn a corner and come face to face with the Bariloche tourist road train. A tight squeeze.

Taken 2hrs to do the final 100km. But my hotel is worth the wait. The Charming Luxury Hotel & Spa sits on the cliff side overlooking Lake Nahuel Huapi. View from room is sensational. It certainly has the wow factor.

Just what you need after a 820km drive in 9hrs.

And a beer.

22. 107 U2 Songs

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Sunday, 13 January 2019

Perito Moreno, Argentina

 

Same girl who checked me in, checks me out. Tells me that I’d better get used to the wind in Patagonia. She’s referring to me asking for another room as the silver birch branches were thrashing the roof and making a racket the first night. Tell her it’s not the wind noise that’s the problem. It’s the branches rubbing on roof. No, she says, it won’t be the branches. It’ll be the birds. Must be bloody big birds. No. It’s the branches. I know it’s the branches because I saw it happen. No, she says. Erm. Yes.

Long drive scheduled for 670km but actually do 705km to Perito Moreno, though only takes 8hrs. It’s all about fuel management today. Mr & Mrs Stuttgart warned of service stations with no fuel. Internet is awash with stories of service stations with no fuel along route 40. And if there is fuel, 2hr queues. Set off at 0830hrs. It’s a Sunday, so very quiet in El Calafate. I’d been told the local nightclub opens at 0100hrs and closes at 0600hrs. There was a time when I could do that. And then go to work for 0830hrs the same day. But I was young then. I now have to get up for a pee in the middle of the night at the time I used to get in. Middle age for you.

Pass sixteen vehicles in the first hour. That’s quite busy! First fuel stop is Tres Lagos, 160km north of El Calafate. Nearly drive past the service station. Only just realise as the car a few hundred metres in front brakes after the junction and does a three point turn. It’s set back from the road about 200m hidden by a few trees. Dinky little place and just two pumps but a lifeline. Drive past the police checkpoint and give him a cheery wave. He reciprocates. Loving Argentina. About 30km north of Tres Lagos, the tarmac stops. Now have 75km of gravel dirt road. Only just discovered this yesterday and thankful that I had. The first few hundred metres are a washboard. Oh. My. God. My. Teeth. Are. Chattering. Really bad road surface. This is going to take ages. Fortunately, it improves slightly and there’s a mix of deep gravel (where the rear end fish tails), light gravel, dried mud, washboard and large boulders to contend with. Notwithstanding, generally running at 60-80km/hr. Some places you can do 100km/hr, some places it’s 20km/hr. Despite that, make good progress and manage to drive the 75km length of gravel dirt road in 75mins, so 60km/hr on average. If I see a vehicle stopped, I stop and ask if everything is OK. Want them to remember the friendly gringo offering to help just in case I break down.

Bizarre how and why such a major road can be such exceptional quality for thousands of kilometres but they leave 75km in that state. Makes no sense. Shortly after returning to the tarmac road, the map is showing turn left to continue on route 40 but the main run of road continues on route 29 to Gobernador Gregores which is a detour off route 40. Turn on to route 40 and see why everyone is continuing on. It turns into a gravel dirt road again. Hmmm. Done enough offroading for one day. Return to route 29. Mr & Mrs Stuttgart had said that they fuelled up at Gobernador Gregores a few weeks ago and now I understand why. It’s the way to go.

Parched, brown flat landscape is like driving over the moors in the Derbyshire Peak District. As you approach Gobernador Gregores from the plateau you see this lush green oasis in the River Chico flood plain below you. Just like being in the desert. Beautiful green poplar trees line the streets and find the service station. 200km to Gobernador Gregores from Tres Lagos. Fill up.

Having bought food yesterday on the assumption that I would struggle to find food today, tuck into dried bread, jam and cheese flavoured Doritos. It’s a giddy existence. Slight logistical problem. Getting jam out of jar onto bread. Triangular Doritos do the trick. Classy. I know how to live.

Follow the road up to the plateau with the lush green flood plain below. Such a contrast between the brown and the green. Apart from the odd ‘Zona de Baches’ the roads are fast, sweeping and open. Great day’s drive. It’s 360km to Perito Moreno and have sufficient fuel to get me there but wary that there may be no fuel. Aim for Bajo Caracoles, 226km from Gobernador Gregores. A small rest stop. One fuel pump. Hmmm. Walk into café. A local sits at the coffee bar, dressed in black. Ask about fuel. He points to his cap on his shoulder and his gun in his holster. Ah. Police. He explains that there’s no fuel and that it’s 127km to Perito Moreno. I have three quarters of a tank full so should be OK. Unlike the poor motorcyclist who needs fuel but can’t go any further as they have none here. He’ll have to wait for a delivery.

Landscape changes colour about 40km from Perito Moreno to reds, golds and yellows. This is mining territory.

Perito Moreno like Gobernador Gregores. Lush green oasis in the desert. Find the YPF fuel station and fill up. 705km today. When I first looked at stopping here when doing some initial planning the main hotel that cropped up was the Belgrano. Fortunately, I’ve found a better one. Hotel Cuevas de las Manos. Named after the cave of hands nearby. This is where prehistoric man blew red dye over his hands on a rock face to leave handprints, though don’t have time to visit.

Have played my collection of U2 songs today. 107 songs to drive from El Calafate to Perito Moreno. It’s a beautiful day and many a time have seen no line on the horizon due to the mirages.

It’s Sunday evening. It’s 1930hrs. I’ve only had a jam sandwich all day and a bag of crisps. Somewhat hungry. Cheeky girls on reception suggest a few restaurants but they don’t open until 2000hrs. Not a problem. By the time I’ve wandered and stretched my legs it’ll be time. Americano Hotel restaurant is closed. Austral hotel restaurant has a group of tourists. Ask them if food is being served. They say they hope so. They’re waiting for the chef. It may be 2030hrs by the time he turns up. Try a café. They only have a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. Fellow tourist speaks English so translates for me. They recommend Chef Uno three blocks up and one block on the right. Wander off. It’s now 2020hrs. I’m in need of a beer and food now. Chef Uno is shut with no signs of life that it may be opening imminently.

Executive decision. Buy a beer from supermarket. Go back to hotel room. Have a jam sandwich with one of the left over bits of dried bread. Eat the other pack of cheesy Doritos. Eat some chocolate biscuits.

So. That’s it. Dinner. It’s a giddy existence.

That’s life.

Esther.

21. Fraudulent Activity

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Saturday, 12 January 2019

El Calafate, Argentina

 

Woken at 0200hrs by the silver birch branches banging on the corrugated iron roof of the hotel, just above my head, due to the high wind. Sounds like being in a tent and the wind buffeting it.

70km to Perito Moreno Glacier National Park. Entrance to National Park is a faff. Normal entrances would have a toll booth to pay directly at the gate and then go on your way. Not so here. Young female staff run up to your car window, take the money, run inside the office, collect your ticket and change, run back to car window to give said ticket and change. Reminiscent of Margo in The Good Life collecting runner beans. Not very efficient way of doing things.

Panoramic walkways and viewing points along the front of the glacier. It’s the third largest in the southern Patagonian Ice Field. 70m high in places and….wait for it…5km wide!! Puts the Pia Glacier to shame in Tierra del Fuego, I went to last week.

Loud rumble of thunder through the trees and I just catch a massive piece calving off the front. Wow. Very impressive but too quick to happen to capture the event on video.

1hr boat trip to the glacier face. Really close up now. Wow. The colours of blue are staggering and you begin to appreciate how compressed the ice at the bottom of the glacier is due to the mass of snow above.

Another loud rumble of thunder and this time I manage to capture the final few seconds of another calving (see video below). Sends a large tsunami washing towards our boat. Unbelievable experience seeing the glacier calve so close.

Have a 600km drive tomorrow, then an 800km drive the following day. Having read all sorts of horror stories about the road conditions, 70km of tomorrow is on gravel dirt road, 2hr queues for fuel at intermediate fuel stations which only take cash, and a general lack of life between El Calafate and Perito Moreno town, decide to stock up on emergency rations and water. It’s going to be a long two days.

Check credit card statement online. Oooeeerrr. Shed loads of fraudulent activity. First time ever in 25 years of having a credit card surprisingly. Spend half an hour trying to resolve. Upshot is existing card is now cancelled but they will only send new card to home address. Not good.

So. Anyone want to fly out to meet me with new credit card?