How Things are in Bongo!

How Things are in
Bongo!
A birding travelogue thru late 20 th century South
America (PART 1 OF THE EPIC TRILOGY
‘No worries, no problems, no comprende!)
Jonty Denton
Foreword
Why the name?? Well, the great prairie ecologist David Costello used to greet the new world
migrants returning to the wide open spaces of the north American prairie from a winter
spent in the southern new world with the greeting ‘How are things in Bongo? I always loved
this child like query. What hot and exotic places had these little bundles of feathers seen on
their epic journeys? Well in 1995 Wendy and I went to see for ourselves. Hope you enjoy.
Jonty Denton 2013
CHAPTERS
1. FLYING DOWN TO RIO.
2.INTO THE ARGENTINE
3.TRAVELLIN’ SOUTH!
4. THERE BE WHALES HERE!
5.back on the road… AGAIN!
6. PATAGONIAN PERAMBULATIONS
7.HOT CHILE
8.RUM AND RAISIN
9.HAPPY NEW YEAR
10. Onward, Upward and Outward!
11. ‘RAIN! RAIN! RAIN! I DON’T MIND!’
12. DOWNHILL ALL THE WAY
13. DOES ANYONE HERE SPEAK ENGLISH?
1 FLYING DOWN TO RIO.
Our feet had well and truly torn loose of their moorings, and our thoughts were mixed as
we said our goodbyes at Heathrow terminal 2, and went to check in for the short flight to
Paris, before the long haul to Rio de Janeiro. My mind had become a maelstrom of
anticipatory imaginations and the point of no return had been crossed. The giddy mix of
apprehension and expectation are key ingredients in the travellers psyche. After all, even the
if a trip turns out to be a disaster, or never gets off the ground, you still have (depending on
the planning phase) a font of imagined ‘memories’. These are a much under-rated part of
the exercise of living, second only to the real thing, and in some cases somewhat better. Let’s
face it, it only takes a minute or two to be under-whelmed by a famous landmark or some
such, but you spend many happy hours dreaming of how wonderful it would be to see it.
Alas photographers are very skilled at distorting your expectations with clever angles and
special lenses. You’re bound to have some disappointments, mainly I believe because daydreams are heavily biased toward the visual sense. Thankfully there are many places to
which the camera can never do justice, and the real world is far removed from the glossy
print in a magazine, or Survival documentary: For these cannot hope to reproduce the real
atmosphere of places like jungles and forests, where your ears and nose are as essential as
your eyes. My previous memories of places like rain forest are dominated by smells and
sounds. Here you can begin to understand what a dog must experience everyday, as you
move beneath the canopy through an olfactory bonanza of perfumes and pongs which drift
through the still damp air. Travels in the tropics also bring home to you just how quite the
nights are in Britain, and the incessant hum of cicadas, and the chirping of crickets really
are a shock to the ears of the average Brit. The best one might expect in Britain is the odd
chirp of a Dark Bush Cricket, or melancholy hoot of a Tawny Owl.
I was desperately trying to recall those wholesome natural smells as an antidote to the
dreadful stench of airports. The combination of aviation fuel and excessive squirting from
the duty free perfume counter seems to poison the air of all modern airports. I was pleased
when the display screen advised us to proceed to board our plane. At least we could get a
gulp of fresh air as wee marched up the gangway top the aircraft door.
We found our seats, Wendy had the window and I sat in the middle. The guy in the aisle
seat was obviously a reluctant flier, as he was unscrewing a very large bottle of malt
whiskey, and after several pulls he settled down and produced a musical score. It was a
guitar concerto, and he ran through the staves fingering an invisible fret-board, in what
was the most classical air-guitar I had an ever seen! One of the Italian terms was unfamiliar
to me, so I asked him what it meant.
‘Play with the thumb’, he replied.
I wasn’t aware classical guitarists lowered themselves to this but he assured me that it was
an occasional necessity. It turned out that he was living in Sao Paolo, and he had been back
in Britain to give a few recitals, and went to see his mother in Wales. It isn’t everyday you
meet a guitar virtuoso but although I didn’t know it at the time, I went to school with Two! I
asked him if he knew Bridget Upsom.
‘Yes, she used to go out with my flat mate and I’ve occasionally shared star billing with
her, how come you know her’, he asked.
‘Oh she used to do my harmony homework at Penrith Grammar School, and used to go
out with my best mate,’ I replied.
‘Crikey! Small world aye! He said.
‘You’re telling me’, I concurred. Incidentally if you’re wondering that same music class at
my old school (in which I was clearly the wooden top), included in its number one Ian Carr
widely regarded as one of the greatest folk guitarist of his generation. This extraordinary
output from the class of 1981 set me thinking, and the twenty years or so that had passed
rolled away.
Back in his teens young Mr.Carr was already something out of the ordinary, and even at
that tender age his virtuosity was already plain to see. For someone like me who always had
to work hard just to blast out a few tunes, he was the nearest thing I had seen to a musical
genius. He was also an oddball and caused much amusement amongst staff and pupils alike.
He was small and slim and wore wire-rimmed National Health glasses, which were known
as ‘John Lennon’s’. His most obvious characteristic was a Pythonesque walk, which was
simply extraordinary. He walked up on his toes and bounced along on desert boots with
every stride socks appearing piston like out from half -mast trousers. He actually served
science well as the physics master Mr.Black, alluded to Ian’s comical gait, when describing a
world without friction. His analogy went thus. ‘If there wasn’t friction you would slide
around like you were on ice, so walking would be impossible. You would have to put holes
in the pavement and attach pegs to one’s shoes and prance along like Ian Carr putting your
pegs purposefully in the holes’. This raised a titter, and sort of served its purpose, but might
partly explain why I never troubled the world of higher Physics!
Ian Carr loathed games as did several of his musical ‘hippy’ chums, who shunned ‘rugger’,
and were forced onto the soccer pitch, much to the games master‘s (euphemistically known
as ‘Uncle Brian’) chagrin. The soccer boys were all dammed in Brian’s eyes (despite the
school being county champions, thanks to the rugger lads being versatile, and a geology
teacher who new how to organise a soccer team), and it was simply a way of keeping them
out of his sight while the more sporty lads got stuck in on the top pitches. I was good at
games, but Uncle B and myself never really got on, and after being picked for a Saturday
game as a sub (as a sort of admonishment) behind obvious inferiors I made my feelings clear
and never played Rugby at school again. This was no hardship as I love soccer and was
something of a star especially amongst Ian and his cronies whose hearts weren’t in it at all,
especially in the invariably awful Cumbrian winter weather. I can remember them having
competitions to see who could find the most feathers (discarded by hungry gulls foraging
for worms on the muddy pitches). These where stuck into the John McEnroe style headbands
that were sort of in vogue with some lads back then. When the final shrill blast on the
whistle brought this ordeal to an end, Ian and his chums wouldn’t even lower themselves to
break into a trot to get out of the rain and a welcome shower. One day the ‘footie’ lads were
swallowed up by a stream of Rugger boys racing for the showers, and Ian complete with a
veritable ‘war bonnet’ was prancing purposefully down the hill to the changing rooms.
‘Uncle Brian’ was last down the hill and as he trotted past the unathletic, feather clad Ian; he
shouted ‘CAAARRR, you make me want to vomit’. I doubt if it had ever crossed this
particular games master’s mind, that all the boys at this particular school felt the same way
about him!
I remember telling my dad that I thought this insult a bit much, and that there really
should be more tolerance for the less sporty types, but I cannot be too hard on such
philistinism. Poor Ian was always in great demand from the various groups of lads
determined to become rock bands despite the handicap of having the musical ability of a
house brick. Even then he quickly became bored of thrashing out the intro to ‘Anarchy in
the UK’ despite our wide-eyed appreciation!
Uncle Brian was not usually short of sarcastic put downs for us boys, but an extraordinary
incident at the end of a games lesson, this time during the headlong charge for the changing
rooms after a summertime ‘athletics’ session, left Brian lost for words: Another Ian, this one
a tall gangly Vicar’s son called Scott, was carrying two metal shots back from the ‘field’ (is
there any more pointless bloody exercise than shot-putting, I mean to think some women
actually took so much testosterone they turned into blokes just to be world class at it!), when
he tripped and propelled a 5lb shot through the corner windows of one of the hut like
outbuildings. Miraculously despite a class being present the orb sailed through two panes
set at right angles leaving perfect round holes through both, without the slightest crack to
the surrounding glass. Everyone who witnessed the scene was speechless, but Scotty’s
embarrassment was not over as the shot had rolled on down the steep hill at the back of the
gym, and had enough momentum to take it half way into town. No-one was feeling
sympathetic and we all barged into the changing rooms and left him too it. Looking back I
still wonder if I dreamt this up, as it really was the most astonishing fluke I have ever seen,
the sheer clinical poetry of this pratfall was such that it did not raise a titter. Instead we
looked on in awe at a spectacle that Chaplin or Keaton would have been proud of, and
without doubt the greatest singular achievement in the history of shot-putting!
Memories, memories! My fellow passengers must have been wondering just what I was
laughing about as we began our descent into Charles de Gaulle. The Eifel Tower was all lit
up and made quite a spectacle as we circled to land.
We had two hours to kill until we could board our onward flight, and found one of those
TV areas, showing a French league soccer match, which we watched, but with little interest,
until the next programme which had Wendy in hysterics. Women’s pro wrestling from the
US was a first for her and she was keen to learn some new dirty tactics to try out on me
when I practice my Judo techniques out on her slim frame.
The night flight passed without incident and I even managed to get some sleep. Rio was a
real let down, largely due to low clouds and rain, not at all what I had imagined. We got a
taxi from the airport to the central bus station. The cab-driver was a real nasty piece of
work, and he tried to charge us $30 for a 10 minute ride, and reached for a pistol in the
glove box. Thankfully we had stopped in a crowded area, so it would have been hard to get
away with murder. I mentioned the Policia, so he dropped us off; cursing us in what was
obviously the crudest Portuguese.
Huge frigatebirds circled like Pterodactyls over the smelly docks, as we waited for the first
of our many buses. We were relieved to discover that all the coach companies forbid
smoking: They also had a sign that indicated that what was best described as ‘cuddling’ was
illegal whilst onboard. Thankfully the bus system in Brazil was pretty good and we found
our way to Itatiaia town which lies at the foot of mountains covered by some of the richest
forest in the World. Less than 5% of the Atlantic forests of Brazil remain, and the 12,000
hectares of Itatiaia National park represents the best of the dwindling remnants.
We climbed off the bus and hung around the town hoping to hitch a lift up into the forest.
The vehicles which passed along the busy road caused us much mirth, as we read the rather
bizarre and dubiously appropriate names applied to the various makes of car. Familiar
designs often bore unfamiliar names. I had read somewhere that Fiat had to change the
name of one of their popular makes before exporting them. Apparently Punto meaning
something rather rude in Portuguese! I am sure I have read that Vauxhall had problems in
Spain, as one of its makes translated as the Vauxhall No-go!
Despite investments in market research running into millions of dollars, Ford actually
tried to sell a car called the Ka SI, unsurprisingly no one wanted to drive around in a slang
term for a toilet no matter how sporty the performance!
The drivers of the ‘Bullet’ and ‘Rapido-International’ looked rather worried as the saw us
doubled up in hysterics as the passed by in motors that should have born the moniker ‘Bog-
standard!’
We were amazed to see brand new VW beetles and camper-vans; obviously these trusty
old makes were back in production again or else never went out. It was a Volkswagen pickup that finally carried us up into the park. The young couple dropped us off at a small hotel,
bizarrely known as the Hotel Elephant. The grounds of this establishment doubled as a camp
ground. Foolishly we hadn’t brought much food with us, so for the next week we got
through the days on starvation rations, before pigging out on a massive evening nosh up at
the hotel café. The lady who ran the joint put up sugar water feeders for the hummingbirds,
which thronged around the plastic flowers that surrounded the nozzles, squabbling and
chasing each other. By late afternoon large numbers of small sweat bees congregated
around the sticky outlets, so the feeders were removed before the insects could bother the
evening customers. The hummers still reappeared, hovering hopefully where the feeders
had been. In frustration they zipped around looking for a late drink, even investigating the
red salt cellars on the tables. It wasn’t everyday that you could have your meal cooled by
such an exotic fan! Several different species came to the feeders, ranging from large black
and White Jacobins, to tiny Frilled Coquettes which looked like large emerald coloured
bumble –bees. On one occasion the four nozzles on the feeders were attended by four
different species, but only four a second or two, as the continual squabbling meant that only
the briefest sips could be taken before the next thirsty gem shouldered its way in.
The TV set next door to the café area was never switched off, and in the evenings attracted
a gaggle of locals who stared intently at a diet of abysmal soap operas, regularly punctuated
with advertisements which invariably featured scantily clad ladies. The exception was a
trailer for the upcoming Copa America soccer match with arch-rivals Argentina. This ad
really rubbed it in, with an action packed sequence of yellow shirted stars like Romario and
Careca whacking in goal after goal against the Argies. The assembled audience cheered
riotously whenever this goal-fest appeared, which was pretty frequently. Clearly you can
never see enough goals against the boys in blue and white!
The Forest trails were fantastic with wildlife a plenty. Every plant seemed to be under
attack from hordes of at least one kind of gorgeous metallic beetle, and the puddles which
formed rapidly after the frequent downpours invariably contained a huge chafer or
fabulous iridescent Jewel beetle either drowned or struggling to escape this fate.
There is a clear daily rhythm controlled largely by the strength of the sun. Birds and
mammals are very much more active around dawn and late in the afternoon, but the chorus
of bird song falls away with the growing heat. The middle of the day can be a very
frustrating time for bird watching, and you can search for hours seeing little action, except
the odd lonely flycatcher perched quietly in the mid-canopy, which may occasionally sally
forth after a passing butterfly or fly.
Action can come thick and fast if you are fortunate enough to come across a feeding flock.
These are manna from heaven and worth following as long as possible. An incredible variety
of birds put any differences they might have aside and move through the forest together,
each specialising in a slightly different feeding niche. Some, such as woodpeckers and
woodcreepers (which mostly look like treecreepers but are often the size of a Green
woodpecker) forage on the tree trunks, probing the bark with long beaks. Various birds pick
amongst the foliage, whilst the ground floor is rifled by a number of birds that toss leaves
and debris about like grannies searching for bargains at a jumble sale. The problem with
these aggregations is choosing what to look at first, for they move rapidly and restlessly. It
can be very frustrating and a small Dictaphone is useful for barking descriptions of the
various species into, before they disappear. These are a remarkable aid memoir, and I
occasionally play the tapes back whilst driving along in my car. The sounds and descriptions
are amazingly evocative and I can almost relive some episodes simply from this audio cue.
A rather sneaky way of seeing birds that prefer to keep amongst thick cover (‘real skulkers’
in birding parlance) is ‘pishing’, which plays on the inquisitiveness of our feathered friends.
They seem to be attracted to certain sounds such as kissing noises and ‘tick-tick’ sounds.
Sucking the back of the hand with pursed lips often has the desired effect, especially with
small warblers. More devious still is ‘tapeing’, which involves recording snatches of song on
a tape recorder and playing them back to the singer. This can have a dramatic effect and on
more than one occasion the hoodwinked songster hurtled out of the tangle heading straight
for what it took to be a rival singer, almost parting my hair as it sped past looking somewhat
bewildered. Both these techniques should be employed sparingly especially near breeding
birds, which have better things to do than chase bogus intruders out of their territories.
Snakes were also common, especially where the trails crossed streams. We passed close to
a huge grey viper coiled near a path. It was close to sloughing its skin and thankfully for us
temporarily blinded by the opaque dead eye-cover. Within yards we halted sharply to let a
coral snake pass. It was a beautiful serpent with red, black and white hoops. There is a
mnemonic rhyme which tells you whether the snake is deadly, or merely a harmless mimic,
but not one that you can afford to get wrong too often. In the end I think that this one had
‘red against black and was a friend to jack’, therefore a false coral snake, but I wasn’t about
to put my memory to the test. This serpent abundance had us treading carefully, and
studiously zipping up our tent, but it turned out to be a local glut, as we saw more snakes
here in a day than we did in the next three months.
Along one leafy track bathed in dappled sunlight, I noticed a slight movement up ahead, so
ran to investigate. It was the largest toad I had ever seen (which might not sound like much,
except that I had been studying toads for the previous decade and seen some whoppers),
hopping slowly and deliberately. I picked it up and found that I could nearly get both hands
around her ample girth, for she was a large lady toad, and a real Lindo Senhora, with
exquisite greenish eyes and her dry warty skin was patterned with black and ochre patches.
She sat stoically in my hands for a while before launching herself off to resume her
wanderings. We cursed for not having a camera with us, but later found that she had many
equally sizeable relatives much closer to civilisation.
The largest hotel along the road into the park had a huge 50m outdoor swimming pool and
we found a pair of these giant ‘Sapos’ (toads) spawning in the shallow end! The male was an
olive green colour and chuckled indignantly when fished him out with his lady friend, who
was patterned like the toad on the path, and looked like she belonged to the same Bufo or
true toad species. The pool hadn’t been cleaned out for a while and a variety of tadpoles,
bugs and water beetles swam amongst the leaf litter. Dragonflies skimmed over the surface
and pairs flying in tandem laid eggs in the water. I collected a few of the beetles and one
turned out to be new to science, my friend Dr.Adriana Oliva named it maragaritus (pearly).
That evening we found that a small female toad was living in a low wall right next to the
entrance of our tent, doing a splendid job intercepting ants attempting to enter our abode.
The place was a herpetologist’s paradise!
On one particularly hot morning we followed a well worn trail which eventually emerged
at a spectacular water fall with a large clear plunge pool where two youths were swimming
and splashing. I watched with amazement as they climbed up the sides of the cascade with
the aid of a large rope. The rock face was smooth and slippery thanks to the spray from the
main fall, and the rope had obviously been placed there so people could avoid premature
plunges into the foam. Once at the top they edged out to the cusp of the drop, where the
water ran down a near vertical, smooth rock to the pool some 10m below. Eventually after
much goading, the first lad gingerly sat on the edge, then slid down the face with alarming
speed disappearing into the foaming white whirlpool below. To our relief he reappeared and
swam over top where we were basking. I gave him a hand out, and as he emerged to look
back at his buddy, who let out an apache war cry as he dropped. The crazy duo then
disappeared into the jungle only to emerge high above us on a rock ledge. After several false
starts they hurled themselves into oblivion, their wild yells ending in a resounding smack as
they hit the water at high but thankfully not terminal velocity! The y took slightly longer to
swim across to us this time and were breathing hard as we pulled them out more from
adrenalin rush than real physical exertion. As they set off for another go they nodded their
heads in the direction of the ledge. This was a clear invitation to join them, and I had
obviously been sitting in the sun too long, as I sprang to my feet and scrambled up through
the trees. I emerged first onto the ledge: My goodness it was a long way down, but before my
brain had chance to engage, my legs took over and I was plummeting pool-ward. The water
was surprisingly cold, and I emerged wide eyed and shivering. Wendy just shook her head
as she helped me out. ‘ You’re bloody mad’, she scoffed.
The boulders were very hot and I was soon warmed up again, but it was clear that the
mad duo had their eyes set on a further assault on the waterfall. They set off up the rope,
and this time I followed. I edged out to the top of the fall, sitting in the shallow but rapid
flow of the stream which had cut a semi-circular groove. I looked down the sheet of water
which clung to a slightly ribbed precipice. I could feel these ribs as I dropped, but the water
prevented them from causing much damage, and it’s a virtual freefall. Wendy said my entry
wouldn’t have got many marks for style. I was just glad that I could swim away from the
whirlpool which had a strong back current. It was hardly death defying but it was certainly
the craziest thing I’d done at the time, and my adrenalin rush certainly gave me an appetite!
Wendy sensibly restricted herself to a leisurely swim around the pool, and on emerging
attracted a huge blue butterfly that sipped at her drying clothes with a long watch spring
like tongue. This incredible creature could fly so slowly that it could turn within its own
wingspan, and accomplished this manoeuvre in seemed to be extra slow –motion.
This week in Itatiaia had been a great introduction to the continent and we had grown
accustomed to the heat and brightness. However Brazil was incredibly expensive as we had
arrived just after the introduction of the ‘Real’ (pronounced like Madrid’s great football
team), a new currency tied to the US Dollar. Had we been here a year or two before our
dollars would have bought several local units
(At one time nearly 20!), as it was they were now actually worth slightly less than a Real!
We decided to shorten our stay in this vast land and journeyed south via Sao Paolo, a city of
staggeringly immense proportions. The bus terminal being no exception being a mind-
bogglingly huge, two decked affair with hundreds of platforms which seemed constantly in
use. The departure hall thronged with thousands of people, but was surprisingly well
ordered. We got a connecting bus to Iguazu on the border with Argentina to the south, and
set off through the rush hour traffic. Despite making pretty rapid progress it still seemed to
take for ever just to get out of town. We passed the compound for Mercedes Benz trucks and
it took over ten minutes to skirt this alone. A large construction site thronged with dinosaur
like machinery which was erecting a line of grandstands and floodlights. What sort of sport
could such a stadium be for? I pondered Drag-racing? I pointed it out to a passenger and he
responded to my quizzical expression by pretending to strum a guitar, ‘Carnival’ he replied.
Of course this was Brazil’s obsession and the procession could be routed along this avenue
and admired in comfort. Alas this seemed a somewhat inappropriate luxury in a city with
millions living and dying on the streets.
The rapidity of this metropolis’s growth is truly frightening to read about, but seeing it at
first hand, and in the rush hour was both daunting and disturbing. Surely this cannot be
sustained, and we were glad that our stay was a brief one. After an all-night drive we
arrived in Iquazu by mid morning where the heat was a knockout. Thankfully the
guesthouse we plumped for had a small swimming pool, and we cooled off with dip.
Several countries claim to have the largest waterfall in the world, using various weasely
criteria for largest: flow rate, pitch of fall etc. My criteria are that the largest falls are the
ones I’ve seen which claim the title! The awesome cascades of Foz Iguacu form a natural
border between Brazil and the Argentine, and are one of nature’s most dramatic wonders, a
real tour de Force which mere words cannot hope to convey. They feature in the film ‘The
Mission’ the thing with Robert ‘coffees good also’ De Niro, which I confess to not having
seen (although I wouldn’t be surprised if he says this sort of catch-phrase in it). Anyway you
must have seen the trailer at least which shows some poor crucified soul being thrown over
the chasm.
You approach the falls along a road cut through tall forest, and the first hint of the
magnitude of the spectacle awaiting you, can be seen high over the canopy of trees. A giant
plume of spray rises over a 110m above the greatest single semi-circular drop,
appropriately names ‘Garganta del Diablo’ (Devil’s Throat). The perpetual roar carries for
miles around and as you get near the very ground shakes beneath your feet. The cascades
area spread over several kilometres, and you can explore them along a complex of
walkways. These are patrolled by numerous agile lizards that continually chase after each
other.
The visitors are welcomed off the bus by one of the cutest of mammals, the fabulous
Coatamundi, which looks like a sort of pick n’ mix animal. It has a long ringed tail
reminiscent of a lemur’s and it seems to serve a similar purpose keeping the family groups
in visual contact. The face is long ending in a big like nose with flattened end ideal for
digging and snuffling. Their feet are very badger like, but this doesn’t stop them climbing
with aplomb. They move around in troops, keeping together with sharp whistled contact
calls, which initially had this birdwatcher scanning the bushes for some secretive avian! The
hordes of sight-seers and their food and litter have desensitised and attracted these critters,
which now appear out of the jungle at the first sound of a hold hall or backpack being
unzipped. Wendy and I stopped for a snack, and duly attracted a crowd of hungry
Coatamundis snuffling around and to do runner with our rucksacks. We shared some of our
biscuits with them, and then tried to pet them. One young fellow was a real lounge lizard,
and as Wend stroked his back, his eyes rolled in ecstasy, with is mouth agape in a
Coatamundi smile showing rows of sharp white teeth. Later we met a very hungry looking
female whose numerous swollen teats, indicated that she was foraging to feed a large litter.
Clearly this task had made her desperate, and she pestered all-comers. Her nose quickly
sniffed out Wendy’s backpack, and a lapse in concentration cost us a bunch of bananas. She
managed in less than 20 seconds to get inside the sack through a tight drawstring, remove
the bag of bananas and strip them out of their skins. Talk about fast food!
Incredibly swifts nest behind the falls, flipping sideways as they approach to pass through
the thinner parts of the cascade. The ease with which these delicate birds kept comings and
goings seemed miraculous. How could such fragile bodies withstand the unimaginable
weight of water? But survive they do, darting around amongst the spray rainbows, their
screaming cries all but drowned out by the tumult.
A host of raptors circled lazily above the falls. Vultures and hawks drifted in and out of the
mist that provided welcome relief from the heat. Back in Iguazu town the thermometers had
shown a wilting 42° C, and it was scarcely cooler here. Away from the falls just walking
became a real task.
The whole area has a cosmopolitan feel, resulting from the cross-fertilisation of three
cultures. The border controls between Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina have a relaxed and
welcoming feel whichever direction you’re passing. Maybe it’s just too hot to get upset about
things. The border guards chatted together and one lot stamped you out of one country
before tossing your passport to their mates in different uniforms to stamp you into the next.
The whole are is pretty prosperous and tourism is big business. However some of the
attractions are a little bizarre. You can go on jungle ‘safaris’, which mean you get into a
camouflage painted open backed lorry, and get bounced around for an hour. The roar of
the engine ensures that the nearest wildlife will be well out of sight before you arrive. We
followed one of these trails on foot and saw dozens of birds, a myriad of butterflies, and
several agoutis (large rodents reminiscent of small deer). After the truck passed all fell silent.
I’m sure we were the only mammal seen by the customers on that safari, and the only
Lepidoptera they saw were squashed against the radiator grill. Rainforest doesn’t yield its
treasures so easily, and quiet progress on foot is the best way to take in the endless variety of
sights, sounds and smells. So don’t be conned, spend the cash on a good insect repellent and
explore by Shank’s Pony!!
2. INTO THE ARGENTINE
We crossed the border and were immediately greeted by a rather unusual road sign; it’s a
dark blue square with a white map of the Falklands, with the epigram: ‘Le malvina Son
Argentina’ (The Falklands belong to Argentina), I don’t know if it features in the driving test,
indeed I’m not even sure if they have such a thing, but it is very common the length and
breadth of the land.
We explored the other side of the falls before heading south into the sub-tropical provinces
of Corrientes and Misiones.
Perhaps the most striking difference between Brazil and Argentina (except the language) is
the racial mix. Brazil has an extraordinarily diverse multi-ethnic Populus, which to the
outsider at least appears to be well integrated. However once across the frontier we didn’t
see a single person of African extraction, a contrast which cannot be completely explained
away through historical differences. The true explanation is probably far more sinister. The
native Indians have fared little better, and were cleared from the pampa during wars
between 1879-83; those that remain are concentrated in the sparsely populated regions of
the Chaco and in the mountains in the North –West. I guess these people wished that
Columbus had made a wrong turn back in 1492.
I didn’t get on very well with Argentinian plumbing, indeed anyone trying to track us
down, simply had to follow the trail of broken lavatories left in our wake. Not tha I’m a
vandal or anything, it’s just that the average Argie bog is not up to the job. The hotel cisterns
are often activated by tugging on piddling little bits of string, instead of sturdy chains. I
managed to break four in a row in the North, either having the string come loose in my
hand, or else the whole mechanism collapsing with a clatter, resulting in a perpetually
filling tank.
At one campsite the lavies were of those weird squat-hole types, but at least they had
sturdy if somewhat rusty chains. Unfortunately the whole system was made out of cast iron
and the flushing rim had rusted up somewhat, restricting the outflow. As a result a pull on
the chain resulted in an eruption of water akin to the parting of the Red Sea, flooding the
entire cubicle. The torrent came at incredible speed, and there was no chance of getting out
in time. The only solution was to pull the chain whilst simultaneously leaping up onto the
top of the door. Here you held on for dear life until the water subsided. I couldn’t resist
listening out when Wendy went for her first sortie, and the yelps of anguish that followed
had me in hysterics. I hadn’t recovered as she emerged looking rather shocked.
‘You knew, you rotten sod, and you didn’t let on’, she squealed indignantly.
I tried to keep a straight face.
‘Pretty lethal, aye!’
Wend just tut-tuted and stomped off chuntering, ‘Stupid fool’.
The next port of call was the Ibera Marshes, the countries largest wetland. The whole area
covers 20,000km², and lies within a shallow basin which contains the rains, filling large
lakes and flooded grasslands. The drier areas are grazed by cattle, whilst feral buffalo
wallow in the wet.
Much of the country is flat and pretty dull, dominated by grass and ubiquitous Hereford
cattle. Most British farmers may have shunned this handsome breed for faster growing
European types, but the Argentinian farmers stick with these hardy adaptable beasts. Indeed
these handsome animals ought to be the national emblem, for its meat has been the
foundation of the economy for over a century.
The huge ranches that divide up the pampas are still largely patrolled from horseback, and
the gauchos that perform this task are a proud race of men, with a distinctive uniform
which sets them apart from the crowd. The wide brimmed sombrero isn’t as dramatic as the
Mexican variety, but it is worm tilted slightly forward, and invariably held in place with a
string. The real trademark is the belt, which is a splendid broad lather affair, adorned with
various ornaments, and more useful items; knives, tobacco pouches, and one of those tools
for getting stones out of horse’s hooves that nobody ever uses on a Swiss army knife. This is
clearly the ultimate status symbol for men who shun the automobile, and the older,
wealthier ranchers wore great bejewelled girdles around their midriffs, he weight of which
seemed to emphasise their bow-legged stance.
They all have drainpipe trousers which
cover the uppers of winkle-picker boots.
These guys seemed uneasy and self-conscious during these occasional forays into town for
provisions, and looked like they had been forced to go by wives after days of hen-pecking.
Nevertheless you can’t help but be impressed when one of these splendid figures climbs of
the bus with his shiny spurs jingling!
The years of toil beneath the sun is etched on their dark leathery complexions and most
wore a carefully trimmed pencil moustache. Our bus ride out of Mercedes to Ibera was slow
and dusty, and there were frequent stops as the various vaqueros alighted at the gates of
their Estacions. Some had not inconsiderable walks from the road to a distant farmstead
nestling among a small knot of trees, with the mandatory wind-pump turning in the breeze.
They all waved as the bus departed, and the other gauchos clearly envious of their
neighbours earlier arrival home, shouted ribald comments mixed with warm cries of ‘adios
amigos’. I wished I could understand these jibes, but I guess they were much like farm talk
back home, grouses about previous dodgy purchases of mad bulls and lazy horses , you
know the sort of thing I mean.
Our bottoms were numb and our legs barely working as we retrieved our dust coated
rucksacks from the leaky hold of the ancient bull-nosed Mercedes. The campsite was
already a hive of activity with lots of girls busying around various tents and boys wrestling
and juggling footballs.
We found a space beneath a small tree and unpacked our humble abode. A gang of youths
came over to say hello, and all wanted to know how and why two intrepid English people
had landed out here in the middle of nowhere. They were obviously convinced that we were
lost. They were from a school in Mercedes, having a final year celebratory bivouac. One lad
had a smattering of English, and a pot-bellied teacher who introduced himself. ‘He-lo, e-ye
a-m Raoul’ had even less. His charges preferred to call him ‘Guts’ for an obvious reason, but
I explained that Paunch was our slightly more gentile word for his pendulous abdomen. I’m
sure I started a fashion, and I have a feeling that many more children will come to call him
‘Ponch’ without the slightest clue why! He was a good sport and refereed all the sporting
activities with aplomb. He occasionally joined in but quickly tired. Football is king in
Argentina, and the lads played whenever the temperature was bearable (morning and
evening). They regularly beckoned me over to their games, but on the first day I had to
decline, as my boots had rubbed my heels sore. However the next day saw me apply plasters
and show them how it should be done, well almost. They were all very useful players and I
had to tear around the pitch to keep up, but they seemed fairly impressed, and christened
me ‘Georgi Bets’ (Raoul clearly remembered the Irish maestro in his more hirsute days).
Eventually to my relief the game petered out, I was absolutely knackered and wandered over
to the volleyball game which the girls and less-athletic lads were playing with some gusto.
They insisted I play, and threw me the ball. I knocked a serve over the net, which they
dismally failed to return. The gathering group of onlookers erupted in cheers and whistles. I
was embarrassed but couldn’t turn any redder that the soccer exertions had left me. I
continued to serve, and they continued to miss it, a touch of side spin (perhaps English was
more appropriate in the Americas) doing the trick. By now the crowd was chanting ‘georgiBest, georgi-Best’, to my acute chagrin, as I knew my luck would run out anytime soon.
Raoul insisted on restarting after each point with a sharp peep on his whistle. I had got
carried away and launched another serve before the appropriate signal. Raoul gave an extra
shrill and blandished an imaginary yellow card. This pantomime was carried out with such
delicious phoney authority, that I doubled up in hysterics. I eventually regrouped and we
won the game, which had got very hard to score in the rapidly failing light.
The lush grass which provided such good surfaces for sport and sun-bathing, doubled up
after dark as grazing for the largest of all rodents. Our first encounter with one of these
giants was memorable. Wendy pointed to a large brown lump amongst the bushes. ‘Look
there’s a Capybara’.
‘No it isn’t, it’s a rock, isn’t it?’ to my acute embarrassment the rock looked up. It’s haughty
expression reflecting Wendy’s smug look. The females were the size of a young sow, and of
a similar build. They are amphibious and swim well, and were regularly to be seen crossing
large expanses of open water in search of pastures new, making steady progress without
disturbing the surface. The eyes, ears and nostrils are all perched on the top of the head, so
they have all their senses available when in the water without showing too much to would
be predators. This arrangement gives them a strangely imperious look, but at Ibera they
were quite approachable. And one female who had two youngsters, would even let you
stroke her. Actually the Capybara is a fish, at least for religious and culinary purposes. The
Catholic Church deemed it as such so the converted native peoples could enjoy their
favourite nosh on Good Friday!
One book describes Colonia C. Pellegrino as a town, which is something of an
exaggeration for a few widely scattered houses and a shop. It grew as a stopover at the
crossing point, but not very much. The ‘shop’ was rather like the cheese shop in the Monty
Python sketch for it didn’t have much for sale. This was a problem as we had limited rations
and no bottled water. We had to resort to the stuff that came out of the taps. This was
obviously drawn straight from the lake, and reminded me of Rudyard Kipling’s poem
‘Gunga Din’, ‘he gave me half a pint of water green, it was crawling and it stank’…etc, etc.
This stuff was dreadful and not improved by the addition of chlorine tablets. It had to be
drunk with the nostrils firmly pinched shut between thumb and fore-finger. The after taste
induced facial contortions that Phil Cool would have been proud of.
Nowadays the lake is traversed by a long rickety wooden bridge surfaced with planks, and
the vehicles which occasionally crossed made a far-carrying rattle, like a drum roll. The
bridge had put the local ferry out of business, but the ancient paddle steamer ‘Ivera’ could
still be seen ‘alone in it’s glory’ half submerged at her old moorings. She made a melancholy
site with the waves lapping against her rusting hull, her only passengers now were lines of
cormorants that stood around the stove pipe chimney, drying their wings in the sun. The old
mooring posts made good vantage points for the local kingfishers, and in the space of an
hour we watched the three local species take their turn, each specialising in fish of
appropriate size. The giant Ringed Kingfisher stoops on quarry that an angler would be
proud of, whilst the Amazon, and Green look very much alike except that the later is a
miniature replica of the former, darting after tiny tiddlers, that the Amazon usually shuns
Thus the three species can coexist, and only squabble over the best perching sites. Unlike
our familiar species these are largely green birds.
So there we were, as far away from the hustle and bustle as you could be. The afternoon
heat was oppressive and a siesta was the order of the day. The caretaker at the modest visitor
centre appeared to have only one tape for his stereo, but it was of the most agreeable Piano
Accordion music, much favoured by the older folks in these parts. The flowing, lilting
melodies carried out from under the shade and mingled with the background hiss of the
insects, and the soothing sound of the breeze in the reeds. We lay dozing but always with
one ear alert for a different song or call. A loud chattering cacophony came from the nearby
swamp. We hauled ourselves up and trotted over to the reeds, where two handsome thrush
like birds clambered up the stalks scolding each other with explosive bursts of song. As I ran
for my binoculars, I was surprised to see a small car pull up. An American voice cried out,
‘Say are you a birder’. I nodded. ‘Have you seen the Black-capped Donacobius, we really
wanna see the Black-capped Donacobius’.
‘I think I’ve just seen one and I’m going for my bins’, I gasped. The lady looked sceptical,
but I ushered them round to the appropriate spot and there they were, still in full view.
‘Gee will y’ look at that, D-o-n, aint that somethin’. We all admired these gorgeous
normally skulking songsters, which are also called (and with good reason) ‘Laughing-
thrushes’, before they all to soon disappeared back into the swaying sea of rush and reed.
Our American friends were over the moon, especially when I explained just how lucky they
had been. This was our only sighting in four days and their timing was exquisite, as they
could only stay for an hour, before heading back to Mercedes! Don had been distracted by
something and wandered off, while I chatted with Eileen his wife, when he returned we
asked him what he’d been watching?
‘Oh, it’s one of those White Woodpeckers’, he replied casually.
‘Wh-a-a-t! We’ve been looking everywhere for one of those, were is it? I spluttered.
‘He’s dozin’ in the sun up in yonder dead tree’. He drawled, with the matter of factness of
someone who’s already seen several White Woodies before!
Incredibly our new Californian friends had returned the favour, as with the Donacobius,
we never saw another of White ‘Woody’ at Ibera. Fortunately Don wasn’t exaggerating and
the incredible pied bird clung motionless to the tree. It is one of the most striking of the 200
plus woodpeckers in the World, and the only one that is predominantly white. It has
chocolate coloured wings, back and tail, and the male has small yellow patches on the nape
and belly. Even the Iris is white, but only the male has the thin brown line connecting each
eye with the brown on the back.
‘Say are you guys ‘ossies?’, enquired Don.
‘Australian!?’
‘Hell no, we’re English,’ I replied already slipping into my first Americanism.
‘Pack it in’, whispered Wend, retaining her smile. ‘You’re beginning to sound like John
Wayne!’
‘Funny, I kinda thought you looked like ‘ossies’, I guess it’s your hats’. Meandered Don,
sounding far from convinced. They weren’t alone in thinking we were antipodeans, indeed
even in Australia we got accused of being natives by every Yank we met! In fact the
inability to pronounce ‘Aussies’ seems endemic amongst Americans. Indeed in many dialects
their feeble attempts would be interpreted as ‘Are you horses’? This malaise even effects the
normally excellent voice-over artists on ‘The Simpsons’ who are equally hopeless, just listen
to the likes of ‘Rupert Murdoch’ and the like who sound more like Lloyd Grossman than
Paul Hogan!
The coolest bird at Ibera is the only bird in the world that sounds like a piece of carpentry;
The Giant Wood rail, looks like a long billed Moorhen on ‘acid’, with perpetually twitching
tail. They were regularly to be seen strutting around the camp site, raiding the bins, before
pegging it into the reeds with lumps of fat and stale bread. Their gait is ultra-comical, with
great stiff legged strides. One evening I walked along the road to listen for distant calls of
Nightjars. A woodrail which had been poking about near the highway, started to shadow
me. As I walked forward he ran along to keep in front, repeatedly making his weird
clanging call. His noisy attentions weren’t welcome, so I turned and ran back along the road.
He responded by paralleling my move. I clapped my hands and tried vainly to shake him off,
but he was a persistent customer. He always tried to keep ahead, sheepdog fashion, and only
stopped his antics when I left the tree lined part of the road. He obviously felt vulnerable
away from any cover and finally beat a retreat. However when I returned some minutes
later he lay in wait, and resumed his vindictive antics. I really felt threatened and with good
reason, for he would ultimately exact his revenge. Next day we left some of our provisions,
fruit, cakes etc., in the shade of a tree, but on our return found only crumbs and wrappers, a
trail of orange peel lead to the nearest clump of reeds. We cannot be sure of the culprit, but
‘woody’ did seem to have more of a swagger in his ungainly step than usual when we next
saw him!
Open marsh and ditches line the road, where small caiman bask on the banks. These
little crocodiles looked more cute than fearsome, but it did leave us wondering if larger
relatives were at large in the lakes. A small herd of feral buffalo wallowed in a wet spot near
the highway, and as we passed they lifted their huge horns aloft, the bull snorted and waved
his head from side to side menacingly .Our pace quickened markedly and Wend quietly
manoeuvred herself behind me. They didn’t move much, but we didn’t hang around as we
passed them on our return. They were doubtless made short work of the fences.
The ranchers deliberately started grass fires which burn off the coarser tussocks,
encouraging more palatable fresh growth for their cattle. These smoulder on for days,
erupting briefly here and there as large tussocks catch light. They cast palls of smoke over
huge areas of the pampas, and hawks and flycatchers follow the flames, stooping onto
fleeing crickets and the like. A walk across the open fields in these parts puts one in mind of
cowboy country in more ways than one, for a sound exactly like the ricocheting bullet
‘peeeeeoooooiiiiinnnnngggg’, noise much favoured in western shootouts, can be heard all
around. Its made by a tiny finch, that indulges in a strange yo-yoing display flight,
repeatedly climbing on busy wings, before plummeting earthward whilst making this
bizarre noise. Drab pipits also cavort in display flights, parasoling down in full song, just
like the Meadow counterparts in Britain. It’s interesting how bird display varies between
habitats, with open ground species frequently resorting to territorial song-flights which
involve lots of climbing and descending. Without perches it is the best way of showing
neighbours you’re around. Others have males with long elaborate tails which they trail in
low flights above the grassland to entice a mate. Specialisation of this kind is best shown in
nocturnal birds, to which colours are useless. They resort to distinct far carrying calls, and a
few nightjars use shape as a means of attracting the right mate. Some males have white
wing patches or trail elaborate pennants and streamers, which show up well against a
moonlit sky. The calls of three different nightjar species could be heard each night at Ibera,
along with weird wavering whistled cry of the Tropical Screech Owl.
A rickety home-made ladder reached into the canopy of one of the larger trees near the
campground. This afforded superb views of the surrounding plain to those brave enough to
scale it. From this giddy height the true size of Lake Ibera became apparent, as it stretched
away to the horizon. Long winged harriers drift over the vast areas of reed marsh, and a
multitude of various fowl pick around nervously on the muddy flats. The swamp is home to
one of nature’s noisiest creatures, the aptly named Southern Screamer. These are large
turkey-like birds with crests, and un-webbed feet. They patrol the fields and marshes, and
their calls can be heard over3km away. Many pairs had young in November, and the doting
parents jealously guarded their stripe brown chicks. In case you’re wondering, yes there is
an equally noisy Northern Screamer, and the family is completed by the splendid Horned
variety, whose call is supposed to sound like ‘John Gomez, what do you eat? Worm, Worm!’
only in screamer Spanish!
On the way back from the ladder tree, we searched through some of the denser scrub,
which kept knocking my hat off. I continued on ahead and brushing past a low leafy branch
felt a very firm tap on my temple. Seeing me pawing at my head, Wendy asked what was
wrong.
‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I’ve just been attacked by a praying mantis,’ turning
to scrutinise the branch, I came eye to eye with a surprisingly small mantid that certainly
punched well above its weight. It was a veritable giant killer, for as I nosed up for a closer
look; it flicked me a stinging blow right on the end of my hooter! I reeled back but it just
twisted its head defiantly, as if to say there’s plenty more where that came from!’ I have no
idea how I knew that had happened, either good field craft anticipating that it was a likely
spot for a good ambush predator, or maybe I saw it subconsciously. Either way I wasn’t at all
surprised that I was correct, weird!
A number of elegant pampas deer visited the campsite to graze on the lush grass, and their
friskiness indicated that a rut might be in progress. A loud bellowing noise emanated from
the woods in the morning and evening, and I took this to be the calls of the bucks. How
wrong can you be? Next day a group of the youths asked if we wanted to see who was
making the noise. As we followed them into the trees, their upward glances gave the game
away, I aped an ape, and they nodded ‘si, si’. Deer my foot, it was Howler monkeys we
sought after. In fact I was truly shocked to find that this entire din came from one small
black male, no bigger than a cocker spaniel. We found him with a troupe of two females
with babies, and an adolescent, who looked very different, with yellowy-white fur. His
distended throat bulged to grapefruit size as he roared, making a sound like a dozen grizzly
bears with the belly ache. The lads bellowed back, which only encouraged him to still more
deafening volume. He also proceeded to urinate on one of the youths who had strayed into
the line of fire, his hasty retreat causing great amusement. The male eventually fell silent
and proceeded to rub his throat on a forked branch. He was obviously scent-marking, but
he took no notice of us, as he repeatedly smeared the branch with saliva, and scent.
Eventually he moved off and quickly caught up with his family. The woodland in which
they dwelt was separated from the next by wide expanses of water or open grassland.
Without any immigration of new blood, they must have been vulnerable to inbreeding.
We arrived back in Mercedes, only to find that the next bus to Buenos Aires didn’t set off
until the next morning the hotels in town were all dingy and expensive, so after much
deliberation we decided to wait until dark-fall, and camp on a piece of waste ground behind
the terminal. Sleep wasn’t easy as some sort of local drum group practised with manic gusto
nearby, hammering away for ages. Later a train came through town, clattering slowly over
the ill-kept track, with the driver pulling manfully on the horn. We never did see an
Argentinian train moving by day, and if this was anything to go by, walking would have
been quicker.
Later we were roused by some voices, we had been spotted, I asked if they were Police, and
they replied ‘si’. We poked our heads out into the torch beams, and offered out passports.
Wend explained that we couldn’t afford the hotel prices, and were moving off in the
morning. They seemed unconcerned and bid us good night. Unfortunately one of them had
managed to set the paper that lined our tent’s ‘porch’ alight with his cigarette ash, but we
quickly extinguished it. Again we attempted the impossible in urban Argentina, to get good
night’s sleep. By now the dogs were in full swing, - it was a lost cause!
I used to like dogs before I went there, but by the time I left, I despised the whole of canine
kind. I have since mellowed, our sheepdog ‘Sam’ helped restores the faith, and the eternal
enthusiasm of dogs always brings a smile to my face. Whatever the weather; rain, snow or
blow, you’ll see dogs eager for the off, whilst their owners battle to do up their coats.
Nobody walks dogs in Argentina, dogs just hang around. By day they loll about listlessly in
doorways, scarcely moving as people trip over their prostrate forms. Argie burglars should
operate by day when these ‘guard’ dogs are as much use as a stuffed moose head. The
traveller will quickly realise why they are so inert by day, for as soon as night falls they
miraculously revive and take on the mantle of the hounds of hell. The average mutt looks
like a mangy dingo, and the scabby ragged ears testify to regular scrapping sessions. Their
capacity fro barking and howling is unfeasible, one sodding hound will hear a cockroach
sneeze, and starts the latest round, all his neighbours will join in the diabolical cacophony,
which will eventually dwindle only for the next son-of-a-bitch to sound the alarm as a
moth lands on its kennel. This interminable round goes on all night, and in three months we
never heard a single human voice attempt to silence a dog, they obviously gave up long,
long ago.
The only dogs that seemed to earn their keep were the lean cow-herders which
accompanied the vaqueros. Unfortunately their daytime exertions didn’t dampen their
ardour for nocturnal vocalisations. Some times whole packs would woof away outside
isolated farm-shacks but the men inside never even came to the door.
On one occasion we were chased by a pack of noisy snarling mutts that scavenged near a
rubbish dump. They were quickly dissuaded from their pursuit by a few well aimed stones,
but kept up their vocal abuse until we were well out of sight.
3. TRAVELLIN’ SOUTH!
We approached Buenos Aires alongside the Rio Uruguay, peering across to the country
which bears its name. We saw a sign to the town of Frey Bentos, on e of the places where
Argentina has waged a long and sinister campaign against the fingers of the Western World.
For it is from this area that one of the most dangerous weapons devised by man as been sent
forth to wreak its havoc: The horror of which I speak is of course the Corned beef tin: A
cunningly conceived device which had defied all attempts at its eradication. It bears a
passing resemblance to a crude grenade. A large square weighty mass activated by a small
key like pin, and is only marginally less deadly. There is no escape from its wrath, not even
to the experienced. The novice is unlikely to pass the key test, and will have to resort to a
hammer and chisel, with the inevitable bloody results. Battle scared veterans will
painstakingly wing the key, unpicking the metal seam. It is at this moment that the wouldbe carnivore is most vulnerable, for the relief induced by self-satisfaction at passing the key
test, leads to a momentary lapse. The lid is carelessly grasped and the digits sliced by the
razor sharp edges. So much blood will flow that you could be forgiven for thinking someone
as just stuck a pig!
Various venders ply their trade around the bus terminals, and most drivers (presumably
those who have been sufficiently bunged) let some of them onboard, where they offer
various snacks and drinks. We fondly recall one young lady who boarded our coach at one
terminal. She stood at the front with a large holdall at her feet from which she proceeded to
pull out her wares, describing them in a non-stop, well-rehearsed commentary. Initially she
brandished various confections, bags of toffees and candy bars which immediately attracted
some buyers from the forward seats. Her patter was delivered at Sgt.Bilko speed, scarcely
pausing for breath as she grabbed bank notes in one hand and passed change back with the
other, whilst maintaining her balance as the bus accelerated off.. Her spiel went something
like this;-
‘For your long journey I have nice mints, How about a chocolate bar for junior? Etc. Then
to our amazement she produced a set of paint brushes.
‘Doing a spot of decorating this weekend? look no further only $5 a set’. We both roared
with laughter, and the other passengers looked around in alarm, clearly wondering just
what we found so amusing. Incredibly a hand shot up and she made a sale, obviously they
were just what this traveller wanted. She obviously had an arrangement with the drivers
who dropped her off at the outskirts of town, where she would be an incoming service. We
were full of admiration, she was a real trier, and clearly had the gift of the gab.
Thankfully despite over fifty bus rides, and several hundred miles in hire-cars, we had no
problems with the infamous Argentinian driver. The casualty rates on the roads of this vast
land are horrific, but this doesn’t encourage bikers to wear helmets, which are not
mandatory. The police and the Argentinian Auto Club simply resort to shock tactics. Cross
roads and busy roundabouts are often adorned with the mangled remains of the ‘prang of
the year’, usually perched on a large concrete plinth like some bizarre piece of modern art.
The wreck is accompanied with a sobering message, suggesting that your motor could be
next if you don’t drive sensibly, not to say soberly. The scale of the problem can be seen
behind every local police station, where a macabre line of buckled write-offs gather dust. I
guess they are retained because fatalities were involved, and it was hard to believe that
anyone could have survived these horrific crashes.
Scooters and mopeds are common, and weave through the city traffic with apparent
impunity. The best count was five people on one little Vespa, and families of three were
commonplace. Toddlers balancing precariously between mum and dad often engaged in
vigorous pogo-ing or even a game of pat-o-cake with mum - frightening!
We once saw a young boy, still in nappies wandering in the street where a car narrowly
avoided hitting him. His mum was busily nattering with a friend, and her attention was only
gained by the drivers’ blare on his horn. She grabbed him off the road, but instead of
scolding him, fell about laughing. I grimaced at Wendy, who shook her head in disbelief.
The piece de resistance came in the heart of the capital, an incident that I wish I had
captured on film. Our bus pulled up at a busy box junction near the waterfront and waited
for what seemed like an eternity before making headway. Once across us again ground to a
halt, and our attention was averted to a lot of horn-honking behind us. We looked round to
see a large railway locomotive crossing diagonally through the traffic. The engineer wasn’t
in the mood for hanging about, and hung out from the cab waving people out of the way,
whilst pulling on the horn like a man possessed. Miraculously no one hit him despite much
screeching of brakes, and reciprocal horn blasts. We had crossed the tracks whilst exploring
the docks, but assumed they had been long redundant. We agreed this could only happen in
South America!
The seaward margin of Buenos Aires is a mini Manhattan with numerous tall tower
blocks. A large wetland area lies between it and the sea. This supports some interesting birds
but its main attraction is for walking and exercise. A diet that consists mostly of bits of cow,
and beer cheaper than water might be expected to conspire to problems in the health
department. Numerous overweight blokes were plodding round the paths that circled
around the pools and marshes. The sun was strong and they were all red-faced and
sweating profusely. Indeed some looked very unwell, and we were rather pleased that none
of them actually conked out in our vicinity.
The circuits of gravel tracks around the pools and marshes were
Our stay in the mighty capital was brief, and we were relieved to head for the coastal
resort of San Clemente. This route crosses pancake flat country where the settlements have a
slightly depressing sameness. Virtually all the houses have flat roofs with an identical
precast concrete water tank perched aloft, looking like a giant plant pot.
A useful pastime for alleviating the boredom of long journeys across the pampas is owl
spotting. The day active Burrowing Owl is found in open habitats throughout the Americas,
resembling a beefed up version of our Little Owl. They sit on fence posts or stand around the
burrows excavated for nesting. They have the comical habit of keeping one eye half closed
whilst twisting the head, reminiscent of an old ventriloquist’s dummy, ‘Gottle of geer’
fashion.
We once saw a male standing proudly atop a huge mound of earth excavated to create a
watering hole. He obviously thought that he could convince prospective mates that this was
all his own handiwork, and we imagined his chat up line might be ‘this one big enough for
y’ darling’.
Our most memorable encounter was with an intrepid pair who had set up home in a
football pitch. They had taken advantage of the brief off-season to rear a healthy brood of
three perpetually hungry fluff balls, which had left the burrow and begged incessantly from
the vantage of the goals posts. One sat at each end of the crossbar with the third smack in
the middle, they obviously played a very deep back three system! Their heads wryed round
as we approached and three rather angry faces gave us hard stares, whilst the parent birds
dive-bombed us from above. Clearly we weren’t going to get into the penalty box
unscathed!
The drivers, who invariably work in pairs, pass the time with continual rounds of maté.
This herbal tea is imbibed with great ceremony, through a device that looks rather like a
large tobacco pipe. The leaves are piled into the metal bowl with heaps of granulated sugar.
Scolding hot water is poured onto the mix and the infusion is sucked up through a metal
pipe akin to a straw. The knack in drinking maté is to slurp up the liquid without getting a
mouthful of tough leaf fragments. The pot is passed around like a peace-pipe, regularly
recharged from thermos flasks. These are refilled at each service station for the next leg of
the journey. It tastes pleasant but is incredibly sweet and superheated, indeed my first slurp
was excruciatingly painful, dissolving the roof of my mouth, and scolding my tongue. The
local palates must have the constitution of asbestos!
The streets of the small resort of San Clemente were deserted as we had arrived at siesta
time, and it proved to be a great struggle to find somewhere to stay. Alas the need for sleep
was greater than the need to attract business. We entered one small hotel, but couldn’t raise
anyone with the bell, or with loud shouts of ‘hola’. It looked clean and there were numerous
keys on the hooks behind the desk indicating plenty vacancies. We had been waiting for
nearly half an hour, when I suddenly became aware of a loud snoring noise emanating from
a room down an open corridor. This turned out to be the proprietor, who must have shifted
his sleeping position with the highly audible outcome. Eventually he stirred, but you won’t
be surprised to hear that his dog was still blotto on the bed as he arose. He was a large
awkward looking old man with a severe stoop, and he shuffled around in a pair of well
worn carpet slippers as though he were sleepwalking. He duly took us in and relieved of our
packs, we headed off to the beach. The dunes were quite high and blew into the streets.
Beyond laid a wide flat beach which was pretty deserted. The sun was sinking and the
tourists had gone for a kip or some food. We rushed to dip our toes in the South Atlantic,
which soothed our aching feet. Oystercatchers, plovers and gulls picked about, and a variety
of seabirds passed over the waves. Huge Southern Giant Petrels skimmed over the sea,
providing the most vivid reminder of our austral location to date. As we watched the
anticipation of the treasures that lay further south became almost unbearable, as the Petrels
almost metamorphosed into Albatrosses.
The coastline was a beachcomber’s delight and had a few mysteries in store. Most odd were
thousands upon thousands of transparent orbs which accumulated along the strandline like
dumped light bulbs. These were about the size of tennis balls, slightly oval, and filled with
clear fluid. There was no sign of any embryos, but I suspect they were some kind of egg.
Equally exciting were the numerous dead beetles that littered the beach. These were
mostly large water beetles which were brought ashore on each tide. There had been a long
drought in the area, and I assume that they had flown out to sea in search of new ponds,
only o die of exhaustion. Many were very freshly dead, whilst in the back dunes others must
have succumbed weeks before.
As we headed back to the hotel our tummies were grumbling so we dropped into a small
Pizzeria, and what a find it was. Their fuggaza a fabulous concoction of mozzarella cheese
and sweet onions, was simply scrumptious, and I have yet to taste a better pizza. Talks about
‘angels copulating on your tongue’, we slept sound with distended bellies and warm hearts.
It was about time we sent some postcards home, so we searched around until a post office
was located, and asked how much it would cost to send a card to Inglese?
‘$1.25’ beamed the guy behind the counter handing him the right coins he handed us two
stamps, a $1 and a $50 cents. We looked puzzled, and after a long explanation, which I still
have trouble contemplating, realised that they didn’t have small stamps that could make up
the 25 cents. We still though tit an odd arrangement, but should have been grateful for any
kind of service, for over the next few months we couldn’t find a stamp anywhere. In one city
we entered the biggest Post office imaginable, it must have had 30 counters, but there wasn’t
a stamp to be had anywhere. They could offer posting labels but as these would have
obscured the entire message and the address on a postcard we gave up in disgust.
The Postal System is not the most popular utility, as frequent strikes in the past had resulted
in heaps of backlogged mail simply disappearing. I did feel slightly sorry for the postman
who had to sort the out-going mail. For the country’s short history means that the choice of
name deemed important enough to adorn the main thoroughfares was rather limited.
Consequently virtually every town centre has the same street names, mostly related to the
military leaders that ousted the Spanish colonial Government, so there is always a Belgrano,
San Martin, etc., plus a celebratory ‘Independencia’. Vital dates are also commemorated such
as ‘9 de Julio’, and ‘25 de mayo’. ‘Colon’ the Latino name of Columbus is also popular. This
later sign always looked odd to us westerners for obvious anatomical reasons, but we had
seen the name used in even more inappropriate circumstances, ‘Colon’ is a rather expensive
perfume in Israel!
The long haul from San Clemente to San Antonio Oeste was interrupted at the large
popular seaside resort of Mar Del Plato. Despite being only a few hours drive down the
coast, the temperature had plummeted. The city catches the sea breezes and takes a little
longer to warm up in the spring, than the coats to the North. Once the ocean heats up the
resort is inundated wit the wealthier holiday makers seeking sun, sand and sea, but we were
rapidly seeking our coats and a hot meal? The later requirement wasn’t easily found, for it
was Sunday evening and a crunch Soccer match between River plate and Boca Juniors was
underway. The streets were empty and the cafes packed with supporters glued to the TV sets
above the bars. We eventually got some food and went to the sea front, only to be accosted
by a Riva fan that was totally sozzled and couldn’t bear to watch the game. He began to
serenade his team, and the tuneless soliloquy seemed endless, with a verse for every player,
and I had to interrupt him before he could get around to extolling the virtues of the second
team goalkeeper. He insisted on giving me a poster of his team, and I solemnly assured him I
would always be a Riva fan from this day forward. He shook our hands and his bottom lip
quivered with drink induced emotion as he staggered off, starting his interminable whaling
anew.
A young couple who had been smooching nearby came over. The lad spoke English in a
broad American accent, which he had picked up whilst living in Los Angeles. He was keen
to practice is skills, and asked us why we spoke to this foolish drunken man. I said he was
harmless and we were just passing time before our bus left.
‘I think it is good that you are so open-minded’, he said appreciatively.
‘Not really, anyway his singing stinks, oh no he’s coming back’, I replied cringing. He
collared us once more but we made an excuse and left. After all the fuss the game turned out
to be a goal-less draw.
Sport in Argentina means Soccer, and it dominates everything. I hadn’t realised that
nearly all the top sides play in Buenos Aires, so many fans will not have seen their favourite
team live (a bit like the many Man Utd. supporters!). The media circus that followed Paul
‘gazza’ Gascoigne or David Beckham is small fry compared with the perpetual entourage
that accompanied Diego Maradona’s every move. Not surprising that he finally snapped and
started shooting at the paparazzi camped at his gate. He featured in every news broadcast,
and on every paper and magazine. Diego is a god in his native land, and during our visit he
was enjoying a last hurrah, returning after a drugs ban in the 1994 World Cup finals. He
had taken on the job of player manager at his beloved Boca juniors, and stirred up a hornet’s
nest. Everyone asked you what you think of him, and most agreed with my stock answer
‘Brilliant player, loco personality!’
Talk English Soccer and you are likely to be given a bizarre salute, with a clenched fist
held to the temple like the Judean People’s Front members in Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
This is a replay of the infamous ‘hand of god’ incident which clearly pricks a little at the
Argie collective conscience. Most youngsters ask the leading question,
‘Do you think Maradona is the primero footballer ever?’.
To which I replied ‘Nearly, but Pele primero!’ Some reluctantly concede this as probably
true, a painful admission as Brazil is their arch rivals. Others were adamant that the little
maestro was the greatest, but I always unsettled their conviction by recalling that blatant
hand-balled goal.
The commentaries on TV and radio are a continual frantic voice-over even when nothing
much is happening. It is a breakneck manic voice relay, which seems to consist of repeating
the name of the player on the ball until he loses it or passes. The better the player the louder
they call his name. A goal even a feeble tap-in, is followed by a sound like a klaxon going
off. One frantic game caught one of these radio-groaners out. For he was still in the throws
of his first –
‘gooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllllll…’ When the other team
scored straight from the restart, and you could almost feel the neck veins bulge as he tackled
the second yodel without pausing for breath. Thank goodness for John Motson!
These differences in language were causing us more mirth than difficulties, but some
slightly annoying problems had manifested themselves after a month on the road.
The only really valuable items we carried were our binoculars, and they were more or less
permanently slung around our necks. As a result we got many inquisitive people wanting to
know why we carried them. This invariably resulted in an increasingly irritating and oft
repeated conversation. They would ask the question, and we would reply,
‘ver aves’ (to see birds) this was always greeted with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.
‘ No comprende a-ves’ was invariably the reply . We then proceeded to flap our arms like a
bird in flight, repeating ‘aves!’ ‘AVES!’ like demented parrots.
Eventually they would catch on repeating ‘Ah, ci, ci aves, aves!’ with exactly the same
pronunciation as we had employed. We eventually concluded that there must be a medical
condition known as ‘gringo Spanish temporary listening disorder’.
When it comes to languages I freely admit to having the innate ability of an amoeboid. The
sheer multitude of tongues employed by the human race fills me with a profound sadness.
The lack of a common language is one of the major retardant forces holding back humanity,
especially in science, with people in far flung lands doing similar work without ever
comparing notes. There may be fabulous poems in Japanese or Inuit, but I cannot hope to
read them so they are as much use to me as malaria. Selfish I know, but it is terrible to be
surrounded by conversation, which is incomprehensible. For me the instantaneous universal
translator would be the greatest invention of all time.
I have tried to learn, but as you can see with little success, and marvel at the average
Dutch-person who take to foreign tongues like a duck to water. My worst effort took place
in a field in Morocco where I tried to explain to an ancient goat-herder that in England
looked after a herd of shaggy horses with horns. He looked puzzled but nodded
encouragingly. I don’t even know if he understood French, an it wasn’t until I returned
home that I realised what I had said. ‘vache is cow not cheval you idiot scolded my sisterin-law. There’s probably rumours of a mad Unicorn hunter passing around the markets of
Tangiers at this very moment.
I once got 7% in a French Exam; I was desperate to avoid doing it at ‘O level’ and chose
Music instead. This was almost sacrilegious at my school, and I was dreading my meeting
with my form tutor, and French master. Fortunately he had realised th t I was a lost cause,
and as he read down my selections his eyes narrowed and looking up he quietly said the
words I had longed to hear.;
‘I think it’s for the best, don’t you?’ My vigorous nodding said it all.
I have been a victim of ‘communicados ineptus’ spending an afternoon in Bonn Botanical
gardens being shown varieties of Phlox by a crazy German gardener, who misheard me as I
explained that I was in Germany to study Frogs! I played along and took great pleasure in
gripping him off, when he later showed me his pride and joy; some sickly looking Common
Spotted Orchids.
’You have bedder vons zan zeese in your own garten! He replied in disbelief!
Unfortunately this backfired on me as he then insisted that I was a great expert here to
check up on his work, and clearly fearing for his job, he virtually began to grovel. He
probably spent the next few months in a state of total paranoia; ulcers, nightmares, the lot!
Dreading every letter or phone call.
My other Latino Spanish exploits were little better, and it is a miracle that I avoided being
punched on the nose, by one of the many poor blokes I addressed as ‘Senora!’ My best
(worst) fauz pas resulted from my confusing the words for apple (manzana), and tomorrow
( manana) At more than one ticket office I asked
‘What time does the bus go apple?’, the poor sods behind the counters must have though I
was a surrealist.
Over the next three months we muddled by, and Latin America was brilliant practice for
charades. Our lack of even basic Spanish only lead us into potentially serious difficulties on
one occasion. In retrospect I don’t think it was our fault in the first place.
I think it’s a long way to the shops, but covering the enormous distances seems routine to
the folks from large countries. Whilst we waited for a lift at one service station outside San
Antonio Oeste, a large low loader carrying a huge crane pulled in. Three sweaty, tired
looking blokes fell out from the cab, and proceeded to stretch and yawn heartily. I got
talking to them, and it turned out they were talking their load from Buenos Aires to the oil
town of Comodoro Rivadavia in the south. They had already been on the road for four days,
and expected to take at least three more before they reached their goal. There were only tow
major towns between here and their destination, and a whole lot of nothing in between.
One of them reached into the cab and brought out a large tortoise, which they had found
crossing the road somewhere back in the north. Their truck could manage only 40kph, and
as they slowly pulled away, I thought that the tortoise had very appropriate company.
After much unsuccessful thumbing we were surprised and relieved when a bus stopped at
our beckoning. We were greeted by a jolly chap who looked uncannily like Gomez from the
original Addams family TV show. We climbed aboard and he had a slight argument with
the man at the wheel, who seemed to have taken exception to this unscheduled stop. Gomez
was obviously bored, and saw us gringoes as a welcome diversion. We explained that we
wanted to get off at the Laguna del Monte, near a wind pump, even drawing them a map.
They discussed our request, and the waving of arms and machinegun dialogue, was less
than reassuring. However we eventually stopped beside a dry lake, with a wind pump. We
climbed off wit the nagging feeling that we had surely travelled much farther than 40km.
The lake bed had been sandblasted glassy smooth, and the only water came from deep
underground. The trusty old ‘Aeromotor’ maintained a large tank, which overflowed into
shallow troughs from which cattle, wild llamas, and numerous birds gratefully supped. The
tank water was a little turbid, but fine for a cooling wash. The pump was only stirred into
action by erratic gusts which swept across the plain. After about 6 complete rotations the
turbine a fine stream of clearer water emerged from a pipe over the tank. We thrust our
bottles under this and filled them with the cool fluid. Alas it was slightly salty, and tasted
‘thick’. A seasoned traveller like Wilfred Thesiger would have declared it a fine vintage, but
we struggled to get it down, and felt strangely weighty in the belly.
The plants in this semi-desert continually fight to find and keep water, and most have
wicked thorns or spines to deter herbivores. The low globular cacti which littered the stony
floor were cloaked with incredibly sharp and stiff spines. These easily passed through the
leather uppers of our boots, and the trailing branches of the bushes bore thorns that
penetrated the soles. Needless to say they didn’t half hurt as well. We worked along the
meandering corridors forged by the livestock, placing our throbbing feet with care. I broke
out into a small clearing and disturbed an animal that sprinted away in a cloud of dust. I
followed it and saw the unmistakable tank-like frame of an armadillo, clearing out the
entrance to a burrow. I shouted for Wend to come quickly, but she needn’t have run. It
turned around and flopped in the dirt, and as we edged up within a few feet. He didn’t bat
an eyelid, and Wend and I grinned at each other giving vigorous thumbs up signs. We
watched him for a good ten minutes, and he seemed to be relishing the warm evening
sunshine, so much so that he (or she) dozed off right before our eyes, and as he slumped to
one side his snout dropped so that it blew little plumes of dust with each exhalation.
Eventually we tip-toed away and left it to dream of whatever Armadillos dream of!
By now the oppressive heat had gone and the low evening sun seemed to trigger a host of
songsters into action. This was clearly the time for defending one’s territory, and jet black
Hudson’s Tyrants appeared as if by magic on the tops of the taller bushes. They were spaced
out every 30m or so, and sand and undertook strange loop-the-loop display flights. This
bird was supposed to be quite a rarity, but seemed to be thriving in these parts.
Dark fell quickly and some of the cactus flowers were already beginning to open, releasing
their perfume into the clear desert air. Chance had decreed that these delicate blooms hadn’t
‘been born to blush unseen’. Venus was bright in the cloudless sky, and as I brushed my
teeth the enormity of the heavens stopped me in mid stroke, turning around beneath the
Magellanic Clouds and the Milky Way, awestruck, I uttered an expletive.
Next morning we tried to hitch a ride back to San Antonio Oeste, but there was little traffic
and the first dozen or so cars sped past. We shook empty water bottles upside down to
emphasise our plight, but this didn’t help. We started out along the road but quickly gave up
in the heat, slumping down on the verge. Within a few minutes a vulture began to circle
high above and was quickly joined by another, then a third. This may sound melodramatic,
but I mention it as an example of just how vigilant these scavengers must be, as the sky had
been empty when we set off. Eventually a kindly old man in a clapped out Renault, pulled
up and said we could ride with him as far as he was going. This turned out to be only a few
miles but every bit helped. As wee were clambering out, I spotted an approaching bus
through the heat haze. By now we were desperate and ran into the road waving our arms
and brandishing empty bottles. The driver flashed his headlight in acknowledgement, and
we were greeted at the door by concerned looking faces, which thrust cupfuls of water at us.
We played along, as their offerings tasted better than the salty stuff from the cattle troughs
that we had in reserve.
On the way back we passed a gate with ‘Estacion Laguna del Monte’ on it I don’t know
how we missed it the day before, but the armadillo more than compensated for not seeing a
Yellow cardinal.
We hoped the nest highlight would also be provided by a mammal, but a much bigger one
than our sleepy friend!
4 THERE BE WHALES HERE!
We had curtailed our Brazilian excursion partly because of the ludicrous exchange rate, but
principally to get to the Valdes Peninsula in November. Mighty Southern Right Whales
summer in the sheltered bays which flank the barren peninsula, but usually leave by
December.
Wherever you turn in the large town of Puerto Madryn, you can see images of whales
(baleenas) crazy inflatable ones, huge cardboard cut-outs, bumper-stickers. The town’s
economy revolves around tourism and the attraction of marine mammals, principally the
whales that thrive around Valdes.
On arrival we were eager to find out what our chances were, if any, of seeing the ultimate
mammal. The local guides eager for business spoke of many whales and assured us of
success, which seemed too good to be true. I remained sceptical and told Wend not to get
her hopes up too high. We knew that the area had a great many other attractions so next
day we took the bus to Puerto Pyramides, the tiny port on the peninsula from which the
whale spotting boats depart. We were met by various operators promising whales galore,
but the anticipation was getting unbearable, and we both crossed our fingers and remained
hopeful, after all even a fleeting glimpse of a hump or fluke would be a first. We walked
along the small quay to the incoming boats and asked some of passengers if they had seen
the Balenas? One young girl was almost in tears, and nodded ‘si, si, mucho proximo’. I
turned to Wendy who looked like she might faint. Could we really be lucky so late in the
season? I watched the faces of the people as they clambered ashore, still with sea legs.
Everyone was jabbering excitedly, and there was much waving of arms.
We boarded a small boats skippered by a stout bearded man, who continually reassured us
that we would find our Holy Grail. We donned life jackets and had our cameras at the
ready. Off we sped at surprising speed and the boat bounced of the gentle swell, and I
couldn’t hold back from bellowing a quick chorus of the old whaling song ‘Hill and Gully
ride ‘em’. In the fashion of less enlightened yet no less thrilling times, when the fastest a man
could move on water, was when being towed by a large whale in what was wonderfully
termed a ‘Nantucket Sleigh-ride’.
Everyone aboard scanned the horizon, whilst holding tight to the running rails. We had
scarcely got out of the inner harbour mouth, when a whale lept out of the water less than
200m from the bow of the boat. I went weak at the knees, nothing, nothing, can prepare you
for such a sight, and my heart races whenever I recall this moment.
‘Breeching. Breeching, I tell you no lies!, roared our skipper.
We sped onward and then the engines were cut and the boat sat bobbing and rolling on a
clear blue sea.
‘Patience, we must have patience,’ chuckled the skip, who was clearly in love with these
leviathans. We didn’t have to wait that long, and any fears that our actions might be
intrusive and unwelcome melted as a whale swam toward us, surfacing as if on cue, and
right in front of the boat. We all squealed with glee as the gentle giant exhaled, showering
us in fine spray that mingle on our faces with tears of joy. I couldn’t believe how wide he
was, the water seemed to take an age to drain from his back as he rose. He gently nudged the
bow, and then passed beneath us, and as he did we felt the whole vessel rise slightly.
Clambering across to see him emerge on the other side, with the agility of old hands. Here
he dove and his mighty flukes momentarily stood before us as if in a dream. Then he was
gone, and it is at this moment that the surface of the water suddenly and mysteriously goes
calm and smooth. This last for several seconds before the waves again reunite.
He quickly reappeared alongside and gave us another showering. I can only describe the
exhalation as a throaty roar, something like the first chuff of a departing steam engine.
Some of us managed to touch his leathery skin, as he thrust his colossal snout out of the
water. Ever greedy for more I willed him to show his eye, and my luck was in. he slowly
rolled over and there it was. I am in no doubt that he was looking at us as we looked
thankfully back at him. I have heard other commentators say that you haven'’ seen nothing
until you’ve looked into the eye of a whale, and I can without reservation confirm this
sentiment. I’m not sure whether he didn’t like what he saw, but he promptly began to
defecate, producing a fine rusty coloured deposit, that was rapidly dispersed by the waves.
Eventually he grew bored with us and moved away. Our captain said, ‘let’s try and find an
adult now, he is only a youngster!’
We quickly located a mother and calf; mum really was a true leviathan, her tail flukes
alone seemed to dwarf the boat, and we kept a respectful distance, letting her decide how
near she wanted to come. The water was clear enough for us to make out the whole shape of
the youngster, which although still a baby was easily as long as our launch.
I slapped the Captain on the back and told him that this was the best $20 I had ever spent!
The journey back brought us close to a few lazy sea lions lounging on the rocks, and an
assortment of cormorants, gulls and waders. Once back on land we climbed the steep track
to the pointed, and flat sided promontory that gives the bay its Egyptian sounding name.
Through binoculars we could see several whales, some with attendant boats. The best count
was 17 including one young male who was clearly of it, breaching out no less than 15 times
in succession, repeatedly throwing his bulk out of the water, making a terrific white splash
on impact. These were exceptional numbers for the end of November, providing a welcome
extension to the tourist season. No wonder our skipper had been in such a jolly mood.
Later in the twilight after the day trippers had all gone home, we lay in our tent quietly
contemplating the day was drawing to an end, lost for words. Our daydreams were
interrupted by a loud slapping noise. There it was again: puzzled we got up and looked out
into the bay. There was a young whale breaching again and again just offshore, the great
clap as he hit the surface echoed around the cliffs that lined the cove! All the tiresome bus
journeys, and sleepless nights pale into insignificance at such sights, it is worth putting up
with such trivialities for moments of magic, let alone whole days.
It was easy to see how these beasts got their name, for they really were the RIGHT whale
top hunt, their inquisitiveness bringing them beneath the harpooner’s noses.
I have put a lot of thought into why whales have such a universal mystique. Every man
jack who came off those little boats was emotionally charged whether they were nature
lovers or not. My theory is that innate fear is at the root of all this emotion. The sheer size of
them triggers a fear reaction, but this is somehow modified, as we know through our
upbringing that these creatures are harmless. After all if they were sharks we would be
scared stiff. I guess it’s like getting on a horse for the first time; it’s only safe because you’ve
been told so, and it’s the right kind of horse.
The next day was spent exploring the Peninsula, which has so many surprises. A large
white salt pan glistens like snow from the bottom of a huge depression, which is apparently
the second lowest point on the earth, second only to the Dead Sea on the Israel/Jordan
border.
A warning here; never buys a second hand minibus from anywhere near Valdes. The roads
are made of loose stone chipping, which peppered the underside of the vehicles, making a
dreadful drumming noise, which meant that you had to shout to have a conversation. I
looked under on at one stop and found a bare pock-marked shiny metal surface. The metal
was paper thin, and the working life of these motors must have been brief. The windscreens
on are all covered in pits and cracks but the drivers plough on at alarming speed.
Stately Rheas stroll across the plains and we had to stop as a proud looking father led a
huge brood of about twenty fluffy youngsters across the road. Like their Ostrich cousins it’s
the males that do all the work after hatching, leaving the females to do their thing. The
unusual Mara is also abundant here, and from a distance it resembles a small deer, but its
rodent affinities are revealed when they sit on their bottoms like hares and rabbits. Indeed
hares were also abundant and are the familiar Brown hare of Europe, introduced into the
Argentine in 1880s. Foxes were also frequent but are the naïve Southern Fox, which is very
like our Red, and equally cunning. Doubtless they prey upon the numerous handsome
Elegant Crested Tinamous (The southern equivalent of partridges). These birds look like
clockwork toys with an even, fast stepping run, and synchronised bobbing head.
Elephant Seals aren’t at their best on land, they probably feel the same way about terra
firm as we do about dentists, we go because we have to. They lounge about, belching and
breaking wind. Walking around a colony isn’t the most aesthetic of activities. They smell
really bad, and have a peculiar habitat of snorting explosively through their nostrils. I don’t
know why but it is clearly an important necessity, which doesn’t endear you too them. There
were about a hundred in all, including a couple of huge beach-master bulls, complete with
‘trunks’. Some bright spark who had been studying the behaviour of the individuals in the
colony, had branded one with the word ‘blob’. I couldn’t resist tweaking the odd flipper, and
the owners responded with a crackling gurgle, and a wide-eyed indignant stare. The nearby
sea-lion colony was a more appealing spectacle, and from the cliff top vantage we watched
these sleek killing machines cavorting in the clear water. They were surprisingly quick on
land, moving in that characteristic way on all fours with little of the belly touching the
ground. The numerous birds that picked around the colony were regularly scattered by the
traffic to and from the surf.
The cliffs are formed of near horizontal strata, which provide ample perching and nesting
sites for gulls and several species of Cormorant and Shag. A few Magellanic penguins nest
on the peninsula, but not in the enormous numbers found further down the coast at Punta
Tomba. Here a natural promontory made of firm ground ideal for burrowing, supports a
rookery (Pinguinaria) of over a quarter of a million. Highways are kept bare of vegetation by
the ceaseless comings and goings of the nesting birds. The rolling ground is clad in low
bushes, which are continually undermined by the burrows of these noisy smelly birds. Most
burrows were occupied by brown balls of fluff of various sizes; the largest were as big as
their parents. Lines of guano marked the entrances to the holes, where the incumbents
squirted forth their smelly deposits. Bored looking adults sat around, occasionally rearing up
to bellow their mule –like call. This extraordinary cry earned them their other name the
Jackass penguin, which is still used for their close cousins that breed around the coast of
Southern Africa, 6000 kilometres to the east. The sea was covered by a vast flotilla of black
and white. It was like a waiter’s convention. Birds preened or swam, whilst others wrapped
themselves amongst the luxuriant kelp where they dozed without being swept away by the
considerable swell.
The main reason for our visit was to see the rare flightless White-headed steamer-duck (A
handsome quacker with an equally sea-bound cousin familiar to the folks around Port
Stanley). The quartet is completed by two more widespread species, including one that does
take to the air. Those that have forsaken the air have grown rather large, and we managed
to spot two of them out on the sea.
We met a Dutch couple who were the first Europeans we had encountered in over a
month on the road, as usual they spoke excellent English switching effortlessly to chat in
Spanish with the locals!
We stopped at a service station where some small boys were a frenzied game of table
football. I joined in the next game, just to see if the old magic was still there. Most people
think table soccer is a silly pastime of beer-swilling pub-goers. I won’t have a word said
against it, as it is a game of great skill. I spent rather a lot of my college years refining my
technique, and shared tables with some real maestros. A gaggle of Iraqi engineering
students took to it with near religious zeal. One large fearsome looking bloke earned the
nick-name ‘thunder-wrists’, as his shots hit the back of the goal like a gun going off. Several
tables actually fell to bits with the wear and tear.
These nippers were pretty good, but the other passengers initially looked on rather
disapprovingly, but were quickly drawn in by the furious action. Within minutes the local
lads had been elbowed aside and a mixed international match was played out with deadly
seriousness. Our driver was a wizard and he and Dutch Ron sped to a 4-0 lead. My Dutch
lady goalie was inexperienced so I moved her ‘up front’ where she could harry the
opposition. This was a crucial reshuffle, and my howitzer-like long range shots thundered
home to bring us level. Alas the changes came too late and a lucky rebound cost us the game
5-4. Clearly the opposition were rattles as they made excuses about having to move on,
denying us the chance of revenge. My partner was mortified, and made chicken noises at
her boyfriend!
We returned via Trelew and Gaiman, both these towns were formerly established by
Welsh immigrants and the name Trelew certainly sounds like a pit village. Gaimam tries to
cash in on this link with the ‘Land of Song, leeks etc.’ However it is just about the most
pathetic attempt at a tourist attraction I have had the misfortune to visit. Not that I wanted
too, but it was mandatory part of the itinerary on trips to the Pinguinaria.
The only obvious sign of the Welsh connection was a cottage that looked vaguely like
something from the valleys. I have visited industrial estates with more charisma, and
heartily recommend that you give ‘little Wales’ a miss in favour of more time with the big
Whales!
5. back on the road… AGAIN!
After dark we set off from Puerto Madryn, and hoped that we might be allowed to sleep.
Night travelling saves a lot of money and time, and we were hardly missing much scenery. It
can also be the stuff of nightmares, as South America has been flooded with loads of thirdrate action movies, with titles like Red Scorpions III, and Death siege V. Some are dubbed,
but most are merely subtitled. They are invariably abysmal, and as you drift in an out of
consciousness, all you can hear are machine guns, explosions interrupted by choice
dialogue;-
‘Take that you ******, BANG, BOOM, Oh **** I’m hit’ etc. This anti-culture is worrying, call
me paranoid, but when these kinds of films are showing, I’m sure that the locals sometimes
look at you as though you might round on them with an assault rifle at any minute.
This service had a further surprise in store; the relief driver obviously had designs on a
career in showbiz, as he appeared with a microphone, and explained that we were going to
play a game called bingo! He handed us each a card, but we tried to explain that we were at
a disadvantage as we couldn’t count beyond ten in Spanish. We were in luck as an intrepid
retired English gentleman was sat up front, and translated each number called, veitidos….
Twenty two, quince…fifteen etc. We shouted out the appropriate comments like ‘clickety-
click, and ‘two fat ladies’, but everyone else looked blank. Wendy had the first three
numbers called, but her early luck faltered. Eventually someone completed a line and then
we had a second winner who was first to fill in all her numbers. I bet she wished she hadn’t.
First prize was a crappy plastic ‘Andesmar’ travel bag, and second prize was, ….wait for it.. a
timetable! The first guy was so under-whelmed with his bag, that the host tried to cheer him
up by starting an impromptu disco in the aisle, and insisted the poor girl who had been
runner-up dance with him. She was a good sport, and soon the whole bus was up and
boogie-ing, young and old clapping long. Eventually everyone calmed down, and we pulled
into the Trelew. The fun had helped to kill an hour, but we still had a mammoth 14 to go.
We weren’t prepared for the shock to the system that was about to befall us. We’d been on
this bus for the best part of two days, travelling more or less due south all the while. Wendy
stepped off the bus and was promptly whipped away by a raging wind that slammed into
your ribs like a left hook. I had never encountered such force and it took all our effort to
keep our feet. We grabbed our packs and huddled behind a wall where we had to fight to
get our coats on. We entered a customs office to get some shelter. The guards were most
unpleasant, and living there, I could understand why, but the y demanded to see our
passports, and ordered us back out into the hurricane. These mean men obviously had some
humanity, as they kept or more likely simply tolerated the presence of a tame Llama. This
hardy animal seemed unperturbed by the gale and stood stoically ‘arse into the wind’
chewing the cud. By chance we were to pass this way again some days later, and the
weather had briefly mellowed. The llama was now wearing one of those snazzy sunshades
favoured by golfers and tennis players, with a matching necktie. Maybe the sunny interlude
had raised the spirits of the guards, but the llama stood there looking blank, jaw churning;
maybe he preferred the wind.
The guide books talk of this area as having a ‘mild’ climate, this is utter tripe! Mild means
that it doesn’t freeze very often, which is true but it is invariably cold. Especially when you
consider that we were nearer the equator than London. These vast open oceans around
Antarctica keep things pretty chilly, and the only indication that it was high summer were
the long days and the date in the diary.
After a lot of arm waving and map drawing we managed to explain to the drivers that we
wanted to drop us off near some lakes. I initially couldn’t understand why they seemed
sceptical, as my information indicated that the road passed right by them. Unfortunately a
new road had been constructed and the drivers dropped us off at what they thought was the
nearest point to the place we sought. The relief driver handed us our packs from the luggage
hold, and told us to be back here at 4pm tomorrow, or they would wait. He didn’t seem to
have much confidence in us, and shook his head sceptically as he clambered back on board.
We yomped up a steep track which skirted a large corrie, before finding a small farmstead
nested in the great natural amphitheatre and we shouted ‘Hola’, as we entered the yard. All
was silent, and we peered into a small bungalow which was furnished but looked distinctly
unlived in. The wind was picking up and I was eager to get the tent up before dark fall. We
selected a plot in the lea of the little abode and began to unpack. A shack at the far end of
the yard had a smoking chimney, so we thought it best to make sure we weren’t taking
liberties. Dogs barked from within as we approached, and the door opened before we could
knock. A vachero who was a dead ringer for Lee Van Cleef steeped outside stretching and
yawning. The whole scene resembled a spaghetti western Film set, but thankfully ‘Lee’
wasn’t brandishing a six-shooter. Apparently he did all his shepherding from horseback,
and was kept busy be a herd of Marinos. He had no objections to us camping, and we asked
him hopefully if we were near any lagunas.
‘Lagunas de los Escharados? He asked, we nodded with relief and asked him how far away
they were?
‘Cinco o seis kilometros’, he replied, pointing to the brow of the hill with his pipe. This was
fantastic news and we thanked him again, before setting up the tent and secured the guide
ropes with large stones. Sleeping fully clothed to keep warm; we arose to a wintery scene,
for the ground was covered in snow which was still falling in flurries. Not the kind of
weather one is used to around mid-summer! Undaunted we set off up the hill through
another squall that muffled all sound, and we walked in an eerie silence. The track levelled
off and then slowly descended. The visibility was dramatically reduced with each blizzard,
and Long-Tailed harrier loomed out of the murk, just a few feet in front of us, ghosting past,
pushed along by the wind. The snow briefly cleared and several seed-snipes and a couple of
hares were flushed by the harrier. A weird piping call pierced the silence; once the snow
abated we found that the eerie calls were made by Magellanic Oystercatchers, which looked
very similar to the pied ‘Oyks’ that patrol our shores.
The snow let up and in the distance the rolling open moorland was interrupted by a large
body of water. Surely this was one of the lakes. Our pace quickened and we were soon able
to see a second laguna, and both were liberally dotted with birds. A battered sign confirmed
that we had indeed found the right spot, and insisted that we weren’t to shoot the birds!
We gingerly crept up to the shore of the first water body, and eagerly scanned the surface.
Dozens of grebes and Phalaropes milled around, but our attention was quickly drawn to a
pair of birds which stayed out in the middle away from the multitudes. My eyes were still
running as a result of the cold and stinging snow, but they weren’t deceiving me. I thrust the
picture of a Hooded Grebe in front of Wendy, and whispered,
‘Tell me I’m wrong.’ I didn’t want to be a victim of wishful thinking, especially with
running eyes. She didn’t reply, but looked at the birds, then the illustration, then the birds
again, before passing the book. Eventually the silence was broken.
‘No you’re not wrong; she said solemnly, ‘just BLOODY JAMMY! YEEAAHH!’ she added a
subdued scream of joy. After a while we crept across to view the other lake, past several
snooty looking geese that eyed us suspiciously. This lake was the larger of the two, and
teemed with hundreds of Wilson’s Phalaropes, pirouetting wildly on the surface picking up
prey with their needle like bills. Beyond was a huge flotilla of Silvery Grebes, but in between
lay a tight bunch of paler birds, which repeatedly dove and surfaced in unison. We edged
nearer when they were below the surface, and watched in amazement as no less than EIGHT
‘Hoodies’ bobbed to the surface like corks. This was beyond our wildest dreams as the
Hooded Grebe is a very rare and highly nomadic species. Indeed they were only discovered
as recently as 1974 at this very spot, which remains the most reliable place to see them.
However success is by no means guaranteed, seeing one requires luck, but TEN a significant
portion of the World population was like winning the lottery and pools on the same day.
There were many other treasures making a living around these charmingly names ‘Lakes of
the White Frost’. The unique, dove-like Magellenic Plover foraged around the muddy edges,
scratching the ground like a little chicken. Three pairs of Flying Steamer Ducks chugged
purposefully across the calm surface, past elegant Flamingos that brought a touch of the
exotic to this wintery scene.
Diminutive Baird’s Sandpipers scurried mouse-like amongst the stony pastures that
surrounded the water. These tiny little waders lead such an improbable existence migrating
from Canadian Tundra to this equally barren land; we were well and truly in Bongo!
Buoyed by our success we headed back, enjoying some celebratory chocolate. It so
happened that the cheapest ‘cooking’ chocolate in Argentina was absolutely delicious, like
fine ‘Bourneville Plain’ in Britain, and we certainly ate our share.
Back at the farmstead we packed the tent and tramped down to the road in warm sunshine
that had us sweating and peeling off our coats and jumpers by the time we hit the tarmac.
The bus arrived on time, and the crew looked genuinely shocked as we nonchalantly waved
them down. Our driver friend asked if we had been successful, and we both beamed and
said,
‘Mucho, bueno, Mucho, bueno, Gracias’ as we gave him appreciative handshakes. Word
had obviously gotten around about the intrepid gringos who wanted to get off in the middle
of nowhere, for we climbed onto the bus to be greeted with wild cheers and whistles.
Within an hour we were in Calafate, a small town that is universally renowned as the ripoff capital of Argentina. All the guide books advise you to get in and out ASAP. We found
accommodation no dearer than elsewhere, and enjoyed our first baths for ages. However the
tour companies are obviously making it too easily. A large poster at the bus depot
encouraged you to DAY TRIP TO THE MORENO GLACIER: BUS LEAVES AT 9IS EACH
MORNING. Next day we trudged through the rain arriving at the appropriate office at
8.40am. Too our amazement the girl behind the desk told us we were too late.
‘The bus leaves a t 8.30,’ she replied.
I was incredulous and asked her why the poster clearly stated departs 9am in large black
and white. She shrugged and said that it was wrong. I was incensed as this farcical cock-up
looked like costing us a wasted day. I asked her who was in charge, and she eventually
reappeared with a skinny man who spoke with a German accent. This guy clearly made his
money too easily, and couldn’t see anything wrong with posting highly erroneous
timetables. He tried to cover his folly by asking if we had got tickets, saying that we were
stupid for just turning up, and ‘how did we know if there were any spaces on today’s bus.
This was clearly a bluff, so I rounded on the girl.
‘Was the bus full today,’ I challenged. She squirmed uneasily and without catching the
managers eye blew his cover.
‘No, the rain is very bad,’ she replied sheepishly.
I wheeled on him and continued my verbal assault only this time delivered an octave or
two higher! A second rather over made-up woman appeared and tried to intervene. I told
her she was a fool to attempt to defend what was clearly indefensible. I explained that this
wouldn’t have happened in England, to which the second women looked mortified, and
replied patriotically.
‘But this is ARGENTINA! ‘I didn’t reply, but looked at each of them in turn, she had said it
all, and the defence had heroically made the case for the prosecution watertight! The first
girl broke the steely silence by offering us a cup of tea; she had finally seen the light. The
other two withdrew in silence. After a brief meeting out of earshot in an adjacent room, she
brought us our drinks, and explained that we could still see the Glacier today from the boat,
and they would offer a special reduced price as compensation. We agreed and in the end
probably wound up with a better deal. It is worth noting that the manager didn’t reappear,
he clearly hadn’t heard of the maxim, ‘the customer is always right,’ so much for German
efficiency!
My advice to any entrepreneurs with a bent toward the great outdoors… Set up in
Calafate, there isn’t a lot to beat!
It is difficult to write about the scenery around the Moreno Glacier with sounding like a
tourist brochure, but for once there would be no exaggeration. The majesty of the lakes and
mountains kept reminding me of Gerhard Hoffnung’s Tyrolean landlord who could offer
‘STUPENDOUS REVELATION’, only here this delicious malapropism seemed highly
appropriate.
The boat trip along the mighty Lago Argentina passed beneath every variety of mountain
you could imagine .Sharp Matterhorn look-a-likes, rounded barren domes, knubbly
weathered massif. This living textbook had it all: the treeline rally was ruler straight,
occasionally broken where avalanches had ploughed down through the dense stands of
Southern Beech Nothophagus forest. Many acres of these fine trees lay like matchsticks
against the steep slopes. Several human generations will pass before the canopy is once
again complete.
The precipitation isn’t randomly shed on the ranges, and the tops of the eastern peaks are
bare and arid, whilst the Western snow crowned ridge gives birth to several smaller glaciers
which seem to ooze down through the trees.
It took over an hour before we caught a glimpse of the Moreno, and it loomed up ahead
like a giant white wall. a wall 2km wide and over 20m high. As we neared it the air grew
increasingly chilly, till at its base it felt like someone had opened a giant freezer door.
Incredibly the ice advances a staggering 5m every day, and this material is sloughed off bit
by bit in a process known as calving, the offspring becoming icebergs of various sizes and
colour, which eventually float away down the lake. The water and sun sculpt these sizeable
fragments into eerie forms which the crew carefully steered around.
Alas glaciers are very shy! They don’t like calving when anyone is looking and despite
shedding a staggering 200,000 cubic metres of material in a day, patience and a fair
amount of luck are needed if you want to see or photograph a sizeable chunk as it topples. It
all happens very quickly especially when your back is turned. As with icebergs there is
much more under the water surface. This is one of the only glaciers in the world that is
currently on the advance. All the rest through some reason probably global warming, are on
the retreat. A separate tongue of the continental ice sheet, which fuels the Moreno, has
retreated several kilometres since 1980, leaving natural dams of stones and clay known as
moraines across the lake bed.
The Moreno encroaches across the outflow of a large lake and the proverbial irresistible
force versus immovable object battle rages continually. The ice blocks the exit of the lake
whose whole level then builds up, and up behind the ice dam. Eventually the sheer weight of
water wins the day and breaks through in a single catastrophic breech. The glaciologists
knew that this event was pending when we visited, and several had set up camp on the
tongue of high ground against which the ice closes the gap. I only hope they caught it on
camera for us all too enjoy. I had visions of some poor guy ‘going for a walk with a shovel’
at the moment of truth, and staggering back with his pants around his ankles, to be greeted
with ribald comments like;-
‘See you in four years’ time then, Miguel!’
The lake itself is a strange milky blue colour, formed by the colloidal suspension of the
pulverised material (known as rock flour) carried down by the ice. It is delicious to drink,
but strangely almost devoid of life.
We went ashore in one of the numerous quiet coves that surround the lake. The ‘beach’
was made up of coarse dark shingle, some of which were flat enough to use for ‘ducking the
drake’, a strangely contagious game, which quickly had everyone peppering the lake
surface. Our young guide spoke good English and was really knowledgeable, answering all
our questions with quiet authority. I had told him I was interested in insects and other
creepie-crawlies, and he said he would try and find his friendly green spider with stripy
legs. He called me over to a boulder strewn area, and pointed at a beautiful orb spider
straddling her web stretched between large stones. He hadn’t been exaggerating; its marble
sized body was an exquisite pea green colour, which contrasted with the yellow and black
annulated legs. As I nosed nearer she began to bob up and down on her web.
‘You see she is friendly’, he laughed.
I knew what he meant; her trampolineing really did look like an excited greeting, but was
probably meant to ward us off. This behaviour is common in other orb weavers such as the
Garden Spider which is ubiquitous in Britain.
We followed a foaming turbulent stream back to the base of a small glacier, which draped
over the mountain side like melted glass. It was pleasantly warm away from the lake and we
sat amongst the low shrubs reminiscent of heathers and cowberry. Cameras clicked and I
scanned the peaks with my binoculars. Several raptors soured above us, they were Andean
Condors, the largest of al flying birds. It may seem strange if I say that I was underwhelmed, but it is this very fact that best illustrated the sheer magnitude of the landscape
around us. These birds (a dozen in all) were effortlessly riding the updrafts from the
towering cliffs, but looked no bigger than buzzards circling over some Lakeland fell. I was a
victim of scale, these vultures were giants, but cavorting a mile or more above us dwarfed by
their surroundings. Condors are big because the Andes are big!
The Nothophagus forests are evergreen; these deciduous trees keep their small leathery
leaves through the winter. Most of the huge remaining tracts of timber have never
supported people or large herbivores, and a walk in these woods is a trip back in time. The
forests floor is a tangle of moss strewn dead timber. The cold ensures that the process of
decay proceeds painfully slowly. As a result every branch and bole of every tree that
flourished and died here over the past centuries lay in a chaotic tangle. Some of the mightier
prostrate trunks had probably fallen before Argentina became a nation. This moist shady
under-storey was a botanist’s dream, epiphytes flourished, graceful orchids added splashes
of colour to the scene, but the woods were strangely silent, for few birds make their living
here. Those that do are easier to see in the extension of this habitat in the sheltered South
West of Tierra del Fuega.
6
PATAGONIAN PERAMBULATIONS
Punta Arenas is a large town, supplying labour for busy docks and wharves that serve a
large fishing fleet and tourist vessels which commute to the Antarctic Peninsula, and the
Falklands. Several ice-breakers stood high and dry in the boat yards that lined the road
from the airport, balanced somewhat precariously on chocks, undergoing various refits. This
was where Ernest Shackleton finally brought his men to safety after their extraordinary
ordeal in the Antarctic.
We had arrived on a National holiday, and the streets swarmed with shoppers. We
entered a large hotel which had the appropriate street number mentioned in the guidebook,
but this was obviously far too posh for the likes of us, and the prices on the tariff board
made me wince in horror. The humbler abode we sought perched atop this regal hotel, and
it just so happened that we had arrived at the moment the old sign had been removed, and
the new one had yet to arrive.
This strange arrangement, got ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as we were greeted by a small,
sweet old lady who lead us along a corridor that resembled something from ‘Alice in
Wonderland’. There must have been 30 identical unnumbered wooden doors along a
winding labyrinthine passage. We were ushered into a room, and told to shout if we wanted
anything. Our first attempt to get out, resulted in us trying at least a dozen handles before
finding the exit, and I never did choose the correct door first time of asking. This situation
had enormous potential for embarrassing situations, especially when making scantily clad
sorties to the shower room. Fortunately we seemed to be the only customers.
The lady always seemed to be in, perhaps the numerous flights of stairs were too much for
her, and she was now imprisoned like the ‘Lady of Shalott’. As we ventured back out into
the streets, a pick-up truck arrived bearing the new snazzy sign.
Chile, like Italy has a currency liberally dotted with extra zeros. This strange habit is an
artefact of previous periods of hyper-inflation, but the numbers were kept as a means of
convincing the Populus that they are richer than they actually are. Anyway it makes for fun
when shopping, and we marched around the supermarket with a calculator in hand. I kept
the label from one item: A small Camembert cheese for which we paid the lavish sum of
$439. Not really that extravagant as the average car cost several million dollars! We took
our provisions and meandered through quiet back streets to the sea front, to feast on our
decadent picnic of the said cheese, and hot bread. Hundreds of cormorants nested on an old
wharf accompanied by several species of gull, including the handsome Dolphin Gull. This
large blue-y grey bird has a bizarre heavy bill the colour of sealing wax. It almost looked
like it was wearing lipstick! We heard footsteps on the road behind and turned to see two
familiar faces, it was the Dutch couple we had met in the Valdez Peninsula.
‘Fancy meeting you here’, we said in unison. They were about to fly north to the Chilean
Lake District. We too were about to take to the air but in the opposite direction.
At the Airport we clambered aboard the little ten-seater plane for the short but memorable
flight across the Strait of Magellan to Isla Grande.
The pilot motored around the airstrip and turned onto the runway as if he were joining a
busy road. There was no hesitation and we turned with the engines already racing, and we
rapidly became airborne, to a chorus of giggles and gasps as our tummies caught up with
the rest of us. The water beneath was fairly calm, and the twenty minutes in the air were
pretty smooth. The barren mass of the island filled the horizon, the short drab steppe-like
vegetation broken only by shallow lakes. Our landing was smooth and as we disembarked, I
nodded appreciatively to the captain, adding;
‘A piece of cake for you today’, and he clearly realised what I meant, and smiled knowingly,
for the prevailing wind usually ensures a hair-raining cross-wind landing for the majority
of days, this veteran was no mug, to have come through unscathed!
One slight nagging worry on the flight across was quickly alleviated when our luggage
was pulled out from a storage space in the streamlined nose of the plane. We had wondered
just where the various passengers stuff could possibly fit. From the ‘airport’ we took a taxi to
Porvenir passing a large ‘Lockheed Electra’ on a plinth, and wondered what fun it would
have been to make one’s living battling with this old timer, day after windy day. Porvenir
translates as ‘the future’ but the Chilean gateway to the island isn’t exactly Las Vegas, in fact
‘the past’ or indeed ‘the pits’ would be a more appropriate name. It is a drab collection of tin
shack houses, adjacent to a barracks that resembled a penitentiary. The most extraordinary
shop was unfortunately shut during our stay. It was a small yellow shed with the title
‘SUPERMECARDO DALMACIA’ This was rather like calling a chicken run the local zoo. I
couldn’t resist posing outside brandishing my wad of dollars ‘loads-a-money’ fashion, as I
try the door. The photo captured my demonic expression of anticipation for the wondrous
bounty within.
The town nestling beside a small sheltered bay looked remarkably like a scene from the
Scottish Isles, right down to the ducks, gulls and skuas, that only looked different to their
Northern counterparts through binoculars.
This mighty windswept island is shared somewhat unequally between Argentina and
Chile, and the layout of the border frontiers makes for fun and games and lots of passport
stamping. The central frontier was obviously drawn up with a ruler by diplomats far away
from the land in question. The bus journey across this area is particularly bizarre. The driver
stops and the whole bus load of passengers empties out into a small drafty building, where
surly frozen looking border guards go through the ritual of stamping every one out of Chile.
We climbed back aboard after a lengthy delay, but I was puzzled as to why we hadn’t seen
anyone from Argentinian customs. The barrier was opened, and the bus continued on across
yet more rolling barren grassland.
‘What’s the betting we have to do all that again in a minute,’ whispered Wendy, forlornly.
I had been thinking the same thing, and low and behold after a few kilometres a hut flying
the blue and white flag loomed over the next brow. This sad state of affairs was truly
depressing, and as we huddled out of the wind I watched a family of house Sparrows
picking about, around the bus. For a moment I was envious of these little birds, which
needed no passports, and go wherever people go, scraps being scraps wherever you live. I
could only marvel as to how on earth they had got out here, and how they managed to eke
out an existence miles from the nearest settlement.
In the Argentinian part of Southern Patagonia there are a number of barracks, and the
passer-by is left in little doubt of the wouldbe aspirations toward the Falkland Islands. The
entrance to the Rio Grande camp is dominated by a huge concrete model of the islands
painted in sky blue and white. A life size soldier straddles Falkland sound, planting a flag
which the ever present wind had begun to shred. He was flanked by two pre-cast brothersin-arms set in aggressive poses. A forlorn looking gull cowered head into the wind, on the
standard bearer’s helmet.
The outline of this contested territory is printed on the back of the bus tickets with the
usual epigraph ‘Les lslas Malvinas son Argentina’! The cost of attempts at realising this
aspiration is poignantly displayed in the world’s most southern town, Ushuaia. Here the
familiar outline is cut out through a great bronze coated rectangular monolith. Various
poems are displayed on plaques along with the names of those that fell. I was shocked by the
toll of casualties, and found myself moved by this insane waste in just the same way as I am
at any allied monument. At this moment I was filled with admiration for Robert Runcie who
caused much prime-ministerial gnashing of teeth, and filthy looks from Mrs. T., when he
mentioned these ‘enemy’ soldiers in his Archbishop’s address to the big victory thanksgiving service after the war. He had the sense to look beyond the patriotic furore. After all
many of these young men were conscripts with little interest in becoming heroes.
I confess to knowing next to nothing about the relations between Chile and Argentina, but
I vaguely recall Chile narking the Argies at the time of the Falklands War, by allowing our
planes into their airspace. All the hoo-ha about Thatcher and Pinoche still wrangles to this
day. In Rio Grande we made an alarming discovery, whilst popping into the Police station to
ask for directions. The cops sent us next door to a small building with the moniker CIVIL
DEFENCE on a neglected door with flaking paint. Inside a large fat man with a walrus
moustache sat at a desk surrounded by detailed maps. He seemed pleased to have a
‘customer’ and was most helpful. I got the feeling we had been the first people in the office
in weeks, and this was not really surprising. As far as I could make out, this was where the
locals were supposed to go to find out where their nearest air raid shelter could be found.
Clearly Argentina is uneasy about its Latino neighbours, and perhaps with good cause. Both
these countries have expansionist constitutions, and former Chilean dictator Augusto
Pinochet wrote a book about the need to expand and colonise new land (strange that Chile
never seem to have any aspirations for the Falklands seeing that it is nearer to the islands
than Argentina!). We all know how the UK government failed to take the Argentinian
version of this ideology seriously. Perhaps the civil defence department still had one eye on
that distant outpost of the commonwealth to the east.
The rubbish tip in Rio Grande seems to work on the principle that the heavy stuff such as
scrap metal is recycled, the wood and paper burnt, to keep the poor sods sorting the said
scrap, warm, and the rest is blown away. The fields downwind of the tip are a sickening site
with ragged remnants of plastic bags and packaging tangled around every low bush and
tussock. The whole effect looked like a snow field, with the macabre addition of numerous
weathered sheep skulls scattered randomly amongst the debris. The surrounding clear
pastures were graced with huge flocks of beautiful geese, which grazed nervously. You’ll
never see a flock feeding without at least one bird keeping a watchful eye, and these were no
exception, as we crept towards them to get a better view, but were quickly rumbled. A few
sonorous honks had all the heads erect and vigilant. I’ve never been a great goose fan,
probably as a result of painful nips from a vicious hissing gander my dad once kept.
However the species that graced the wilds of Patagonia really were something special. Subtle
rust-coloured heads and necks, and intricate vermiculation are on the body feathers. The
European ‘grey’ species are drab in comparison, but the cry of geese in remote areas is
always stirring.
The tundra like vegetation near the coast had a real surprise in store. A handsome little
lizard had struggle out into the welcome sunshine and basked in the lee of a small grass
tussock. I crept up on him, and managed to catch him before he tunnelled back into the
grass. He squirmed briefly but then settled down and as I held my hand toward the sun, he
nestled down flattening his body so as to intercept as much of the solar energy as possible.
Lizards are pretty smart animals especially for their size, and seem to quickly realise when
they are in no danger. A small mammal would be more likely to die of fright. This was one
of my most satisfying encounters of the trip, for I was handling the most southerly dwelling
reptile on the planet. Leolamus magellanicus named as many things are in the region after
the intrepid Portuguese mariner who first mapped the region.
The road from windswept Rio Grande to Ushuaia climbs from barren open steppes into
wooded craggy mountains crossed via a steep mountain pass. Ushauaia nestles beneath a
mountain range permanently topped with snow.
We explored these hills, which can be accessed via a chair lift. This is supposed to lead to
the Martial Glacier, but several people wandered around the snow fields, and we were
accosted by more than one puzzled looking person asking where the glacier was? In fact
there isn’t one, just a permanent snow field, but the screes and patchily vegetated slopes
around this area are home to a most unusual kind of ‘wading’ bird. This close cousin of the
likes of the sandpiper and snipe looks like a grouse and seems to fill a similar niche. Its
dropping is also extremely grouse-like, looking like some new-fangled high fibre cereal.
They were obviously here, and spurred on by deep draughts of clean chill air, I quartered
the steep slopes determined to find one. I was close to exhaustion, and after a few more
lungful’s, turned to head back downhill, when I noticed a slight movement right where I
was about to place my foot, and I reeled back with arms flailing as I regained my balance.
The movement was the blinking eye of a White-bellied Seed-Snipe, and as I retreated she
slowly rose to reveal four tiny fluffy chicks. Her brood were none too pleased about this
unwelcome chilly awakening from their cosy slumbers and cheeped their dissent in unison.
She slowly and deliberately walked away up the slope, and her brood reluctantly and with
some difficulty followed over the rocky ground. She wasn’t about to fly away, so I scanned
the valley below where Wendy had been searching the lower slopes. I eventually spotted
her, and bellowed and whistled to attract her attention. This wasn’t easy as she was a long,
long way down, but eventually she heard me, and I beckoned her up the slope. She made
rapid progress up the mountain side, where I gave her a helping hand up the last stretch.
‘This better be good’, she gasped ‘I’m bloody dying,’ promptly collapsing on a pile of snow.
‘It’s a Seed-snipe WITH babies; I knew you couldn’t miss it if you came up’. I pleaded.
I scanned the rocky slope above and had a slight panic attack before relocating the family
party picking about amongst the lichens and moss. Mother fussing around her chicks like a
barnyard hen.
By now Wendy had recovered enough to stand up and see if the climb had been
worthwhile. It had and we marvelled at how these diminutive little creatures could stand
the cold. Mums feathers were not just a miracle of cryptic camouflage (many birders have
failed in their quest at this site), but must have had a very high Tog rating too!
We descended steadily pausing to admire the spectacular view of Ushuaia and the Beagle
Channel, framed by the mighty walls of the U-shaped valley. At the base of the chair lift was
an abandoned tracked vehicle, which was a World War II vintage British Bren-gun carrier,
painted an improbable red colour. How this came to be here is anyone’s guess.
The weather here is exceptionally fickle and every imaginable meteorological condition
can be experienced in as little as an hour. On afternoon I strode out toward the airport in
Ushuaia in shirt sleeves, only to run back through hail, sleet and then a blizzard, the wind
speed changing from flat calm, to howling gale in seconds. I don’t envy the locals especially
when you consider that we were there in mid-summer!
The boat trips into the Beagle Channel are well worth the hefty fare not least to watch
Albatrosses at close quarters. On the way out of the harbour you pass large cruise-ships,
which commute to the Antarctic Peninsula. What folly!, to think we were down at the toe
end of the world and a few hundred dollars could have got us to the Antarctic, this was the
saddest result of the unfortunate timing and unfavourable exchange rates in Argentina on
our trip. A missed opportunity which we have made a commitment to put right one day!
The bay is also the last resting place of a smaller boat, the ‘St. Christopher’, a handsome
sturdy old tug, with a tall smokestack. It is a rare survivor of a by-gone era, and came to rest
here after breaking down whilst on a mercy mission to move a stranded cruise ship. Its mast
provides elegant perches for the local gulls and cormorants, which ungratefully streak the
flaking paintwork with guano. I don’t know much of her history, but I would bet she was
made in Britain. Surely a vessel worthy of preservation, before the elements take their toll?
On the way out into the channel we passed several small diving petrels, a Austral
equivalent of our familiar auks. Black-browed Albatrosses swept by on stiff wings: Poetry in
Motion! We came up to a small rocky island, which was home to a fur-sea colony, where a
bawdy harem consisting of dozens of females, with a great maned brute about three times
their size. These lounging heaps are continually interrupted by petty squabbles among his
girl-fiends, who face off and bellow insults with wild bloodshot-eyed stares. These unruly
scrums are attended by Snowy Sheathbills, a peculiar pure white bird, that looks remarkably
like a dove but here the angelic comparisons end, as it makes a living pecking about in the
unpleasant by-products of the seals and larger nesting birds. A cheeky little sheathbill had
spotted a tasty morsel on the bull seals hind flipper, and tried to tweak it loose. The bull was
incensed and bellowed ‘I’ll have you mate’, in agonised seal talk. He turned and lumbered
toward the bird which casually walked off with a carefree ‘no chance sunbeam’ swagger. He
was clearly unimpressed by the brute’s over-the-top cry-baby response. I was amazed he
felt a thing, perhaps he had a bunion.
After a successful boat trip we headed into Tierra del Fuega national park where the
night-time temperatures hovered above freezing. We spent a lot of time huddled over a log
fire, making sorties into the trees whenever the sleet let up, and during these lulls the
sheltered woods were a joy to explore. The commonest occupant of the park was the humble
European rabbit, foolishly introduced along with the American Beaver. These rabbits were
incredibly tame and sat beside the paths without batting an eyelid like the big ones on the
Tellytubbies set. This was surprisingly brazen behaviour as foxes were also common.
Several small valleys were occupied by beavers and these were crisscrossed by substantial
dams, but we didn’t see any of the industrious rodents. They were, rather sensibly holed up
in their cosy lodges.
We spent two days searching for the star attraction of these woods, the Magellanic
Woodpecker, but without any luck. I tried again on my own and was heading back after a
long fruitless search, when the unmistakable tapping of a foraging woody came from ahead.
I followed my ears and came to a dead tree. It had to be this one. I peered up into the canopy,
from where a steady shower of bits of bark and wood chips rained down with every blow of
the bill. Eventually a black head peeped round the trunk; it was a female complete with a
ridiculous elongate ‘quiff’ which wobbled as she hammered.
She darted on ahead and I followed as she visited several more trees in turn. After about
ten minutes she tuned and flew back in the opposite direction. She was obviously returning
to her nest. I tried to keep up, but she was too quick, within seconds a red flash hurtled back
along the same flight path. This was the male; they were doing a shuttle run service to feed
their offspring. I followed the female’s original route, but initially all was silent.
Eventually I heard a faint tap-tap-tap, dada had gone much farther than his mate. I homed
in on the busy carpenter, and there he was resplendent with a crimson head, topped with a
Mohican crest. He was incredibly approachable, and I followed him from tree to tree, close
enough to see him extracting various grubs and other tit-bits. He kept up an incessant
introverted string of vocalisations that sounded like he was recalling some rather good jokes,
chuckling away to himself. Eventually he broke off and headed dart-like to the nest. I
returned to the camp to tell Wendy of my good fortune, and added that I was confident I
could re-find them for her. Next day I kept my promise, and after a bit of searching as they
had changed their foraging pattern and were heading in the opposite direction and keeping
high in the canopy.
The large red and black woodpeckers, of which the Magellanic is the most Austral, are
obviously real romantics, and we watched pairs of several species engaged in a sort of
formal tree dance. They face each other on opposite sides of a trunk, and shuffle round in a
sort of peek-a-boo game, first peeping round one side the a little crabbing shimmy, and a
cheeky glance round the other. We imagined them saying ‘I love you darling, ‘I love YOU
MORE.. No I love YOU more, and so on. If they could write they would definitely carve
hearts and ME 4 U messages.
Back in the relative shelter of the campground we had been joined by a couple in a car
with Dutch registration plates. They were the only other birdwatchers we met in South
America, and we exchanged lots of info around the campfire. They had shipped the vehicle
over and were spending a year in the Americas. We explained that we were heading to
Santiago, and they told us to stay at the Hacienda de la sol a la Luna.
It’s near the airport, Ask for Hans he’s from Holland they added. They were well equipped
and we enjoyed some delicious hot soup, which kept out the cold.
7 HOT CHILE
The flight out of Ushuaia is a little hair-raising when the ‘Forties’ are roaring, it was a
struggle to keep one’s feet on the short walk across the tarmac to the steps up the plane.
Relieved to be out of the wind, we settled down and were soon airborne banking steeply
round to head north along the backbone of Chile to Santiago. The scenery below was
amazing with great fjords dominating the southern coats, and we looked down on smoking
snow-capped volcanoes with cones shaped like Mount Fuji. One high conical peak was
shrouded in a fluffy white cloud, which looked for the entire world like some giant had left
an ermine hat.
This was only just an International flight, which meant that our carriers were obliged to
feed us. ‘In-flight cuisine’ is perhaps the greatest euphemism not to say near Oxymoron in
the English Language. One wonders why they bother, especially with hot food. We order
vegetarian, and invariably get a steamed rubbery slab, which is purported to have originated
from a hen. Now a starving man would struggle to consume this in the ‘Café Sahara’, let
alone the bucking rolling ‘Café Boeing 737’.
The Chilean airline LADECO clearly felt that a few minutes in Argentinian airspace didn’t
warrant the reward of a hot meal, instead a pretty stewardess regularly perambulated her
trolley up and down the aisle dispensing a variety of genuinely exceedingly good cakes, and
coffee. This was infinitely preferable fare, especially as we were getting ‘lean and mean’, and
felt not the slightest pang of guilt even after extras.
The snow line gradually rose up the mountain-sides and eventually all but disappeared as
we neared the capital. The sun was setting, and the earth’s shadow passed beneath us as we
descended for landing. This four-hour flight spared us over three days solid bus riding.
Indeed we would have had to return to Argentina as there is no direct road from the south
end of Chile to the rest of this impossibly long nation.
As we landed we passed one of the world’s largest aircraft a giant Russian transport
We took a downtown shuttle bus from the airport, and asked the driver to kick us out near
the hotel inexpensivo. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to work out that the guy in the
opposite seat had just returned from a Pacific island. He sat in a garish ‘Hawaiian’ shirt,
topped only by the several floral garlands that hung around his neck. I caught his eye and
mimed the actions of a hula girl, which isn’t easy when you’re seated.
‘Hawaii? I asked.
‘Tahiti, it’s cheaper and the girls are prettier!’, he replied in excellent English, and
proceeded to tell us about his trip which had clearly consisted of a wild hedonistic ‘booze
and dance-athon’. He had clearly rock-a-hulla-ed with more than one grass skirted babe!
The gaggle of women and girls on the back seat chewed gum noisily, only pausing to quiz
him in Spanish. His answers must have been saucy and caused much mirth. Before he
alighted he gave the youngest girl a shell necklace, and exchanged Christmas greetings. His
last comment was aimed at Wend and I:
‘I like Beatles, English band very good’! He beamed. He was a likeable cove despite the
somewhat lecherous undertones.
We soon found ourselves as the last passengers on the bus, and thought the driver had
forgotten us, how wrong could we have been. He proceeded on a convoluted detour round
the side streets of the busy Capital. He repeatedly pulled up outside hotels and honked his
horn impatiently. This guy was incredible, and moved on from several muttering that they
were far too expensive. He jumped off and ran into some establishments, finally waving us
into one nice looking abode. We bowed our thanks and hoped that we hadn’t got him into
trouble, but he drove off waving and honking his horn!
The hotel was very comfortable and we had delicious hot baths and washed a heap of
smelly clothes. Next morning we returned to the Airport where all the car rental companies
were lined up in little offices like greyhounds in the traps, sharing a long counter. We asked
one guy how much his weekly rates were, but he didn’t seem to understand why he was
there. Without hesitation he said’
‘Try this guy next door, he is much cheaper!’ Hey Pedro you can do better than me for
these people, yes?
We thanked him for his honesty, and got a brilliant deal from Pedro.
As you twiddle with the dial on your car radio around Santiago, you could be forgiven for
thinking that you had entered a time warp. Most of the rock stations serve up an agreeable
diet of late 1970s early 1980s classics, plus quality album tracks that never get an airing in
Britain. The good taste extended onto the classical and jazz stations, which constantly played
delightful often unfamiliar material. Clearly some bizarre serendipitous fluke had resulted
in all the continents disc jockeys with taste gravitating to Chile. This welcome break from
the techno dross, which the tone deaf Argies played, hadn’t come a moment too soon. We
hadn’t heard a decent track for two months, and this deprivation had reached crisis point.
However we were soon to discover that this soothing music was an essential antidote to
the stress of urban driving in Chile. We knew things might be difficult when the hire car
people gave us a ‘map’ that showed Santiago as a small red dot! We headed for the coast and
initially had no problems, and spent a couple of days exploring the fabulous South Pacific
seaside.
The Humboldt Current sweeps up the coast bringing nutrient rich waters from the
Antarctic, and the vast numbers of seabirds and numerous fishing vessels are testament to its
productivity. The clean sandy beaches and rocky outcrops throng with people and wildlife.
Sea-lions loll around on the rocks within a stone’s throw of pinker but not especially
thinner sunbathers on Hotel terraces. Kids played amongst the sand and surf, eyed by
gaggles of gulls, terns, and pelicans. The Surfbird a sort of beefed up Turnstone lives up to its
name, running back and forth with each wash and backslosh of the waves. Despite choosing
this bizarre ‘King Canute’ like way of feeding they always sprint back up the beach ahead of
the next breaker with the same apprehensive look, reminiscent of Neil Kinnock on that
fateful day at Blackpool.
Off-shore small open-topped fishing boats manned by a couple of blokes searched the
wide bay, homing in where tell-tale aggregations of Pelicans and Terns were engaged in a
feeding frenzy. Handsome Peruvian Boobies, a close relative of our Gannet, skimmed low
over the waves, occasionally wheeling up to gain height before diving like lightning bolts at
a fish. A steady stream of larger trawlers commuted to and from Valparaiso appearing eerily
from, or disappearing into the low damp fret that hung over the ocean.
A small vaguely conical island separated by a narrow channel of treacherous looking kelp
strewn water, was home to a few hundred Humboldt Penguins. The Pinguinaria was no
bigger than a village cricket pitch, and the whole scene looked like a waiter’s convention.
The mound was shared with lots of bored, doleful looking Pelicans, who seemed thoroughly
displeased by the lack of table service.
A Sea-Otter appeared in the channel, rising and falling on the huge swell. He was a
marine Lutra very like our native species, not to be confused with the shaggy fellows that
smash open shells on their bellies. He was a real show off, cavorting right in front of us,
jealously determined that we should train our binoculars on him instead of the noisy
waddling ‘waiters’. He twisted and wove around the tangled kelp like a giant eel, emerging
with a sizeable fish, which he proceeded to demolish with much crunching and chomping.
By the time he swam off we were feeling distinctly queasy, hypnotised by the swell: We had
got terrestrial sea-sickness.
After all this relaxing seaside fun, we finally decided to bite the bullet and head inland. On
the way we stopped at a bakery and purchased four cannonball sized doughnut type things.
They were filled with delicious slightly sour custard, and liberally sprinkled with icing
sugar. I implore anyone visiting this area to seek out some of these ‘custard bombs’, only
make sure you have something to wipe up your chops with!
Our problems began when we entered the large resort of Vina del Mar intending to head
south and pick up a road inland from Valparaiso. We followed the coast but the lack of any
road signs and rapidly multiplying lanes had me sweating. We didn’t know at the time but
we were already in Valparaiso, and found ourselves in a bustling area with large banks and
stores. We asked a paperboy.
‘Which way to Valparaiso,’ he looked taken a back, and replied.
‘Este es Valparaiso’, confirming our worst fears. This mighty Naval and fishing port is the
second largest city in the country and the seat of the Government. Despite this there was not
a road sign to be seen anywhere. I’d still like to know where Vina el Mar ended. We tried to
get out using every way we could: we followed buses, asked several people who seemed to
give conflicting instructions. Several attempts ended up quiet dead ends, and a look at the
street plan of the city shows a multitude of looped cul-de-sacs. Eventually a lady with a
smattering of English drew a map, and mentioned turning under a railway bridge. I was
beginning to think we would spend the rest of our days in this maze, but for once the
instructions made sense, and our spirits briefly rose. We saw a traffic cop ahead and stopped
beside him begging for assistance. He was initially angry at us for halting near a junction,
but when he saw we were gringo tourists realised just how much trouble we were in, and
his advice was delivered as a solemn plea which translated as;
‘Keep on this road do not turn off, whatever you do’. We did as he bid and finally made it,
within an hour we were loading the car with heaps of divine and cheap fruit in a sleepy
village in the foothills. ‘I hear you now’ by Jon and Vangelis, a track I hadn’t heard for a
decade or more played over the fruit shop ‘transistor’ (I made a long standing mental note to
seek out this lovely record, and our local library came to the rescue when they sold off a
tape of J & Vs. greatest hits a year or so later) as we bought melons, peaches, strawberries
etc. We tried a strange green thing that had flesh with the texture and flavour of sponge
cake. They called it bread fruit, but I don’t think this was the same stuff that Fletcher
Christian and his cronies were lugging down to Tahiti.
Beef is king in Argentina, but Chicken is undoubtedly the favourite carnes in central Chile.
Every village seemed to have at least one large Pollos farm, which usually consisted of large
roofed batteries with open sides for ventilation. ‘Pollos loco’ (Crazy Chicken) was the
commonest sign with a suitably zany looking rooster logo. With all this lean meat and fruit
it wasn’t surprising to find a fairly slim line Populus. Mind-you, having had first-hand
experience of the size and quality of Chilean cakes, I should have been amazed by the
paucity of obese personages.
The arid stony hills were hot and deserted, for we didn’t see a soul for three days, and our
only companions were some rather skittish cattle, which also seemed to have had few
encounters with mankind.
The trail up into the hills was steep but worth the slog, as the view back down was
breath-taking. Something new would appear at each frequent pause for breath; A Giant
Hummingbird hovered on scimitar wings, displaying to warn off rivals. Nearby a female
seemed to spill out over the sides of her diminutive nest, woven in a fork of a tall bare
sapling. She didn’t appear to have chosen a particularly good nest site, and had to swelter in
the sun to spare her brood from being cooked. Her diligence was admirable, and she
stoically sat with her long elegant bill gaping. This is by far the largest ‘hummer’ the size of
a European Swift, and the individual wing-beats can be seen, unlike its smaller cousins, who
really do hum.
I caught up with Wendy who was investigating something beside the track with a stick. It
was a large hairy spider with a span that would have filled the palm of my hand. She had
tiny eyes perched on top of a chunky carapace. Her front legs gently caressed the stick, but
when Wend gently twisted it in a sort of long range handshake, she took great exception to
this rearing up menacingly with her front pairs of legs spread and bristling, whilst emitting
a loud hissing noise from some hidden orifice.
A tree beside the track bore a strange fruit, a shiny tin can with a wire already attached. It
hung there enticingly, obviously looking for gainful employment and was duly
commandeered. It was to become our trusty companion, producing copious quantities of the
most refreshing billy-tea.
Later Wendy inadvertently picked up a box of tea leaves rather than bags, and sheepishly
suggested that we could get a strainer, but I wouldn’t hear of it, and pulled out my trusty
pond net!
‘We already have a strainer,’ I beamed, adding solemnly, ‘I promise I’ll rinse it first!’
Wendy didn’t object, and indeed later agreed that it added certain piquancy to the flavour!
We returned to Santiago with the idea of finding an out of town campsite, and got caught
in the evening rush-hour traffic. We crawled along getting increasingly hot and stressed,
when like a bolt from heaven we simultaneously noticed a sign for the ‘Hacienda of the sun
and the moon’, we turned toward each other, with eyes and mouths widening in unison.
This was the camp ground recommended to us by our Dutch friends back on Tierra del
Fuego. Our problems were over and we were turning into the courtyard in no time, to be
greeted by an odd assortment of canines baying loudly. A small guy appeared in a doorway,
and it looked for the entire world that we had just disturbed Dr.Frankenstein from his latest
mutilations, as he wiped his bloody hands on an already gore stained white apron.
‘Hello,’ he said with a most un-Chilean accent.
‘You wouldn’t happen to be Hans would you? I asked knowing full well what his answer
would be.
‘Bud of cauze, you from Ingland, yar? He replied, looking puzzled.
‘WAY-AYE!’ we cheered triumphantly. ‘You come highly recommended, Hans!’
He looked puzzled and somewhat bashful, so we filled him in with the details, but he still
seemed mystified as to how we had found him. He was a typically laid back Dutchman, and
seemed pleased to chat. He was house-chef, and proudly told us that he was an expert in
Thai Cuisine. Unfortunately after a week of ultra-virtuous fruitarianism, we craved simpler
fare, and he looked slightly disappointed as he disappeared into his kitchen saying;
‘OK, if you want ze fries, I make you a big plate of ze fries!’
Mighty good they were too, and later on he produced a detailed road map and showed us
the best route toward the mountains and the reservoir of El Yeso.
Next day we followed the interminably long Santiago ring-road, which despite its’ length
actually only goes half way round the capital. We crawled through the eastern suburban
roads, thronging with Xmas shoppers. There seemed to be more roundabout than road on
this stretch, most of which had half a dozen exits. Needless to say signposts weren’t thought
necessary, and we had to make several backtracks. The large grassy islands isolated by a ring
of tarmac doubled as mini-markets, and the commonest item on sale solved a mystery that
had been troubling me for some time: NOT!
The big mass fashion item on offer in Chile that year was wait-for-it…the Deckchair! These
evil bloody contraptions have thankfully gone out of fashion in Britain, and I had wondered
where all the surplus stock had wound up. Well here it was, with the garish stripy
hammock bits flapping merrily in the breeze, enticing the unwary! The memories of aching
backs and trapped finger nails came flooding back, and I winced at the thought. Indeed a
small child or un-athletic adult could easily become trapped by one of these instruments of
torture, and a special rocking action was needed before you could launch yourself out into
freedom. Thankfully no one seemed to be tempted.
Some roads had a most extraordinary traffic calming measure, not a speed-bump, but a
speed-mountain. This was not just a sleeping policeman, it was like the whole station had
been piled on top of each other, reaching over a metre in height, buses and cars crept over it
scarcely avoiding bellying out. It certainly worked but was a veritable ‘sledgehammer v.
walnut’ effort.
We popped into a large Hypermarket where a friendly old man patrolled the car park with
large bits of cardboard, which he placed over the windscreens to keep out the ferocious sun.
I fumbled for some change but he waved his hand and moved off to the next arrival. We
bought some delicious bread, and jam, which unfortunately came in bags, once opened it
became an accident waiting to happen, and a lure for ants and flies. In fact the bread was so
good that we polished it off in no time, and had to go back into the store to renew our
supply!
The road eventually cleared the city limits and climbed steadily into attractive hill country,
winding amongst boulder strewn slopes and patches of woodland, with foaming torrents
rushing headlong below. The tarmac ended at a Police checkpoint where we were waved
onto a dirt track whose gradient rapidly increased until a series of steep switchbacks had to
be negotiated. Our little hire-car kept conking out, refusing to start until it cooled down and
got its breath back. I thought we wouldn’t make it, but eventually reached a more gentle
section, where it seemed to get its second wind. We were at 10,000 ft, and I did feel
sympathetic, it really was a tiny little car. The strange turquoise blue reservoir loomed
ahead, and the single-track section that skirted the lake was the stuff of nightmares to even
a mild vertigo sufferer. The waves lapped at the base of a precipitous drop on one side,
whilst crumbling rocky cliffs opposite, seemed to be shouldering you toward the drop.
Fortunately we didn’t meet anyone coming the other way, until we were clear of this section.
The track then crossed an enormous barren scree slope, which had to be regularly cleared
of tumbling debris. The ancient yellow six-wheeled grader, which performed this task, was
parked near the dam. Only when we looked back from the head of the valley did the
enormity of this feature become apparent. It was well over a kilometre from top to bottom,
and probably carried on some considerable depth beneath the water of the lake. It was about
half as wide as tall, and completely devoid of vegetation. The boulders were of very even
size and one could almost imagine it to be grist from some gargantuan mill perched on the
summit. Everything about this place was on a giant scale, the inflow to the lake consisted of
a mighty gravel floodplain over a kilometre wide. It was crossed by numerous braids of a
stream fuelled by melting snow from peaks high above. The ground between the rivulets
consisted of gravel mixed with lenses of sticky clay and sand, and the odd bush clinging on
against the odds. The contrast between this open expanse and the towering slopes above was
unforgettable. We wandered across the windswept plain, and repeatedly had to remove our
footwear before wading across the icy cold streams. On emerging an involuntary jig was
danced to restore one’s circulation. Eventually Wendy flushed a pair of Puna Plovers which
look like pale version of our familiar Ringed Plovers, sharing the latter’s habit of concealing
its clutch amongst stones and pebbles. On landing they all but disappeared, so well did they
blend with the terrain? Our main objective here was to find one of the most gorgeous and
rare wading birds on Earth. The splendidly named Diademed Sandpiper –Plover is the stuff
of legend and one of the ultimate holy grails in bird-watching. It is restricted to the High
Andes, and El Yesso at 10,000feet is the lowest site at which it can be seen. We had no luck
on the first day, but did eventually see a pair of green Mountain Parakeets, which looked
most odd in this treeless place. One couple sat on a rock and preened each other with great
tenderness.
An area of boggy ground above the lake was home to several long billed Snipe, and a small
pale toad. The mires looked remarkably like a British Bog and we carefully picked our way
across it over quaking ground.
The ground was too stony to pitch a tent, so we slept in the car, with little fear of the cold,
as dozens of cows grazed the slopes high above us. Only the very crowns of the high peaks
had a covering of snow, but the breeze at dusk certainly felt like it originated from those
lofty pistes. Weird eerie calls pierced the gathering gloom, and I could just make out the
silhouettes of seed-snipes indulging in their display flights. In flight these peculiar waders
are very snipe like, but they have short grouse like bills and legs, and regularly perch on
prominent stones or low posts.
Next morning we decided to try the far side of the flood-plain where cattle could be seen
amongst some sort of greenery. Skirting the surrounding scree, we came upon a small
marshy area with rushes and rusty coloured puddles. I moved out a little and within seconds
flushed a brightly coloured bird which circled at head height before alighting on the scree
above. We retreated behind a scanty screen of cattle chomped tussocks and settled down
excitedly. The little gem quickly returned to its puddle, and proceeded to probe amongst the
rusty mud with little concern for us. From such close range the vermiculations on its belly
showed up like a fingerprint pattern. The rusty coloured breast blended well with the ironstained water, but the white had band after which it gets its name showed up like fresh
snow. We were less than 5m from a ‘Diademed’: it was like being in heaven with both feet
on the ground, well knees at any rate! Wendy was intrigued by its strange droopy bill,
which has a uniquely crooked curve that must cause illustrators real headaches. This was
undoubtedly the best bird of the trip. To score at the first attempt was incredibly good luck,
as our much travelled Dutch friends were to fail here and in Bolivia and Peru.
The combination of the anticipation, the awesome landscape and utter unique beauty of
this little bird made this a day that will not be forgotten.
Elated we headed back toward Santiago, only to make an alarming discovery. The road
beside the reservoir was littered with large stones, which had tumbled from the cliffs above
in just one night. Small stones were still peppering the track as we passed beneath the
crumbling ramparts with gritted teeth and crossed fingers. Fortunately nothing substantial
hit us and we cleared the danger zone with sweaty palms and mighty sigh of relief.
Our luck was well and truly in this day, and stopping for a bite of lunch, we were
entertained by a Crag Chilia. This bird is not unlike our Nuthatch, but a deep chestnut
colour all over. It is unique to Chile and was the only endemic we hadn’t found in the area.
It picked about on a large shaded rock face, disappearing into crevices and cracks, exploring
every niche, occasionally pausing on a sun-bathed stone for a quick warm up.
Venturing back down to the capital, we decided to avoid the ‘ring-road’, and opted for the
most basic and essential navigational aid for Chilean roads: The compass. Go west! Was the
cry, and it worked. We got to the western suburbs pretty rapidly, and then pointed the car in
the direction of the landing and departing airplanes. The sign for the Hacienda appeared on
cue, and we were greeted by the motley hounds and Hans, who again looked like he had just
disembowelled another customer. We told him of our birding and driving success, but he
scoffed at the later claims.
‘It is Saturday, I zink it’s eazy to cross-town today, ze streets are empty’!
We still felt we had pulled off a miracle of navigation of which Shackleton would have
been proud!
8 RUM AND RAISIN
On Christmas Eve we returned out little hire-car and tool a bus downtown into the
amiable chaos of Santiago. People were out in force, it seemed that shopping fever is same
the world over. I struggled through the crowds to the entrance of the old railway station,
which had become an impromptu outdoor theatre with bizarre ‘Stars-in-their-eyes’, style
karaoke, jugglers etc. I watched a precocious little lad ham his way through some appalling
melodramatic Latin hit. I was amazed by the extravagance of the crowd’s response to this
awful din, however when the next budding star took to the microphone, a large proportion
of the gathering wandered off with the boy. Clearly he had brought his extended family to
provide moral support.
I peered into the station where an ancient steam locomotive was on display in one of the
platform bays. The smoke box of a second engine, complete with elegant chimney and shiny
buffers, formed a second memorial to the motive power of a bygone age. At first glance this
made rather an alarming sight as it looked like the engine’s last journey had ended in a tete-
a-tete with the station wall.
I meandered on past various street vendors, many of whom were trying (largely in vain) to
sell the same dross. A queer-looking old man wandered around shaking a collecting tin, and
bleated out some melancholy appeal. A card hung around his neck, which bore a notice
which seemed to claim that he was a war hero fallen on hard times (I am not sure which
war he had been heroic in) but he adopted a most unpleasant method of pricking the local’s
conscience. He had rolled up his trouser legs revealing that his shins were covered in ugly
weeping sores and scabs. I watched him for a few minutes, and I am sure that he took great
pleasure in putting people off their snacks: sad man!
The highlight of my wanderings was the comical site of no less than six Santa Clauses sitting
in bog-standard wooden chairs pathetically adorned with tin foil. The average British Santa
is usually less than convincing, but these guys were hopeless. They jabbered away at a
variety of bemused looking little kids through bits of cotton wool stuck onto their swarthy
skin at odd angles. I could only feel sympathy, it was hot enough in a vest and shorts, these
guys must have been drifting in and out of consciousness. South American kids are
surprisingly well behaved and little Chileans were no exception. A long line of kids waited
for their turn to tell Santo how good they had been. One little boy appeared to have seen
through the ruse. I watched him carefully count the Santas, using a moist little finger as a
pointer. His eyes narrowed, he scratched his chin, and then peered up at his dad, but he
didn’t disturb his father who was day-dreaming. His head nodded rhythmically as he
recounted, this time he tugged at his father’s trousers. I had seen enough and couldn’t bear
to watch the poor man face this terrible dilemma.
On my way back to the bus depot, I finally made a purchase. I had lost my sunglasses, and
as we were about to depart to ultra-expensive Argentina, I killed two birds by getting a
trendy replacement pair with the spare coinage, which was in danger of pulling my shorts
down. Resplendent in my shades, I found Wend in the bus station, and feeling vaguely
Christmassy asked her if she wanted an ice Cream. She nodded vigorously, so I went to the
Helados stand, and grabbed two of what I took to be chocolate Cornetto type things. Wendy
Tucked in ‘MMMM RUM & RAISIN!’ I hadn’t realised just how dogmatic a teetotaller I was
until this moment, as my first reaction was of guilt at plying my wife with drink! However
my first taste of the ‘king of flavours’ made me a life time convert. I was reminded of an
excellent scene from the movie ‘City Slickers’, where two brothers (loosely parodying ‘Ben &
Jerry’) who have made millions selling ice-cream, bet Billy Crystal’s character that they can
name the perfect dessert flavour for any main course. Reluctantly Billy plays along and
chooses a main dish of asparagus and lamb cutlets, or some such. One brother goes into a
trance like state, while the other looks on anxiously willing him to give an answer. A
marvellous over-the-top tension builds, and sweats rolls down the sibling’s faces, until the
older finally triumphantly says;
‘Rum and raisin!’ The younger brother kisses him with relief, but Billy simply looks puzzled
and says laconically,
‘Well how do we know he’s right?’
The younger brother looks mortified and swaggers,
‘My brother is ALWAYS right!’
The lady in the next seat interrupted our reminiscences and tried to strike up a
conversation, and we managed a reasonable chat of sorts. She invited us to dinner and wrote
her address down in our diary. Unfortunately she came from Valparaiso, and we knew that
we could never find her abode even if we had had time too!
Eventually we entered the air-conditioned musty coolness of our coach and within minutes
we were off, but alas not very far, we drove around the depot to a different platform, where
the driver got off. I am not sure why, but as there were only four passengers on board a
large coach, I guess he was hoping for more customers.
The trip over the Andes to Argentina is truly awesome and the most important of the four
routes that connect these two countries over the mountain chain. The climb is long and
steady through towering scenery, past bubbling turbulent rivers cascading angrily down
from their snowy birth place. Boulders the size of tower block lay in the valley bottoms. The
old rack-and-pinion railway, had been superseded by this road, and the trains go no further
than the foothills. The old line clings to the sides of the valley, meandering wildly to
maintain a sensible gradient. In many places the track is covered by a roof of corrugated
iron sheets, which protected the line from boulder falls. As a railway enthusiast seeing this
engineering marvel redundant filled me with a great sadness. I cannot help but think of the
men who toiled and even died making this improbable route a reality.
The bus journey was interrupted at the foot of the first 29 switch-backs which must be
tackled just to get part way up the pass. The delay was due to a religious ceremony. The
driver and his mate and a few passengers had disembarked and walked over to a roadside
shrine. Here they left an offering of a bottle of some sort of liquid and repeatedly crossed
themselves. We looked at them, then at each other, and the morbid, not to say slightly
worrying significance of this act finally dawned on us. They were asking for safe
deliverance to our destination. This didn’t exactly fill us with confidence, and the climb was
a real white knuckle affair, especially when the back end of the coach swung out over
oblivion at the apex of each tight hairpin, a bit like the end of ‘The Italian Job’. We finally
made it to the top where the ski lifts at the posh resort of Portillo stood silent, and the snow
lay in small patches amongst vast screes. Incredibly tiny hummingbirds make a living in this
barren place, drinking from the low flowers of the stunted plants growing over 2.5km above
sea level.
After a further crawler gear climb, we reached the remote and chilly customs building,
where we were stamped out of Chile, before entering the tunnel whose exit lay in the
Argentine. We were sorry to leave Chile with its fine fruit and great birding. After some 15
minutes of darkness we burst out of the tunnel into a different world. Sleety rain pelted at
the windows and the mountains were lost in the clouds. This was an extraordinary contrast
to the clear blue sky and sunshine on the Chilean side. The murk prevented us from getting
a clear view of the mightiest peak on the Continent. Aconcagua (6960 metres above sea
level) was hidden from view, so near and yet so far. One natural wonder that we were able
to see was a natural stone bridge called Puente del Inca, which straddles a mountain river
which has cut a 19m deep gorge beneath the arch, which spans over 20m, and is 27m wide.
It is thought to have formed as a result of the activity of hydrothermal springs.
The coach descended at alarming speed past vast cliff faces of gravel and till, which had
been undercut by white-water streams hurrying down from the hidden mountains.
One of our fellow travellers was a friendly Bolivian who spoke some English. He had
overheard us and came for a chat, and proved very helpful, getting the driver to drop us off
at the idyllic campground at Portrillos. I shook the driver by the hand and exchanged
seasonal greetings. As usual we went to the far corner of the site, away from the other
customers, and pitched our little tent. Wendy was thrilled because for the first time in weeks
the pegs (which were getting decidedly bent and twisted from being hammered into
unyielding ground) could be pushed into the lush grassy turf with ease. Our seemingly anti-
social behaviour shouldn’t be viewed too harshly, for the Argentinians are the noisiest
campers on the planet. I was spared using earplugs on only three nights out of seven weeks
in this vast country. On each occasion this luxury was afforded by the nearest human being,
and his bloody dog, being several kilometres away.
It was Christmas eve; xmas eve Argie style. These enigmatic latins celebrate the coming of
the Prince of Peace with fireworks. Poor Mary would have had a hell of a job getting the
Messiah off to sleep, and the Donkeys and cattle would have stampeded! I hate bonfire
night; all those bangs set my teeth on edge; however Argie fireworks make ours pale. I am
convinced that they used old munitions; colossal ear-splintering thunder-flashes, machinegun crackers, and sky rockets which probably doubled as naval flares.
We normally went to bed at nightfall, and rose with the sun, but we rapidly realised that
sleep wasn’t going to be on the agenda this night. An old lady had collared Wendy, and
seeing our isolated tent, had taken pity on us and invited us to dinner. I thought that this
might save us the effort of making our own tea, so reluctantly I agreed. We found the lady
and her husband seated at a concrete table with their disappointingly meagre mass fare laid
out before them. We were encouraged to sit and help ourselves. Stale bread, ubiquitous slab
of cold beef, and nougat hardly had us drooling. They did have a Panky, which we had eaten
before, so we plumped for some of that. It’s amazing what you will eat when desperate,
hunger is indeed fine sauce! I had fond memories of toasting slices of this bizarre bread
cake, in the cold of Tierra del Fuego. But looking back the very name induces a jipping
sensation in my tummy.
Our hosts were not wealthy, and they were still driving an old station wagon, which had
served them throughout their long married lives, but they were clearly devoted to each
other for richer and poorer!
We tried with some success to make conversation, with these genuinely friendly folks, and
I relied on the tried and tested conversation subjects, sport, film, family etc.
Fangio is a legend in the Argentine, and this led to comparisons with modern drivers.
‘We like-a Damonil’, I looked puzzled.
‘Dam-on-ill, he repeated slowly.
‘Ah Damon Hill, Si, Si,’ I replied, explaining that I though t he had been robbed of the
Drivers’ championship by Michael Schumacher’s skulduggery. A sentiment with which or
host agreed. They both tried to think of all the Brits they could.
‘Bo-by Chal-ton, Winton Choochill, etc’ We nodded our approval. Then came an
unfamiliar name.
‘lardydee’, we both shrugged. ‘lar-dy Dee’, again we looked blank.
‘El matrimonia Pince Charle’, his wife added insistently.
‘Oh you mean Lady Di’, I finally twigged.
‘Si, Si, Lardy Di, Lardy Di!’ he repeated triumphantly, thinking he had a promising lead as
she had just made an official visit to the Argentine. Unfortunately for him, I am no Royalist,
and I had to disappoint him. After a brief pause his face grew a little grave.
‘Maggie Tatcher’, he said solemnly. I gave the thumbs down , but added ‘General Galtieri’,
to which he too gave the same gesture. We agreed that English and Argentinians were
amigos, and toasted this with real feeling. Mrs. T. was still a real bogey-woman over there,
but despite the propaganda the people were loath to bring up the Falklands, and bear us no
malice.
It was getting late and we could hardly keep our eyes open. Conversation was getting
difficult. I resorted to naming film stars, and with each new name he rocked back in his seat
and threw up his arms.
‘oi, Oi, Oi Charlie Chaplin, ‘I, I, I Eroll Fyn’. He looked puzzled when I mentioned Laurel
and Hardy, but my mime must have been reasonable as he rolled in his chair in ecstasy,
‘OOOOHHHHHH, Si, Si, Orrel an ardy!! ‘Stan and Ollie’ were obviously his favourites, and
his eyes were sparkling with fond recollections, as we said our goodbyes. I couldn’t help but
marvel at the universal appeal of those two extraordinary men, have engendered around the
globe. I guess we are all very much more alike than we think. It is a source of great sadness
to me that many young people do not know who Stan & Ollie or Charlie Chaplin were. Their
magical films were staple fare on children’s TV up to the early 1980s. Indeed my middle
school showed us Laurel and Hardy films at Xmas as a treat, and we all laughed until we
cried!
Christmas morning was spent slogging up a sandstone ridge in search of Steinbach’s
Canastero, a rare bird unique to this part of Northern Argentina. We eventually saw several,
but Wendy was not impressed by these LBJs (Little brown jobs) so we returned hot and
thirsty, and savoured our billy-tea and baked potato xmas dinner.
A large family were gathered around a smoky barbeque piled high with huge chunks of
beef and several sizeable chickens. Middle aged women asked us where we were from and
where we were headed. We explained that we had just come from Chile. The woman turned
up her nose, and sneered.
‘Chile is a dirty country, No!’ Alas I could not agree with her somewhat racist assertion,
and shook my head, and explained that we found Chile, clean, cheap and very pleasant,
adding;
‘Chilean fruit is mucho superior to that in Argentina’.
She looked slightly peeved at these comments, but I wasn’t willing to tell her what she
wanted to hear, just to be polite. Indeed Wend and I regularly wished that Chile was
Argentina and vice –versa, our funds would have lasted much longer!
Next day was largely lost to travelling, and changing money in the large northern city of
Mendoza. I met some Australian girls in the bank, and was glad to speak to some kindred
spirits. We exchanged a lot of advice and grouses about back-packing.
The bus to Villa Delores set off a little later than scheduled, but didn’t get very far. Lack of
brake pressure, curtailed our journey, and the driver flagged down a minibus and paid the
driver to look after us and buy us a drink. We were treated to an impromptu tour of
Mendoza’s bamboozling back-streets, before arriving in a pleasant park. Here we were plied
with the ubiquitous products of the Coca-Cola Corporation which fuel the Populus. This
giant company seemed to have the soft drinks business stitched up here, and the whole
nation seem perfectly willing to pay exorbitant prices for the famous brands. A dollar a can
was the cheapest price we saw.
Eventually we were taken to the repaired bus and set off several hours late. We journeyed
over open cattle country, where the lack of fencing resulted in many wild swerves around
stray livestock kipping on the warm tarmac. The abundant ‘Hereford’ carcasses on the
verges graphically illustrated the scale of the problem. The bus driver played the same tape
of abysmal techno ‘music’ over and over again. I was on the verge of killing him with my
bare hands, but alas at 1am we finally arrived in the small sleepy town of Villa Delores, and
rang the bell of a small hostelaria, where we were surprised by the pleasant welcome and
cheap price for a bed.
Next day after a long argument with a rather surly lady at the ticket office, we took yet
another bus to the Comechingones, a dramatic outlier of the Andes. The landscape here was
reminiscent of limestone pavement only on a much grander scale. There wasn’t a tree in
sight as we were deposited at the promising sounding El Condor. This island of habitat has a
number of birds found nowhere else on earth, and seeing these was our goal. We fly-
camped away from the road, and were only spotted by an irate pair of Southern Lapwings, a
cousin of our Pee-wit, but with a strident extremely bugging call. The streams were a
delight to explore and we eventually came across a Comechingones Cinclodes, a handsome
brown and creamy white bird with habits somewhat like our Dipper, picking around in the
water.
Isolated rocky outcrops about as tall as a man sat like islands amongst a green grassy sea.
Each of these strange formations was attended by a large long tailed bright green lizard,
which basked warily on the top of the stones. How these animals came to colonise each of
the piles was a puzzle as I never saw any in the grassland between the piles. The base of the
outcrops were riddled with the burrows of a very cute guinea pig like rodent. These chaps
were approachable, but their safety zone was most precise, and you could never get nearer
than a couple of strides without them bolting underground. Step back a few inches and they
would re-emerge. At the right point you could use your foot like a TV remote control: foot
back: ‘Now you see me’. Foot forward: ‘Now you don’t!’
I was mystified as to how they knew when to come back out, and was reminded of the
‘magic aura’ which seemed to extend invisibly around our old dog ‘Jack’. Jack would lie in
the sun for hours ‘out for the count’, but if our young pup Sam’s ball went within a couple
of feet of him, Sam dare not retrieve it, no matter how much you encouraged him. Sam
would tilt his head and look keen, so we would edge the ball further and further away from
Jack, until some magic line was crossed when he would swoop on the ball. The no-go zone
was so precise that you could mark it out with chalk, and it could be argued that it was
simply the ‘snapping zone’. However I never saw Jack reprimand Sam for getting too near,
indeed they engaged in play fights where the youngster was shown all the tricks of the
trade. Even when Sam grew into a powerful dog, the ‘aura’ persisted around an increasingly
decrepit, sleepy old hound.
In retrospect I think that these rodents with the aura, were a kind of Cavy, with no English
name, but known locally as Cuis serrano. However small furry rodents aren’t the easiest
things to name in the field.
Less welcome members of the local fauna were sneaky deer-fly that repeatedly bit
painfully around our calves. Unlike horseflies and clegs that normally feel about a bit before
digging in, these blighters lead with their jaws! We christened them ‘Insectos bastardos’.
Thankfully as dusk fell they disappeared.
Pleased with our good fortune we had a supper of banana sandwiches, and prepared for
sleep. Wendy returned excitedly from her ablution sortie, wheezing,
‘Come quick, there’s an owl’. I was up like a flash, bins at the ready. She pointed to a large
bird on a fence post. I focused on the demonic eyes of a Short-eared Owl! The whole scene
could have been set in the High Pennines.
After a deliciously quiet night we arose early, packed and made our way to the road.
Eventually a coach arrived and we climbed aboard an unusually crowded service. We made
our way to the back to the only spare seats, one of which was broken. Most of the passengers
were engrossed in the film playing on the TV set above the driver. Although it was a long
way away I could see cowboys on horseback, with large Spanish subtitles. The scene
changed and I nudged Wendy, my face was transfixed on the screen, and Wendy responded
with a concerned voice, she looked at the distant picture, where Billy Crystal was speaking
to two rotund gentlemen. Not only was the film ‘City Slickers’, and by some extraordinary
coincidence the scene in progress was the ‘rum and raisin’ ice-cream scene!
We enjoyed the rest of the film as best we could, for a broken seat and winding descent
conspired to make us travel sick. Alighting with distinctly green complexions, we plodded
into the resort town of Icho Cruz, which thronged with visitors. The shady campground by
the river, looked enticing, but we were not alone. Everyone seemed to have a stereo, and
these all played different ‘music’ at full volume, the joyous sounds of Chile was soon a very
distant memory. Our time in Argentina had coincided with a nadir in the endemic chart
music sounds (Pit of the Pits), which were currently topped by two tracks that would have
made Chinese water torture seem like a refreshing shower.
‘Un , dos , tres!’ and a record that’s all too numerous choruses and verses consisted of
repeating the title (something like ‘Rio sew time’) over and over again, were tragically huge
hits. My blood runs cold at the very thought of those diabolical creations, which heaven
forbid, almost left one counting one’s blessing for the likes of the Spice Girls!
For thirty years I had abstained from the devils brew, but the nocturnal activities of the
Argies finally drove me to drink. Not even earplugs could keep out the noise and endless
jabbering. The next day we marched down to the local store and purchased a bottle of the
cheapest beer on sale, which was considerably less expensive than the lemonade we got to
complete the shandy. It wasn’t bad when ice cold, but the luke warm combo was truly foul,
undaunted I kept knocking it back, it actually did the trick and I managed to get some shuteye.
We spent the next morning striding out around the surrounding hills. As we returned, we
met a gang of workmen who were busy replacing the telephone wires that lined the street.
Wendy went on ahead to get the ‘billy’ on, and make a brew, while I stayed for a chat. They
were jolly coves and we chatted as best we could. The obviously thought Wend was looking
a bit thin, suggesting that she,
‘No, comer mucho,’ I told them that she ate well, and was just naturally slim, but ‘Mucho
fuerte!’, flexing a demostratory bicep.
They took turns to do the various tasks, and a huge chap who looked like Pavarotti, and
quite clearly ‘comer mucho grande’, had donned the leg irons and shinned up a tall rather
wobbly post. Two of his mates tightened a strainer wire, but the post still looked rather
unstable. The foreman must have noticed my worried glances at the pole, and asked me,
what I thought of their efforts?
‘Vachero telecom,’, I replied cheekily. Obviously cowboy is a derogative term for Latin
workers too, and he got me in a playful headlock, pretending to pound my head for being so
impudent. It was getting mighty hot and they stopped for a welcome siesta. I said ‘adios’ and
returned to help Wendy with making lunch. After our refreshments, we went for a swim in
the river. It was hardly deep enough for vigorous flailing, so we simply wallowed in the
shallows, which thronged with small fish. These homed in on our feet, and proceeded to give
us a pedicure. Although small they could actually give a fair old nip, but they were pretty
determined, returning after each reeling jerk.
A shower was required to remove all the sand from our persons. I was rather worried to
find that the waste-water ran out through a clay pipe and thence into a tributary of the
river. I investigated the outfall and noticed that there seemed to be an obstruction part way
up. I took a closer look, only to see the ‘obstruction’ disappear back up the tube. It was a
large toad, which emerged after dusk to forage around the campsite. Next morning he was
again ensconced in his pipe, and seemed none the worse for his regular foamy dowsing. Ah
well, home is where you make it!
Next day we headed back to the main road, passing the ‘Telecom boys’ who were still busy
with their wires. They must have noticed the sizeable pack that Wendy was carrying,
shouting,
‘Ci, Ci, la Senhora MUCHO fuerte!’, Wend looked puzzled but I noticed an extra spring in
her step when explained their comments!
9 HAPPY NEW YEAR!
On January 1st 1996, we arrived in Liberator Genera San Martin, which is a very long
name for a small, sleepy town. A thunderstorm flashed around the hills to which we were
headed. The bus terminal had its usual compliment of young and old folks trying to make a
few pesos, selling cooled tins of pop, fruit, etc.
‘Does the bus run to Calilegua today?’ I asked in faltering Spanish.
‘Si, Wednesdays and Saturdays. He was correct and 40 minutes later an ancient bullnose
Mercedes pulled up. We joined the crowded stoic passengers. All the seats were taken so we
parked ourselves on the assorted bags of provisions crammed into the doorway, which
provided scant padding as the bus lurched out of town and up a continuous series of
switchbacks into the national park. The tumultuous roar of the tired but willing engine was
punctuated by several stops at fords where water was collected to slake the bubbling
radiator. Some passengers took the opportunity for a quick leg stretch, or a few drags on a
cigarette.
The driver’s son sat next to his father acting as the conductor. I suspect that junior had
been celebrating the New Year with rather too much drink, and his dad was most displeased
when he kept dozing off. Every couple of minutes the boy’s eyelids would droop and he’d
slowly slump forward over the gearstick. With clockwork precision his dad would cuff him
in the face, and he’d jolt upright with a start. This routine was repeated over and over again,
and I had to conclude that junior was either very hungover or else very stupid.
After what seemed an age (at least a dozen whacks in the face for junior) we finally
reached our goal, and were highly relieved to get off. We said ‘Adios Feliz Ano Nuevo!’ to
the driver and passengers, who returned the salutation with bowing heads.
Later we found an overgrown trail which descended steeply into a ravine. Progress could
only be made ‘Tarzan’ fashion, using the tree trunks and climbers, as anchors and pivots. It
was nearly mid-day, and most birds had fallen silent in the building heat. The relative quiet
was suddenly shattered by a roaring; tearing ‘whooosh!’ instinctively we ducked. I was
incensed that the air force should choose to practice over this magical place, but our
criticism was premature. Again we were strafed, but from under the trees could not make
out the culprits. Several more passes set us wondering, so we found a space in the canopy,
and peered out into the bright window of blue. Right on cue the next jet engine roar began
to build. Our eyes darted around, then widened with incredulity. This was no fighter plane,
but a huge raptor, stooping on crooked wings. The wind tore at the lax feathers on its back,
and the talons were stretched out beneath like a Steak’s undercarriage. The dive-bombers
were young King Vultures catching the air in headlong plummets over the canopy. These
were massive birds, but the noise made by their wings still seemed impossibly loud, and it
was easy to understand how legends can arise. An adult appeared, but simply soared above
the exuberant juveniles. This black and white giant with its weird red head and yellow eyes,
circled effortlessly. Only when we followed him with our binoculars could we see that he
was watching or every move, glancing occasionally at the youngsters. I‘ll swear that he
looked on us all with disdain, on Wendy and I for being earthbound inferiors, and on his
fellows for daring to use their perfect spans for any purpose other than soaring!
This day of mysteries continued to throw up fresh surprises with each stride, for every
metre or so along the jungle-trails lay a Rhinoceros beetle. These matchbox sized scarabs,
lay dead or dying, but invariably intact. Despite their size, they proved strangely unattractive
to predators, the male’s impressive horn being useless against beak or jaw. What was
puzzling was the clear association with the tracks; I searched the adjacent forest floor but
failed to find any. It was as though they had deliberately blundered onto the trails to die.
This phenomenon wasn’t confined to Calilegua, as we were to find out at several sites in the
region. I could find no logical reason for this terminal behaviour, but again I wondered if
the natives who forged these routes had a folklore explanation.
The afternoon heat had left us weary, and we steadily trooped back to our secluded camp,
pausing here and there to admire more fabulous birds and insects. We collapsed in the
shade of a tree, and gazed upward to the crest of the mighty Andean foothills, and the still
mightier ramparts, whose summits were shrouded in wispy cloud. Eventually the sun
disappeared behind the trees and one by one the creatures of the night joined the evensong.
We knew that the next 364 days couldn’t match this one! We thought of the hangovers and
burst balloons back home, but we envied no-one.
Another early start had us off up the zigzagging road, it was a steady hard climb and we
were very grateful when a battered pickup stopped and the passengers in the back beckoned
us to get in. They had a handsome Alsatian dog whose tail I clumsily stood on as I clambered
aboard. He yelped, so I patted him and apologised, but his only scolded him for making a
fuss, and he lowered his head dolefully. The road wound up through tree clad valleys, and
we repeatedly drove in and out of the sunshine. The contrast in temperatures was already
marked, and we alighted near the summit amidst a cool mist. The tangled vegetation was
alive with a feeding flock of handsome finches and warblers. As we descended we
experienced several ‘dawns’ as the sunlight found its way into each gulley in turn. The
flowery sun kissed slopes were already fizzing with a multitude of ‘hummers’ darting from
bloom to bloom. Hermits trailing long white tails flashed back and forth, without alighting.
We found a dead snake on the track which was still warm, having been unlucky enough to
be run over by one of the two vehicles that passed that morning. Several large flocks of
parrots wheeled around overhead keeping up a dreadful tuneless screeching. They circled
time and again, and we wondered why they should expend so much energy for no obvious
purpose. Perhaps they were just warming up after a chilly, damp night on the mountain.
Several different kinds were roaring around but they all sounded the same. Some bird
books describe the calls in great phonetic detail: so and so goes ‘KOR-kor-Kah-Kah’, whilst
the lesser blue bottomed goes ‘Kar-kar-Kor-KOR… and so on. I don’t doubt that differences
exist which the local experts can identify, but to me parrots sound much the same the world
over, and I like a good view of one before I attempt to name it. Unfortunately they are often
very wary birds and take flight at the first sight of a binocular, so good views are a welcome
luxury.
We continued and happened upon a huge landslide which had laid waste to all in its path.
It must have temporarily closed the road, as piles of soil had been pushes to the sides of the
track. It had cut a swathe 50m wide and a sizeable hillock of shattered timber and spoil lay
at the base of the scar. We surveyed the desolation from a cliff face that marked the
shearing point of the slump.
‘Look there’s a toad’, said Wendy excitedly.
‘Where’, I relied.
‘Down there ‘, she pointed to the middle of the desolation some 30m below. ‘It’s gone
now’.
‘Oh yeah,’ I said scornfully. Undeterred she clambered down and her determination,
reduced my scepticism. She eventually scrambled to the appropriate spot and after a little
stone turning triumphantly brandished a small orange and black toad. I stood open
mouthed.
‘How the hell did you spot that?’
‘Just call me Hawkeye!’ swaggered Wend. We found several more toads of various sizes, all
moving purposefully up the clearing. Indeed this was a veritable toad highway, and it was a
revelation for a British herpetologist to see these animals on the move in broad daylight. I
had spent over a decade searching for toads by torchlight back home!
The stimulus that drove them was strong; maybe they were moving to breed. We later
found out for Pablo the warden that these handsome amphibians were known as ‘Sapo
naranja’ (Orange toad).
He showed us a gorgeous Toco Toucan that he had found with a broken wing. It was
clearly on the mend and flapped strongly as we approached. He tilted his head to eye us in a
manner akin to a dog listening to a strange noise. The huge glossy yellow bill ensures that
binocular vision is a nonstarter, and his large eye circled in a lovely blue ring of skin,
seemed to follow us chameleon like. The3 day to release ‘Toco’ was fast approaching, and he
was raring to go, his hoarse calls rang out across the forest, for warning his kin that he
would soon be back on the scene.
A wide shallow river proved an excellent place for a wash and brush up. By late afternoon
the water was hot, and provided a delicious open air Jacuzzi. Numerous butterflies gathered
at puddles beside the torrent: Aggregations of a large white species resembling a miniature
regatta. The wide braided stream maintained the largest break in the canopy for miles
around, and birds paused nervously before setting out across the opening. The stands of tall
grasses that fringed the stream were a Mecca for gangs of Crested Oropendolas which
repeatedly crossed to gather the ribbon like leaves. These handsome noisy birds weave the
grass into elongate pendulous nests, which they hang like bizarre fruits in close knit
colonies from large trees. Oropendolas are extraordinary songsters, making loud clanging
calls mixed with metallic clicks and warbling notes, similar to the common Starling, and like
the latter, they seem to be able to produce several different sounds simultaneously.
The mud beside the water was marked with a variety of prints including some made by a
fairly sizeable cat. I am always delighted by such finds. It is good to know that so much is
going on around as you sleep. After all the night is just as busy a time as the day in the
jungle, probably more so.
It was growing dark as we entered the posh but unlit toilet block near the reserve
entrance. Wendy entered a cubicle whilst I washed by the light of a torch. She let off a
diabolical scream, which set my heart pumping, fearing she had been bitten by some
venomous creature.
‘Wend, are you OK? What the hell happened?’
‘Pass the torch, something just goosed me!’ was the strained reply. I appeared and shone
the torch into the toilet pan. A large tree frog was clinging to the cool glaze. Wend doubled
up in a combination of relief and hilarity.
‘He must have made a jump for it when you blocked his window!’ I said with a smirk.
‘You saying I’ve gotta fat bottom?’ snorted Wend.
‘No but something must have scared him’, I was pushing my luck so dropped the subject.
Pablo was doing his weekly litter bin run next morning, and met us near the entrance, we
shock hands and exchanged addresses, and then to our surprise he said,
‘Ingland, pirat, pirat!’ I looked puzzled, and he repeated himself but this time covered one
eye with his hand.
‘Ah Pirate’, I replied none the wiser.
‘Malvinas, Ingland Pirat!’ he replied passionately. I finally got the message, but said that I
thought the Falklands should be ‘Independente’.
‘Si, Si, Independente son Argentine!’ , he beamed.
I was in no mood and perhaps no moral position to argue further, and said goodbye. This
whole event came as a real bolt from the blue, being the only occasion when we were
challenged about those contentious little islands, and just about as far away from the
disputed archipelago as you can get in Argentina!
There was no one around so we had to set off walking. The track passed through groves of
mango trees, and we heard the workers chattering and sharing jokes as they picked the
pendulous green fruits. The weight of our packs dug into our shoulders and I couldn’t stop
thinking of mangoes. We ploughed on for 4 or 5 miles, and all the benefit of our open air
baths had already been undone, as sweat poured out of my vest as I wrang it like a window
leather. We had a drink, before helping each other on with our packs, and trudging off
again. Our spirits lifted as we heard an engine from around the next bend, but we were
disappointed to discover a static diesel powered pump roaring away as it irrigated yet more
mangoes. Undeterred but growing weak with hunger we pressed on, and eventually a
tractor came around the bend behind us, and the driver and his mate beckoned us onto the
large trailer they had in tow. We climbed onto the running board and lugged our packs onto
a sea of green mangoes, toms of them! We moved off swaying back and forth mesmerised by
this mountain of fruit. Alas they were all rock hard, and unripe, but when we finally
reached the main road, our saviours who had clearly noticed us drooling over their cargo,
produced two fat yellow orbs, and said ‘manana, manana!’. We beamed our approval, and
hoped we hadn’t taken their next meals; it is so often the case that those who have least give
most. I am pleased to relate that like John Mills’s lager in ‘Ice Cool in Alex’, these divine
fruits were indeed , worth waiting for!’
Back in town our young friends at the bus terminal seemed pleased to see us again, and
gathered around. They were fascinated by Wendy’s auburn hair, jet black and grey were the
only hair colours that some of the youngsters had ever seen, and she rapidly became the
centre of attention.
Our bus pulled in and Wendy went to pick up her rucksack, only to be beaten to it by two
of the Indian girls who insisted on helping. They tried to lift it but failed, valiantly they tried
again together grasping a strap each. The pack rose up to shoulder height but they collapsed
beneath the weight in a giggling heap. Wendy freed the two-some who were by now
convinced that she was the Bionic Woman. Their eyes nearly popped out when she carried
both our sacks at once.
Our departure was to be as dramatic as our arrival, as a veritable tornado hit town, with a
violent wind whipping up the dust from the streets, blinding the passers-by. The rain came
in huge drops that splatted loudly against the vehicles, sending everyone running for cover.
A poor little donkey harnessed to a very large cart, was left in the open. He cut a pathetic
figure with his huge ears held flat, and his back hunches. The rain dripped off his drooping
bottom lip, but at least it wasn’t cold.
As we climbed aboard, two oriental looking lads said,
‘We love England, Beatles numero uno!’ I said that they were also my favourites, to which
they beamed their approval. They all waved vigorously until we were out of sight, their
smiles piercing the gloom, like rays of sunshine.
We were on our way back to the pleasant city of Salta, here we could hire a car, which
would be essential if we were to get to the other key sites in the area. On the way we passed
a railway marshalling yard, where a couple of dilapidated old steam engines, had been
dumped amongst the sleepers, and weeds. The scene looked like a Hollywood cowboy film
set.
It rained all the way back, which was rather welcome for it damped down the dust on a
long section of road that was being widened. The Argentinian version of contra-flow is
somewhat hair-raising. They didn’t bother marking out the appropriate route with millions
of cones. Drivers were just left to get on with it, and find their own way through. On the
way out we had passed the un-surfaced section in hot sunshine. The coach veered wildly
through a dust-cloud that reduced visibility to the distance from the driver’s nose to the
inside of his windscreen. Undaunted he ploughed on and we heard the roar of motors
passing us on both sides!
10 . Onward, Upward and Outward!
Amazingly, we got back to Salta unscathed, and after a good deal of haggling hired a car
and headed for the humid forests at the Parque Nacional El Rey. This huge reserve has a
similar fauna and flora to Calilegua, but some of the species are much more obliging here,
as we were soon to find out. Arriving during yet another violent electrical storm, we waited
for this to pass before emerging to set up the tent. We were met by a pair of one of the
wackiest birds in the world, and the main reason for our visit.
‘Well that was really difficult’, chuckled Wendy, adding ‘but they are rather groovy!’
This was no exaggeration as Red Legged Seriamas look like long necked ‘punk’ buzzards
with legs like flamingos. They were described by the late great Gerald Durrell, who thought
they looked like ‘Immensely superior feathered camels’. They rarely fly, preferring to stroll
around picking at crickets and the like, or scavenging around the old picnic sites. One
evening I was vigorously flapping a pale shirt to remove bits of grass and barbed seeds,
when one of the resident pair came running straight at me. Their obviously faithful types
and he must have thought I was strangling his mate. I quickly furled the shirt and after a
short but un-nerving stare-out he seemed satisfied I had done no wrong and withdrew at a
more sedate pace.
Each night the pair roosted in a small tree cementing their relationship with a dreadful
caterwauling duet before flying up into the branches. Dusky legged Guans added to the
dissonant evensong, going to roost with an awful ratchetting chorus. These large drab game
birds had become very tame around the village, mucking in with the chickens, and
presumably occasionally went into the pot like their domesticated kin. Later we heard the
sweeter whistle of our first Potoo, but couldn’t locate it amongst a stand of dead and dying
trees.
The evenings were spent de-ticking, for the grassland here was heaving with the little
(and not so little) beggars. By the end of a trek, several were invariably lurking about one’s
person, but they had rarely begun to feed. Chiggers are different, once aboard they waste no
time in up tipping and digging into, and if your unlucky, under the skin. I only got
chiggered once, back on the campground at Lake Ibera. Thankfully with Wendy’s help got
them al off before they went subcutaneous. They are tiny little mites that develop under the
skin, where they remain until they emerge considerably larger some weeks later and whilst
on the skin and during the growth period itch like crazy. They often dwell in long grass, and
move rapidly once they have sniffed you out. Prevention includes sulphur powder liberally
sprinkled on clothing and bare parts, but once on board vigorous rubbing and luck are
needed to fight them off. If you want to avoid getting ‘chiggered’ remember that old Frank
Sinatra classic’
‘Oh little fool you know you can’t win, I don’t want you....under my skin!
Ticks, biting flies and mosquitoes abound in the North-West of Argentina and they are a
constant menace in calm weather. A smoky fire helped keep the mat bay.
Perhaps our closest miss of the whole trip came at El Rey, where on an early start along the
main trail we stumbled upon the fresh tracks of a Tapir, that had passed through within the
hour, for the puddles which it had disturbed had yet to settle. We followed but lost it in the
undergrowth: A great pity. However further along the same track we found an incredible
little frog. When disturbed it inflated its belly and lifted up its back end. The skin adjacent to
its leg folds bore a pair of ‘eyes’. The frog was instantly metamorphosed into an angry
looking owl, or something! A very similar looking frog features in most books on
camouflage and mimicry, which always reminds me of a seal. Alas there aren’t many seal in
the jungle so predators must be conned into thinking the staring face belongs to a dangerous
local.
From El Rey we took a circuitous route around various smaller sites including an idyllic
mountain river, where we spent a magical afternoon in search of a couple of very special
birds.
As with all birdwatchers our lack of immediate success at finding the key inhabitants at
this site was leading to increased paranoia, and the nagging doubts that we might fail in our
search was building by the minute. Eventually as happens so often our luck changed
dramatically, and within a couple of minutes we were rewarded with incredible views that
had us gasping in admiration.
The phrase ‘well adapted to its surroundings’ could not be employed more appropriately
than to the Torrent Duck.
For this handsome little bird seems to have supernatural abilities, swimming up thundering
falls with ease, or simply standing fast on submerged boulders with the current tearing at
slender legs. When disturbed they launch themselves over great cascades, shooting the
rapids with feet paddling furiously. We were indeed fortunate to find a pair. The male with
his pied head and chocolate coloured breast flecked with rusty flecks. His mate was very
different but equally attractive with orange breast, and slaty-blue head which was
bejewelled with beads of water, as she emerged from the foaming torrent.
We were still concentrating on the ducks when a small dark bird shot past along the
stream on whirring wings. This was the unmistakable frame of a Dipper, not the white
breasted inhabitant of our uplands, bur a speciality, unique to a small region of Argentina
and Bolivia. We crept along the slippery boulders to the brow of the falls and peered down
to the rocks below.
‘I’ve got him! whispered Wendy, training her binoculars on him breathlessly. What a
beauty he was, living up to his name, bobbing away at the edge of the water, in shape and
behaviour almost identical to the European Dipper, even sporting that unusual white eyelid,
which appeared briefly as he blinked with each ‘dip’. What made him different was his
breast, no snowy belly here, but a smaller orangey-red bib, similar in colour to a Robin’s
breast. All too soon he disappeared, but as he went, I could hear a distinct metallic ‘zit’ over
the roar of the water. Later when I next encountered a Dipper back in England, I told him
that his Rufous-Throated cousin over the sea sends his regards. He flew off uttering a ‘zit
zit’, perhaps he understood!
Our motoring was reasonably trouble free except when we carried on after dark. The roads
were fine and they had plenty of signposts many of which were displayed on large gantries
that straddled the main routes. Unfortunately these weren’t lit up and the lofty signs didn’t
reflect in your headlights. Consequently you come to a roundabout or interchange, and have
to pull up, find a torch, and shine it up at the signs. This was a ridiculous state of affairs, and
we stuck to diurnal motoring thereafter.
For a people who spend as much time active in the dark hours as they do by day, this
oversight was especially bizarre!
To paraphrase ‘adults are just grown up children’, and I still have more than a vestige of
hide and seek mentality. I enjoy clandestine camping, testing my camouflage skills, and
mastering the art of concealment. Wendy thinks I’m just mental!
The Chaco in North-Western Argentina is known as ‘El Impenetrable’ with good reason. It
is covered in thorn bushes, cacti, and small trees that grow to about 3m in height, and
without a sizeable machete, or a bulldozer, humans are well and truly barred. Tracks have
been cleared over the years, a process accelerated by the use of hefty machinery. The roads
and track ways that have been cleared allow access into a rich world with birds and animals
aplenty. Woodpeckers, parrots and finches abounded, and small armoured lizards trundled
around mopping up the numerous ants.
I find this type of scrubby, not quite woodland habitat very satisfying. The combination of
being enclosed but still with an open sky is unusual and keeps you ever vigilant. Your gaze
constantly switches from the tangle around you, to the vault of blue above. Part of the
delight is that you are partly concealed from view, and the birds that skim over the thorns
pass very close and are often rather surprised as they happen upon you. It does have its
frustrations, as flocks of parrots hurtle past before you can draw a bead on them, but if you
are lucky, you may be rewarded by fantastic views of birds including large raptors whose
eyes widen as they swoop over you. You can get a similar sensation if you walk through
habitats like half grown conifer plantations. I can still picture the expression of surprise on
the face of a mighty female Goshawk that appeared over a ride in a Scottish forest, still the
best view I have ever had of this illusive hawk.
We turned off a dirt road into a side trail, managing to get the car out of sight, covering
our tyre tracks behind us. Here we pitched the tent on a small arena of sand, and as dusk
fell, over a dozen small nightjars appeared and wheeled to and fro, right above our heads. It
was easy to see how these mysterious birds have come to feature in folklore, for they danced
above us without making the slightest swish with their wings. They could turn and bank at
incredibly slow speeds, each stroke of the wing could be followed even in the gathering
gloom. As darkness finally took hold the disappeared, and lots of churring calls indicated
their next nightly task had begun. The night shift included various owls including the
sparrow sized Ferruginous Pygmy Owl. By chance we had pitched right on the territorial
border of two pairs who engaged in a real slanging match. I responded with a whistled
imitation of the call, which coming from no man’s land really got them excited. Clearly both
pairs thought the others had ventured that little bit too close, and I was quickly surrounded.
I fell silent and they eventually dispersed.
The welcome rains had soaked rapidly into the parched soil but the excess moisture formed
a veil of mist that shrouded the low bushes. There was a crescent moon which illuminated
an eerie scene, with tall cacti outlined like giant hands reaching skyward through the
twisted tangle.
I eventually turned in, but slept fitfully, repeatedly roused by the numerous calls that
carried in the still air. Eventually the mournful soft descending whistle of a Potoo carried in
over the scrub. This weird large relative of the Nightjar, is THE master of camouflage,
spending the day resembling the stump of a broken branch on a tree. I whistled a response,
which must have been a half decent imitation, as the bird responded and we dueted for
several minutes, but I couldn’t attract it any nearer. Later I woke with a start, this time the
haunting whistle was coming from close-by, so clad only in my ‘undies, I strode out into the
night. I stumbled toward the caller, which seemed to be near the main track. The bird was
really close now, and a large bare dead tree trunk loomed ahead. Surely this was the ideal
perch for a Potoo. so I pointed my torch beam at the top, and to my immense joy the tip of
the trunk turned around and two large eyes peered down at me. Its back was ramrod
straight and it was impossible to see where its feathers overlapped the bark. I pointed the
beam back toward the tent and shouted under my breath,
‘Wend, head toward the torch, its fantastic!
After a few ‘ouches’ and mild expletives she eventually made it. My eyes had grown
accustomed to the dark, and I could actually see its gape change as it called. I pointed the
torch, and for a few seconds we watched in awe, before it took off in silence. I felt guilty for
disturbing him, but he quickly resumed his melancholy cry nearby. We agreed that it was
well worth a few scratches!
Continuing North through the town and state known as Jujuy (pronounced Hoo-Hooey)
we tackled the long climb onto the great plateaux known as the Altiplano. Everything about
this vast expanse is different: the landscape, the light, and the mood. The thin clear air subtly
altered one’s perceptions of scale, and I felt smaller here than under any other sky. For me it
matched the mythical wastes of Tolkien and the like, vast and untameable, where giants
could clomp around without looking the slightest bit out of place.
The ascent passes through rolling country covered in giant cacti, where you half expect
the US cavalry to come charging into view at any moment. These mighty alien looking
fingers were very variable with single uprights or complex branching hands. We picked out
one monster specimen with more than 15 branches. Later using the photograph and Wendy
as scale, we measured it at 39 feet tall, and its huge ribbed trunk was largely devoid of
spines. I guess that many years of wind, rain, and itchy cattle had conspired to knock off its
armament. The hulks of toppled dead plants were bleached white, and the mighty trunks
seemed very animal like, as the ribs that supported them looked like bones. The pithy
inwards shrivelled to a coarse pale spongy mass.
The whole region is larger than England, and a geologist’s paradise, where ancient
sediments have been crumpled and buckled into an enigmatic testimony to the immensity of
time. One exposed face looked like a cross section through a Swiss roll, an even a trained
geologist found it hard to understand how rock could be contorted without fragmenting
into a chaotic jumble. The matter-of-factness of the textbook explanations took some
swallowing before the stony face of reality!
The road to the isolated community of Abra Pampa was flanked by a chain of hills made up
of multi-coloured strata tipped on end. The different weathering rates had produced a
peculiar effect that resembled a giant row of teeth. The alternating layers offered markedly
different growing conditions with some strata bare of vegetation, whilst others supported a
regimentally straight row of bushes. The whole effect from a distance was that of a potato
field in spring, with more soil than greenery showing.
High on the ridge a tiny window of sky was framed by a stone arch, which the local’s
called ‘el piedra diabolo ‘(Devil’s stone).
The whole area is a kaleidoscope of pastel shades, and pink, yellow and orangey layers lie
against each other, their subtle tints changing hour by hour, as the sun rolled across the
heavens.
The plateaux itself is vast and treeless, with numerous ephemeral lakes and pools dotting
the open vista, twinkling like diamonds as they reflect the sun. These water bodies attract a
rich variety of birdlife, including three species of flamingo, and various coots including one
the size of a Turkey! The shallows were frequented by handsome Avocets and Lapwings
unique to the high Andes. Elegant Andean Gulls, drifted around looking remarkably like our
familiar Black-headed, but most of these gulls will never see the sea. A legendary birder
friend of mine Peter LeBrocq would greatly appreciate this land locked ‘seabird’. He spits
blood whenever he hears the words ‘sea-gull’: ‘No such thing’, he scoffs. This is certainly
true in Britain, as anyone who visits their local rubbish tip can testify. Indeed ‘seagull’ is
becoming ever more erroneous, as more and more gulls invade our towns and cities, nesting
on rooftops, waking up the neighbours with their raucous calls. With ever more gulls
preferring the botulism infested goodies thrown out with the garbage than the riches of the
sea.
The most unusual bird in this treeless country was the Andean Flicker, a woodpecker that
has somehow wound up back on terra-firma. Alas, this reversion is far from perfect, as the
adaptations that make a life clinging to tree trunks viable, conspire to make things difficult
in this treeless place. They move around by means of a ludicrous stilted goose-stepping
march. Contrary to what you might think, this renders them difficult to observe, not because
they are fast or anything. It’s just that the hoots of laughter scare them off, and you can’t see
too well through eyes awash with tears. We had just about recovered when I set us off again
by commenting that they reminded me of Wendy’s dad running in his wellies!
The dominant livestock are Llamas and huge flocks roam around nibbling at tough ichu
grass and prostrate bushes. Many of the really young calves (foals, lambs?) are creamy white
in contrast to their older brown or pied relatives. The herdsmen mark their flocks by tying
brightly coloured wool into the tips of the erect ears. Some had shocking pink additions to
their lugs, which showed up well against the drab vegetation. Donkeys get similar treatment
and looked equally chic!
Abra Pampa is little more than a cluster of a hundred or so mud brick houses, but
everyone was out in the streets as we arrived. They had all joined a procession headed by a
garishly painted Madonna, which wobbled from side to side as the bearers stumble along
the muddy street. There was much banging of drums, and clapping of hands. Christianity
has a long history in this area, where Dominican and Franciscan friars arrived in the second
half of the 16th Century. They organised the construction of dozens of small churches, many
of which remain in various states of repair.
Two large shallow lakes lay behind the village, and in the heat haze, groups of flamingos
seemed to hover above the surface, their legs lost in the shimmer. Various ducks: Puna Teal
and White cheeked Pintails paddled around occasionally up-tipping comically. Hordes of
coots dotted the surface, milling around like miniature dodgem cars.
This was as far as we ventured with the car, but after returning to Salta, we made the
journey again but this time by bus, continuing the climb to the Bolivian frontier. Here the
town of La Queacha is dominated by the station, who’s numerous rusty sidings are still
occupied by fairly new looking wagons with nowhere to go. The sleepers slept under fast
accumulating dust and litter.
Bare rocky hills surround the town and the altitude and open terrain conspire to make the
nights very chilly. The hostels provide beds with great piles of blankets, which were all very
necessary, as even the cockroaches were sluggish!
That evening we reflected on our time in Argentina, and despite its foibles and unfortunate
currency rate, we had to conclude that we had been amply rewarded for our patience. After
all few countries can boast having deserts, rainforests and glaciers, plus whales, and a
multitude of smaller mammals, and over 600 species of birds to boot.
We never once felt threatened, and found the Populus helpful and friendly. The only real
downer was the unjustifiable charging of European prices for food and accommodation
without actually providing the appropriate value for money. With a national debt of $63
Billion we may have been expecting too much. It isn’t the best country for teetotal,
vegetarians to visit. I suppose carnivorous boozers would have been in heaven! The best
recommendation is that I would gladly return to explore this land of the sun again.
Thankfully the population is pretty stable, and the pressures on the remaining tracts of
wilderness are far less severe than those that threaten much of the rest of the continent.
The small bridge between La Queacha and Villazon which marks the frontier between
Argentina and Bolivia straddles far more than the stream below, it defines the cruel divide
between the third and the first world. I am in little doubt that we were the richest people in
town that day, and the local kids realised this too.
Unfortunately I wasn’t feeling very playful as the blisters and swelling on my foot had
spread alarmingly overnight, and I could hardly walk. Wendy went off to find me a Doctor,
leaving me in the park with a gang of filthy little boys imploring me to let them shine my
boots. They all lugged identical wooden boxes marked with an individual number. They
seemed to get more polish on themselves than on the shoes they were supposed to be
cleaning. I had never employed a shoe-shine before, but gave in to a slightly older boy, who
I suspected was a full timer. He buffed up my boots with great vim, and made them shine for
the first time in three months. I offered a handful of coins and he took a couple, nodding
manfully as he departed. The other younger boys who had deferred to the older lad closed in
and continued to pester me. I played along; making faces and feigning hilarity as they
repeatedly did a trick that looked like they had shoved a pebble through the back of their
heads into their mouths, spitting out the stone with ever louder and coarser hawking
sounds. I was relieved when the boys assured me that they went to school, which they
pointed out beside the square. I handed out a few small coins, and the recipients sprinted off
to one of the girls selling garishly coloured Jellies, with the baleful cry of ‘gelatinos,
gelatinos’. The town also supported at least dozen ice cream salespersons, offering equally
ghastly coloured helados. I hate ice-cream van chimes, but confess that the Bolivian
equivalent is an even greater crime on the ears. They all had one of those little hooters with
a rubber bulb, much favoured by Italian moped riders. With several in competition you
could be forgiven for thinking you were in some Alien swamp at mating time! Later on
Wend reminded me of our other brush with New World ice-cream culture: During our visit
to San Antonio Oeste, we arrived at Siesta time, and the streets were empty, with only the
breeze stirring. The only noise came from a whistle that sounded every few seconds.
Eventually a youth rode past on a bike, balancing a large ice box on his handlebars. He was
the helados man, but no-one interrupted his mournful peeping as he quartered the dusty
grid of streets.
The aural assault continued from a large hideous baroque church, which housed a peel of
diabolically off-pitch bells. These repeatedly rang out, and the sequence of increasingly flat
clangs induced a feeling of real nausea. Wendy reappeared and helped me up a street to a
small clinic. The doctor didn’t seem too concerned by the state of my foot, and proceeded to
hack off the white blistered skin with a pair of scissors. This was pretty painful, but the
splash of peroxide had me chewing on my binocular strap, as my skin fizzed away. A liberal
splash of iodine provided the final sting topped only by a bill for $10. However he had done
the trick and it quickly heeled.
I was even able to hobble around town and see what goods were on offer. There were some
bizarre stores, weirdest of all was one was that sold only tambourines. It was stuffed full of
well-made instruments of all sizes and shapes. Hardware stores proliferated and all seemed
to sell the same range, which included a ‘family set of cooking pots’, which could be stacked
together Russian Doll fashion. This was no ‘Argos’ effort though, as the largest would have
easily doubled as a bath, and the smallest would have held enough to over-face a carthorse!
Large sacks of green leaves slumped in the doorways of most establishments. This was
cocoa, freely available in Bolivia, but treated as contraband back over in Argentina, where
incomers are given very thorough searches. Handfuls are stuffed into the cheeks giving the
user a hamster like appearance. It’s a powerful stimulant and is said to be a good cure for
soroche (altitude sickness) but we hadn’t been troubled by this, despite being at 3,442
metres above sea level. The only noticeable effect of the thin air was the rapid onset of
breathlessness even when walking up modest slopes. We tried a leaf or two, but found they
were most unpleasant. The refined extracts of this plant are the basis of the Cocaine
industry, which was until recently, the Country’s largest export earner!
Few people in town owned vehicles, but those that did seemed to be trying to create the
illusion of a traffic problem. They drove round and around the plaza and up the main street.
One guy in a battered VW Beetle must have passed us twenty times. I don’t think they were
taxis, and they never had any passengers.
The Bolivian population is dominated by people of native ancestry, which is a polite way of
saying Indians (that long lasting inappropriate moniker resulting from Columbus’s not
arriving where he’d hoped!). These native Indians make up over 70% of the population of
around 7 million. The most noticeable cultural change at the border was female attire, for
the vast majority of women still wear the traditional Chola dress. Ample behinds are clearly
the ‘in thing’, but they are not a product of gluttony, far from it, as the women are mostly
slim, through hard work and modest diet. The wide girth and rump seem to be formed of
layer upon layer of petticoats, and pleated skirts. The most useful item is a blanket that is
used to carry all manner of goods, as well as babies. The coal black hair is platted into two
strands, and the whole garb is topped by one of the most out of place looking hats in the
World. The bombinio is a small bowler hat (which looks several sizes too small) which
perches on top of the head, and is kept on with pins. Brightly coloured shawls and cardigans
complete the outfit, which imparts a strange air of authority to the wearer despite the
resemblance at least from behind to a circus clown.
The bus ride up to Potosi was long and very slow, and the road was largely un-mettled. The
buses were old and rattled at every joint. The drivers had a compartment with an odd
collection of posters facing the passengers. A saccharin sweet, blond baby Jesus clutched a
bejewelled rosary, next to a semi-naked busty bombshell. Both peered out like Caucasian
propagandists, but were the most alien items on the whole vehicle, to native and westerner
alike.
The stops were extremely unpleasant, hellish lavatories or in some cases unashamed
pissing in the street by men and women alike. Sixteen hours is a long time on a bus, and
when y’ gotta go…..
Pigs snuffled around the few hovels that lined road in the mountain village, and young
girls thrust boiled eggs and potatoes at the passengers, but we had already lost our appetites.
The Villazon-Cochabamba road meanders amongst wild barren scenery, and occasionally
a vista came into view, that you would normally only get from an aeroplane. The crumpled
surface of the Earth stretched away to a distant horizon. I imagined myself flying over mars,
and my sunglasses gave the sky an appropriate pink tinge. I was entranced by the enormity
of the scene, and the purity of the wilderness refreshed my spirit, providing a partial
antidote to the dread that pervaded my soul in Sao Paolo and Rio. Alas even this lofty world
wasn’t immune from ecological catastrophe, for the locals use the dwarf Polylepis woodland
for firewood. Little now remains and the rest with its unique birdlife has a bleak future.
The small city of Potosi looked like a building site as the roads were all dug up and large
culverts and pipes lay on the kerbs ready for burial. We had intended to stay here for a night
but chickened out, and ploughed on to Cochabamba.
We arrived at dusk, and found a surprisingly posh hotel, which was clean and cheap. We
showered, washed some clothes then went down to the market for supper. Basic nosh was
cheap and plentiful, and it was all cooked right in front of you. Chips, fried bananas, eggs,
onion and chicken is the basic menu for the outdoor cafes. We skipped the Pollos but were
over faced by the ample plateful, and had to stagger back to our room. This route took us
past the ever busy bus terminal, and a Police Station which appeared to be next to what
might politely be called a Bordello. Obviously the cops didn’t like walking too far. Things
were certainly different in Bolivia!
This mountainous Country has a good reputation for being relatively safe despite being
amongst the poorest in Latin America. However it has a slightly mixed history when it comes
to treating foreign visitors. Perhaps the two most well-known trivia questions about Bolivia,
indeed for many people the only things they know about the place’s history involve famous
people being killed there. The infamous outlaws Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, are
reputed to have met their ends in a gun battle, not in the Wild West but in Bolivia. Many
years later, a real icon of the Twentieth Century Che Guevara, met his end in dubious
circumstances at the hands of the Bolivian Military. It is said he was murdered in cold blood
after giving himself up, after being captured in the mountains where he had been
attempting to wage guerrilla warfare, and instigate a revolution a la Cuba. We hoped to fair
better than these previous visitors, but we were to see something of the vast countries darker
side.
11. ‘RAIN! RAIN! RAIN! I DON’T MIND!’
Back the Hotel we were unable to sleep until the early hours as a loud but pretty ‘tight’
band played next door. We found a TV channel that showed English language movies, and
we learned a little of our own countries shady political history, in ‘In the name of the Father’
the story of ‘the Guildford Four’. The scene where the inmates drop burning newspapers
into the night air from their cells was unforgettable. ‘Giuseppe’s dead man!’
We had a lie in before sorting out a four wheel drive hire car, and wasted no time
heading off east up the long drag to the cloud forests of Corani. The villages along the
mountain road double as a menagerie that Old Macdonald himself would have greatly
admired. I am a connoisseur of ‘cool’ livestock, having spent my childhood on small farms
where fun came before profit. Nothing came through the gate without getting some kind of
moniker. The origins of which are known only to my dear ‘Pops’ and I, nobody could hope
to work out how such titles as ‘Dingleberry Dan from Dalbeattie’, ‘Humph’, ‘Roy’, and ‘Dozy
Bovril the third’ came to be bestowed.
The most conspicuous animal was a diminutive breed of hairy pig that rooted around with
impunity. Only a few of these hirsute little porkers were tethered, perhaps these had no road
sense or else had been rooting in someone else’s patch once too often! Lines of Muscovy
ducks regularly held up the traffic, and hens fussed around fluffy chicks, whilst strutting
Roosters tried to intimidate one another.
W climbed into the clouds and for the next 24 hours some form of precipitation fell from
the sky. The tracks off the main road were like linear quagmires and the four wheel drive
was continuously engaged. The regular torrential cloudbursts were so heavy that the normal
rain that fell in between seemed but a mild drizzle, and we did our searching, cooking and
tent building during these lulls. The thick forest was alive with birds with feeding flocks of
fabulously coloured tanagers of various kinds searching the fern clad trees. The steepness of
the terrain enabled us to look down on the canopy below, where species which prefer the
dizzy heights of the tree tops could be seen with relative ease. On one occasion the birds
became frantic and their alarm calls drew our attention to a large black mammal ‘shinning’
up a mighty bough. This was a Tayra, a giant type of marten, of which birds were wise to be
wary, for it regularly raids nests. Places like this make one grateful for the more violent
processes of geology, for without steep slopes, far more of the World’s wonders would have
been lost. This country was far too steep for large scale farming and small haphazard
clearances probably benefited some species, especially when they were neglected and
became overgrown. Doubtless the economist will turn their attentions to these fabulous
forests, once the more accessible areas have been cleared, if humanity allows this to happen
it will relinquish any right to claim to be civilised. Alas things don’t look too promising. I am
sick and tired of hearing the feeble attempts at justifying the preservation of rainforest.
Every time the subject is broached some so called ‘scientific spokesman’ or other, will trot
out the pitiable anthropocentric response’
‘Well we might be destroying a potential cure for cancer or heart disease’.
There is an endless stream of explorers and thrill seekers who get labelled heroes for
risking their necks to do something with no more motivation than ‘Because it’s there’. Why
can’t we leave rainforest simply because it is there, for they contain treasures to match any
Louvre or Tate, and certainly more than we shall find on Mars!
The rain had made us both irritable and we were engaged in a blazing row about nothing
in particular, when we were interrupted by an old couple, who appeared out of the dripping
jungle, bearing large bundles of firewood. We self -consciously nodded a greeting, and were
quickly brought back to our senses. The sobering site of workaday human toil reminded us
that we were here on holiday, a luxury these people could scarcely contemplate, and we had
no excuse for bickering.
We had sensibly collected some dry kindling back down below the clouds, and put some
more damp stuff on the engine block to dry out for the next day. We enjoyed a cooked meal
and slept surprisingly well, lulled by the drum of the rain on the tent.
We did a lot of too-ing and fro-ing along the summit road, and had to pass a Police
checkpoint, where registrations were taken, and some buses and trucks were searched. This
is the busiest road in the east of the Country, which isn’t saying a lot, but it did provide a
good trade for numerous locals who sold their produce to the weary travellers. We passed
over the section four times and on each occasion the whole road-block and it’s attendants
were in a different place, it was even set up on different sides of a long tunnel .We never did
fathom out why this ‘musical chair’ like fiasco went on, as there was no alternative route.
Equally they couldn’t understand why we gringos kept going back and forth, but on our
third and fourth passes we were waved through like Royalty!
We stopped at a small roadside café whose proprietor was an amateur taxidermist
(Amateur with a capital A). The shelves behind the counter reminded me of the Bates Motel
in the film ‘Psycho’. He had immortalised a bizarre selection of the local fauna that appeared
to have been scraped off the road. These included a couple of Coatamundis, which still wore
the final horrified expression on becoming a road casualty. He’d had to improvise
somewhat, and the tortured expressions weren’t improved by the use of marbles as eyes.
‘That one should be called David Bowie,’ I said, but Wendy looked puzzled.
‘It’s got a green eye and a blue eye!’ I laughed. We were beginning to have our doubts
about our choice of diner, but the ‘Sandwich de huevos’ that his wife produced for us were
delicious.
These mountains support many splendid species, but the most incredible bird we saw was
the Sword-billed hummingbird.
Two appeared in front of us at such speed that we initially thought that they were flying the
wrong way with twigs for nesting material, but as they faced off in an ascending spiral,
almost fencing with their incredible appendages. The bird is quite a large hummer, but the
bill is almost twice as long as the body. It is amongst the most blatant manifestations of
adaptation to a specific resource (i.e. nectar in trumpet shaped flowers) in nature, and
makes for an unforgettable sight.
The higher slopes had lots of scrubby flowering plants which were alive with various
‘hummers’ that seemed to fizz around in the damp like an electric charge.
They may
be exquisite little fellows but they are exceptionally pugnacious and even down right
vicious, continually squabbling over territory and flowers. A great deal of patience, and fast
hands are needed to see them in binoculars. The best views are usually obtained by
anticipating the return of a bird to a favoured bloom. They can drink very quickly and a
group of flowers in close proximity are usually required for the eyes to focus and diagnostic
markings to be noted.
We camped on an open grassy clearing but by morning the surface was covered in running
water and our tent’s groundsheet revealed its many perforations, and our bedding and
sleeping bags were rapidly soaking up the torrent. We packed up as best we could, and
various socks and boots were placed under the bonnet near the engine. We had to descend if
we were to get dry, so we headed east to the lowlands. The road off the mountains closely
followed a river valley whose creator had to be repeatedly crossed. Each bridge gets wider
than the previous, as the river inexorably matured. The rains had swollen it into a roaring
chocolate-coloured torrent; sweeping mighty trees downstream like match wood.
The road eventually levelled off, and the rain abated. We tried at a Hotel, but the
ridiculous price had us quickly departing in disgust. We spread out our wet gear which was
rapidly dried under clearing skies. Next we returned to the village and stocked up with
bread and fruit, before returning to the forest which were heaving with birds, and we saw
over fifty new species in one afternoon. A large green parrot sat quietly in the top of a huge
tree, making short work of some sizeable fruits. I had to dodge the falling debris which was
shell like in more ways than one, shattering explosively as they hit the deck!
The haunting whistling song of the wren but the singer remained well hid!
We pitched out tent at the edge of a swamp, and the gathering dusk triggered a chorus of
whacky frog and insect calls. We christened one noisy amphibian ‘the formula one frog’, a
highly appropriate name as the noise they made was uncannily like the dreadful scream of a
passing racing car. The chorus sounded like a veritable Grand Prix, and a manic Murray
Walker commentary would have completed the picture perfectly.
Our dozing was interrupted by the guy from the Hotel down the road, who insisted we
were trespassing and wanted a $10 camping fee. We explained that we didn’t know it was
his land, but after much arguing we offered him $5 which was a small fortune by local
standards. He was a most unpleasant cove and insisted we pay up or he would bring the
Police. By now it was pitch black but we packed up and headed off, we passed him and his
henchman on the road, and I stopped in front of them, and asked why they were, still
wanting to make trouble when we had done as they asked. He wouldn’t speak so I got out
and pleaded with him to grow up and stop being so bloody nasty. He elbowed me in the ribs
and seeing red, I quickly pulled him to the ground, and crouching over him repeated the
question. I bellowed that I ought to beat him to a pulp, for his wicked small-mindedness, but
he laid quaking with fear, and muttering feebly. This was the first indication that the man
wasn’t of sound mind, so I picked him up and dusted him off. He stood there still shaking, so
I turned to his mate, and told him to talk some sense into his boss, but he shrugged his
shoulders and looked unconcerned. We drove off in disgust, and eventually found a clearing
near the river and enjoyed a pleasant, free night. We thought no more of this nonsense and
continued our exploration of the lowlands, but our paths were again to cross.
The next night was spent beneath the stars in a forest clearing. Blocks of jungle had been
cut and burnt, and crops of maize and bananas grew beside the skeletal remains of burnt
trees. Large areas of the forest were seasonally flooded, providing ideal conditions for the
secretive but highly vocal Screaming Piha, a non-descript thrush sized bird which provides
one of the most definitive noises of the Continent’s jungles. Watch any wildlife film about
the region, and the soundtrack will be punctuated by a clear ‘WEEE-WEEEOOOooo’, indeed
I’ve heard this call on several soundtracks of films set in Africa and Asia, where no Piha has
ever set foot. Call me a pedant, but this sought of thing annoys me, it’s like seeing Tarzan
wrestling with Tigers!
The whole district rang to a continual slanging match between neighbours, and at close
quarters the whistle is proceeded by a quiet croaking noise as though they are winding up
for the big whistle.
The dawn was greeted by a troop of howler monkeys, whose monotonous growls carried
far across the canopy. They eventually ran out of steam as the day warmed up, but later on I
thought they had started again only to find out that this distant cacophony came from
chainsaws which were doubtless making short work of yet more mighty trunks. In the late
afternoon the Howler troop took up the challenge of the whining engines and it was
difficult to tell one sound from the other. I was desperately saddened by the poignancy of the
situation; little did the monkeys know that the new gang on the block was rapidly removing
their home from beneath them, continually forcing them into ever smaller territory.
The reddening sky above the clearing was crossed by toucans and macaws, moving to
roost, and the day shift was rapidly replaced by dozens of bats of various sizes. A girl had
been working in the clearing, planting some sort of crop in the charred soil, a small frame
hut with a roof of large banana leaves provided her shelter, and she quietly sang to herself
in the dark. Next morning we searched the tracks, which were surprisingly busy with
people with bikes, and old pick-up trucks laden with smartly dressed passengers who waved
and shouted ‘bon diaz’. It was Sunday, and the day of rest was still an occasion in these
parts. We eventually headed the same way as the crowds, and we were flagged down by a
group of young women dressed in bright multi-coloured clothes. They implored us to give
them a lift into the village, explaining that all the other vehicles had been full. This was no
exaggeration, so we managed to squeeze in three women and a girl aboard, and only when
we dropped them off did we notice that we had had a fifth albeit tiny passenger hidden
amongst her mum’s clothes.
We eventually reached the city of Santa Cruz and miraculously managed to get back out
on the old road back to Cochabamba. A policeman at a roadblock on the edge of town
relieved us of several toll fares, which allowed us to use this route. We were soon to wonder
what we got in return, other than entry into a nightmare journey into anarchic chaos.
12. DOWNHILL ALL THE WAY
The climb back over the mountains began well, but the first hint of trouble came when we
got our first puncture. We rolled into the village of Comarapa and while I got the tyre fixed,
Wend went in search of bread. A lady ran a small burger stall beside the tyre place, and all
was not well with her. She repeatedly sent her young son off to the shops in town and he
kept returning empty handed. Her frustration grew with each unsuccessful sortie, as she
had plenty of veg and burgers but no bread. Wendy returned with similar news: there was
no fresh bread anywhere in town. I was sceptical and asked if she had tried everywhere.
‘Yes, I even found a place that sold lawn-mowers and mountain bikes!’
Enough said, I thought, lawnmowers were as much use out in this semi-desert as a
chocolate fireguard, finding a lawnmower salesman was clearly the result of some really
determined, albeit fruitless shopping! A pub next to her stall had lots of old bread, but the
owner greedily tried to charge fresh prices, so it was left to solidify with its attendant flies.
The lady made light of the situation, especially when several customers brought their own
rolls to be filled!
The long descent was regularly interrupted by barricades. The villagers had piled lines of
large stones across the road, and we had to repeatedly get out and heave them aside, as they
stood on the hills above and watched. One ancient gnarled old woman spat insults at us, but
I was too busy rock-rolling to care. A narrow bridge had been blocked off at both ends with
piles of thorny branches and a sizeable crowd of men and youths milled around. We were
quickly surrounded, and a small sombre looking young man came to my window. I greeted
him cordially and explained I spoke little castiliano. I worked hard to keep him amused, as
the milling mass shook our vehicle and tried the locks. I don’t mind admitting feeling pretty
uneasy, but we were assured we would be allowed through within the hour. We were
highly relieved when the signal came to clear the barricades, however the piles of barbed
brash meant yet another puncture was highly likely. Sure enough after a couple of miles the
steering started to feel spongy, and we were known in a race against time as the spare had
already been perforated with a bent wire.
Some wicked locals had manufactured tyre barbs out of wire. These were simple,
undetectable and highly effective. A stiff wire was bent into three so that one point always
stood upright however it fell. We copped four of these in two days plus three punctures
from large bent nails, and this most recent more accidental thorn induced a slow fizzer. The
threat of a more serious blow-out had already begun to knot my stomach. The old road was
badly maintained with frequent precipitous drops, most of which bore sombre reminders of
previous disasters, in the form of memorial crosses. These were alarmingly common, and a
few hairpins had a cluster of monuments presumably where a bus load of poor souls had
plummeted to their deaths.
We hadn’t thought things could get much worse, but the next obstruction could have cost
either of us our lives. Pressing on we came to a deep cutting whose loose stony walls had
been toppled onto the road. Our way was barred by a jumble of large jagged boulders,
which we immediately tackled in an adrenaline-overloaded frenzy, for again I had a slow
puncture and a flat spare. A crowd of peasants clad in a weird assortment of woolly clothing
lined the parapet and made no effort to stop us. We
. Most of quickly found out why, as a swarm of bees descended on us stinging fiercely. The
impromptu quarrying must have disturbed their nest and they milled around I confusion.
We beat a hasty retreat splatting the bees that were tangled in our hair and inside our
clothes. The onlookers laughed uproariously as we clambered back into the car, flailing all
the while.
I had been stung at least twenty times mostly on the head and neck, but others had
managed to penetrate our shirts and trousers, and we were both close to tears with the pain.
Undaunted I found the mosquito net and returned to the stones with the nets over my head.
The crowd howled as I was again forced to sprint away, slapping my own head. I continued
up the road and confronted them, I was hurting and my face already resembled
Quasimodo’s as I paraded in front of them.
‘Ha, ha, ha, it’s really funny isn’t it?’ I screamed, staring at them all each in turn. They in
turn averted their gazes to the floor, and the laughing stopped. Their ring-leader
approached and attempted to explain their actions. I said I understood, and expressed my
sympathies with the ferocity of a Shakespearian actor. I showed them the state of our tyres,
but they insisted they couldn’t help until dark fall, when the bees had retired.
A stupid looking youth pointed across the valley, and insisted that a four-wheel drive
could get across that way. It looked impossible, but in my pain and desperation I followed
him off the road, we were quickly stuck in a clayey stream bed, and further hoots of derision
rained down as we dug out the mud with our bare hands. We eventually extracted the
motor and struggled back up onto the road, where a bus had appeared and a gaggle of
passengers emerged scratching their heads at the sight of the rock fall. A heated discussion
ensued, and eventually the small ring leader said we could try and move the stones. A dark,
crazed looking man bellowed his dissent at this climb-down, and made his way to the rim of
the gorge. The passengers and Wend and I quickly seized our chance and cleared some
mighty stones. The cigarette smoke of some of the men seemed to keep the bees at bay, and
we only got a couple more stings for our troubles. We had nearly cleared a way through
when the dark man began to topple more stones sending an avalanche down around us.
Our combined pleadings weren’t having much success, and the shouts at the crazy bloke did
not deter him, so I told Wend to feign illness (as if she wasn’t ill enough already). She
groaned and clutched her stomach, and I told the bus travellers that she needed a Doctor,
who relayed the message to the passive onlookers. They implored the mad guy who had now
been joined by some cronies, to stop. The leaders of the two rival camps began a heated
argument, so we grabbed our chance and made a break for it. Once clear of the stones we
sped off before anyone before anyone changed their minds. Our descent was reasonably
trouble-free and we limped into the frontier village with a very spongy front left tyre. The
combination of pain, humiliation and desperation were something I hope I don’t have to go
through again. Most disturbing of all was the laughter, maybe the cocoa that they chew
made them so indifferent to our plight. After all it is well known for its suppressive powers
against hunger, pain and cold. Nevertheless the lines of scarecrow like figures above us
seem vulturine as I recall this nightmare encounter.
My head was pounding and I didn’t know which bit of me throbbed worst, but the
normality of the village was reassuring and I found myself babbling away to a bunch of
people who were obviously waiting for the delayed bus. I filled them in with the details, and
they all looked dejected. One very rotund lady asked if we had any room, and I said ‘yes’ if
she didn’t mind sitting on our packs. I told her to pop over when the various punctures had
been mended. I returned to the tyre man who was pulling with all his might on a massive
ribbed nail. It emerged with a jolt, and he presented it with the other dastardly barbs he had
already extracted. I returned to the lady and showed her the metalwork.
‘Animals, Animals’, she spat in disdain.
Later as we were removing the jack she appeared with two other equally round women,
who both wore sweet smiles. I scratched my head.
‘Well if you can fit in and don’t mind the squash you can all come!’ A gangly youth
appeared who I had to refuse, but seeing the giggling heap of womanhood in the back, he
grinned and nodded his acceptance without a sign of resentment.
We rolled out of the village feeling happier in the knowledge we had some local support if
we hit more trouble. We swerved around a few half-hearted barricades made of lines of
stones and broken glass. Our passengers were a scream and kept our spirits up. The jeep
struggled up the grades and I made cheeky comments about ‘el peso grande’, which brought
squeals of glee from behind.
Fortunately the same extra weight ensured rapid acceleration downhill, and we were soon
closing in on Cochabamba.
About six miles out of town we came to a line of standing traffic, mostly buses and trucks.
People milled around, and our guests encouraged us to keep going. We wove through about
2 miles of standing vehicles, and passing the last bus found our way blocked by an avenue
of trees that had been felled across the tarmac. Thousands of people wandered around in a
virtual carnival atmosphere. City traders ever out to make a quick Boliviana, had walked or
peddled out to the enpassé with bags of fruit, and vats of stew and liquid refreshments, with
which they were doing a roaring trade.
We liberated the fat threesome from the crush and they asked around to find out what was
going on. They returned with grim news, the blockade had been in place all day and we
would probably be here all night. All this mayhem was the result of a significant minority
taking exception to the government increasing the price of diesel fuel. I sighed my
frustration and we looked around for somewhere to pitch the tent, only to be interrupted by
loud bangs and the sound of gunfire up ahead. I peered over the prostrate foliage at an
advancing line of soldiers in full riot gear. They fired into the air and let off smoke bombs.
The crowd stirred, and the protestors at the far side of the blockade legged it. Within
minutes an earthmover was brought forward making short work of pushing the
unfortunate trees to one side. People ran forward with sprigs of leaves and proceeded to
brush away any remaining thorns from the road. Whatever the political rights or wrongs I
must say I was mightily relieved to see order restored.
A large uniformed man who looked remarkably like Sadam Hussein came striding up the
tarmac, with a gaggle of armed men at his side. He was obviously top brass and he waved
his instructions with a baton, looking like the most perfect clichéd military man from an
action movie! Men rapidly did his bidding and by now we were chomping at the bit, at the
thought of a hot shower and comfy bed. We repeatedly asked if we could go through, but
were kept at bay by a skinny youth whose uniform was three sizes too big for him. His
helmet flopped over his eyes, forcing him to keep his chin up at a comical angle. He held a
large rifle, and we held our ground. A TV crew appeared and a well-dressed official climbed
out of a large Mercedes Benz, and proceeded to give an interview into the camera. The fat
ladies had scrounged a lift on the first bus in the queue, and thanked us before disappearing
inside. We followed them through and made our way back into town. We eventually found
the hotel and booked in. We tuned into the evening news, and what do you know? There
was the Minister of Transport with the General, giving the usual reassurances. Followed by
yours truly, at the head of the convoy. Two crazy gringos on National Television in the thick
of the action!
The complete paralysis of the countries infra-structure was obviously old hat, and the
bulletin seemed to devout more time to the rumours that Faustino (‘Tino’) Asprilla may
transfer to Newcastle United! I thought this was a journalistic flight of fancy.
‘I hope the poor bugger remembers to pack his long-johns!’ I scoffed. I knew from bitter
experience that the winters in the ‘toon’ are mighty chilly! I was genuinely gob-smacked
when we got home, only to see the whacky Columbian come loping out at St. James Park.
It was clear that we couldn’t get out of the city by road, and the traumas of the past few
days had come to a head. That night we lay in the hotel bed and agreed to get a flight out of
Bolivia, if possible to Ecuador, or perhaps the United States. We slept on it, and woke to a
fine sunny day. We returned the car, which was of little use in the circumstances, and were
sickened further by a hefty bill for the cracked windscreen. The guy at the hire car place
had obviously been contacted over the tete-a-tete with the guy from the hotel, and
recommended we shouldn’t hang around his office. We were puzzled by this, but went on
our way to find travel agents. We were sorting out our flights when the crazy guy from the
Hotel appeared outside, and pointed me out to a Policeman. The cop handed me a badly
typed document, and promptly disappeared. We explained what had gone on to the travel
agent who spoke good English. She looked at the note, and said that it was some kind of
charge for Grievous Bodily Harm, accusing me of causing massive internal injuries! The
lady said ‘he looks like a crazy man, but it’s OK we can get you an exit stamp, just throw this
paper away. This further incident was the last straw, and we decided to end our South
American adventure, and head for Florida. The fights were organised and we were told to
come back for our passports at 4pm.
We spent the last few hours on the streets of the City where we encountered a few old
beggar women, who would have attracted a lot of sympathy and more change if it weren’t
for the even older even more doubled up ladies who pushed huge barrow-loads of bananas
around. I felt a tug on my shorts and turned around then peered down at an ancient old girl
who only cane up to my waist. She smiled barring one tooth, and I melted on the spot .i held
up a 10 Bolivar Coin (about 4p) and said we will take as many as this will buy. She
produced a large plastic bag and energetically stuffed a sizeable bunch inside. We waved
our hands and tried to stop her, but she seemed to think this was some sort of complaint,
and continued to shove more sizeable yellow fingers into the bulging bag. We eventually
stopped her as the bag was about to give out, expecting her to ask for more money, but
instead she thrust the bag into my hands, and motored off waving as she went. My chest
seemed to burn beneath the binoculars hanging around my neck. They had probably cost
more than this lady had earned in all her years of toil.
Later in the park we saw a blind crippled old man, and we gave him the spare rice and
vegetables that would be confiscated at the airport. We also said goodbye to our trusty billycan, and gave it a ceremonial send-off in a large bin. Later still we picked up our documents
and the people at the agency told us that the crazy guy had returned and threatened to
inject me with aids and kill me!
‘Get a taxi to your flight, it’s no problem.’
However my run in with the law and my unwelcome follower was to come to a dramatic
climax at the airport.
We had checked in for our flight, and sat in the departure lounge. Wendy looked around
nervously, and spotted him getting out of a taxi. I was incensed by this vindictive fool, and
went to meet him, encouraging him to come outside and face me man to man, he ignored
me and got the girl at the info desk to call the police. They arrived and I went with them to a
small interview room, where they seemed as irritated with the hassle as I was. My patience
with this psycho was growing thin and I foolishly narked the Policeman by virtually
throwing my passport onto the desk. They told me to calm down and take a seat. This was
awkward as my lack of Spanish meant I didn’t know what was going on. I implored him to
stop being so stupid, and showed the Police I bore him no malice by holding his head and
trying to establish eye contact. His resistance to this was noted by the cops, who grew more
impatient. They took him outside, and I asked if Wendy had been told what was going on. I
took this chance to tell the remaining officer my side of the saga, and he seemed to get my
drift. I suggested they charge him for wasting their time, and described some of the real
difficulties we had faced in the mountains. My trump card came when I told them I was a
‘Doctor in Inglese’, and thought the guy was loco. This finally did the trick and they came
and found Wendy, who was in tears and sick with worry. The crazy bloke badgered the cops
and insisted I should be arrested, but their patience had snapped and they got heavy with
him, whilst dispatching us to customs. The crew were already warming up its engines and
we were rushed through. In the confusion they handed me his documents, but I resisted the
temptation of taking them to Miami. We were mightily relieved to leave Bolivia, as the
wheels had really fallen off over the past fortnight. We had yet to realise just how serious
these traumas had been, and our stay in Florida turned out to be very brief.
I cannot end without saying a few words in defence of Bolivia. On the whole the visit was
very good and I would not attempt to deter anyone from visiting the place. It did have the
last laugh though as we had got a couple of rolls of film developed in Cochabamba, and the
guy in the shop reloaded the camera for us. Unfortunately the clown did it wrong and cost
us a lot of nice shots on a later adventure!
13. DOES ANYONE HERE SPEAK ENGLISH?
The hurried nature of our departure from Bolivia means that we knew little except that we
were bound for Miami. Unfortunately the travel people neglected to tell us that the plane
stopped at Manaus in Brazil. Peering out onto the floodlit airfield we could have been
anywhere. I was slightly annoyed as a few days around the largest city on the Amazon
would have been highly desirable, for the area supports a mind-boggling range of wildlife.
But there was no getting off, and I settled back to sleep through the onward leg.
We arrived before dawn in a wet and overcast Miami, to find a huge airport with an
amazing paucity of information. We searched for ages to find a way into the city, and
eventually got a bus to downtown Miami. A scruffy bloke on the bus welcomed us to
America and advised us to be careful in the city. We alighted on a street which had many
hotels, but the prices were sky high, so we wandered on. In that first hour we didn’t hear a
single word of English. This was still very much Latin America. We sidled up to a couple of
cops who were burbling away to each other in Spanish. Officer Mendez quickly switched to
English and did try to help us out.
Women in travel agents assured us that we could get a Greyhound Bus to the Everglades,
and gave us a map of the streets .We first found couriers and mailed the South American
literature back to England. Despite being relieved of over 12 Kilos of books our packs still
pulled at our shoulders. It was a long walk to the Greyhound Office, and the girl behind the
counter told us that the Everglades weren’t on their routes. In the end we opted for a trip
along the Keys to Key West. The wait proved quiet entertaining as the girl had been trained
in the ‘has a nice day’ school of public relations. It was fantastic to watch her deal with
stroppy customers, a permanently fixed smile beaming her contempt to one and all. A weird
bloke entered wearing a bizarre costume of white suit, massive brass eagle belt buckle, and
dog collar. He claimed to be a clergyman and when he found himself a dollar short with is
fare, tried to get the girl to let him off. She repeatedly explained that she wasn’t allowed to
do this; he then tried to coerce her to make up the shortfall out of her own purse.
Muttering some nonsense about god’s will and the Good Samaritan. The girl’s smile grew
ever tighter, and she finally snapped saying,
‘Some of us have to work for our money, sir!’
‘Hear, hear’, we added. Unashamed he turned to us and said,
‘could you see yourselves t’ give me a dollar’.
‘No. I could not’, I snarled. He disappeared and returned after a couple of minutes with the
required coin. He must have fooled some sucker.
Our bus pulled in, and we were quickly off on a strange journey that crosses a staggering
150 odd bridges. Past Humphrey Bogart’s old house on Key Largo, which now masquerades
as ‘Bogies’ nightclub, and the marlin fishing wharves that were once the stamping ground of
Ernest Hemingway.
Long sections of the old railway that was built to bring water and people to Key West, are
now used by a multitude of fishermen. Several of these anglers were accompanied by large
Brown pelicans which sat looking hopeful as their human counterparts cast their lines. The
pylon wires which parallel the road provided a lofty perch for Belted Kingfishers. These
large greenish blue and white birds haven’t quite mastered the passerine art of perching on
wires, and their tails flail around like flags as they struggle to keep their balance. It is
remarkable fact that this is the only Kingfisher in the whole of North America outside of
Texas: one of the greatest monopolies in nature.
The sameness of American towns was utterly depressing; everyone had the same familiar
multi-nationals, fuel stations, chain stores, and fast food ‘choke ‘n puke’ stops. It makes you
appreciate the incredible diversity of British settlements, but many of these American icons
are beginning to pervade our towns at an alarming rate. Maybe one day every town in every
nation will look like Homestead or Key Largo, Fl. A nightmare thought that jolted me out of
my daydreaming with a shudder.
A youth was sprawled in the chair behind the driver, and it turned out that he was on the
last leg of a mammoth bus journey across the Continent, He had set off from Vancouver a
couple of days before, and was looking forward to a shower and some sunshine. He
discussed the fishing with a small bloke with an Irish accent.
‘Are you sure it’s safe in the water? What about the sharks and praying mantis’, he said
inquiringly.
‘Don’t you mean manta rays’, I laughed, adding,
‘Anyway its sting-rays that you should be worrying about.’
This was a good way to get into the conversation, and our fellow travellers turned out to be
the most amusing and interesting imaginable. The little Irishman was called Dennis, and he
was one of the select chosen few, who seem to have life sussed!
There is a tale possibly apocryphal, about a taxi driver who recognised that his passenger
was none other than the philosopher Bertrand Russell. The cabbie was typically direct and
asked
‘What’s it all about then Bertrand?’
Alas the old sage could not enlighten him, but a couple of hours talking to Dennis left you
wiser, and with at least some of the answers! He was an enigmatic character, and I wouldn’t
have been surprised if he wasn’t a master of espionage. He had served with the U.S Air
Force, and said he was still involved with military research. His innumerable tales were all
laced with intrigue, as though he was delivering cryptic messages of enlightenment. He had
several favourite sayings, but it was something he said when we had lunch in a diner that
comes to mind whenever I think of him. We were all mumbling guiltily about buying fast
food, but he put it all into perspective,
‘Ma-n, it fills yer belly’, he said slowly before tucking in. he wasn’t wrong as Wend and I
were ravenous, and it certainly hit the spot!
We mentioned that bananas had been our staple diet in South America, and he related a
great banana anecdote. He’d been on a Military exercise in Thailand, and landed his
helicopter in a clearing where the crew were met by a gang of small kids. These imps
weren’t going to miss the opportunity of making a sale. Dennis and his crew purchased
several hands of small ripe bananas, which must have had potent laxative qualities.
‘Ma-n you never seen a chopper make a faster emergency landing in your life!’
The driver dropped him off at the Air Force base, and his departure was almost like
bereavement, for we knew that we were unlikely to share his company again. The gloom
descended and not even the Florida sunshine could lift it.
Next morning we walked beside the flat calm Gulf of Mexico, and saw what at first glance
looked like a balloon floating amongst the trash piled against the foreshore. On closer
inspection it turned out to be a Portuguese man ‘o war. A bit more dangerous than a Praying
mantis, and it was still alive, tilting steadily from side to side to prevent the float from drying
out.
Dozens of people were out in the morning sun, and a steady stream of exercise freaks
passed along the seafront. Lycra clad Roller-bladers hurtled past, weaving past the joggers
and ‘power’ walker’s .this later group was certainly the weirdest, and a succession of obese
women waddled past waving their arms like they were trying to do an impression of a
chicken. They invariably wore pink tracksuits with matching headbands, and were the least
‘powerful’ creatures I had ever seen. We felt like making them carry our packs, they really
needed some real work. These women weren’t ‘couch –potatoes’, they were more like
‘couch-pumpkins’!
We’d seen enough and got a bus back to Miami, with the intention of getting the first plane
home.
IT was late in the afternoon by the time we rolled into the airport bus station, and we
wanted to get to the terminal ASAP. Yet another one of the ‘Obese of America’, a bloke who
looked like Andre Agassi gone to seed dealt with the luggage. There were only four
passengers left and he passed the other couple their bags with a drawling, unbelievably
irritating ‘have a nice day…have a nice day’.
‘Man born of woman hath but a short time to live, I muttered disconcertedly. We didn’t
have time for this nonsense, and reached for our packs.
‘Where’s your ticket, I’ve got to pass customers their bags’, protested Andre pedantically.
‘We’re in a hurry, here’s your sodding ticket’, I cursed throwing the luggage tags at him.
He looked mortified and added,
‘Gee you’re an ass’.
Unfortunately I didn’t have time to slap him one!
We sprinted like lemmings toward the departure area, and got onto the last flight to
Heathrow which was already boarding.
After a rough crossing I woke to a Breakfast of cornflakes which tasted like the Ambrosia
of the gods; Breakfast cereals are a rare commodity in South America, and I craved them like
a junky.
Heathrow was grey and overcast and the temperature hovered around freezing as we
disembarked. We got the train back to Godalming station, but no one answered the phone.
We decided to set off walking with the intention of trying again in a call-box up the road.
No luck here either so we yomped the six miles through the chilly, dank Surrey countryside.
Cold and jet-lagged we spent the next few days in virtual hibernation. The books arrived
back from Florida two days after we did, highlighting how the last week had been full of
crazy decisions, and we can’t deny that we had let our heats rule our heads. I realise that
making a hurried departure from Florida to a wintery England seems somewhat odd, but we
really had reached rock bottom, and needed a break.
After a couple of wintery weeks, the wanderlust returned. My sister-in-law Julia breezed
in and asked ‘What’s going on then?’
‘Oh nothing much really, Wend and I are just going to Australia for three months’, I
replied casually.
‘I’d laugh, only I know your deadly serious’, replied Jules, who’s shocked face looked like
she was impersonating a goldfish. I wasn’t joking and we were crossing the equator within
the week.
BONGO BLURB (what the critics say)
TIME OUT
‘5 stars, perfect with a cup of coffee!!’
TIME
‘Teaches us everything we need to know’
BILL BRYSON (of Heckmondwike)
‘The best book I have ever read’
TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
‘Reading is good for you’
JAMES MAY
‘permission to say ****’