Santiago: Franz Kafka Would Love It Here ...

I once worked for a fellow named Jerry Wilson in Bellevue, WA.  The singular thing that stood out about him was his admonition to “Ask for help.  People are wired, to want to assist others.  But they often have to be asked.  Don’t be afraid to ask.”  Given that I have not been afraid to make a fool of myself for many years now, I did so again today.  The Sud Americanos specialize in conflicting airport procedures.  Once again, am struck by the number of modern South Americans, who are not minimally conversant in English (only because I was told the opposite, not due to any fault of their own, mind you).  But the ones who do speak English are Saints.  Today, Sunday, two law students attending school in Santiago basically adopted me, instead, at the airport in Punta Arenas.  They got money returned to me from a reluctant attendant for an empty Coca-Cola machine.  They draw a map of Santiago, from memory.  They create a list of places to frequent, and those to avoid.  They tell me what underground stop to utilize to get to my hostel.  They confirm rumors I’ve heard for three weeks now, about “Don’t trust the taxis in Chile and Bolivia.”  Advice is given for example, not to get in a taxi without observing the presence of a phone number, getting a good look at the driver, writing down identifying names and logos, etc.  Then once we arrive in Santiago, they shepherd me through the baggage retrieval process and direct me away from the Taxis to the Transfer vans.  At about one-third the price.  They negotiate terms for me with the driver, give him my hostel address, make sure I do not overpay, make sure all my bags are aboard when he is giving the “hurry up” sign, and send me safely on my way.  Diego Ibarrola and Natalia Acevedo Alvear, wherever you are tonight, may the return generosity of 1000 angels descend on your well extended hearts.  I will never forget you…

Santiago is a welcome change.  It is warm.  It is sunny.  There is no screaming wind as in Punta Arenas.  The wine country beckons nearby.  They have a very efficient underground system, to serve the population of about six million (nearly equal to the entire population of Washington State).  And I can take care of getting my yet to be obtained visas for Brazil, Suriname, and Bolivia.  Even more welcome, when I get to my room ($16 nightly) it has its own desk, privacy, a place to hang things, shelves, issued towels, a nice bathroom just down the hall, and it is lockable !  Feels great to be able to “set up shop” with the laptop and my still excess baggage from the Antarctic (at this point anyway), lock the door, and be done with it.  That is the theory anyway.

On the other hand, as I step out today (Monday, the 31st) things are strange.  I go to the Brazilian Embassy to get an entry visa.  They close at 1:30 PM.  And you can’t get one there.  Have to go to their consulate, in a different section of town … a hard to find place.  Okay.  Manana.   Fair enough.  Tried to get a "wine tour".  Turns out, they make only one stop.  You can’t really compare vintners.  And you pay extra to sample the wine.  Not at all like winery tours in my three favorite states --  California, Oregon and Washington.  Tried to make a phone call to Bank of America to get my credit card straightened out.   Can’t make the call from the hostel, no operator access via the phone.  Nearby phone store, can’t do it.  No connection to international operators.  I try at the Entral and Claro Cell phone stores.  Nobody knows how.  But they direct me to an international calling place,and draw a map.  Turns out it is the seat of government, with heavy security and guards incredulous I would want inside just to make a phone call.  We have a complete misunderstanding here (they are thinking international relations, apparently).  Finally get to an international phone call station in the city Metro or subway.  After half an hour of looking up terms and negotiating, they show me how to use their particular phone sequence.  I try fifteen combinations of calling, after they can not make it happen themselves.  Suddenly, there is no announcement in the earpiece in Spanish only telling me I have screwed the pooch once again.  Long wait.  Ten minutes later, the bank comes on.  I threaten them, that if they drop this call, I will personally garrote the customer service rep and everybody in the building at the time both uphill and downhill from them on the depth chart.  They take another half an hour to solve the problem.  Big bill for the phone call, but at least I have a cash reserve now, since that is the only credit card I have among the five with me (because it has a known PIN #).  Oh, please don’t get me started on South American banking and credit card practices and their outrageous fees and their banking hours.  Please …  Yes, Franz Kafka, the surreal German writer, would have loved it here.  He was probably a banker here before he took up novels.

Then off on a good wander.  Nothing better for a peeved mind.  No map.  Just followed busy crowds, curious about what was drawing them in.  And I have to focus, as I have forgotten my camera this day, given some of my admin chores that were so frustrating.  This city is huge.  There are massive streams of humanity everywhere, especially in the cooler evening hours, when the families emerge en masse. I don't know how anybody finds their destination, unless it is along a major avenue.  So many vendor shops plus stalls !  It reminds me of the Casbahs in Morocco.  They are innumerable, and of every size and description.  The food courts alone number in the hundreds.  How can all of them possibly survive?  I fancy the street barkers best.  Like imans chanting from a tower minaret, they call out to the throng (but their pitch is about the availability of wares, not martyrdom).  They almost make a chorus, at times, over the buzz of humanity all around them.  There is the usual collection of beggars and blind folk with outstretched arms tapping canes, cups in hand.  They are much more well behaved however than their Italian brethren, who go to great lengths to embarrass you into making a contribution, including the demonstration of open sores and scars and deformities and such.  Or gypsies.  They just assault you, jab a hand into your sternum and hover in your intimate zone demanding money.  If not satiated, they linger near your car just a little too long …

A couple of gals corner me in one of the major public squares, La Plaza de Armas.  Very friendly and engaging.  They want me to read their poetry.  They speak decent English.  How refereshing!  Of course, I am distracted, and have forgotten the cardinal rule about keeping my back to a wall while stopped, or putting my backpack in front of me.  Could this be their mission?  I have taken previous precautions.  My daypack has locks, locksnaps, decoys, cross ties, a bell, and interwoven carabiners that tie all the zippers and security devices together.  Easy for me to open, hard for a thief to figure out.  Especially if I am moving at all.  Turns out they are students, on break, and want a contribution for their poetry and their expenses.  I say no.  I indicate I’d be happy to have a beer, as they want to “practice their English.”  Classic line for a setup … many hookers use this as an entrée into stopping obvious visitors on the street.  Turns out I get the better end of the deal.  They won’t let me speak English much.  We stumble through countless words and short phrases.  We have a few beers.  I learn a lot about Santiago, that wandering doesn’t convey.  Some of my old Spanish comes back, and some has to be learned.  I pick up a lot of new context.  Ana and Alicia start calling themselves “Tu Dos Profesoras.”  I relax and decide I am not being wheeled and we make a great afternoon of it.  Goodbye, Franz !  The walking tour resumes after a couple hours, and with the lack of sleep lately and the need to catch up with these Bankers’ Hours Diplomats a la manana, call it a night much earlier than normal.

Interregnum: Ushuaia to Santiago (Days 16 to 21)

I have not posted these last four days for several reasons.  For starters, I needed a break after the intensity of the experience aboard the Polar Star in the Antarctic.  Time to walk, think, breathe, and stretch.  You might say I was on mental administrative leave, before entering the next busy and colorful phase of the trip.  But there were other factors.  Pure exasperation, for one.  Upon returning to Ushuaia aboard our icebreaker on the morning of Wednesday, Jan 26th, I expected to have my computer repaired in about an hour and then hit the ground running for Torres Del Paine National Park.  But the repairs took until deep into the afternoon, and just when it appeared solved, the locals took a three hour siesta.  When I returned, the billete or ticket office for buses to points north the next day had closed 15 minutes earlier.  And the ride would be 12 hours to Punta Arenas, not the three I had estimated from the distance on the map.  Buses only ran once a day.  So no departure until early Friday the 28th. Basically just handled chores all day.  Among them: trying to get a hold of Bank of America to solve a theft of id problem with my fully paid credit card account.  Another victim, of the open computer network one finds at internet cafes and hostels on the road.  Suggestion: always use the “Do you want to view only pages with the secure content download feature?” YES button on it when using wireless!  After beers and goodbyes at the Dublin Pub with those two Dutch scoundrels, Marco and Simon, went to a local out-of-the-way club called Latino.  Ushuaia is a tourist driven port town, and I wanted to see where the locals hang out, dance, eat, woo, and listen to their music.  So different than most places catering to the dollar !  The South Americans breathe their music.   They sway constantly to personal AND collective rhythms.  You can fairly see them pulse with it.  It is embedded in their DNA.  Nobody just sits.  No cigar store Indians here!  People were in the club, of all ages, including a few children.  At first, it was not crowded.  But as the evening continued, it became a swarm.  Now, I have been in cantinas like Hussongs in Ensenada (Mexico) where visitors are packed so tight, if you pass out you never hit the floor but just continue to get swept along like a comatose zombie in the tidal ebb of the crowd.  Or packed in Penguins, circling to avoid the cold.  Latino was twice as crowded as that.  No such thing as dancing, under the circumstances.  More like wiggling, squirming, perhaps standing gyrations.    Left at 3:45 AM.  No bother going to sleep, as the bus was to leave at 5 AM and I was deathly afraid of my alarm clock failing or the hostel attendant forgetting to put in a wakeup knock at my door.  Not when the bus only leaves once a day…

Once on the road, sleep was possible.  Was a very nice bus, modern, comfy, with tv screens, shades, a bathroom, coffee maker and water.  They even served light meal snacks a la the airlines.  But the road was atrocious much of the way.  There was one 70 mile stretch that made a Gold Rush placer gully look like a lacquered bowling alley.  Thought the bus would tip over several times from washboarding.  Finally got to the border with Chile at San Sebastian.  Rather primitive.  Very slow.  Lots of redundancies, and no built-in efficiency at all.  Much well intended earnestness and politeness was obvious on the part of the locals, but yet another situation of “Hurry Up and Wait.”  Finally crossed out of the island of Tierra Del Fuego at the Magellan Strait ferry crossing.  That was handled well.  Afterward, a smooth bus ride to Punta Arenas, a town of 150,000 whose primary function seems to serve as a port landing for some glacier cruise vessels and the airport for long flights north to major cities in Chile and Argentina.  Like Ushuaia, it is a tourist town of sorts, one of several departure towns for Patagonia and the incredible hiking/trekking opportunities that abound here.  Like the one I missed to Torres Del Paine.  But prices are too high.  There are few bargains.  You have to carry pesos in large denominations, as it was exchanging at about 472 to the dollar.  Bank notes of 10,000 and 5000 are not uncommon.  The town layout completely misuses its natural waterfront advantage, and makes much of it off limits.  It is not really built to keep you there, just entice you in.

Only my hostel was inexpensive, about $11 US.  (More about that in a bit)..  Ran into my Israeli friend Rony from our cruise to Antarctica there, and we spent 1.5 days shuffling about town primarily looking for backpacking equipment for her, and a mini-video camera for me.  Both of us walked away happy from the bounty of the port’s duty free zone.  Were joined last night (Sat the 29^th) by Christine from London, another attractive and agreeable member of our little Antarctic excursion.  [Earlier, Colin & Melody from Melbourne had spotted us from a taxi, thrown open the doors to dash over for a quick greeting, and dashed back to their vehicle.  So the fraternity remains active].  The two women and I dined at a seaside restaurant called Puerto Viejo, where I had one of the best large bowls of seafood soup I’d ever tasted for about $9.  Glass of fine Chilean white wine added $3, a large Greek salad about $7 more, burnt cream for dessert another $3, and specialty coffee about $1.50.  Again, too much to do so didn’t get to bed until about 4 AM.  There are always airline flights to confirm online, future hostel or B&B reservations to make, stories to compare with late night stragglers, e-mails to answer or initiate, online inquiries from the bank as to whether charges you made were legit, and so forth.  Up by 8 AM, for a 3.5 hour flight to Santiago.  Looking forward to it, as for my purposes the trip will really begin to pick up in interest and hit the major attractions now.

Before closing, wanted to say a few things about hostel life.  It is a very inexpensive way to travel.  It is for all ages.  Continuously surprised to find so many middle-aged folks hosteling, and not just backpackers.  Financially, it makes sense if you are having a long run and are not gone merely for the standard US two-week vacation.  They are extremely easy to book online.  They are fun, and lack the stuffiness of hotels.  The staff or attendants are always multi-lingual (English being the common lingua franca of the hostel world) and helpful in the extremis.  This morning for example, Cesar gave me a fine quality rosewood wine corkscrew as a going away present.   Apparently he knows of me from leaked scouting reports from Seattle.   The hostels are righteous examples of democracy.  Nobody has primacy.  You clean up after yourself, and you don’t pinch other people’s food or drink.  You meet folks from all over the world, and they give excellent advice about where you should go next.  Comparing notes on common areas of visitation is always a gas.  Bar trips together and pub crawling with new friends is a common activity.  So are daytrips, including hikes, excursions, and trips to local points of interest [Writer/Editor’s note: I am amazed to find at this moment the mouse from my computer works on my leg, crammed as I am into this seat on an Airbus A318.  Too much!].  Some hostels are good, some bad.  Some have great kitchens, and terrible bathrooms.  Others wonderful bathrooms, and terrible common areas.  Almost all have wi-fi (have to, to compete in today’s casual traveler world).  But all of them are FUN, in their own way.  And I haven’t met a staff member I have not liked yet, without exception.

The crowd I have run into the most so far, is Israelis.  They seem to travel primarily in the Middle East, South America, and Australia.  They make great company.  Like Rony.  I find them warm and engaging, eager to help, eager to share, even more eager to be understood, wonderful storytellers, hardy, bright, and optimistic.  Most but not all seem to have a very earthy sense of humor.  I love Israelis!  As noted in a prior log, many of them take multi-month trips after completing their obligatory three year initial army tour of duty.  They are only slightly less traveled it appears, than the Aussies.  Right behind them are the Danes, Dutch, and Brits.  Actually, I think there is a special breeding program for these folks, as they seem to be mass produced and there is no escaping them.  Luckily, they are as agreeable as the Jewish travelers I’ve encountered.  Frankly, having thrown my two sons to the wolves when the youngest graduated from college last May, I am thinking of adopting several as pets.  They are continuously endearing.

Next: Santiago ! (Capital of Chile)

The Antarctic: Day 10

Day 10 – Tuesday, January 25

   The waves ease somewhat.  Wake up to subdued sunshine once again.  Can hold a little food this day.  We are all just passing time, awaiting our return to the Beagle Channel.  I put together an e-mail distribution list for the passengers so we can exchange jokes, photos, and memories later on.  A number of fellow passengers have unofficially elected me as the leader (read that as fearless loudmouth) to bring issues to the attention of the Captain and Expedition Staff.  That includes announcements.  We make one, reuniting all those of us who had gone down the big snow slope several days previous for a group picture.  The group is distinctive for its "mind over body" spirit, reflecting all age groups but only excessive enthusiasm.  We call ourselves the "Polar Star Antarctic Bobsled Team, 2011."  Tryouts are slated for next year, perhaps in The Arctic.  It is amusing for me, trying to match obscure e-mail addresses from those who forgot to add a name or home town to the entry so we can recognize who is who.  I ultimately hurl my stomach contents twice more, before we land.  But it is our last night together, and now everybody is on the observation deck, no matter how ill they feel or worn out they have become.  A full court press of farewells takes place all over the Observation Deck, our home away from home these last ten days.  The music and guitars come out.  So does the serious liquor.  Dancing begins.  I make the rounds, to visit as many fellow passengers as I can.  The two pantywaists from Holland retreat for bed about 2 AM, just about the time our pilot boat links up with us in the Beagle Channel.  Adam and I (there is definite magic to Room 330) close out the bar at 3:56 AM, along with a couple of the staff members who shall remain unnamed.   We are docked in Ushuaia by about 7 AM, and encouraged off the boat by 8:30 AM.  It has been quite the adventure…

The Antarctic: Day 9

Day 9 – Monday, January 24

   Shortest entry yet.  Very few of us are completely well.  I tried two meals today, and lost them both (one right at the dinner table, which impressed by shipmates to no end).  I require my second seasickness shot of the voyage.  Watched Part 2 of the Kenneth Branagh Shackleton movie.  Maybe a staff presentation or two, including one fascinating piece by Staff Member Mick called “Greenwich Mean Time & Navigation at Sea” on the history of map coordinates (development and utilization of longitude and latitude) right through present day use of GPS positioning.  Spent more than 80% of the day in bed, and was told many of the other passengers did as well.  Had to check myself for saddle sores, I was so bedridden.  We have headed toward Tahiti, well west of South America, to avoid storm waves from 7 to 10 meters pushing us further eastward.  Many of them crash over the bow and hit the wheelhouse.  We are told we are up against consistent 8 meter waves and Gale Force 8 winds (about 45 mph).  Our progress at times slows to about 5 knots.  By going west, however, we should be able to turn (tomorrow) and put the waves to our back and get pushed into Ushuaia so that we have more pitch, but less roll to the ship.  A number of us speculate: “Would you take this trip again, if it was provided to you free of cost?”  Jury is still hung.  Last vote was about 50/50. Blame it on The Drake.

The Antarctic: Day 8

Day 8 -- Sunday, January 23

   Short entry for today.  Not much to write about.  Many of us slept through breakfast.   Barely made it to lunch.  Had a nap immediately afterward, as it calms the stomach.  Went to a couple staff presentations in the Observation Deck on continental drift, and how Antarctica use to have many more plants that the present ice cover, of course, and its prior position on the globe much closer to the equator.  Slept through dinner.  Evening movie, Part 1, was on the travels of Sir Ernest Shackleton, the British Explorer whose epic journey in Antarctica starting in 1914 is one of the greatest examples ever of intrepid perseverance against overwhelming odds.  Evening discussions in small groups centered about our exploits in the snow as “Bobsledders” the day before, the quirkiness of certain passengers during the previous week (no avoiding gossip, even in the best of circumstances), and humorous caricature representations of those who have left a lasting impression on us.  Josef, the Swiss member of the Expedition Staff that is a mountaineer and in charge of marking trails when we go ashore, has particularly worked his way into our collective impressions.  “I have only one speed,” he is quoted as saying, “and it is awesome.”   Somebody else quotes Joseph for the morning breakfast call.  NOT the usual soothing invite to assemble that normally comes from Natasha, our Russian personnel chief aboard.  “You  vill vake for break-fost now!” Joseph calls out.  “You vill not be late!”  And as an afterthought, “Oh, yes, I forgot … Bon Appetit.”  There are also repeated rumors of whales.  Both Orca Killer Whales, Bowheads, and Minke.  My suspicion once again is that it is to keep us racing from one side of the ship to another so there is no down time between presentation and meals.  My suspicion is that the staff have taken a surfboard, turned it upside down and painted the fin black, and haul it back and forth in front of us on a cable strapped to one of the Zodiacs.  Nobody gets convincing photos, in any case.   By 11 PM, all are gone from the common areas.  I do not visit the bar for the first time tonight.  The clairvoyant in me does not see much liquor in my future over the next couple days.  Blame it on The Drake.  But the Night Owl remains a big part of the Emperor Penguin, and so I have the Observation Deck to myself.  There is darkness finally about 12:30, for the first time in days.

The Antarctic: Day 7

Day 7 -- Saturday, Jan 22

   Morning starts early.  Wake up call at 7 AM, breakfast with four British gals from the Port Lockroy Heritage Site nearby.  I sit next to “Hen” (Helen for short, from Bristol, England).  She encourages me to apply for a job down here.  “Seven months down here, and it never gets dull.  And we have a shortage of men,” she intones.   They feast on ships coming in during the summer season.  Most of them are private yachts.   Proceeds from the gift shop there (on Goudier Island) pay for the support of the base, which is much like Lockerby Base yesterday.  Museum has an exciting historical exhibit, covering British activity at the station up to 1962, when the station was abandoned and later rebuilt as a Crown Heritage site.  The base served as a secret British outpost during WW II, when rumor has it the Brits here had something to do with the Enigma Project (breaking the German military and diplomatic code).  Once ashore, I buy an Antarctic map to detail our travels, and a baseball cap which should be the envy of my soccer team back home.  I recall the fellow who tried to provide me a video camera prior to the trip in Seattle, who spoke of carrying a soccer ball down below the Antarctic Circle and letting the penguins play with it.  I dream of some of the talent I have seen, with the various balancing and spin moves, and their unusual talents.  Seems like a developmental league has been secretly established here.  Rumor has it one of the Gentoo offspring has developed a left-footed “Bend It Like Beckham” shot, and is due to be signed by Manchester United within a fortnight.

   We also travel briefly to Jougla Point on nearby Wiencke Island.  The trip over requires “the full kit,” as they say.  It is around zero centigrade, and winds are at 30 knots (about 36 mph).  We have no idea what the wind chill factor is.  Almost everybody is armed with thermal underwear, fleece, inner and outer jackets, double gloves, triple socks, balaclava or scarf, woolen hat, plus hoodie.  And Wellies, of course.  Many keep their life vest on even when on land, to add extra insulation.  The chop in the channel is impressive, and the Zodiacs strain against the waves.  Once ashore we are treated to an active colony of Gentoo penguins.  They have built many fine small stone nests, which differ greatly from the other islands we have seen.  Many times, the penguins will steal rocks from others’ nests, which are promptly stolen back when backs are turned, so that the whole exercise turns into a futile zero sum game.  At shore’s edge, there are at least two very impressive whale skeletons.  The parts are mix and match, we are told.  But the head of one is specified as a blue whale head.  Overhead, a Brown Antarctic Skua fights furiously to hold position, in the wind.  In so doing, it stays motionless immediately over several Gentoo nests.  A moment later, it gives up the strained effort, and peels sideway like a kite run amok into the wind.  It is fifty yards away within two seconds.

   But the object of its quest is captured by Marco in a startling film sequence illustrating The Circle of Life.  Two Skuas land close to a Gentoo nest with female penguin hovering protectively over a single chick.  One positions itself fore, and the other aft.  The bird to the rear of the adult penguin, marches up and irritates the Gentoo.  Then it retreats.  Then the predators switch roles as primary aggressor.  The two are in effect tag-team wrestling.  With deadly intent.  They alternately distract and tire the nesting Penguin.  Over three to four minutes, the process is repeated endlessly.  The mother penguin doesn’t know who to watch.  Finally, the Skua to the rear grabs the mother Gentoo’s tail with its beak, and pulls.  As the penguin turns to defend itself and chase the Skua away, the one in front boldly dives in and grabs the chick.  The pair of culprits fly perhaps forty feet away, and proceed to tear the chick apart.  They share the food evenly.  The mother Gentoo is incapable of following.  She gets no assistance from nearby penguins.  There is no collective defense.  She now has no chicks to feed or protect.  And many of those we watch, are born too late in the season and too small to survive the coming winter anyway.  If a penguin pair successfully replicates themselves over their expected lifespan of five years, they have done well.

   Just when I thought I was all played out on shore trips, we take a 3 PM trip to Neko Harbour.  This is to be our last steps on the continent of Antarctica.  Oh Joy … we are to see more Gentoo penguins.  Who could have guessed?  However, we have a beautiful hike through a snowfield, up 150 meters to the glacier and bay overlook.  There we have a view of regular calving of the glacier, sending out massive waves that keep us by rule at least 15 meters away from the shoreline.  Furthermore, at the “summit” of our brief climb, there is one of the best imaginable snowslide opportunities.  It is highlighted by a long, two-tiered slope, with an edge where you become airborne and have no possibility of staying in your channel or trough.  Due to the length and slope you finish a long run, but whether it is on your back or side or ass-over-teakettle is yet to be determined.  I am first down.  Our Expedition guide, Josef, lets me pick my spot as the slope is yet virgin territory, with a long and safe runout at the bottom.  I pick the steepest part just below the summit, place my pack to my chest, hold my feet up, and glissade over the crest.  Ecstasy!  He grows wary of the speed, and insists on using new, soft snow channels each time.  I go a second and third time, in easier but previously utilized channels.  The speed and length of the run increases each time.  The fourth time, I am back to the steepest channel.  While tumbling, I hit something solid.  It is a tray from a cafeteria, left behind by a previous daredevil.  It flies past my head like Odd-Job’s metallic hat in “Goldfinger.”  I pick up the offending dish, and carry it once again to the summit.  This time for a toboggan ride.  My figuring is, I can use my feet for brakes, and my hands if necessary.  But the speed immediately is four to five times what it is sliding on our GoreTex.  It is terrifying.  I gain air going over the slope differential, slam down hard, jet along suddenly as if I have hit Teflon, tumble repeatedly, and finish with a record run sliding backward on my butt.  My gloves are torn.  There is a large hole ripped in my snow pants.  But the tray is still in hand.  We quickly decide that a “Antarctic Bobsled Team” has now been formed, and shuffle down the hill giddy as school kids.

   The Zodiac trip back to the Polar Star is highlighted by up close sighting of a menacing Leopard Seal, who definitely got radar lock-on eye contact with us and buzzed the boat repeatedly.  We get some of the best up-close photos of the entire trip during this final passage.  Also sighted: a rare Weddell Seal, situated right near our lifejackets on the beach.  We are within ten feet of it.  Again, extreme close-ups are obtained by all, and a lingering sense of appreciation creeps in that it won’t get any better than this.  In the final assessment though, we are cold, all spent, anxious for a warm meal, and a hot shower.  Memories will have to serve us from this point on.

   We are not yet in the Drake Passage, but are in open waterway once again. The swells increase, and drinking  bravado dissipates by 11:30 PM.  The wave height builds.  We are told to expect ten meter waves in the upcoming days.

The Antarctic: Day 6

Day 6 – Friday, January 21

   We awake to another stunning morning.  I skip breakfast, not use to consuming this many calories.  Our first pit stop is an island on which is located Vernadsky Station, a Ukrainian research base that was originally built and operated by the British from 1954 to 1996 and called Faraday (also Wordie Station).  It has become famous for several things: its primacy in helping to discover of the Antarctic Ozone Hole, its status as the southernmost post office and souvenir shop on the planet, and for its homemade Russian vodka.  The crew is not in good shape.  They have spent the previous night partying with our Expedition staff (who motored over for a little “chat” by Zodiac), and the base commander is apparently a little miffed.  This will be our most southerly penetration of Antarctica on this Expedition.  For history nuts like me, the museum which makes up the old British base is awe inspiring.  The thin walled wooden construction gives a practiced observer pause.  Who would want to sleep next to that?  The bunks are large enough only for munchkins.  The small cast iron stove, seems entirely inadequate to the task.  In a time of GoreTex and fleece and compound down jackets, old canvas boots and gloves sans any serious insulation give you a profound respect for what these men (and women) must have put up with.  Also, the food tins were memorable.  I remember reading about this stuff on old Everest expeditions: sardines, pemmican, Drinkable Cadbury Chocolate, and numerous other outdated products.  Funny part was, many of the same (British) brands still exist, just with modernized logos.

   Shortly thereafter, we took the Zodiac over to the modern facility 150 yards away at Vernadsky.  The facilities were adequate, if not completely modern, with an up-to-date meteorological facility and most means of communication except for the internet.  Calls home (to Ukraine) cost the crew $1.50 per minute by satellite phone.  Most rush upstairs immediately, to the souvenir shop, the post office with its wide variety of Antarctic photo representations, and the bar.  Located behind the bar, is a hefty collection of women’s brassieres.  The rumor we hear is that if you show your bra, you get a free drink.  If you give up your bra, you drink for life.  Some of them on display are quite large.  They are called “boulder binders.”  Finally, to the bar, for the hoisting of a shot of homemade Vodka ($3, cash only) and a toast of “Das Vedanya!”  Upon exiting, I notice a multi-placard directional sign, giving distances to major cities and a number of others unrecognizable except in the Ukraine.  Europe was approximately 14 to 15 thousand kilometers away.  Tokyo was the furthest signpost, at over 16 thousand kilometers distance.

   Then off to the Yalour Islands.  I will simply say, this is a penguin colony, specializing in Adelie Penguins.  I am just about penguined out by now, but satisfy myself examining an old emergency box with a tall visibility marker near the coast.  It has petrol, soda crackers, a medical kit, a radio, and instructions for its use in numerous languages.  The kit having become exposed to the weather, I do my best to restore it to some type of protective cover, and return to the Zodiac landing.  We take an hour inflatable trip around the surrounding bay afterward.  Highlight of this trip is seeing a fearsome Leopard Seal (almost eel-like in its sleekness), characterized by a disarming, almost smiling expression and a huge head.  Multiple Crab Eater Seals, and multiple blue-hole glaciers are also evident.  One has light so deeply blue eminating from its cracks it appears as if toilet bowl cleaner has been poured down its side.  Tonight, I pass on the evening stop at Petermann Island.  As indicated, I am penguined out.  And snow hiked out.  Feeling a tremendous need to catch up on this blog, and attach my photos on a daily basis, with accurate labeling.  Wait one day, and you are so far behind, one can NEVER remember all the species or sights seen or personalities.  Instead I end up getting mesmerized in Werner Herzog’s movie “Encounters At The Bottom Of The World.” For the second time.  Captivating once again.  Still…

    Keeping alive an enduring tradition, I close the bar out at 2 AM, thanks to a no-show bartender but the whiskey generosity of Wes, a psychiatrist from New York.  I find there are a lot of shrinks on this Expedition, and that I am making excellent gist for their studies.  No Marco and Simon this time.  They are so lazy.  Damn Dutch are never around when you need them.

The Antarctic: Day 5

Day 5 – Thursday, January 20

   There are days, and then there are DAYS.  They let us sleep until 7 A.M. today.  When we got the captain’s wakeup call, our surroundings had completely transformed.  The fog had lifted.  There was not a cloud in the sky.  The light was the clearest, most direct, most translucent that I have ever seen.  Entire mountain ranges it seemed, both towered over us and continued without repetition in their pristine   uniqueness as we glided down the passage toward the Antarctic Peninsula.  Before we are even ready, mouths open and nobody interested in eating, we have stopped at Cuverville Island.  The place is home to a large Gentoo Penguin colony.  But the views which surround us, are stunning.  There is every imaginable form of blue and green and white ice and snow, combined with rock, and visible miles away as if it were placed yards from our skiff.  We get perfect symmetrical reflections off the water, from the barely disturbed passage.  The bay is like glass.  A brisk hike to the top of a lookout post, lands us in the middle of a large nest of penguins.  Many of them have newborn chicks, and some eggs yet unhatched are evident.  At this precise time, my camera battery gives out.  The Expedition staff, is kind enough to give me a solo Zodiac ride back to the ship to retrieve my battery.  When I return, we are given a 45 minute tour by Zodiac of the bay.  The weather is so warm I am dressed only in lightweight pants and a T-shirt.  At this time we see Crab Eater seals, much more polite and less offensive as well than the elephant seals from yesterday.  We also get a chance to witness two situations in which the glaciers which empty into the bay, calve off sections probably 75 to 100 feet high.  They send waves out into the bay, just as I am re-entering the Polar Star.  I am literally shoved aboard, as the Zodiac must avoid an oncoming wave from the tons of ice suddenly dumped into the bay.  The inflatable takes off, to crest out the expected ride, while I watch a series of expanding wave ripples and newly created ice floes expand toward us a quarter mile away.

   Lunch is served.  It is an afterthought.  Nobody really cares (and the food here is outstanding – you will not lose weight, despite the weather and the usual cold).  In the afternoon, we are dropped at Paradise Bay.  Our first steps on Antarctica proper!  In stages, we take a 45 minute tour of the bay, again witnessing a glacier calving event, and additional beautiful Crab Eater Seals.  Mountains with too many intersecting glaciers to count, rise above us to probably 6000 feet or so.  The glaciers stop at the waterline (meaning their foundation is on rock) and do not extend into the bay.  It is probably 200 feet from waterline to the glacier surface.  Many of the crazily jumbled sections overhang the water, and are seriously undercut by tide and current, so that you speculate just how long it will be before they unavoidably crash into the sea.

   Soon thereafter we are landed at Almirante Brown.  An Argentinian “scientific” station named after the father of the Argentinian navy.  Not that a lot of scientific work is done there.  The Argentines can’t afford it.  The station exists more, for claims to Antarctica for a later date mid-century when current treaties prohibiting ownership of land and claims to the continent run out.  It has several radio towers, about six red buildings (largely staffed by maintenance crews), and a back bay.  Most importantly, it has a summit observation post which towers above it.  And below that, the perfect steep but safe slope for sliding on our GoreTex the fifty to sixty yards down to a soft landing.  Many pay homage to visiting the summit, supposedly for the view.  But in reality, they want the shortcut down.  And this applies to all.  Six to sixty.  Athletic and dormant.  Room 330 appears to have weird science attached to it, as my roommate Adam and I make the climb and the slushy thrill ride four times.  I am so enthralled with this childlike activity, that I forget to put on sunscreen and my face gets turned into a tomato by the time we are back at the boat.

   Tonight, after dinner, no further landings.  We just enjoy the Lemaire Channel, between the Antarctic Peninsula itself and Booth Island.  Numerous rumors of Orca Whales abound, and one picture is actually obtained of what could be loosely construed as a dorsal fin, but I think it was primarily initiated by the Expedition staff to keep us running from one end of the ship to the other in order to drive up thirst for Happy Hour.  And to keep us from asking questions about the expected storm for our return journey to Ushuaia, still four days away.   And to keep us active, and alert, since tonight we will definitely get midnight sun, given the brilliance of the weather.  How can they continue to top this?

   Top it they do.  Mother Nature, anyway.  We pass through the Lemaire Channel, about 11 kilometers long, and so narrow it feels like you are cruising down 5^th Ave in New York.  The towering mountains astride our course cast shadows across both port and starboard sides of the ship.  It is like being the celebrant in a ticker tape parade, without the confetti.  The sun begins to go down on horizon’s edge at our bow.  Ridgelines begin to appear in double and triplicate and continue to multiply as the light dims, each in a deepening shade of gentian purple, and the sky takes on a rose colored tint all its own.  Everywhere, icebergs of all sizes and fantastical delicate crystal-like shapes reflect about five different colors of light.  The huge orange ball finally dips below the horizon. The light barely changes, as we have had perfect weather all day.  And just about this time, we discover there is a full moon at our stern.  Perhaps ten of us, sprint back and forth across the wheelhouse (the Polar Star has an open bridge policy), photographing the descending sun and then the moon.  We try desperately to somehow see both at once, maneuvering for just the perfect shot.  We fail.  But on this occasion, we have truly won the Daily Double anyway.

   Most stay up past twelve, to see the midnight sun and compare experiences.  Simon, Marco and I again close out the evening and are last out of the ship’s bar at 2 AM.  The light in the sky has not changed at all.  We try and fail to stay awake for the return of the sun about 3:17 AM.  Slackers all …

The Antarctic: Day 4

Day 4 – Wednesday, January 19

    The Ship’s Captain awakens us by 4 AM.  By 4:30p, we have thermal underwear, fleece, Gore-Tex Polar Star outer pants and jacket, double gloves, wool hat, and Wellington Boots on in the ship wetroom.  Over that goes the life preserver.  Then, by careful maneuvering, we each sidle into the Zodiac inflatables for our first of three onshore trips for the day – to Half Moon Island.  There we have our first live contact with Chinstrap Penguins and Adelie Penguins.  We are supposed to stay fifteen feet away from them but this does not last long.    They penguins violate the rules repeatedly.  Apparently they took their ecology training in Pigeon English format (sorry).  We also see four fur seals, and a huge elephant seal that fancies himself a rock and has a disguise nearly equal to the task.  Plenty of evidence here, that life is “nasty, brutish, and short,” to borrow Hobbe’s famous expression.  You would not know it watching the penguins, however.  They appear to be very happy creatures.  They do a lot of laughing, chatting, act in a very social manner, show off repeatedly, and have fights that last only seconds (prompted by territorial issues over nesting rights, near as I can tell).

   By 7:30, we return to the ship for breakfast.  And a short nap.  A photography workshop follows at 11 AM.  I can stop wasting and having to delete so many pix now!  And I figure out the movie segment function of my digital camera for the first time.  Lunch is at 12:30, followed by Shore Visit # 2 to Hannah Point & Walker Bay on Livingston Island.  Here, the variety expands.  We see huge colonies of Chinstrap and Adelie Penguins again, and they are joined by Macaroni and Gentoo Penguins.  Further down the huge arc of a beach that leads to the glacier that dominates the island, we encounter a herd of Southern Elephant Seals, and more Antarctic Fur Seals.  The flatulence of the Elephant Seals is a sound that rivals that of dueling tugboat horns.  The question arose: are they burping, or farting?  The answer: “Who cares, it smells the same.”  The males and females always bask separately (and they do it with panache, the height of sloth, with only eyes moving even as they roll their up to four tons of blubber from side to side in an attempt to wedge themselves between their fellows).  Except during mating season, that is.

   Further down the beach, now on black sand, we encounter “The Hard Rock Café.”  Geologist Kirsten’s rock exhibit showing the glacial and volcanic influence on the topography here, the huge number of fossils laying about (including a 130 million year-old fern imprint clearly embedded in a rock), rare quartz embedded in the rocks, and a veritable garden patch of moss and lichens all focused on one delirious boulder.  The bones of a whale lay about fifty yards beyond.  Overhead, the air was thick with Snow Petrels, Kelp Dominican Gulls, and Southern Giant Petrels with their massive, condor-like wingspans.  Most impressive of all, was the five to six humpback whales we encountered in a feeding pod while in transit between stops.

   At 7:45, we enter Neptune’s Bellows, the extremely narrow entrance to the caldera of famous Deception Island.     We make our way to Whalers Bay.  Which is mindful of the question: what would bring men hundreds of years ago, to these cold, barren and often forsaken shores?  It was greed.  Or to make land claims on behalf of their King.  Greed, in following the whales and seals and sea lions further and further south, to the point the captains and navigators soon found themselves off the map.  And land claims extended to individual islands and whaling stations, but not to the continent itself, as conditions prohibited any permanent residency with constantly changing ice conditions and extreme cold. 

     The island is much like its much warmer Greek cousin, Santorini.  Only it has a fuller enclosure, the complete 10 kilometer diameter circle being broken only by the 200 yard portal to the island interior.  Deception Island still has active volcanic fuminoles, with eruptions ruining some of the old whaling stations there as recent as 1970.  In fact, a rather humorous “Escape Strategy In Case of a Volcanic Eruption on Deception Island” (written in typical British understatement) reads in part as follows:

   “A sudden collapse of the caldera could result in a much more serious eruption, with devastating effects on anyone on the island at the time.  Escape from the island during a caldera collapse eruption is unlikely.  If ships are present within Port Foster when an eruption occurs, they should depart the island immediately, ideally after uplifting all people ashore… (it then goes on to describe various escape routes in detail) … The routes are physically arduous.  Exhaustion is likely.  There are no recommended safe routes.”

    Of course, us Yankees would basically have just said “In the event of an eruption, you’re screwed.”

    After a cursory examination of an old British whaling station, some long dilapidated whale oil tanks, and an ancient aircraft hanger, most of us walk up about a mile to an overlook called Neptune’s Window, from which The Antarctic Peninsula itself can be seen for the first time from its incredible volcanic perch.  Directly below a curved scimitar of a beach shelters gentle waves which ripple against the completely vertical wall of the caldera.  But the weather doesn’t cooperate with sightseeing.  It is zero degrees Celsius outside (that is freezing, to those who wondered), with limited visibility, and light, driving snow.  Perfect weather for Polar Bears.  But not the furry kind.  The adventurous, bareskinned, time-for-an-Artic-dip type.

   About fifteen of us, strip down to underwear or bathing suits, and charge out into the frigid waters.   To me, if felt brisk and invigorating to the trunk and cranium.  My legs though, felt as if a thousand toothpicks were prodding them all at once.  I started losing feeling within my feet and calves in seconds.  Stuck around just long enough for the obligatory photo op – complete with personal Pirate Flag -- and then back to the beach where a waiting crew warmed us up with ready towels.  Nearly … some late stragglers decided to “have a go,” and they looked like they needed company.  Went in a second time, just to make sure I hadn’t done something wrong on the first attempt. It felt even better than the first.   A consensus among the crowd soon developed that I was clearly the dimmest of the Polar Bears though.  Especially after I put on Wellies to avoid the gritty volcanic sand of the island to walk back to the clothing pile.  Could not take them off for the life of me, the water inside having suctioned my foot to the sole.  So no change to dry clothes.  Took the Zodiac back to The Polar Star, in rubber boots and a bathing suit in sub zero weather, waving a frozen Pirate Flag all the way.

   Weather continued to be overcast, but the scenery as we approached the continent and terra firma continued to be outstanding.  As the waves subsided, more and more of our fellow passengers came out for the nightlife.  Simon, Marco and I still fulfilled our sworn duty and closed out the bar at 1:30 AM.

The Antarctic: Day 3

Day 3 – Tuesday, January 18

   I take another shot at breakfast.  Fruit only.  Successfully it seems, this time.  Got a round of applause for this.  Seems bets were placed on what my “wobble factor” would be, both entering and leaving the Dining Room.  I skip the morning lecture on seals and penguins on the Observation Deck.  Boldly, tried some lunch as well.  Salad only, to be safe.  Again, bets were placed, and looks of near disappointment exchanged when I kept my food down for a second straight meal.  This afternoon, we listened to a mandatory lecture on the etiquette of Antarctica – the ethos, really, of “leave only footprints and take only photos.”  Great care is taken, NOT to change the environment of “The Last Great Wilderness.”  Practices go so far as vacuuming daypacks and exterior clothing so as not to transmit seeds and trash, and sanitizing Wellington rubber boots both before going on to shore aboard the Zodiacs and after our return.  We try these “Wellies” and life jackets on for the first time, and go over boarding procedures for the Zodiac inflatables.  For the first time, the sun shows up.  We hear about our first of three shore trips for tomorrow, as The South Shetland Islands draw nigh.  Optimism abounds.  Passengers are smiling again.  And then at 5:30 PM, we spot our first iceberg (still 25 nautical miles away).  This evening, after a presentation on protecting the wonders of Antarctica we are to see in the morning, Marco and Simon and I close out the bar at midnight.  Wakeup call is four hours from now.

The Antarctic: Day 2

Day Two – Monday, Jan 17

   Morning wakeup call is at 7:30.  Breakfast at 8:00.  The known world is already aware I don’t backtrack and I don’t eat breakfast.  Today, I make an attempt, mainly to be sociable.  With tragic results.  Despite the gentle crossing we are luckily experiencing, I no sooner finish with my meal than that sudden, desperate acidic panic that arises in your belly and worms its way rapidly up to your snout makes its ugly presence known.  I maintain my decorum, mumble about “needing fresh air,” and rush outside to the rail.  Out it all flies.  Luckily, have had the presence of mind not to face into the wind, for a contrail about twenty yards long now parallels the exterior deck railing.  There is evidence of similarly afflicted fellow travelers subtly adorning portions of the rail.  I return to the dining room to rehydrate.  Marco takes a look at some breakfast residue that stuck to the collar of my jacket.  “Look, Simon,” he says.  “That damn Yankee is out there chumming for sharks already.  Is that fair?”

   Afterward, more hydration (wrong stuff though, I chose orange juice).  Then a lecture on “Myths and Maps of Antarctica” by Danny, our Scottish geologist, on the observation deck.  Fascinating stuff, how Antarctica was first presumed to exist based on the presence of The Arctic (as basically a counterweight) and then discovered in fact in bits and pieces, slowly over time.  I sit in the middle of the room, and forget to keep my eyes on the horizon.  At the moment the lecture ends, more panic.  Luckily Judith-Ann knows right where the barf bags are.  She gets one to me just seconds prior to the “Thar She Blows!” call goes out.  I fill two bags with orange juice residue.  After that, it becomes a collective project to get me rehydrated, comforted, and put to bed for a nap.  Will, the ship’s doctor (everybody’s favorite person on board for the first two days at least) gives me a sea sickness shot in the bum.  I am not the only one, it appears.  Naturally, lunch is skipped.  When I get my wits about me and sea legs restored, I return to the dining hall to rehydrate.  Water only this time.  I ask Simon what I missed for lunch?  “Oh, just the usual fried Penguin,” he quips.

   In mid-afternoon, Lori (a U.S.A. member of the Expedition Staff) provides a very memorable lecture on the whales and porpoises of Antarctica.  It is accompanied by a detailed slide show, multiple close-ups, and acoustic recordings of the specimens.  One of the most fascinating photos, was of an Antarctic (grayer than usual) Orca Killer Whale attacking a larger Minke Whale.  In another video, we see five Killer Whales rushing a flat iceberg, on which seals are basking.  The Killer Whales push forward side-by-side to create a massive bow wave, which washes the seals off their perch and into the waiting mouths of other Killer Whales on the other side.  In another bizarre video, a Penguin jumps into one of the Zodiac inflatable boats to escape onrushing Killer Whales.  The KWs seem to respect the Zodiacs and keep their distance.  The penguin thereby gains confidence, and struts around the gunwales of the inflatable surveying his most likely point of re-entry to avoid the waiting prey.

   Tonight for dinner, the salmon agrees with me.  No nausea.  But it seems the rest of the boat is catching up.  We find many of the passengers immediately returning from meals, that classic wan look upon their face and their legs wobbly, to nap.  The observation deck is not nearly as full as it was at the start of the voyage.  As long as we are crossing the Drake (and Sir Francis Drake never sailed in this portion of the Atlantic) you are either walking like a newborn calf to get from here to there, seated for a meal, or recumbent in your bed.  The sun has yet to make an appearance.  And I am learning to keep my eyes on the horizon, when in transit, after meals, and immediately after a focused exercise like blogging.  Near the end of the evening, I am out on the stern deck of the ship, watching birds in our wake.  They rarely land, and when they do it is on water.  Yet their life is here.  They are not landlubbers.  Petrels, I believe they are named.  Fascinating that they can find enough out here to eat.   And yet, these are rich feeding waters.  That is one reason the whales return here seasonally, because of the abundance of krill (small shrimp) which is near the lowest order of the food chain in the Antarctic.  While on deck, a wind gust comes up and sweeps my name tag away.  “Oh, don’t worry about THAT,” Marco says breezily.  “With this current, when we get to The Peninsula there will be some penguin with a tag saying LAWRENCE on his chest, and I’m sure he will try to sell us pictures.”

The Antarctic: Day 1

THE  ANTARCTIC

Day One – Sunday, January 16

   I am the first passenger to board the Polar Star.  The crew is not ready for me, so they show me to my cabin, and let me have the run of the ship.  License is taken to poke my head into every cabin and cubby, therefore.  By the time the others arrive I know all the shortcuts to the bar, the dining room, and the observation deck.  Have already seen and photographed the wheelhouse.  And I know which rooms have the best beds.  When the others arrive, I am halfway toward being a certified guide.  We depart Ushuaia about 5:45 PM.

   First pair I meet is the ship’s doctor, Will, and his sister, Judith-Anne, who fill me in on where to go and when, where to find the daily roster of activities, the telexed sheet of world events (the ship daily paper, essentially), and shortcuts yet undiscovered for navigating the craft.  As the others arrive on the observation deck for the official welcome, I am already the unofficial ship greeter.  Quick way actually, to find out who has a sense of humor and a little yarn spinning capacity and who doesn’t.  I quickly gravitate toward two Dutchmen, Simon and Marco.  They both have a yen for off-color jokes and waste no time finding ways to make fun of me.  And each other.  Simon snapped off a quick warning about the seemly things Marco had done with a chicken and some diapers in Sri Lanka and I knew I had found the right crew.  For reasons that go back to Seattle even before the trip and the early appearance of me having commandeered the vessel, the two of them nickname me “The Emperor Penguin.”

   We learn the ship’s passenger capacity is usually 98, but only 67 will be making this voyage.  Better for us.  More time to get to know the others and less crowded in the public areas.  The passengers are introduced to the crew members, and the Expedition members – about 30 in all, the latter group being comprised of specialists like Alistair the Cruise Director, the naturalist, the geologist, the personnel director/receptionist, etc.  Many different nationalities are represented, but all speak very good English.  Afterward, we practice our mandatory lifeboat drill, which is even more critical in the Antarctic than in your garden variety Caribbean tour.  Forget to take your gloves or cold weather gear, and you will pay.  The wind penetrates like a Banshee here and the windchill factor combined with the temperature can turn your flesh into frozen leather in nanoseconds.

   Dinner is at 7:30, sit-down style.  No buffet.  This is beyond what is expected, which was essentially a fairly Spartan cruise.  We have a wonderful squash soup, and then a choice of Argentinian beef or risotto.  I choose risotto, having had enough beef lately to ballast the ship.  Most of the rest of the evening is spent on the observation deck, getting to know the others aboard, swapping tables and stories.   The Love Boat this is not.  But I do my best to help out.  One couple (Ryan and Namita) from San Francisco have chosen this as their most unique honeymoon voyage.  Seems they have been assigned to a twin cabin, with two small beds about five feet across from each other.  We use to call these “Moralpedic” beds, back in college.   I tell them there is surplus capacity aboard, that in my earlier scouting I have seen available queen beds, and they should ask for a cabin exchange.  Natasha, the Russian Reception Director, is only too happy to comply.   Namita comes out Natasha’s office with a grin bigger than one of the ship’s lifeboats.  “We owe you!” she tells me.  Most of the passengers are otherwise coupled up.  Foreplay for the rest of us is teasing each other with previous travel tales.  I am struck by the modesty of the descriptions, colorful yet factual, with no attempts at one upsmanship.  Many aboard have been to over 50 countries.  My roommate, Adam, a lawyer from Charlotte, North Carolina, has been to over 104 countries.  Mike, from San Diego, has been to over 140 countries.  A psychiatrist from Minnesota, Steve, is rumored to have been to 175 but only confesses to “over 100.”

   The Antarctic is a huge continent.  Its surrounding waters, make up the planet’s largest whirlpool, circulating in concert with the rotation of the earth.  It is said, that the waters that squeeze through the end of the South America landmass at Tierra Del Fuego and the beginning of the Antarctic Peninsula archipelago at the South Shetland Islands (a distance of about 550 miles) – what is called The Drake Passage -- make up 600 times the volume of the world’s largest river, the Amazon.  The current velocity – at least at the deeper depths – is said to be as fast as the Nile, the Amazon, and the Mississippi combined.   Thus, The Cape Of Good Hope to the Antarctic becomes the world’s most dangerous waters.  As soon as we hit The Drake Passage around midnight, walking becomes difficult.  Faces start changing colors.  Fellow passengers start retiring early.  I am the last one to bed at about 1 AM, and sleep like the King’s Fool.  The ship is warm and toasty, and very quiet.  No engine noise, no Brazilians partying until dawn, and no music from the disco or casino to keep one awake.

To Ushuaia

Those revelers outside the hotel were just getting warmed up night before last.  Seemed I picked the party pit of South America to start my travels.  I am told because it is safe in Uruguay (a lot of unrest going on in South America now), so everybody comes to Montevideo.  Primarily the Brazilians.  They party like it is 1999.   At any rate, as of 6 AM they were still howling in the streets, leaning into each other for support, and otherwise singing and stomping.  Had to admire them, really.  I was not annoyed.  It was amusing, watching the garbage trucks pull up, and dissipate the crowds, like a band of revolutionaries retreating to the barricades, the more sober holding up the wounded as they slinked away en masse toward a more receptive location to renew the revelry.  So I got up early and just headed for the airport to beat the traffic.  Driving along the waterfront, without any crowds, along the route I had walked two nights previously was a wonderful experience.  So serene.  Shortly thereafter, now at the airport, am struck by panic.  The flight is two hours late.  If I miss my connecting flight, there will be no way to get to Ushuaia, and I will totally miss my trip to Antarctica.  Then they change gates on me when the plane is finally ready to take off.  No announcement in English.  Only walking down a quarter of a mile to the airline personnel desk, and inquiring when the plan would depart and from what gate?, did I get the correct answer.  Ran back for my bags, and got there with five minutes to spare.  Somebody wanted me to get to Ushuaia afterall ...  The locals seem to understand once at the other end, the urgency of catching the connecting flight out of Buenos Aires, and let me dip under the ropes and go to the head of the line.  Through customs in a breeze (endless paperwork, normally, but since I'm returning to Argentina all fees have been paid and passport stamped so they wave me through).  I am struck, while waiting for the next flight, how the waiting area looks like any American mall.  Food court, lots of characters, the kids on cell phones and listening to their I-pods, and they are very style conscious.  Again, not as many as I thought are English speaking, but the parents who are English speakers are easy to spot.  They usually have laptop cases with them, and a willingness to look you in the eye that is surprisingly rare, for such a friendly country.

Flew from Montevideo, back to Buenos Aires.  Then to Califate, three hours south.  Strangely beautiful countryside.  Very isolated.  The road from the air seems to lead to nowhere, and is surrounded by a surreal moonscape.  This in complete contrast two hours later to the descent into Ushuaia, which is upon approach stunning -- much like Prince William Sound in Alaska.  Tall pointed peaks, snow capped and rising steeply from the harbor.  The Strait of Magellan makes a broad watercourse in the leadup, separating Tierra Del Fuego -- the island we are on, El Fin Del Mundo or "The End Of The World" -- from the mainland, which is primarily Chilean territory.  Got to my hostel, La Posta Hostel & Hotel Apart [mailto:reservas@laposta-ush.com.ar ].  Found it very clean, very inviting, with lots of amenities.  More importantly, travellers from all over the world, young and old, whose common language for communicating was always English.  Was struck by the number of middle aged couples, who stayed in the hostels rather than hotels and had gotten the practice down to a fine art.  I admired how they had distilled their "kit" into minimal weight and volume, able to get great mileage out of so few articles and yet somehow prepared for all manner of weather and opportunities for fun.  Walked into town.  Unlike the surroundings, it is not pretty.  Just functional, primarily as a departure point for the Antarctic (50,000 people yearly depart from here to see the 7th continent, primarily during the "summer" months of December through March) and for some of the national parks nearby.  And Patagonia.

Went to a local bar, the Dublin Pub, that had been recommended by Charlotte & Jon earlier in the week.  Again, travellers from all over the world, crowded into one 25 x 30 foot building.  Standing room only.  Place has quite the reputation as "the place" to mingle.  Soccer on big screens in the background was the glue nominally holding the crowd together.  But really, it was the chance to exchange experiences and give and seek advice that draws the crowd.  My time was spent  with two Israeli soliders on leave from their first tour of duty.  Meet Jonathan (Yonattan) and Dor.  They were special forces troops with extensive and intensive  anti-insurgency military training.  Had a huge need to blow off stress, after the rigors of their job for the last three years.  I love Israelis !  Like the Aussies, they are great travellers.  Always friendly.  Well spoken. Multi-lingual.  Eager to make a connection.  Earthy folks, with a great sense of humor.  Quick to smile, to laugh,  and to share.  They were telling me how they had gone trekking in nearby Patagonia, and how easy it was despite the heavy packs because they "didn't have to carry those rifles and grenade launchers and all that ammo!"  We hit it off well, as they learned I was very sympathetic toward Isreael and had done my thesis in college on the creation of Israel as a state.  Eventually had to part company, however, as a group of blonde Sabras worked their way past our comparative tales and into the forefront of their intentions.

Upon my return to the hostel about 2 AM, found a group from Australia and Wales telling me about a strike going on with Chilean transportation workers just across the border.  Seems a fuel surcharge of 20% was added by the government, and it affects all food being brought in due to the airport and regional capital at Punta Arenas being an adjacent island, and all goods must be brought in by boat, to support a population of 150,000.  The cost of petrol itself compounds this.  Most can't afford it.  Riots have ensued.  Three were killed the day before, when a truck ran a strike barrier and ran into a crowd.  So now, nobody can cross by road or air or boat into southernmost Chile.  Thus, no access to Torres Del Paine National Park (my next objective after Antarctica), and no possibility of flying out of Punta Arenas to get further north.  They say over 1000 international travelers are stuck in Torres Del Paine National Park right now (and more in other parts of Patagonia), running out of food as the strike locks them into place.  Many others -- those who do NOT go to Antarctica, but are here for the trekking, the glaciers, the day boat trip around Cape Horn -- are stuck, and awaiting flights out of Ushuaia to Argentina, rather than the natural loop up the west coast to Chilean points of interest.  Apparently, since the richer Chilean citizens up north are not as much affected by this new fuel surcharge, this "green initiative," there are no strikes in that top half of the country, and if you can get far enough north here on the Argentinian side, one can still make their way to Santiago.  A travel agent's or airline clerk's nightmare ...

Okay, signing off now.  Icebreaker to Antarctica (The Polar Star, all 98 passengers worth) starts boarding in about two hours and I have much to do before going to the dock.  Have made arrangements to get the computer repaired upon my return -- hopefully -- which will primarily entail having use of my mouse again, and being able to add pix to the blog once more.  Be back on January 25th.  Strangely, e-mail doesn't work well in the Antarctic !  Will have lots to post in the meantime, however, and can download it upon my return to "civilization."  Be prepared for a backload upon my return.  Ciao y arrividerci !

Next: Antarctica !