"Please Cry For Me, Santiago" -- February 1st through 3rd

It may be no fault of Santiago's.  It may actually an awesome place.  I budgeted four days here, primarily to sample the nearby wine country.  Instead I have run into a bureaucratic nightmare of Kafkaesque proportions, that has not really enabled me to enjoy the city at all.  On top of that, I got robbed two nights ago, of $350.  Had been warned.  Everybody warned me.  My reasoning demurred, figuring: "I'm 6'2" and 210 lbs, can defend myself, have lots of locks on my backpack, they will pick on somebody else."  Not so.  They don't care about locks.  The cabbies tell me they will just take a box cutter of razor knife, cut a vulnerable part of the backpack from behind, and reach in to get what they want.  Or cuts your straps and take it all.  Or distract you from the front, while an accomplice picks your pocket fromt the rear.  I suspect it is something akin to the latter, that occurred with me.  My Dad told me about a similar experience, where he was assaulted in Moscow and relieved of his wallet.  My situation was perhaps worse (at least for the ego).  I was conned.  That actually hurts a little worse, I think.  It doesn't make you want to mix with others for long, however.

I have described the first two days here in the last post.  Next two, were spent primarily getting my Brazilian visa.  I stood in that Consulate for four days in a row!  They normally take six days to issue a visa.  Told them I won't be here for six days.  Or any city, for that matter, until I actually get to Rio for Carnivale in March -- "The World's Biggest Party."  They said I would have to return.  Told them instead I have at least 12 flight legs already set up, and none of them return me to Santiago, as I am visiting all 13 countries on this continent.  They say: "Well, aren't you staying at any of the other countries?  Perhaps you should pick it up there."  And I tell them I am only going to one other location in Chile, and that is Easter Island, where there is no embassy or consulate.  And I won't be staying long in Lima, or any other city.  They tell me that is a problem.  Start to walk me to the door.  I refuse to leave.  I tell them that their embassy in Washington, D.C. advised me I could get a visa for Brazil at another country en route, on an expedited basis.  They tell me it is impossible.  Then I virtually shout out "Well, you ... uh ... (it was something remotely close to 'folks') lied to me, and now I have a ticket to Rio, and no way to get in, because your personnel are not on the same page.  You need to make good on this."  And I refused to budge.  They came back 15 minutes later, acting annoyed and officious, demanded a long list of documents, and sent me out after others (including different sized passport photos, an itinerary for my flight out of Brazil, copy of passport, plus copies of several credit cards).  Then the money.  Price was now doubled.  "Bring the documents back tomorrow," I am told.  Along with $200, but they are ambiguous about the timing of the money.  Price of the visa has now doubled.  I decide not to risk this bit of grace with further challenge.  That afternoon, seeking passport photos in a familiar area (Plaza De Las Armas), I run into Ana and Alicia again -- the two students who must make the rounds there, selling their poetry.  They help expedite some of the documents I need, which helps.  But by the time we take leave of each other, they have called it a 'tour' now and want a generous contribution to cover their time and lost fundraising opportunity.  I get the distinct impression, upon leaving, that this town -- or at least major parts of it -- consists primarily of stages for Grifter University.  This is confirmed later on, when my money is stolen, right after visiting a cash machine.  Many ways to do it, but they make it a fine art here in Santiago.  Shadowing tourists, be they big or small, soccer goalie or diminuitive American students, everybody needs cash here as a foreigner and ultimately we are all easy marks.

So yesterday morning, Wednesday (Feb 2nd) I go to the Brazilian Consulate to deliver my documents.  They help, retrieving a document available only via my computeron its Outlook feature.  This was the itinerary and ticket showing I had a way out of Brazil.  Could not have done this without the excellent online help of my awesome travel agent, Cindy Brunotte of Captain's Travel in Seattle [cindy@captainstravel.com ]. She is simply amazing.   South America, is a document hell.  Everything is "hurry up and wait," but also "I need that in quadruplicate."  Finally get that taken care of.  All requirments in.  Then they ask for money.  I tell them they said I could deliver that the final day, when I actually pick up the visa.  They say "No.  NOW."  I explain I was robbed, had taken a decent size cash advance the night before to have cash to pay them, and the banks only let you do that once a day up to certain amounts.  I wouldn't be able to deliver the $200 until the morning.  They indicate they don't care.  I ask them what time they close, promise a solution, and run out.  The one credit card -- and I have five on this trip -- which has a PIN # is the one just utilized the previous night.  24 hour rule is still in effect.  Debit card didn't work.  It works with some banks, not others.  Banks close here early.  And so it goes, around and around and around ... yet finally found one that worked, got $200, delivered it to the Consulate, and went home to the hostel cashless to sulk.  Which is to say, spend 12 hours on the computer, until 3 this morning, finding and booking hostels for future stops.  Big problem was Rio.  It is a month until Carnivale, and yet everything is already gone (they are expecting half a million for this party), or pricing bumped up fivefold so even the raunchiest hostel is getting over $100 daily rate to stay there.  I don't have a solution yet, but know I won't be paying that.

One other example, and then some good news.  Getting a phone.  They have you by the sack here.  If you bring in your own US phone, you'll get incredible roaming charges, even if your phone is continent compatible and is a 4-band model.  And that is rare.  If you buy a phone, you have to have a new SIM card for each country.  You heard that right!  EACH country.  It costs about $10 to $15 for this, per country.  Except you have to make a service stop for each new dominion at a designated dealer in each new country, to get this done.  There is an extra charge for that.  Or you can rent a phone.  And the first time you do it, requires something like a 30 day delay.  But you must go to the airport for this.  And it only works inside the country of origin without incurring massive roaming charges.  So a lot of travelers without long-term stay plans, simply do without a phone.  Had I had one, I'd have been able to call my bank, without looking for an international calling center for three days.

So finally the good news.  Today, Thursday the 3rd,  I mail back to the US half the contents of my large suitcase.  Cold weather gear from the Antarctic portion of the journey, I no longer need.  Extra shirts, a few trinkets, etc.  The cavern it creates in my checkable luggage, is encouraging.  Now I can put the computer case, inside the big bag, and carry only the small backpack.  Oops, better not, considering all I've learned so far about this place.  Okay, I'll be satisfied with traveling lighter.  Next, I pick up my expensive Brazilian visa (4th day in a row now I've been to that, my Santiago "home away from home").  Without a hitch!  Can this be possible?  Spend the last of my cash-- now down to about a quarter -- taking a taxi to the Bolivian embassy.  Explain I am flying there tonight, have no visa, and to save time, indicate in advance THEIR EMBASSY spokesman earlier in the US said I could land in Bolivia, get the visa on the spot, and move on.  To save time, I also indicate I am not leaving without a visa.  I firmly plant myself in a chair.  Now by way of contrasts, within five minutes I am seated with a top officer of the Bolivian staff.  He looks at my papers, my new passport sized photo, confirms I can land tonight in La Paz, and handle all necessary items right at the airport.  Incredulous, I am gone within another five minutes.

Drunk with success, I go to a nearby cash machine.  It is a multi-mile ride back to the hostel, and I don't even have taxi fare.  I calculate enough for the taxi, lunch, taxi later on to the airport, and a little extra.  For a coke or two (it remains very hot here).  You don't want extra money in changing countries, because they hit you hard on the exchange rates.  So you try to calculate how much you need, and save $5 to $10 for the airport.  Fingers crossed, I jab the card in, and ... it works !  You never know when this will be so, or not so.  To add to the string, venture is made to a nearby international calling center.  Am able to (I think, hope, and pray) finally straighten out problems with the Bank of America card, get a long distance PIN # for another bank card in my possession, and my support crew at the UPS store where I get my mail open up all bank documents until they find PIN numbers for yet another credit card.  It costs me over $20 for the calls.  But now I have working numbers for the debit card, and three credit cards, to be able to draw cash whenever I want and need (Fingers crossed and three Hail Marys and several novennas to boot...).

This is the first time I have EVER been in a city, spent all my time on admin duties, and never seen one single tourist or historical point of interest.  It is also the very first time, I haven't even pulled the camera out of the bag and taken at least SOME photo of a point of local interest.  In both senses, I am terribly disappointed.  But thus situated, and now fully armed financially, I think I am really going to like it in La Paz!  Will first have to get the 12,000 foot + altitude to agree with me.  We will know in the morning.

Next: La Paz, Lake Titicaca, and "The Road of Death"   

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.