Back to Argentina - The Price Ain't Right - 9 Feb 2003
Don't rip me off, Argentina
Someone left Moreno out in the rain
Cold recovery for Watty, cold exploration for Hips and Esther
Mr Angry buses from Argentina to Chile
Esther rose early to catch the flight to El Calafate and I was pleased that the weather looked good and clear, so we should all be able to have a scenic trip over.
My trip across the border started with a taxi ride to the airport ñ 3 km away at most ñ with Trevor and Pam. I am not known for my ability to get out of bed in the morning and I was 10 minutes late for the planned 8am start. My tardiness was justified, though, when we arrived at the airport to find the gates shut and the doors locked! It opens only half an hour before the one departure of the day... The airport is new and spanking clean and is clearly grossly underused, with just a Cessna flight to and from El Calafate each day. The Chileans have not yet picked up on the touristsí desire to spend money on sightseeing flights ñ or maybe the weather canít be relied upon enough to make this a viable option. They are trying to get more flights to Puerto Natales but the big boys down the road in Punta Arenas are blocking this, understandably as there would be little reason for most tourist to visit Punta Arenas if it werenít on the way to Torres del Paine etc.
Enough of the economics lesson. We were greeted by smiling people who did our paperwork in the most disordered way possible ñ but with only 4 of us (an American traveller joined us) it all went smoothly. We said hello to the pilot who showed us our route on the map and then walked out to the plane. We went out of one door and the pilots plus luggage through another ñ all a bit excessive really. We clambered into the Cessna and I managed to get a seat right behind the co-pilot. The weather was absolutely beautiful and as we flew we got a clear view of Torres del Paine to the West, with the Andes stretching North and South as far as I could see, and pampas to the East. It was a lovely flight and I was sorry that Hippy and Pat werenít there to enjoy it too.
El Calafate International Airport was a grander affair than the one in Puerto Natales, though I am not sure where the rest of their international flights come from. A short taxi ride later and we were in the tourist paradise of El Calafate.
Our drive over the border was a mere six hours not because of the length of the journey as much as the state of the roads. Our driver was a good sort who realizing he had a full coach load of tourists stopped for a ëcondor momentí when he spied a flock of condors soaring and devouring some carcass or other in a field. These majestic vulture like birds, look so effortless and graceful as they float on the thermals in sky watching the tourists as the tourists watched them on the ground.
As we crossed the border into Argentina the dirt road degenerated and progress slowed. I heard a bang and we pulled over. Excellent, a puncture! Looks like Esther had been our lucky charm. Single handed the driver changed the tyre in a mere 20 minutes which I thought was worth a round of applause from the passengers but found myself feeling a little silly clapping alone as we set off. I pointed out to Hippy that this was something of and American thing to do and she agreed to maintain an icy cool British attitude from now on.
The nice man stopped a few more times for the grockles aboard to enjoy vistas and eye up a few guanacos and rheas on the way.
About 20km from El Calafate I heard another bang. Pat pacified me with comments like ëIt was the toilet doorí until he also could not ignore the distinctive sound of flapping rubber of a flat tyre. Fair play to the driver, he slowed down his speed and limped his way to the destination arriving only a quarter of an hour late. I will never know whether he failed to stop a second time because he was worried about being even later or whether he simply didnít have a second spare.
Dear Esther was awaiting was at the station and had had a busy day trawling the guest houses for accommodation, in a town that was clearly inundated with Chileans, and Argentines as well as the usual cocktail of wealthy Americans and Europeans. I had begun to realise that the reality of expensive, overbooked hotels and similar tours was going to shock Hippy and Pat ñ they have been telling me since I arrived how cheap Argentina is and they were going to get a rude awakening. I trudged round town in the heat (yes! The sun was out!) and got steadily more disillusioned. The rooms werenít much more expensive than they had been in Chile but there was a definite reduction in quality. I rejected a couple of places and then found an apartment owned by an old couple, complete with own kitchen and bathroom. This seemed promising until I realised that there was no cooking equipment. With my very limited Spanish I obviously said something wrong ñ the old man started shouting ëNo, senora, no! Adios, adios!í ñ sadly I have no idea what I did wrong and had to leave with my tail between my legs. Iíve never been rejected for hotel accommodation before... In the end I found a clean hostel with a view over the lake and took the room with some relief. Then off to meet the other two. She did well, and had booked us into a lovely little place on the edge of town overlooking the lake. It was clear that this was not the inexpensive Argentina that we knew up North. The short summer season and the proximity to one of the more famous glaciers in the world had made this into a South American Vic Falls.
Estherís information gathering during the day meant that we could sit in the comfort of a bar and discuss options. Pat at this stage was suffering more and more by the hour of a cold, and it seemed prudent that he was allowed to rest a while. Esther had been taken with a trip to some hard to reach glacier with an all-in huge lunch of Patagonian lamb and Unimog (bigger version of a Landrover and not half as nice) rides and stuff. It was of course way over our normal budget, but it did sound good. I agreed to join her (bribed mainly by the idea of the lamb) for the next day as Pat seemed keen to take a time out. This makes me sound like the Donald Trump of the trip ñ the reality was that the glaciers were impossible to get to by any other means and it did sound great. Hippy took some persuading though...
I was horrified by the prices that had been quoted for trips here and the fact that there is no alternative to organised tours to the sights. Usually there is a public bus service along all the same routes to cater for locals or folk who are prepared to do without a guide. After all, just how much can we be told about glaciers that wasn't drilled into us by the members of the Bolton School geography staff on field trips to St Marks, Cautley. Having taken a 300 km bus ride from Chile for 15 quid, we were being asked a tenner for a 70 km ride up to the glacier and back again. This did not include the entry to the glacier park. As the charming lass at our hotel told us later in the evening that as a qualified doctor in Argentina (after 8 years of training but with the usual 3 year specialising period ahead of her) she was earning 140 quid a month, I feel this is not just Hippy and me having our usual moan about prices. In this place there were not even separate rates for locals. Compound all of this with the fact the petrol and diesel are half the cost in this region of Argentina owing to strange taxation loopholes and it so seems that someone is seriously on the make. Strangely no one has put up competition........Hmmmm.
There was only one seat available for the next day Perhaps this explains the price ñ demand beautifully matched to supply [webeconomist] so we booked for the day after and hoped for the best with the weather. We decided to play it by ear the following morning.
Someone left Moreno out in the rain
Thankfully Patís cold seemed to not develop into a major affliction and after a healthy lie in we sauntered out and got a taxi down to the Morena Glacier. Strangely it was the same cost for a group of three to take a taxi as to take the bus and you had the obvious benefit of going at your own leisure. The lake was gleaming with myriad hues of milky glacier water, the colours varying with depth and the bed of the lake. The lakeside meadows shimmered with the dusty pink of long grass in seed. As the fluffy heads of the grass blew in the wind they made waves of silvery colour across the field. Add this to the blooming knee high wild flowers of white, yellow and pink, it was all delightfully romantic. For those of you who are wondering, there are times when I feel rather green and furry ñ perhaps I missed this gooseberry moment? Or maybe thatís why I got the suicide seat in the front of the taxi?!
As we neared the end of the lake the skies became greyer and greyer and then the inevitable raindrops hit the windscreen. The rain was not going to ease off and you could tell it had set in for the day. But I remember the spiel that a tour guide in Canada had given us when looking at glaciers in the rain, that the colour looks more vibrant in the wet (sounded like the tosh a guide comes out with to keep wet grockels happy). We shall see.
The first glimpses of the glacier gave us tasters of the treat to come. But the rain refused to cooperate.
Just as up in Iguazu, a set of walkways has been created on the peninsular at the front of Moreno glacier. From the car park there is a winding path down to various viewing platforms. It was such a shame that it was overcast as the views of the mountaintops were hidden from us. It was only when we got to read the board at one of the viewing points that we found out that although there was heavy cloud cover, we could actually see well over 14 km down the length of the glacier to the start of the hills behind it. The scale was quite extraordinary - 50 metres high a few km wide at the lake face. Its size is its wonder. From the viewing points it did not seem a fraction of this size. We wanted to get closer. However a simple sign put pay to any barrier leaping as it pointed out that 32 people have been laid to rest having been hit by flying ice when the face sheds a few chunks into the lake. Sight seeing boats on the lake kept a respectful distance.
It was quite a different matter seeing a glacier at such close quarters than we had at a distance in Chile. The layers of ages of ice could be seen like rings on a tree. The deep crevasses in the glaciers made by the rain of summer made the frosting effect look more like giant stalagmites. I donít know whether the rain helped to bring out the colours, but all I do know is had I not been getting progressively wetter I could have sat there all day in contemplation. The force of the icefalls about every ten minutes made the sound of thunder as yet another pinnacle broke away. This is maybe the only place in the world where this happens so often because the glacier is the only one that is advancing and it is butting up against a peninsula in the lake. So as it pushes forward the pressure in the glacier builds until a piece gives way. 14 years ago the advancing glacier pushing against the peninsula caused a dam ñ the ice came up to the walkways and the water level on one side of the dam was 35 metres higher than on the other. Eventually the ice gave way and a tunnel was formed ñ then the ice fell in. We were told that the noise could be heard from El Calafate, 70 km away... The whole episode lasted two days and now they await the next ¥cataclysm¥ with anticipation. We had to make do with individual blocks falling off with a noise very like thunder.
On the way back into town, we passed a series of bedraggled hikers who were hitching for lifts. Without a public bus service and no communications with the town, they were entirely beholden to private motorists. There is definitely something of an access problem here. Regrettably, our car was full and so we could not oblige anyone.
Cold recovery for Watty, cold exploration for Hips and Esther
Obviously, the main event glacier trip had been booked for Hips and Esther while my health was declining. Now that the day arrived, I was, predictably, fit and raring to go. But, without a reservation, I declined to take a risk and get out of bed at a ridiculously early hour. Felt a bit like being lazy, really.
My day was filled with little jobs; Esther's birthday present of which I can, of course, say no more at present, Fact finding about getting down to Punto Arenas ready to fly north again and most of the day typing up journal in a cyber cafe.
On a short break for a wander round town, I bumped into a group of three German bikers on Bertha clones. As I chatted with them, I noticed that one of them had some rather natty gaiters that looked as if they would be the solution to our wet boot problem. They would not have fitted over our boot, however, which left me a bit puzzled. It turned out that this gaiter (it was in fact only on one of his legs) was covering up a knee high plaster which had been put on after a crash broke his leg two weeks previously. Fortunately, it was not his gear changing foot and so he could struggle on. How mad.
They had paid 1600 dollars each to ship their bikes down from Germany for a jaunt from Ushaia to Bolivia. This struck me as something of a mad expense. Is there scope for setting up a bike hire business for trips like this? I cannot understand that people are so attached to their own bikes that they would not consider this as an option. Then again bikers are a strange breed.
Esther and I rose at some unreasonable hour and waited for our pickup. It is one of those anxious times when you have forked out for a trip ¥will they remember to pick you up¥. We sat silently thinking the same thing and surreptitiously checking our watches. I was trying to rationalise the situation and worked out that we would probably be the last pick up and so being 30 minutes last would not be unreasonable. They arrived of course and we breathed a sigh of relief. I have learnt that Hippy is a good person to have around when you think things may be going badly wrong as she always thinks the best.
Our boat for the day was a sporty little number. As we whizzed off the breakfast came round rather tasty too. We headed up a finger of the lake weaving between floating Dali icebergs, the full height of our boat and more. There was an annoying number of people with video cameras on our trip, who insisted on standing in front of others view and filming through the window that then had railings beyond which obscured the view. As the boat bobbed on the surface of the water, I began to doubt the quality of their efforts. We were also blessed with 4 middle-aged Argentinean tourists who spent the entire morning taking pictures of each other. For some reason I find this annoying ñ how many photos do they need? Maybe I was grumpy from lack of sleep ñ or is it just me? Our steward was non-committal about the weather for the day. As we moved down the lake the skies were growing greyer, would this be a repeat of the day before.
The Captain of the boat slowed as we drew neared to the front of now our third glacier. His commentary filled us in on a few facts, like it was a mere 60m above the surface and 4km wide, and was floating on the lake which was 1000 metres deep. The numbers get a bit mind-boggling and the problem was that they didnít seem real ñ the scale was impossible to interpret. If a nice person had appeared at the glacier front in a boat it would have helped but clearly this wasnít going to happen. The closer and closer that we got we more awesome and overwhelming it became. The clouds began to clear and the sun broke through. The colours and its majestic size were mesmerising. I was by now bitterly regretting the theft of our good camera in Puerto Montt, as I had to replace it with a small instamatic, which I am not sure will do this justice at all. Lets hope that Estherís offering will be a good replacement. I have about 30 pictures of ice...
The videophiles would not move their eyes from the viewfinder. Somehow I feel they were missing out a little by only seeing a small fraction of this scene at a time. To them the full panorama is lost which is what makes this so special.
Back down the finger of lake and up the next for the second phase of the day. We were separated into 3 Unimogs. Us in with a tombola of foreigners, with an English-speaking guide. The Unimog ploughed through a 100m wide ford and ground its way up hill, over a rocky track round hairpin bends and over narrow passes. As the passenger section rocked about on its suspension I must admit that I found it mildly disconcerting when the cabin leant over the edge of the hillside. But I reassured myself with the premise that if it was dangerous they would not be taking tourists. This doesn¥t always hold true ñ though luckily it did today. The views were spectacular as we rose up the 500m hill. The valley we overlooked transformed into moonscape of rock that a few millennia ago were at the bottom of a sea, hence were riddled with marine fossils.
The end of the road if you could call it that. A 30 minute stroll, over the moonscape with snow capped Andean mountains flanking us on each side we reached the view point. It was breathtaking, and I rued the fact that I had not more forcefully encouraged Pat to join us. I only pray that the photos do the scene before us justice, but for now you will have to make do with my poor attempts to describe the scene.
Behind us were snowy craggy mountains at the base of which were some small tarns. But before us was something magnificent, a silvery green lake with 3 fingers of glacial blue ice gripping the land. The fingers were separated by a perfect snowy mountain and stretched back to the main ice field that is the largest after those in Alaska and the Antarctic. We were again very lucky with the weather but it was really overwhelmingly beautiful. We stood contemplating the view, me feeling bad that Pat was not here to share this scene with us. Maybe that is a good reason to make sure that we come back one day. At the risk of repeating myself, and using too many superlatives, the vista before us, was so inspirational that I almost feel that it would be hard to top this. Unfortunately, our guide informed us that due to global warming the ice field is shrinking by 20km a year. So get there soon before it all goes. I have little to add on the general beauty except that, again, the scale was extraordinary. It was difficult to believe that what we were seeing was real, but the cold wind blowing gave a very real clue! Having hoped to get to Antarctica, but been put off by the expense (only 2,700 US dollars!!), I felt that this was almost as good, if not better as it only involved a dayís travelling.
I am always reassured by the fact that nature never fails to impress. Manís attempts to make beauty are not even a poor imitation. A stunning sunset, a glacier, the colours of the desert, will I hope always fill me with joy.
I know at points I moan about the hassles of travelling, but on a day like that day I find it impossible to imagine doing anything else but travel.
Back down in the Unimog we were all a little hungry and were looking forward by the Patagonian lamb. We settled down on a table with the rest of the semi-English speakers. There was a German and Belgian couple who were on a whistle stop tour of Asia and South America in 5 months. All their flights and excursions already booked, as well as a large chunk of hotel accommodation. This pair were at the opposite end of the organisational spectrum to ourselves. They seemed to have left themselves little or no leeway for illness, cancellation of flights, or just needing a day or two of rest. I hope for their sake it all goes to plan or they will have a nightmare to reschedule all the flights etc, if something does not go to plan. I was also a little concerned by the surprised look on the manís face when he was talking of hiring a car and we told him that much of the road network in Chile was dirt, and it may not be possible to cover huge distances in a day. As the Donald Trump of our threesome, I was pleased to find that they were horrified at the fact that we pay as little as 4 pounds each for our beds (Hippy and Pat on the other hand think this expensive!). They were lovely people, and I have long ago ceased to be amazed by the different ways that people travel, but this kind of regularity is not really for us. There was also a honeymooning French couple, the husband of which kept good pace with Esther on the drinking stakes. He seemed to think we were having some kind of race ñ nothing could have been further from the truth ñ but the wine was included in the price of the trip...
It was rather nice that the guides also were quite proud of the history of the place. An English family had settled here and created the Estancia from nothing and spent their first year here in a tent whilst building their house. This may not seem so bad, but when there is still snow present in the height of the summer, it must have been pretty grim. Add that to the fact that they were 6 hours by boat from the next habitation you may realise just how isolated they must have been. After developing the area, their daughter died young and their son had no children so in the end the place went over to the National Parks Authority. All a little sad after all that strife. The gardens of roses and orchards protected by row after row of poplars to break the relentless wind, gave a hint of what this must have been like in its heyday. A simple yet inspiration little church built of local stone with the bedrock as a floor and full height clear glass behind the altar, meant that the back drop to the cross was meadows and shielded by snowy mountains. I could almost get religion here. I did think that if I werenít already married this would be the place. The church was built recently as a memorial to several members of the National Parks staff, and some family members, who were killed in a plane crash. It was one of the loveliest churches Iíve ever been in but sadly it is hardly ever usedÖ
Back at the ranch, the girls were in a weird hyper kind of mood. ìWow, you should have seen it, etcî If this was supposed to make me feel better about sitting around for the day it was not going to work. I consoled myself with a couple of salami sandwiches and one of the apples that Iíd bought earlier. Seriously, though, I was so happy that the girls had had a top day, I was unconcerned that I had missed it. Some may find it hard to believe but actually often I am more concerned that others have enjoyed themselves rather than me. Iíd better stop there as Iím beginning to sound like Hippy.
Another chilling day in which the most we managed to accomplish was a couple of glasses of micro-brewery ale and a trip around a flamingo colony that had even less flamingos than we had seen sea lions, to wit, none. Still, we did get our tickets booked for the bus and managed a dinner that included a bottle of Sam Smiths Old brewery Pale Ale for me and so it cannot really be defined as a wasted day.
Mr Angry buses from Argentina to Chile
As we waited to pick up our tickets at the bus terminal, we had to stand behind another traveller. It was clear from his look and his attitude that he was a member of the ìIíve just done my random Middle East national service and the world owes me somethingî brigade. It was pretty obvious to one and all who had bothered to do some research in advance that the bus left at 8:00. There was a timetable on the wall that said as much in eight-inch high letters in three languages. (although, to be fair, none of them was Yiddish). It was now 7:45.
ìWhen does the bus to Puerto Natales go?î
ì8:00î
ìBut it is 7:45î
ìYesî
ìWhen is the next oneî
ì8:00 tomorrowî
ìBut that is a day awayî
ìIt is a daily serviceî
ìBut I only have 15 minutes to go and get my friends and my bagî
ìYesî
He muttered oaths and buggered off. I feel so sorry for these poor folk who have to put up with irate tourists who really have nothing but themselves to blame.
He and his mates made it back in time to board the bus and take over the back 6 rows. We kept a close look out on the other buses for our random German couple. It did seem for a while that they were to dog our footsteps throughout Patagonia. Maybe we are at last on our own...
We had a ìtypical bloody truckî moment at the border. Seemingly it is considered far too hard work for the passengers of overland trucks to dismount and present themselves with their passports at customs controls. In this case, the driver walked past the queue with a clutch of passports and a manifest. We were fuming. Only when the border guards told the guy to wait his turn and get in line did we lighten up. Still, it was clear that the whole process was to be carried out in absentia. I find this somewhat rather like the arrogance that we heard of recently that the British did not have passports until relatively recently. (20th century in fact) Apparently it was sufficient to turn up at a border anywhere in the world and proclaim that one was British to gain access. Tout ca change, and all that.
When they caught us up again at the Chilean border post, all of the passengers had to disembark and stand in line at the window. Well done, Chile ñ donít Kao Tao to the buggers.
The random Middle East folks made themselves unpopular (once again) by shouting at the driver just as we passed into Chile, ìCoffee shopî. Somehow, they felt that the bus was arranged for their benefit ñ the comment was obviously a statement rather than a polite question. Fair play to the driver, he did not get into any kind of argument ñ simply turned back to his cab and shut the passage door between his seat and the passengers. He had to nip off the bus to clear up with the customs chaps that all was well. One of the random Middle East folks followed him off the bus. As the driver returned from his errand he simply pointed back to the bus without saying a word and the errant passenger got back on. He walked down the aisle with an expression that read ìArenít I clever for having been so awkwardî It is most unfortunate that these ex-national service random Middle East folks create such an unappealing impression around the world. They really compound the dislike held by many people around and about. We had met a completely charming couple further up Chile travelling with their child who had finished with all of the army stuff years ago. Seemingly it is the national service that has turned decent people into surly demanding folk.
We have tolerated far worse from people, but today it struck a bit of a nerve. It is of course wrong to generalise about populations of people and we know in our heart of hearts that a few arrogant individuals does not a nation make. However, there are certain traits that do seem more common in some groups than another. For instance the fact that the British say ëThank youí so much that it fails to mean anything. We even thank people when we pay for something when they are the ones that gain. We also love to queue and get really frustrated and angry in countries where this is not the norm. We like cold milk in our tea and coffee, when here milk means the hot boiled variety. Brits go to the Mediterranean to drink beer eat fish and chips and come back pink! So we are fully aware that we are hardly perfect.
I felt terrible bringing up the events of the bus in conversation as Esther is generally fairly right-on and forgiving of everyone we meet. I guess she can temper my comments:- Iím not sure that I am at all right-on especially when I find it impossible to get cold milk for my coffee! ñ I would agree that these people were annoying but am not sure that it warrants a lot of distress on our part. They were prats and probably always will be, so why get bothered? I consider myself lucky not to have stayed in hostels full of ex-army people ñ clearly Hippy and Pat have and so may be putting their previous experiences onto the rather sad group that we encountered on the bus. Nuff said.
Back in Puerto Natales we felt almost as if we were back home. As we stepped off the bus, the hawkers gave us little trouble. It seems that they can tell the difference between people who know what they are up to and those who have just arrived. Our old room was waiting for us and we nipped off to book tickets for the bus down the road with our old friends who run the hostel where Graham, Clare and Josh had been staying.
We were a little tired so when Pat called us through to watch the TV we did wonder what the vital urgency was. There was a tourist program about the failure of the Navimag boat to depart, and there in the background was a longhaired traveller in a red motorcycle jacket. It was unmistakable, I was on TV. So for the first time in our trip so far, we were on national TV. Apart from maybe a few ëwantedí posters in Zimbabwe.