I did really enjoy hanging out with the penguins, especially the rockhoppers who reminded me of Lorrin, when he decided that 'le look rockhopper' was translatable into a haircut. Oh heady student days. What I didn't particularly enjoy was watching out with every step for dead baby penguins. Honestly, it was like dog sh*t in Paris. We saw a pretty harrowing explanation (and a clear illustration of the red-in-tooth-and-claw aspect) as the circling skuas slowly picked off another stranded 'youngling', whilst adult penguins waddled by apparently obliviously. And the smell. I couldn't tell what was the fault of the penguins and what came from the sealions but let me tell you, we humans are not the only species who pollute the earth.
Oh, but I also loved the Commerson's dolphins, little mini orcas, or sea-humbugs maybe.
In other news, I have started to learn to manage my expectations, and this has been nowhere more in evidence in the petrified forest. I had recalibrated my first imaginings of a magical world of stone trees to match reports of a few lumps of stone in the desert, and was even a bit undecided about whether we should bother going. Which of course meant that I was happily surprised by the place- a moonscape with great lumps of this incredible material in it- obviously tree, yet somehow stone, in a beautiful rich mix of marbled browns. It was actually just as impressive as seeing dinosaur skeletons, because there was no leap of the imagination required to see these things living. It was clear in the shapes of the knots and the bark. And every so often came the fleeting and intangible comprehension that this stuff is 140 million years old. 140 MILLION. Lots.
We visited Henry Moore's house a while ago and I hoped one day I might have a collection of stones, antlers and natural 'objets trouves' like his. I had even hoped to pick some up on this visit. But of course now you are not allowed to remove the petrified wood from the site, as he might have done. And that actually makes me happy- the site would have been so much more impressive but for the unlegislated years of people doing just that. *leave only footprints take only memories* and all that rubbish.
We gave our little car a send-off by taking it on the '7 Lagos' route early before coming back into Bariloche. We had already had a wonderful drive through the Alerces forests and through beautiful, wide glacial valleys, but the drive up to San Martin de Los Andes was stunning. I think I frustrated hes by consistently stopping for photos. The 7 Lagos route itself was lovely, but we had left ourself short of time so started it at 6am, which made for beautiful views but two rather grumpy, caffeine starved travellers.
It took a day in Bariloche and a wine soaked (well, for me anyway) 30 hr bus trip to El Calafate before we had fully recharged from our camping trip.
El Calafate is famous for the Perito Merino glacier, which is indeed stunning. All of Patagonia seems like a big geography lesson but the shape and deep blue colours of the glacier are stunning- as well as the sounds of this living thing moving, cracking and calving. Most interesting, though, was the preponderance of Europeans clad in vibrant gore-tex in the town, despite there being no real hiking to do. It was pretty quickly clear we were not only back on the gringo circuit, but also entering the Antarctica-Cruise zone.
El Chalten is on the other side of the Parque Nationale de Los Glaciares and does boast incredible hiking, as well as the vertical, spire-like mountains I had so looked forward to seeing. On one incredible (and tiring) trek we started out along the side of a huge glacial valley, took in a view of the cardiogram skyline, walked up to a glacier and cooled our feet in its lake and then walked along the Rio Electrico to see another retreating glacier, miles from anywhere- and then camped. So glad we got the tent.
I shall also remember the beer. I remember having a tearful pint of Pride just before leaving, saying adieu to my beloved ale. But it turns out that these guys in Patagonia aren't half bad brewers. And sitting at the foot of the mountains is a good place to drink it. Or indeed drinking a pint of 'Beagle' by the Beagle Channel in Ushuaia.
Ah, Ushuaia. a lovely little town. It has great food (the night we had a fresh king crab being a highlight) and access to the nearby Tierra del Fuego National Park. I must admit, the old expectations thing tripped me up here a bit. I suppose somewhere between the name and location I had come to expect a remote and dramatic place of red earth and powerful icy winds. i hadn't expected to be woken up from our tent one morning by a flock of beige-clad British birdwatchers trooping through the campsite (I'm sure I shall be in the background of some of their photos of some tit or other as I sleepily crawled out of my canvas pit, pulling up my jeans). It also turned out to be the preferred barbecue location for all of Ushuaia, and our immediate campground was invaded by an extended family requesting the use of our Parilla for their Sunday barbecue. The big-bellied dad was already handing out the beers to his bemulleted sons and the girls were nursing their babies. It was like waking up in the middle of a Latino 'Shameless'. However, I must say that they were all very pleasant and it is lovely how the people make such use of their beautiful national parks.
Ushuaia also has a museum which really puts the zzzzz in exzzzhibit (except for one very enlightening room focussed on the prison museums of the world, including the Galleries of Justice in Nottingham)- I made a b-line for the 'Malvinas' room- I am dying to know what the general take on this is. I'm ashamed to say I haven't broached it with any Argentinians, but may well try when we return to Mendoza next month. Suffice to say I have mulled it over a lot, and here are a couple of thoughts:
Nobody has mentioned it to us or has in any way seemed at all affected by it, or our being British. Argentinians are lovely, lovely people, that has been abundantly clear. I just can't quite reconcile the government's 'Malvinas son Argentinas' signs which are ubiquitous on the coast and throughout Patagonia. Coupled with the (quite beautiful) memorials to the fallen, they somehow suggest that the deaths of these men strengthen the claim, or indeed that these men died in a worthy and just cause, rather than in an act of aggression. I rather hope that in conversation I'll find that there is some recognition of this, not because I am a die-hard patriot, or even because I particularly remember the war (I don't), but just because I worry about this government-sponsored, nationalistic bombast circling around such complex issue.
That's enough for now. We're in chile, we've left the steaks and decent coffee behind. But thank God the wine remains. Off up another few mountains for the next few days, then heading back northwards on the ferry through the fjords, towards the warm, the insects. I shall miss this part of the world a lot.
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