Beyond twilight: of dinosaurs, whales and Darwin

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Into the twilight zone.

Dusk and dawn, the bookends of dreamworld.

Where desires and destinies might dance and duel.

Where you can't go, unless you have gone.

And it is still only 50° south of the equator.

The same parallel, on the Arctic side, as London, Kiev, Vancouver, with Moscow, Berlin and Stockholm etc even further north.

Yet this is already 1,776km further south than Cape Town (34°), and 444km beyond Invercargill (46°), New Zealand's southern tip.

A reminder that the globe is somewhat top land-heavy. Would not physics prescribe the ball folllowed gravity and rolled over so the continental chunks of Asia, Europe and North America could play ballast to the sphere? Fickle cartographers, indeed.

Comandante Luis Piedrabuena, a little village, population 6,000, named after an Argentinian nautical pioneer of the Patagonian regions, lies 50° south, along the banks of the Santa Cruz River, once navigated for 250km by Charles Darwin.

It is here that an earlier tease of the extent of southern twilight plays out, with still further promise another 800km towards the Antarctic, in Ushuaia and Puerto Williams, the final inhabited destinations at the bottom end of South America. A white Christmas promise in summer?

The sun sets at 9.29pm today, still three weeks short of the summer solstice, yet it is the extended linger of the light, a languid lull of lucidity that seems to trap timepieces in a kind of never-never land.

Unlike Piedrabuena's northern 50°-line cousins, here there is no distraction, no great city lights, no great city edifices, no mountains, nor hills, nor interfering terrain. Here, everything is flat. For hundreds of kilometres north and south, and west to the foothills of the Andes, the 'Kalahari' of the continent's deep south stretches out. It is dry, sandy, dusty, of bushels and short shrubs, of sheep and guanacos, a larger relation to lamas, vicunas and alpacas, a rare species that can happily drink salt water.

A brisk, brittleness in the late day's air carries a wafting, dissolving translucent silken shroud that floats between fading blues, golds, reds, yellows, gray and black. And final dark an hour after sundown. Yet the blackness of the sky and 180° horizon only beckons the fleck of stars at full lumen power.

The length of the day might answer an outsider's curiosity at a local pattern of four meal sessions between sun-up and down. Normal breakfast and lunch, with a coffee and pastry 'carry-over' between 4 and 5pm, and formal supper being regularly eaten at around 9pm.

Nearly all restaurants open between around 11.30am and 2pm, and then later at 7.30 or 8pm until 11 or midnight. Don't expect to go and sit down and eat between 6 and 7pm.

While the long summer days could hint at some possible reason, the converse of winter's far shorter days confounds any extension of a logical explanation. The grey boer sits in quiet wonderment at barbecues being lit at 8.30 and 9pm for eating at 10. Argentinians' love of barbecues might just exceed South Africa's romance with the 'braai', perhaps because the local Argie beef is easily as good as, or better, than their's. Big call.

Long, panoramic bus rides join the dots on the slow journey south.

Cruise some of the steakhouses in Mar del Plata, a sophisticated small city best known as a getaway destination for the better-heeled of Buenos Aires, some 400km to the north. A plethora of fine coffee shops, fashion stores and eateries makes life comfortable for the glamorously clad northern visitors, tight leggings and tight bodices seeming the early summer flavour of the day.

National elections. Social-welfare leaning Peronistas are voted out after 30-odd years of waning influence, a waning economy, rise in corruption and unemployment. Shock and horror, the plebiscite opts to boot out all the old 'system parties' and opt for right wing radical, self-defined 'anarcho-capitalist' Javier 'El Loco' Milei, who has identically cloned his favourite dog five times, and to whom, he claims, he defers when needing serious political advice. Donald Trump and Jair Bolsonaro, former president of Brazil, immediately send their congrats.

Running mate Victoria Villarreul, daughter of a previous senior army general, is accused of being a 'negationist', who attempts to whitewash the thousands of murders under the fascist junta. Reports have her wanting said museums to be closed as well.

Over bottles of Malbec, Argentine's vaunted varietal, I learn of the throes of decamping from Cape Town to Panama. Procurring virgin jungle land, building tree-houses, oiling the palms of landowners, agents, architects, brush scrubbers, surveyors, hewers, hefters, permit requirers ... all whilst trying to dodge the potential pitfalls of South Africa's febrile currency and the perils of Fitzcarraldo.

Pleasantly discover Argentinia is a land of the intimate hygiene. Bidets in every locker. Quiet comfort. Except for an acquaintance who expresses a wariness for the 'foreign experience', ceding, however the possibility of making a dollar or two out of the cleansing device: "An inflatable bidet, never leave home without one; or a bidet on wheels, just pack your luggage into the bowl, and roll away."

Malbec conversations in exotic destinations.

Into the province of Chubut, a big toe into the top end of eastern Patagonia, the flat land begins. Head for Trelew, named after a flock of Welsh immigrants in the mid 1800s. 'Tref', Welsh for 'town', and one Lewis Jones. The town boasts the biggest/best paleontology museum in the land. Supposedly the definitive display of Patagonian dinosaur relics, fossils, skeletons. The only other reason to visit would be to enjoy the annual Eisteddfod held each September that hosts guests from around the country, as well as Wales.

The museum is closed, "temporarily for refurbishment from June 2022 to June 2023". I am still trying to work out how to say 'juslaaik, man' in Spanish. Perhaps, Caramba!! ??

Plan B: nearby is Punto Tombo, a 3km strip of beachfront, and home to hundreds of thousands of Magellanic penguins. It is estimated that somewhere between 200,000 and 400,000 live there, or come to breed. A strange excursion. Stilted walkways on a cliff-side some 150m from the beach meander between thousands of little burrows where the penguins lay their eggs. It is egg time. In each hole, roughly three or four times the size of a penguin, dug into the ground at an angle to shield the birds from the sun, and mostly beneath the scraggle of a few branches, one of the couple sits lightly on, or over the eggs, often easily visible to the passerby.

On many occasions, the mate stands, sentinel-like at the mouth of the cave/hole. Dead-still, watching a phalanx of visitors stick to the walkway, lined by a very light wire fence. Standing rule is no-one is allowed closer then two metres to any of the animals. It is bone dry, harsh soil. The sun beats, and the birds have a long way to walk to the water and back. Hole after hole after penguin, after penguin, anywhere between 2m and 10m apart.

The frustrating thing for the visitor, certainly not the birds, is that one cannot get anywhere near the beach, where thousands line the water's edge, frolicking in and out of the tiny waves, the water is relatively very calm. Their actions are easily observable from afar, but any kind of close-up-and-personal photo opportunities just don't exist. Hats off to the authorities, I suppose one can only conclude. No smoking nor eating in the area either, and one must walk over some kind of shoe-sole cleansing mat to enter the zone.

Onwards, from the little fellers, to the big boys!

Puerto Piramides, on the Valdes Pensinsula, a peculiar geographical outcropping of land, anvil-shaped some 900,000 acres connected to the continent by a thinnish isthmus. Internationally acclaimed Southern Right whale hotspot, and lauded locally as the biggest nursery in the world. Though locals often have a 'biggest, bestest, oldest' tendency, and doubtless Cape Town, Hermanus etc would have something to say. But regardless, it is serious, serious whale central.

The peninsula is an environmental reserve and a World Heritage Site. Only one town. Originally a salt-mining zone, and cove for meandering vessels of the 18th century. One salt flat, in the middle, the second deepest depression on the continent, at 40m below sea level. The salt industry dried up, and the area became a minor sheep farming area. In the 1980s, government, or province, decreed no more than 200 residents could live in the town. Something happened, perhaps a mini whale, seal, orca-watching industry arose, and at last census, 470 permanent residents occupied PP.

Now, a dozen-or-so accommodation facilities and six very slick whale-watching operations work out of the beach-launch port. Each day, from July to December, hundreds flock in for a day trip, or night or two, to take a ride on a boat, to look at whale mamas with their babas.

Prior, I'd no idea where I was going, (as nor does anyone, going to the unknown), but book in, in advance, for five days.

Bliss.

Hot as hell one day, in the upper thirties, near clutching on to street poles the next as 80km/h winds whistle through.

Book a ride on a 10m semi-rigid (a rubber duck with a hard hull).

Local innovation has oiled the visitor movement machine.

Large, Arctic style, big-wheeled machines pull trailers up and down the very flat beach. The trailers are connected to the large 4x4s with a long connection pole, between 5m and 15m. The 'tractor' drives the trailer and boat far enough into the shallow sea so that the boat might float, and ride away, while the tractor can still drive out.

The trailers have step-ladders built on to their sides.

Punters, all life-jacketed, toddle along the beach, line up next to the boat, embark up the boarding stairs, get seated, get told to stay seated while the launching operation gets under way, and the tractor rolls the boat backwards until the skipper, at the rear helm, revs up the two 200hp engines, and reverses into the sea.

Twenty minutes later, deckhand begins to gesticulate in different directions, and the spouts of numerous whales reveal their presence and location. Approximately 1km offshore, there are around 40, 50, 60 whales. It is difficult to be precise. They are all around. The engines are switched off, and the boat drifts, slowly, quietly.

Passengers begin to become happily agitated, oohing and aahing as the gentle, giant beasts break the surface of the water, massive backs rolling slowly forward, before the giant V-tail protrudes. People wait for 'the money shot', where the tail stands proudly perpendicular to the water. But not being trained circus beasts, the tails mostly take on any form, motion and angle possible, other than that pre-defined 'perfect' moment.

The big animals are inquisitive. They come closer and closer to the boat, popping their heads out of the water to look at the intruder, with absolutely no malice, aggression nor any form of annoyance. None flee. Some snort, and bellow, and blow 'steamy' air up through their two spouts just behind their head. I learn toothed whales have a single blowhole, baleen whales have two.

Mothers and babies cavort, roll over and next to each other. They come close enough to the boat to actually touch. Nobody does. The bigger of the animals are near twice as big as the boat, they swim past, at slower than walking speed, yet never touch the boat with flank nor tail. The callosities (barnacles) that grow on their heads would easily rip through the inflatable perimeter of the boat. They reveal an astonishingly refined sense of judgement of their size, and location of their fins and huge tail. One whale swims directly in my direction, until it is a metre away, It is a very, very big animal, around four to five times the length and weight of an African elephant. At the very last moment, as I think it is about to submerge and drift under the vessel, it makes a vertical U-turn, its tail not more than half a metre from my face.

Should that tail have wished to take a slap, 10 people aboard would have been in very serious trouble, or more.

There is much theory and discussion in the environmental conservationist world regarding human interaction with the various species. How close, how far, to touch or not touch, to keep in parks or not keep in parks, indubitably nearly all very much with the well-being of our animal populations in mind.

Yet, surrounded by whales, it would not be possible for the boat, and captain, to keep the engines running, the sharp propellers turning, in an attempt to constantly keep at least 10m away from the fabulous giants. With silence, and the engines off, the whales could well choose to drift off into another area, without bothering with the interluders. But curiously, at least for me, it is quite the contrary that occurs.

It is estimated that through the breeding and rearing months, around 2,000 visit this locale, with its calm waters, before heading down south to the Antarctic for the rest of the year. It would seem the Antarctic is the centre of the world for the Southern Rights, a continent from which they venture north to New Zealand, the southern end of Africa, Australia and South America. Local expert opinion has it that in general the same whales will return to their same, chosen breeding grounds, out of routine, habit and comfort, though tracking devices on some whales have shown them popping up at a different continent at times.

The peninsula reserve is also home to colonies of sea-lions, elephant seals, fur seals and more penguins. As well as an official scientific orca-watching programme. The apex predators have all of the seal population to pick from, their favourite target being sea-lion pups in March, April and May, when the young are making their first serious food-hunting forays.

The orca-observation post carries a daily updated signboard of sightings: Last orca sighting, 4 days ago, 7 individuals. It is slightly out of their season, so sightings in December are hit-and-miss, one learns.

Back on land, a little grassy park between the corrugated iron buildings has a Heroes Wall, dedicated to local residents, soldiers who lost their lives in the battle with Britain over the Falkland Islands, or Malvinas, as they are known here, with ne'er a mention of Falklands, ever. The new president wants them back, but will not take up arms for them.

Amusing, unexpected reality intrudes.

Return to a larger mainland bus terminal and sit in the station's cafeteria with a friend to enjoy a coffee and wait the next ride. Each table has a plug where one can charge your electronic devices. Friend uses the plug at the table behind her.

We natter, and minutes before having to board her bus, turns to retrieve her rechargable headphones, only to find a large, frumpish local woman sitting there, drinking a soda, the headphones nowhere to be seen.

Frump stoutly denies all existence. Friend searches her own bags. Nothing. Waitress sees distress, and offers to review CCTV footage. Friend must depart for bus. I have more time to kill.

Five minutes later two policemen enter, approach Frump, and inform her that she has been seen on the footage removing said item from the wall and stuffing it into her bag.

The cafe is now mildly abuzz. With a curious insouciance Frump produces the headphones from her bag. My friend has been called from her departing bus, which must now wait for her, to identify the item. All is good, off she goes, the police take a photograph of the offender, and her ID details and depart. Frump then tucks into a hamburger. The wheels of justice are turning, though in what would seem to be mysterious ways.

That old adage, particularly peculiar to some countries: if you are not watching it, it does not belong to you.

The south beckons, into the land of lingering light.

Darwin's conclusions to the evolution of land formations along the Santa Cruz River are overturned over time. He apparently would not concede that 'cataclysmic events' such as massive flooding down mountainsides were powerful enough to change the landscape.

Parenthetically, there is even evolution to knowledge and understanding, as well as his feathered friends.

Dusk beckons, Malbec beckons, dreams plant their nightly seeds.

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