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Published: January 10th 2008
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SEA CREATURES AND HABERTON RANCH ENROUTE TO PENGUINS ISLAND
We continue our excursion through the Fuegian countryside, over undulating terrain of low shrubbery, until we broach outbuildings of the historic Haberton Ranch. It comprises 50,000 acres, granted by the Argentine government in the late eighteen hundreds to Thomas Bridges, a missionary considered the pioneering settler of Tierra del Fuego. The Ranch is still operated by Thomas’ great grandson, Thomas, and his spouse, Natalie. Sharing this grand pasture in the wild are sheep, horses, cows, feathered folk and farm hands, many taking a moment, as we go by, to doze and flutter, drowsily and with whimsy, beneath the sparse tree lines in the pre-lunch morning sun.
Our meandering brings us upon a museum exhibiting the skeletons of sea creatures. The museum is the life’s work of Natalie, great grand daughter-in-law of Thomas Bridges, a scientist in her own right, who collaborates with fishers in the region to identify and classify life at sea, and to harvest the remains of that which washes ashore. Inside, hung in a startling assembly of installation art, are the skeletal outlines of seals and sea lions, the latter walk and have ears, the former do
not; whales and porpoises. Whales live for between sixty and seventy years and the skeletons on display range between twelve and eighteen metres. It turns out they are not about teeth, but rather about two long, waif like tongues that swoosh gallons of water bearing sea food into their oral cavities, where, after the water subsides, they have options about what to do with the food residue. This knowledge, new to me, tends to confer on the biblical story a certain rationality that earlier sources did not.
We leave the museum and approach the Great House of the ranch, mild red and bright white, offset by lively lawns, low growth shrubs and trees, a cheery presence on the banks of the Channel, gracefully gardened in fair flowers and lithe grasses, all the way down to water's edge. Completing the homesteading scene is an array of prim and pretty structures that complement the landscape and serve the needs of this old livestock farm, which comfortably hosts many inquisitive, itinerant visitors each day. Of interest to our group is the inviting restaurant that beckons up hill and overlooks the channel; but that will have to wait until after we visit with
the penguins.
We leave our faithful mini-bus driver behind, board another small watercraft, our guide is still in tow, and are off to the Isle of the Penguins further down the Channel. Our passage takes us around a sprinkle of small islands, silent in silhouette, bold and dark in relief. And then there are three isles, not a living thing on them, which we are told were the subject of an almost hot war, several years ago, between Chile and Argentina, except that mass sanity ultimately prevailed.
In order to go ashore to the penguins, it is necessary to cut engines, drift in and beach our craft, something I have not done since village fishers indulged me as a little boy. The rules of visit dictate that the birds are not to be disturbed by us, including that we must not approach or feed them, though they are free to come up to us according to their whims. To have these rules of engagement apply, in the presence of a few hundred inquisitive penguins, that walk upright to you, jauntily and low to the ground, is to experience what it means to be of a being of lower
order, who can not speak or touch, even when brushed upon or spoken to.
Black over white is the colour scheme of the birds that greet us on the beach; they walk and swim but do not fly. They are native to this region and other places of similar climes; I have seen this strain in the cape region of South Africa. Once we venture in land, an engaging feature of their life cycle is revealed. Their nesting takes place below the ground, within individual burrows that they dig and inhabit, up to three feet below the lush bush cover and vegetal topsoil. They are called Magellan penguins in these parts. Much of our time is spent roaming the mottled green ground cover, discreetly peeking over mounds and into burrows, seeking eggs, chicks and hens; ever so earnestly trying not to give concerns to the quack-prone males of the roosts. Results are mixed but sufficiently rewarding.
Back on the beach, our attention is directed, up hill, to another genre of penguin, the Gentoo, not native to these parts, recent immigrants from Antarctica, whose nesting takes place totally above ground. As migrations go, this one is recent and its
reasons have yet to be understood. Why, is the question, go from exceedingly cold, to mild cold, after eons of time in the previous habitat? The penguins share this environment with petrels, cormorants and terns, cooperative, for the better; and, continually on guarded defence, with albatrosses, skuas and vultures, for the worse. There is a certain sense of nature in delicate balance in these parts; what with birds of docile temperament, using vegetal remains for nesting, but, in a space infested with predatorial birds; and with parasitic vines growing determinedly on deciduous forest in the prime of health. Long ago lessons on symbiosis come to mind; but, I fear, me doth stray above my pay grade.
It is time to return to the banks of the ranch, festooned live, with a delightful floral mix of lupins,poppies, peonies and primulas; and with chicks and hens, and clematis blooming demurely. At the restaurant above those banks, we share a huge mixed grill, en Francais, in the company of a pleasant twosome from France. To be sure, our hostess is proven right, in her earnest explanation of why 750 millimetres of red, not 375, our preference, is a more appropriate companion for
two people to properly eat a mixed grill. There is a certain quiet contentment on the drive home.
Vernon
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