Back from beyond the end of the world

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Our transit across the Beagle to Argentina had been arranged for 2pm. It was going to involve a 50km drive East along the road until reaching the other town called Puerto Navarino. From there it would be a small speedboat across the 20 minute stretch direct to Ushuaia. Unfortunately, the backwaters of the world things rarely go to plan or schedule. The hostal owner pulled up at the arranged pick up point and explained the boat had been cancelled due to strong winds. It was blowing a gale sure enough, so we headed to the information shack again. Carina found out that they were not rescheduling the boat, they had stopped now for the season and the next scheduled departure to Ushuaia would be in October. We have to be back to work in August.



Flying was expensive and it was a good week of waiting until a vacancy. Our trip to beyond the end of the world was a little mistimed as it tied in with Semana Santa, Easter in predominately Catholic South America was a big deal and difficult to travel in. We wracked our brains for alternative ways and asked around, it was clearly going to take a lot of money or a lot of blagging.



Puerto Williams was a base for the navy to patrol the Beagle and surrounding waters, and had a busy fishing industry after king crab, but they were not the only boats in the area. For this was the last marina before yachts set off to tackle Cape Horn or Antarctica less than a thousand k's away. The season for the 7th continent had just come to an end, and the yacht captains were tallying up their fortunes from the thousands gleamed from the few able to splash out for the couple of weeks trip. The clubhouse was a beautiful boat in the middle of the marina, long since decommissioned, it sat proudly with polished brass and expansive wooden decking now supporting a lively bar. After thinking we were the only extranjeros left on the island it was great to discover a new pocket of activity on the island. Walls and ceilings of the boat were plastered with flags, t-shirts and photos of round the world races, international yachts and scribblings of gratitude to the clubhouse. We asked around for boats leaving for Ushuaia which had room and were willing to take a couple of stranded Brits. We were pointed over to a boat called the Commitment.



Tony was a stocky man of medium height and strong forearms whose ruddy cheeks would glow with his deep, gruff laughter and sharp blue eyes lose focus as he talked about his passion for the sea. We clambered around five masts of other sailboats before reaching his 35 footer at the end. He flipped up the cabin flap and a blast of hot air hit us from the small diesel burning heater between the bench and table. With a crushing handshake he fixed his eyes on mine and calculated whether we were worth him giving us the time of day, or early evening in this case. We laugh along with a couple of his crude jokes and in a deep Aussie voice he invites us in from the cold. Our request for passage across the channel is promptly rejected for not enough spaces in the life raft and a notoriously strict Argentine border guard, but we stay a little with him, his son and a couple of fee paying guests and listen to his stories. In the glowing limelight of his cabin he tells us of solo sailing round the world, his seasonal tours of Antarctica and round the Horn with often unruly tourists, his trips to Fiji and Oz in the off-season and the Patagonian glaciers. I light up on him mentioning the fiords and straits of Patagonia and he fixes me again with a interpretative gaze. He seems to like us, possibly as an enraptured audience over anything else, and invites us to return the following day to 'talk things through'.



All evening we speculate and second-guess what he wants us to return for. Becky hopes it may be taking us across the Beagle anyway, possibly as stowaways, I am transfixed on the idea of us accompanying him and his son on an adventure through the Patagonian channels. I work out our times and budgets but deep down have a secret hope he may take us along for the ride and merely pay with our adventurous spirits and listening ears. When we meet I realise that would be too good to be true. Tony described himself as a man without a lot of money, but with a lot of passion, and can see passion in others. He felt the Patagonian waters the most beautiful in the whole world and appreciated our praise for them when we scratched the surface of them aboard the Yaghan. He was rewarding his son and himself with a two week trip now the season was over before flying home and was wondering if we would like to come along "for a couple of thousand bucks". Tony may appreciate passion, but he is also a businessman. He had cut the cost down from $5000, and despite it being a once in a lifetime opportunity, it was still a step too far. One day maybe, one day.



Luck came our way again as Tony introduced us to Hughes, pronounced Oooog, a french Capitan who had just arrived with his young wife Caroline, an Argentinean friend and a shy stowaway cat the previous night. They had just returned from a sailing trip around Cape Horn, through Drake's Passage. With some of the notoriously wildest seas in the world, an array of sailing traditions have developed to recognise sailors that succeed in navigating these waters. Sailors of the Horn can dine with one foot on the table and wear a large hoop in their ear to show off their bravery. It is a maritime achievement that is completely lost on Caroline, who feels it is just male machismo and one-upmanship which sent them aboard The Luic round the Horn. With a loud mouthed hairy Chilean, we secured ourselves space on their yacht, and Hughes kindly said he wouldn't charge us, we only had to provide lunch, and of course, wine.



After the ferry was cancelled it was several days before the wind was right and we could set sail for Argentina. In this time we found a tiny little cluttered shack called Hostal Padrino. It had four small rooms packed full of bunk beds. These adjoined a narrow corridor with a matt black cast iron stove with a continuous supply of flaming logs at one end and a crowded kitchen and dining room at the other. It was here that Cecilia the forever friendly chilean hostess would serve elaborate lunches and bring the multi-national mismatch of trekkers and nomads together as a big happy family. We had cebolla (king crab) fresh from the fisherman's cages, an almighty asado with rather too free-flowing Pisco and for Easter Sunday, the conejo came with an individual package of chocolates for each of us. Cecilia was a true mother-hen whose rosy cheeks would plump up like peaches when she smiled and greeted you with 'mi amigo Jack' or 'mi amigo Escocia'. She leant us bikes to explore as far West as we could go and saved some delicious pie for us as we returned covered head to toe in mud.



The time came when the winds were finally right (according to our Capitan) to leave the island. We were dropped off at dawn and settled ourselves below deck. Becky and I took a little guilty pleasure in noting Andras arriving steaming drunk having been drinking all night and spent the whole sailing trip feeling awful below deck. Its always nice when you play a rare 'sensible card' at the right time and it meant English was now communication of choice. We shared a great lunch and we found Caroline and Hughes story truly inspiring. Ten years before, they had a dream to buy a boat and sail the world. For ten years they saved hard, living a frugal life in Paris, Hughes photographing CEOs and architecture and Caroline working in film production until the day finally came where they could buy their boat and make it their own. The last couple of years had taken then out of Europe to Tenerife, the Cape Verde, across the Atlantic to Brazil and gradually down the Argentinean coast. Now though, the funds had run low and they were berthing Luic for awhile as they got some more euros for their leg into the Pacific. It was a real highlight getting the opportunity to spend a day on a round the world yacht and tremendously kind of them, I look forward to following their adventures and dream up following in their wake, on day.



We motored into Ushuaia in the middle of the afternoon and after the necessary border formalities and unnecessary declarations Becks, Andras and I went for a hunt for a hostal. We ended up staying at a backpackers popular with cyclists ending their pan-american odysseys, another dream that is likely to remain firmly walled within a thick steel pipe as Becks pointed out I don't seem to actually enjoy cycling. The advantage of staying there other than geeky bike chat was the bumper-sized breakfasts which we fuelled ourselves up with before a big hike. With comfortably light day packs we headed up north out of town to Martial Glacier. The calm grey waters of the Beagle stretched out past the city of Ushuaia and mountains rose up gracefully on all sides. The glacier itself was small in Patagonian standards but still pretty spectacular and I had a good time picking myself further and further up it before the snow got too icy for comfort. We explored the lower forest paths and zigzagged our way down to the city again arriving at the Western end. Cruel doberman and snarling alsatians were behind rusty railings of compounds surrounding corrugated iron and plasterboard shacks. We seemed to have unwittingly arrived into a poorer part of the town and if the aggression of the dogs was anything to go by, a much rougher area. After doubling back a few times away from some dodgy looking men or unfriendly stray dogs we found our way to the main streets and relaxed again. Suki and Samantha would have sorted them out for us.





A bus took us out of Ushuaia early in the morning and meandered past snow covered peaks and vast blue lakes to the East coast. From here my imaginary Patagonia finally aligned with true Patagonia. The Pampas stretched as far as the eye could see. The only interruption to the starkness of flat plains of grass and wind-shaped bush would be in the occasional animal. Rhea (also known as Darwin's Ostrich) would pick their way through the scrub, as if it was the plains of the Mara and Guanacos would gaze out blearily over the bleakness and then startle as the bus awoke them from day dream. Sheep and beef cows appeared occasionally, disappointedly never with a weather-beaten Gaucho and loyal collie gathering them in. The landscapes continued in their simple beauty until we reached the Magellan Strait again. We were about to leave Fireland and I thought how the mystical beauty of it must have been lost on the early seafarers through the Strait. The fierce Indian tribes rumoured to be giants living amongst ferocious mythical beasts scared them from setting afoot, and beliefs of a great Southern continent abounded and became wilder with the artistic license to exaggerate of each subsequent cartographer.



The ferry brought us back into Southern Patagonia, a name which seemed erroneous considering all the time taken travelling north. It was a short bus ride back to Punta Arenas where we were united with our non-trekking belongings, be it briefly, as we started to pack for our next adventure- The Torres del Paine 'W' hike.



The W was so named for the shape of the trail, picking its way up and down three valleys incorporating the highlights of the national park. We planned to do the hike over a reasonable 5 days, but it still meant we had walking legs up to 32 km long. These big distances and my chronic aversion to doubling back on oneself made the hike more challenging than we thought. That and the rats.



When I was a boy in Africa, maybe 9 or 10, I have a memory which vividly replays itself as if it was yesterday. The logs had all been cleared under the water tank and a circle of us had formed, expectedly waiting. Mum was to my left, gripping a broom handle. Peter, our helper, was opposite, brandishing a rungu. Lambert our askari to my right, with an almighty panga held high above his head, and Margaret, our gardener with an upturned rake of acacia thorns. I had carefully considered my weaponry, and after doubting my hit rate with my bow and arrow, and my accuracy with my Maasai spear, I had opted for a flat bottomed bucket. My palms were sweaty against the rim but my grip strong in nervous anticipation. Moments earlier Peter had darted back after pouring a few kettles full of boiling water down the hole that we now surrounded. Then it started. With a squeek a white ball of scraggily fur darted out. Lambert was their in a split second, bringing his panga down hard, dissecting the mouse in two on the Kenyan red earth. Two more then came out, met with broom and panga from Peter and Margaret. A half dozen more came scuttling out in all directions and everyone was in their hacking and clubbing and spearing away. I froze. I had done nothing to wipe out the plague of our beloved home for the last few months. Just when Mum brought down a deadly blow on a big juicy mouse as it ran towards me, I realised I had to act. It was then I saw a small hairless 'pinky' come staggering out. Along with a few siblings heading away from me, never out of the burrow before, it crawled towards me. The adults were busy with the adults and I knew this baby mouse was mine. Like a Maasai boy killing his first lion to become a man, this was my test.



I stepped forward shakily and steadied my bucket. I had seen that in a split second it can all be over, and I was determined to deliver an instantly fatal blow. With all my might I brought high into the blue sky and slammed it down on top of the unsuspecting baby mouse. I held it there, panting, pushing down with all my weight. Then I lifted it up triumphantly to see the making of me. The damn thing was still alive. I repeated the procedure, but to no avail. It continued squirming and I turned away in tears having realised the base of the bucket had a small rim which meant it caused the pinky to be squeezed rather than squashed. The coup de gras came from Lambert's big heavy boot and he rested a heavy hand comfortingly on my shoulder. It didn't stop the ensuing nightmares of the following nights.



Mum would have a psychotherapy term for it, but a few years later, to bring things full circle, I rescued a mouse from an animal testing laboratory and had it as a pet. I read book after book on their care and went about setting up elaborate obstacle courses for it in its converted vivarium. I loved Snowy and had finally righted my wrongs with the rodent world, until one morning when I found him dead. He had fallen off a ladder I had built and died on impact against the edge of the glass tank. The bad karma continues...



Back on the Torres trek, these early experiences may explain why I felt bad for the dead rodents we came across on the first day. A few disembowelled bodies lay in the trail as if deliberately staked by a walking pole as previous hikers had passed through. At one run down campsite an ingenious contraption consisting of a water bucket with swivelling coke cans baited with jam had claimed the lives of four mice. Drowning seemed even less humane than the Kenyan way and I felt bad for the poor souls. After a beautiful day trekking to Lago Pehoe and the following big return trip to Lago Grey with its fantastic, iceberg abundant glacier we reached Campo Italia. A dingy campsite amongst thick beech we found some flat ground, lay out the tarp and pitched the tent. We were careful to cook only in the shelter and hang all food in the surrounding trees. We even put our toothpaste and clean pots high in the branches to prevent any naughty little rodent visitors. I was out for the count after the ten hour trek but Becks lay awake hearing rustling around the tent throughout the night. She was greeted in the morning by every single bag in the tree covered in rat shit, and gnawed through. They seemed to have dipped into everything, even gnawing at the lid of the jetboil, nuts, biscuits, jam, cake and crackers. A lot had to be thrown away after my suggestions of eating around the chewed almonds were deemed not worth the leptospirosis as they were also covered in rat piss.



The previous day I had tried to console Becks that they were only cute little miceys when we heard other hikers' nightmare stories. These included mice breaking into a tent just to eat half a lonely planet and a girl waking to find mice droppings on her pillow with the mouse promptly making its presence known at the foot of her sleeping bag. The worst story had to be a thirsty hiker having had his camelback chewed through when he was sleeping, waking up in 2.5 litres of water. We got off lightly in comparison, although when we discovered they had chewed through the groundsheet of our tent the long haired grass-mouse name was changed to bloody rats, epitomising evil and dampening the delights of the Torres for us. Our tent has been our home sweet home and that really was a low blow. We did still manage to enjoy the spectacular scenery, and although missing the wilderness of Navarino, the steep trek up to the Mirador Los Torres was definitely a Patagonian highlight for the incredible otherworldliness of the glacial lake and sky-piercing rock reflections. Another mention would be the incredible banded rocks of Los Cuernos (made up of metamorphic, sedimentary and igneous layers) and the crashing of ice billowing up snow as avalanches came down from the glaciers high above Valle Frances. The photos though really do paint 1000 words And that night back in the hostel was a flurry of laundry, wine and backing up hundreds of photos ready for our next leg.

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