El Fin Del Mundo

We flew to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world, which was a bit of a climate shock.  We'd rarely dropped below 22° on the whole trip so far, so we were less than acclimatised to the 2°C awaiting us.  Ushuaia has an odd history of being, at various times: a frontier outpost, port and penal colony.  This has given it look somewhat between that of a ski resort and a Siberian salt mine. The shops are pretty much exclusively selling souvenirs and outdoor clothing, as the town now predominantly serves as a cruise terminal for excursions around Cape Horn and Antarctica.

We visited the town museum, which was once the local prison.  The prison was a Victorian-style 'Panopticon' affair, with six wings spread off from a main hall in the middle. Think 'Porridge', but now imagine it set in the least hospitable place outside of Wolverhampton.  They've converted the various wings into exhibit areas, with one dedicated to nautical history of the area, one about prison life and notable inmates, and so on.  One wing they've left preserved as it was when it was still in use.  It was a bit parky.

Oh and I've been told to mention that we had lamb pizza. They're big on sheep and the uses of sheep in Patagonia.  Also, there were some welcoming signs as we walked into port:

I think someone needs a hug

We were there to take a cruise around the Cape, which was a departure from the last voyage we took in that this was focused less on pampered gluttony and more on facilitating Zodiac boat excursions to various islands and glaciers.  There was an open bar and a fridge of beer left unguarded though. Guess they don't get too many British guests.  The cabins were simpler than the conventional cruise type (no TV etc.), but had huge windows to see the continuous spectacle outside.

You get allocated a dinner table seat at the beginning of the cruise, and that remains the same throughout. Obviously this is a gamble as you might end up with someone like me. Fortunately we ended up sharing with a charming couple, Charles and Alicia, who live in Uruguay although he's an escaped Englishman.  They'd traveled widely and it is always great to get some insight into places we've been on this trip or are going to visit on the future trips already germinating in Chantelle's head.  Poor Alicia: her English is excellent but those of you who know me, know how hard it is to comprehend me when I'm in full swing.  Evolve, mortals. 

Check out the hard case in the T-shirt

After we made our very scenic departure from Ushuaia, we made our way to Cape Horn, where we arrived first thing the following morning.  It's the last anything you'll see before hitting the Antarctic.  There is a team deployed there, managing the lighthouse and going about other unknown tasks.  They enjoy visits from the likes of our trip as they are so very, very alone.  This is a shame because we couldn't leave the boat as the waves were ridiculous.  We had to content ourselves with taking photos of the albatross monument to the many lives lost on the Cape.  Then we joined the tiny proportion of humanity to circumnavigate Cape Horn, which was nice.

Sorry, guys

Later the same day we managed to get ashore at Wulaia Bay, where Chan and I diverged on different treks: I went up a big fucking hill and took in the view:

Chan took the coastal route and heard all about the indigenous people (spoiler alert: they were quite happy living naked in their canoes, and then civilisation came and now there is only one of them left). The Yamana were squat, with atrophied legs from never leaving their canoes, which they would carry over their heads on land.  This is why they lived on the coast: they couldn't climb the hills.  Charles Darwin, on meeting them on his trip with the Beagle, described them as an "infra-human subspecies".  Now Charles, that is not the preferred nomenclature.

It also transpires that beavers ended up here from Canada, as someone brought them to Ushuaia in a failed fur enterprise.  They let them all loose when things didn't pan out, and they subsequently made their way across to here and played merry hell with the local flora, as they have here no natural predators.  The trees are also not as robust as their Canadian counterparts and take ~100 years to grow back.  It's suspected that the locals have shot the last beaver though, as they've not been seen for a while.   

Oops

There are also pigs and mink causing havoc: buggering up the flimsy soil and eating the bird eggs, respectively.  There are no other animals living in this part of the world, so anything that walks about has gotten here by human interference.  Since the whole place is tenuously grown on moss and twigs, it's somewhat vulnerable to critters.  So by all means come on down with a shotgun in your hand and mammal murder on your mind.   It's enough to make one go native:

"Justice has a new face - and it is pink and squeezed into fluorescence"

The following day we stopped at Aguila Glacier, where we learned more than I'm qualified to relay about the interaction between the ice, the rocks and the local vegetation.  Short version though: trees growing on icy rocks shows ridiculous levels of environmental adaptation.  Also, the glacier is very pretty.

I shall at this point out our attire.  Since largely everywhere else we have or will have visited is ridiculously hot, we are short on winter attire.  So when we were in the US last, we were having a mooch around a large outdoors store for something to keep us from expiring from exposure when we got down here. I happened across two identical, extra large, lurid blue, "Frogg Toggs" rain suits on offer.  They keep the rain and wind off and pack down to next to bugger-all.  We might look like giant, baggy smurfs, but we are now at least prepared for the elements. 

Pictured: dynamism

The cruise firm coordinates closely with science teams from the local university, with a team on board with us.  This involves investigating the effects of tourism on the area but also in conserving it.  The expedition team went down to the islands and picked up 123 bags of rubbish before the season started, which must have originated from someone local due to when it was dumped.  We have noticed a certain out-of-sight, out-of-mind mindset in certain parts of South America when it comes to littering and the like, so this is probably down to the local fishermen.  Part of the research is figuring out who the culprits are, though. 

The last morning, Chan woke me up extra early to take pictures of the sunrise.  Urgh, fine.

It's not as pretty as sleep

This day was a particular highlight for her as we were visiting Magdalena Island to see the 70,000 penguins who live there.  The Magdalen penguins live in burrows on the land and it's the bloke penguin's job to put the literal roof over his family's head.  You may have heard about penguins mating for life, but with this crowd there are DIY-focussed caveats, and it is subject to annual review. If she comes back next year and the digs don't meet spec, she will bugger off with Derek from up by the lighthouse, like her mum told her to - he knows how to arrange sticks and mud like a real penguin. Jesus, why don't you call every Skua on the island and just feed them our kids yourself?

"Sheila's going to go spare when she gets home"

"I've got a stick. Game, set and match."

This glorious, brass-balled bastard stole a mouthful of nest from underneath one of the huge seagulls that live here. We saw him come tumbling down the hill, pissed-off bird in pursuit.  Don't hate the player; hate the sport:

Like a boss

"Hilarious, I'm sure"

Assorted photos for your viewing pleasure:

And here's some footage:

Kurzfassung auf Deutsch: Wir haben um das Kap Hoorn gesegelt, wobei wir Pinguine gesehen. Sie sind der Lieblingsding von meiner Frau in der Welt.

There's llamas chewing the wires

It transpires that Patagonian Argentina has some of the worst internet I've ever encountered - and I'm from Wales.  This means we can't post much, as uploading photos makes the lights dim and the dogs howl.

In the meantime, here's a picture of a guanaco (a non-domesticated llama), which apparently found me annoying:

"Soon"

Admin point: I've added an extra leg to the journey map for the three of you who aren't looking at the blog on your phone.
As you were.

What’s new, Buenos Aires?

Blah blah blah, lady of the people, didn’t actually have vast personal embezzled wealth etc.

The Argentine capital reminded us of nothing so much as major cities in Italy or Spain, rather than what we’d come to expect of South America.  They certainly drive like Italians: one hand on the wheel, one hand on the horn and the transmission left at the last speed bump.

A quick note about the currency.  The Argentine Peso is a damn liability for both locals and tourists.  Decades of obsession with Peronist fiscal policy meant that the locals developed a habit of buying and hoarding US dollars rather than see their savings inflate away.  To counter this, the government instigated a limit to the amount of US dollars each citizen was allowed to possess per year.  The fairly predictable result is that there is now an established black market (the dolar blue) where one can exchange one’s filthy gringo Benjies for Argie pesos at between 150% – 200% the official exchange rate.

It’s so established that the various exchange rates are published in the local papers every morning.  You can find money changers in most tourist areas, but risk the chance you’ll be fobbed off with counterfeit notes or marked for a mugging.  You’ll get a better rate for pristine 50s and 100s, literally because they fit into a suitcase and travel easier. Owing more to my inherent laziness, I changed my cash with the hotel concierge at 13 to the dollar (official rate A$9.5; best case ‘Blue’ rate A$14.4 that day), so they took about 10% of the savings for themselves.   It still felt pretty gangster.

Some Monopoly money, yesterday

Our hotel was in the fairly posh Recoleta district, home to the eponymous cemetery.  Evidently this is the place to be seen dead.   Here’s the view from the hotel:

 
Day and night for some extra moodiness

One can buy a plot there for fixed time periods or in perpetuity. Families that did the latter but then died out have their tombs sealed and left to the ravages of time, which looks pretty spooky.  The walls of the cemetery also have economy-class pigeon holes in which to file your mortal remains if you’re working to a budget.  Otherwise it’s a massive testament to egotistical one-upmanship, with each family and person of note attempting to out-do their neighbours in post-mortem grandeur.  Apparently it’s known for people to rent a plot for one day in which to be buried, only to be exhumed the following day and reinterred someplace more modest.

      
 

It’s also (possibly) where Eva Peron is buried in her family’s mausoleum, which I managed to not notice at the time.  It explains the flowers, though.


I’ve genuinely seen smaller towns than this place. I felt a bit weird strolling about, taking pictures, as it seems of dubious respectfulness, but then the attention probably suits the inhabitants down to the ground.

Look at this guy in his bathrobe

Chan read that a thing that one should do in Buenos Aires is watch a performance at the Teatro Colon, as the acoustics are among the best in the world.  So we duly bought tickets for El Ángel De Fuego, which, the online bumf said, had Spanish and English subtitles. It did not. It was sung in Russian with Spanish subtitles.  I’ve read the synopsis in English subsequently and I’m not a great deal wiser.  It had a crazy lady searching for her lost love, who may or not exist/be an angel; her compliant male friend who is irretrievably lost in the friend-zone; a bloke’s heart gets pulled out; a massive carousel appears periodically on stage for some analogous reason that sailed right over my head (carousels are big in Buenos Aires for some reason); Mephistopheles and Dr Faustus rock up and banter for a bit in a scene that drives the plot not one iota; crazy lady joins a convent, causing the nuns to all go mental and get their boobies out.  Then crazy lady gets burned as a witch. 
Something for everyone, then.

Just what the blistering blue fuck is going on?

We took another walking tour with a British bloke who’s been living here for a while.  He showed us around the Plaza de Mayo, where Falklands veterans have a semi-permanent live-in protest underway.  They are servicemen who didn’t see actual combat as such, but were deployed to various postings in South Argentina. Apparently they were all deemed to be agents of a military dictatorship when they returned after the conflict, were pretty much ostracized by everyone, and found themselves unable to find work and other various misfortunes.  To catch everyone up at this point: Argentina had a military dictatorship at the time of the war. The Falklands invasion was an attempt to regain patriotic favour with an unhappy populace, but instead turned into the final nail in the Galtieri regime’s coffin.

Pictured is the other side of the tower from my picture at the top of this post. 
You can see Evita haranguing the rich on this side, whereas the other has her smiling benevolently on the poor.

We took in the National Congress and one of the 20 copies of ‘The Thinker’ by Rodin, the big hack that he was.

 

The most eccentric building we saw was the Palacio Barolo: a 1923 neo-gothic building which is an allegorical allude to Dante’s Inferno, set on 14 floors comprising purgatory, with god represented in the dome at the top.  Hell is on the ground floor.  The ‘A’ in Ascensor (lift) is made of a masonic compass symbol. Clues to Illuminati everywhere.

  

The Plaza de Mayo has semi-permanent riot barriers in place, as this country has a habit of both spirited protest and a  singular lack of moderation. 

 

We were taken via the guide’s favourite wine shop: a nice little place that was both friendly and generous with the samples.  it transpired that they were having a tasting the following evening and –since we were making a habit of getting lost in foreign language middle-class activities- we signed ourselves up.  Naturally it was all in Spanish, although the owner also spoke English so we had a bit of a side-natter while her colleague enthused elaborately and very technically about the wines in Spanish.  We ascertained a fair bit from his gesticulations and the handful of words we do know, though.  Christ, we’re classy.

   
I still have no idea what’s going on, only now I’m markedly more drunk, which helps.

We took afternoon tea at L’Orangerie at the Alvear Palace hotel, as this is apparently another thing to do. I couldn’t care less about afternoon tea as a concept because: a) I don’t drink tea; and b) it’s cake and sandwiches, and there’s only so excited I can get about either.  Chan is more civilised than I, however, and occasionally takes me to such places in an attempt to drag me out of the gutter.

We had intended to spend a couple of days across the way in Montevideo, but after looking at the travel time and bugger-about factor on the day, we knocked it on the head and booked into another hotel across town in San Telmo.


Like any diligent tourists, we visited La Boca, or rather the brightly coloured Caminito - an area preserved and embellished specifically for tourists- as the area around it is rough as badgers.  It’s in the shadow of the massive Boca Juniors stadium and is a network of tat shops, restaurants and tango dancers vying for tourist gratuities.

   
  

And since our thirst for tat browsing is apparently unquenchable, we had a browse at the Feria San Telmo: a street market which is notionally an antiques fair, but is a giant mess of music, food, trinkets and the occasional bit of Nazi paraphernalia.  It’s surprisingly hard to find Christmas tree decorations though, and they are Chan’s favoured form of souvenir.  We did however find some trolls which will do.

    

The cafés here follow a traditional European coffee shop pattern: largely voluminous, dark, wooden spaces served by aging waiters dressed in white shirts and aprons.  We visited the La Puerto Rico a couple of times, which was the Pope’s old haunt.  The coffee is strong and the sandwiches formidable.
In case you don’t know, they eat a lot of steak here.  Parrillas are traditional Argentine steak houses where the meat is cooked on an elaborate metal grill frame over a wood fire.  We went to one of the more famous establishments, La Brigada, where their gimmick was too present you with a slab of roast beast and then carve it in front of you with the edge of a spoon.

Never eat a steak bigger than your own head

We visited a few of the larger art galleries and also the pope’s old manor: the Metropolitan cathedral.   It looks for all the world like a town hall:


The crypt of the ‘Great Liberator’, General José de San Martín, is located here.  It’s rather impressive.  the women depicted around him represent Argentina, Peru and Chile: the countries he fought to liberate from the control of the Spanish Empire.  Rumour has it that his coffin is on an incline as the church suspected he was a closet Mason, so ensured that his head faced towards hell.  Priorities, guys.


Kurzfassung auf Deutsch:  Wir haben Buens Aires besucht.  Ich habe Geld auf dem Schwarzmarkt gekauft. Wir haben die größte Steaks, das ich je gesehen habe gegessen.  Es ist schwierig, hier Weihnachtsbaumdekorationen zu kaufen. So haben wir mit hässlichen Plastik Trolle improvisiert.