A lot of lucky

Sitting in the waiting room before boarding Navimag’s new Japanese built boat that is to ferry me from Puerto Montt in Chile’s midsection to Puerto Natales at its ankles a thought jumps into my head as if it’s just leaped from the third floor of a burning building, at the same time fearful and relieved. The thought is that it’s painfully obvious that everyone else has prepared themselves a lot more thoroughly for this boat trip than I have. At the very least most people have their own cache of food crammed into boxes that look as though they once housed ride-on-mowers, while others have supplemented their food supply with enough hard liquor to fuel the boat, or the crew at the very least.

Looking down at my small packet of plain biscuits and litre box (yes box, got a problem) of wine I start to feel like a heroine addict moments before being dragged into a rehab clinic. How am I to survive four days of making idyll chitchat with over 60 strangers, some of them middle-aged for Christ sake, on a solitary box of wine? Fear quickly turns to constructive self analysis: “What the fuck have I done?” I’m sure I read there was a bar on the boat. Shit, shit, shit! Of more pressing concern, although this thought takes some time to wade through the throng of brain cells celebrating the possibility of a reduced alcohol intake for four days, is that in addition to all this food and alcohol each passenger seems to be taking on large quantities of water, enough water to last them for, if I am to guess, four fucking days! Surely there’s water on board. There has to be water on board. What do the navy do? Does each sailor have to bring on their own bottle of Evian – maybe they do. I rush to the waiting room kiosk (not since my father referred to a haphazardly organized pile of wood, mettle and ball bearings as a go-cart has a word been used so loosely) to buy the last 1.25 litre bottle of fizzy water, an act akin to a parachuter tightening the straps on his helmet moments after realizing his parachute is enjoying the free fall from the comfort of a window seat in the plane above.

Tired from the overuse of analogies to illustrate a point, I board the boat. And straight away I am reminded why I hate over prepared travellers. The boat is huge. Part car and cargo ferry, part cruise liner it has everything you need - including a bar with a dance floor (and obligatory disco ball), a huge kitchen and dining room with presumably both food and water, and well equipped sleeping quarters - without being extravagant. Needless to say I shouldn't have worried. After settling into my sleeping quarters, which I am surprised to see includes a window (not something I had bargained on given I had purchased the cheapest ticket available), I adjourn to the dinning room for an introductory briefing from our guide.

Our guide, a native Chilean, swaps between Spanish and English so haphazardly that she manages to confuse each language group in equal measure. It’s like a verbal version of ‘Find a Word’. After explaining what services are available on board, including where you can find an endless supply of cool, fresh, glacial water, she moves onto the weather forecast for the next four days. During the little research I did before buying a ticket I had read a few comments from previous passengers who either loved or loathed the trip. It seemed that the weather was the main factor determining which group you fell into. To their credit my ears took up the challenge of finding the English words amongst a rapid flow of random sound bites and heard that we were to be “having a lot of lucky with the weather over the next few days”.

For me the other factor that determines whether or not you have a good trip is the people and so it was with another healthy dose of ‘lucky’ that I fell in with George, Barney and Beth. George, a softly spoken South African, is in the midst of a six month journey through South America before moving to Hong Kong for work. Barney, a quick witted Welshman who apparently once bored a guy out of fight, is traveling with his wife Beth, who amongst other things speaks Welsh as a first language.

And so the four days pass with an endless supply of interesting conversation from international politics to South America’s obsession with eighties music (a category in which Beth excels). The conversations however are often interrupted by the shear beauty of the landscape that passes before our eyes, sometimes literally metres away, as the boat meanders through a labyrinth of fjords. Like celebrities popping down to the corner store to buy milk, wildlife (one whale, a couple of seals, and an endless variety of birds) make fleeting appearances to the delight of the paparazzi keeping vigil on the upper deck. In between animal appearances there are other sites that are worthy of filling the camera lens: icebergs that have broken off nearby glaciers, cascading waterfalls (is there any other type) and towering mountains. The further south we travel the wilder, and as a consequence, the more stunning the landscape becomes (see pictures below). While our eyes feast on this visual smorgasbord, our stomachs are loaded with three large, passable meals a day, washed down with excellent beers (the bar is stocked with beer from a local micro brew run by German immigrants) and of course my box of wine, which is unhealthily combined with very little exercise.


Getting there: Taken from the bus as it made it's way down from the Chilian side of the Andes.


Leaving port: The tug boat works extra hard due to all the extra food and water brought on board.


We were to be having a lot of lucky with the weather.


A mountain growing out of the sea, or so it looked like after a few beers.


Sunset on the first night.


Settling down to a night of cards and conversation.

It was often difficult to photograph the wildlife as they moved so bloody quickly, rarely giving me time to exit the bar, grab my camera and snap off a shot. Anyway, the photo below is of a humpback whale (or any other animal you'd like to imagine).




Sunset from my cabin.


Navimag's proud history was there for all to see. This boat was operational just last week.


No doubt the dolphins and whales are putting on a real show behind my back.


A cascading waterfall


We stopped at this beautifully located but isolated town for a couple of hours so the locals could pick up supplies.




Locals coming out for supplies: This guy above rowed out for a sack of potatoes, no doubt he had a hankering for bangers and mash.


Iceberg!!! Captain there's an ICEBERG! Turn to the starboard side!!! ICEBERG......Fuck we're close, I don't think we're going to make it! Everyone overboard!!!! And then I turned around.....


The aptly named White Channel is covered in small icebergs that had broken off a nearby glacier.




The Chilean navy sends a reconnaissance team ready to engage at the first sight of an Argentinean flag.


On arrival in Puerto Natales the captain just runs her aground and we depart, many kilos heavier.

More photos at Chile by bus and Chile by boat

San Martin de los Andes

So I'm in San Martin de Los Andes, about 4hrs by bus north of Bariloche. Having left my snowboard behind (a regrettable decision to say the least) I am in the unusual position of having to find other pursuits to occupy my time. I decide to take a hike to a nearby lookout. Armed with a map from the tourist office, small amounts of water and an empty stomach, I set off grossly underprepared in true Bourke and Wills style.

The map I have looks as though it was drawn looking down from outer space, or a very great height at least, for it only highlights major roads with no detail whatsoever. For instance, San Martin, a town of 24,000 inhabitants, is represented by a small red dot! Fortunately the map also includes instructions for the 10km trek. So it is with misplaced confidence that I set off in totally the wrong direction for about 10 minutes before I reach a highway and it dawns on me that maybe I've taken a wrong turn. Not the best of starts you'd agree.

Having back-tracked I set off again with a determined look on my face, somewhat like a dim witted child who is trying to force a square peg into a round hole. The path is actually one of the main arteraries out of town, so again I'm not entirely sure I'm on the right track. My concerns are heightened 5 minutes later when I come across the town's industrial quarter (pictured below). At this point it must be said that this is a family trait (skill if you will) to seek out the industrial part of any town on any given city tour.

I consult the map and the instructions state "head towards the old San Martin de la Sol Hotel before turning left". What the fuck! The old San Martin de la Sol Hotel - I don't even know where the new fucking San Martin de la Sol Hotel is. I consult the map to see whether it is marked anywhere and of course it isn't. This is the sort of advice that you'd give to a local who has lived here for 100 odd years not a tourist who's fresh off the bus and navigationally challenged. At length I come to the sad realisation that the map, if a few squiggerly lines on a piece of paper justifies such an elaborate description, is useless and I am lost.

It is at this point that a car pulls over. A large Mexican in the passenger seat asks where I'm going and whether I need a lift. I reply "I don't know" and "I'd love one". A decision I regret the instant I make it. I climb into the back to join his girlfriend while the Mexican, who seems to be the cars spokesmen, proceeds to ask me all the usual questions, such as:

Where you from?

What's your name?

Are you travelling by yourself?

Why are you travelling by yourself?

Are you gay?

"What?"

"Are you gay?"

"Don't listen to him, his girlfriend assures me" but I catch the subtly seductive glace from the driver in the rear-view mirror and feel anything but reassured. It doesn't help that he is dressed as if he's just come from a Village People appreciation meeting. My mind is running all sorts of Deliverance style scenarios, none of them ending well. I figure the big guy is the enforcer, the little guy the beneficiary and the girl, well she probably just likes to watch.

"So do you like Argentinean women"

"yes very much, in fact I like all woman. Just the other night I made friends with a Brazilian girl, I liked this very much. Yes this is definitely my preference. Girls, girls, girls, yum, yum, yum(maybe a little overstated but desperate times...).

I felt now that if I was to be sodomised than at least they would know it was not of my own free will. At this precise moment we turn off the smallish back road we are on, onto an even smaller country path and start heading towards what looks like a barn (Click here for Soundtrack). I point at the map protesting but the girl only laughs, whether at the deplorable work of the mapologist (or whatever they're called) or my predicament, I'm not sure. The path soon becomes unnavigable. We stop and my heart fills with the type of dread that only an alter boy could understand. The big guy turns around.

"So did she have big titties?"

"What?" "Who"?

"The Brazilian"

"Yeah sure, whatever".

At this point the two guys in the front seat break into a Spanish song (no doubt part of the ritual). My face turns white all the while the girlfriend is in tears of laughter. I turn to her and in broken English she tells me that the song is about Brazilians and their big buzzukas. It was at this point that all my concerns about being sodomised and left to die vanish, for these were just normal guys (we really are the simplier sex). So there was nothing for it but to join in - it was a pretty catchy tune.

As it turns out, they were all very generous and lovely people (was there ever any doubt!). They were touring around and were happy to take me with them for the day, like a lost puppy. We followed the path I was intending to take laughing at how stupid I had been to even consider it. However, they wearn't entirely normal. The Mexican (first photo), his Uraguyan girlfriend and the Argentinian driver (second photo), all met in a internet chat room. If fact just a few days before Manuel had met Laura, his girlfriend of a few years, for the first time. Below are some photos of San Martin and my newfound friends:

More photos at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=16753&l=287d6&id=545465517

Getting there is not, as commonly believed, half the fun

"There is a slight delay on QANTAS flight 155 to Auckland. Passengers will be informed of the new boarding time shortly"

30 minutes later.

"There is a delay on QANTAS flight 155. QANTAS apologises for any inconvenience"

1 hour later.

"There is a major delay on QANTAS flight 155. QANTAS is relieved to have already banked the large amount of money you have paid for this ´service´. QANTAS does not care for you or your petty concerns regarding missing flight connections and would like all passengers from rows 1 - 32 to please bend over while we make our way with you".

Four hours later I finally boarded the first leg of a four month trip to South America, with my itinerary in ruins. On arrival to Auckland my fairly straight forward journey from Brisbane to Bariloche had suddenly morphed into a world tour, taking in towns from other areas of the alphabet such as Dallas and Los Angeles, but at least the logistics people at QANTAS were considerate enough to add in another ´B´town by way of Buenos Aires. Fortunately for me an angelic LAN Chile rep at Auckland airport found me curled up in the fetal position sobbing in a corner of the airport muttering incoherent threats against QANTAS, and no doubt out of pity was able to squeezed me onto the last seat of the Auckland to Santiago flight, saving me from an impromptu tour of North America and an additional 16 hours of travel.

At length I arrived in Bariloche to meet up with Tim, who has being living with his Argentinean girlfriend (a souvenir from a previous trip) in Buenos Aires for the last 6 mths and had taken the 19 hour bus journey. Amusingly (for me at least) he had traveled one-fifth the distance but had taken around the same amount of time. Over a few duty free whiskies we developed our plan for the next week, which basically involved using Bariloche as a base to explore the natural surrounds, not least Argentina´s biggest ski resort Cerro Catedral.

Bariloche, in the heart of Argentina´s Lake District, is south-west of Buenos Aires, sitting at the foot of the Andes and the shores of Lago Nahuel Huapi, one of the districts biggest lakes (actually I have no idea but it looks pretty big). My guidebook informs me that architect Ezequiel Bustillo adopted Central European styles to create a tasteful urban plan. However, in the last two decades rapid growth has undermined Ezies´(as he liked to be called) vision. No other building typifies this than Bariloche Centre, a 10 storey behemoth in the heart of the town and of course the building we would call home for the next week.

The building, no doubt designed by the same people responsible for mass Soviet welfare housing, is modeled on a shape highly prized by Tetras players but less so by architects. As a result it has won the ´ugliest building in town´award every year since it´s construction. The Hostel we had booked graces the 10th floor of the building ensuring it capitalises on its one redeeming feature, brilliant views. What´s more, by staying in the ugliest building in town the view of the rest of the city was all the better for it. With lakes, mountains and alpine architecture to feast your eyes on, the city is very beautiful (as the following images will attest) despite the best efforts of local urban planners.





Image 1: That building
Image 2: View of the lake and mountains from the balcony of our hostel in the Bariloche Centre building.
Image 2: View of the town from the balcony
Image 3: Tim minutes before frost-bite would claim both his ears
Image 4: Bariloche Civic Centre
Image 5: View from the lake shore
Image 6: Speaks for itself

More photos at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=16449&l=823c5&id=545465517

Burning bridges

Is there a sweeter feeling in life than handing in your resignation? It's certainly better than being fired. It's like dumping somebody as oppose to being dumped, you have 'hand' (or so I've been told). However, I've learnt from bitter experience that the time spent wallowing in the power of handing in a resignation is usually short-lived, invariably followed by the realisation that there are no 'solid' plans to find a replacement . The conversation usually goes something like this:

"So, have you received much interest from the advertisement?" (I find this question gets the answer you're after without coming across as desperate)
"What advertisement?"
"The advertisement for my job"
"We haven't placed an advertisement"
"Why?" (often unwittingly said with a shrill, totally undermining the 'I'm not desperate' facade)
"We're thinking of restructuring"

And in an instant all hand is lost. It's like dumping a girl only for her to turn around and say that's fine I've decided I prefer girls anyway. Restructuring - what does that mean? In reality restructuring probably means:

"Thank god that prick finally resigned. Do you know what he did here? I really have no idea what he was employed to do. After awhile I was just too embarrassed to ask. I don't even remember employing him. Do you remember employing him? At least we don't have to pay his salary anymore, not that it was much. Every penny counts though, and in this case I literally mean every penny. We really did pay him bugger-all."

Therefore, it was with some relief that when I handed in my resignation to my current employer the response wasn't "sorry, who are you?" In fact my boss knew exactly who I was and what's more even showed the right amount of disappointment and said all the right things like "you'll be sorely missed" and "how are we ever going to replace you” (you probably won’t). So, it was with a heavy heart and even heavier pockets, having raided the stationary cupboard for the last time, that I cleared out my desk in preparation for the journey of a lifetime. Now when I say that I 'cleared out my desk in preparation for a journey of a lifetime' I want to make it abundantly clear that I'm not referring to the commute home from work. While it was pleasant enough, it hardly fits into the 'journey of a lifetime' category. However, I will go so far as to say it was the second best journey I'd had that day, with the commute to work hard to beat.

Anyway, this is the first installment of The Moped Diaries: A non-revolutionary, non-political and less cool journey through South America. I hope you enjoy.