Saturday, February 22, 2014

South America & Falklands - part twenty



A little under two days’ sailing from the Falklands is Puerto Madryn in the Argentine Patagonia. I have a quiet walk along the beach and promenade as vacationers enjoy summer’s last weeks.




Two more days - and some preliminary packing - up the coast is Buenos Aires.


An electronic chart in one of Minerva’s lounges marks the end of the voyage. 8,397 nautical miles (15,551 kilometres or 9,663 miles).


Argentina’s inflation rate is one of the world’s highest - unofficial figures suggest about 25% a year - and economic protests regularly clog the streets. But there’s always a reminder of how much better the Falklands would be under Argentina. In the central Plaza de Mayo, war veterans have set up camp.



Could this veteran be the soldier manning the anti-aircraft gun or trudging beside Jubilee Villas in Ushuaia’s war memorial pictures?


Enough. There are better things to end on. In a shop window are portraits of Argentina’s Pope Francis and a very young Maradona.


I stop at a pulpería, a kind of tavern with roots in the country’s gaucho culture.


Bread is delivered by bike.


A man reads in front of his shop. 


And Buenos Aires, which makes Toronto look provincial (if, by contrast, supremely livable), has some stunning deco. I must return.


By the way, I haven't finished the biography of Bolívar, nor completed Che's The Motorcycle Diaries.  But, in seven weeks of travelling, I must have had over a hundred meals with Bud and Marcelyn on a ship where you can eat when and with whom you want. I enjoyed them all.
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Some days later: a final shot of the Andes - which I followed from northern Venezuela to southern Chile and Argentina - taken while flying home.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

South America & Falklands - part nineteen


Sixty-five species of birds breed on the Falklands. Above is a male Kelp Goose I see while walking into Port Stanley.

I do well to recognize a Toronto pigeon, so only know it's a Kelp Goose because the ship is crammed with birders. Heading into towns rather than wildlife destinations, I'm an anomaly. However, at West Point Island, even I march over the hill to an albatross and penguin colony. It's a long walk. This is the guy behind me.


Crossing the island in the middle of seeming nowhere is a 'no smoking' sign. This seems odd until I remember peat fires are a worry on the Falklands.


Eventually, a marvellous sight.


Rockhopper penguins mix with Black-browed Albatrosses.





Irritated penguin.


Happy penguin.


 Snoozing penguin. Aw!


I'm not the first to covet the Falklands Land Rover dealership. They are the most popular vehicle on the islands. Although hundreds of miles of roads have been laid since the war, most are gravel and much travel is 'off road'. Four wheel drives are essential.



A kind person gives me a lift back, bumpity, bump, bump, bump!

Friday, February 14, 2014

South America & Falklands - part eighteen




I'm on the Falklands for three days. With a treaty never signed, the United Kingdom is still technically at war with Argentina. Mine is not a stunningly original observation, but they're so British here it's beyond imagining they would ever voluntarily accept Argentine rule.





The Falklands is wealthy from commercial fishing licenses and oil exploration permits. Why would they prefer an inept government in Buenos Aires administering an Argentine economy in shambles? More to the point, why would Falklanders want to be under a foreign thumb? Why would they want their empty, beautiful islands swamped with mainland migrants? Why would they want to drive on the wrong side of the road?

In 1833, Darwin found the islands ‘desolate and wretched’. Perhaps not now, although, to be fair, the South Atlantic weather's not always this glorious.





Port Stanley's Anglican cathedral is the world's most southernly.


Perhaps Darwin would enjoy the Globe Tavern. I certainly do. Here are some of my drinking buddies.



History - especially military history - is never far. Near the Cross of Sacrifice at the old town cemetery are four dead from HMS Exeter's encounter with the German pocket battleship Graf Spee in the Battle of the River Plate. The German ship was scuttled. Sixty-one of Exeter's crew were killed. 



Their eternal view is Port Stanley's harbour. In 1982, Port Stanley residents could watch war from their houses.


Out in the countryside - 'camp' from Spanish campo - the war is easy to find. There are still ninety-six minefields to clear. Here's the waterlogged terrain across which British soldiers crossed - for miles - under fire.



Much of their route was over stone.



This is what remains of an Argentine Chinook helicopter.



In Port Stanley are Jubilee Villas, built in 1887, year of Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee. They're the only buildings of their type in town.


I'm reminded of a photo at the war monument back in Ushuaia. It shows a squad of Argentine soldiers passing the villas. One face reveals futility. The conquerors of seventy British troops - the garrison when Argentina invaded - have become the defeated.



The English caption reads: 'The end is near. Rather resigned, these soldiers march to defend a position in Puerto Argentina [Port Stanley]. There is little they can do'.

In front of the building where the Argentines surrendered is the Falklands Liberation Monument. It's surmounted by - to me - an anachronistic Britannia, but I didn't fight here and I wasn't liberated here. The statue is understandably indicative of strongly felt emotions.



Many of us gather as one of Minerva's lecturers, Rear Admiral John Lippiett, who fought here as a young naval officer, lays a wreath.



We sing 'For those in peril on the sea', listen as the admiral recites 'at the going down of the sun', have a moment of silence and prayer - for all who died.

Twelve hundred British Army soldiers now garrison the islands. As well, there's a significant RAF and Royal Navy presence. There's a resident population of twenty-five hundred and, give or take, half a million sheep.