Monday 30 April 2012

Touch too Much

I´m woken up at 0400 by a "cock-a-doodle-do". That lasts for about five minutes. I have a unpleasant twinge in my stomach that I can stretch out, but won´t go away. I ate too much. There´s more "cock-a-doodle-doo" repeated hourly until I get up at 0730. Something is wrong, I´m still not hungry again.

At breakfast, I unnecessarily swallow the cornflakes, but without too much trouble. Then Wilson arrives with scrambled eggs and panchetta. Oh, crap. What would Kobayashi-san do? And so, I scrape the dish clean. A dish isn´t finished until there´s no longer enough  material to cover a spoon.

Gonzalez and Mariela drive me into town to the bus station. I can feel that twinge again and I´m not enamoured by the pressure of the seatbelt against my stomach. At the station, I get out of the car and take a few deep breaths. Something is wrong - badly wrong. I spot a tree stump with some rogue plant growth and a small pit in the dirt. Moments later, in a single swift motion, I lean over and projectile-vomit onto my chosen spot.

I guess it´s possible that I may be ill, so rearrange for the afternoon bus. With records from 2000, I´m only ill for two days, once every four and half years, and I did that a few months ago. By the early afternoon, I´m in a bar, drinking the remaining time away and watching some old men playing an indecipherable card game involving three cards, some assorted counters and small stones. So, it seems that I simply ate until I threw up. I did not expect that was possible.

Sunday 29 April 2012

Get it Hot

In the morning, I have another Crocodile Dundee moment. This time with the B´Day. I understand what its getting at, but I´m still waiting from someone to invent the Three Seashells. I´ll have to put Gaz on that case.

In the afternoon, I´m sharing the farm with a bus load of Uruguayan senior citizens. Now it starts to make sense. This is why we butchered five delicious lambs. As usual, I´m more interested to hang out with the gauchos. They´ve rigged up a one by two metre barbeque pit, from what appears to be a couple of rusty old pieces of fence, propped up over charcoal. Each lamb remains in the one neatly de-boned piece, and they´re unfurled on the hot fence. A couple of rusty metal sheets sit on top to ensure even cooking. I eat a lot of lamb. Really - a lot of lamb. And Rice. And a spot of ice cream. The elderly are serenaded by Francisco and Ernesto, on guitar and vocals, respectively. Ernesto is somewhere in his late fifties, and is romancing the excitable lady contingent.

As is often the case, great interest is taken in my little guitar, from gauchos to drug merchants. Francisco gives me a lesson in Venuzualan guitar style, interpreted for Ukulele. I´ve also just about worked out Metallica´s classic Enter Sandman.

Later, I hop in the car to drop Ernesto and Francisco back home, in town. Both invite me in to meet their families. I´m the first English person to set foot in Ernesto´s place. In both homes, the wife is in front of the stove, and I´m promptly treated to fresh Tortas Fritas - essentially, thick deep fried dough. Ernesto´s kids, as young as seven or eight, rush up for a kiss on the cheek and to exchange what few words I can manage. In both cases, the home is basic - no flat screens, nor colour schemes, nor decorative ornaments - very small, cramped, even, for the numbers in them, but perfectly lovely and setup for a family.

In the evening, I´m finally, finally not too hungry, but I take on dinner. After I´m quite stuffed, in a a mixture of Spanish and broken English - until I get the point - Mariela asks if I want some of the pasta from last night now. Although, I do not need to eat any more food, she´s said "would you like it now", which I´ve taken to mean now or later. I opt for now, and out comes the plate. At this late stage in the game, it takes mental strength to clear plates of food, but inspired by the great Takeru Kobayashi, I am a clearer or plates. Then I simply have to lie down. I think about breakfast tomorrow. It´s not a great thought now, but by the time it rolls around, I´ll be pretty keen.

Saturday 28 April 2012

Killing in the Name

After a well-rounded breakfast, Gonzalez asks if I want to go somewhere and do something. I've no idea where or what is involved, but I'm a highly suggestible character, so I agree with enthusiasm.

I follow Gonzalez into the field, where we left the sheep yesterday, past a big wooden frame with a couple of old sheep skins hanging over it, then up to a small concrete shed with a corrugated tin roof. In the doorway of the shed, I find the two gauchos, in wellington boots and leather aprons. They´re standing infront a of a skinned sheep carcass, hanging by it's legs over a hook. It's cut wide-open down through the length of the belly. One of the gauchos proceeds to casually place his knife and left hand into the carcass and pulls out an organ that I can't identify. He cuts an entrail off of the orgran and sets the best part of it down on a small table. The entrail piece flys over a fence where the working dogs are waiting to pounce. There's not much more room in the shed, but enough for a wheel barrow, in which another, very much alive sheep, is curled up, waiting for his or her turn. The terror in the waiting sheep is clear as it's short, sharp breaths push in and out.

Mikey Dundee says, "My dad says, never kill anything unless you're gonna eat it". This is a good rule of thumb. I'd like to add that you shouldn't eat anything, unless you've killed it, but more practically, unless you're at least prepared to kill it. I'd come to this estancia hoping to kill a cow. I really like eating cows, so it follows naturally and logically, albeit in reverse order. I'm not certain if I could go through with it, but I´m pretty confident.

Gonzalez talks to the Gauchos, then leads me away. I haven't asked to kill anything yet. I'd only specified interest in butchery. I still have absolutely no idea where I´m going, why, or for how long. Unfortunately, I can't quickly nor easily turn a phrase in Spanish. I looked up the verb for "kill" last night and as we're walking, I calculate and process a sentence. I ask how they kill the sheep, adding the action of dragging my index finger across my neck to illustrate the verb. His response is to raise his right hand, with index finger extended, press the tip of the finger on his neck, just under the back of his jawbone on the far right-hand side, then adds a twisting motion. I'm not a hundred percent sure what that means, but I want to find out.

As the task of our day unravels, I find myself on another farm, loading logs onto the back of a truck. By all accounts, Montevideo used to be Cuba-like, in that it was full of various handsome Chevy´s and Fords that would have been discontinued from production in the late fifties. Nowadays, Montevideo's cars are broadly modern, with a fair few that go back as far as the nineties. Across the farther reaches of Uruguay, there's a thin, but noticeable spread of fifties pickup trucks. This truck is a big strong Dodge Kew - sky blue, triple headlamps, chrome finishing and the big-block. Urghf, urghf, urghf. The morning´s work is a mixture of watching the tractor scrape up neatly cross-stacked piles of logs, and some hands-dirty caber tossing. I find dirty-hands work to be an excellent novelty.

When we return to the farm, I notice three new bloody sheep skins hanging on the frame. I'm very not pleased to have missed the action. I should have asked to stay behind, rather than go with the flow. But sometimes, that's what you get when you go with the flow.

In the afternoon, I'm sitting on a bench in a small outhouse building. The room has a sink and fireplace, and a wooden table in the centre. Sitting next to me, on the bench, is about 40 kilograms of raw lamb, all in one piece, neatly folded and rolled, ready for barbeque. The gaucho and I return to the killing shed, to fetch the second lamb. I watch carefully as he shows me how to entirely de-bone the animal with a saw, a small knife, and a that´s-not-a knife-that´s-a-knife-knife. I'd describe the action as shaving the bones away from the flesh. The final move removes the spine with the legs still attached. I'm thinking that one could make a truly morbid puppet with that, and the remaining pile of bones. The gaucho is already a step ahead of me. He pulls out this last piece and proceeds, with a grin, to dance a jig with it.

http://blog.natoora.co.uk/?p=908

Friday 27 April 2012

Riders in the Sky

I´m in a field, in the passenger seat of a Toyota Hilux with the farmer, Gonzalez, offering herding support to two gauchos as they coral about seventy sheep. Gonzalez speaks almost no English, so I have no idea what we´re doing, but I´m happy to let it play out in front of me. As I get out of the car, I notice the horse-mounted gauchos are whistling, clicking, and doing very definite duck impersonations to move the sheep. With some further raspy quacking, we push flock down a dirt road and into a small pen. The sheep are then run back and forth. After each run, one of the gauchos reaches into the flock and pulls out a choice sheep by the tail. The rest of the mob runs as the gaucho pins the chosen sheep and ties up three of it´s legs. The hog tied sheep is left in place whilst the process is repeated five times. The five chosen sheep are unceremoniously loaded onto the back of the Toyota and later unloaded and released in small field by the house.

In the afternoon, the farmer´s son, Wilson, and I saddle up a couple of horses. My steed is not especially handsome, but remains proud in any case. Wilson doesn´t speak a lick of English, so I´m given no instruction on how to ride the horse. I´m just trying to copy him as much as possible. My horse riding experience is limited to childhood games that CJ would initiate. The game involved riding a sofa cushion around the living room to the sounds of The Apaches play the hits of The Shadows. I never bothered ask why the Apaches were necessary in that arrangement. Thankfully, I took a few riding tips from Princess, whilst I was emailing harrassment about her sugar-based diet. Despite those tips, my trusty steed immediatley walked me straight into a low hanging tree. After shaking off a few scratches and some leaves, I quickly got the hang of steering. I found horse riding to be fairly straightforward. We rounded up a couple of milking cows and herded them back to the farm. In another odd move, inside a small enclosed area, my horse decided to move up a few gears. It was at this point that I realised I´d not been given instruction on how to stop. Back on the boat, I had learned to read - like cycling, this was another skill that had fallen by the wayside. With that revived ability, I had thoroughly read a survivial guide, which coincidentally included sections on how to control out of control horses and camels. The trick is to stay calm, stay upright and steer the horse in circles until he gets bored or tired. Works like a charm.

Thursday 26 April 2012

Cocaine

At the sound of  a thud, I´ve turned around to find an old woman collapsed on the floor. I did nothing, the pavement was her enemy. I picked her up, and spent the rest of the morning walking around Montevideo like Julius in Chapter two of Twins.

I´ve taken an extra night here, mostly for the benefit of my skull, which the internet assures me requires a more sustained bath. The only thing left to do is visit the old meat market, Mercado Del Puerto. The market building has the metal framework features of a familiar UK train station. It houses ten or so of barbeque stall-come-resturants. Some are busier than others, but otherwise, there´s not much to pick between them. After a wander around, I decide on the only stall where chef is de-boning and and chopping meat. As far as I´m concerned, that´s dinner and a show. As I work through two heavy-set steaks, he chops meat and throws it onto the one-by-two metre wood fired grill. I can hear the rest of the chefs singing in the kitchen just out of sight. They´re not big on rare steak over here, but what I get is excellent. I´ve cleaned the plate like a mid-nineties Fairy Liquid commercial.

As I´m walking back to my hostel, I´m stopped by a very friendly fellow who wants a go on my ukulele. The uke´ tends to attract the crazies and oddballs, which is nice. We have nice back and forth, afterwhich he introduces me to another friendly man in a nearby doorway who is a cocaine retailer. I´m not too keen on descending alone down the anonymous hallway, and recalling instruction not to take sweets from strangers, I pass on the offer.




Wednesday 25 April 2012

On Every Street

Breakfast is hostel flakes, bread, coffee and a banana. All hostels, all around the world invariably provide the same homogenous imitation cornflake cereal. The South American twist on the hostel breakfast is Dulce de Leche. It´s a spread made from condensed milk. It´s something like a toffee spread. It´s extremely sweet. I´ve been slightly sickened on more than one occasion as I watch people pile it high. I think that even my young friend, Princess would flinch at this, but on second thought, I expect she´d probably chomp spoonfuls of it for lunch, leaving me to flinch and wretch. I prefer conservative spreading. The game is to cover the entire surface of the bread with the least possible amount of spread.

With all the rural and watery adventures of the past month, I´ve forgotten what one does in a big city. Then I recall. One drinks and one smokes. My big city tourism methodology is well practiced. I walk around aimlessly, and usually up and down streets of no particular significance, but broadly in a frayed circle of the world, as it exists on the tourist map.

I´m in the far top right corner of the map in an area that is precisely ordinary. I´m sitting, beer in hand, in the closest thing I can find to a wooden pub, watching the last ten minutes of Juventus-Cesena with a group of old, but highly animated Uruguayan gentlemen. It´s the middle of the afternoon. The old men and the thirty-something owner are glued to the game and nursing something in a highball with ice. The owner is somewhat incredible. He´s perfectly relaxed, smiling and laughing, but everything he says, from taking my order to passing indifferent comments on the game, is as if we´re actually at the game and he´s shouting over the roar of a crowd as their team scores. The game ends and is replaced by South African rugby. The guys are perfectly happy to watch this in just the same way.

There´s no smoking indoors here, which really sucks a lot of the fun out of it. I scarcely smoke in any case. Most of my smoking is to support of my few smoking friends, but there´s no denying that it is delicious and it is cool and in the sun, it´s even better.

After my obligatory drink and smoke, I leave the old men to watch whatever sporting repeat that ESPN might choose to fill otherwise dead air. I´ve done a little shopping and am on the way back to my hostel with an English-Spanish dictionary, a spanish comic book, and a litre of beer. I´ve never bought a comic book before and have picked "Alien Vs. Predator", on account of both franchises being flawlessly designed and executed, at least for the first half the movies in their names.

Dinner is a DIY job of pasta and a fine pair of sausages, with blackened red pepper. Cooking for one in a hostel is most often pain. There´s nothing more provided than oil and salt. The only useful thing someone has left behind is white pepper. The sausages are good enough to make it very adequete meal.

Tuesday 24 April 2012

You Can´t Always Get What You Want

In the morning, I´m almost forcibly removed from my hostel. The owner explains, in no uncertain terms, that I must leave after check out. Of course, those certain terms are all Spanish, and fly over my head, but I get the idea and make my exit in myown good time. Breakfast is a slice of pie and the last of my ale - Shepherd Neame´s Spitfire.

Later, I arrive in Montevideo. Most travellers I´ve met are carrying something like a one hundered litre bag or bags. I´m packing a forty five and a nine. I´ve got little more than two pairs of trousers, one pair of badly oil stained shorts, one pair of swimming shorts, two jumpers, three t-shirts, a shirt, and a handful of socks and underwear. just. For need to do things, I´ve also got trainers, trek shoes, rock boots, sandals, and newly acquired seaworthy wellington boots. The addition of wellington boots and a weighty adult male Sea Lion skull is proving to be a pain on the long walk from the bus stop into town. Travelling light is tough.

I´ve walked around much of the old town in the afternoon. It´s nice enough, but nothing has overhwelmed me. Almost as much as in Buenos Aires, the pollution is nice and thick. From the end of a long concrete fishing pier, distant pollution also makes for another nice sunset. This time, the bright red horizon fades up into orange, then green, pale plue and slowly into a dark blue.

In the evening I wander back to a colourful little Peruvian restaurant in the poor, noticably dilapidated side of town. I conciously choose a table and seat that offers a good defensive position from both behind and the front door of the restaurant. Judging by the rolling garage door front, I guess it´s a converted garage. It´s been given a nice enough paint job and some basic tables and chairs are laid out. There´s a group of Peruvians sat around a table beers enjoying themselves. I don´t get much of a stare as I walk in. Nothing much happens after I sit down. After five minutes, I´m looking around waiting to be presented with a menu. A girl in casual streetwear walks upto the table and sets down a plate of rice and chicken with a couple of slices of potato. I question if this is for me - "¿Para mi?", I think. She turns her head halfway around as if to check, but quickly decides that of course it´s for me, and answers "Ci", with a face of confusion for why I´m asking. I don´t need to be told twice. I´m more than happy with this arrangement. As I´m wiping my fingers from their work stripping flesh from bone, I´m presented with a glass of red liquid. I think it´s water melon juice. Does such a thing exist? The whole thing is so cheap, I´m embarassed to have to pay with a note that´s equivalent to USD 40.

As I walk back to the hostel just outside the restaurant, there´s a group of inoffensive looking teens. A girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen asks me for money. I reply, "no, sorry"- "Lo siento". She insists it´s "por la leche, por la leche". I don´t know why she´s so keen on milk. On a second glance, I notice she´s quite pregnant. I still don´t know why she needs to buy milk, and wander off on my way.

Monday 23 April 2012

Fear of the Dark

We tend to wake up between 0730h and 0800h. I´m a 0800/0805h sort of guy, but to pull my weight, I've dragged myself up a few minutes earlier to do the morning cycle for milk. Exercise in the morning is a first for me.

By half-Ten, Steve and I are parting ways, with eachother and with Chris. Steve is off to Buenos Aires, but already with plans for the mountains of Peru. Likewise, Chris is plotting some Uruguayan adventure. I don´t know what I'm doing, but it's only a case of looking at a map. I'll think do tonight here in Piria'. I don´t much like the idea of travelling "rest days", but this one is necessary to take care of this blog and, more importantly, to clean my skull.

I've checked into the local hostel. I think it's just me and the girl at the front desk. The building is one level, made up of long corridors, with small rooms on either side. The corridors run around and between two rectangular courtyards. It´s pretty big, I estimate around a hundred, maybe a hundred-and-twenty rooms. My guesses are that it´s an old prison or hospital.

After some research around cleaning bones, I spent the afternoon wandering around town, with my increasingly passable Spanish - choice phrases, at least - looking for Hydrogen Peroxide. It's a short-lived wander. After a stop back at the hostel, I resume the search with my new choice phrase, now I'm looking for "Peroxido de Hidrogeno". Soon after, my handsome skull is enjoying a nice long bath.

After a coffee and watching the sun set behind waves tumbling and crashing on the beach, I walk down to the supermarket for a cheap dinner. Somewhere en route, I'm window shopping for tourist crap when all of a sudden, the shop's lights go out. Something feels wrong. Looking up the road, looking down the road, then looking upwards, it seems we're down to starlight only - and it's a pretty cloudy evening. The supermarket is in darkness, broken by searching torch lights. Out front, there´s a brick shed where a guy is trying to start the backup generator. He gives up after ten minutes. I too give up and start on my way back to the hostel. I'm pleased to find a block or two with power, so I score a sandwich and continue back to the hostel under street lights. I'm relieved to find a working street light even next to my hostel. But, at the front door of the hostel, it´s obvious that both my luck and the power stopped back at that last light.

The front desk is deserted, but lit by candles. A path around the corner to my room is also lit by a path of candles. The candles stop at my door. I'm reckoning that it´s safe to say I am very much alone in the dark in this ex-prison or hospital. Hijo de puta. The candles outside my door don't offer enough light to reach the end of the long, narrow, windowless hallway. If I was in a group of sexy teens, I'd very actively be expecting Freddy or Michael Myers or someone with a hook hand to be skulking around in the darkness.

Even as it is, it's not my favourite situation, and it´s not even Eight. After twenty minutes with no power, and not fancying to hang out here any longer, the obvious choice is to run away. The tide has laid claim to most of the beach, but I run the strip that's left and along marina wall, past the local fishermen and boats. I think it's a dead baby dolphin on the beach. It bloated beyond recognition in the dark, but it's too big and fat to be any fish I've seen around these parts. On returning to the hostel, I´m quite thankful to have power restored.

And as I catch up on this blog, I´m nursing a pint of Shepherd Neame´s Chestnut brown, Kentish Strong Ale, Bishops Finger, acquired in the Falklands. Delicious.

Sunday 22 April 2012

Bat Out of Hell

Another day, another rocky outcrop. We´re just outside Salamanca today. On the way up, there´s some nice little boulders and a deep, wide red rock cave. I suspect I could be entertained here for a few hours. We continue on, looking for the climbing routes. It's very apparent that no one has climbed here for a while. Most of the rock has a good layer moss and the path to the climbs is non-existant.

We finally reach a climb, but I've come to the decision that I'd rather go it alone on the boulders and in the cave. We're three today, with our trusty skipper, and I only brought bouldering gear, meaning a lot of standing around and swapping gear. It´s hassle enough to climb with ropes and gear, it's certainly not a game for odd numbers. What's more hassle, is reversing though the non-existant path. Only after much stomping and blazing profanities do I escape.

On the way back to my cave, I spot another series of rocky cavernous lumps reaching upwards to my right. I wonder if there's mischief atop these. At the least, I´ll find a nice view - the higher the better. As I climb into the first little cavern, I spot a perfectly simply climb up and over. It certainly doesn't demand that I change into my size six rook boots - versus my street size, nine. As I place the first foot in a big jug-like foothold, I take a look down. The fall isn't vertical, but I´m going to roll down some uncomfortable rock - it looks to be not unlike falling down a flight of concrete stairs. I've got no protection, except for the cushioning of my backpack, and the boys don´t know where I am.

It reminds me of a trip to Turkey last year. I found an ancient crumbling byzantine fortress on the outskirts of a nothingy little town, Silifke - real Indiana Jones stuff.

Photo: http://www.castles.nl/tr/sil/sil.html
Just as in this case, I was alone and naturally insistent to get to the very highest point, for the best view. The highest point, if only by two feet, is up a buttress that has been cut vertically in half, presumably by time. Despite a few rocks coming away in my hands, I get to the top with relative ease. I enjoy a lovely smoke with the view. Then I look to climb down, only to discover that I can't. Down-climbing is significantly more difficult than simply climbing upwards - for lack of good sight. I could try climbing down the way I came up, which risks an ankle break, at worst, or climbing down the crumbled outside edge, which looks much easier on account of a ladder, formed of big brick rocks in the standard, friendly bricklaying pattern, but open-ended where the buttress is halved. For the lay of the land, the easy route is a metre or two taller, so maybe eight metres, but then rolls into a moat via thin channel carpeted in bricks and rock of the fallen side of the buttress - another six metres. Yuck.

Photo: http://www.castles.nl/tr/sil/sil.html
With hindsight, and this picture, climbing was not a idea borne from wisdom. Great view, though.
After thinking about it for sometime, I see some tourists in the distance. Phew. I can wait for them to be close enough to hear my screams before trying anything. But, they come no closer. Then they leave. Crap. More time passes. It's coming into late afternoon and I've got no options, aside from climbing. I've got my phone, but who ya gonna call? Off in the distance, I hear the sky rumble with thunder. Oh, shit. I'm very definitely not doing this in the rain.

For some reason, I chose the theoretically easier, but physically deadlier route. I almost fell twice. As I slipped, I hastily reached to hug a big rock, at which point it occured to me, that if the big rock was loose, we would both crash down fourteen vertical then lumpy metres, and it might well crush my skull and/or chest. I had not calculated with that before choosing my route. Just as yesterday, I greeted the ground with ecstatic jubilation.

Back in the present, I have a good look at my situation. Then I recall words of wisdom, relayed to me from my old friend Jerome. I´m told that Jerome says, sometimes you live, and sometimes you die. What a hero. And with that, off I go - up, up, and away.

I eventually make it back to the big cave. I'm trying and failing to find an upside down route across the cave ceiling. I can hear squeaking or something from the dark depths of the cave. I still suffer from sissy girly, city boy hands that aren´t much good for long stints on sharp rocks, so I pickup my torch and go to explore the depths. At the nearly pitch black rear of my cave, I find an further small cave. it's big enough to squeeze into, but that's not especially appetising. I shine my torch into it, expecting to find Chunk and Sloth sitting in the dark with a couple of Baby Ruths. Out of the dark there's a flutter and a bat shoots past me. I've seen Jim Carrey in this same situation.

And so, I run. I run and run as fast as I can under a low ceiling and in a pair of size six´s. No such luck, though. A lone bat is all I get. Damn TV. There are more in there, but they seem happy to stay in their crack. I don´t blame them.

Saturday 21 April 2012

Feels Like the First Time

I´m stood up on a shard of some godforsaken rock, some twenty metres off the ground. Steve is shouting from below that the next move is horizontally to the right, across the face of an immediately adjacent, equally godforsaken rock.

We've driven out to a rocky outcrop somewhere north of Minas to climb up some rocks. My climbing experience is largely limited to The Arch, at a lowly four or so metres high, and over a lovely deep foam surface. Mostly, I´d climb for a couple hours, then run home to be back in Shoreditch for 'Close of Business' so I could drink a bunch of ales, usually with KK or Dug. Even in my university days, I only ever top rope climbed, where the danger and potential fall are both almost zero.

We started with a trek to the top. It´s a nice view, not dissimilar to Pan de Azúcar, sans the sea. Whilst looking for the far side of the rock, where we hope to find more climbs, we're soon quite lost. As Steve is keeping an eye on the path ahead of us, I´m looking at my footing. I notice something on the ground that he's dropped. On closer inspection, I realise that he can't have dropped this, because I know he wasn't carrying a big, hairy, man-eating spider. The creature's body and legs would happily cover my entire palm. Maybe it´s not eating locals and tourists, but I think it could stomach the best part of a small bird.

Eventually, we've found our way back to the climbs we'd spotted earlier and suit up for the job. The rock is not very trad'-friendly, and so it's been setup as a sport route, which we're lead climbing. Steve takes the first shot, but doesn't like the first crack between godforsaken rock A and godforsaken rock B. We swap, and being a foot shorter, I manage to squeeze into the crack and push on up into the next part. I find crack climbing perfectly pleasant.You have all the friction of your back against the rear wall, and your feet pressed against the other. You'd struggle to fall. I'm happy to look down. I´m not scared of heights. I'm scared of falling. I´m not sure, but I might be more scared of the falling itself than I am of the potentially ensuing death.

At the twenty metre mark, I'm looking for the next bolt by way of Steve's description. It's outside my cosy crack, two metres horizontally across a wind exposed rock face. I like my crack. I don't like rock face B. Not even a little bit. I climb out to atop my crack, on rock face A, and edge toward the tip of a shard to get a view of the next bolt. I can see it, but I still don't like it. I study the rock to see what the move might be. I can see good hand holds, but no foot holds. I don't like it. I back up to a comfortable position, still atop the shard. I work out that if I climb higher, then I can go horizontally and use those hand holds as foot holds. I still don´t like it. I suppose that if I were back in the comfort and safety of The Arch, I'd do this with ease. As it stands, here and now, if I move to the next bolt, I´ll have at least two metres of slack on my rope. That means a potential four metre fall. At best, the fall would have me swing and slam into a rock face, or back into the crack, neither with any elegance. At worst, I´d fall and catch the tip of the shard and die, con mucho sangrado - at worst. The latter is quite vivid in my imagination. I consider the attractive but shameful option of climbing down to my last bolt and being safely lowered down to the ground. For a full five minutes I stand there, clutching the rock with one hand, carefully and repetitively considering all of this.

After that five minutes, the winning thought is that my calculated route is probably comfortably within my ability. It takes another minute to mentally inflate my balls until they're big enough to start the move toward the next bolt.

As the quick draw snaps closed around my rope, with the other end securely on the bolt. I am suddenly enveloped in my own sense of self satisfaction - even feeling a little heroic. Surprisingly, the move didn't terrify me beyond the capacity for rational thought. Somehow, the fear is briefly suspended.

With fear somewhat suspended, and now with "the pump", I can tackle to next one or two bolts. I look up for the next bolt. Then I look down at my waist harness. I've run out of quick draws. I shout at Steve to ask what the heck I'm meant to do now. He tells me with a sympathetic shout, that I'll need to pick up some of those that are now redundant, lower down. I don't need this shit. I have the option of being lowered down on the now secure rope, but I decide that a "real" climber would climb down, and so I do - reversing back across the face of doom. Although my rope is above me, it's at an ugly angle of twenty or thirty degrees, so I won't fall down, but I might swing out and slam into the protruding bits of rock face A with some force. Thankfully, that thought doesn't occur to me in the heat of the moment. I restock my quick draws and climb back across the face for the third time. The fear is still suspended, so I get back up to my best position without too much trouble.

Alas, as I pull and push toward the next bolt, the move is asking for strength that I've just expelled in restocking. This move also involves a likely fall and this time, there's no agreeable position of comfort from which to study and 'man up.' My heroism is fading fast, so I opt to get the hell back to earth with the remaining amount intact.

Friday 20 April 2012

Passenger

In the morning I squeeze in a coffee and some light blogging in the Hotel Argentino, once the biggest (and implicitly, the best) in all South America. I´m still living on the boat. There´s black and white photographs from the 1930´s on the walls that look like the final shot from The Shining.

In the afternoon, we rent a car and take an enjoyable coastal drive upto the town of Rocha. It´s a quiet, largely untouristed little colonial town, surrounded by open green planes with cows meandering, and the odd gaucho shuffling those cows from one place to another. As the sun sets, it´s a lot bigger (or possibly closer)than I ever recall seeing it. It´s also bright red. Chris and Steve speed up to try and find a vantage point for a picture. I think Chris has just caught it before it disappears into the ground.

In the evening, we walk through the square network of single floor terraced buildings of various heights and shades of ageing pale. We stumble across a stage across a little sreet where the locals are putting on ten minutes shows - a choir, some traditional dancing, and band. Chris quips that the boys in the second show look like they´ve been reluctantly pushed into dancing with their mothers.

Thursday 19 April 2012

Animal

Today we´re at the zoo. It´s a fair-sized outdoor operation in the shadow of Cerro Pan de Azúcar. I´ve seen a stork and a jaguar and a puma and a snake, and an ant eater and an owl and a cat and a big spider and an emu.

Then comes the serious business of climbing Cerro Pan de Azúcar, Uruguay´s third highest point. Luckily Uruguay´s third highest point is not unlike Amsterdam´s equivalent. It´s more a hill than a mountain. That´s not to say I´m not huffing and puffing, as Steve, who is mountaineers much of the year, marches upwards unmercifully. At one point, not far behind, but in third place of three, I hear the word "rest". Steve and Chris´ idea of "rest" was no more than eight seconds, by my count - certainly not enough time for water. I begin to dislike Steve as he makes quick work of the terrain, but then I remember Carl Weathers and Uncle Xian. This is how it must be.

At the top, I´m still with the pack, but still comfortably third. There´s a thirty five metre crucifix to climb in and up. Thirty metres up, in the ceiling, at the end of each beam of the cross, there´s two openings. Each is a little over half a metre wide by thirty centimetres in width. One is covered by a rusty metal panel, but on the otherside, the panel is missing. I sense mischief to be had. I reckon I´m thin enough to squeeze through half a metre by thirty centimetres. Sitting atop the beam of the cross, unprotected from a moderate gust, the panoramic of flat, distant, gently rolling Uruguayan countryside and sea is just lovely. I only wish I had some of my more stupid friends here to boyishly goad me into walking around up there. CJ and I would be all over it. As it stands, I don´t have the guts for it under my only own motivation.

East London boy, Steve, is worth further detail, he´s got a handful of years over me and has lived the life of champions in them. He worked in computers in and around London, then, some eight years ago, he upped sticks and made for South America. He´s got a small income coming from London, but only deals in odd jobs for extra cash. He spends all of his time mountaineering, skiing, climbing, ice climbing, diving, and occasionally sailing. Even his odd jobs include crewing yachts to Antartica or holding down birds for scientists to tag and study them. It´s a simple, heroic life.

In Conan The Barbarian, Conan is asked "What is best in life". Conan´s immortal answer: "To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women." Whilst I tend not to question Arnold´s reply, and his teachings in general, I wonder how I would answer. I like beer - delicious real ale. But, a close second is adventuring. Once upon a time, working in an office was the dream. In the dream I would wear a business suit and have business cards and do various business-related things. It made sense to me, once upon a time. But shortly after realising the dream, everything crashed and burned, like the hindenburg in slow motion. I´m not sure if it was me, or the world around me. Probably sixty-forty. Maybe seventy-thirty. The eighties are gone, replaced by paperwork, carfeully saved down on a computer server in the arsehole of nowhere, in PDF and XLS format. Still, I enjoyed most of my few corporate, ale-drenched years.

Wednesday 18 April 2012

Sharp Dressed Man

Tonight, we´ve been invited for my long awaited asado at Roxanna´s place. We´re so honoured, that we´re all wearing shirts tonight. I´m wearing a shirt with Craghoppers and trainers - the best-efforts look of a would-be-smart traveller.

Roxanna´s other half, Jonathan, explains they built the barbeque, then, as an after thought, decided to build a house around it. It´s a heavy set barbeque which Roxanna has all fired up on our arrival. The Uruguayans have the art of sausage-making nailed. I´d dare to suggest the Bavarians would get a run for their money. The best of it, certainly the most interesting, is a sweet black pudding sausage. It´s moist enough to rescue even overcooked meats. There´s no danger of overcooking on Roxanna´s watch. Spectacular. I could tear through chunks of red meat all night. I suspect Steve is feeling the same, but being Englishmen at a dinner table, we temper our appetites and stop after a third helping - comfortably full.

Tuesday 17 April 2012

TV Dinners

Maybe it´s because it´s out of season, but the food in Piria´ is mostly below par. I´m eating steak everyday, obviously. I think the reason that they can´t do my steak rare is because their microwaves don´t have a rare setting. But, I happily eat wet chinese newspaper with a sprinkle of sugar, so I´ll eat a bad steak with no hesitation. Steak is steak.

On the boat, there´s no more doing left to do, to the extent that this can ever be the case on the boat. Today, we´ve taken the bus to Punta Del Este, up the coast from Piria´. This is the town where the money is. It is more developed than Piria´ and the marina´is bigger and better, but it´s hardly a revelation. It´s also covered in hideously designed hi-rise apartment blocks. Now, out of season, it´s also a ghost town. The resident population is sub-ten thousand, whereas the apartments could be home to over a hundred thousand. As my pal Martyn would put it, mutton dressed as lamb.

On the other hand, for only a few more pesos than in Piria´, the food is fresh, and my steak is showing some red.

Monday 16 April 2012

Eye of the Tiger

Much of the day was spent finish my work of the previous morning, single-handedly cleaning Pelagic´s yucky bilges. I finish with the engine bilge, and the boss is happy with the job. I found that the trick is to transfer all the oil and general unpleasantness to my clothes and skin. Great effort was spent degreasing myself, and I suspect a pair of white shorts can only be cleansed by fire.

In the evening, we enjoy a well deserved bike ride around the pretty Uruguayan coast as the sun sinks into the sea. On our return, I´ve worked up a taste for exercise. Running the length of the beach in the dark does the trick. Ideally, I´d like to throw on a tank top and run it in the sun, chased by Carl Weathers, but I´ve no idea  how to get hold of him. Perhaps, in place of Carl, I can persuade ´alf swiss to join me.

At the halfway point of that run, I´ve found a train of a few thousand big black ants pulling chunks out of a bin on the beach and taking them off into the dark. I wonder, if ants can carry ten times their weight, why don´t they? I found the best of them to be carrying a little over half his weight, and struggling badly. He was lost and going the wrong way until his friends turned him around. I don´t think these ant´s are so strong. I think these ant scientists are full of shit. I think Mariusz "The Dominator" Pudzianowski would easily defeat an equally size ant, theoretically.

Sunday 15 April 2012

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

As well as delivery of the boat, we´ve also brought a few bicycles belonging to Roxanna and Chris. Roxanna very kindly offered to loan us her bikes. On pulling the bikes out of the boat, it´s apparent that some general maintenance needs doing. I imagine I was fifteen when I was last on a bike. When I recently took the UK Compulsory Basic Training (CBT) motorbike training and test, the years tween then and now became quite noticable.

Steve and Chris are probing a couple of the upturned bikes with various tools. Steve invites me to have a look at the third bike. The front brake doesn´t work. I´ve got no idea which nuts tighten or loosen to fix it, and which wires are liable to break irrepairably. After about ten minutes of tentative unprogressive probing and some pointers from the boys, I´ve decided that bicycle maintenance is a test of manliness, and so, failure is not an option. After thirty more minutes, I´ve got it working. It´s a horrible bodge. I wouldn´t give it to a close friend without warning, but it working and I´m terribly pleased with myself as I take a few circuits around the boatyard. Just like riding a bike.

Saturday 14 April 2012

Strutter

The GPS console display, estimating our time remaining to arrive in Piriapolis ("Piria´" to locals,) is reading about three hours.

We've finally arrived and park up behind Wolf's Santa Maria. It's now seven days later and I've been on the wagon for seven days. I suspect that'll be the longest I've been on the wagon for some years. To be honest, I didn't miss it at any point, not consciously at least. Nonetheless, the first beer is an absolute treat. I've also been without a shower for these seven days. The first shower is a well plumbed, well powered delight.

We're in Piria' because it has dry dock facilities. Pelagic will be put on sticks whilst some work is done, and for the duration of the off-season. The boatyard has about twenty-five boats on sticks now. These boats are anything up to seventy feet, maybe eighty, and probably up to thirty tonnes.

The Uruguayans lift the boats out of the water and set them down with the keel on a couple of sleepers and with struts, every metre and a half or so down the length of the port and starboard. The struts look like no more than a random selection of unwanted tree trunks. At the top and bottom of the struts, an equally random assortment of wooden wedges are hammered in, to match the angle between the strut and to the boat surface or ground. There´s no uniform diameter to the trunks. I can wrap both hands, touching, around some. Some have cracks down their length. Some have bark peeling off. Others have the stumps of branches that have been snapped rather than sawed off. Most have bent rusty nails protruding, left and right. I´m sure it´s fine, though. It looks nice. Well... it looks rustic. 

Photo: kiriwina.com
In the evening we're joined by Roxanna, a sailor and a good friend of the entire high latitude sailing crowd. Our restaurant meal  is almost exclusively meat, and in no small measure. With my new found appetite, I wonder how much I could eat. Looking at Piria' is not all that much cheaper than I'd reckon in London, so I won´t find out tonight.

Friday 13 April 2012

Here Comes the Sun

On the alternate nights with two four hour night shifts, the second shift can be pretty painful, even with a good supply of tea and biscuits. In the final hour, I impatiently watch the horizon waiting for sunrise that marks the end of the shift.

Today, when it finally comes, we´re sitting in a calm sea. The silvery wavelets reflect the golden orange dawn and the whole picture looks like a beautiful oil spill. I push myself to enjoy it for a about fifty seconds, before declaring that that's all I can stands, I can't stands no more, then descending back to my nest to collapse for a couple of hours.


Thursday 12 April 2012

Pour Some Sugar on Me

The fog has finally lifted, and we´re sailing under a very temperate and pleasant sun, but there's still no wind. As English sailors enjoy to quip, if the wind were blowing any less, it'd be sucking. The sun is good enough to roll up my trousers into makeshift shorts and enjoy watches sitting atop the doghouse, not unlike Snoopy.

On this leg of the journey, I have taken to eating like a horse. As well as quantity, I've developed a penchant for rolled oats, with cold milk and a touch of sugar. I don´t care if they are made of Chinese newspapers. If I could find a feedbag, I wouldn't have to use a spoon like a sucker.

Steve has replaced Gaz in my rekindled childhood habit of scoffing tea-drenched biscuits. I had forgotten how much I liked biscuits. I like biscuits very, very much. All buttery and chocked full of sugar. And tea.

Wednesday 11 April 2012

Hotter than Hell

In the early hours, I have a reoccurence of my delightfully vivid night terrors. This time I was in a box, and moving towards what sounded like a industrial woodchipper. I got everyone´s attention when I woke up to that.

I'm starting to get the hang of this sailing game. During the day, we manage both a tack and a reef that both run quickly and smoothly, more or less. However, the wind is mostly weak and useless. We´re mostly motoring, and taking the sporadic and brief opportunities to motor-sail.

I've worked myself into the sleep and watch rhythm well enough to carve a few free hours from each day. I'm mostly studying the boat's English-Spanish dictionary and a survival book that includes some choice phrases in various languages. From the latter, I'm working to engrave a few useful tid-bits:

Hola, Tengo un lesión grave.
Hello, I have a serious injury

Estoy sangrado mucho
I am bleeding profusely

Me presta una toalla para limpiar la sangra
Can I borrow a towel to wipe up the blood

Qué tipo de carne esta es
What type of meat is this

A cuanta velocidad puede ir este coche
How fast can this car go?

We've been running the motor, almost non-stop for a few days. Today, during the day, Steve's baked bread, Jaimie's done muffins, and now I´m cooking a curry. It´s too damn hot. By the time I´m done, I´m sweating like a dog, or some animal that actually sweats, profusely.

Tuesday 10 April 2012

Strangers in the Night

Somewhere of the coast of Argentina, in a middle of the night, I´m standing on a yacht, smothered in a thick fog.

Steve and I are doing alternating twenty minute stints standing outside the doghouse where we might have negligibly increased chance at seeing something through the fog. I expect that if there was a light coming at us through this fog, I´d barely have time to wet myself before we torn a new one. I can only make out the shadow of the mast, four metres ahead of me. It´s so thick, I´d not be surprised if Adrienne Barbeau called radioed in with news of ghost pirates.

We´re closing on Uruguay and the busy Rio de Plata channel and a few boats are starting to pass us, so far as I can see on radar. They´re close, but out in the dark, they'd be scraping Pelagic's paint before I´d see them.

What I can see, is the wash of the boat as we motor through the water. The wash is giving off luminous green sparks. Apparently it´s something to do with a phosphorescent bacteria or plankton or something. It might just be me, but it seems like there´s even a green hue to what little light we have in the doghouse.



Monday 9 April 2012

Bulls on Parade

We´re about halfway to Piriapolis, and at a low enough latitude to start enjoying the sun during the day. Steve is reading out on deck. It´s still a touch too windy for my tastes.

I catch a couple of dolphins to starboard. It's just a couple of ten-a-penny Dusky's - not worth getting up for. A third Dusky joins them, then a fourth.

Who cares? Photo: Wikipedia.
I suppose I'd get up for four dolphins. As I look back out the door of the doghouse, past Steve, I spot some commotion in the water, about a hundred meters directly behind us. After a few minutes, I´m reckoning there about two hundred dolphins chasing after us. I understand it's technically a "school" or a "pod", but this is more reminiscent of a swarm. They catch up with us and I hop up to the bow where five or ten Dusky´s are bow-riding - matching our pace and darting in and out of stream that we're cutting through the water. Off to starboard, about a quarter of the swarm are finless black and white characters. The book says they're Southern Right Whale dolphins.

Photo: eoearth.org
The swarm enjoys our company for over an hour. They´re all having a whale of a time. They seem to be running competitions. They have separate competitions for height, distance, splash-zone, one-eighty barrel rolls, one-eighty backwards barrel rolls, butterfly kicks, forward flips, synchronised pairs, and in synchronised teams, upto five. It´s a pretty good matineé show.

After the entertainment, I'm tasked with discarding an aging oversupply of bolognese that was adjudged to be to risky to eat. I hate to waste food. I hate not to eat meat. I very reluctantly chum perfectly delicious mince off the stern and into the sea.

Come on down and chum some of this shit



Sunday 8 April 2012

Dancing in the Moonlight

Shift times have been moved to be inline with sunset, so at 1900, at the end of my afternoon shift, we´re out in the dark with a increasing wind putting a reef in. Reefing is a manoeuvre that involves one or two more ropes than I am presently comfortable with. The nature and purpose of the manoeuvre - reducing the amount of exposed main sail - implies the sea is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. And now in the dark, comfort is near nil. I´m on my knees, tethered to the port side of Pelagic, thrusting a winch handle round and round to finish the manoeuvre. I almost sense the sea as it sneaks up behind me and dumps huge big bucket of water over me. I suspect this is revenge for my pissing off the stern. But, still. What a bastard.

Captain Chris is extremely purposeful, thorough and cautious. He retains all ten fingers, (which is about fifty-fifty for the regular Cape Horniers) He watches over the crew and as we follow instruction. His teaching method isn't sympathetic to how poorly a Microsoft Excel functions skill-set transfers to rope work, but, that's reflective of the situation. I'm increasingly learning that the sea would kill without sympathy, the wind would kill without sympathy, and winches and cleats would be equally unsympathetic to eating fingers.

In my study of teaching methods, there seem to be two worthwhile scholls of thought. There is Mr. Muyagi´s "Wax on, Wax Off", and then there is Uncle Xian´s "Kick a tree with your shin, until one breaks." Both are highly effective. For lack of the necessary production facilities to make a sailing training montage, I´m learning by way of hook and crook, which errs more toward the Uncle Xian method. It´s working, though. I often only risk life and limb twice before I do it right.

On the second leg of my night flight, crossing the Atlantic, I was staring out of the window, desperately searching for the strength not to murder several young, loud, shitty little children in front of their equally soft, undisciplined parents. Out the window, I could see a city of lights where no city should be. I didn't think anything more of it. I now suppose that what I was seeing was, most likely, one of these armadas of jiggers.

I climb up into the doghouse for our 2300h shift. I can just about see the dancing reflections and shadows off of a dolphin or two to our starboard. What´s more striking is the horizon. The jiggers are now all distant, but their lights are so bright, each one looks like a moon on the fringe of rising on the horizon. There´s fifteen of them running all along our starboard. It´s a clear night and the real moon is up high and is set to full beam.

Saturday 7 April 2012

Carousel Waltz

I´m back in the Doghouse. The sea is just as unforgiving as it was at the start of the previous leg. Worse, actually. So much so, that at times, Steve and I have been almost completely unable to make, much less enjoy, our afternoon tea. Almost - we´d be hard pressed to lose our tea.

Sometime in the late afternoon, Steve is looking fine, but suggesting he is in some discomfort. As he´s calmly putting on his life jacket and tether - in the dark, and in rugged waves, we like to be tethered to the boat, to avoid briny death - making himself ready to pop outside. Suddenly my eyes are wide with horror and I'm scrambling out from in front of him. His cheeks puff out and his calm attempt to climb into the jacket is abandoned in favour of throwing himself outside and towards the edge. It´s not a pretty sight, but I´m still having a nice time.


We´re cautiously passing through a fishing fleet of squid jiggers. After dark, we're reduced to radar. I´m looking at fifteen little arrows all around us in a five mile radius. I´m periodically concerned about the ones that are drifting in and out of our path, having been given instruction that they're unlikely to get out of our way. Out of the window, each one is blinding us, firing what must be 1.21 gigwatts of light down at the water - a method for attracting squid.

Off the length of their port and starboard, they have rows of rotating conveyor belt-like lines with upturned claw-like hooks that scoop squid up and dump them onboard before another rotation. The whole place is lit up like a fairground. It´s pretty, sort of.

Thursday 5 April 2012

The Larger Bowl

After refueling, topping up water, and having lunch, we're just waiting for a good weather window to make our next passage.

We've been invited back to the Golden Fleece, where, following last night's discussion, Jerome is making us the promised reindeer fondue Bourguignonne. This is a big boat – probably a converted tug. The kitchen hosts a full wood-burning oven, and a spice rack of four shelves, running two metres wide. 

Steve and I are joined by Dion and Chad from the Hanse Hansen – an even bigger boat. I'd first met the American, Chad, in the early hours of this morning, at which time he was the epitome of the drunk American. I'm surprised to find he's a quite the Jekyll-and-Hyde. He's alright, actually. He too has abandoned the concept of the conventional life -the one that his parents would much prefer for him. Instead runs a heli-skiing operation out of Santiago, Chile and is here in town arranging a boat for a surfing expedition in Antarctica. 

After a perfectly battered, salted and peppered local squid starter, I'm given a plate, and passed a bowl, full with about two, if not three kilos of raw, dark red cubed flesh. The fondue in the centre of the table is simply a pan of hot oil on a kerosene camping fire. And so, the five of us set about skewering and deep frying our way through the back end of a reindeer, with hot fat spitting far and wide. It's tasty stuff.  Given the target of emptying the bowl, I work hard and fast, but after I've cleared the third helping of cubes from my blood drenched plate, I am dangerously near a hundred percent of my capacity.

We each round off the last few percent with a couple of pints of Guinness in town. 

Returning to the boat, we go to explore the signs of a party on the opposite side of the dock, but we arrive to find only its cold, silent aftermath. The barbecue is still covered in meat. It's the worst feeling possible - there's still food, but I don't want to eat it.

Wednesday 4 April 2012

Let There be Rock

A short drive and a walk takes Chris, Steve and I out to a nice long stretch of mountain top quartzite. I've not climbed outdoors in about three years, so pass on the gear-heavy hassle of trad climbing, and enjoy some nice bouldering around the skirt of the rock. As I'm leisurely leaning back on a firm four fingers of rock and two footholds, building confidence around the transferability of my frequent indoor climbing, I'm suddenly horrified to feel the rock crack and come away with my hand. Thankfully, the tips of two fingers retained just enough of this bastard rock for me to hastily jerk the other arm to the first thing I can grab. With confidence broken, I retreat to the ground to reassess. I got back on, and got enough done in our short session to be happy enough with my reintroduction to real rocks. I don't yet prefer them to the colourful, reliable, warm plastics of The Arch at London Bridge.

In the evening we're invited aboard the Golden Fleece, to whom we're moored alongside. By appearance, Captain Jerome is the epitome of French seamanship. I guess he's in his latter fifties. His face is deeply and coarsely wrinkled by sun, salt and impressively relentless chain smoking. He also sports a thick and only loosely tamed gray moustache which eclipses his top lip. Thicker than the moustache is his accent, but with perfect English. My own silly little beard remains untampered with since I left London. I'm not working on any style. It's just a lack of inclination to do anything at all with it. I've also wholly abandoned hair gel. Perhaps I will grow a head of long, beautiful locks, apt for both a bum and a rocker.

The Frenchman and we Anglo-Saxons, as he brands us, discuss food at length. Before we have a chance to accidentally trigger it, Jerome dive bombs into a fierce tirade about the English use of the word “tasty”. Naturally, we also cover the local politics. He points out that, whilst it is bloody good fun to ride the flag flying British bandwagon, the British are often as guilty as the Argies of unconstructive, bitchy tit-for-tat. Though that is in addition, not to the contrary of my former opinion.

Tuesday 3 April 2012

Calm Like a Bomb

Another beautiful morning in Port Stanley starts with light scrubbing, then some ropework to prepare for an unfavourable wind around our mooring.

By midday, Steve and I are off on a walk to a lighthouse for some scenery and the hope of catching the last of the penguins or sea lions. This takes us past several rusty old wrecks, then across a field that's clearly sign posted “...believed to be clear of mines...”. Our local friends seem unperturbed by these explosive relics, so we march across with a second thought, but not a third. We come to an uninhabited snow-white sand beach and rolling waves. Beaches don't hold my attention for long and this pristine example is no exception.


We reach the lighthouse with a penguin count of zero. Past the lighthouse, we hopefully scramble over coastal rocks toward a group of fat, listless, black and white creatures that we can't precisely identify. We're ten feet away before agreeing these are just more lazy, ten-a-penny Cormorants. I've seen tens and tens of penguins in the water, but the crux of their novelty is how they waddle around on land, which has thus far eluded me.

Farther on, there's more hope as Steve points me to the ground where a pair of penguin flippers lies, but only attached to a penguin skeleton. Thirty minutes of coast later and still no penguins. Just more useless pretty beaches.

Finally, we spot a pair of the elusive little turds. Unfortunately, they're on a beach fenced of and signposted with red square featuring a mine and a one-legged stick man.
Photo: Yahoo! News
In the later stages of this five or six hour walk, we get to see something better than penguins. Two Land Rover Defenders in their natural habitat, making light work of a scenic wide, flat and lumpy green landscape.

Monday 2 April 2012

Brothers In Arms

Today is the anniversary of the beginning of fighting in the war. There's a few film crews skulking about, but any local noise is saved for the end of the conflict, on February 14th. Apparently, geologically, the island came from between Africa and Antarctica, but is moving toward South America at some 2 millimeters each year. Argentina will probably get their hands on it in a few million years.

After a hearty English breakfast, the sun is out in force. But the skyless job of the morning is emptying and scrubbing the bilges. I'm now quite well acquainted with the nooks and crannies of the fifty-five foot Pelagic, and the extent to which they may be deep in brown and or viscous water – mostly condensation from life aboard. Pretty sexy stuff.

There's no cash machine on the island. So Sterling or Falkland Pounds – which are interchangeable and pegged at parity – can only be acquired from the one bank or as cashback at the supermarket. I chose the supermarket and made up my minimum spend from shortbread and the fondly remembered originally Smith's (now Walkers) Salt & Shakes.

Sunday 1 April 2012

British Steel

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of the mobilisation of troops for the Falklands War. Steve and I take a walk around the two-thousand-or-so-strong capital. We join the locals to find the bottom of a Tetleys and a Guinness, then attend the memorial ceremony.

Between the morning, and the history I've heard from the our two Falkland Island crew, I'm ready to take a position on the matter of ownership. I'm assured Argentina's argument has no historical grounding, and is solely based on their proximity to the island. The people here are tea drinking, lawn mowing, cheddar eating Brits. The strong majority of houses and Landrovers sport a Union Jack and or Falklands flag. I estimate one in seven cars is not a Landrover. The remainder are Landrovers. At the entrance of the supermarket, there's a prominent poster of a map of South America, highlighting the island. It features an unusual Argentina-shaped bay, labeled “The Sea”. There's wooden pubs and the toilets are plumbed properly. So my personal conclusion is that whilst Argentina is a beautiful country with a rich culture, a superb appetite for beef, and even ale, it's lazy and often corrupt politicians can sod off.

In the late afternoon, into the evening, we enjoy a short pub crawl with both new and already familiar locals. We happen to catch the video for Brothers In Arms. The pencil animation of sea was in my mind during the recent nightwatches, though oddly, the song I had stuck in there was The Man's Too Strong. Both are more than highly meritable.