Showing posts with label falklands. Show all posts
Showing posts with label falklands. Show all posts

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Falkland Island Fanfare--Antarctic Cruise Part 1 (October 2015 Retrospective)

Antarctica is one of those place names, like Timbuktu or Jerusalem or Lhasa, that resonate in your mind long before you ever set foot there.  There are so many stories and images that percolate through our culture:  Scott’s doomed expedition, Amundsen’s successful dash to the Pole, Shackleton’s epic survival tale, emperor penguins and their unimaginably frigid months-long vigil in the dark with their eggs.  I had wanted to visit Antarctica for many years, but had always thought that it was far beyond my financial means; it was only when Terri and I began to plan our post-Switzerland travels that we decided that since we had both long harboured dreams of visiting Antarctica, it was time to break open the piggy bank and pay for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to the coldest, driest, highest and most unpopulated continent.
MV Ushuaia, our home for 20 days
We began looking in earnest almost two years ago, thinking of a trip over Christmas, but quickly decided that it would make more sense to make it part of a longer trip when we weren’t working.  I subscribed to newsletters from various tour operators, watching prices in the hope that we could get a last-minute special.  As we did our research, though, it seemed to us that it made more sense to pay a bit extra and get a much longer trip, including the Falkland Islands and South Georgia as well as the Antarctic Peninsula.  We watched the website of Ushuaia Turismo (which details all available departures from Ushuaia) and finally settled on a 20-day trip to all three destinations on the MV Ushuaia, operated by Antarpply Expeditions, leaving on October 26th.  Unfortunately, we couldn’t commit to it until we knew when Terri’s Swiss citizenship would be granted, so we waited anxiously throughout the northern summer as we rode bicycles down the Danube, as I sailed and rode through Scandinavia, as Terri worked her last term in Leysin, as we went trekking in the Pyrenees.  Finally the date was confirmed and we knew that Terri would be free to go to Antarctica at the end of October.  We wrote to Daniela, the owner of Ushuaia Turismo, hoping that there were still tickets left at the cheapest price of US$ 9200.  She said that there were still tickets available, and after an endless series of e-mails, problems in paying by bank transfer, reams of paperwork and the like, we were finally confirmed in early October.

After our Pyrenees and Corsica trips, Terri and I made our separate ways to Ushuaia from Switzerland.  Terri flew to New Zealand to visit her family and stopped off in Bali along the way, while I flew to Ottawa to visit my mother.  We rendezvoused at the Ushuaia Turismo office on October 25th and collected our Antarctic gear (very warm waterproof trousers and massive overjacket, included in our package price) and settled in for our night in a very comfortable room in the building behind the office (also included in our package price). 
A little bit of Argentinian nationalist delusion on the waterfront
After an afternoon walking around Ushuaia and a long night’s sleep, we spent the next day getting ready for our afternoon embarkation, buying bottles of Argentinian wine (much cheaper than buying wine on board the ship), moving much of our cycling-specific and camping gear to the Hotel Antartida Argentina, where we were going to stay after the cruise).  It was only a few blocks’ walk down to the pier, where we went through various bureaucratic steps, admired the Argentinian obsession with the Falkland Islands (“Ushuaia is the capital of the Malvinas” is painted in big letters on the harbour wall; “We do not allow English pirate vessels to dock here” is the sign right at the tourist pier) and milled around waiting for the all-clear to go aboard.  Precisely at 4 pm we filed on board, put our luggage in our surprisingly comfortable cabin and went upstairs to the lounge for our welcome toast on board.  The Ushuaia has a capacity of 87 passengers, and we were only 77, so a few people got an upgrade in cabin class, to their delight.  In the lounge, the pastry chef (who became our favourite person on board) had created a gingerbread model of the ship, and another gingerbread company logo.  We met the people who would run our lives for the next 20 days:  Monika, our German expedition leader, and Agustin, her Argentinian sidekick; Kata and Ale, the two biologists, and Mariela, understudy to Monika and Agustin. 
Our gingerbread expedition ship

We also met some of the characters among our fellow passengers whom we would get to know over the following weeks:  Tom, the young chicken farmer from Australia with his biblical patriarch beard; Andrew and Emma, keen birders from England; Stefan and Claudia, birders from Houston; Yvonne and (another) Tom, who had won the trip in a contest run by a radio station in Holland; Oz, an 86-year-old Australian, born and raised in Turkey, who had been to Antarctica five times, including two overwinterings, for work, and whose last item on his “bucket list” was to see the grave of his hero Ernest Shackleton on South Georgia.  We sipped our welcome champagne, listened to the first of many, many briefings outlining rules on the boat, and had our mandatory lifeboat drill.  We filed into dinner in the dining room and had the first of a series of really good meals that would pace our days, and then Terri and I went out onto the upper deck with our Singleton’s single malt to toast the start of the trip.  It was a full moon, and the sea and wind were calm as we steamed east along the Beagle Channel, our wake glimmering in the moonlight.  It was a perfect start to our long-awaited adventure.
Beautiful water on the Beagle Channel
The next morning, after sleeping very well, I was awoken (as would become the norm) by Monika’s voice over the loudspeaker telling us that we were back in Ushuaia due to a “serious situation” and we would have a pre-breakfast briefing to explain the situation.  As Terri and I headed out of our cabin, it became clear that the problem related to a fire, as a giant pile of smouldering cardboard was on the deck just outside our cabin door.  A strong smell of smoke permeated the boat.  As we assembled in the lounge, rumours and stories circulated about what might have happened.  When we had all appeared, Monika told us that there had been a fire in the walk-in freezer compartment of the ship that had been found the night before as we were heading to bed.  It had been burning very slowly for a while, probably since the morning, and was only smouldering because of the lack of oxygen in the sealed freezer.  The crew had sprayed water on the outside of the freezer to reduce the temperature, and then carefully aimed fire extinguishers inside the freezer without opening the door more than the minimum, to avoid feeding oxygen to the flames.  They had turned the boat around and headed back to Ushuaia while the crew continued to extinguish the fire, and the smouldering wreckage outside our cabin was the start of a long process of removing months-worth of frozen food boxes from the freezer before the entire freezer could be examined for further damage and the cause of the fire.  Then the Argentinian Coast Guard would have to certify the ship as sea-worthy, the freezer would have to be re-stocked and we could head out again, probably in two days. 
Cormorants near Ushuaia
We were disappointed; Monika told us that the recertification as sea-worthy was not a guaranteed deal, and that the underlying cause of the fire had to be identified and the electrical system on board comprehensively checked.  We had visions of the entire expedition being cancelled, and our dream trip going up (literally) in smoke.  Even if we did sail, if the delay were long enough, would they have to cut one of our three destinations from the itinerary?  Terri and I mused about this that morning as we spent that morning soaking up unseasonably warm sun and warmth on the upper deck, reading and juggling and sketching.  We gathered for lunch and another briefing:  the ship’s electrical system was apparently not at fault and it seemed a cigarette end or something similar had ended up in one cardboard box in the process of loading.  Monika was modestly optimistic that we would be able to get underway the next day.  Some passengers were less hopeful, and Stefan and Claudia, having read the fine print of our contract of passage, told us that Antarpply, the company running the trip, was under no legal obligation to refund us anything for days lost on the trip or even for complete cancellation.
Upland goose in flight
That afternoon, to give the passengers something to do while the crew continued to empty the smoky wreckage into a giant garbage container on the dock, we embarked on a couple of buses for a tour into the mountains behind Ushuaia.  The intentions were good, but a bus tour on an overheated vehicle put half of us to sleep, and the views that we should have had were swallowed by low clouds, rain and snow flurries.  We drove past the local ski resort, and past cross-country ski areas where snow still lingered with ski tracks still visible.  We went over the Marconi Pass and down to Lago Escondido, a small lake full of birds that woke me up enough to spend a happy half hour with my binoculars looking at unfamiliar species.  We snoozed our way back to the ship for dinner and another briefing.  Monika told us that now everything hinged on the Coast Guard’s approval of the ship’s seaworthiness, and the speed with which provisions could be bought and delivered.  She was hopeful that the OK would be given in the morning, and that we would be able to sail the following afternoon.  She also said that the company was arranging a boat trip around the Ushuaia area to look at wildlife the next day.  We went to bed more hopeful that the day before.   
 
Sea lions lolling around near Ushuaia
The boat trip, on a catamaran run by Rumbo Sur, was excellent.  It was one of those outings flogged by outfits all over the Ushuaia waterfront at greatly inflated prices that we would probably never have paid for ourselves, but now that it was a freebie, we could enjoy ourselves.  We headed out to several of the tiny rock outcrops that dot the Beagle Channel to view cormorants and sea lions.  Everyone’s cameras snapped into action, and I realized that the big group of 14 Argentinians who hung around together were a group of professional, semi-professional and serious amateur photographers under the guidance of one of Argentina’s most renowned photographers, Marcelo Gurruchaga.  Some of our other passengers also had huge, impressive cameras with lenses the size of a small bazooka, and the air was thick with the sound of clicking shutters.  We then headed over to a small island where we could go ashore and check out some of the bird life.  The weather was sunny and warm, and the light on the kelp geese and upland geese was perfect.  We returned to the boat re-animated, and another excellent lunch with a baked apple dessert (the pastry chef would quickly become one of our favourite people on board) we had a lecture on sea birds and then set off by 4 pm, larders restocked and optimism rekindled.  Monika also told us that Antarpply had agreed to give us all a 10 percent discount on the price of our trip (having lost 2 days out of 20, that seemed fair enough), so Stefan and Claudia’s worst fears weren’t coming true. 

We steamed along the Beagle Channel again, this time earlier in the day, and by the time we were tucking into a delicious salmon dinner, the ship was just beginning to leave its sheltered passage and head into the open South Atlantic.  I started to feel queasy just after dessert, and suddenly had to run upstairs to be seasick over the side.  It was my body’s signal to me to go to bed immediately, and I did so.

I slept well, woke up and headed to breakfast the next morning feeling refreshed.  Breakfast was always a big buffet, well-stocked with fruit, toast, cereal, yoghurt, bacon, eggs and croissants, and I was devouring my morning quota of bacon and eggs when another wave of nausea drove me outside again.  I took some seasickness medication, went back to the cabin, read, napped through lunch and awoke feeling completely better.  This time going upstairs in the rolling sea had no effect on my well-being and I spent the afternoon on deck with most of my fellow passengers, watching the seabirds that tirelessly followed in our ship’s wake.  
The Falklands flag flying over the MV Ushuaia
Black-browed albatrosses and southern giant petrels were among the most numerous and prominent of the ship-followers, but smaller birds such as prions and Cape petrels and storm petrels were mixed in, while occasionally a huge, slower-moving wandering albatross or royal albatross would show up behind.  It was a wonderful spectacle, under clear skies and brilliant sunshine.  By mid-afternoon we were coming into sight of land, the furthermost western outliers of the Falklands Archipelago.  

On the beach at New Island, West Falklands
Our destination was New Island, a penguin, cormorant and albatross nesting ground, and by 5 o’clock we were dressed up for our shore expedition and queuing up to board our Zodiacs to be shuttled to the island.  The late-afternoon light made for dramatic colours, and we put ashore on the beach amidst oystercatchers, kelp geese and upland geese.  The island was once a sheep station, but is now run as a nature conservancy, providing shelter for many thousands of black-browed albatrosses, rockhopper penguins and king cormorants, not to mention almost a million fairy prions (of which we saw precisely none).  We said hello to the couple running the island, took some photos on the beach and along the path through the tussock grass, and then, atop a cliff looking out to the open South Atlantic, we came to the nesting site.

Terri amidst the penguins, albatrosses and cormorants
It was an unforgettable hour and a half that we spent there taking photos, looking through binoculars or just gazing in wonder.  In incredibly close quarters to each other, completely mixed together, the three nesting species jostled for space, squawked cacophonously and posed for our cameras.  My favourites were the rockhopper penguins, small birds with bright yellow “hair” on their heads a bit like bleached punk Mohawks.  They made their way painstakingly uphill from the ocean beach far below, hopping their way up one rock at a time.  
Punk rockhoppers
The cormorants too were visually striking, with bright blue eyes and weird orange patches of crumpled skin, like balls of felt, at the top of their beaks.  From time to time they would make their way to a convenient launching point and hurl themselves into the air to go fishing offshore.  Meanwhile the albatrosses, looking out of place because of their much larger size, perched atop small earthen nests or else soared effortlessly overhead.  
Cormorants
We sat in the tussock grass, less than a metre away from the melee, and soaked in the sights and sounds.  I felt as though I were in a BBC nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough, and I could hear his unmistakeable voice giving a running commentary in my ear.  Eventually we climbed down to the ocean to watch the rockhoppers coming and going, and to get a view from underneath of the albatrosses.  
Rockhopper making his way slowly uphill from the sea
A few striated caracaras (aka Johnny rooks), a species almost endemic to the Falklands (a few are found on outlying islands of Chile down towards Cape Horn) flew by from time to time, almost lost in the maelstrom of cormorants and albatrosses.  And then, all too soon, it was time to trudge back to the beach, already in shadow as the sun sank towards the horizon, and catch a Zodiac ride back to the MV Ushuaia. Conversation over a supper of Manchurian beef was an excited babble as we relived our experiences, and we lingered in the lounge after supper to talk more with fellow passengers before heading upstairs for a celebratory taste of Ardbeg whisky.

Black-browed albatross soaring
We spent the night steaming around the outside of the Falkland Archipelago, and by 10 am the next morning (Friday, October 30th) we were making our way through The Narrows to dock in Port Stanley.  The idyllic warm calm weather we had had on New Island was a distant memory, and we docked in a biting wind that sucked the warmth from our bodies.  Landing formalities seemed to take forever as HM Customs inspected the boat and our passports were stamped.  Finally we were released and Terri and I led the charge into the wind on the half-hour hike into town from the ferry dock.  

The town of Port Stanley has a population of only 2100 people (out of the 3000 who inhabit the islands), and it’s a tidy, neatly-kept town of low-rise houses, each with a Land Rover parked outside (there are essentially no paved roads outside the capital).  Terri and I were headed in search of fish and chips, and after we couldn’t find our first choice, we ended up at Shorty’s Diner, run by a Chinese family, where we had great fish and chips and beer.   The clientele were all local residents (always a good sign) except for a couple of soldiers from the UK military base which is there to dissuade the Argentinian government from launching a repeat of the 1982 invasion.  The local accent was very English, and the money we got back in change from our meal was the local version of British notes and coins, with Falklands wildlife on the coins. 
Just in case the Argentinians were in any doubt....
As we walked through the streets, bundled up against the ferocious winds, signs of the islanders’ British identity were everywhere, from the local flag (a Union Jack in the corner and a coat of arms bearing a sheep in the middle) to the popular bumper stickers stating “The Falkland Islands—British to the Core!”.  
Falklands War Memorial
Terri and the Iron Lady, Port Stanley
We bypassed the local museum but walked out to the monuments to the 1982 Falklands War, featuring a bust of Margaret Thatcher (a local hero for her resolute response to the invasion; she is far more universally admired in Port Stanley than in any city in the UK, I would imagine) and a memorial wall for the 200 or so soldiers, sailors and Marines who died retaking the islands.  A bit further along the sea wall is an older memorial to a naval battle fought in the first year of World War One just off the Falklands between the UK and German fleets in which the British managed to defeat the Germans.  We walked past the neatly kept grounds of Government House, then headed to the Victory Bar for a pint.  This local watering hole was buzzing late on a Friday afternoon, partly with locals and partly with about half the passengers and crew of the Ushuaia.  The ceiling was decorated with hundreds of tiny Union Jacks, and military-themed displays covered the walls.  I wondered what the Argentinian crew of our ship made of it, and how it squared with the nationalist obsession with recovering the islands that makes up so much of their schooling and upbringing.

The Victory Bar, Port Stanley
We struck up a conversation with a local guy who works in the fishing industry, and after a couple of pints we had learned more about Falklands history and current affairs than we would have gained from an afternoon in the museum.  The Falklands have become very wealthy over the past 30 years thanks to selling fishing rights to Spanish, Japanese, Taiwanese and other fishing fleets.  Very few Falklanders work directly in the industry, except, as in the case of our conversational partner, in the organization of fishing permits and arranging of local business partnerships.  The fishery, for the lucrative Patagonian toothfish (aka Chilean sea bass) is said to be one of the best managed fisheries in the world, with fish populations and sizes healthy and thriving.  The revenue from these fisheries pays for most of the Falklands government budget, allowing for low income taxes and government schemes to pay for any Falklander graduating from high school to go to the UK to pursue higher education free of charge.  I couldn’t imagine the current Argentinian government, with its chronic economic mismanagement, being able to run the islands nearly as efficiently.

WW2 war dead from the Falklands
Our interlocutor was a small boy when the Argentines invaded, and he remembers the young Argentinian conscript soldiers being baffled by why they were being greeted with sullen indifference and active hostility, instead of being welcomed as liberators as they had anticipated.  He seemed up to date on Argentine politics, and was modestly hopeful that if Macri won the presidential election (as he did a few weeks later in a run-off against the Kirchnerist candidate Scioli), Macri would tone down the angry nationalist rhetoric that has been a feature of Argentine pronouncements on the Falklands (Malvinas) for the past decade.  Just before we had to head back to the ship, the third-place game in the Rugby World Cup came on, pitting the surprising Argentinian team against the South Africans.  The locals were cheering the South Africans, but were pretty tolerant of the excited pro-Argentina cheers of our ship’s crew.  It was a hopeful sign that on an individual level Argentines and Falklanders could at least tolerate each other.
Albatrosses following our ship



Safely back on board, and having added three passengers to our roster (a Norwegian couple working on oil exploration off the Falklands—recent results were not very encouraging—and Aussie Tom’s mother Sally, a wonderful firebrand of energy who had been visiting friends in the Falklands for a week), we set off towards South Georgia and the next leg of our triangle of exploration, fully satisfied with the nature, history and present-day culture that we had seen in the Falklands.