Dune 45, Sossusvlei Area, Namib-Naukluft Park

Petroglyphs, Twyfelfontein, Damaraland

Water was the dominant theme of our visit to Namibia. That’s pretty surprising given that deserts cover some 90% of the country.

Now, it was the end of the rainy season, but we didn’t expect large parts of the country to look more like Ireland than like one of the driest countries in Africa. The rains had been particularly good, and the hillsides and plains were covered with a luxurious blanket of green grass. The animals, both wild and domestic, looked fat and happy.

Before we arrived in Namibia, our plan was to first go north to Etosha National Park but, upon arriving in the country and hearing that northern areas were flooded, we changed our minds. We headed south instead, hoping that the north would dry out a little before we got there.

But, even in the south, rain was a factor. The main road to Fish River Canyon was closed due to flooding, and we never did make it to what is considered one of the largest canyons in the world.

While the main highways in Namibia are paved and have bridges over the watercourses, the majority of roads in the country are gravel and simply proceed straight across any stream beds they encounter. For most of the year this isn’t a problem because the streams and rivers are dry but, during the rainy season, driving can become a little trickier. If the rains are particularly heavy, the rivers may become too dangerous to cross, and motorists might just have to wait until the water goes down.

We were glad to be driving a 4×4. There were some river crossings where a regular car wouldn’t have made it and, particularly in Etosha, places where there was so much water and mud that we needed a four-wheel drive to get through. By the time we returned our Nissan Bushcamper, even the engine was covered with mud.

Cathy and the Nissan Bushcamper at the Spitzkoppe Campground

We had a couple of experiences that showed just how quickly the water can come and go. In the first case, we drove across a bone-dry riverbed in the Namib-Naukluft National Park on our way to see the otherworldly welwitschia plants. It was a blue-sky day with nothing but fluffy white clouds as far as the eye could see. When we returned to the crossing about an hour later, a fair-sized river was running, and the brown, debris-filled water was getting deeper by the minute. We either had to drive through the water or wait for what would probably have been several hours for the water to recede. We decided to go through, put the truck into four-wheel drive, and started across. The water wasn’t that deep, but the entry into the river was fairly steep, and water came up and washed over the truck’s hood. I slowed down a little so it wouldn’t wash up and over the windshield, but kept a steady pace until we were across and on the other dry bank. We never did figure out where the water came from, but it was obviously raining somewhere.

On another occasion, we were camping at Palmwag Lodge in the northwestern part of the country. We had a terrific campsite that fronted directly onto an ephemeral stream. When we arrived, the stream bed was dry except for a few puddles and small pools. It would have been easy to walk across the river and, in fact, several people had done just that.

It was fairly clear overhead, but black clouds hung in the mountains to the east, and you could see lightning, and hear the far-off rumble of thunder. We were sitting there watching the distant storm when we started to hear something that sounded like the hissing of a giant gas burner. Cathy even went over and checked the next campsite to see if everything was okay. Moments later the water appeared and, in no time, a good-sized river was running in front of our campsite.

The River that Appeared at Palmwag. A Few Minutes Earlier this had been Dry.

A family that had earlier crossed the dry riverbed tried to return from the far bank but were turned back by the swirling thigh-deep water. Eventually, with the help of several people, a vehicle with a winch, and a rope, they did manage to make it back.

That night, a couple of Land Rovers filled with lodge guests didn’t return from the day’s outings. Apparently, they were also stuck on the other side of flooded rivers.

The next morning, the river was gone, leaving behind nothing but the same puddles and small pools.

Sometime after breakfast, the two Land Rovers, filled with wet, bedraggled guests, drove up.

Of course, it wasn’t raining all the time. The rain tended to arrive in short, sharp storms that moved on just as quickly as they arrived. This storm activity made for some wonderful skies, especially around sunrise and sunset.

Sunset at Sesriem

Quiver Trees at Last Light

Palmwag Sunset

Quiver Tree at Sunset

Another Palmwag Sunset

With its fabulous landforms, dunes, red sand, and usually blue skies, Namibia is a landscape photographer’s paradise. One of the most visited and most photographed areas is in Namib-Naukluft Park around Sesriem and Sossusvlei. Here you can drive along the usually-dry Tsauchab River into the heart of a sand-dune sea. The highest dunes rise up to almost 400 m above the valley floor.

Dunes Near Hiddenvlei

Our first day in the area started clear, but then a terrific storm blew in, sending the sand drifting over the dunes like red snow. As we drove back towards the campground, we hoped that the blasting rain and sand weren’t doing too much damage to the truck’s paint or windshield.

Storm at Dune 45

We were up well before dawn the next day so we could get to the Sossusvlei area, some 60 km away, by sunrise. I started to go into the men’s washroom but was driven back by the thousands upon thousands of bugs, ranging from the tiny to the frighteningly huge, that covered every square inch of the walls, floor, and ceiling. The door had been left open and the lights on, and it looked like every insect in the country had decided to make the washroom its home. It was like something from an Indiana Jones movie—the whole place was moving, and you couldn’t step inside without being swarmed by, and covered with, bugs. I didn’t even dare to go in long enough to take a photo.

Sensibly, the women had kept their door closed, and their lights off. A small group of young men from an overland tour stood plaintively at the door asking for permission to use the Lady’s.

Giant Cricket

We were glad to leave the entomologist’s dream behind, and head into the heart of the desert.

Instead of joining the crowds at Sossusvlei (a couple of dozen or so people!), we instead decided to hike the two kilometres to Hiddenvlei. (A vlei, also called a pan, is a place that may flood during the rainy season. There was no water in Hiddenvlei, or in Sossusvlei for that matter, while we were there.)

On the Way to Hiddenvlei

By the time we left the truck and began hiking towards Hiddenvlei, the sun’s first rays were just starting to pick out the dune crests from the dawn’s half-light. As we walked along, we watched as the dunes changed colour from the fiery orange of first light to the rusty brown of daytime. The low-angled light of sunrise also accentuated and highlighted the landscape’s textures, and emphasized the ripples in the sand, the curves of the dune crests, and the footprints of Oryx and Jackals that had slipped by quietly in the darkness the night before. We didn’t see another soul the whole morning.

Near Hiddenvlei

Pied Crows on the Dune Edge, Hiddenvlei

On the Way to Hiddenvlei

Besides its dramatic scenery, Nambia is also well-known for the variety and abundance of its wildlife. One of the areas we particularly liked was in the northwestern part of the country around Palmwag in Damaraland. It is a rugged, wild land, and the last place in Africa where you can find free-ranging black rhinos. On an all-day guided trip far back into the remote mountains of Damaraland we were lucky enough to see two of the ill-tempered beasts.

Giraffes, Palmwag Area, Damaraland

Black Rhino, Palmwag Area, Damaraland

Meerkat

Hartmann’s Mountain Zebra, Palmwag Area, Damaraland

Etosha National Park is another remarkable place. The land itself is mostly flat and brush covered, and not particularly exciting, but the wildlife easily makes up for it. On plains that stretch to the horizon you might see hundreds or thousands of animals including springbok, zebras, wildebeest, ostriches, giraffes, warthogs, and other grazing animals. The park is also home to lions, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, elephants, black rhinos, and white rhinos. In the five days we stayed in the park, we saw all of these species as well as numerous birds, lizards, and smaller animals.

Female Lion

Elephant Encounter, Etosha (Note the backup lights!)

Leopard (Good shot Cathy)

White Rhino at Waterhole
(This is an unusual shot. It was taken at 12:30 a.m. at an artificially-lit waterhole. It was hand-held at 1.3 sec, wide open, at ISO 3200, equivalent 35mm focal length of 300mm.)

Springbok

Cheetahs

Like many visitors to Namibia, we rented a truck with a camper, and enjoyed camping in some of the country’s many outstanding campgrounds, including those in Etosha.

Namtib Campsite

But the campsite at the base of the Spitzkoppe may have been the most spectacular of all. With its towering red granite walls rearing up some 700 m above the surrounding plain, the Spitzkoppe is sometimes called the Matterhorn of Africa—although there’s nary a glacier, alpenhorn, or pair of lederhosen to be seen.

The Spitzkoppe

As evening fell, the almost-full moon peeked down at us, and the Rosy-faced Lovebirds kept us company as the shadows crept up the Spitzkoppe’s imposing ramparts.

There was nowhere else I would rather have been.

Moonrise over the Spitzkoppe

Coloured Powders

The shopkeeper was doing his best to convince me that these small packets of otherworldly-coloured powder would make ideal gifts for the kids back home.

“You think so?” I said, “What would they do with the stuff?”

“Oh, colour things”, he replied.

Ask a silly question…

“What are they made from?” I continued.

“Oh, there’ll natural, all natural”, he assured me.

Right. They were about as natural as the instant friendship at the carpet-sellers shop. Colours like these could only have come from a chemistry lab—and probably one using plenty of toxic materials at that.

Carpet Shop.

“No, thanks”, I said, imagining the keen interest Canada Customs would have in these tiny packages of day-glow powder.

The shopkeeper gave it another try, “Very cheap, and easy to carry”.

With the realization that he wasn’t going to make a sale, I started to become invisible as his attention shifted elsewhere, but he gave it one last try, “For you, I can make a special price.”

Hmmm, seems to me I’ve heard that one before…

The flower markets are the places to go for real colours. Flowers are brought in by the sackful, and sold by the handful or by the kilo, ready to be made into garlands or wedding accessories, or to be used for other kinds of decorations.

Flower Market

Red Flowers

Flower Sellers

One day, while driving through a southern town, we happened upon a wedding parade. A brass band preceded the slightly nauseated-looking groom riding a white Rajasthani horse. (Rajasthani horse’s ears are bent at the tips and point towards each other.) The ladies in their beautiful saris chatted excitedly amongst themselves, while every few minutes a firecracker exploded showering everyone with confetti. People danced as the procession moved slowly down the street.

Wedding Parade

Joe, one of our more outgoing group members, danced with the crowd, then shook hands with the groom and wished him well. Before we knew it, our whole group had been invited to the wedding but, unfortunately, we had a schedule to keep, and we had to continue on. I expect it was a great party.

In India, colourful clothing isn’t just reserved for special occasions. Even women working in the fields, or going about their daily chores, wear lovely, colourful outfits, and try to look their best.

Getting Water at a Community Well

Of course, to keep all these clothes clean a lot of laundry has to be done, and people did laundry everywhere—in canals, in ponds, in streams—almost anywhere there was some water.

Laundry Service

The three things needed for a proper washing appeared to be soap, water, and a merciless beating against a rock or other hard surface. Every time our own clothes came back from the laundry they seemed a little shorter and a little wider, the victims, I suspect, of some good thrashings.

The dhobi ghats in Mumbai dwarfed any of the other laundry operations we saw. Here, some 5000 men work in a maze of open-air vats to do the city’s laundry. It’s hard to believe that anyone ever gets their own clothes back.

Dhobi Ghats, Mumbai

If Indian women usually get the most colourful clothing, they don’t always get the best bling. For example, in the Kathakali dance, a dance form peculiar to the southwestern state of Kerala, the all-male dancers wear bizarre costumes and enough fluorescent make-up to make the members of KISS look conservative. It takes hours for the dancers to get ready.

Kathakali Dancer

We arrived early at the Kathakali dance theatre in the coastal city of Kochi to watch the dancers prepare their costumes and makeup. One of the dancers sat cross-legged under a single bare light bulb in the middle of the dressing room floor painstakingly applying his lime-green face paint while another bear of a man, made up to look like a woman, sat in the back with his arms folded over his well-fed stomach.

Putting on Kathakali Makeup

We had come to Kochi after spending a couple of days on a houseboat in the “backwaters” of Kerala—a giant labyrinth of waterways, villages, and low-lying fields in the far southwest of India. As the boat’s crew navigated the waterways, and the cook prepared one delicious meal after another, we had little to do but sit back, relax with a glass of wine in hand (the Indian Sauvignon Blanc isn’t too bad), and watch as the watery world slipped slowly by.

Houseboat, Backwaters of Kerala

Going to School, Kerala Style

If the Sauvignon Blanc was pretty good, the coffee was mostly awful, and the tea delicious. Darjeeling Gold was particularly lovely.

Early Morning Mist, Tea Country

Tea Plantation

We didn’t get to Darjeeling, but we did see coffee and tea plantations in the southern highlands. Along one winding country road, we came across a crew of women picking tea. They smiled and joked and, I’m sure, make some wisecracks at our expense. The women were pleased to have their pictures taken but, like many other Indians, became serious, almost stern, when a camera was pointed their way. As one of our guides explained, having your picture taken is a serious business and people want to look “proper” for the camera.

Tea Picker

Unlike the tea pickers, the snake charmer was used to having his picture taken. After all, he made his living from the 10, 20 or 50 rupee notes that people dropped beside him.

Snake Charmer

As the snake charmer played his flute, the cobra stood up in its basket and periodically struck at the man. The snake charmer was nonplussed by the striking snake, even as the crowd gasped or stepped back in alarm.

Cathy must have been looking particularly undecided about the wisdom of this whole “snake business”. The snake charmer turned to her and said, “It’s O.K. ma’am, it doesn’t have any teeth.”

A toothless cobra—that was a bit of a letdown.

After the snake charmer, we all wanted to see the “Indian rope trick”. You know, the one where the rope goes up in the air by itself, and the swami climbs it? Right?

The Indians looked at us blankly. None of them had ever heard of it. All of us westerners were surprised. We’d all heard of it. Was this strictly a western invention? Or worse, had we all been brainwashed by too many childhood cartoons?

Between our visit to the south of India and our visit to the north, we flew to the Andaman Islands. The islands are to the east of the Indian mainland, not too far from Burma and Thailand. From the main centre of Port Blair, we took the three-hour ferry trip to Havelock Island where we enjoyed the sunshine, warm water, birds, flowers, and uncrowded beaches.

Andaman Beach

There are still tribes on some of the outlying islands in the Andaman group that have had almost no contact with the outside world. One of the tribes still greets anyone trying to land on their island with a hail of arrows. As recently as 2006 the tribesmen killed two fishermen who had drifted too close to the island, and then drove off the helicopter that came to pick up the bodies.

We didn’t get shot at by anyone. The worst we had to endure was the chaos of the ferry, the heat and spines in the jungle, and the unsmiling, almost morose resort staff.

Unlike the resort staff, the hermit crabs on the beach seemed very cheerful (although it is a bit hard to tell with a crustacean). By the millions they scurried around, jostling and bumping into each other. At times, the whole high-water zone of the beach seemed to be moving. You couldn’t help but smile to see all the hustle and bustle.

Gone “Tropo” on the Andamans

Okay, the Taj Mahal. I’ve left it to the end. It’s not that I didn’t like it. It was quite grand, magnificent even, but still I was a little underwhelmed.

Perhaps it’s been overexposed. Or perhaps it was because, as the on-site pollution monitor showed, the air is hardly fit to breathe. Or perhaps it was because it’s not in some bucolic countryside as it appears in pictures, but rather in a crowded, dirty, noisy Indian city.

Still, I took photographs. Lots of photographs. And, like so many before me, I did my best to make the Taj Mahal look like it’s sitting in some timeless, idyllic, jasmine-scented dream.

Taj Mahal

Here are a few other photos I like, so I thought I’d just stick them in here.

Cathy and Kuldeep Rafting on the Ganges

Archway

Kids

Don’t Quit Your Day Job Cathy.

Vehicle weight ratings are always well respected!

Decorative Doorway

Hardiwar Night Ceremony, Ganges River

The Gateway of India is one of Mumbai’s major landmarks and, as it was only a two-minute walk from our hotel, the first thing that Cathyand I went to visit. I never really did see it.

Gateway of India

Normally, it would be pretty hard to miss a massive 26-metre-high stone monument but the scrum that formed around me, and moved with me as I walked, demanded my full attention. Several people wanted to sell me tour packages, while others wanted me to buy their postcards, books, jewellery, and balloons. A bandy-legged “holy man” wanted to “bless me” by putting a red tika on my forehead and tying a white string around my wrist. I think some of “my” crowd just wanted to stare at me.

“No, thank you”, wasn’t enough to dissuade any of my entourage. Instead I had to keep moving to try to stay at the head of my own personal parade. Like a horse walking through bushes, I tried to brush people off by moving through the densest part of the crowd that surrounded the monument. Some did drop off, including the “holy man”, but new hawkers took their place.

I suspect Cathy found this quite amusing as, in this very male-dominated society, she was all but ignored in the mêlée.

As I walked along in the centre of this mini human storm, I was acutely aware of the expensive camera hanging over my shoulder. Not only was it a possible target for theft, it also identified me as someone who could afford $1 for a dozen postcards, or who might want to take a city tour. But then, with blue eyes and fair skin it was never possible to simply blend into an Indian crowd.

While the sales pitches were persistent, no one came near my camera. It was the first example of something that surprised us during our whole trip. Even though there is dire, extreme poverty in India, and even though as westerners and travellers we were obviously far better off than most Indians (but not all, witness the laser-red Bentley parked outside the hotel), the country seemed surprisingly safe.

While we took commonsense precautions, we never felt threatened or unsafe, even walking in the cities after dark. Undoubtedly, things that weren’t watched may have disappeared, and there are places that are dodgy, but we didn’t have any trouble. But the apparent safety really is surprising in a place with such a crush of humanity, and where there is so much need.

Built to commemorate King George V and Queen Mary’s visit to India in 1911, the Gateway of India has been a well-known Mumbai landmark since its completion in 1924. Arguably, the Gateway was also the place where the sun finally set on the British Empire as the First Battalion of the Somerset Light Infantry, the last British troops to leave India, passed through the Gate on February 28, 1948.

I was three-quarters of the way around the monument, and was beginning to think I was almost home free when, suddenly, the “holy man” was right in front of me. He’d taken a shortcut and intercepted me here.

He was quicker than me. The tika was on my forehead before I knew it. I let him put on the white string. Naturally, there was a “donation” needed for this service. He suggested the equivalent of $5. I gave him the 20 rupees ($0.50) I had in my shirt pocket. He didn’t seem that pleased, but then neither was I. He may have muttered some “unholy” things in Hindi.

Within only a few minutes of our first foray out and into the Indian streets we were back in our hotel. The cool and calm interior was a sharp contrast to the crowds, noise, smells, and heat outside. For a few minutes we collected ourselves together then, taking a deep breath, headed back outside for “India: Take 2”.

It’s surprising how quickly the exotic can become the ordinary. It wasn’t until we got to Pondicherry, almost a week after we’d arrived in India, that we saw our first elephant. We were pretty chuffed to see the great beast walking down the street passing pedestrians and dodging back and forth to avoid cars and trucks. By the time we left the country, seeing an elephant striding along, even a brightly painted or decorated one, seemed almost normal. In the temples we walked by them, hardly looking up, as they stood, probably bored to tears, shifting from foot to foot and blessing devotees for the price of a shiny coin. Even the thought of riding them started to seem pretty ordinary.

Elephant, Pondicherry

Temple Elephant, Madurai

Elephant Bath

But I must confess that I really don’t like being on the back of an elephant. Sure, the ride is pretty smooth and you do have a good view, but it’s a long way to the ground and I can’t help but think that the elephant is eventually going to say, “O.K., I’m done” and end the foolishness by rolling on us, or by grabbing us and flinging us to the ground.

It didn’t really help to hear the story about how one of the elephants that takes tourists up the hill to the Amber Fort in Rajastan snapped one day. A group of tourists were having their tour guide take photos of them on the back of the elephant when the elephant, perhaps having heard the click of a shutter one too many times, decided enough was enough, and killed the unfortunate guide.

We went up the hill to the Amber Fort in a jeep.

Even if I won’t be going out of my way to ride an elephant anytime again soon, it was a perfect place from which to see a tiger. We had hoped to see a tiger while we were in Corbett National Park but there are only a few left, and we knew the chances of seeing one were slim. On our first day in the park, we had been up at 5:00 a.m. to get through the gate by first light. We drove around the park for several hours but, while we did see some tiger pug marks, we didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of one of the great cats.

The next day, we were “picked up” at our hotel by an elephant, and went for a short ride in the forest nearby. We had been walking through the woods for a while, swatting mosquitoes and trying to avoid getting slapped in the face by branches, when our mahout signalled to us that our elephant had noticed something. Moments later, the mahout pointed to the thick bushes and the well-camouflaged outline of a tiger slowly emerged.

We could hardly believe our luck. Here, almost within shouting distance of our hotel, was one of India’s few remaining wild tigers.

Tiger

Unfortunately all is not well with the tiger. With the pressures of people and poachers, and with the last patches of tiger habitat being nibbled away, it seems unlikely that the species will survive to see the 22nd century.

Tiger Closeup

With its 1.2 billion people, and thousands of years of history, India is a boisterous mix of religions, languages, cultures and customs. And, unlike the fairly secular western world, religion is a central part of everyday life in India. As such, we visited a bewildering array of Hindu and Jain temples, Mosques, Buddhist Shrines, and Christian Churches. We even got to a Jewish Synagogue, and to a “Utopian” community whose central shrine looked like a giant golden golf ball.

One of the most interesting temple complexes we visited was the Meenakshi temple in Madurai. Said to contain some 33 million sculptures (who counted them?), and considered one of the finest examples of Dravidian architecture, the temple is dedicated to the goddess Meenakshi who was one of the re-incarnations of Parvatti, Shiva’s wife. (If you thought nuclear physics was complicated, try figuring out the how all the Hindu gods and their reincarnations fit together! I finally realized that Shiva is a man. Who knew? He has a feminine name, and all his statues make him look like a woman.)

Roof, Meenakshi Temple, Madurai

Haircut, Outside of Madurai Temple

Except for the fluorescent lights, and the occasional ring of a cell phone, the temple must be the same as it was 100 or 500 years ago. Devotees light candles and say their pujas, merchants sell their devotional wares, the temple elephant gives blessings, and the homeless stretch out on the hard stone floors.

Madurai Temple

Temple Shop Selling Devotional Items

Madurai Temple

In the evening we returned to the temple to see the ancient ceremony where the statue of Shiva is taken to Parvati’s “bedroom” for the night. The next morning the statue would be taken back to the place where it spends the day.

Night Ceremony, Meenakshi Temple, Madurai

Night Ceremony, Meenakshi Temple, Madurai

To get the “total night temple experience”, we rode to and from the night ceremony at the Meenakshi Temple in a bicycle rickshaw. It was uncomfortable enough, to our western sensibilities, to have a tiny man struggling to move us along the busy streets. It was even more alarming as, without lights, we darted in and out of traffic, and squeezed by buses and trucks with only inches to spare. To cross several lanes of oncoming traffic, our driver smiled and held out and outstretched hand. It was a bit like being in a tiny sailboat at night with no navigation lights in a shipping lane crowded with supertankers. At times, it was best just to close your eyes.

Rickshaw Ride, Madurai

When, somewhat to everyone’s surprise, we returned safely to our hotel, one of the other tour members remarked, “Well, I’ve had that experience, so I’ll never have to do it again!” Amen to that.

I’m sitting at the desk in our bungalow looking out through the open windows. A bunch of bananas is nearly ready to cut, and orchids are hanging down from the trees trunks. I can hear the waves breaking on Radha Nagar Beach, a leisurely two-minute walk away. If I could see through the trees, I would hardly see a soul on the beach, but there might be an elephant or two lumbering along the high-water mark, stopping to grab a trunkful of coarse grass when the mahout wasn’t looking. The air is filled with birdcalls. Asian Koels are chattering to one other, Myna birds are mewing like cats, Red-breasted Parakeets squawk and squabble while, somewhere off deeper into the forest, an endemic Andaman Woodpecker hammers away at a dead tree trunk. Cathy is sitting outside enjoying the cool breeze and reading a murder mystery she picked up at the book exchange. A rooster and his two hens are scratching around in the dried leaves looking for food.

We arrived on Havelock Island in the Andaman Islands on Sunday. It’s as hard to believe that we’ve only been here three days as it is to believe that we left Australia only three weeks ago. We’ve seen and done a lot since we arrived in India, but that’s a story for another entry.

We left Santiago the evening of December 23, crossed the Date Line, and arrived in Auckland at 4 a.m. on Christmas morning. After two months in South America, what a pleasure it was to understand the overhead announcements, and to be able to read the newspapers without a dictionary in hand! After a brief stopover in Auckland we flew to Melbourne, arriving at our hotel in St. Kilda about midday.

Within two hours we were in the Sapore restaurant, wearing paper hats and sipping on bubbly while attacking a tableful of food. It was an auspicious start to our Australian visit. We ate and drank our way across the country while enjoying the company of friends.

On Boxing Day we flew to Portland, Victoria to visit our friend Ann. Until Ann moved to Australia she was the pharmacist at the Pincher Creek Hospital, and is a fellow wine and whisky lover. Ann treated us royally, and we enjoyed touring around the Portland area and meeting a number of Ann’s friends and colleagues. We also enjoyed the company of Ann’s corgi, Harry.

 Anne and Harry

We waved goodbye to Ann at the Mt. Gambier airport as we boarded the Saab commuter aircraft for the short flight to Adelaide. She was heading home after our weekend of wine tasting in the Coonawarra, and we were off to catch the Indian Pacific train.

At the Adelaide train station we met Lisa, Geoff, Bruce, Donna, and Louise. We had previously travelled with Geoff and Lisa and knew them well. On our last visit to Sydney, we had joined Geoff and Lisa for a most enjoyable dinner at Donna and Bruce’s, so we knew them as well. Louise was the only person we hadn’t met before but, by the end of the evening, she felt like an old friend.

The Indian Pacific is a most civilized way to travel across Australia. From the comfort of our berth, or from the club car, cold beer in hand, we watched endless miles of the red Australian outback roll by. Every once in a while we saw kangaroos, emus, or a wedge-tailed eagle but, except for the track itself, there were few signs of humans from a couple of hours past Adelaide until a couple of hours before Perth. Perhaps to make sure we didn’t get too comfortable in the air-conditioned confines of the train we stopped in tiny Cook and in Kalgourlie. Stepping from the train into the heat and the flies quickly reminded us what the outback is really like.

Sign at the “Almost” Ghost Town of Cook on the Indian Pacific Line 

Midnight on New Year’s Eve saw us sipping champagne while the desert slipped by, unseen, in the darkness beyond the train’s windows.

We had a brief stop in Kalgoorlie. New Year’s Eve 2007. 

Louise, Donna, Bruce, Lisa, Cathy, Gord, Geoff

New Year’s Eve 2007 on the Indian Pacific 

We stayed a few days in Perth enjoying the Hopman Cup tennis tournament, doing some wine tasting up the Swan River, and taking a brief excursion to Fremantle.

From Perth we headed down to Albany and then up through the Denmark, Pemberton, and Mt. Barker wine regions to Margaret River. All along the way our long-suffering friends waited while, especially, Bruce, Cathy, and I swirled, sipped and spit our way through as many tasting rooms as we could.

Geoff, Bruce, Cathy, Lisa

On the Suspended Walkway High in the Karri Forest near Pemberton

Cathy and Lisa doing the “Cape Leeuwin Shuffle.  

Things didn’t change much once we reached Margaret River, one of Australia’s premier winemaking regions. We managed to get to a goodly number of wineries and tasted some of Australia’s best from the likes of Pierro, Cullen, Woodland, and Leeuwin Estates. When we weren’t tasting wine, there was a blue ocean to lay beside, a swimming pool to cool off in, trails that snaked high around the headland of Cape Naturaliste to walk along and, of course, food to be eaten.

 Eating and Drinking Again! Bruce’s Parents John and Jan joined us for a Meal.

Sorry about the eyes Jan!

Enjoying the Sunset, Cape Naturaliste 

And eat we did. By the time we left Australia, my clothes seemed to have shrunk a size. (But, with our almost exclusively vegetarian diet in India, our clothes are fitting a lot better again.)

P.S.  This blog entry has been sitting in the computer for almost three weeks waiting to be posted. Between a busy touring schedule, and scant internet access, we’ve fallen far behind! We’re off to Namibia in a couple of days, and internet access might be scantier yet, but we will get something from India up as soon as we can. 

Cheers!

Moai at Sunrise 

The aged Suzuki 4×4 squeaked and groaned as we made our way down the rutted dirt road along the south coast of Easter Island. We could hear its every mechanical complaint through the open windows we had left down to avoid suffocating in the afternoon heat. The fine red island dust sifted in through the open windows.

We rounded a final corner and blinked, almost in disbelief, at the 15 giant stone moai’s of Ahu Tongariki lined up shoulder to shoulder, their backs to the startlingly blue water, staring through time towards the centre of the island. It was hard to believe that people without modern machinery could cut and move these enormous rock statues. It was equally hard to understand how the same people had the time and resources to devote to these megalithic megaprojects on an island which today is covered with little more than thistles, and grasses so coarse that even the horses are skinny.

Ahu Tongariki 

Ahu Tongariki from Rano Raraku 
 

Moai’s, Ahu Tongariki 
 

When the first Europeans arrived in the 1700’s they wondered the same thing: How did the relatively small number of impoverished people they found on the treeless Easter Island pull it off?

Ahu Tahai and Ahu Ko Te Riku 
 

The answer is, they didn’t. But their ancestors did. By the time the Dutch expedition led by Jacob Roggeveen “discovered” the island on Easter Sunday, 1722, the Easter Islanders themselves had lost the knowledge of why and how the statues were made, and how the massive statues were transported from the nursery at the extinct volcano of Rano Raraku to the various sites all around the island.

Ahu Vai Uri, Hanga Roa in the Background 
 

What seems to have happened on Easter Island is a precautionary tale for all of us. Easter Island may be the most isolated habitable place on earth. It lies some 3300 km off the coast of South America, and its nearest inhabited neighbour is Pitcairn Island, more than 2000 km away. When the first Polynesians arrived in about 400 A.D. they found an island covered with a subtropical forest, and with abundant plant and animal life. Over the next several hundred years the people flourished, and had sufficient time and resources to build, transport, and erect some 200 stones moai’s–some as tall as 33 feet and weighing over 80 tons–that are found at ahu’s (ceremonial sites) along the island’s coastline. (Hundreds of other statues lie in various stages of production, or lie along what seem to be ceremonial roads. The largest unfinished moai is some 65 ft long, and is estimated to weigh 270 tons.)

Ahu A Kivi 
 

But they were too successful. Eventually they managed to cut down all the forests. With the forests went most of the island’s plants and animals. Without trees, the islanders could no longer make the large canoes they needed to fish far from shore, and to hunt the porpoises that provided a large part of their diet.

As the island’s environment collapsed, the people divided up into warring factions and fought with one another. Chaos reigned, and the islanders resorted to desperate measures, including cannibalism to survive. New religious and ceremonial practices were developed, most notably the bird cult that seems to have been a somewhat desperate attempt to restore the island’s fertility.

Petroglyphs at the Orogono Ceremonial Village with the Islands of Motu Kao Kao, Motu Iti, and Motu Nui in the Background. These were all associated with the Bird Cult. 

When the first Europeans visited the island (Roggeveen in 1722, James Cook in 1774, and the French captain Lapérouse in 1786), most of the moai’s still stood. By the time Chile annexed the island in 1888, all of the moai’s had been toppled, victims of earthquake, tsunami, and intertribal warfare. The moai’s that are standing today have been recently restored. (The moai’s that were still in the “nursery”, both completed and partially finished, seem to have escaped the fate of those at the completed ahu’s on the coast.)
 

Ahu A Kivi 
 

Cathy and Fallen Moai 

Our Suzuki died on the way home. We “traded it in” for a Daihatsu with air conditioning, and far fewer years on its clock, and spent much of our week on the island driving the back roads, and poking around the ancient sites. (The Suzuki didn’t actually have many kilometres on it but then, how far can you drive on an island that’s only 180 km² in size?)

When we started looking carefully, we were amazed by how many ahu’s and moai’s there were around the island. In some places, there were major ceremonial sites every couple of hundred metres along the coast. As they’d say in Newfoundland, “the place is maggoty with ‘em.”
 

Ahu at Anakena 
 

Detail, Moai at Anakena 

The restored moai’s are magnificent, and the fallen moai’s poignant, but the most enigmatic place is surely the nursery at Rano Raraku. Here completed, but not yet moved statues stand looking out to sea, while partially completed, or barely started statues lay half buried in the ground staring at the sky. Some statues are buried up to their necks. In other places, perhaps just a nose pokes above the ground. In yet other places, four, five, or even more statues in various stages of carving lie intertwined in an intricate dance with one another.

The Outer Side of the Nursery at Rano Raraku. Many Moai’s are Visible. 
 

Moai, Rano Raraku 

Partially Completed Moai in the Nursery Area Inside Rano Raraku  

“Twins”, Rano Raraku 

A few people visited the nursery in the daytime but, by the late afternoon, most everyone would be gone, and we would have the place to ourselves. Until darkness drove us back to the car, we enjoyed the company of these mute stone sentinels with their wry, inscrutable smiles, and wondered after all that had transpired since they were young.

Cathy at Rano Raraku 

Easter Island isn’t all cobwebs and ancient history. The water surrounding the island is remarkably clear, and a magnet for divers and snorkelers. When the conditions are right, local surfers paddle out and play in the waves.

Anakena Beach 

There is some good food here as well. In a small restaurant overlooking Pea Harbour in the main town of Hanga Roa, a dour Frenchman, who resembles the cartoon character Obelix, sits and oversees the happenings in his tiny establishment that serves some of the best food we’ve had on our travels. The fish was excellent, and the chocolate mabré divine.

Restaurant, Pea Harbour, Hanga Roa 

Just don’t expect to taste the wine—“It’s good!” he scowled. (Thank god it wasn’t corked.)

And be careful what you ask for. I don’t know what the couple at the next table wanted but, in an indignant voice, the owner told them, “If you want fast food, you’ll have to go somewhere else!” They did.

Moai at Sunset 

We spit a lot. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was the only way to get through the dozens of wines we tasted everyday without getting totally sloshed. I suppose it’s a bit like eating garlic—it’s O.K. as long as everyone does it. During our week-long wine tour in Chile and Argentina we did little except drink, spit, eat, and sleep. It was a great trip.

Early on a Sunday morning, Cathy and I met up with the rest our group at the Bonaparte Hotel in downtown Santiago. David was from Syracuse, New York, while Brian was from Pennsylvania. Tomie and Don were from California, as was Peter, our tour leader.

Peter, Cathy, Gord, Don, Tomie, Brian, and David 

We all met Victor Hugo, our local Chilean guide and driver, then climbed into the white Mercedes Sprinter minibus and headed south towards Santa Cruz in the Colchagua Valley. (Our driver in Argentina, who’d lived for three years in Toronto, was also named Victor Hugo!?)

Over the next several days we tasted wines from a number of the top wineries in Chile.

Wine Tasting at Neyen Winery 

With their grand architecture and state-of-the-art facilities, the wineries at Clos Apalta and Almaviva were like shrines to the grape—and their wines weren’t too shabby either. (But at around $100 a bottle, they should be!)

The Barrel Room at Almaviva 

Cathy and I had visited Viu Manent on a previous trip to Chile, and we were surprised and pleased with how much better their wines seemed to be this time around.

As one of the first fine Chilean wines to be exported to the world, Montes is a familiar brand. In fact, it’s so familiar that it tends to get lost among all the newer and trendier labels. We were all struck by the excellence of all the Montes wines, however, and by what good value they are. We’ll be looking for Montes wine again when we get home.

Apalta Vineyards next to Montes 

The wines from Casa Marin made us sit up and take notice. While Casa Marin’s “minerally” Sauvignon Blanc is better than most from Chile, its excellent Pinot Noir was a big surprise. Chile is not “supposed” to be able to produce great Pinots but it can clearly do so, at least in some areas.

Casa Marin 

After tasting so many great wines from Chile, we were keen to see how the wines of Argentina would compare.

We had a spectacular view on the short, 180 km flight from Santiago to Mendoza, arguably the “wine capitol” of Argentina. The flight path took us over the spine of the snow-covered Andes while, to the north, we could see the hulking giant of Aconcagua. At 22,841 feet it is the highest peak in the Andes, and in South America.

The Mendoza area is really a desert but, since Inca times, an intricate irrigation system that distributes the water that flows down from the Andes has allowed agricultural crops to flourish. Today, grapes and wine are among the most important products of the region.

A “Light” Meal in Mendoza 

If Chile’s signature grape is Carménère, then Argentina’s is Malbec. Mendoza is known for its big, black, tooth-staining Malbecs, and they didn’t disappoint. The wines of Achaval-Ferrar were particularly impressive (not to mention expensive).

The lovely Torrontés wines were a surprise. Torrontés is a white Spanish variety, and the Argentinean Torrontés are like a mix between Sauvignon Blanc and Viognier. The wines were fresh, fruity, and aromatic, and would be lovely on a hot summer afternoon.

While we enjoyed the wines of Mendoza, the wines from Salta really stole the show. Salta is the northern-most wine region in Argentina, and its vineyards are located at elevations of 4,000 feet to almost 10,000 feet.

Peter had been to Salta before, and had arranged to have 20 of the best Salta wines sent to us for tasting. In one marathon session that lasted from 7:30 p.m. until midnight we tasted all the wines. The whites (Torrontés) were clean and crisp, while the reds were dark and brooding and had years of life left in them. There were two producers that really stood out: Bodegas El Porvenir de Los Andes and Felix Lavaque (especially the Quara range). My advice is to buy them if you see them. We’ll be looking for them when we get home.

Wine Tasters Hat Club 

So what are some of the take-away lessons? Firstly, the international wine-making world is a pretty small place. Young winemakers move from country to country, and from vintage to vintage, learning about wine styles, and about how wine is made in other places. A Kiwi winemaker, with help from a French consultant, could as easily have made a Chilean or Argentinean wine as a local winemaker. And even the local winemaker has probably worked a few vintages in Burgundy or Napa or Tuscany.

Secondly, Chilean and Argentinean wineries use the most up-to-date equipment and techniques. They have to; they’re competing in a global market.

But, in some ways, the Chilean and Argentinean wineries have an advantage. Labour is still relatively inexpensive in these countries, so the wineries can afford to use manual techniques like hand harvesting and hand grading that can make a difference in the wine, but that are too expensive in more developed countries. The difference is in the bottle.

 Cheers!

At 12,500 feet, Cathy’s bag of Lay’s papa fritas burst, sending a fine spray of potato chips over the back seat of our rented Peugeot 207. At 14,500 feet, vicuñas grazed and flamingos waded through a shallow lake in search of brine shrimp. At 15,400 feet, the road stopped climbing, but the peaks still soared above us. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!

Topping out at 15,400 ft 

As we flew the 2600 km from Puerto Montt to Calama we watched the trees give way to cactuses, and then the cactuses give way to the gravel and sand of the Atacama Desert. Always, the Andes to the east kept us company.

When we stepped off the plane in Calama it was hard to believe we were in the same country we’d left a few hours earlier. The lifeless grey flats that bordered the airport gradually merged with the distant grey hills while, overhead, not a speck of cloud marred the arching blue sky. I liked it already.

Atacama Sky near San Pedro de Atacama 

From Calama we drove southeast for a hundred kilometres to the small town of San Pedro de Atacama. As we drove, we wondered how anyone, or anything, could live in such an unforgiving place. For most of the way, we didn’t see so much as a blade of grass. The only signs of life, if you could call them that, were the occasional columns of dust rising in the far distance signalling that a vehicle was travelling to some remote mine or tiny village.

But San Pedro de Atacama is different. It has water. Brackish water perhaps, but water nonetheless, allowing trees and flowers and people to thrive. For thousands of years people have lived in San Pedro and the surrounding area, and have used the water to turn the desert green.

Even though San Pedro sits at an elevation of 8,000 feet, it is considered precordilleran, that is, before the mountains. Looking east from San Pedro one can see why. From as far as the eye can see to the north, until the last volcanoes vanish in the haze to the south, great peaks rear up into the sky. The view east from San Pedro is dominated by the 19,409 ft Volcán Licancábur.

Moonrise over Volcán Licancábur 

The other thing you notice when looking east towards Licancábur is the sliver of road that climbs steeply up the volcano’s shoulder, and then disappears into the altiplano beyond, to eventually cross the Paso Jama and enter Argentina.

We drove the road to the Paso Jama, marvelling at the altitude, the mountains, and the vistas. It was somewhere there, at about 12,500 feet, that Cathy’s bag of potato chips threw in the towel.

Altogether we spent a week in San Pedro de Atacama and the surrounding area, extending our stay twice because there was so much to see and do.

Laguna Miscanti at 12,500 ft 

One of the places that we returned to several times was Laguna Chaxa, a saltwater lagoon at the bottom of a great salt flat in the Reserva Nacional Los Flamencos. There we spent hours watching the flamingos, avocets, plovers, and sandpipers go about their avian business. The sometimes shockingly pink or orange flamingos looked the most incongruous as they waded about on their spindly legs, their heads moving from side to side to strain the water through their bills, while all around them, and for kilometres in every direction, the air scintillated over the snow-white salt flats.

Flamingos Landing 

Flamingos 

On another day, we joined a tour that left San Pedro at 4:00 a.m. to reach the Tatio Geysers at sunrise. (We opted to join a tour because it would have been very difficult to find in the dark, and because the road is very rough.) It was perhaps just as well that it was dark as we hurtled along the bone-rattling roads, and bounced down the four-wheel-drive tracks to the geysers. It was only on the way back that we saw the precipitous drops, and the shrines to the people who had taken a corner too quickly, or who had dropped a wheel off the edge of the road and ended up hundreds of metres below.

The geysers put on a great show, steaming, and bubbling, and hissing in the cool morning air. You might even say that it was breathtaking, but perhaps that was because the geyser field is at over 14,000 ft.

Tatio Geysers 

Our guide told us to take it slow and easy. It was good advice. Even at that, a young woman on our tour fainted. Cathy went to assist her but quickly decided that the normal routine of letting a fainting victim lie there for a few minutes, perhaps with the legs elevated, wasn’t going to cut it. The woman had fallen on a small fumarole, and was in danger of burning her backside. Cathy and the guide helped the woman to her feet, and back to the van.

Right near San Pedro de Atacama was the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon), an area of tortured and eroded rock, salt, and cobalt skies. We walked a kilometre or so down a road made up of salt blocks that led to a salt mine. If you were quiet you could hear the salt cracking and snapping in the heat. Even the abandoned mine buildings were made of salt blocks. We got the distinct impression that it didn’t rain there very often. (I know they were definitely salt blocks because I licked them. It was only after I was describing this, and mentioned how I identified the block’s mineral content to our new acquaintances on our wine tour that it crossed my mind that perhaps normal people do not lick buildings! The looks on their faces gave me the non-verbal cue. –Cathy)

Building made of Salt Blocks, Valley of the Moon 

Like deserts everywhere, there were hidden nooks and crannies that held treasures that were both surprising and delightful. Again, not far from San Pedro, there is a “cactus forest”where saguaro-like cactuses grow in profusion above a small watercourse that cleaves its way between two steep, rocky slopes. The air in the small canyon was surprisingly cool, and the green of the bushes, shrubs, and grasses contrasted with the surrounding red and grey rock.

Cactus Garden 

Eventually we bid San Pedro goodbye, and began the 1700 km drive through more of the Atacama Desert and back to Santiago where we were to meet up with the rest of our group for a Chilean/Argentinean wine tour. It took us a week to drive back as we meandered through several national parks including Pan de Azúcar and Fray Jorge, as well as Reservas Nacionales Pingüino de Humbolt. (Penguins and cactuses, very strange! –Cathy) Until almost to the outskirts of Santiago, the desert was a constant companion.

Pan de Azúcar National Park  

Sunset, Pan de Azúcar National Park 

After a great wine tour (which we’ll describe in another entry), we flew north again to the city of Arica, to continue our exploration of the Atacama, the altiplano, and the Andes. From Arica we drove 150 km east to the town of Putre which, at 11,600 ft is, like San Pedro de Atacama, still considered precordilleran. At “only” 8,000 ft we hadn’t felt the altitude much in San Pedro, but we could certainly feel it in Putre, not the least of which was because it was freezing cold at night.

We spent a couple of days in and around Putre, and then drove up to Parque Nacional Lauca which sits up against the Bolivian border. Lauca is a high altitude landscape of towering volcanoes, lakes, and coarse grasses where vicuñas graze, and where flamingos add their own special brand of colour to the scene. We also visited tiny Parinacota with its whitewashed 17^th century colonial church. (Gord seemed to tolerate the altitude better then me. I joined the local dogs of the village, and sat in the shade of the church tower, nursing an increasingly severe headache (no alcohol involved). It was there with the local mutts snoozing around me that I looked up and saw the incongruous sight of the old church tower and the community satellite dish that brings high speed internet to this village! –Cathy)

 Volcanos Pomerape and Parinacota 

Church at Parinacota  

Oh, and the other thing Lauca has are the strange little slit-eyed viscachas that looked like chinchillas with tails, or perhaps some type of mutant rabbit.

Viscacha 

Merry Christmas and Best Wishes for the New Year!

We didn’t see any brujos on Chiloé Island. I guess it’s just as well. For centuries, these forest-dwelling creatures have been intent on harming and corrupting Chilotes. Still, it would have been something to catch a glimpse (but not a whiff) of Fiura, who’s bad breath causes sciatica in humans, and can kill smaller animals; or to catch a whiff (but not a glimpse) of Trauco who can cut down any tree with his stone hatchet, and can kill with a look.

Being more practical than dogmatic, the Jesuits who came to the island in the 17^th and 18^th centuries accepted the mixing of these traditional beliefs with their Christian teachings. They also established the hierarchical religious system that led to the building of the island’s wooden churches, sixteen of which are now World Heritage Sites.

We arrived in Puerto Montt after a three-day trip on a Navimag ferry up through the Chilean fjords from Puerto Natales. The trip had been a pleasant one with good company, comfortable accommodations, and sightings of dolphins, whales, Magellanic penguins, and several different kinds of albatrosses as well as other seabirds.

Chilean Fjords 

Sunset, Chilean Fjords 

While passing through the Golfo Corcovado, we had spent hours on deck watching and hoping to see a blue whale in this recently discovered blue whale nursery area. I’m not sure what species of whale made the few large, bushy, rounded blows that we did see. The creatures hid themselves well, refusing to show even a hint of a back or a fluke above the water.

Unfortunately, the weather was mostly grey, misty, and cloudy and we didn’t see any of the great snow and ice covered mountains that lie beyond the lower peaks that rise up out of the channels and passages. We did, however, get an idea of what lay beyond when the captain took the ship in for a close-up look at one of the many glaciers that tumble into the sea.

Skua Glacier 

Shoreline Detail 

From Puerto Montt, it was a 45-minute drive to the Chiloé ferry. After all the rock, forest, rain, snow, and ice of Patagonia it was a pleasant surprise to arrive to early spring in Chiloé with its pastoral landscape blanketed in spring blossoms and sunshine. The sunshine was actually a bit of a surprise, as Chiloé is well known for being grey and misty.

We spent several days exploring the numerous small villages and wooden churches that dot Chiloé’s coastline. The brightly coloured houses, and the riot of yellow springtime blossoms, stood out as in sharp contrast to the bright green of the rolling hills. Fishing boats lay on the beaches like stranded whales, waiting for the high tide that would release them from the grip of land, and return them to their rightful place on the sea.

Houses, Castro, Chiloé 

Chiloé Landscape 

Fishing Boats, Quemchi 

There were several boatyards that made traditional wooden boats. It appeared that much of the work was still done with hand tools, and you could see how the builders would choose trees that already had the right general shape and curve for the keels.

Boat Building 

The tradition of wooden construction continued to the churches. UNESCO has recognized their quality and uniqueness and has designated a number of them, including the churches at Tenaun and Vilupulli, as World Heritage Sites.

Tenaun Church 

Vilupulli Church 

From Chiloé we returned to Puerto Montt, and then continued to the resort town of Puerto Varas in the Southern Lakes District. Puerto Varas looks across picturesque Lake Llanquihue to the towering volcanoes Calbuco and Osorno. Unfortunately, our luck had run out with the weather, and the summits remained wreathed in clouds and rain.

It was time to leave the mists, rain, and forests of southern Chile behind. We returned to Puerto Montt and boarded a LAN A320 bound for Calama where we would pick up a car and head into the Atacama Desert, and up to the high altiplano on the borders of Chile, Argentina, and Bolivia.

The wind was unbelievable. It tore at my anorak, and whipped the hood strings dangerously close to my eyes. When I faced into it, it pulled snot from my nose and sent it flying downwind. My eyes watered, and the inside of my glasses became hazy from the spattering of my salty tears.

Cathy “leaning against the wind”.

As we rounded the base of a wind-battered hill, briny Laguna Ana came into view. In this land of browns and muted greens, the pink smear far down the lakeshore looked very out of place.

Teetering in the wind like drunks, we approached the smear until all at once it lifted into the air. The hundreds of flamingos beat their wings madly but couldn’t make any headway against the wind. They had to be content with slipping sideways a few hundred metres down the lakeshore, then settling into the shallow water again to stand huddled together in defiance of the wind.

Flamingos.

Struggling to keep them steady, we looked down into the bottom of a bowl-shaped valley through our binoculars. Instead of bison or pronghorns that would have looked at home here, we saw groups of rusty-coloured guanacos, their long coats streaming behind them in the wind. Here and there, four-foot-tall rheas went about their bird-brained business. At least the foxes looked familiar.

Guanacos.

We were in Pali Aike National Park, a couple of hours drive northeast of Punta Arenas, and hard against the border with Argentina.

Pali Aike National Park, Chile.

A minefield near the border of Chile and Argentina. You’d think that two countries that have so much in common could think of better ways to deal with border disputes.

The first hundred or so kilometres from Punta Arenas were on a good paved road. The biggest challenge was avoiding being sucked in, and then spit out, as we moved in and out of the wind shadows caused by the trucks and buses we met in our cheerfully red Chev Aveo. Leaving the pavement, we bounced down the washboard and shuddered through the potholes to the park.

We pulled up to the small park compound. It was the only structure for as far as the eye could see. Someone was busy raking and tidying up behind the fence. They didn’t look up. I walked to the office door and tried to turn the handle but it was locked. “¡Hola!”, I said to the guy who was raking. He almost jumped out of his skin. In the wind, he hadn’t heard us drive up. We were almost surely the first people he’d seen that day, even though it was already 3 o’clock. We may have been the first people he’d seen all week. Turns out he was a big fan of the Canadian TV shows Due South and Fire and Ice.

Patagonian Sky.

From Punta Arenas we drove to Puerto Natales, and then to Torres del Paine National Park.

Torres del Paine is considered by most to be one of the finest national parks in South America. Great towers and horns rise up from the pampas, and glaciers tumble into milky blue lakes. Guanacos graze in the foothills, while Andean condors sail across the mountain faces. The mata guanaco was in bloom, and its fiery red/orange domes dotted the landscape.

Approaching Torres del Paine National Park.

Andean Condors Soaring in Front of the Towers.

Mata Guanaco in bloom.

When we left for the Mirador Torres at 8:00 a.m., the massif was wrapped in clouds and, high above, the wind scoured snow from the peaks and sent it streaming in long plumes eastward. As we walked, the weather gradually improved until we reached the viewpoint at noon. We were rewarded with a great view of the towers against a beautiful blue sky. A half hour later we turned our backs on the towers and headed down. Clouds descended on the peaks, and snow flurries blew through. The wind picked up. Our timing had been perfect.

Cathy is looking pretty happy for just having finished a four-hour hike that included the last gruelling 45 minutes straight up the moraine.

Torres del Paine.

Cathy said I had to put this one in to prove I’m actually on the trip!

We were almost back to our hosteria when we both looked up to search the sky for the jet we heard flying over. There wasn’t a jet. It was just the wind roaring amongst the peaks. Did I mention that it was windy in Patagonia?

Oh, and the penguins.

I guess we didn’t get enough penguins in Antarctica. We visited Magellanic Penguin colonies in both Argentina and Chile.

For any of you who can’t wait, let’s get it over with. Yes, we did see “chicks on feet”. But, while the Emperors had star billing on this trip, in the end the ice really stole the show.

Chicks on Feet

Iceberg.

Ice Detail.

Moonrise.

While you’d never have to ask us twice if we’d like to go back to Antarctica, we were particularly excited by this trip because we’d have a chance to see Emperor penguin chicks sitting on their parent’s feet. Uniquely among Antarctic animals, Emperor penguins brood their chicks over the Antarctic winter. (To see the extreme conditions the penguins have to endure, get a copy of March of the Penguins on DVD. It really is amazing the creatures can even survive, let alone hatch an egg and raise a chick.)

After a trip of some 60 km across the sea ice, these Emperor penguins are just arriving at the colony to relieve their mates and to feed their chicks.

Emperor Penguins.

To see “chicks on feet” you have to get to the Antarctic in the very early spring, but few trips go to Antarctica in early October like this one did. When we crossed 60°S, it’s likely we were the only ship in the world that far south. The price to be paid for going so early is that one can expect bad weather and heavy ice, and we had both.

We travelled aboard the Russian icebreaker Kapitan Khlebnikov. The Khlebnikov is a modern, very powerful icebreaker, but even it couldn’t get as close to the Snow Hill Island Emperor penguin colony as had been hoped. In the end, it took a 130 km return trip aboard one of the Khlebnikov’s pair of Russian MI-2 helicopters to reach the colony. Luckily, a two-day weather window opened up allowing all the passengers to get to Snow Hill Island, then the weather closed down again.

The Kapitan Khlebnikov.

View out the helicopter’s front window as we arrive back at the ship.

My apologies to anyone on a dialup modem, but I think the best way to tell you about our trip is not to tell you, but to show you. As I look at the photos, I feel tremendously privileged to have had the opportunity to visit such a beautiful, yet savage and unforgiving place, and to have shared a few moments in the lives of some of the creatures that live there.

Sunrise, Antarctic Sound.

Brash Ice.

Cathy doing the “penguin walk”.

Surely, Emperor penguin chicks are amongst the most beautiful and most endearing of all baby animals. It would be hard to design a stuffed toy that was more appealing.

Blue Iceberg.

Snow Petrel.

Adelie Penguin.

We also saw several other kinds of penguins including these Adelies. Along with the Emperors, these are the real ice penguins, breeding far south in Antarctica.

Adelie Song.

We had some pretty impressive storms, including this one with winds around Force 8 or 9.

Here, katabatic winds are torturing the glacier’s surface and sending the snow into a frenzy.

To reach the penguin colonies other than Snow Hill Island, we travelled from the ship to shore in Zodiac inflatables. This is pretty heavy ice for a Zodiac.

A whale skull near the Polish Arctowski Station on King George Island.

While it’s impossible to tell from this photo, this Wandering Albatross has a wingspan of some 11-12 feet. True wanderers of the open ocean, these birds stay at sea and never touch land for years at a time. In a lifetime of searching for food they will travel millions of kilometres.
For those of you who might have wondered where our strange internet domain name, diomedea, came from, it’s the genus for the large albatrosses—among our favourite creatures on earth.

Iceberg.

Sundog.

P.S. My apologies for the delay in posting this entry. We’ve been travelling in Patagonia and have had some trouble accessing the internet. Our next entry should be up soon…