My ‘Q’ (Part III of III)

3 May
We got up the next morning and knew this was the penultimate day, and while it was a crappy night with rain coming in through Pippa’s tent (thanks North Face!) and as a result all our stuff was soaked, we headed up in pretty high spirits knowing it was almost over.
We knew once we got through the ladders, we were not too far from Campamento Grey, so that was the carrot that kept us going (I think Dan, our unofficial team leader, learned the hard way that Pippa and I responded far better to carrot approaches than sticks!).
Having enjoyed the beauty of the Circuit, especially this back part, especially that the landscape and terrain were so diverse, meaning  each day had something new and interesting to walk through, to look at. 
The first ladder had been challenging with a 12k pack on, but again not that much of a big deal and scarier in our minds than in reality. But the second ladder was a somewhat different story.
As we approached, all very excited as it meant approaching the final stage, and we now knew what to expect, everyone felt a new burst of energy, but as we rounded the corner to the second ladder down, we saw the Brooklyn couple (who’d set off a fair bit earlier than us) and suddenly realised things were not that straightforward.
The girl (whose name is escaping me right now), who we’d seen practically blossom on a daily basis, having come away with zero trekking experience and be thrown by her boyfriend Dan into one of the most famed hikes in Patagonia, whenever we had a bit of a tough time, we kept saying we wondered how she was coping, and making jokes about how many make-up points she’d accumulated since heading off. “That’s one bigass piece of jewellery he owes her now…” etc) shouted back to us: “We have a big problem..”
“What’s up?” Pippa asked.
We all rounded towards the head of the ladder and looked down at the ravine, 15m or so beneath us. 
We gazed across and saw a group of others (Swedish? German?) looking anxiously over at us from the opposite side.
“We can’t get across. The rain in the night caused a landslide, and the ground isn’t stable. The Russian and English guy from this morning tried getting over. The Russian guy made it, but the English guy didn’t. He’s hurt, quite badly, we think…”
Sh1t. We panicked, where is he? Is he okay? What can we do? 
Pippa and Dan, being doctors, Bryan being of a naval search & rescue heli team and Brooklyn Dan being a paramedic suddenly formed this Lost-style cast of potential helpers and sprung into action. This is my belated contribution.
Realising he would be cold, hungry, scared, in shock and probably in a lot of pain, we tried shouting down to keep him comforted (as much as possible) and chucked some spare food at him, but he seemed pretty sensible and was keeping warm in his sleeping bag, but his arm was quite hurt.
Now, all this was found out afterwards, so apologies for the timeline of my account, but it seems as they crossed the ravine, as Matt followed Dimitri up the incline, having crossed, the ground collapsed under him, throwing Matt back into the water. Boulders and rocks then were falling alongside him, as he had to shield his head from the rocks – some of which were bigger than footballs. if he’d not done so, I don’t think this blog would take the tone it has, and his amazing cycling trip around the world to raise money for War Child would have been very sadly cut short. More on that later…
So, Dimitri ran off to get help. We kept Matt talking every 20 minutes or so, ensuring he kept consciousness, and eventually, an hour or two later, some guards arrived on the other side of the water. 
Again, putting this in context, if it had been decided that we were unable to cross, it would have meant turning around and heading back to the previous well-equipped campsite, which was Dickson – three campsites ago. That would have meant crossing John Gardner’s Pass AGAIN, all with limited food, limited fuel, very cold, wet and tired. It was simply not an option, but one we were dreading, having come so far.
Given this was Chilean Patagonia, and resources were somewhat inferior to those of the US Navy (I’m assuming), any of Bryan’s helicopter S&R experience would not be happening. We had to cross that ravine. 
Looking to the guys coming down to assess the situation, we could see that the ground had fallen away, undercutting the path they were standing on. We could only assume that our side looked in the same state, and therefore any movement was risky and any consequences uncertain.
Our hero (Miguel?) bounced down the ravine, crossed the water, unaided, to check things out. He established that Matt was stable, and that we six also needed to get across. 
In this time, new people had arrived on the opposite ledge. 
As he went back up, radioing in to someone, the Russian arrived back, along with another guy, who looked very agile, with blond hair, glasses, and a wiry frame, suggesting he was a climber of some sort and filled us with confidence. He ran down that hill testing out the route they were going to take to get us all back up the other side.
Ropes were thrown down, and any newfound confidence evaporated immediately…. 
“Those ropes are not long enough. And they don’t really look like they really know what to do with them…”
Miguel (let’s go with that for now) directed us all how to get down the ladder, one at a time. Our packs were laid gently to the floor and would be following us up afterwards. As we crossed the riverbed, with him shouting at us (pigeon-Spanish-meets-pigeon-Mime with one or two English sounds, in crisis situation, simply adds to the nervousness, by the way) to follow precisely in his footsteps if we were to make it safely across.
As we stepped onto the boulders, some of them were loose. The solution? Kick them away, don’t try and protect them from falling. Some of these boulders were HUGE and seeing them drop away, the impact when they bounced around the ravine on the way down, causing other, smaller rocks to follow suit, was an unspoken reminder of what would happen if we got our footing wrong, had misjudged the ground, or indeed what might have happened to Matt if things had taken a turn for the worse. It was scary but there was not really any time to be scared or to not trust these people, who had our safety in their hands.
A rapid lesson in reverse abseiling later, on unstable ground, with a mere rope around our waists, we all made it up safely and soundly, many thanks indeed to the TdP crew. 
Hot tea and first aid was waiting for Matt, who was lucky enough to escape with a few cuts, bruises, scrapes and knocks to his arms and leg, a few knocks to his head, some torn clothing and one helluva a story to tell in his own blog, TheCycleDiaries, which is documenting his 25,000+ mile, 35 country RTW cycling tour in support of War Child.
http://www.justgiving.com/thecyclediaries if anyone wants to donate to his cause.
Arriving at Grey soundly, the boys had gone off to the Mirador to look at the glacier and ice field from a better angle. Pippa and I just wanted some comfort and headed straight back to camp, we considered even staying in the hostel as a reward to ourselves, but decided money would be better spent elsewhere and opted for a beer and a packet of M&Ms instead, before even pitching our tent.
We had survived, with only one night left! WE LEAVE TOMORROW! 
After a stunning walk to come face to face with glacier Grey and its resultant icebergs in a tiny lake outside the campsite, we had an emotional, fun, celebratory dinner of shared resources (Matt & Dimitri had fallen short of food by this point) and the best tasting rice and pasta dishes (using my aforementioned ‘appropriated’ chorizo!), accompanied by some cheap, boxed, overpriced wine. And well deserved at that.
So, this was our final morning, bound once more for Paine Grande, to catch the 12.30 catamaran that took us back home. 
Up before dawn, spurring each other with murmurs of very tired encouragement, we were due to be setting off around 7, in order to be there well in time for the cat. It was set to be around a 4 hour walk, but we’d heard some bright young things the night before saying they’d done it in just over 3. 
Either way, it was dark and we were tired, but keen to just get it over with.
As we were finishing breakfast, all thinking how dark it was outside, we then remembered something about daylight savings time, that fell somewhere around the 1st April. We were a few days after that, but apparently being out on the trail for as long as we had, time had kind of become irrelevant to anything other than our own frames of reference – ie time between camps, between rests, sunrises and sunsets. Basically, we were up an hour earlier than we needed to be, but we set off anyway, dark, cold and very, very rainy.
This was the hardest morning, for me anyway. It simply wasn’t fun anymore, and I just wanted it over with. Don’t get me wrong, it was still beautiful, very eerie actually, with the glacier in first light, the lake taking on a grey hue with only the odd very turquoise iceberg to see, and the forest bathed in grey as well. But my fingers were frozen to the point of pain in their wet-through gloves, my shoulders were starting to ache like hell, I was sick of carrying my backpack, and sick of not sleeping. The torrential rain didn’t help, especially as, following Rusty’s advice of not wearing waterproofs during the day, I’d worn my jacket but didn’t bother with the trousers, so my legs were soaked and freezing. I was losing my sense of humour, and was beyond taking pictures as my camera would have just got wet anyway. Luckily, I have realised that I have an immense capacity for holding back energy for when it is really required, and my spare tank was full. As pacemaker (and I apologise to Dan, Pippa and Bryan once again for my lack of conversation and nutty speed going down, but I still think it was the better option!) I pretty much steamed back to camp as quickly as possible, and once I also needed the loo, the stops became pretty non-existent (too wet and cold to enjoy the views) and it was a race to get back as soon as possible.
Eventually, the rain eased, the sun started to shine a little bit, we realised it had snowed since we were last in this section of the park, which made for some really beautiful mountains, and we saw the shimmering turquoise of Lago Pehoe at the site of Camp Paine Grande, our beacon of warmth, calm, civilisation, the pickup point for the catamaran and the end of our Q. 
“Baptism of fire, Patagonia style” – Rustyn Mesdag, Erratic RockImageImageImage.

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My ‘Q’ (Part II)

2 May

And it´s now the real fun starts, apparently!

This is where the campsites tend to start running into one another, and I´m not going to feel bad any more about wondering which bit was Torres, and which bit was Dickson, and whether Perros came before Paso or not. Because a) barely any of you reading this will either notice or care, and b) because it doesn´t really matter!
The point is, that we trekked on, and on, and on, and on, and ON and it was getting harder, I was getting rattier (I realised my very strong necessity for my basic needs being met. Something my darling Omar and I have discussed many a time) as I noted the annoyance of my metabolism and the efficiency of my bladder, and basically it was yes, lovely, but also fecking annoying. This was the long day, the annoying day, and the day that you tended to wonder why you were getting rattier rather than loving it as you felt you should, and of course, it was ´cause you had been up since 4.30am! Sorry for that stream of consciousness.
Now, not all is bad. We are half way through. This is both good for morale, and you´ve seen some pretty awesome stuff, and your ego is being appeased by the fact that you´re doing longer/better/faster than the ´competitive´ Australians, the group of ill-suited girls and the (probably Scandinavian) Hot Couple.
By this point is it well evidenced that I am the metaphorical lovechild of Dan and Pippa´s personalities. Pippa and I are both equally non-competitive, and modest, and very giving yet extremely competitive when it came to other girls who weren´t either of us. Go figure.
While Pippa is possibly one of the nicest (yet cool and nice, not nice and nice) people I´ve ever met,  Dan and I were both acerbic, direct, and judgmental. Whilst trying to still feign niceness.
Sorry, yet another digression there….
So we were en route, and going at a decent pace, Bryan in tow by this point, and we hit the first real evidence of The Patagonian Winds. We were sideways up a mountain, the wind was going schiz, still looking at the (now unknown) Lago next to us, and forcing ourselves into the hillside in order to not be blown off. We were heading for Serron (I think), and also, on this day, met The American Couple (later known as The Annoying American Couple in order to differentiate, before the other ones became known as either the Nice American Couple, or simply, Brooklyn), and made some pretty decent time in our hiking.
We began becoming very excited about our markers (this section was split, nicely, into quarters, with a clear wooden sign at each sub-point, and the time taken between markers meant we were either jumping for joy and high fiving or downbeat and evermore geared up for the next stage) and arrived at camp happy and morale high. We stayed the night there, Dan very kindly lent lent me his very warm coat to sleep in, the mozzies were going bananas, but we had our appropriated brownies to make us happy, and various folk, by this point Had To Dig. We were all very cozy by now, it would seem….
Chris (Keanu Reeves, not been mentioned for a while), saw a puma about 10ft away as his was trews-round-ankles at 7am, and I´d acquired the World´s Worst Farts, through not being able to Dig for the last few days… (Sorry, again, with the coziness…)
We hit the next campsite, Dickson, in record time. So much so, that Ajay (remember him?) made it clear he was impressed, but rather than making a complimentary observation, it came across as though he was either somehow annoyed or shocked that we had done okay. This came off the back of his earlier comment, upon hearing that Dan´s tummy was feeling a bit off, and therefore we might slow down that previous morning (´´Oh, I didn´t think it would be YOU that might have not coped and been ill? I assumed as much of one of the girls, you know, complaining they needed their chocolate fix, or something…?´´)
Dickson was a turning point for us all. Morale became HIGH.
We had not only kicked arse on our timings, our packs (yes, as Rusty had predicted) were lighter and therefore less of an issue, we were all feeling positive about the fact we´d already done an amazing thing, and therefore this was all now ´bonus´ time, and we hit the camp JUST as the first real daytime rain was coming in. We knew how lucky we had been, and were not expecting it could continue. 
Dickson was a great campsite. Great. Andy, the guy who managed it, was lovely. Not quite as lovely as I think Pippa hoped I would think he was (!) but very sweet. He and his cronies soon helped us make a very easy decision as to whether to just have a hot chocolate or to splash out our one paid-for meal in their place as opposed to the last site.
I think it was the warm, comfortable setting, the wood surrounds, the showers, and general pride in what we had achieved so far that made us feel we deserved it. That, and the hand-rolled pastry we saw being made before us combined with delicious smells coming from the kitchen.
The fittest mussel and pea salad, vegetable soup and steak and vegetable pie, followed by a serving of fruit salad (a la Del Monte) felt like our Last Supper, it was that emotional and appreciated.
Sadly, after a week of very bland, predictable foods, this is where my digestive system started playing pranks on me, the swine…
Just as I’d dropped my guts inside the very small log cabin really badly and was saying to Dan (who was about to call over Andy the refugio host) ‘don’t get him over YET…’ he did exactly that. Poor Andy, but Dan and Pippa thought it was hilarious. As did I, eventually. This sadly was not a shortlived problem. We decided as a rule on the trek that ‘if you need to fart, you walk to the back of the group’. It worked, for the most part, and we even had Bryan relaxing into our toilet talk after a few days, after his first reaction to Pippa’s sprinting off to ‘dig’, shouting “sorry I can’t talk to you, I really need the toilet” was a simple, horrified-looking “you really didn’t need to share that!” As neither did I with you now, but bowel movement and digestion have been major conversation topics for the last few months, so consider yourselves involved.
We made our way to Campamento Perros, which Alejandro, one of Andy’s mates ran. We asked him how long it took him to get from one site to the other. “About two hours”. It was marked as due to take us between four and 4.5. It had been a relatively relaxed walk though, relatively speaking.
As we arrived, Alejandro had clearly been sitting there chilling for a while, grinning at us in his Benicio Del Toro kind of way. We quickly pitched our tents, hung up our food in the trees (lesson learned!) and headed down to the riverbed to have our tea and biscuits. Ajay may have actually partaken as well at this point. We had converted him! It soon became pretty freezing, so we ate our pasta pretty swiftly and headed back up to the camp. 
Alejandro was showing off his circus skills to some of the others, his tightrope act between two trees pretty well perfected. Sadly his encouragement wasn’t enough to have any of us manage more than even one step. I could stand still for a microsecond, but that was about it. So bedtime it was, all of us a little nervous about waking to the day of The Pass the next morning.
Paso John Gardner is the highest point of the circuit, which overlooks the top of Glacier Grey, which adjoins to the Patagonian ice field – the second largest in the world after Antarctica. Having been to the glacier Perito Moreno (mentioned in previous blog), how it was described by Rustyn was that if Perito Moreno was one of his fingers (and it looked pretty huge), then this ice field was his entire arm. That is what we were in for. 
However, in order to enjoy such a ridiculously beautiful sight, you have to earn it. And earning it, in this case, was getting over JGP. 
Now the trekking is not particularly arduous, compared to what we had already done, but my God, if we’d been very lucky thus far with the weather, and some members of the group starting to question what all the fuss was about with these infamous Patagonian winds, this was the day to prove itself to us all. 
We headed off as the four we usually were, assuming Chris and Ajay had done their usual earlier start, but Chris was still in his tent as we leaf the camp, so we assumed they were having a relaxed start to the day. About an hour or so in, crossing many a muddy log bridge, forested hill or whatnot, he caught us, sans Ajay. “I shouted him, he grunted and didn’t answer.”
We’d passed The Competitive Americans once or twice, with them clearly having pep talked into needing to up their pace today, all of a sudden very conscious that we might overtake them (ridiculous), and we’d not seen the nice Brooklyn couple since breakfast.
Anyway, was trekked with Chris for a while, and as the winds were picking up, we all became suddenly far more sympathetic towards Ajay, worried about whether he’d be okay on his own.
These winds were howling, and the speed was picking up as the temperature was dropping with each metre of raised altitude. 
The views were spectacular, as the autumn changes were taking place across the entire forest, now visible behind us for a lot further than we’d seen previously.
As we got higher, and the orange path markers got simultaneously harder to spot and more appreciated, the winds’ ferocity grew. I gave up on trying to get my camera out, and the poles were now not welcomed, but essential in order to stay upright. Rusty’s warnings over the wind and how it hit you were loud and clear in our heads, and we then began recognising the sound of those winds coming in from afar, and as Chris put it: “When you hear that wind approaching, you just get DOWN”, and the naturally safest position was anything with a lower centre of gravity, so it was poles in hard, bent over at waist, knees bent, and brace. Until it passed such that you could stand up and power on again. You got so that you were walking into the incline, fearful you might fall over backwards otherwise, and tumble down the hill if you got taken out by the wind. We all knew we were at a point in the circuit that we all had been looking forward to and fearing at the same time. It was laughable, and we all went to that slightly crazy place as each wind gust hit us. It was each to their own as we tried staying vertical, clambering up the hill. At one stage, Bryan needed to just get ahead. Pippa and Chris were behind me, and Dan was straight ahead. The plains are pretty open, so your only shelter is any rock you might see that is big enough to shield you. There were a couple, and they were pretty spaced out. At one stage I forced myself forward, laughing like a madwoman, whilst terrified I might lose my footing. The shards of gravel were spearing you in the face, and the winds were probably about 100kph. Dan shouts down “Are you okay?” just as a gust took me out, luckily, just in front of a huge boulder that was sitting to my rear. My legs went out and I instinctively put my arms out to protect myself, cheek and forearm making contact with the rock at full speed and having to grip the edge of it with my fingertips, but thank God! If that rock hadn’t been there, I think I’d have been down and seriously injured.
Laughing at the fact I wasn’t dead, shouted back to Dan, “That rock just saved my life!”
A few photos of those falling, suspended, into the wind shots, us screaming with how mad it was, overjoyed with having made it and then looking up and ahead and seeing the backdrop of the top view of Glacier Grey, was about as good as it gets.
We began the procession downwards, with the boys going all primal and Pippa and I just wanting to get down a level or two as quickly as possible to regain feeling in our hands (having bloody Raynaud’s phenomenon has been a killer on this trip!), and we knew we had overcome the hardest part, but still had a few major milestones to go. The steps (a series of downhill stairs that go on for over an hour – great for the knees) and tomorrow the ladders (a pair of 15m high aluminium ladders that you have to descend, cross a ravine, and then up the other side before you can carry on the final stage to Grey, our last campsite and the golden chalice we’d all been waiting for. 
We toyed with the idea of going straight through, as we hit Campamento Paso, as this was one option in order to reduce our 10 day trek to 9. Frankly, I was over it all, and losing morale frequently, and just wanted to get it over with.
Pippa was equally fed up. We talked about it, and Dan, the voice of reason, was showing us both sides of pros and cons (we’ve come all this way, do we want to rush through and only get to the nicest campsite in the dark when you can’t enjoy it, and have to trek all that way again on our sore, tired feet, etc). Chris wanted to power on, while Bryan was pretty clear he wanted to camp and enjoy the final day on a decent night’s sleep. It was opened to debate, but one look at Pippa’s feet made our decision for us. The poor girl had just hiked about 8km, up and down hills, with a full pack on, and her 6’1″ beautiful frame had been carrying all that on feet covered in about 30 blisters. There were blisters upon blisters. It made me want to cry just looking at them, and I still to this day have no idea how she managed it. Heroine. And I know she was gutted as in her heart, mind and the rest of her body she was keen to crack on, but her sorry feet held her back. So, we decided to call it a day and stop at the campsite which overlooked the glacier (amazing), with a full, clear, end to end rainbow in the backdrop (couldn’t have made it up), and our own private stream. 
Sadly, this day, the first we arrived at camp when it was actually daylight and we could have chilled out, was the day it decided to start raining, and not stop for several hours.
We were holed up in the shelter, chatting to our new friends from Brooklyn, and saying hello to two newbies who’d come from the other direction, Matt from England, and Dimitri from Russia, unbeknownst at this point that adversity would cement these new friendshipsImageImageImage…

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The `W`, or My `Q` (Part I)

24 Apr

Almost a month after hitting Patagonia I am finally ready (and have time, inclination and a decent, free internet connection to take full advantage of) to detail the thrill of having completed The Q.

What helped with the timing, was a dinner the other night with a few (of the many) new friends I have met in Brazil. Two Israelis, a Portuguese, a Dutch and a Belgian and I were were having dinner in Lençóis the other night (that sounds like the start of a really bad joke, I realise) and the two Israeli guys’ reaction when I mentioned the Q was pretty much ’’ F**k! You did the Q!? Amazing! You must be one of the crazy ones!¨ And words to that effect.

The Portuguese guy, yet to pop his Patagonian cherry, dismissed this part of the conversation as both irrelevant and unworthy, dare I suggest disbelieving that anything might be that challenging.

Again, my Israeli friends tried to explain.  ’’No, no! Most people do the W. We did the W. Some people do the Circuit. Only crazy Mofos do the Q!’’ You get the point.

This was my Q…

I’ve explained my meeting of the ridiculously beautiful (inside and out) Pippa and the sweetest and the most annoyingly sunnily disposed (of his own admission!) Australian/Singaporean IN THE WORLD Dan, the Erratic Rock talk by Rustyn that convinced me to change my plans, and the whirlwind shopping trip around Puerto Natales to gear up for setting off the next day, having finally packed and fallen into bed at 3am.

Being picked up at 7.30 and alarms therefore set for 6ish, I was in one room, and Pippa and Dan in another. I´d had breakfast, showered, finished packing, sent a v quick email to advise my family I wouldn´t be in touch for 10 or 11 days but I was not dead (yet) and was putting together my finishing touches (ie the mental What Very Important Thing Have I Forgotten list) top my packing, and an Austrian girl we met at the talk (and had already decided we didn´t want to trek with her. I´ll add now that one of the things Dan, Pippa and I had in common was our ability to judge Potential Compatibility or Potential Annoyance at 100% paces) came in to the lounge. ’

’Shouldn´t your friends be awake?’’

Me: ’’Aren´t they?’’

Her: ’’No. They are still sleeping, but I thought we get picked up in 15 minutes, no?’’

Me (running into their room): ’’Dan! Pippa! Wake up!’’

Dan (all sarky): ’’Erm, it´s only 6.10….we have ages.’

Me (slightly panicking, with no experience of their getting ready speed at this stage): ’’No! It´s just gone 7.10! We leave at half past!’’

We had to laugh at the chaos as Dan realised his iPhone hadn´t auto-updated since changing timezones. NOW it fails. Doh…

Impressively, we were all ready and kitted out in good time and waiting outside the hostel at 7,29 as planned. At 7.45, we still were.

The panic was setting in, ever so slightly, with the words of Rustyn ringing in our ears (’’You will always be better off buying your bus ticket to the park from whichever hostel you are staying at. I´ve been doing this for nine years, and the only time I´ve ever heard of anything going wrong is when people try and save themselves a few pesos by buying their ticket from somewhere in town. Which may or may know which hostel you are staying in, and may or may not be up and open for business at 7am on the day you are due to leave….’’ Damn that pesky Rustyn and his insight!), we were starting to worry that maybe we weren´t going to be picked up. Me, Glass Half-Full Girl these days, was thinking I could go back to bed for a few hours.

Just as we were starting to give up hope, and Shakana our lovely host looking at us (we had done precisely the aforementioned what NOT to do) with that I Told You So look on his face, shrugged, unsympathetically, the bus arrived. Hurdle One: Overcome!

Slept much of the 2.5 hour journey to the Park, nervous, excited, still tired and full of wonder as to what lay ahead, and we arrived to pay our entrance fee. The three Torres, or Towers, lay right ahead and gave a taste of what natural beauty we were in for.

Most people (those doing the W) get dropped off at the first stage, to the southeast, some then (those getting the famed catamaran across the first lake to the base of the circuit) get dropped off at Paine Grande, but we were carrying on to the park Administration.

There were five people on the bus at this stage, and we were three of them. The others we recognised from our Erratic Rock talk. They were a young, skinny, Keanu Reeves lookalike from the US and a Kiwi/Australian guy called Ajay. That´s not me not knowing the difference. That´s him claiming both nationalities. I´d guessed a few years older than me, and already established as being one of those people who think he has a wealth of experience and advice and obviously everyone else would like to hear it. Unsolicited, of course.

At Administration, we´d decided that we wanted to trek alone, rather than set the precedent on Day One of being a quintet, so Dan and I messed about taking spurious important photos of well, nothing much.

Trek underway, the Rustyn-forewarned first 10 minute break (¨The most important one of the day. This is where you make all your adjustments that will ensure a better day trekking thereafter¨) out of the way, and Dan (thank you for this one, I´ve taken it with me) reminding us to remember how lucky we are for having the means and the will to be doing what we are doing, and to truly appreciate it. A beautiful half day trekking!

When we arrived at camp, Pippa and I were shocked that we hit camp as quickly as we did, both geared up mentally and physically for a much longer day.  This was Campo Las Carretas. As we ´d arrived so early, and we´d pitched our tents in surprisingly swift time, and there was not really much else to do once the ubiquitous photos were taken, Pippa and I were hungry. Dan, hereafter the (meant in the best humour) Food Nazi, which was a definite Good Thing.  

Let me explain, for those who have not hiked for several days before. Between three of us, we carried our clothes (day and night, and extra warm or waterproof things, despite Rusty´s best advice), our sleeping bags, our ground mats, our trekking poles, our tents (Pippa and I were sharing, so split the load), anything to wash with, plus enough food for two meals a day, for 11 days, plus snacks, gas canisters, cooking utensils and a plate, cup and water bottle each, first aid kits, spare (night time) shoes… packs on Day One are heavy! Dan´s point, was that as we were so carefully rationed, anything we ate beyond our meal plan would therefore render us short later on the hike. We would eat too early out of boredom, then be hungry later and have not enough to last all the days.

Don´t get me wrong, this is not uncharted trekking, There are one or two (limited and overpriced) shops, and one or two of the refugios have showers, and there may be some surprises along the way (more on this later!) but ultimately, you take what you need. Nothing more.

The beauty of this part of the world is that you don´t have to carry water. You can drink pure, clear, Patagonian glacial water directly from the streams and falls. As much as you like, and as often as you like. You can even (sorry, you are soon going to be SO bored of Rustyisms if you´re not already) ¨Get down on all fours and drink it like a dog if you want to

¨ Day Two, I realised that Pippa and I as tent buddies was going to work just fine. I realised that when you think you may need a wee, get up and go for a bloody wee. It is NOT going to go away. You can wait it out all you like, waiting for the rain or the wind to stop, but the urge will only get worse. I also realised that (sorry John!), the sleeping bag I´d borrowed from my brother as it was much smaller than mine, was also much thinner and colder. I was FREEZING and as a result hardly slept. Error number one.  

Not a morning person at the best of times, and on a crappy night´s sleep, with sore shoulders and having only done a very short day of two or three hours, I was starting to wonder if I was doing the right thing. This feeling should have passed. But when I walked around the corner to the shelter and saw all the binliners containing all of our stuff, chewed to bits and strewn all over the shelter, including all the rubber handles off my trekking poles, the plastic tips gnawed to bits, every single ziplocked bag of clothing nibbled at  and all my binliners chomped to bits, I lost my sense of humour fast and then really doubted whether I had done the right thing.

Ajay bore the brunt first, bless him. Telling myself not to freak out as it was my own fault, Pippa rounded the corner. ¨What´s wrong?¨my face obviously saying it all.  

“Erm, I think we had some visitors in the night.“

So, we decided our rat friends had had a party, tried on all my clothes, danced around my poles, decided they either weren´t hungry or couldn´t be arsed to touch the actual food that was hanging literally two feet above the benches, and then we realised that they had gone through Pippa`s carefully measured trail mix, picking out all the good stuff and leaving all the crap we didn´t really like. They`d gone through our carrot sticks (but we decided to simply wash them off – a decision we may come to regret a few days from here) and basically made us feel pillaged, robbed and thoroughly p1ssed off! Anyone that knows me well knows that anything rodent-like is pretty much my worst nightmare. Give me a spider or a snake any day of the week.  

Day Two underway, morale was low, the hiking was still Easy-to-Moderate, and annoyingly, Pippa and I desperately trying to convince Dan his book was just kidding and this was actually Hard had no effect.

We arrived at Campo Paine Grande, the campsite and refugio that Rusty had termed Disneyland. We were expecting pretty much the golden arches or a Starbucks when we arrived, but I have to admit, my shoulders were in such agony by this point, I was nearly in tears, I couldn`t believe it was only Day Two and the Coke and Tuna sandwich shared with Dan was pretty much the best I`d ever tasted, so it beat any arches or expected mod cons hands down.

Oh, a point on this. Last night at Camp, the first near-row ensued. Our first real insight into the ways of Ajay. As Dan was making a tea, we were deciding on our treat rations (Do we have our two Oreos, or our third of a Snickers bar today?) and Ajay ambles over, “Oh, you kids and your treats….“ (at this point he has no idea how old we are).

Dan took the bait before I did.

“What? Because we like to sit and chill with a tea and a biscuit after a day´s hiking? What´s wrong with that?“  

Ajay: “Well, when I trek, I just go for the basics that I need (He lived on Two Minute noodles – aka Zero nutritional value) and have my big treat at the end when I get home. Plus I have to carry all my own stuff….“ (suggesting we had invisible Sherpas that we were exploiting to carry said Oreos)

This went on, but when we arrived at Paine Grande, and Dan has already said that if he was having so much as a machine-made cup of coffee, he was going to get both barrels. A can of Coke and two chocolate bars before him, Dan and I gave him plenty of grief, the hypocrite.

This being the first real break we´d taken, it was harder to get going, but we reached Campamento Italiano in decent time (we were pretty much trekking to expected time so far) and went and sat down by a beautiful waterfall, having a coffee, listening to what we first thought was thunder, which turned out to be the repeated calving of the glacier behind us. It was a pretty special moment and I had one of those ´Bloody hell, I´m actually in Patagonia!´moments.

At camp. we sat around, impressed with the clearly very experienced camping skills of those around us (like building some pulley-type contraption to keep their food high up over a tree branch, or having an extra tarp to sit on before they went to bed), and went to bed. Just beforehand, I decided to take a trip to the loo. These were the (relatively) posh loos. Dry ones, where you were supposed to use sawdust to kill the smell, and were built up on stilts. But there was no sawdust, and as I tried to leave, the key (which was seemingly made of semi-molten metal) was turning in the lock, but the thread was staying still. As I realised I was probably turning it too much, and should stop, it snapped off, and I was locked in the loo, which was locked from the inside.  Joy. Luckily for me, my ridiculous cartoonesque calls of “HELP! HELP! Can anyone hear me?!“ were answered by a guy walking past the toilet area before the whole campsite went to sleep, probably wearing earplugs.

Night Two was a slightly better sleep than Night One, but not much. I´d realised trying to hold back some clothing for when it got really cold was pointless, and that I should just wear everything now.

We were able to leave the camp set up, and heading uphill to Valle Frances, one of the supposed highlights of the whole trek. It was incredibly beautiful, a lovely walk up, with varied terrain through a stream, much larger and bigger boulders, some beautiful (if sadly) burnt out forests, and the start of the autumn colours turning against the hillsides. We reached the top, and it was colder, windier, and rainier than we`d had so far but a beautiful setting to have some rather awkward photos taken by the group of very unwilling Israeli guys at summit.

We legged it down, feeling a sense of achievement and really starting to enjoy the hike, then realising we were not wearing our packs, which might have been something of a contributor.

Day Three to continue, when we reached the halfway point, according to our markers, Dan and I had a little celebratory outburst, as we thought we had a lot further to go. A bit too enthusiastically, to the amusement of Pippa, who had obviously seen the German (?) couple who were taking photos, quietly enjoying the lake and the scenery at this point. Woops. Lago Pehoe (I think, it might have been Nordenskjöld, and yes, I did have to Google that one) is stunning. It is ALL stunning but every now and then a certain site would make you stop and think for a little longer, and forget the pain in your legs, feet, shoulders, anywhere else…  

We all got very excited as we passed a few ´real live´ gauchos along the way, and as we neared, imagine my surprise when I bumped, quite literally, as they were coming the opposite way, into my former Familia Nueva (or half of them, anyway), and saw Lukas and Jaz from El Chalten!

“ Where´s abuela?“ I asked.

Lukas, straight to the point: “Oh, she´s doing some f**king cripple tour, with the old people.“ (She´s 30)

Knowing this meant she would be at the campsite, I warned Pippa and Dan, as she´d been the butt of many a joke up to now. Sorry if you´re reading this. It´s nothing I wouldn´t say to your face… ;o)  

We arrived, and Ajay, true to his (new) form, was signing himself up for a meal at the refugio, Cuernos, a campsite where you pitched tents on boards, and they had showers and a shelter in which you could cook, even if you were just camping. They also had the most beautiful view of the Cuernos Del Paine, which we referred to as the ´chocolate´ mountains, with their peaks in two-toned shades of grey-brown.

We stayed the night here, met an Australian couple, and ate some of Dan´s amazing pasta and pesto. I should have stated already that Dan is a self-proclaimed foodie, loves cooking, and (I know this is not really claiming much, again, to anyone who knows me) made meals using camping equipment and supplies that outshone anything I would ever cook at home. Thank you again Dan, for your skills.

Sadly, in the time it took us to get back to our tents after this dinner, the edge was taken off it when Dan realised it was his turn for some furry visitors. Whilst he´d got away unscathed the first night, our Ratty McRat friends (we are making this assumption, BTW, having not actually seen anything take place) had bitten a hole in his tent, and got through to our bag of powdered milk. The beasts. It threw Dan´s (thus far unwavering) confidence and high spirits for a while as he was then nervous they´d return. They didn´t, and luckily we didn´t see anything more of them after that.

But in the morning, as I was brushing my teeth and stretching out for the day (very good multi-tasker, me), I spotted something that was to make up for all things mice and have me crowned Queen Finder Keeper for the trip. I spotted something in the grass, and kicked it with my foot to see it was a full chorizo sausage, about six inches of it <insert lewd joke here>, and still fully wrapped in its cellophane. I casually looked around to see if anyone spotted me spotting it, and the guy to my right didn´t seem to. I kept my foot near it, thinking this was a find beyond finds and I had dibs, and Dan approached and as I showed him, he was equally excited (wow, how you appreciate the little things when you are out in nature!) and we were like a pair of kids, Dan immediately working it into his already-impressive meal plan. We ran up to Pippa, assuming it would have the desired effect of brightening her day (morale was still a bit low after the rat incident and Pippa´s ever-increasing blister collection).

“Close your eyes. We have a surprise you´re going to LOVE.“  

“Urgh! That smells like sh1t!! Get it away from me!!“

Ah, not quite the reaction we had in mind… Anyway, we chopped the open end off and added it to our mix.  

Onto Day Four… This, we reminded each other, was the day we were supposed to be starting to feel like we ruled the world and everything in it. We were not there yet. Not in any way.

We headed off towards Los Torres. Here there was a hotel, a hostel, and a campsite in a similar part of the path.  We got to the hotel, went to the best bathrooms ever and then faffed around, wondering if we should buy something to eat here or at the next place. We were convinced (Bryan!) that if we went to the next place, there was probably more choice. We walked up to the hostel and there was less choice. Doh! We faffed there a bit more and Pippa had chance to restrap her feet with more plasters than I´ve ever counted on one pair (which by now were resembling a work of art) and carried on, heading upwards towards Chileno. The views were stunning, the walks were long and open, with great views for miles. It was greener than we´d been used to, and far more vast, giving you a real sense of the space we were enjoying.  

We kept passing this guy with a beard (slingshotting, was the term I think he used) we´d seen at Cuernos. We´s also seen a group of about six girls   a few times, who Pippa and I had independently done an amateur psychoanalysis of their group dynamics and together decided that a) six is too big a group to trek in b) two girls were clearly keener and would be better off going ahead, c) two girls were clearly not as interested and would have been far happier splintering off by themselves at a slower pace and that if they continued the way they were, they would all be miserable for the duration. This was based on minimal observation but I like to think we were right.

We passed a beautiful riverbed at Refugio Chileno, the spot that Rusty (there he is again!) warned us we`d be tempted to stay at. He was right.  We forced ourselves onwards to Campamento Los Torres, where we were greeted by Bryan, or That Bearded American Guy, as he was up until now. We set up camp, went and had dinner up a bit from the campsite, with a much clearer view of the mountains, some air, and away from the camp. We also found out that Bryan was from Long Island and had performed helicopter search and rescue for the US Navy, and had a girlfriend called Brady, who put up a tough defense against his coming away for three months. He pretty much straight away became the fourth to our party of three.

Up at 4.30 or so, ready to hit the summit of the Torres for sunrise, we were braced for “a 45 minute hike at 45 degrees. There was no other way of doing this, and it will be in the dark, over boulders“ (- Guess who?).

We set off, armed with the sound advice that rather than getting all warmed up, running up the hill, getting there too hot, then taking off all our gear, then seeing the sunrise, taking the photos of the Torres in the red light and having to very quickly put all our gear back on again and run back down the hill because its too cold… we should do it the other way, or the Rusty Way!

“Set off cold. You will be hiking for 45 minutes at 45 degrees uphill. You will get hot, not through what you are wearing, but because you are trekking. Take your sleeping bag, your mat, your warm clothes with you. Take your breakfast bars and even your coffee and stove. Get up the top, and when you get there, get settled in, and watch the magical red glow hit the towers as the sun comes over the top, reflecting in the water at the base of the three peaks and showing you one of the most incredible sites you could imagine.

That`s how it should have been. I totally forgot to bring the stove, so our coffee moment was not quite as magical as it could have been. ie it didn`t happen. Sorry again for that one! I hoped my special secret peanut butter chocolate bar eased the pain. Dan also brought some special secret chocolate from Germany, which we also hoped ease the horror of getting up at such an ungodly hour!

My scramble up was horrendous. Not enough sleep and walking at pace (fearful of missing it, the moment having such a short lifespan) uphill, on an empty stomach was causing my to feel really nauseous. Travelling and trekking with two doctors, this should have been a dream team. I`ve realised that I`m not the best at taking medication when I have the option of just toughing it out. I guess I think it might always get worse and then I`d have nothing left. Sadly, this meant that Dan & Pippa´s expertly stocked First Aid kits were wasted on my stubborn ways.

On the way back down, round two in our game of Finders Keepers was won, jointly, by Bryan and me.

“What´s that?“ he points, looking at a plastic bag to the side of the path.

“God, I hate when people do that. Should we take it with us?“ annoyed at the litter.

Pippa: “Of course we should take it with us, it looks delicious!“ obviously quicker to spot the contents than I was.

Four brownies and some homemade cake later, we were once again up in the treat stakes!  

And that, my friends, was stage 1, or `The W`.

The back side to follow…

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And more all-important pics…

11 Apr

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And for those more visual…

11 Apr

And for those more visual...

Los tres amigos!

Vices, mice(s), and social devices: Part III

11 Apr

Following the ER talk, Pippa, Dan and I made our new lists (taking into account all our new information) ran around town doing full cost/value/quality recces, before getting sorted with all our gear (yes, I still love buying kit as much as, if not more than, I did at home), made our food shopping list, withdrew money etc.

Had a lovely surprise by bumping, randomly, into Johannes, a German guy I’d met briefly in BA (the first time) who was motorcycling his way around the continent.

Had an amazing dinner at Afrigonia, and then back to the hostel to start packing. At 3am we were finally ready for bed!

I’ve been toying with whether or not to talk through the Q in a day-by-day fashion.

But I think for now, what I will say is that if you fancy a holiday that will challenge you in ways you have never imagined; that will make you feel scared, mighty, insecure, invincible, bold, brave, hungry, thirsty, filthy, desperate, awesome, strong and pathetic; if you want to taste fear, sadness, elation, fatigue and relief; to suffer blisters, cold, sweat, discomfort; to experience a weird pleasure/pain of muscles and of mind; to lose all dignity through peeing on yourself, in the wind, sh1tting in the bushes, nearly crying with shoulder cramps, or general misery, all alongside people you’ve known for less than a week; but at every point have your breath literally taken away with the sights you will witness, the natural colours you will enjoy, the sounds of the genuinely great outdoors and not want to change any of it for a second… then get yourself down to Parque Nacional Torres Del Paine.

And just watch out for the mice.

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Vices, mice(s), and social devices: Part II

11 Apr

Seems a shame to gloss over such a glorious wonder as Glacier Perito Moreno, so I`ll backtrack a little more before I get to my main event – ie the Q circuit in Torres Del Paine, Chile.

After leaving ‘mi familia nueva’ in El Chalten (I know, outrageous, a mother abandoning her family like that), I got a bus (only 5 hours) to El Calafate.

I`d been recommended America Del Sur hostel, having heard good reviews of both their BA and El Calafate sites. I was not disappointed. I arrived tired and pretty late, and as I was only planning to spend a day or two there (“the only thing there is the glacier” was a phrase used all too often, and again, I’m conscious of sounding very underwhelming about something so incredible), I was pleased to have all my needs met almost a little too quickly (they were firing information, costs, and details at me straight away, almost pre-empting my questions), but the being met with a huge smile, a hug and the standard cheek-kiss by the lovely German (pronounced Her-man) assured me I’d made the right choice.

He interrupted his own dinner, and I was  immediately kitted out with a room, my bags taken off my hands, an amazing asado put before me even though technically the kitchen was closed (and it wasn’t the full offering, so I paid half price), a beer in my hand, ticket for the glacier trek the next morning booked and packed lunch pre-ordered.

As you approach the glacier, it literally stops you in your tracks. The thing I’ve loved about much of my trip, the ‘must see’ places in particular, is that they have pretty much all lived up to expectations, which is not always the case. These sights are on postcards and in coffee table books for a reason.

The guide on the tour bus took a bit of a shine, and for some unknown reason decided I needed to sit up at the front with him and the driver, drink some mate and have a bit of banter.

It was 7.30am and far earlier than my usual banter threshold, but I figured it gave me a chance to practise speaking a little Spanish. And the driver Javier was hilarious, if a little too interested in drinking mate, getting involved in the chitchat and not interested enough in keeping his eyes on the road.

In one piece, myself and Ben, the other guy on the tour from my hostel, another Australian and bore a striking resemblance to my friend Sam (Lynes, for anyone reading this who knows him), got crampon-ed up and set off with our three guides (love the mentality of the types who work in these outdoorsy jobs. They’re all a bit nuts). The tour itself was just long enough, as we were in the end more interested in when we could get lunch than ‘Oh look, more ice. Oh, some more jagged ice… and there is some slightly bluer ice than that we’ve just been looking at…’ Again, apologies  for sounding jaded.

It was brightened by the annoying American who asked “What about all these brown specks. What kind of reaction is that? Or is it a different type of ice?”

Ben looked at me, and we shared the eyebrow raise and I knew we’d get on okay.

(Ah, that special brown ice. That’s unique to El Calafate…. or perhaps it was just dirt. You decide.)

Back to El Calafate, a bit of admin, quick wander to the supermarket and get myself organised to leave for Puerto Natales, a swift farewell to Ben and back to the hostel to hang out with Herman, Rafael (v cool guy from Rio with a joint penchant for Eddie Vedder) and the delicious, and ridiculously cool, flow artist Fede.

Nope, I didn’t have a clue what a flow artist was either.

Anyway, PN-bound, I’d sent emails to a couple of hostels, but had no reply upon arrival. Tried one, but the host seemed a little weird (As he’s looking me up and down in a pervy fashion) “Yes, of course you can stay here. It’s 100 pesos (most places are 70-80). I will cook you breakfast. They’re`s no one else here right now, but we have nice hostel.”

Erm… nah. You’re alright mate.

By now I was cold, my pack seemed to have doubled in weight instantly and it was lashing down.

Having made the decision I would just get into the next one I came across, I luckily landed in Shakana Hostel.

A little dingy-looking at first, I wasn’t enamoured but figured it was only for a few nights.

How wrong I was.

Washing dropped off, research started, went to Base Camp, the nearest and most well-known bar in PN, which also gave out info on the treks, hired kit etc.

Google Erratic Rock. It will tick all the boxes you need for that part of the world.

Met Felipe, who was doing a grand job of selling his kayaking tours (which I would most definitely be splashing out on if I was not heading home soon), showcasing the most stunning photos of local wildlife through his Rutas Ancestrales Patagonia. Check it if you have time, money and a will to see the best of southern Patagonia.

Next morning, asked at my hostel if anyone else was heading off for the W the next day.

“I think maybe the French couple are,” Shakana told me.

Said French couple then walked in. Which actually turned out to be an Australian non-couple. But they were indeed heading off to the park the next day.

Enter Pippa and Dan! Happy now, Dan?! ;o)

Two of the most lovely, smart, funny, grounded, kind, generous, patient, strong and supportive friends I’ve met on my whole trip. Thanks guys for asking me along.

Now, back to Erratic Rock. They run a free talk every day to arm you with all you need to know about the trek.

I was still intent on doing ‘The W’, but Pippa and Dan were setting for the Full Circuit. Dan was uberorganised and had their full meal plan, kms per day equated to hours on the trail, and what gear was still outstanding.

Pippa was more in my camp, pardon the pun.

The talk was given by Rustyn (who we’d wrongly been referring to as ‘Rusty’ the whole trip until we were put right), who was American, cocky, funny, an excellent raconteur and as a result of all these things, kind of sexy on first impressions. I say first impressions as we (Pippa, me, and probably every other female who had ever been to that talk) later changed our minds and decided it was all an illusion.

“Your feet will be wet the entire time. Get over it.”

“DO NOT take a backpack cover. You will lose it on the first day.”

“Do not eat lunch. Only food to be eaten with one hand.”

“I repeat. Your feet will be wet the ENTIRE time.”

“Take two of things. No more. Wear one for day (wet) and one for night (dry).”

These were some of the tips Rusty (I prefer our way) gave us during the talk.

“The longer you’re out there, the more fun you will have. IF you just do the W, people will ask you how your trip was. Ok, you’ll think. Because Day One will be kind of cool. Day Two will suck, Day Three will suck, Day Four you’ll start feeling your stride, and then Day Five you’ll leave.

“IF you stay on and do the Circuit, you’ll have found your rhythm, your pack will be lighter, the paths will be quieter, the scenery will be different…”

This was the turning point, and the reason I decided to join Pippa and Dan on their trek. That, coupled with my Fomo (sorry John, still not lost it!), anyway.

 

 

Mi familia nueva

10 Apr

Approaching the bus in El Bolson, bound for El Chalten, I was hit by a sudden loss of confidence that I was unsure where the bus would be picking me up from. To the point that the landlord and my new mate walked me to the right spot. It was around the corner. Slightly jaded by this, and simultaneously looking forward and nervous about what lay ahead (was I doing the right thing going to Patagonia by myself and so late in the season?) I waited for the bus. Also waiting for the bus was a Malaysian couple (turned out they were cousins. Not a couple who were cousins, that would be a whole other blog, but just cousins), a young German kid and myself. A few moments before we embarked on our 24-hour bus ride, a beautiful, bearded, wild-haired, smiling, charango-wielding Italiano rocked up.

And thank God he did.

Some people in life are social glue. I have had my moments of playing that role, in certain circumstances (thanks Omar!). Axel Beland was a prime example of this during my time on the Inca Trail (thanks Axel!). Mattia was such a person.

I had already reserved a spot at a hostel, seemingly a good one, in the sleepy town of Elo Chalten. I was unsure of how to go about organising my hikes, but figured as they were primarily day hikes I was okay to set off alone and kind of wing it.

Pretty much the sole passengers on the entire bus, during the course of the next 24 hours, the five of us got to know each other far more than you would (or I would) normally bother with my fellow bus passengers.

Shied by my poor grasp of Spanish alongside Lukas, a 19-year-old social idealist from Munich and Mattia, a 36-year-old sound engineer from Bergamo, both of whom had been learning the lingo for only four months, versus my ‘on and off for years’ less committed efforts, I took a back seat.

By the time we got to El Chalten, they`d persuaded me top sack off my 10% deposit (about four quid) and find a cheaper, closer hostel with them, to continue our journey ‘as a family’.

We did, made a swift trip to the supermarket, made a group dinner, and set about planning our hikes.

I’d been recommended the Paseo de Viento by my Bariloche Israelis and independently another guy in the hostel was talking up the same trek. But it was 4-5 days and I was only planning on being there for 3. And it appeared to require some guidance, or certainly glacier experience.

We decided to ease ourselves in gently, hired some kit and set off south of the town, towards the miradores Condor and Eagle, but added a bit more on, trekking up through a woodlands and over to the plains that overlooked the foot of the mountain range. The exact name escapes me right now. I`ve probably taken a photo of the sign, as has become standard, given my inability to retain information anymore for periods of longer than half an hour.

As we neared the top of the climb (not really a climb, more an uphill walk), an English guy from Essex was coming the opposite way, fully kitted out in thermals, Gore-tex-tastic and waterproofs.

“How was it?” we asked.

“Hard. Really challenging, and you can’t really see much, given the winds. You can’t open your eyes for very long, and it’s so cloudy, but it`s amazing. And that’s why we`re all here, surely? For the challenge?”

One member of our group, and the other female amongst us, who’d already defying the woman in the kit hire shop when she recommended trekking poles (“Really? I just don’t believe that they winds could be that bad. She’s probably just saying that to get me to hire the poles.”

Me: “So don`t get them then.”

Her: “Are you getting them?”

Me: “Yes.”

Her: “Really? But will they really help?”

Me: “Yes. 100% without question. That`s why I`m hiring them.”

… you can likely sense I was less than sympathetic at this point. I`ll move on…)

decided that he too, was talking sh1t, and had obviously decked himself out in all that gear for fun.

Some of us got our waterproofs on. Thank you Kathmandu. Some of us put extra hats and gloves on, steeling ourselves for the first example of brutal Patagonian weather.

Others complained they had only come out in trainers, didn’t bring gloves because they didn’t think they’d need them, but were sure they’d be fine.

As we rounded the corner, we were faced with upwards of 70, 80+kph winds. Maybe more, I`ve not got a clue. They were sideways. And fierce. And you couldn’t see sh1t because it was too hard to open your eyes. And you were hungry because you¡’d been trekking for two hours uphill but couldn’t brave getting out your chocolate because it might blow away and litter is (rightly) a heinous crime. But you had to keep going to the top.

I`ve got to be honest, I’m not really sure what we were even supposed to be looking at “at the top”, or indeed where the top was. According to Essex, there was a lake at the foot of the mirador, and if you tried really hard, you could see the snow-draped S-shape of the Cerro Solo.

Either way, Mattia and the boys ran off in different directions screaming and howling like banshees. I was trying to stay upright, reminded of Wuthering Heights, weirdly. After five or 10 minutes, I was done. Something about being whipped, literally and metaphorically, by the elements was very good for the soul, I felt.

We returned to town eventually, recovered and reliving the day, and with a much clearer idea of exactly what to expect in the days to come.

Dinner that night, with the intention of setting off much earlier (lesson learned: you will NEVER get off at your intended time with a group of five people. Not worth stressing about, just accept it) the next morning, I was getting to know my new `familia`much better.

Mattia and I, sadly, realised that we were, technically, old enough to be Lukas’ parents. Jaz was the crazy cool cousin and Lina was the ‘abuela’. She was feeling ill and infirm and, though younger than me, fell into that role pretty naturally.

It was interesting being in a social situation and feeling really left out. Without wanting to blow smoke up my own ar5e, that rarely happens.  And I`m not getting the violin out, it was my own fault. I could have made more effort to speak Spanish. I did think it was rather odd that as Malaysian, German and Italian natives, all of whom spoke perfect English, and knowing my Spanish was rusty to their near-fluent, and that Lina spoke no Spanish, they opted to speak in Spanish.

So maybe I took it a bit personally. Or maybe I was just feeling a bit like having some quiet time and this gave me a perfect opportunity to do so, but either way, the next few days involved the fewest words I’d ever spoken when amongst a group of individuals. It made a nice change.

In terms of hiking, we set off for the Laguna de los Tres, but were planning on carrying on after Campo Poincenot and take in Laguna Torre the next day. I had a bus booked for El Calafate the next night, so was a bit apprehensive we might not be back in time (given the etiquette of group hiking) but we agreed that if I needed to go faster on the way back down, I would go ahead and split from the group.

After camp, after almost scrambling the last hour of pretty steep incline, up boulders, as you walk over the pass and take in the first (relatively) up-close sight of Cerro Fitz Roy and its surroundings literally had me welling up. It was almost sunset, There were views of the three lakes to the west, the deep, far mountains and the tinest view of the now seemingly toy town to the east, the sky was all manner of colours, and the – and I use this word never – majestic sight of Fitz Roy before you. To say it was emotional was a vast understatement.

The respect felt for inanimate matter was unlike I`d experienced before. And that was having seen Machu Picchu, Iguazu Falls, Sugar Loaf mountain… you get the idea.

Onwards and downwards to El Calafate…

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Vices, mice(s), and social devices: Part I

9 Apr

Not quite sure how to pick this one up, as it’s been a fair few weeks, and SO much has happened, but I`ll try.

I seem to have been going back on forth on the travelling alone thing. Clearly nine days out of 10, it`s the best thing ever. Total freedom, the option of being completely selfish, guilt-free, and for a scatty/whimsical/contrary person such as myself, it means you can change your mind a lot and at short notice without worrying about messing up anyone else`s plans but your own.

But there are always a few things that stick. And it depends, 100% on state of mind at the time. The obvious common one is eating out alone. Particularly if, as a bit of a foodie, you are inclined towards nice restaurants. It`s just not that easy. There`s something of the `wannabe food critic-meets-Alan Partridge`about it, at least for me, anyway.

Unless of course, you have a prop. A book (trying to leave Kindle at home in fear of getting it nicked), a Lonely Planet (often handbag is too small to carry around), a phone (I don`t), a Blackberry (I don`t), a laptop (ooh, get me, people might think I`m a writer! I am, but I still don`t), you get the gist.

Then it got me thinking about social tools more generally. Or social vices. Smoking, asking someone to share a beer {they tend to come in 1L bottles, and even I think twice about ordering one to myself ;o)}, taking photographs, reading a map, asking for directions…. they all put you in that `safe`territory when out alone of Things You Can Do Without Feeling Embarrassed for not having a friend/partner/anyone to lean on.

So conscious of this, and all too aware of that feeling of `If you`re alone, people obviously assume you want or need someone to come over and talk to you` I decided to try and kick out some of the tools deliberately. 

I have no idea where I`m going with this, by the way, just that in trying to become comfortable with just ´being´ I`ve tried to resist my comfort zone on several occasions. I think it`s working. 

Having left BA last time just less than a month ago, I decided to head south, eager to hit the Lakes District before the weather started to turn colder.

I was set on being back in BA first weekend in April for El Festival, with Pearl Jam, The Black Keys and Hot Chip headlining (it didn`t happen), so had three weeks to `do`Patagonia – perfectly feasible, I thought.

Upon arrival in Bariloche, I was greeted by the most incredible sight of Lago Nahul Huapi, which was in full view from the full size windows along the side of the lounge room.

Conscious of time, I was keen on getting out and about sooner rather than later, so I did my usual wander around the town, grabbed some lunch (during which I managed to understand from the local news that something rather important had happened with the new Pope and Buenos Aires – gotta love my pigeon Spanish. Thanks Janet for fleshing that one out for me!), did some recon on the myriad outdoorsy activities available and generally enjoyed the stunning views. All alone, no less, no props, no company (get me, practising what I preach). 

Got back to the hostel – thanks Annie, at Penthouse 1004, had a fleeting reunion with China (hope you `re getting on okay mate) and found two Americans to go cycling with the next morning. There´s a pretty common route called the Circuito Chico. It`s 12kms, and I thought, `Chico… must be a pretty easy ride. That`ll do for easing me into things`. 

Wow.

When I asked Annie if there was a longer route, perhaps more challenging, she looked at me like I was gone out. “Why would you want to do longer?” she asked, very direct.

“Erm… it`s only 12kms”

“Trust me, it`s like this”, motioning undulating hills with her hand.

Ok, so, next morning, Jacob. Terry and I set off on the bus to collect our bikes. 

Jacob might be a big guy, but he`s pretty fit, according to his friend.

Terry cycled regularly, and had done the Appalachian Trail.

I hoped I had not bitten off more than I could chew. 

It was a long, hard day, with some killer hills, a bit of off-roading, and some breathaking scenery. We didn’t take enough food, and hadn`t factored in the siesta taken the rare restaurants, kioscos and cafes along the route, which meant we were all running on empty.

A few occasions caused my potty mouth to kick in. All fine, you might think, when expressing pain (a pedal whacking you VERY hard in the Achilles), frustration (seemingly neverending uphills), or awe (EFFing gorgeous views). Until, you get talking to your cycling companions and realise one is a missionary, and the other a preacher of The Church.

I say The Church in caps because at this point I felt that they would have been using them had they been writing rather than speaking.

Woops (know your audience, Shaw!).

Turns out my cycle buddies were devoted Mormons. And very likely didn’t take kindly to mine and Janet’s tales of how we planned to spend St Patrick’s Day, our joint desires to hit Burning Man (one was from Nevada) and general non-Mormon ways. Nice bike ride though.

Next stop, El Bolson. Or Lago Puelo, to be more accurate. The two lovely Israelis I met at the hostel (two of the many I`ve met along the way doing their post-national service year out) had highly recommended an Italian-run hostel called Rey Sol. They talked about loveliness of morning yoga classes, meditation, organic produce and a handful of dogs that resided there. 
Sounded like bliss, and the aforementioned Janet, my new Irish buddy, overheard us talking and decided it was also for her, so we jumped on the bus together the next day.

We arrived, and you had to laugh. The gorgeous, hippy, and ever-so-laidback Marco on reception showed us the list of services available.

“Except there`s no kitchen, that`s closed. So you can`t have breakfast. Or dinner or lunch.

“And the lady who teaches yoga is ill right now.

“Oh, and so there’s no meditation either. Or massage. Or Reiki.

“And I think that might be it.”

We both laughed, and just to make sure we weren`t mistaken, we asked, “So you have rooms?”

“Yes, we have nice rooms.” He was being serious. And laughed with us, probably out of politeness rather than understanding our sarcasm. Or stonedness.

Either way, we ended up having a very odd (and probably more sober affair of a) Paddy`s Day, took a picnic to the beautiful lake and then left the next day to the `City`of El Bolson.

For those who have not been, El Bolson is far from a city. It is a village at best, and at end of season is a tiny village. But it is home to a bar/restaurant, and internet cafe, and amazing ice cream shop in Jauja as well as the cutest little craft market.

Because our sober Paddy`s Day was proving to choke the hilarious Janet from Limerick, we somehow wound up drinking homebrew with the owners of the ill-equipped hostel and their hippy friends.

As a result, we both felt like sh1t the next day. 

“Ooh, a masseur in the market. That`s what we need!”

Enter Hernan. Robed in white linen, long dark hair, weighed about 7 stone wet through, but had a lovely way about him, a bit smile and strong fingers, we reckoned it was a winner.

Janet went first, and 20 mins later I followed suit, and was trying to ignore the rather forgotten sensation around the side-of-boob area.

We finished, paid our way, had a group hug, and said farewell to Hernan, who reminded us that he did hostel visits.

You can see where this is going…

Janet turns to me: “That was nice. But was any of your massage rather inappropriate?”

Me: “Oh, you mean the creepìng fingers trying to reach the side-boob?”

Her: “Oh no. I mean the full on nipple access reached via the side-boob!”

Ah. 

But he was so innocent, so, well, goddamn HIPPY, with it, we decided it somehow seemed sweet rather than pervy. Anyone seeking public place side-boob action in El Bolson, let me know and I will pass on his details.

Next stop, El Chalten…

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Huge Ups and Dow… nah, simply less big Ups!

11 Mar

Within about three hours of arriving in Buenos Aires, I pretty much felt like I could live there. The European flavour of the city helps, I suppose, but it was so much more than that. The people (la gente es muy guapo/a), the food, the lush green spaces, the shopping/bar/restaurants of Palermo, Freddo (best ice cream since Mendoza!), its culture (seen two of the best art collections – classic and contemporary – in the museos Belles Artes and Malba respectively), the feeling of space… I could go on, and no doubt will.

Given my time in Brazil, I lost a bit of confidence in talking Spanish, but that has grown over the week. I think it has helped also that I`ve met up with various friends from along the way here, this week, and also made some new ones. 

The hostel I was in was friendly, clean, relaxed and homely, so in general my `base` was problem-free. And in walking around the city every day, even though I seem to have lost the ability to read a map or tell my left from right (doesn`t help that the three maps I`ve been using all face different directions… least that`s the excuse I`m sticking to), I have gained a sense of the areas I prefer to those I don`t, where to go for a relaxed sit outside, where I feel more or less comfortable eating by myself, versus those places I`d rather have company.

Even found a small square with a rock band that play most nights outside, doing Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin covers, which has been pretty cool.

Went to a drum concert called La Bomba de Tiempo on Monday, which seems to be THE thing to do on Mondays as pretty much everyone I`ve met was there. Awesome night and so much fun. Since being in BA I`ve also, learned to horse ride, eaten more steak than is probably healthy, drank some amazing (and CHEAP) wines, caught up on lots of sleep, visited several parks, made friends with some guys who run a gaucho shop (Thanks for the intro Michael!), been bicycling all over the city and generally had a ball.

Oh, and bought a few presents (only very small ones due to space restrictions, which is annoying given how great the shopping is!) from the various cool markets and stalls here.

The only things I`ve not managed yet are a football game, a tango class/show (not for want of trying one particular night, that was somewhat hijacked! But the less said about that the better!) and been to the polo demos. That said, as I will be coming back to BA on my return path from Patagonia, I reckon I can hold back a couple of things to look forward to.

Now, about Colonia del Sacramento… FFS!!

Talk about a frustrating city! Now I will take partial responsibility for not really thinking things through as well as I might have, but even so, this place is messed up.

So, given the sorry state of economic affairs in Argentina, upon some sound advice, I decided to head over to Colonia, Uruguay for a 24 hour cash run.

That is, take advantage of the blue rate (or black market) for selling US dollars. Now, while this is Dodgy McDodge, it is such a widespread dodge, it feels normal. Bit like the Dover-Calais booze cruises that were so popular once upon a time.

A Canadian guy I`d met on the cycle tour seemed keen on the idea as well, so I met him over here and we figured it would be a piece of cake. Not realising that a) EVERYONE would have had the same idea, rendering the ATMs machines empty, and that given that, Doh, it`s the weekend, means they won`t be filling up until Monday. Perhaps (this is South America, after all).

So my 24 hour trip then extended to 48 hours, to at least try and make it worthwhile coming in the first place.

Against that, there is bugger all to do in Colonia. There are a couple of nice restaurants, one bar, which opens (yep, Opens!) at 2.30am. And after a very emphatic review by some Eastern European and Finnish guys who have lived here, working at the port, for over a year that “It`s shit. Don`t bother.” And “One day is more than enough for this place!” we figured our time was better spent, well, doing nothing!

Today looked promising, in that, frankly, I knew I was leaving. Having got up and about early to be outside the cash machine as it opened was futile. “They open at 1pm,” my receptionist told me. “But will they have filled up all the machines?” I asked, hopeful. A cursory shoulder shrug was all I got.

Ok, I get it.

So, an enormous lunch, a LOT of standing around later, and now the repeated attempts to use all three of my three cards has probably caused the bank to put a block on them (Yay, more admin. Awesome. I love admin in the UK, obviously. Its South American cousin doesn´t make me want to throw myself under a bus much at all, no no..), I`ve ended up with some USDs. Probably saving myself just enough to cover the cost of my weekend here. 

But, let`s get some perspective… all this was happening, in Uruguay, in the sunshine, with no pressing need to really be doing any of it, except to make my own very selfish and lovely time even cheaper and therefore more lovely.

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