So fast forward now – because you can guess/know I made it safely to the Falklands on the Saturday flight – as planned. We joined the boat and started the process of settling in, getting familiar with one an other. I’ll come back with some insights into my fellow crew members, but they all seem like a good group – a really good group. We started bonding in Punta Arenas airport when they disembarked to wait for the onward leg of their flight and I was waiting around ready to join them on that much haunted Punta to Mount Pleasant flight. Once on the Island, we solidified things over a pre-dinner drink in one of the two pubs just up the street from the Public Dock where the Pelagius Australis was moored (note was – not anymore – read on).

Our hosts on board, skipper Alec and his wife Giselle, were cooking dinner for us on our first night, thus freeing us all to go and take a quick pint. The Globe – the nearest of the two pubs was like something from the UK 30 years ago. Juke box, gaming machine, bright beer, dirty. The locals were welcoming and after the initial jokes from the Barman, we settled into just being customers. We returned to the boat for the 7.00pm dinner time to be greeted with appetizers, beer and wine. I will try and send some photos of the boat at some stage, when the satellite connection is feeling a little more energetic, but for now I’ll describe it to you.

Unlike any boat I’ve sailed on, this one is a monster at 74 feet in length and almost 20 feet at the beam. It can sleep 12 people, more if the pilot berth in the pilot house is used and the bunks are dropped in the skipper’s cabin. We will only be 8 for the Atlantic crossing, so it should be comfortable (hmm!). The main salon has a huge table with a large elongated semi-circular banquette around three sides and then fixed stools on the final side. There is a compact, well equipped galley on the port side and a communications suite on the starboard side (two desks facing each other with the communications equipment etc around you). The ceiling is low and covered with wooden battens. There is a reflex heating system – stainless steel with a hot water tank and a rounded furnace upon which you can place a kettle or pan to heat and there is a proper stove in the galley. This means she (the boat) is warm and cozy as well as relatively spacious for a boat. Sitting around this table for dinner on the first night, drinking wine, chatting and getting to know each other was much fun. By listening to everyone’s contribution and watching the body language, it was possible to start to understand the nature of each of my fellow crew members even if only superficially. Of course, all sailors drone on and share stories, and we were all sailors to whatever extent we wanted to be. We did a bit of droning that first night! The Sunday was going to be an “at leisure” day – so everyone would do their own thing until dinner time came round again, when we would reconnect. In actual fact, we were all back on-board around 4.30pm and so the skipper pulled out the beer and wine and snacks and we started the conversations again. I’d used the day to acclimate and get in touch with home. I brought a satellite phone with me which allows me to send texts and e mails (plain text) and also call home – but sparingly and only short calls. It was a good to hear Bernadette and Alice’s voices – I couldn’t get hold of James. I find homesickness to be at its worst in the first few days and in the last few. In between has ups and downs.

Prior to leaving Dallas, my brother Gerard had e-mailed me to let me know that a friend of our parents, Monsignor Spraggon, someone from the West End of Newcastle and a member of the legendary Catholic Parish of St Michael’s, had in fact been the parish priest out here when the Islands had been invaded in 1982. He had died here on the island in 1985 and was buried out here. His nephew (I believe) was a colleague of my sister-in law, Jo. Of course, going to Mass down here in the Falklands, was a must. Getting to go to church in such a remote and historically referenced place had to be a unique experience, I just didn’t know how unique though. I had walked along the front on the Saturday afternoon to locate the church in anticipation of my Sunday visit. En route, I was passed by an army padre – obvious because of his green knitted sweater and dog collar. I stopped him and asked where the Catholic church was.

“Well, strictly speaking, I’m Anglican,” was his first response.

I wasn’t asking him to anoint me with the Last Rites (yes, I know its called something else now – but I can’t spell Extreme Unction) – I was just asking for directions. He did give me directions and I was able to confirm that Mass was at 10.00am the next morning.

Sunday morning dawned and I took the short walk to the church. When I walked in at 9.50am, there was nobody yet in the body of the church, but there was a chap on the altar. I approached him gingerly. He was a red faced man, possibly in his late 40’s, depending on how hard life had been. He was wielding a blow torch trying to light charcoal. He was wearing jeans and an old grey shirt. I’d Googled the church before leaving Dallas and found out the name of the priest and also his brief history. I approached him and introduced myself and asked if he was, in fact, the Parish Priest. He was. Unbeknownst to me, he was Fr. John and not Fr. Alan who I expected, per the church’s web page. Fr. Alan, as I would find out, was now the Abbot for the order and was Fr. John’s boss (presumably somewhere back on the mainland). Before he’d identified himself as Fr. John and not Fr. Alan, I had mentioned that my niece, Sonya, had been at the same college as him in South London, at approximately the same time. Now, on the basis that neither of us knew that I was talking to the wrong person, he immediately claimed to have never been to college in London and then rattled off his complete educational history, starting with prep school and finishing with a college at Oxford. He was quite defensive and I was starting to think maybe mentioning my niece’s name might have brought back sad memories and on the basis that she is now married to Stephen, maybe she had broken his heart and he took up his priestly vows and asked to be sent to the Falklands and away from the heartbreak. Then, here I was, a stranger come to stir the emotional unrest that he been escaping from for the last 20 years.

Or not.

A spark must have ignited at that point because that’s when he explained there must be a mix up here and I was thinking of Fr Alan – who had gone to college in South London and was no longer here. Now we seemed to be somewhat on level ground (although I can’t warrant that he isn’t an undercover Fr. Alan), I pushed the misunderstanding aside and explained my mission – that I was visiting the Island and I told him about Monsignor Spraggon and his connection to my family. He acknowledged the connection, but told me that the Monsignor had left the Island before he died in 1985. This was totally at odds to the story relayed to me by Gerard, obtained from Eddie, the Monsignor’s nephew. I told him that and explained the nephew had made the journey down from the UK to go to the funeral.

“He can’t have,” was his reply.

Was there a further cover up here, more lies and deceit? Was this to be the making of Broadchurch 4?

“Let me just check with one of the older parishioners.”

The church was starting to fill a little. “Jennifer – Monsignor Spraggon left the Island before he died – didn’t he?”

“Oh no Father, he died here on the Island.”

“Oh – I didn’t know that.” That was stating the obvious. “So he’s buried here?”

“Oh yes, he is.”

“In the cemetery?”

Now, that seemed like another obvious question, but this was the Falkland Islands and who was I to say that there weren’t local variances to usual practice. One thing became clear – none of the parishioners who were around at the time the Monsignor died, could remember exactly where in the cemetery he was buried. After Mass, I walked along to the other end of Stanley to where the cemetery was where I searched for an hour and couldn’t find the grave. I looked amongst the graves dated 1985. But nothing. The priest had mentioned to look in a chained off area about halfway up the hill on the right. I couldn’t find that either. I was thwarted. Fr. John had rushed after me as I left the church to give me some postcards celebrating the Monsignor’s life. That was kind of him. That was looking like all I could take back with me.

Mass was interesting! First of all, it was simultaneously broadcast over the Island and Military radio stations and so the priest spoke like he had a massive audience, which he might have had, but in fact there were only about 30 of us in the church. Next, the music source was a pre-programmed boom box. As usual, one referenced the hymns from numbers up on a board hung at the front. When Fr. John climbed the altar, he turned and barked at a lady sitting with a remote control in her hand to “click it now, now.” She bowed several times to him and then clicked. The music started and we were clearly going to sing “The Churches on Foundation ……” However, when I turned to the hymn suggested by the number on the board  …….we were going to sing something very different. But – we’re in the Falklands and the mis-match of tune and words wasn’t going to defeat these hardy folks – the words written in the hymnal were written for much longer lines of music. The result was a group of people trying to fit 12 words into music written for 5. Some managed it. I decided to kneel before I was escorted out for laughing. Once the hymn as over, Fr John leapt down off the altar, stuck a 3 in front of the first hymn number and announced we would sing the hymn again, but with the right words. It didn’t go un-noticed that he lashed the poor lady in the front with his expression as he made the adjustment. In fairness, he did later acknowledge that he had made the mistake with the numbers. The Mass was completely sung in plain chant – and we had hard copies of the music and the soundtrack was beautifully sung on the boombox. Whether it was in singing the Mass, or the hymns – I didn’t hear Fr John sing a single note – and I was in the third bench from the front. When it came to the sermon, he read it verbatim from his typed notes. I suspected this was not the first time he had read this sermon. I like a good sermon, one that challenges you and makes you either doubt your personal contribution to your humanity, or realize the fires of hell are awaiting, or one where you just plain doubt the sanity of the priest. This did none of those. It simply explained we had had heard the word of God through the three readings and then went on to paraphrase them. There was no contextualizing. There were no ‘ah ha’ moments. There were no emotions. I felt un-moved and un-associated. I’m not necessarily blaming Fr John. Maybe this was how Fr Alan wanted things done across his religious order and, of course, he might have been listening to this on live radio, in which case Fr John was already banjaxed for the cock up on the music front. There was a Fr Ted moment a little later (for those of you who have ever seen Fr Ted and if you haven’t, you should). This obliging lady who had initially been empowered to click the music, but who was stripped of that duty after the initial problem, approached the altar during the offertory and offered Fr John something. He refused it. She offered it again. He refused it again. This cycle went on for quite some time…

“You’ll have a cup of tea father, so you will,” rang in my mind.  “Ah – so you will!”

Later on, on Sunday, I visited the Islands museum (which I thought was excellent) and in talking to one of the ladies looking after the book store, I mentioned Monsignor Spraggon to her and she told me that he’d negotiated with the Argentinians to get her brother released, who had been arrested and taken away at some point during the conflict. No doubt this had been terrifying for the family as there were no official lines of communication with the enemy. She said she’d always thought her brother would have been killed, had it not been for the Monsignor. “He was a very good man, very good.”

I suspect this probably wasn’t an isolated example of the work done by this simple man from the West End of Newcastle.

The rest of the week was made up of morning and afternoon sessions up in the Chamber of Commerce meeting room, learning all about Celestial Navigation (trigonometry meets spherical geometry meets buzz mumbo meets precise inaccuracy) which turned out to be quite a lot of fun. We also covered updates to modern electronic navigation and safety for long passages (don’t make them). The treat on the Thursday was to visit Shorty’s Diner for lunch – next door to the meeting room. Evidently this is an institution. I had expected this to be a real greasy spoon of a place and not necessarily somewhere to showcase Great British cuisine to the International Brady gang I was now part of. It wasn’t a greasy spoon. It was spotlessly clean. The menu was broad – but basically all fried (even the salad had a fried element) and the folks working there were brutally friendly – brutally. We left feeling warm and cuddly about this experience.

Over the course of the week, we had experienced very cool dry weather, which had started to change late Wednesday as a depression started to move through. On the Thursday, as we walked to our meeting room, we all noted that the temperature had risen numerous degrees to become quite warm. By lunch time the temperature had dropped and the wind had veered to the North East (from the West) and the temp had dropped significantly. As we walked back down the hill to the boat, we could see the waves sweeping across the inlet and, once we arrived back at the boat, we saw how they were pushing this very big boat on to the very nice, but undersized pontoon. We needed to get onboard and off the pontoon ASAP. So we did and motored over to the other side of the inlet and in 45 knots of wind, we dropped the anchor and rode out the night there. The boat sat solidly in winds that would have made life intolerable on any boat any one of had previously sailed on, but now Pelagic Australis just absorbed them like it was a summer breeze. This all happened really quite quickly, but one thing was for sure, now that we were off the jetty, we weren’t gong back for at least 12 days. Our sailing adventure had certainly started, a little prematurely, robbing us of our last minute shopping and a trip back to the Globe for a final snifter, but no one cared. It felt good to be finally away from the land. While we had all helped get her off the pontoon, it was clear our enthusiasm needed to be tempered by learning how to work such a large, heavy boat. While general principles would be useful, there was a Pelagic way of doing things, and surprisingly, they weren’t the same as previous ways I’d experienced (the same for the others too). I’d been through this sort of thing before when I joined the team at Elite in Chatham at the start of the jaunt around Great Britain, where simply tying the boat up to the dock the US Sailing way was completely frowned upon and I had to reinvent myself, or risk being ostracized as someone who couldn’t even tie a “bloody boat to the dock.”

We’ll see how this develops, but we have good teachers and we are all willing learners and, most importantly, no one is around to see us stumble along the way!

We’re off!

Pip pip!

The flight down from Buenos Aires was pretty uneventful. We were in darkness almost the entire way and most people slept. I listened to music and reflected. I usually enter a city with a song in my head and when I entered Buenos Aires, I should have had something from Evita playing on my internal sound track – Hello Buenos Aires or something. There was nothing. I needed to wake up and start the music. When I travel, I intentionally play music in my head – as it helps me remember so much more about where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I was now listening to a track James gave me called “Are I here” by Helado Negro. This would now anchor my sound track, followed by a bunch of other tracks on a mix I’d put together for dinner the previous Saturday. We’d gotten together with a bunch of friends and called it the last supper (Bernadette didn’t call it that – she thought it was a terrible name).

The Argentinians are interesting people (no generalization here). I would describe them as not so easy going as other Latin Americans – more deliberate – a little dour even, but I do like them (of course probably not all of them, but certainly the ones I have worked with or met). On the subject of their deliberateness. When I was getting onto the flight, I’d watched a woman try to put a guitar into the overhead locker. I will assume she was Argentinian. It wasn’t a big guitar, but it wasn’t a very big locker, and there were already a couple of bags in there. She spent fully 5 minutes trying to fit this instrument in, turning it around and around and trying it every which way. She was completely spatially unaware. She would step into the aisle try again, then step back to let the line move up the plane. Everyone who watched her seemed to nod in tentative approval of the effort being made. She was persistent. I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell she was thinking might magically happen to eventually get this all to work. In the end, a flight attendant came by and simply placed the guitar in the EMPTY locker on the other side of the aisle. Seriously! It kept me amused off and on for the 3 hours we were flying – just thinking about what wasn’t going through her head.

The Taxi driver in Rio Grande seemed terribly noncommittal when I asked him to take me to the “Boos Terminale” (actually they just say Bus terminal). I’d shown him the location written on a card and the name of the Bus Company. Of course the consequences for him not getting to the right place were infinitely less for him than for me – so why should he sweat this one. As I mentioned, there were two addresses given online for the location and, obviously, I wanted the right one, first time – because walking from one to the other with my sailing bag on my back was going to be painful – and I certainly didn’t want to be stood in one while the bus departed from the other – looking like a sad bastard.

My fate now lay in the hands of a taxi driver with whom I had no common language – or maybe anything else. In theory we were 6 minutes away and the bus wasn’t due to leave for almost 100 minutes. I now running well ahead of plan. The Main Street of Rio Grande is called “Islas Malvinas” – The Falkland Islands. This was evidence of the still held Argentinian claim to ownership of the Islands, which lie about 280 miles off Argentina’s coast and have been part of the UK since 1823 when the Spanish pulled out and the Brits moved in. At no point until the late 1940’s/early 1950’s did Argentina lay claim to the Islands. The basis of their claim? Proximity! Uruguay – watch out – you’re next. The terrible war that was waged for 72 days back in 1982 is still a source of national outrage in Argentina and clearly here in Tierra del Fuego – a lightening rod for local passion and emotion. I’m not surprised, though. I have friends who fought on the Argentinian side and they told me they only had summer fatigues (and when they invaded – they were in late Autumn heading into winter). Their rifles didn’t shoot straight and they had no food. Meanwhile, their generals spent a fortune on high tech weapons. There is a monument to the war at the end of the main street in Rio Grande where it meets the sea – I kept my UK Passport well concealed!

Within the 6 minute predicted journey time, we pulled up in something approximating to a desolate garage forecourt, but with an office with bus company logos and signs on it. I alighted from my taxi and paid the driver together with a handsome tip (this throwing him off the scent of me being a Brit). On the door of the office was a hand written sign announcing something about the Sud-Bus. This was the company from Chile who operated my bus. Now then – time for further angst. Did it announce that this was the official stop for the bus, or did announce something about it being the wrong location. I had no way of telling, but I took a photo and I was about to text it up to Boston to Alice for translation and assurance, when I noticed a kiosk on the other side of the door with another Sud-Bus sign on it. Two signs means business and certainty – doesn’t it? Clearly this was the right place – wasn’t it? I rested my pack on the ground outside and sat down on the concrete pavement, huddled up (it was cold and windy) and wondered why I hadn’t stopped to buy some vitals before I left Buenos Aires. My ticket promised drinks and snack on the bus, but I had been up for nearly 6 hours now and all I’d had was a cup of cold coffee and a small bag of mixed nut (no ‘s’ – singular) on the plane. Like an oasis appearing before my eyes, I started to make out people moving in the shop across the street. There was an old, closed, now derelict coffee shop along one side to the bus station, and everything else about us seemed either closed or of little use (like a tyre fitting place, a service station, and a kiosk bank). Not only was there life across the street, but I could see white coats and there was the distinct appearance now of bread sitting on a shelf in the window. I ventured forth to take a better look.

Upon close inspection, this was indeed a bakery, a fully functioning bakery. I entered and bought hot coffee (and it was hot) and a couple of empanadas. Sitting on the inside  window ledge of the shop – I had a most decent breakfast and even managed to buy a box of cereal bars for the onward journey, incase the bus snack turned out to be lacking. I was going to be traveling for eight hours. While I was there, not another soul entered the shop, yet this was a hive of activity and very well organized, spotlessly clean, but empty. I walked over the road back to the bus station just in time to meet a small minibus pulling in – from Ushuaia in Southern Tierra del Fuego. It’s the Argentinean port from where boats leave or arrive after sailing around Cape Horn. It was about a three hour drive south of where I was. The Chilean port of departure/arrival is called Porto Williams – much, much smaller. This small bus threw a couple and their bags out onto the pavement and sped off. I caught their American accent as I walked by. This time, I entered inside the station office and found a place to stand by the window so I could see the bus arrive. The recently arrived American couple came in and stood next to me, so I struck up a conversation. They were from Wyoming, retired and they were roving about Southern Chile and Argentina for a few weeks, just experiencing life. They were also getting the same bus as me. Further proof I was in the right place – or at least I wouldn’t be the only one stranded in the wrong bus station. The thing is – buses are how everyone travels in the more remote parts of Chile or Argentina – what I was doing wasn’t unusual at all.

A rather officious looking lady entered the building, opened the door to the kiosk with the Sud-Bus hand written logo on it and announced something loudly to the 20 or so folks standing around (there were two other kiosks, both manned and both advertising various bus companies). Her final word was something approximating to immigration. I twigged and walked up to the office.

“Do you speak English?”

“No.”

“Sud Bus – Punts Arenas?”

“Si,” was all she said and then shoved an immigration form across the counter. I reciprocated with my internet purchased, printed out ticket. She tore a small strip of unprinted paper off the bottom and stapled it further up my ticket. Interesting. She took my passport and checked the details against those I’d entered on the internet. They didn’t match. I had given my US Passport details online when I’d purchased the ticket, but then entered the country on my UK passport when the immigration official in Buenos Aires told me there would be no cost on one and $160 on the other – “you might as well,” he said. That meant I had to exit the country on the same passport. Argentina is fully automated and there are no forms to fill in – they enter you into their system and like many countries, take your photo and your thumb print. The form I had just been given was for Chile. I took back my UK passport and offered her my US. She looked at me for a full 10 seconds, whimpered and threw the passport back. I had no idea whether I was in trouble, or whether she was just being who she was, but I retreated quickly and hid behind my follow Americans! A passport misalignment wasn’t going to stop me hitting my objective.

The bus pulled into the station 40 minutes before departure time and it was impressive – the proper deal. Our bags were taken and stored and a receipt given. We were ushered on to the bus to find out seats and have our details checked by one of the two Sud-Bus officials (smartly dressed in uniform and fleece jacket). My chosen seat was an aisle seat – but next to the seat I was supposed to occupy – fully ensconced, was a larger lady who had already spread out. Let’s call her Petunia – after the cartoon lady from a public service announcement when I was young. Petunia had placed her coat over the seat back in front of her – raised the armrest that was the demilitarized zone between her seat and mine and she had placed her carry on bag firmly in my seat and she was unloading supplies and the like. Her face was painted Trump orange and her finger nails painted to match. I wasn’t winning this one, so I conceded defeat and went in search of an alternative seat. At first I tried the seats immediately behind – but they were Chip and Nancy’s seats (my new American cousins). I tried the one behind those, but after taking up occupancy, a couple of guys came and claimed them (Japanese I thought). However, the seat on the other side of the aisle from Chip and Nancy looked unclaimed and so I bagged it. At precisely 10.30 – the bus left the station and I allowed myself a little yelp – it seemed like I would make Punta Arenas and be on the flight to the Falklands the next morning.

The notion of spending eight hours on a bus would normally be daunting. However, set in the context of the overall journey it seemed to be just a means to an end and not terribly daunting, and in reality, it was going to be absolutely fine. The seats were very comfortable and there was more legroom than the majority of domestic airline flights (including on the three hour flight I’d just been on). Within minutes of the bus moving, one of our drivers (the boss I think) came by and took a coffee or tea order. I can stretch my Spanish to order coffee with hot milk and so I did – I learned how to ask for hot milk when we took Alice, as a baby, to the Canary Islands for a much needed break (for us, not her – she was only 8 months old) and each evening I would go to the bar and get some hot milk to make up her feed with. Memories! Our driver made his rounds with the tea and coffee and the much anticipated snack, which was a very dense cup cake wrapped in cling film. I accepted it and soon understood that this should be eaten in small bites and it could likely take me through the next 6 weeks with careful planning. It tasted delicious – but it was going to be hard work to get through it.

Chip and Nancy were excellent companions and we idly talked in between reading and listening to music. The bus drove for two hours north up the coast and then into the countryside, which was somewhat barren and increasingly undulating – right into the middle of nowhere. We then spent the thick end of an hour and a half getting through Argentinian and Chilean immigration. First, we all had to get off, go into the shed belonging to the Argentinian immigration people – this was definitely frontier territory – to complete formalities! The Chilean customs and immigration people are about 20 minutes North of the Argentinean. I have no idea what lies in between, or which country it belongs to – but I’ll bet the Argies have laid claim to it! So, after the Argentinian shed – back on the bus and on to a dirt track for a few miles and off again into a real shack of a place to be allowed to enter Chile. Our bags were unloaded and scanned in an other shack and then we re-boarded and drove for another two hours, mostly over unpaved roads – finally stopping shortly after we finally got back onto a concrete road. Here, the road dipped down to meet the Straits of Magellan and a working ferry was there to meet us. Again we all alighted, this time walking down a wide concrete ramp and onto the ferry. Our bus followed us and within 10 minutes we were sailing over the water. It was very windy and to one side we had dark grey storm clouds and on the other sunshine. It was quite a surreal, yet beautiful scene – Tierra del Fuego meets Patagonia. This was the tip of South America. I had been in Dallas just 36 hours ago.

Thirty minutes after stepping on the ferry we were off and back on the bus (same bus – hadn’t expected that) and within ninety minutes we were entering Punta Arenas. The eight hours had passed with ease and with interest. I was now overcome with hope – as we passed the Punta Arenas airport – knowing that I would be back there the following morning to catch my flight over to The Falklands. Punta Arenas bus station was a hub of activity, but then Punta Arenas seemed like a buzzing major town, set right beside the Magellan with easy access out into the South Atlantic. Significantly, my hotel was a mere 5 minute walk away, but the wind was howling and the rain had started. I arrived into reception of this high end place a little wet and wind blown, but extremely happy. The receptionist didn’t join in my delight and firmly brought me down to earth with a discussion about the rate I had bagged on-line. “I don’t think this is the right rate,” she announced.

“Really?” I said, “why not?”

“This is special rate for certain times and certain people.”

I tried to be funny, always a fatal error when dealing in a foreign tongue. “Well I’m certain this is the time and I’m equally certain I am the person.” Silence. Air blown between lips. Fingers tapped across the keys. Looks exchanged with a colleague. Head shaking from side to side. I gently passed my confirmation across the desk. She ever so gently ignored it. I pushed it a little further. She glanced at it. I presented my credit card. She ignored it and tapped away. Someone was getting a long email. One of us had to break. I was tired and while elated at making my destination, all I wanted was a cold beers and access to the internet to call Bernadette, Alice and James to confirm my victory. Now, there was an officious hotel clerk between me and the goal.

“Is that a bar behind you?”

“Yes it is – and a very good one.”

“Excellent – I’m going through there and when you’re finished recalculating things, I’ll be in there for you to find me.”

I could hear her brain working on saying something, but I wasn’t going to negotiate. I left her and deposited myself at a table in the really quite splendid bar – ordered a very cold local beer, and received it together with free nuts (this time with an S – plural). I made my phone calls. I also picked up a message from one of the group up in Santiago suggesting we all meet up that evening in the bar at the Holiday Inn at Santiago Airport – for a beer – at 7.00. I looked at my watch – 6.40. I replied to say “beat you by 20 mins – in Punta Arenas awaiting tomorrow’s flight.” I got a slew of replies congratulating me on making it. I felt relaxed, but tired. Then  – in came the clerk from reception and I was girding my loins for the showdown when she presented me with my key cards and requested my credit card. I didn’t ask what the rate was and she didn’t volunteer it. The transaction was done. I could now set upon the serious work of finding a local venue for dinner. All was good with the world and the nonsense of a plan I’d hatched less than three days ago had been executed and everyone had lived up to their word. Alice had been a star (we are so alike)! Planes, buses taxis and a ferry had worked. For a moment – the thought of sailing the Atlantic seemed like it might be an easier task after this. I knew I might come to live that down – and we will see. But for then, I was contented – no – very contented and ready for dinner, a sleep and an onward flight.

Pip pip

PS. The room rate was exactly the one Hotels.com had confirmed to me. Just because – I googled the hotel later that evening and checked the rate – it was exactly the rate that Hotels.com had quoted. Certain people and certain times indeed. 

My experience of American Airlines is generally pretty good. Like all major companies, they have rogue operators who seem to survive. However, in my experience, flying their Latin American routes is a massively variable and often charmless experience, and so it was on my flight down to Argentina last Wednesday evening. First of all, I didn’t want to go to Buenos Aires and second, I was leaving home a full night earlier than I wanted to. Bernadette and I had taken James to Love Field to catch his flight back to San Fran, returned home and after a very quick change of clothes, I called an Uber and within a few short minutes I was away for 6 to 9 weeks, depending on who you were.

For Bootsie, it was 9 weeks and my heart broke as I said good bye to her. She is 14 and while she’s in decent condition, Bernadette had pointed out to me that there was no certainty that she would still be with us when we eventually got back – 9 weeks hence. I think the way this departure suddenly descended on us – was a bit of a shock. We’d know it was going to happen for months and months, but then the time spent on the phone to airlines in the final few days, the loss of one complete day now given up to travel, and losing the time together at the conference – all of this meant the departure moment just seemed massively premature. Nevertheless, I headed off in the back of the Uber to a waving Bernadette and a nonplussed Boots, who doesn’t like bags around the place – it usually means some time for her in enforced confinement and a loss of treats and company. In this case she was going to be fine – until next week when Bernadette was leaving to fly to the UK!

Back to the Buenos Aires flight! The crew were pretty surly and definitely not in the mood for niceness. Perfunctory is the furthest I could stretch. I didn’t really care – I was more self obsessed with a combination of what I was leaving behind and what I had in front of me. I wasn’t thinking of the sail – I was thinking of the journey to get me to the sail!

Landing in a Southern American city is always……. interesting! Buenos Aires had been the source of numerous interesting arrivals in my past. When Bernadette and I landed there about 5 years ago – we’d spent 90 minutes arguing to get our luggage which was about 20 yards away and in full view. Clearly a “tip” was needed. We then spent nearly an hour waiting in a scrum to get past the baggage scanner and out to the street to find a taxi. This time was a pleasant disappointment! The lines were long and orderly. The immigration official was polite and helpful. The baggage scan took a while, but no scrum. I exited to the street 45 minutes after landing and a little confused as to whether I was really in South America. I was – the pavement outside confirmed it! The scrum had just repositioned!

I’d booked the hotel through one of the usual online booking sites. Alice had rang the place for me to ask about transportation and I’d been told to call them once I was through customs and they would pick me up within 10 minutes. It assumed I would have a working phone. I did. I called. They came (not quite 10 normal minutes, but within 10 Latin American minutes!) and I was transported to my accommodation. It was still only 8.00am local time. Buenos Aires’ main airport is unusual in that non of the major hotel brands are situated within easy reach. The nearest Marriott is 17 miles away downtown – which would surely be illegal in North America, where every arrival gate has to be within 600 yards of a Marriott to qualify as an arrival gate (no – I’m not being serious – but this might be true!).

As we pulled up outside the hotel reception, two things struck me. One, this was a residential house that had been inflated by a building on the side, and two, this wasn’t like the photo online. Still, it was only a mile and a half from the terminal, ideal for my very early getaway the following morning. Alice had also secured for me that they would try to get me an early check in if they could. Evidently, they could. The languid youth sprang from behind the reception desk and like a gazelle, he leapt up a set of steep wooden stairs off to the side that headed out into the carbuncle built on the side – bidding me to follow him. There was no assistance offered with my bags. We walked across a metal gangway and passed a row of what looked like prison cells. He opened a room, tossed the key on the bed and ushered me in ahead of him. It was starting to feel like a scene from a police show where they raid the room and one officer opens the door and another takes the risk heading into the room first. I was taking the risk and he wasn’t following me. From the safety of the doorway he explained something time sensitive based in his incessant watch pointing and he did so in rough Spanish (like I would know). After surveying the room, I figured out he was telling me that this room would be damaging to my health if I spent more than an hour at a time inside without going out for breath (or maybe they weren’t finished servicing it and they would be back – with a sanitation and decorating crew)! In fact, they hadn’t finished servicing and they did and it made no difference. This room was rough. No, this was beyond rough. The bathroom stunk. With the door fully closed – the bathroom stunk – even when standing on the other side of the door. It meant the bedroom stunk too! I still managed to while away the day, drifting in and out of sleep, reading, working on some stuff, watching CNN and BBC World news (which seemed to have the same content and the same reporters – good to know!) and walking around the neighborhood. I was perplexed as to why this hotel wasn’t living up to the glowing reviews it had received online (I started to assume they were planted and translated by Goggle Translator). In fairness, every member of staff I’d met was friendly and helpful (barring the lack of luggage carrying when I initially arrived). A brisk walk around the neighborhood answered the question about the reviews. I had booked the wrong hotel! There was a second hotel with a very similar sounding name – just a couple of hundred years around the corner. It looked inviting. It looked appealing. I was pissed!

As my alarm rang out at 3.20am the next morning – my phone simultaneously rang and whoever was on phone duty announced it as time to get up. When I got downstairs, reception was manned and there was a driver ready to shuttle me to the terminal. My room might have been rough, but this place delivered on everything their people promised me. I could give the name of the hotel now – but then you would be able to avoid it should you ever have the need to visit Buenos Aires airport and stay over – and I don’t want to spoil your fun! I was finally off on the trek down Argentina and across Tierra del Fuego to Patagonia, via the Straits of Magellan. First leg – a flight to Rio Grande, Argentina…needless to say, I was heading into the stupid phase!

I always get a little tense about checking in when I know I’m disadvantaged by a foreign language, local customs or the rules of a new airline. In this case, I had all three to deal with. I had a sneaking suspicion my check in bag was going to be adjudicated as being too heavy, but I’d made a value judgement that one of the agents, a very pretty, highly efficient, smiling agent who, in my estimation, was likely to be the most helpful! How wrong could I be. I managed to get to the front of the slowish moving line (the size and speed of the line surprised me at 4.15am in the morning – long, slow, but moving) – so I got to the front right in time to get the agent I had my eye on. Her greeting, which she said with a broad smile on her face – sounded cold. She really was cold. She told me with fluid English that my bag was way too heavy – way too heavy – could have been weigh too heavy, I failed to ask for clarification. It was showing to be 3 kilos heavier than what I’d checked it in in Dallas – strange, I’d not added anything too it! It was also showing 3 Kilos above the limit – exactly 3 kilos – again, strange.  What surprised me was that she now wanted to weigh my hand luggage – which I knew was heavy. “You cannot have all of this weight” she said shaking her head. “You need to take 4 kilos from the small and into the big one. “The plane is too small and if you take all of this weight on to the plane – the plane will not be able keep flying if there is turbulence.” Now I was confused and a little concerned – because both bags were going onto the same plane (I hoped) , the same plane as I was going on (I hoped). Which ever way you looked at this, the total weight was going to be the same. This made no sense, but neither did I “So, I cannot have this much weight INSIDE the plane” I said, lifting up my pack to demonstrate I could raise it with one hand (I had been working out!).

“Yes – No – of course. It is the combined weight that is the issue. If you shift things over to the other bag I will not charge you anything more extra.”Apparently weight weighs less if you put it in the hold of an aircraft. I wasn’t going to argue and I crammed my camera and a bag of electrical leads into the big red checked bag, thus increasing my angst about losing my bag and my belongings while I would be stuck in the depths of Tierra del Fuego waiting for the next flight (which was the following day). My schedule didn’t allow for me to wait for any lost luggage! If I was stuck waiting a day then I was stuck waiting a full week to get on the following weeks flight over to the Falklands, which I would have missed because of the missing bag… You get the picture. I said goodbye to my big bag and I was dispatched by the cruel gate agent over to a cashiers office where I paid $27 and the clerk efficiently issued me with my boarding card. 

Security was a breeze (“no, you can leave everything in your bag, but your shoes must come off please”) and there was no immigration because I was flying within the country. I had been tracking the weather in Buenos Aires since before I left Dallas and it had remained resolutely on track for major thunderstorms to roll through right around 5.00am that morning. It was now 4.30am. A delay to my flight of more than about 30 minutes would mean I would likely miss my bus in Rio Grande and I would need to put plan B into action. There’s always plan B, which had been forged the day before by Alice and I – and it involved a local taxi firm driving me to over to Punta Arenas. I had loads of confidence in a Chilean Bus company doing it on a “Pullman Boos” – but a local taxi firm – hmm. Also, this was an 8 hour ride – so 16 hours for the poor driver – and you can imagine this wasn’t going to be cheap! The “boos” was $38 (and included refreshments and a snack)! The taxi option was x12 this amount.

The gate area was the very definition of organization, but maybe not efficiency. But, my confidence level increased. Again, there was organization here – where in previous visits this would have been quite Darwinian when boarding, now it was status (and I had none). The gate agent had us lined up by status and row number and as I found out, touching the ropes that held us back was met with a public announcement in Spanish and English – “Do not touch the queuing systems without authority.” I thought queuing system was a bit much for three old red ropes – but there you are. “Thunder storms are expected presently in the area.” Here we go I thought, we’re about to be locked in – at the gate and my entire plan will be scuppered. An agent was posted outside behind two sets of firmly closed glass doors and he seemed to have his eyes locked on the heavens. What a terrible frame of mind to have – so negative, but the unreasonable way this route was imposed on me and the abrupt and shortened departure still had me in a funk. The display board above the desk announced a boarding time of 5.20am and a take-off time of 5.40am. By 5.20am we were ahead of time and by 5.30am we were roaring along the runway. Here we were ahead of time – not a thunder storm in sight.

At 8.35am, 25 minutes before schedule, we landed in Rio Grande. At 8.45am I picked up my checked bag (and nonchalantly checked the contents – all present and correct), headed to the exit, picked up a waiting taxi (which Alice had checked would be there) and headed for downtown Rio Grande and the Bus Station. I pondered the state of the taxis waiting outside the airport – which in fairness was just a tidy, but quite robust shed. The awaiting taxis all looked like they were remnants from a natural disaster somewhere – battle scarred, and sagging for lack of suspension. The thought having to sit in one of these for 8 hours didn’t bare thinking about. I wanted my Pullman Seat on my executive Chilean coach and it was looking like I might just get it. I was almost through the toughest part of the plan – the tidal gate for the sailors amongst us – getting to the bus on time. Once on the other side of this short taxi ride and it was pretty much smooth sailing.

I though to myself – in a non congratulatory and a don’t count your chickens sort of way – this nonsense of a plan might actually work! 

Pip pip!

Hello!

You’ll probably find the flow of bogs that will follow this one – a little erratic! That’s because the only connection I have with the outside world – that’s you guys – is via a satellite phone and its really expensive (you’re worth it). I will send simple e-mails to Alice in Boston and she will post them on the blog. She will also collect your comments and send them back to me so I can see what’s being said. You might find there’s nothing for a couple of days – and then two or three – or you may not! Until I find a rhythm to life here – it’s hard to know what time I’ll have and when.

Right now, the boat is tied up here in Stanley (used to be referred to as Port Stanley, I believe) in the Falklands – so now you know that I made it – just not how and when! We are on shore power and shore water – so luxurious.

We’ll be pushing out next Saturday to spend 10 hours cruising around the Islands and then we’ll return to Stanley to clean ourselves up and head across to Cape Town, South Africa. For now – the luxuries are small and most welcome!

The story will soon begin!

Pip pip! 

Tenacity: the reserve to not stop trying, continuing in the face of adversity, fortitude.

Flexibility: adapting to changing or new situations, not dogmatic, adaptable.

Stupidity: lacking in knowledge or common sense. Not sensible. Beyond reason.

A few definition to get this first post going. No prizes for guessing what comes next. Keep these words in mind!

It was last Monday, April 16^th and I was hard at it with the final arrangements and packing for the Atlantic trip which started with a flight that coming Thursday night. I had to pack for the trip, pack for the time in South Africa with Bernadette following the sail, and also pack for a conference we were going to in South Carolina, leaving the following day – and returning on Thursday just in time to change bags and catch my flight down to Santiago, Chile, with onward connection to Punta Arenas down in Patagonia. I was going to spend Friday afternoon and night there looking around and then catch the flight to the Falkland Islands on the Saturday morning. There is only one flight a week from South America to the Falklands, and it’s one of only three weekly flights in total that go to the Falklands. The other two are RAF sponsored flights out of Brize Norton Air Force Station in Oxfordshire, England. Missing my flight wasn’t an option – not unless I wanted to miss the first week of preparation and bonding with the rest of the crew.

So it was Monday and we’d just finished lunch (the “we” is Bernadette and James and I – James and Alice both came home over the last weekend to say good bye and good luck to me – a sundry expense to the cost of the sail – but well worth it!). My cell phone rang and low and behold – American Airlines. I don’t know about you, but when an airline calls just before a trip – it’s seldom good news. It wasn’t.

“Mr Shepherd – this is Lucy from American Airlines. How is your day going?”

“Well Lucy, it depends on what great news you have for me.”

“Well Mr Shepherd, I wanted to let you know that there has been a change to your scheduled trip later this week to – to – to Poonta Areenass.”

“A good change or a not so good change?”

“Not sure.” So we now knew this was going to be a not so go change, “We’ve heard from LATAM airlines that your connection to Poonta Areenass has changed time and now leaves at 07.53 on Friday morning.”

“Lucy, my American Airlines flight to Santiago lands at 07.47 – correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Am I missing something here?”

It was perfectly clear that this call was to inform, not help. I asked if American were going to do something about this 6 minute change – which would involve going through immigration, collecting a bag, changing terminals, going through security and getting to the gate….

6 minutes seemed a tad tight – may be a glass half empty view! They weren’t able to help me, but she had further news – to help explain. Now we were informing and explaining, but definitely not helping!

“There’s a strike down there and it seems things are fluid.” Fluid! Hmmmm, I have visited South America many times and plans there are always “fluid.” It goes with the culture. These plans weren’t fluid, they were “liquid” – at best!

After 3 hours on the phone with various offices across Latin and South America, I established that LATAM Airline’s customer service was an oxymoron, and after consulting with American “We’re here to inform you” Airlines, I established the only way around this was to leave Dallas a full day earlier. I discussed this with Bernadette and she agreed, this was the only option. Flexibility.

I had to call the conference organizer and explain we weren’t going to make it the next day. I was sad – we enjoyed this annual gathering and it was in one of our favorite places to visit – Palmeto Bluff (a place of staggering beauty). Nothing could be done, there was no flexibility around the flight out of “Poonta Areenass” on the Saturday morning. The upside of the change was that I would get more time with Jamesie who was hanging around until the Wednesday late afternoon, and we could all have dinner together later that evening. Some sense of order was restored to my life and while I was in a slight funk about the changes, I just accepted them and got on with the jobs at hand. I booked a hotel room at the Airport in Santiago for my premature arrival – somewhere I would now have to while a way almost a complete day – before my early start on the Friday morning – catching my earlier flight from Santiago to Punta Arenas.

Tuesday dawned and I was looking forward to a nice, and hither too unplanned, bike ride and the indulgence of more time to organize and pack. All seemed reasonably good with the world and, following a few hours in the office, I headed to prepare and change to go riding. Like many people, I may have a bad habit of taking my phone to the bathroom with me on some occasions (don’t judge – you’ve done it!) Sifting through emails was a productive activity to what is really down time. There was a harmless looking notification from American Airlines about my new schedule. I glanced at it – knowing the schedule inside out. BLAST OFF!

My new schedule absolutely showed the flight to Chile for the following evening, a full 24 hours before the original, but now my onward connection was showing not for 24 hours after I arrived in Santiago, but for the same day my new flight arrived. I had confirmed with American the previous evening that my original connection was still good – and it was. It got better – NOT. This new connection left 6 minutes before my flight from Dallas was due to land! I must admit, I handled this news with a private manic episode, not something one should do while vulnerable in the bathroom. After a further 6 hours on the phone with American and LATAM, it was clear – no-one was going to help. LATAM  blamed American for the stupid connection – the original flight that had been brought forward in time, had been canceled and this new flight was the only one available before Sunday – as in Sunday, the day after the day the only weekly flight to the Falklands leaves.

I have no idea how this could be American’s fault, but the guy at LATAM – who was clearly just putting me on hold while he berated other problematic travelers – just kept telling me that American had to “protect me.” He failed to explain how or why I was going to be protected. American tried to do the job for me – but all they got was to call back the next morning and say that “maybe the strike would be over – and more flights would be available.”

Didn’t sound likely to me. I let the crew who were also traveling and the skipper of the boat waiting down in the Falklands know I was in travel hell and might not make it on Saturday. A couple of the crew had already arrived in Santiago and they valiantly tried to help me by going to the airport and speaking directly with LATAM. Nothing gave. I was stuck.

I fully admit, I was in a funk. A real funk. I had missed the conference, and then missed the extra time I thought Bernadette and me and Jamesie would have had – because I was locked on the phone for what was 9 hours in total, with two more hours still to come the following day – non of which had been built into my tight plans. I was now also behind with the leaving preparations. GRAND FUNK!

I could either passively accept things and miss the first week, or I could place confidence in the strike being settled and call the next day to find I had been allocated a seat on an achievable, yet unconfirmed connection. As I sat with Bernadette that Tuesday evening, sipping on Vodka and Kombucha – my mind rolled around the alternatives I hadn’t fully explored. Santiago to Punta Arenas was a full 36 hours of driving door to door, and it involved crossing the Andes mountains – stupid. I had 49 hours of time available – in total from landing in Santiago to flying out of Punta Arenas. That wasn’t an option. There are no trains. The bus ride is actually a combination of rides and in total it was 48 hours from leaving the bus station in down town Santiago. Not an option. I was almost resolved to the inevitable and so sat to have some quality time with Bernadette (catching up on the latest episode of The Voice – so not real quality). However, she could tell my mind wasn’t on whatever Blake Shelton thought of Jack Frost’s performance. She suggested we leave this for later and go back up to the office! Within 30 minutes of playing on the internet I had re-confirmed a number of things, not least that there were no International connections into Punta Arenas. There were no flights to be booked with other carriers out of Santiago into Punta Arenas – there are two other carriers and they showed no availability – twerps. However, there was something new I came across  – I could fly from Buenos Aires into a little place called Rio Grande in Tierra del Fuego – in Argentina and it was only a 6 hour drive over the border into Chile and to Punta Arenas. I also found out that you absolutely can’t rent a car in one country and leave it in another. In fact, they don’t even let you take it over the border and then bring it back. Forbidden – not clear by whom. Now for the piece de resistance – there was a bus service from Rio Grande to Punta Arenas and it only took 8 hours, including getting off and getting on a ferry to cross the Strait of Magellan. There was more…

I found a little annotated diagram on one site – showing that the bus station in Rio Grande was a 6 minute taxi ride from the airport and the bus ride would be 8 hours. The bus left Rio Grande at 10.30 (am) on Friday morning and the flight from Buenos Aires took off at 5.30 Friday morning, arriving at 09.00 (am). This could be a possibility! Planes, taxis, buses and a ferry and I could make it into Punta Arenas by 18.30 (6.30pm) on Friday night – in time for a beer and some dinner and a night’s sleep and a taxi to the airport to catch my midday flight across to the Falklands. I explained all of this to Bernadette who gave me an encouraging nod –  which either said – “go for it” – or “you idiot, when is enough enough?”

Enough is never enough until you’ve exhausted all avenues, when the purpose is important – tenacity. Changing plans when presented with changes in circumstance – flexibility. Flying into Buenos Aires, hanging around for 20 hours in a shady hotel, catching an early morning flight when heavy thunder storms are forecast, riding a local taxi from a small airport into a small town in Tierra Del Fuego – where the location of the bus station is disputed between several locations within the same web page – getting a ferry across a famously rough piece of water and hoping the bus would be similarly transported and finish it’s trip into Punta Arenas – stupidity – maybe.

I bought the flight, bought the bus ticket (including picking a seat), reserved a hotel room near to Buenos Aires airport (wrong hotel – more to come on that), sent a note to Alice in Boston to call places en route and clarify things in Spanish – various ill explained pieces of mis-information  and then contented myself that if this failed, effort wouldn’t be the issue.

I was off to the Falkland Islands!

 

Hello there! As well as posts, you’ll find I have added a second page (pages are displayed in blue down to left I think – there’s one from before I left for the last big trip and now there’s another – like a pre-amble – for this latest trip. Please take a look and you’ll find posts right here starting very shortly.

I’m now in the Falkland Islands! Stay tuned!

Pip pip!