Ushuaia, the End of the World

Part VI of the “Our Big Bucket Cruise” blog series

March 25: The Veendam arrives in a moderate gale.

Ushuaia from the Sea

Tierra del Fuego is an archipelago surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean, the Strait of Magellan, and the easternmost part of the Pacific Ocean. Although the city of Ushuaia is in Argentina, most of the main island actually belongs to Chile. At 55° latitude, it holds the distinction of being “the southernmost city in the world.”

Ushuaia, the Southernmost Town in the World

The indigenous people were the Yahgan and Alacalufes (canoe Indians). Surprisingly, despite the inclement weather, they wore little or no clothing. Constant fires kept them warm, hence the region’s name: Tierra del Fuego, land of fire.

I’d always wanted to go to Ushuaia. Stories about the ceaseless wind, the snow-capped Andes, and the magical light had fascinated me.

Even though Günter and I are still not feeling well, and have cancelled our tour here, a catamaran cruise through the Beagle Channel and a ride through the National Park, we bundle up to walk into the town. The wind blasts us so hard it almost knocks us over as we head down the gangplank and onto the pier. We make it to the town’s main drag and then Günter, who now has bronchitis, turns back.

Gunter on the pier near the ship, bundled for the walk

Lois, Bundled for the walk into town.

All the streets climb up the hill from the port, as in San Francisco.  The cross-streets filled with restaurants, bars, tourist and winter apparel shops protect me from the wind.

As I walk along the streets, I begin to fall in love with this southernmost town in the world. Yes, Ushuaia is remote, desolate, and moody as the sun appears and disappears behind the numerous clouds.  Yet the town turns out to be quite charming and picturesque. The colorful buildings are a mixture of architectural designs, from colonial European to ski resort styles with steep roofs. (Ski season here will begin in six weeks.) On the corner is the yellow, multi-storied Horn Hotel. On the facing block is a cozy, blue-shuttered bed-and-breakfast with white fretwork and a garden of struggling blue lupines. Towering over the town is the massive A-framed Albatross Hotel. And behind it all lie the snow-capped Andes. Ushuaia is frontier town with lots of character and a cosmopolitan center of 70,000, all rolled into one.

After exploring the town, I meander over to the sailboat anchorage to take some photos. I cannot imagine the courageous and hardy spirit it takes to sail here! Only 100 years ago, the only people crazy enough to come here were convicts in chains. Prison inmates built the town’s railway, hospital, and port. That prison is now a museum that I pass on the way back to the ship.

Delayed by the port authorities, The Veendam leaves too late to view Glacier Alley, but we do experience a few hours of daylight while winding through Darwin’s famous Beagle Channel.

The Beagle Channel at Sunset Viewed from our Veranda.

The Straits

 

Even on a Cruise Ship, at Sea, Schedules are Made To Be Broken and Geopolitics Hold Sway.

Part III of the “Our Big Bucket Cruise” blog series

I already knew that in one out of every four HA cruises around the southern tip of South America, a landing at the Falklands is not possible. This is not surprising. The Falklands experience some of the worst weather on the planet. Despite its dismal reputation, the climate during the austral summer (Dec-Feb) can be moderate, with temperatures occasionally reaching 75° F. But we are now in the southern autumn.

The total land mass of the islands is roughly equivalent to the state of Connecticut. The capital is Port Stanley, located on the Eastern Falkland Island, where two-thirds of the population of 2,500 live. Nearly everyone else who lives in “the camp,” the term for the countryside, is involved in sheep ranching.

Although we will see some sheep farms, our reason for taking a land tour is to see the penguins. We have observed small yellow and blue penguins in South Island, New Zealand but these are special: large in size and colored in the familiar Patagonia colors: black and white. We look forward to seeing these penguins—with their orange beaks and orange-and-yellow chests. In 1592, Sir Thomas Cavendish, a British explorer, sailed The Desire down the coast of Patagonia in search of the Straits of Magellan. It was in Puerto Deseado, that he described “a curious black-and-white bird that cannot fly but swims like a fish.” A Welshman on board named the bird based on the Welsh word for white head, “pen gwyn.”

I’m reading “River of Desire,” by Simon Worrall, on my Kindle. In Patagonia, Worrall says, people begin counting the speed of the wind from 50 kilometers (about 30 knots) an hour. That’s zero! A “concerning” wind is about 200. To prepare for cold, windy on-shore experiences, Günter and I have packed a duffel with our sailing jackets, fleeces, long silk underwear, gloves and caps.

On Thursday, March 22, Veendam Captain Frank van der Hoeven announces that our ship may or may not land in the Falklands, depending on whether he is able to anchor there: “We are experiencing Force 7 winds, a light SW gale, at 33 knots. If the winds there come from the right direction, we might be sheltered from the long fetch by the land mass of South America. Then we can board using tenders.” Later that day, the Captain orders the stabilizers to be put out. These are 18’ long and 8’ wide. He has to reduce speed to use them, so we will be late in arriving.

On Friday, March 23, at 0805, the captain announces that he is regrettably canceling the stop and proceeding for two days directly to round Cape Horn. Several boats already there are “wallowing in the wind,” he says. They report Force 9 winds, 50+ knots from the SW—not promising. Outside our veranda window, we can see racing whitecaps and spindrift. We do not even want to open our sliding glass door to the balcony! The whining of the wind is constant—sometimes a high whistle, sometimes groaning with the gusts. Surprisingly, with the stabilizers out, the ride on this cruise ship is not too rough. Günter and I can only imagine what it would have been like in our 43’ yacht!

By noon, there is another Captain’s Announcement: The wind is down to Force 8, with swells lessening to 16’. He expects that we will round Cape Horn by 6 p.m. on Saturday. He has altered course directly to the Horn waypoint, proceeding more slowly to ensure our comfort. “Here the warm Brazilian current meets the cold 2.5-knot Falklands current,” he adds, “causing rough seas.” He expects the winds to lessen as we reach the Cape.

Sailing around the world on our own yacht, we have learned to accept the winds and currents and to “go with the flow.”  The political situation in the Falklands, though, has piqued our interest and we continue to follow the news. While in Buenos Aires, the English translation of the local newspapers contained daily headlines about a new conflict between the Brits, who own the Falklands, and the Argentineans, who have been taught in their schools that these desolate islands are rightfully theirs.  The headlines scream, “Malvinas Stand-Off.” Some articles report that by reasserting its claim to the islands, the current government led by liberal President Christina Fernandez Kirchner is gaining the popularity it had lost.

It’s amazing how little we hear about worldwide events in the U.S. I had not heard about any conflict in the Falklands since the struggle for control ended in 1982. This ratcheting up of tensions is the run-up to the 30^th anniversary of that war on April 2, 2012.

Some history here: It was the French navigators who gave the islands their Spanish name, Isla Malvinas. Beginning in the mid-1700s, the Falklands have been the source of many battles between countries fighting for control. The islands themselves were strategically important for those ships rounding The Cape before the Canal was built, but they continued to languish economically until the wool business became lucrative.

Thirty years ago, Argentina seized the Falklands and the U.K. invaded to get them back. Britain claimed that the islanders had a right to self-determination; the British population wanted to remain British, of course. The Argentineans were no match for British troops, although both sides suffered serious losses: 255 U.K. servicemen were killed; 649 Argentineans died in the conflict.

Although there is a lot of talk about Argentinean pride and the islanders” right to self-determination, it is the discovery of oil that has caused current tensions. Three oil companies want to drill in these tempestuous seas, especially because oil is being depleted in the North Sea.

While we were in Buenos Aires, it was reported that a cruise ship that had already stopped in the Falklands was denied entry into Buenos Aires or any Argentinean ports. That problem does not pertain to our ship because we are going the opposite way. The Argentineans are also upset with Peru for conducting standard military exercises with a British ship.

Later during our voyage, the Veendam is two hours late leaving Ushuaia, Argentina because it has been held up by the port captain. Reportedly, our captain was asked to sign a statement saying that the Veendam would never again include the Falklands on her itinerary. He did not have the authority to sign, and had to wait for an answer from the head office. Of course, the corporation would not consent to the request, but the ship agreed to pay a “port fee” to be able to sail away.

Captain Frank apologized again and again that, because of the delay, we would miss viewing much of the fjords and would not reach the world-renowned Ushuaia glaciers before sunset. I could hear the controlled anger in his voice.

On our own yacht, we often repeated the phrase, “Pacific Bliss is not a train, not a plane, and not a cruise ship,” in answer to questions and complaints about schedules. But now, we realize that even a cruise ship can miss scheduled stops because of wind, weather, and geopolitics.

 

Our Big Bucket Cruise

As sailors, we’d always wanted to go around Cape Horn. But by the time we purchased a catamaran to sail around the world, our decision had been made. We would be warm-weather sailors on our own yacht. Sailing around the Horn would be a reward we would give ourselves after we completed our circumnavigation. And someone else would be Captain and Navigator.  Now that time has come. We are calling our cruise on the Veendam our Big Bucket Cruise. Because not only will we cross many destinations off our “Bucket List,” but Günter had always called the passage to the next port on Pacific Bliss, “moving The Bucket.” And this is one Big Bucket compared to 24×43’ Pacific Bliss!  The ms Veendam is 101×720’ with a 24.6’ draft and weighs over 55,000 tons. Built in 1996, she has a crew of 560 and room for 1258 guests. Her max speed is 21 knots.

The names of all the cargo ships of the Holland America line ended in “dijk,” (pronounced dike). But passenger ships were named after dams on rivers, e.g., Amsterdam for the Amster River dam, Maasdam for the Maas River, and Ryndam for the dam on the great river, Rhine. We will sail on a small-to-medium size cruise ship, the Veendam, named after a smaller dam and river.

Buenos Aires, a Capital City with an Edge

Before we board, however, we have scheduled three full days of sightseeing in Buenos Aires, called the “Paris of South America.” We are impressed during our city tour the first day, in a private van with our sailor friends, Joe and Michele. I conclude that Buenos Aires has less sophistication than Paris, but more vibrant colors, a wild, Latin energy, and an undefined edginess that I want to explore further.

In the microcentro, the political and historic center, rust-and-amber cobblestones contrast with shiny steel high-rises. The president comes to work each day to the Casa Rosada, The Pink House, probably along the same Avenida de Mayo that has seen numerous revolutions and bombings. The Plaza here is still the center of a tumultuous political scene, with graffiti and posters and white marks on the concrete where the “women in white,” the mothers of the desaparecidos, (the disappeared ones) still march every Thursday.

The next neighborhood, Puerto Madero, along the riverfront, has rows of restaurants and nightclubs. Farther south, the neighborhoods of La Boca, Monserrat and San Telmo are where the first immigrants arrived from Europe and where the tango originated. (We learn that the tango was originally a lower, working class dance shunned by the elite.)

I am struck by the city’s most European (and exclusive) neighborhood, Recoleta, with its French architecture, tree-lined avenues, and sidewalk cafés. While Günter and Joe sip on cappuccinos and listen to stories about the area’s history told by our guide, Michele and I take a stroll through a charming artisans’ market set up there on Saturdays.

Afterwards, our group spends a couple of hours walking through the city cemetery in Recoleta. Hours? Yes, the cemetery covers four city blocks and Evita is buried there. It is a national treasure where past presidents, war heroes and the elite can continue to show off their wealth.  (It’s important to live in Recoleta during one’s life but even more important to lie there after death.) The graves and mausoleums are adorned by the works of national and international sculptors. The stories our guide tells of the plots, murder and mayhem that occurred in this country defy even the most-active imagination!

Even after touring the other neighborhoods, though, we are always happy to return to our Hotel Mine in pleasant Palermo Sojo. On Friday night, the cafés are filled with yuppies stopping for tapas and drinks after work. Michele set up a marvelous wine tasting here, with a formal dinner afterwards. On Saturday night, we walk around the area, and finally settle on a sidewalk café that is celebrating St. Patrick’s Day by promoting local beers.

On Sunday, all the stores in our neighborhood are closed—even the convenience stores and supermarket. The four of us take a taxi to the 270-stand Sunday antiques and flea market that begins in Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo, Buenos Aire’s oldest neighborhood.

“Watch your money,” warns the driver as he lets us off.

We are at an intersection where almost every sign says something about the tango. I step inside the doorway of a store advertising tango shoes. A pretty woman with long, black hair is trying on a red pair of strappy shoes with heels so high that they resemble Jimmy Choo’s.

How can one dance in these?

We pass more shops and then turn onto the blockaded street jammed with souvenirs: hairpieces, scarves, wooden statues, clothing, woolen hats, bags, jewelry, and containers made of gourds for serving make tea. We walk about eight blocks, all the way to the end, then turn around to walk back to the intersection. I fill Günter’s backpack full of souvenirs for friends and relies, along with my little purse, glasses, everything I have so that my hands are free for shopping. This will be my major shopping in Argentina, I rationalize, because during many port stops, we’ll be taking scenic tours.

The midday sun is burning bright and we have forgotten to bring water. We decide to stop at a sidewalk café to order soft drinks. Günter is seated next to a miniature Eiffel Tower. Tourists keep stopping to take photos. The four of us look at his black backpack wedged between his chair and the statue, wondering whether it is in the way, but the tourists don’t seem to mind. Michele leaves to look at some colorful, woven shoes on a table nearby. She motions for me to come. I leave our table for a minute or so and then return. Soon she returns, and we stand to leave. Günter’s backpack is gone! We notify the waitress and the restaurant’s owner, but of course, the thief is long gone. Everyone is carrying a nondescript black backpack, it seems. A few blocks down, we encounter a couple of policemen. They do not speak English, but we manage to convey what happened.

“Documents?” one of them asks.

Günter shakes his head no. “In hotel safe.”

The policeman nods and smiles his approval. It appears that only stealing someone’s identity would be a crime worth reporting.

Later, back at our hotel, we assess the damage. It could have been much worse, even though everything we both had with us, except for the camera I was carrying, was in that pack—including my camera bag, batteries, and memory cards, Günter’s camera and accessories, my prescription reading glasses, my notes, pens, notebook, purse and contents. Of course, we lost all of our carefully selected souvenirs—as well as a special blouse made entirely of ribbons that I had splurged on. The good news: we had taken no passports, billfolds, credit cards, drivers’ licenses, etc.

Lesson learned: Firmly attach all personal items to your person at all times. 

We board the ship on Monday, ready for our next adventure, but more cautious than ever.

On the ship, one passenger tells another story. This couple had been robbed in Buenos Aires in a more brazen manner: Two men came up to them, brushing off a spray of guano (bird droppings) from their shoulders, as if to help. But soon afterwards, our shipmate realized that his billfold had been stolen right from his pocket! Then, in the same day, another spray of guano mysteriously fell on them. Wiser now, they realized what these men intended, and pushed away.  “Evidently one man sprays the stuff, then brushes it off, while the other steals the billfolds,” she says.

Günter and I realize that we have been fortunate. During our entire eight-year circumnavigation, encompassing 62 countries, we had never been robbed. But then, we’ve never been in edgy Argentina!