Wales and Whales

Update: 21

It's a long way from Ushuaia to Puerto Madryn - about thirty-six hours. This includes being stamped out of Argentina, stamped into Chile, stamped out of Chile and then stamped back into Argentina - which is where we were when we boarded the bus in the first instance. So, through no choice of my own, I have to tell you another bus story.

To catch the bus, we needed to get to Rio Grande on the north-eastern coast of Tierra del Fuego which involved two hours in a minibus from Ushuaia. Alarm bells should have sounded when a large dude sporting a blue and yellow bandana asked Tam if she'd mind swapping her front seat because he had a video camera and wanted to record the trip. Apparently that counts for more than a tendency to travel sickness. Apart from twenty minutes of mountain pass and two lakes, some unsuspecting guest is going to have to sit through an after dinner movie of flat, dry, windswept steppe covered in brown grass and dead trees. I hope they at least get popcorn.  

So in Rio Grande we changed to the bus that became home for the next two days. Not uncomfortable, but not our best either, we had the upstairs front seats which are usually prime as you get pretty much a 180 degree view. In this case, however, it meant we got to see flat, dry, windswept steppe covered in brown grass and dead trees until the sun went down. If that wasn't bad enough, the wind picked up so much that the bus kept getting blown off the road and, being upstairs, we felt the full extent of every wobble. So until sunset, we watched the dead straight road in front of us swing from left to right all the while holding our seats like on a rollercoaster. It was with great relief that darkness fell. After dinner (which was actually pretty good!) I pulled out an old water bottle that we'd decanted the last of some surprisingly decent  box wine into and topped up our empty polystyrene coffee cups. You would have thought I'd begun rolling a joint the way the steward went off at me. I didn't understand all the Spanish, but his foaming at the mouth and screaming suggested that, to avoid arrest and deportation, we should put the wine away.

With our contraband safely stowed, the same steward called for everyone's attention and explained something. I thought he said "the next film has much violence and lots of sex, does anyone mind?" but I wasn't sure, so asked the bloke sitting behind us who said,  "the next film has much violence and lots of sex, does anyone mind?"

We said we didn't have a problem with it. How bad could it be: there we're children sitting next to us?

We then sat through Quentin Tarantino's "Hostel". General theme: some backpackers get seduced by incredibly tasty Slovakian girls with an allergy to clothing (seduction happens in the sauna of the hostel - I've yet to come across a hostel with a sauna...) and then get drugged and end up in a warehouse outside Bratislava where rich businessmen have paid for their backpacker of choice (Americans fetch $35,000, Europeans $30,000). Then (with a full range of medieval torture instruments, a blow torch, electric drill and some surgical tools) aforementioned businessmen proceed to chop, burn, drill and cleave their prey to death.

So, rule of thumb for Patagonian bus rides: Gratuitous violence and porn: good. Wine in polystyrene cups: bad.

***

Eventually we arrived in Puerto Madryn, still a little rattled by the journey. What were the Welsh thinking? This was where, in 1865, The Mimosa brought 153 Welshmen to escape the oppression of the English who must have been goddam awful because Patagonia is not the world's most hospitable place. The wind was as furious as ever being cause for concern as my mate Dan was coming out from New York - at my request - for some sun.

Our hostel (without any Slovakian girls) had en suite "semi-shared" bathrooms. This meant you had your own bathroom, except it wasn't your own. The bathroom sat between two bedrooms with doors to each. Obviously you couldn't lock the doors as that would mean the neighbours would be locked out of their own "semi-shared" bathroom. Instead, you relied on their goodwill for privacy and found yourself singing a lot. It also meant food poisoning would keep four people awake, not just one.

Anyway, it was with great relief that Dan and Rachel arrived. The Argentine authorities had relaxed visa requirements for vegetarians and Rachel was allowed in. (I think she was even granted ninety days. Obviously with employment prohibited.)

Fortunately, Tam had organised for us to rent a cabana so the four of us had a place of our own.  It also meant we had an outside area with parilla (barbeque) to show off steak cooking skills. Our enthusiasm for seeing friends for the first time in six months (excluding those we've made along the way) was evident the next morning when the hired car was delivered and contracts were read by bloodshot eyes and signed in a pile of empty beer cans and wine bottles. We were all relieved that the car was actually released to us.  That we returned it with a broken gear box that had been driven in third for the 120 or so kilometres back from Punta Tombo was in no way related to the destruction of a five litre wine vat party pack drunk two nights earlier.

***

Gaiman is a town that markets itself to tourists as "a traditional Welsh village". General consensus in our group was that it is more like a town in Patagonia that once had some Welsh settlers and is now flogging that for all its worth. Traditional tea rooms - or Casas de Te - seem to be the industry of choice. I think the use of "traditional" is a little iffy. Some of the places looked like they'd been put up just in time for tourist season 2006.

Nevertheless, we did have lunch in one and I have to say, it was the finest traditional Welsh ravioli I've ever had.

Truth be told, the Welsh heritage extends beyond Gaiman. Puerto Madryn, Trelew, Rawson and Dolavon all, as their names suggest, have some link back to The Land of Our Fathers.

The museum, with Welsh signage, confirms this. It has an old typewriter, a book of sermons (in Welsh), some photos, an old piano (they've got rhythm, those Taffs) and my highlight: a map of allocated plots in the early days of town planning. I've recorded some of the names for posterity. Let no man say those Welshmen didn't embrace their new country:

Diego Berry Rys was allocated a little spot between Juan Pugh and Mauricio Humphreys. Guillermo Harris and Ricardo Williams were across the road and, at the end of the street was chez J. Love Parry, who must have been quite a lad as he also has a road named after him in Puerto Madryn. I'm sure J. Love was an admirable settler, but I just can't shake the thought that, with a name like that, he'd be better suited to spinning discs and spilling tunes as a funky house DJ in The Valleys.

***

After four action packed days and short of sleep from waking early to see whales, dolphins, seals and penguins we sent Dan and Rachel back to Buenos Aires and took ourselves off to the beaches on the Atlantic coast hoping for some sun. It's been freezing ever since we arrived in Villa Gesell. Hopefully Buenos Aires next week will be warmer.

Until then, hasta luego...