Horses are not go-carts

"What about hats?"

"Your hair is short. You will be fine."

I looked up at the horse in front of me and then across at the rough trail that led up into the hills. Oddly, the wind blowing through my hair was not what I was primarily concerned about.

With the exception of those connected to the budding tourist trade, the main inhabitants of Patagonia are the rangers or 'gauchos'. These horse-backed loners heard sheep and cattle through the mountains and plains normally with the help of just their mount and dogs. In their account of travels with the Beagle, both Darwin and FitzRoy mention the gauchos, with the former traveling with them when he wished to go inland. Clearly, riding was the way to conquer this wide, open space so it seemed churlish not to give it a try.

Due to being a somewhat accident-prone child, I had never taken riding lessons when I was younger so my equine experience to date came from the occasional beginner-level hacks while I was on holiday. I had been assured that this outing would be similarly suitable for a complete novice, apparently so much so that hard hats were deemed completely unnecessary. The saddles were also small and largely concealed by a large thick blanket. This meant the only options for holding on were the reins (which were held in just one hand and you couldn't exactly pull on them) or the horse's mane (I wasn't too keen to pull on that either). I tried to reassure myself that this was the traditional gaucho experience and wasn't that exactly what I had desired?

I wondered how many gauchos-in-training died horrible deaths on their first outing.

We set off walking in a line up the track. My horse was third in the string, behind a small five year old and her mother. As the only non-Spanish speaker in the party of five, I was unable to exchange reassuring comments with my fellow riders. The stable-hand in charge of our group spoke excellent English, but obviously wasn't the slightest bit nervous of DEATH BY BAZURK HORSE. However, as we moved through the first gate I heard the international squeak behind me of someone feeling anxious. I felt better.

The path wound upwards but had a series of steep trenches that must be crossed. On foot, they were an uncomfortable scramble; maybe two careful steps down, a jump and then a two step leap up. This didn't look like a remotely good idea on the much larger horse with four legs to maneuver. We approached the first one.

I swallowed.
Looked around desperately for something to hold onto.
Failed.
Wished I had a hard hat.
Prayed.

Then with a slight jostle we were over.

"When you go down, lean back on the saddle," our guide called out, first in Spanish and then in English.

Wait, why hadn't he mentioned this before we went over the first drop? Was the decent coming up INFINITELY WORSE? Perhaps no one had ever stayed mounted before on this crossing. Maybe it was six foot deep and be more bone shaking than your average roller coaster. The type whose last safety test on its wooden frame had been 1970. Before the infestation of woodworm.

"Um....!" I called out.

"Don't worry! It's exactly the same as before!"

Just before you felt no need to offer us life-saving advice.

It was at this point that I reached an important conclusion that was going to affect me for the rest of the ride:

A horse is not a go-cart.

There was no way I could have gone over that steep trench in anything with wheels and come out unharmed. I would have been thrown to one side, spun head-over-heels, ended up in a lot of pain and someone somewhere would have laughed. My horse, however, was a sentient being who knew full well how to negotiate such a drop. It picked its way carefully down and up without any change in speed. Even though it looked a highly precarious process when watching the animal in front of me, the ride itself felt almost completely smooth. One of us in this trekking unit knew what we were doing. It just wasn't me. I could live with that.

From then onwards I realized all I needed to do was trust the horse.

The only slight problem with this was that my horse hated being number three in our line. Perhaps when it saw the wide open land before us it just wanted to run. Maybe it was in a blood feud with the forefront bicolored pony. It could be that it just felt it was undignified for both of us to have to follow a five year old. I didn't know. I did know that I wasn't quite prepared to take an ad-libed route across this mountain which would culminate --in the best scenario-- with a small child being thrown to the ground.

Well, actually, I probably was, but the likelihood of the brat staying mounted and me falling to my doom was rather higher.

For the majority of the ride, a few tugs on the rein kept us in position. We rode up along the trail, stopped for a brief photo shoot and then began our decent. Seeds of worry started to blossom in my mind as we reached a prolonged steep decline.

Just trust the horse.

Right. I kept my hand as loose on the rein as possible, allowing my horse to amble comfortably down the pitted ground ... until it seized its opportunity and took off at a trot.

This ALWAYS happens to me on beginner hacks. At some point, my horse gets bored of walking and decides a brisk sprint is in order. It was, however, the first time this had happened on a sharply declining hillside.

Did I mention I wasn't wearing a helmet?!

I yelped a protest.

"Pull on the reins!" our guide called to me.

I'd thought of that before making a noise like a fretful three year old, but had dismissed it in favor for the toddler distress call because I thought pulling up on a horse when it was running downhill might go badly. Apparently though, it was still the thing to do. I pulled. My horse reluctantly came to a graceful stop.

"I see you know how to trot your horse," the guide said, jovially.

I tried to smile. It came out somewhere between a snarl and a grimace.

Any thoughts that I might have had regarding my anxiety being an overreaction were put to bed a few days later when we crossed the border to Chile. While hiking in the Torres del Paine national park, we were passed by a group of four riders ... and one horse sans rider.

Clearly, not only had one poor novice gaucho met their demise, but the group had just carried on, probably leaving the rotting corpse to be eaten by pumas.

Patagonia is a harsh harsh place.

You say tomato...

"We'd like to go to the port. Puerto?"

"Puerto?" The taxi driver looked baffled. Clearly this was not a word in his vocabulary. Moreover, it was not a word that any other passenger in the tourist town of Ushuaia had ever used in his cab before.

"Um, yes. Puerto? The port? With the boats?" We tried again, making a hand gesture that hopefully suggested some kind of water vessel.

"..... Ah, Puerto?"

"..... Si."

There were three possible causes for the reoccurring communication bar we were having with our Argentinean taxi drivers. The first was that our pronunciation sucked. While Spanish is a reasonably phonetic language, there are differences in the pronunciation of some letters from English and indeed, differences between European Spanish and Latin America Spanish. This had been our problem the day before, when we had asked to return to our hotel, 'Los Yamanas', whose pronunciation is closer to 'Los Shamanas'.

The second possible cause of error was that we simply couldn't hear the subtler sounds in the locals' speech. Since we had all been brought up as purely English speakers, there would inevitably be tones in foreign languages that would just slide right by us. For instance, while living in Tokyo, I never really managed to differentiate between the Japanese word for 'hospital' (byouin) and 'hair salon' (biyouin) -- potentially unfortunate. It was just about possible that this was the cause of our difficulty in directing our current cabby to the watery destination of our choice.

The third option was that the taxi drivers in Tierra del Fuego were bored of carting around touristing gringos and were just having a laugh.

The following day, we set out to go to the train station.

"The train station, please. Tren?"

"... Tren?"

...... totally option three.

The train at the end of the world

"Welcome to the train at the end of the world!"

Well, that wasn't something you heard everyday. Our guide book had been somewhat disparaging about this train trip. It claimed that it was ridiculously touristy and the only way of reaching Ushuaia's national park at a slower pace would be to walk the distance. On both accounts, it had a point. It was rather like walking into a live-action 'Thomas the Tank Engine' set, with small carriages pulled by a steam train with an additional diesel engine for reinforcement. The countryside though, was beautiful, and since the main aim of the trip was to admire the scenery, the speed hardly mattered.

The train attracted a variety of passengers. While waiting to buy our tickets, I found myself standing behind an elderly lady in pointed patent leather shoes dragging heavily on her cigarette in the cold morning air. As the line moved forward, she dropped her handbag which spilled its contents over the gravel to reveal a lighter, more cigarettes... and an asthma inhaler.

In contrast to this sight, a man boarded the carriage in front of us in serious walking gear. Dressed in luminous yellow from head to toe, his waterproof trousers came up to his arm pits and his heavy duty jacket dropped to his hips. We speculated as to whether he actually hiked, or just spent his time traveling on cute little tourist trains telling smoking grannies with asthma inhalers thrilling tales of his fabricated climbs up all the peaks visible from the window.

Tourist trap or not, it was fun to think you were on the southmost train track in world. I had discovered a large globe in our hotel and, by lying on my back, had appreciated for the first time exactly how far south Patagonia stretches. Its tip is considerably lower than bottom of both Africa and Australia, at a latitude of 56, compared with 35-40. The equivalent northern latitude is around Newcastle and one member of our group tested the temperature of the Beagle Channel and declared Tierra del Fuego identical in every way to his Geordie homeland. The rest of us felt there were some small differences.

The rail road had originally been built for the transportation of prisoners, feeding a prison that had been built when Argentina wanted to establish a firmer presence in their lower borders. If desired, you could buy a full prison uniform from the shop by the ticket office. I considered getting one for my brother.

The hour long train ride ended in the park, where we hiked along the water and spied on Chile. In the center of the channel separating the two countries was an island on which someone had planted an Argentinean flag. Rather pointed, I thought.

Tracing Darwin

On 27th December 1831, the HMS Beagle set sail from the UK on a journey that would ignite a change in the way we view the human race forever. Led by Captain Robert FitzRoy, the Beagle's primary objective was to continue the work of its last expedition in conducting a hydrographic survey of southern South America.

FitzRoy had been known to suffer from bouts of depression (a disease that would eventually lead to his death in 1865) and it was partially to help counter this that he invited a naturalist to join the crew to make observations on the creatures and geology of Patagonia. The young scientist would be FitzRoy's equal in rank and keep him company with lively intellectual debates.

The naturalist chosen was the 22 year old Charles Darwin.

Darwin's observations led to the publication that is the source of all modern evolutionary theory, 'On the Origin of Species', the contents of which drove a wedge between himself and FitzRoy who never accepted the idea.

Also aboard the Beagle were three indigenous people from the southernmost tip of South America, Tierra del Fuego. The Beagle had 'collected' these individuals (possibly rather unintentionally) during its first voyage around the coast and had brought them to the UK to be educated. The plan was now to return the Fuegians to their former home accompanied by missionary Richard Matthews, to start the bulk enlightenment of the Yaghan natives in Christian and British ways.

The only real suspense in this tale is how long this took to fail. The answer to that is nine days.

After that time, all three Fuegians had returned to their former (undoubtedly country appropriate) habits and Richard Matthews begged transport back on the Beagle.

It was reading a fictional account of this journey in 'This Thing of Darkness' by Harry Thomas that had led me to suggest this trip south. I was therefore VERY EXCITED^(TM) to touch down in Ushuaia and see the Beagle Channel for the first time.

Ushuaia's claim as the southernmost city in the world makes it a tourist town, with much of its human traffic passing through on cruises to the Falkland Islands (sorry, sorry, in my current location I naturally mean 'Islas Malvinas') and Antarctica. Its port, however, is on the banks of the Beagle Channel, named by FitzRoy as he recorded its location on the first voyage to Tierra del Fuego.

While a catamaran might not have been an exact replica of the HMS Beagle, it was a pretty good alternative. We hopped onboard to cruise down the Beagle Channel and see the local sea life. I stood on the metal bridge linking the two hulls and pretended I was captain.

Then a huge wave swamped me and I was forced to beat a tactical retreat.

I should mention that even though February is the height of summer for Patagonia, the weather isn't super warm, hovering around the mid-teens in centigrade. We were extremely lucky that we had a series of clear, dry days (although the latter was now rather academic for me) even though the forecast had predicted rain.

The wildlife was spectacular and apparently completely unconcerned by the presence of a large boat full of pointing people. We saw islands of cormorants --declared 'fake penguins' by our tour guide due to their black and white colour-- and sea lions as well as real penguins that bounced out of the water while swimming in a similar manner to dolphins.

Our cruise ended at the small farmstead of one of the first successful missionaries, Thomas Bridges, who settled and raised his family there later in the 1800s. Part of the site is a small museum displaying the skeletons of sea mammals. It is run by a marine research team that is based in Ushuaia and it was possible to visit the shed where the bones were being cleaned.

This delightful job appeared to be a task for graduate students.

One of the most amazing sights in the museum was the comparison of the skeletons of a specked porpoise and a leopard seal. While the porpoise's tail consisted of the expected single line of bone, the seal had two separate limbs contained within the tail (bottom right image). It was amazingly human-esque and a beautiful example of a half-way step in evolution, from land animal to sea animal.

While it is true that FitzRoy was not greeted by a seaside town selling stone penguins (in fact, he was greeted by Fuegians who stole his boat), the landscape of the area would have changed little since the Beagle's journey. I woke up in the night to hear the wind howling down the mountains and turning the channel into a continuous crash of white crested peaks.

It was around then that I concluded that a hotel room in a tourist town was probably as authentic as I wanted this historical recapturing to be.

City of the dead

While Santiago's wealth is expressed in its gleaming glass sky scrapers, Buenos Aires displays riches in the form of old stone mansions... and graves.

There is a saying in Argentina that it costs more to die than it does to live. If it is your final wish to be laid to rest in La Recoleta Cemetery then there is no denying that you better have done some serious financial planning.

The 4800 above-ground vaults that form Buenos Aires' most exclusive departed neighborhood produce a marble city of individualistic tombs adorned with domes, statues and pillars. The streets of these unique graves are truly a remarkable --if slightly creepy-- place to walk among.

About half of the vaults display a small alter with flowers, Christian art or even a photo of the deceased behind their glass pane doors and windows. There is then a trap door or steep flight of stairs that leads below ground to the small crypt that contains the coffin. Other monuments, however, have the coffin openly on display, covered with just a white lace burial shroud. Presumably, the bodies are all embalmed and this negates the need for a six foot deep grave.

Not all of the buildings are in a state of good repair. A number have had their glass facades broken and gravel scatters their floors, dirtying the white cloths over alter and coffin. Whether this is from the city equivalent of tomb raiding or merely a product of neglect is not obvious. It was these broken vaults I found the most disconcerting. The idea that your family line might dwindle away, yet your remains still endure, was unsettling. Personally, I plan to fade with the daises. (Everyone take note of that. No million dollar crypts. Thanks.)

What I found most surprising was that not all of the vaults are old. Some are very recent including the resting place of Raul Alfonsin, the Argentinian president who died in 2009. Originally, the desire to preserve the body in such a way came from belief in a bodily resurrection. The marble entrance to the cemetery reads "expectamus dominum", we wait for God. Now, the exclusiveness of this burial grounds acts more as a status symbol for the living than suitable preparations for the dead.

For most movie-going non-Argentinians, the most famous person in La Recoleta Cemetery is Maria Eva Duarte de Peron or, to use her more common nickname, Evita (top right photo). It is perhaps ironic that she is placed here, among the richest in Argentina, since she was deeply unpopular with that demographic due to her support of the lower classes. Indeed, the fact her family have a vault here at all is surprising, since her father left when Evita was one year old to return to his 'legal' --that is the woman he was married to-- family, leaving her mother and four siblings impoverished.

Evita grew up to become an actress before marrying Juan Peron, who was shortly after elected president of Argentina. Through him, she became interested in politics and was a great advocate for the rights of the poor. There was huge support among the less wealthy for her to run for vice president but she declined due to ill health; a condition that saw her dead from cervical cancer only months later at the age of 33.

After death, Evita's body continues to lead an exciting... existence. At first, it was displayed in Argentina but, with her husband's fall from power, was secretly moved to Milan in Italy and buried under the false name, Maria Maggi. This was revealed 16 years later and the body was exhumed to take up residence on the dining table of her husband and his new wife in Spain. Personally, as the new wife, I might have found this a problem, but perhaps it made a talking point at breakfast.

Finally, after her husband's death, Evita was laid in La Recoleta Cemetery. Due to fears that her body would be stolen, her coffin is under two trap doors and below two other coffins. The other occupants of the vault are presumably family members... or decoys ... wikipedia at least appears vague on this point.

It is odd to say that the most fascinating location in a city is its cemetery. However, there is no denying one spectacular advantage of this location, given our experiences the day before:

The departed do not pick your pockets.

Even light-er fingers

The trip to the Argentinian capital had not started well. I had contracted a stomach bug that resulted in me requesting an airplane sick bag before take-off and upon touching down in the city, I was met by an agent from our travel company who imparted more bad news:

"Your father's had his wallet stolen."

Well it perhaps was the typical Buenos Aires experience, but they had only been there a few hours.

It transpired that the newly arrived state had in fact been the cause of the problem. Having taken an overnight flight from Europe, Dad and our family friends reached Argentina at nine in the morning, which was too early to check into their hotel rooms. They decided to leave their bags behind the front desk and go for a short walk. Unfortunately, this meant that they were carrying pretty much all their valuables, including passports, cash and credit cards. Given that, we should perhaps be grateful that Dad ended up loosing only his cards and some cash.

I confess, three days later, he's still not feeling particularly grateful.

A google search revealed that the trick used on them was a common one in Buenos Aires. This wasn't a simple snatch from an unguarded pocket, but rather a diversion scam. A grey gunk was dumped on the party from high up, probably from a balcony. A few passers-by then exclaimed in consternation that bird poo had splattered these poor visitors' clothing and rushed forward with napkins (that they just happened to have) to help them clean up.

When I saw Dad back at the hotel, the backs of his trousers and jacket were splattered with this mess. Evidently, pterodactyl-sized diarrhetic fowl flock to the skies in South America.

Even though they suspected a scam, my Dad and our friends weren't able to escape this 'kind' cleaning process until they were down one wallet.

Their first step was to cancel the credit cards before returning to the hotel. They were then directed to a police station around the corner only to find that they couldn't report the crime at that location. Apparently, in Buenos Aires, crimes must be reported in the district in which they occur. This deeply unhelpful legislation led to a taxi ride back to the literal scene of the crime and a visit to a second police station.

Here, they had more luck. After a wait for an officer who spoke English (during which they watched a match between two English football clubs on the TV), they explained what had unfolded.

"So you did not actually see those men take your wallet?" the officer confirmed. "It could not have been them."

"There isn't really much doubt," one of our friends remarked in dry humor.

The officer had looked amused.

Two days later found us all packed and ready to leave Buenos Aires for our journey south. Our travel agent met us again to take us to the local airport for domestic flights.

"It's so unfortunate!" she said in disbelief. "Our company hasn't had anyone loose a wallet since..."

Two years ago? Five years ago? That one summer in 1986?

"....since November."

November?! It was only the end of January now and how many people honestly booked a trip over Christmas?

The insignificance of this crime-free duration was confirmed one night later when we sat down for dinner at a restaurant in Ushuaia, the southernmost town in South America (or indeed, the world). We were dining at the ridiculously early 'gringo' time of 8pm and the table next to us was therefore likewise composed of foreigners; a group of five Americans. Half-way through the meal, a snatch of their conversation reached us:

".... the most defining moment was getting mugged in Buenos Aires!"

I suppressed the urge to high-five them. Dad poured himself another glass of wine.

Still, it was only one member of our group who lost their cards. This meant the only person really inconvenienced is ... my Mum. She's still in the UK but most of Dad's credit cards were joint between them and they've all been cancelled. I doubt she'll be buying anything from Argentina for quite a while

Dolphins and whales and penguins, oh my!

"You should leave early, since I'm not sure what time the boats leave."

I looked up quizzically from the large slice of home made pizza I was devouring. "Can't we just google it?"

"No," I was told. "This isn't something you can google."

This wasn't something you can google?! How was this possible? Was this a boat trip off the ends of the Earth? I just wanted to see some penguins. Surely you can google penguins.

By the time we'd driven two hours across the rough desert road to the small seaside Chilean village, I had to admit that a fully interactive webpage where you could view a timetable, book and then pay for your trip with your international credit card was perhaps a trace unlikely.

The village was in the middle of nowhere and that was after it redefined my definition of 'nowhere'. For miles around there was nothing but dusty beige hills on which cacti emerged in roughly even spacings like a particularly unpleasant version of chicken pox. The town itself consisted of squat wooden huts and a pile of small fishing boats pulled up against the shoreline.

This then, was the Chile I had been expecting! Why, there was bound to be an alpaca around the next corner. In fact, we'd probably find our car had been replaced by a four-seater alpaca by the time we came back.

Awesome! Wonderful! Gre....

Then I saw the boat we were to be on for the next two hours.

It was been held by a mooring rope as it bounced wildly in the waves by the pier. The size of a large row boat, it seated maybe a dozen people on benches going across its width with a motor on the back. For reasons I didn't understand, the particular vessel we had signed on with was also flying a pirate flag.

I swallowed.

The crewman holding the pier end of the mooring rope decided it was too rough and loosened it, allowing the boat to be buffeting out into the sea before trying once again to pull it back in. Up and down. Up and down.

I started to back away up the pier.

"It's not as rough in the open water," I was assured.

Unfortunately, images of a boat ride equivalent to the WORLD'S WORST ROLLER COASTER had now firmly seized my mind. We would all die. Worse, we wouldn't die, but be made to endure two hours of hurricane-level sea conditions in which the small dingy would be hurled up to a height of at least 90 meters before dropping below the surface of the Earth to smolder in the molten lava only to rise again and loop-the-loop on circular waves that had taken on a nightmarish corkscrew formation.

Look, I wasn't too sure of the exact mechanics but that was totally what was going to happen.

I tried to explain rationally that, since I didn't wish to suffer unrepairable mental trauma, it would be best if I just waited here on the dock and.... tried to lower my heart rate.

My friends --being disinclined to use physical force against a girl they all knew was capable of howling like an abused three year old when she got irrationally scared-- reluctantly nodded their understanding. The Spanish-speaking crewmen, however, knew none of this, were unable to understand my hand gestures for 'unbelievably-scared-of-this-water-roller-coaster-of-death' or 'meeeeeeep!' and gabbled at me in excited Spanish that almost certainly translated to: "Yes, you will die, but get on this pirate vessel anyway", before leading me onto the boat.

Meep.

The boat set off. I clung to my friend and tried to decide if I'd picked the right religion and if it was too late for a change.

Away from the pier, the sea went calm.

Then there was a whale. Followed by dolphins and sea lions and penguins and a nest of baby fluffy birds and a strange island with a rock formation that looked like a super ugly woman and bird dung that is apparently so valuable that countries fight over the right to collect it.

Then we ran out of gas.

After refilling from a spare container, we headed back to land where I ate a large empanada with shrimp.

It had been awesome. I was relieved. My friends, doubly so.