On board the Mamasita: Part I

The day after I got lost in Ushuaia (southern-most town in the world I think, at the bottom of Argentina), I joined an amazing group of 21 (or so) people from all different places travelling across Patagonia onboard a fabulous magical truck called the Mamasita. This is a brief (if this is possible) record of my adventures with them.

31 October – Tierra del Fuego

Someday, I’ll copy down all the information that was in the brochures given to us, but for now, I’ll just sketch out roughing the things I remember the most vividly. The holly, primrose and the tiny yellow flowers that like to grow in the water…the serrated beech and the evergreen beech…the hollowed out trees where the woodpeckers live…the tree trunks knawed at by the beavers leaving enormous bite sized holes, and a piteous sight indeed. The female duck that incubates for thirty days, without moving so much as an eyelid (do ducks have eyelids? Hmm), whilst her devoted partner stands by and guards her. And my favourite: the kelp geese, that stays monogamous until one of them dies. When the male dies, the female finds a new partner straightaway, the unfaithful bitch. But when the female dies, the male will only least a month or two before he dies. He can’t live without her. Literally.

Back in Ushuaia, in the evening, the girl in the hostel showed me how to make maté in my little silver maté (a gourd carved into a cup for drinking tea out of) and we shared it around, the way it’s done in Argentina, Gaetano, myself and a couple of others, until about 1am. I met two young Argies this way, Hernan and Esteban. Really nice guys.

The snow fell about the cabins, and wet my socks.

1 November—Ushuaia

I have found, in the book exchange in the hostel in Ushuaia, a book called ‘The Essential Frankenstein’ by Mary Wollestonecraft Shelley, edited by Leonard Wolf. It starts with an essay by Wolf, which I find incredibly fascinating, as I knew nothing previously about Shelley or about her mother, Mary Wollestonecraft. I think this book is going to become an obsession. It’s already engaged me in a big way and taught me a lot about love, life, family and education in the early 19th century. I love how books can do that. Books can change your life or set you on a new path. It’s so exciting. Did you know Mary Shelley was only 18 when she wrote Frankenstein?

We have crossed the Chilean border, with little fuss, and now close to Punta Arenas where I think we are spending the night. It is dark now, and hard to write, or to continue reading Shelley. Ginny is rugged up in my poncho next to me, my truck buddy. Everybody looks sleepy. I think we have arrived. [I’m copying segments from my journal which I kept every day of my trip in South America. I’ve made a few changes and left a heap of stuff out, but otherwise it’s pretty much straight from my journal.]

2 November—Torres del Paine

What a beautiful, beautiful drive. Now in Torres del Paine, in Southern Chile. The rugged mountains and the lucid blue glacial lakes that lie beneath them are breathtaking.

Torres del Paine: a poem

O’er the plains a weary man
adorned in white rags stands,
hat tilted, perched upon his hoary head
to which he lifts his ancient weathered hands,

To shade his icy glacial eyes
from the steady burn of Phoebus's glare
And the furrows upon his eternal face
grow deeper year to year

His cragged joints creak and groan
beneath the wayward fury of the sun,
And beneath a cloak of ice
For this is his disguise --
the veiled monstrous Torres del Paine.

3 November—the ‘W’ trek, Torres Del Paine

Tramped over 20km today in rain and sleet, first stretch of the W trek. We passed the glacier lake and headed towards the Grey Glacier. But it got late and we had to turn back. Had we left at 1pm or earlier, and not 2pm, we would have made it there. We were about one mile off, apparently. We weren’t to know though – the maps aren’t very sophisticated, and there are no signs along the way. So it was a gamble, really, as to whether we would make it there.

I saw a lot of really beautiful flowers, including a brilliant red, spidery one. And the mountain peaks, ragged like a haphazard city skyline, was awe-inspiring and took my breath away.

Now I am in bed at the lodge, it is 9.45pm, and I am so tired and stiff that I feel you could pick me up and drop me and I could break into a thousand pieces.

4 November—2nd day of the ‘W’ trek, Torres Del Paine

Woke early. Convinced myself that I could not continue on with the W trek because my legs were still so stiff, and decided to get the ferry back to camp. But after doing some leg stretches, and being told that I can cross the bottom of the W (forming a U, or a little w, instead of a capital W - cheating, essentially, but better than going back),I believe I can go on.

I woke up thinking about a big tree I saw yesterday—a beech I think—that was all burnt out. Maybe it fell in love with another beech, and it’s heart burnt so fiercely that it burnt itself out, completely hollow.

Maybe trees have hearts. Maybe they can feel...

I am reading The Essential Frankenstein again, quickly becoming one of my favourite books, and discovering how narrow my education really is. Did you know that when Mary Shelley was only 16, she read over a hundred volumes of literature and philosophy in one year, including Shakespeare, Goethe, Rousseau, Milton and Spenser? That is pretty phenomenal when you think about it. I haven’t read that much over my entire course of study.

We reached the cabin after about six hours of walking through lightly falling snow. We had views of the glacier lake the whole time, on our right most of the time, and we passed several beautiful stony beaches. The dark fir trees were covered in crisp white snow and red flowers bloomed amongst the white and green, giving the perfect picture of Christmas.

I loved the deeper, darker woods, particularly when the branches were laden with snow. I imagined fairies, goblins, and the Brothers Grimm. The forest is a magical place, and always has been in my mind since childhood.

5 November—3rd day of the ‘W’ trek, Torres del Paine

Woke from terrible dreams. But I feel better now. The cabin has a log fire and the most beautiful views (of the mountains) I have ever seen out a window in all my life. The snow fell more heavily towards the end of the day and dressed the tree branches with a glistening white ball gown.

Another beautiful day of walking.

Later at the cabin, I continued reading The Essential Frankenstein from my bunk bed and my imagination blazed as brightly as the fire in the heath. I watched the shadows on the wall of the dormitory and imagined a stiff-legged hiker wearing a headlamp entering the room after a long day of trekking, casting an expanding Creature-like shadow. This book is stirring things in me big time!

I slept beautifully on this night, and no bad dreams.

6 November—4th and last day of the ‘W’ trek, Torres del Paine
Last day of the W. The previous night, I decided that I would not reach the final point of the W trek (the glacial lookout), because it required waking at around 5:30am and setting out at 6am, as the walk was estimated to be around nine hours long, and my legs were simply giving in. This is despite my belief that one can do anything if one sets one’s mind to it.

I had a sleep in, read by the fireplace, washed and dried my clothes, and generally spent the morning in a mundane but comfortable way. Julie and I have been chatting a lot today. Such a lovely girl.

After a nice dense piece of chocolate tart, Rob and I set out to walk at least to the first lookout, at the Refugio Chileno. It was a steep incline most of the way, and we encountered several people of horseback heading the opposite direction. To our right, the land fell away forming a sandy, slippery hillside, and with the path as narrow as it was, I was a little afraid of misplacing my feet and slipping.

The scenery along the way was as breathtaking as the last two days have been, but still varied in topography and plant life. I saw the same little yellow and red flowers that I’ve become acquainted with in my trekking here, as well as some red bell-shaped flowers which I thought to be really pretty.

I emphasize, again, how steep the climb was. Despite having only completed a third of that day’s walk (if that), I got to the refugio feeling extremely satisfied. Rob was pleased, too, that he had made an effort to get out and make the most of what was left of the day.

I admired the gushing water under the bridge, then we took our boots off and went inside for a hot chocolate. It seems that it is from here where people go horseriding – we saw a number of Chilean men standing by their horses, dressed in jodhpurs and berets (which seems to be the typical dress for the activity).

The return walk – nearly entirely downhill – took less than half an hour, instead of the estimated hour! When we got back, the group was all ready to go, and the taxi had just arrived to take us back to the other side of the Pehoe lake. We had to get out at one point for the vehicle to cross a bridge. The wind blew ferociously. It is still very cold here in Patagonia, and few tourists.

Gaetano was waiting to pick us up on the other side.

I made a silly mistake today. Shortly before arriving at our cabin, I had embarked alone upon a wide river, flowing rapidly, yet shallow enough to cross if one took off one’s boots and socks (or so I thought). I did this, and began rolling up my trousers. Upon dipping in my big tow however, I quickly decided that the water (coming directly from the ice-capped mountain) was much too cold to cross. How did the others do it? I was alone; everybody else was either too far behind, or well ahead. I walked up and down the river-side looking for a part of the river that was crossable, by stepping-stones; I was unsuccessful, and I felt myself starting to feel anxious. Finally I looked up to see Rebecca jumping up and down and waving her arms frantically to get my attention, on the other side of the river – she was clearly visible in her bright red jacket, but I had simply not looked up – and indicating to the right. I waved, and scrambled up the hill that bordered the river, discovering to my surprise (and embarrassment) that there was a bridge further upstream, and very close. Silly, silly Sabine.

Camped back at the Pehoe campsite. Very, v. COLD.