Patagonia Journey

6-15 March 2006

Patrick O’Connor

I travelled out to Patagonia to visit the Brand families there and some of the places where my grandfather, Digby Brand (“Diggie”), lived and worked. I took with me copies of my biography of Diggie (www.pat-oconnor.co.uk/brand_patagonia.htm)

THE JOURNEY OUT

I left London on Monday 6th. March, flying on United Airlines to Buenos Aires via Washington DC, as this was the cheapest route I could find. I presented myself to the immigration fellow at Dulles airport, and handed over my completed green visa waiver card (the one on which we visitors to the USA are required to state whether we have ever been convicted of moral turpitude, have been members of the German wartime Nazi party, have participated in genocide, have abducted children, are planning to indulge in criminal or immoral activities, espionage, sabotage or terrorism) to him. He checked me on the INS computer. "You will have to wait in the office through there", he said. I presented myself to the next official, a pleasant-looking young fellow. It transpired that my being refused admission back in 2001 when I was on the way to speak at a Hobbs seminar was now sufficient reason why I could not be admitted without a visa. For an hour, most of which time the young fellow stared at a computer screen, I explained that this time I was only in transit, and not coming to work, or even to visit. He could not make a decision, but had to refer it to some distant supervisor. At last, with the gate closing for my onward flight, I was allowed to proceed, and they generously waived the $285 fee that they normally charge for inflicting such delay and worry. However, he warned: the permission was just for this journey. If I came back I would be returned to where I had left. "You mean Buenos Aires?" I asked. "Yes", he replied. "Why not England?" I suggested, getting really tired. "No, Buenos Aires, and you will be charged $285", he said. "Why can't you just escort me to my London flight. I will only be in transit, and to arrange a different flight would cost me a lot", I pleaded, but to no avail.

I feel really sorry for all of my good American friends and relatives. Your administration makes it very hard for us to love America. We don't insult you with such petty, stupid and insulting bureaucracy when you visit our countries. For those readers who have not been faced with an I-94W and find all this hard to believe, here is a copy of the relevant part. The last statement is a good one: you receive the form at check-in or on the flight!

At last I was able to leave the land of the free and fly on to politer countries. As we were approaching the end of the long ten hours night flight we were a little behind schedule and I had not much time to make my connection at the internal airport on the other side of BA. I asked the stewardess if I could sit at the front of the aircraft for the landing so I could be off quickly, especially as by now it was my birthday. She called to the front, and the nice supervisor up there agreed and put me in the foremost first class seat, which had been empty. I kicked myself for not having asked at the start of the flight, instead of enduring the night of cramped discomfort, boring food and no free drinks at the back.

Argentina welcomed me with smiles and courtesy. I got a taxi around the city, and was on the flight to Bariloche in good time. Sitting next to me was a pleasant young English chap and his Argentine wife, on their way to start a new life in Bariloche, so we had an interesting chat. The approach to Bariloche was a bumpy ride in cloud, but our pilot eventually put us back on terra firma (which is Latin for "the more firmer the less terror").

Maria and Minky and Maria's daughter Lucia were there to meet me, instantly recognisable as Brands. They drove me into town to lunch, along the side of the lovely Lago Nahuel Huapi, blown into surprisingly large waves by the strong wind coming over the Andes. Minky's boyfriend Carlos also joined us there.

Carlos, Minky, statue, Maria, Lucia

Then they dropped me off at the bus station, and I boarded for the long drive to Esquel. It was nearly 5PM when it left. The route south of Bariloche is spectacular: beautiful lakes and awesome mountains. After about 3 hours we stopped in El Bolson, a little town that sits beneath a huge, craggy near-vertical mountain. It was becoming dark, and so for the next three hours I could see nothing outside. I arrived at Esquel at about 11, quite tired.

I was hoping to be met by someone, but the arrangements were loose and I could not see anyone looking for me, so I began discussions with a taxi driver. Then I heard my name called, and a tall man walked up to me. I recognised him as looking like the Uncle Jeff I had last seen in 1949, and indeed it was his son Alejandro. I jumped into his 4X4 and we set off for Jimmy and Susy's home, a very short distance.

There was not much left of the day by then, but they had dinner ready, followed by a very good chocolate birthday cake. We chatted for a while, opened the Black Label I had brought, then to bed.

Estancia Rio Cisnes

IN ESQUEL

During the next three days I made arrangements for my return home avoiding the USA. Fortunately the Brands have a good friend out there, Alec Byrne, who runs a travel agency in Bariloche. He gave me advice, I tried to see if the UK embassy in Buenos Aires could persuade their American contacts to let me through, but that did not seem to be possible. Eventually Alec booked a flight for me on Lufthansa, via Frankfurt, the cheapest he could find, at about $1000. Of course there was no refund on the United tickets. Thanks a lot, Uncle Sam.

I explored the little town of Esquel, a pretty place surrounded by mountains. I browsed through Diggie's books that Jimmy had, and read Lt. Charles Brand's wonderful 1827 account of his travels through Argentina and Peru, the book that most probably inspired Diggie to travel there from England over a hundred years ago. We talked about Diggie, a lot, and I learned much that will shortly be added to future printings of the book. Jimmy, Susy and I had a splendid steak dinner in a local parilla (steak restaurant). I had the biggest and most succulent steak of my life, and we washed it all down with good Argentine vino tinto.

Alejandro, Jimmy, Diego

Patricia

Patricia and Diego, Jimmy and Susy's daughter and son, who operate the lovely El Aura lodge up in the lakes and mountains north-west of Esquel, were in and out several times, with their children.

Susy took me to visit Mary, uncle Jeff's wife. (Jeff died last year). She was charming, and showed me her meticulous photo albums, containing pictures of all of the families sent to them over the years. It was strange to see photos of us as children, and of me and Ina taken long ago, in her home in Esquel. (I had never met Mary before). She also told me interesting facts about Jeff's life.

I kept trying to contact Pablo de Halleux to finalise arrangements for the visit to Estancia Rio Cisnes. Eventually I managed to contact his boss, Philippe Follet, at home in Santiago, via directory inquiries in England (I spoke to a pleasant lady in Glasgow. In one of my other calls I spoke to a nice call centre voice in Bombay). Philippe called back later to say that everything was arranged for our arrival on Saturday.

I booked a car from the local Avis rep, who is another friend of the Brands. He had only a little VW Gol (a local version of the Polo) available, and he kindly delivered it to our door on Friday evening.

Mary

TO RIO CISNES

Jimmy and I set off early the next morning. It was a lovely day, and we made good progress southwards along fast roads past Tecka and on to the little town of Gobernador Costa, where we stopped for coffee after about two hours driving. Then Jimmy decided to pay a surprise visit to an old friend of his, Senor Lopez Rey and his wife. Lopez runs a trading business in wool, and we had coffee in his office. He seemed to be a man of much local influence, and said we should call him if we had any problems at the frontier. He presented Jimmy with a bottle of vino tinto.

We pressed on further southwards. The country continued vast, the road mostly a dead straight line to the very far horizon, the sky so clear that distant mountains seemed near but kept receding like mirages. After another hour or so we came to the fork to the west, the road up to Aldea Apeleg and on to Chile. This was a very different kind of road. It was no longer paved, but ripio, an apt-sounding name, just a slash across the pampas over which the prickly shrubs and bigger rocks had been cleared, just two parallel tracks of rough, coarse gravel. The little Gol’s wheelbase was too narrow to straddle the space between the tracks, so one wheel had to ride on the rough. We bounced and banged along, mostly at speeds down to 40kph or slower. For long stretches the gravel piled between the sunken tracks was so high that it ran along the underside in a rattle and clatter of rock against metal. I realised why Susy had been reluctant to lend me her little car, and I feared for the safety of ours.

About an hour later, in which we saw one pickup going the other way and passed the insignificant settlement of Aldea Apeleg without even noticing it, we arrived at the Argentine frontier post, a lonely hut with a radio mast. Inside were a young gendarme and his older mate. The young fellow began to perform his official functions, no doubt pleased to have something to do. He checked my passport and Jimmy's ID, then spent a very long time trying to find the car's engine number among the Avis documents. It seems that there is a trade in engines across the border, but I did not find out whether old engines are taken out and exchanged for new ones or v.v. I suggested he open the bonnet and read the engine number, but that idea was rejected. Eventually he wrote some numbers down in the space on his form. Then he had to date stamp it, and my passport. For that he needed the appropriate rubber stamp, so he got a little flat tin out of his drawer, full of tiny rubber numbers. He searched and fumbled for the 11: it was gloomy in the little office as their generator had failed, so they had no lights or radio, and there was no way to contact Lopez for help. At last he found it, and, carefully pinching it between thumb and forefinger he pressed it onto his inkpad and stamped the documents. It had all been very friendly, but it took half an hour of time we could not afford.

We set off again towards the sinking sun and into the strong wind, now blowing up as we were on the high plateau. Soon we came to a fork in the road. The one to the right seemed to be the most used and best fitted the picture that I remembered from Google maps. (You might ask: did we not have a road map? We did, but it did not show these roads. It just showed the road ending at Aldea Apeleg, many miles short of the frontier). On and on we drove, in good spirits across the huge plain and between far mountains. We went through numerous gates, each time Jimmy got out and opened them so we could pass through. I took photos, and our little car struggled on, creeping across the vast and lonely landscape.

Jimmy began to worry that we had taken the wrong turning, so I began to worry too, but kept saying that I felt optimistic. We had driven for an hour in a generally westerly direction, but sometimes it seemed a bit northerly. Still, I felt that there was nowhere else for the road to go but Rio Cisnes, so I pressed on. Jimmy pointed out that if we got lost or broke down we had Lopez' wine. But we had nothing else, and we had not seen a human since leaving the frontier post. The road had become rougher and we were struggling along very slowly.

Then we came to the little river. It ran straight across the track, a beautiful stream, clear and sparkling, flowing eastwards. No trouble for a 4x4, but a doubtful ford for our little car. I considered the prospect of failing to get across, then spending the night out there with Jimmy and the wine. We turned back. I forgot to take a picture of it.

We retraced our route slowly, once more Jimmy struggling with heavy gates in the strong wind. Some were too difficult, and I had to get out and help. At one, which Jimmy had insisted on opening unaided, I drove through and waited for him. Then I saw an old man wandering off across the pampas, stooped against the wind. I thought that the old fellow had lost it, but Jimmy had decided to pretend to be loco. We were becoming close to being two crazy old men lost in the wilderness, but Jimmy's sense of humour was still operating. At another gate he closed it from the wrong side. I watched him in the rear view mirror, wondering if he would notice. When he did he decided to climb over the wire fence instead of opening the gate again. I watched as he ascended, then got stuck on the top strand, oscillating in the wind. I got out and helped him get his trailing leg over, then told him off. An old gaucho should remember to close the gate from the right side.

We made it safely back to the fork, then soon afterwards arrived at the Chilean frontier. We realised how crazy we had been to take the right fork, instead of driving back to the Argentine border post to ask the way. On we went, now gently downwards towards the Rio Cisnes valley, and the snowy tops of the high Cordillera rose far to the west. Past little lakes with pink flamingoes and black-necked swans, and we chased a big red fox that loped ahead of us for a long way before turning off into the scrub. At about 6PM we arrived at the Chilean border post, just half a kilometre from the estancia buildings.

A big, jolly gendarme welcomed us and quickly checked our documents, then we were at the estancia. It was much later than we had been expected, and at first we could not find anyone who could help us, just some peons working. Then a young chap appeared and said that he had been instructed to wait. We were to follow him in his 4X4.

He charged off down the ripio, soon leaving us behind, but he waited at a turn that led down to the river, Rio Cisnes itself. He stopped at the riverbank and invited us to transfer our stuff into his vehicle and to leave ours on the bank. We did so, and he drove into the river, the bow wave coming over the bonnet. We leapt up the far bank, then drove a little way to a beautiful timber lodge, fronted by sweeping lawns that went down to the river. We were met and greeted with great friendliness by Marcelo Dufflocq, the owner, and others, including Draco, the very jovial chef. We were offered a glass of very good wine and shown to our room, a spacious and comfortable suite with views out over the lawns.

We had, purely by chance, timed our visit to perfection. All of their fly fishing guests had left the day before, and the next day they were packing up for the winter and closing the place down.

AT RIO CISNES

Before dinner I decided to take a walk around the grounds, and soon found a circle of lovely puffball mushrooms. I rushed them to the kitchen and asked Draco if we could have them for dinner. Some of the folk were appalled, saying they were definitely or probably poisonous. Draco was willing to believe me, but the sceptics agreed that if I survived to breakfast they would try some then.

We enjoyed a most wonderful dinner: an interesting vegetable soup, followed by baked cod served with vegetables and of course puffball mushroom slices fried by Draco in butter and garlic (for me and those who believed), then an exquisite cheesecake. Lovely wine also. We talked about Diggie’s founding of the estancia, and they pointed out that the small lake in the hills to the west was named Lago Carlota, after Charlotte (”Lottie”), his wife.

They invited us to join them for an asado the next afternoon, after our exploration of the estancia. Jimmy and I discussed that when we got back to our room and decided that it would be too risky to leave so late, filled with food and wine and facing much of the journey in the dark, so the next morning we very reluctantly thanked them for the invitation, and explained why we had to set off early.

The gang at Rios Azules (Draco in white, Marcelo in red), and the asado we missed

Breakfast was wonderful, more puffball slices with all the rest. I asked what all the hospitality would cost, and Marcelo said nothing, it was all on the estancia. Sadly, neither Pablo nor Philippe were able to be there, but Pablo sent a note up from Coyhaique, the town in Chile where he and his family live, to say that they hoped that we could collaborate on the Chilean government project to restore the house that Diggie built and turn it into a museum. I left them a copy of the book.

We said goodbye and thanks, and we were driven back across the river, then drove up to the estancia in company with another Philippe, the estancia vet. He drove us up the old trail north from the estancia, a very rough track that his 4x4 could barely negotiate, then we walked about 300 metres over rough ground to the site of Charles Tyndale's grave (he was Lottie's brother, who died there in the influenza pandemic of 1921). Jimmy managed the rough walk very well, only once slipping at the edge of a near-vertical drop.

Charles’ grave (cross on left; on right is a later grave)

Then we drove down the hill again, and explored the estancia, particularly the old parts that Diggie had built. The old house is standing and mostly intact, but in a fairly bad state. Apparently it had been left unoccupied for many years after the 1920's, then later the Allende government nationalised all the estancias and gave the houses to the peons. Under the Pinochet government it became the local little school for the estancia children, but now there is a new schoolhouse and the old house stands empty again.

We looked all over it, the rooms downstairs and the big attic space, and the old garden. The poplars that Diggie planted are gnarled and ancient, and where the front garden used to be is full of the descendants of the purple lupins that he planted. Rose bushes straggle unpruned.

Philippe showed me the little stream and the rock on which Thora sat as a little girl and met the fox. We looked at other parts, the ruins of the sawmill, the new house, the galpon and the sheep dip. Then I spotted some big puffballs. Philippe was not prepared to trust them, but I loaded up for the return journey. Then we said adios and gracias to Philippe and set off for home, at about 1PM.

Thora’s rock

The drive back was, fortunately, uneventful. We endured a repeat of the rubber stamp business at the Argentine post. They recommended a different route to the main north-south highway, more towards the north rather than via Aldea Apeleg, so we swung off that way. For nearly four hours we shook, banged and rattled across the wilderness, seeing no sign of human presence. At last we were on the paved road again, then back in Gobernador Costa. We stopped for fuel and a beer and a snack.

We had planned to call in at Estancia Blanche, just south of Tecka, where Diggie and Lottie had worked and lived from about 1936 until he retired, but the gate was chained and locked shut. No one seems to know what is happening there now. So we pressed on, arriving in Esquel just before dark at about 7.30. We stopped and bought some cans of beer, then at last were safely home, where Susy had made a good curry dinner. Bed and sleep that night were bliss.

The whole journey was a wonderful, unforgettable experience. It was made even more enjoyable and interesting having Jimmy along, because he knew the history and usually the present of every estancia (marked by stands of green poplars at the bases of distant hills), river, hill, lake and even tiny derelict storehouses, as he, Jeff and Diggie had travelled and worked throughout the land. All of the way we were conscious that Diggie had travelled these roads and seen these views a hundred years ago on horseback, and he and Lottie had been over most of them together in their little horse-drawn trap.

But I would be better prepared in future. Alejandro works at a mine down that way and travels a lot: he said that he uses a 4X4, carries 60 litres of spare fuel and three spare wheels, and a satellite phone.

The next day (Monday) I returned the car: fortunately the only damage was a lost hubcap. We had a lazy day: I fried puffball with eggs for breakfast. Patricia and Diego and Alejandro visited, and I read Charles Brand's book. We had a good pizza dinner, with Lopez' excellent wine.

RETURN JOURNEY

We were up very early on Tuesday 14th., as Diego was driving in to Bariloche and he was taking me with him to get my flight back to BA. We said our goodbyes, then I joined Diego and Analie, a lovely lady with him who is the master chef at their lodge. The moon was full in a clear dark sky, sinking in the west and silvering the land. We drove through the country that I had not been able to see on the way south, and arrived at the lakes and mountains near Bariloche by dawn. On the way Analie prepared maté and I shared that with them in the proper manner, sipping through the shared bombilla.

I had time to spare in town, as Diego and Analie dropped me off and went on to the airport. I had coffee and a pastry, then explored a bit, in the centre, on the lake shore and in the museum. The last time I had done that was when I was 12, with our family, in 1949. Apart from the ugly graffiti on the statue of President Roca, it all looked unchanged. In the museum and the attached library I spoke to the curators and told them about the book, and they said that they would be interested to have a Spanish edition. (The Brands out there have said that they will try to arrange for a translation to be written, which I could then publish).

Analie, Diego near Bariloche

Chocolatier in café

Maria and Minky met me in the cafe about midday, and whisked me off to a parilla along the lake shore, where they gave me a splendid lunch (beef, pork, lamb, all barbecued beautifully). Then they drove me out to the airport. My flight was delayed an hour, so they stayed for a while and we had coffee. Then more goodbyes.

Flew back to BA, taxi to hotel near the city centre. It had been recommended by Alec Byrne, the Ayacuja Palace. It was an old hotel, with ancient lifts with two manual doors, and very reminiscent of the one we had stayed in on our visit in 1949, when Peter and I took over operation of the lift in the hope of collecting tips.

I went out for a walk, and found a huge restaurant, Grant's, that served a vast array of buffet food, of which you could eat as much as you liked for 17 pesos, about $6/£4. Just what the doctor ordered, I decided, so I had a lot more than I needed, then about five desserts.

On checking out the next morning the young lady at reception informed me that she too was an O'Connor, and Patricia. Her grandfather had emigrated there from Dublin. We exchanged e-addresses.

I got to the international airport early, browsed around the duty free shops, and then up and away with Lufthansa in a smart new 747. I tested the possibility of an upgrade, but without success. However, the trip was not too bad, despite the long night. I sat next to a young Polish engineer who was flying with his wife and little daughter. He works as a consultant setting up GSM networks, and had been working for Nokia in Argentina. Ten hours sitting next to an engineer: who could be bored?

A dawn landing in Frankfurt, then a two hour delay sitting on the next aircraft while they fixed the air inlet door to the auxiliary power unit, followed by the short flight. I sat next to another interesting chap, a geologist who has been exploring in faraway places like Tadjikistan. At last back to cold, wintry England, home, Ina, dogs, cats and other animals.

TO END

Thank you all, family and new friends, for helping to make my journey so exciting, enjoyable and successful. I hope it will not be long before the next visit.