This Is Who We Are And This Is What We Do

Voyage #1 – November 11 through November 21

Antarctica is heart-breakingly beautiful. The glaciers here are magnificently colossal. They unfurl from between mountain peaks and spill out into the ocean - mountains are utterly buried in them in fact…and they are always shifting, always calving icebergs - when on land it is not uncommon to hear the low thunderous roar of an avalanche somewhere in the distance.

Passing icebergs commonly rival the ship in stature, each one wildly different than the next in its architectural design. Sometimes I’ll glance out my little bar window and be momentarily stunned by a house-sized powder blue sparkling monolithic castle slowly floating directly next to the boat. In the words of our expedition leader, “There are icebergs, and then there are icebergs.”

On a sunny day with no wind, the sea reflects the sky and mountains with a perfect fidelity, and small ice chunks dot the water like constellations. These days are the most beautiful. The only colours are blues and greys and brilliant whites, that is, until the sun sets and the world becomes a fiery mélange of oranges, purples, reds, and yellows - All of this is the view from my office.

And then there are penguins: They’re everywhere – either crowding together on hilltops or waddling around randomly, their entire body weight shifting from one side to another with every step they take, their stubby little wings outstretched for balance. Sometimes when attempting to make a particularly large jump from one rock to another they will fall and land on their fat little football bodies with a thud, roll themselves back upright and continue to waddle to their intended destination. When in the sea, they move with a surprising agility, like corpulent little torpedoes, every once and awhile cresting the surface of the water to perform a dive a la dolphin. I could watch these creatures toddle to and fro for hours.

Indeed, Antarctica is yet another region of the world that has stolen my heart. Those who pay to get here must travel for days to step foot on a tiny portion of the seventh continent. Out of the five days we spend cruising along the Antarctic Peninsula, we make merely one landing on Antarctica proper as opposed to tiny islands that dot the harbours, bays, and coves that make up the coast, a testament to the forbidding nature of this most southerly chunk of land.

But let me back up a bit. We are actually quite fortunate to be sailing right now, on schedule. Our departure on the intended date of November 11th depended on three things: the ship passing port inspection, where the main concern was customs and immigration, (the Lyubov Orlova was docked in Ushuaia for 60 days last year because she didn’t pass this gauntlet) the ship passing an independent safety inspection, and, of course, our ability to unpack, load and set up the ship before the arrival of our first group of passengers. But we did it. We passed both inspections and managed to do a week’s worth of work in 30 hours, with barely enough time to shower and make ourselves presentable for our first group, wearing smiles that did not betray our complete and utter exhaustion. Well, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how convincing mine was at times. This cruise has been a test of my every patience – I’ve had to simultaneously get settled in my new working environment, which has meant making due with surprise inconveniences such as a broken ice machine, bar floods, brown drinking water, and an inoperable dish washer, scavenging for clean scraps of towel that I can use to keep my bar respectably clean, using a screwdriver like a Neanderthal to break down iceberg bits into usable pieces, (I did not come out of this task unscathed) and searching for stray bottles of essential liquors that had been buried in the hold, all the while pretending a) that I knew what I was doing and b) that it would be my pleasure to cater to the sometimes-crazy requests of my guests. But I’m acclimatizing, I’m finding lost items, I’m developing more efficient ways of chopping ice, and I’m channeling MacGuyver as I think of ways to make my bar work for me and the 112 passengers on the ship. But there are the perks as well… spontaneous passenger-conga lines that lead out of the dining room after dinner, where, “We’ve been to Antarctica! We’ve been to Antarctica! We’ve been to Antarctica!” is sung, the fact that all I have to do is step out on deck and voila: Solitude that consists of just the sea and I, the fact that my ship rocks me to sleep every night (sleeping in a ship gives a girl crazy dreams, I can tell you that.) These things, my dear reader, are pretty damn great. And hell, at least I don’t get seasick.

Today we’re heading north on the Drake Passage and once again the ship is pitching and rolling and creaking and crashing around in the sea like a toy boat. We’re sailing through fog. Every five minutes or so our ship is belching out the plaintive honk of the foghorn.

We are returning to Ushuaia to drop off this first batch of passengers and pick up batch number two. We will say our good-byes, re-provision the ship, scatter to make the most of two or three hours in town to buy essentials and do whatever else we need to do, then come back by 3PM in order to greet the second round of guests and do it all over again. Giddy-up!

How Beavers Came to Tierra del Fuego and other Tales from the Proverbial End of the Road

I hope this is my last post before leaving dry land. I have been in Ushuaia almost a week. I am not a bartender yet, I remain simply a tourist. There is as of yet no Good Ship Orlova. Just me, a smattering of Europeans who will soon be dining room supervisors, hotel managers, chefs, and our new home, Tierra Del Fuego. Playing the part of the tourist, I have partaken of the essential activities one might expect of the camera-wielding subset. I've strolled museums, hiked up a glacier, driven to the end of Routa 3, the farthest south it is possible to drive in the Americas, visited a National Park, photographed local wildlife, and, last but not least, done some good old-fashioned wanderin'. In the course of these events I have done a wee bit of learning, the more interesting bits I intend to share with you, good reader:

1. Ushuaia was born a prison-town. Today this bustling little burb of 70,000 inhabitants is exceedingly charming, but there was a time when finding yourself here meant that you were probably a serious extortionist, fraud, or had committed multiple murders. Over a century ago, Argentina took to sending their most deviant criminals to this isolated, wind-swept, barren, rocky island and gave them the task of building themselves a prison, a railroad, and housing for those who would come down and maintain these sites. The prison functioned until after World War II, when it was closed amidst criticism of un-humanitarian practices.

Today the old prison building is the Museo de Maritimo, but don't be fooled by the narrow name. It is a fascinating, many-winged bird. It boasts an art museum, an untouched cell block where one can read 70-year old graffiti left by criminals of yore, a penguin exhibit, and even a space where children from the local elementary school display their puerile diaramas. All of this alongside the usual maritime-themed subjects such as pirates, shipwrecks, maps of yore, and model ship after model ship after model ship, yes, sometimes even in bottles.

2. The great Canadian beaver is a plague on Tierra del Fuego. They are everywhere, they are gigantic (to the tune of 50 kilos), and they live twice as long as their North American cousin. What is worst is that they wreck havoc on the natural flora of the island by doing what they do best: Felling trees and building dams.

How did this munching, Frank Lloyd Wright rivermammal find itself tens of thousands of kilometres away from its native land? The answer is, of course, foolish, short-sighted economics. Long story short, Tierra del Fuego is Argentina's Yukon Territory; or, for the American among you, its Alaska. It is unparalleled in its beauty, but its remoteness and fickle weather patterns make it necessary for the Argentine government to provide incentives in order to maintain settlement. At some point in the recent past, straight up economic incentives were no longer cutting it, and those in power were forced to come up with different, perhaps more creative ideas. I like to suppose it happened like this: An official in Buenos Aires, inspired by the heady days of Canadian colonization, trapping, and the Hudson Bay Company had a "Eureka!" moment: Tierra del Fuego is the perfect climate for beavers! Beaver pellets are a rarity in these parts! Perhaps the introduction of beavers could inspire a new wave of colonists...modern-day trappers, if you will!

So it was decreed: The beaver shall be introduced to Tierra del Fuego.

...Of course an unintended consequence of this plan was a sudden, explosive proliferation of beavers on the island due to the fact that that they have no natural enemies here. Therefore, today beavers run free, creating dams, swamp land, and exterminating indigenous trees in their wake, in a course of events that has been repeated over and over again in history. A perennial lesson, learned the hard way, once again.

3. Taking a look at a political map of the island of Tierra del Fuego, one will notice that it is split down the middle: Chile reigns over the western half, while Argentina controls the eastern half. Curious. How did this come to be? The answer to this question is a rare instance of papal intervention resulting in peace. Yeah, I know. Go figure!

Back in the late 19th century, Chile and Argentina both expressed their intention to exert sovereignty over the island. The spat escalated, but rather than going to war, both countries, being Catholic, decided to go to the pope. The pope urged them not to use violence, demarcated a line from the northern coast down to the southern coast of the island and decreed that Chili shall take one half and Argentina the other. Chile and Argentina agreed to the compromise, therefore today the island is politically split in two.

4. Lastly, I would like to offer an explanation for the island's fanciful moniker. The name Tierra del Fuego translates to Land of Fire, thus conjuring images (for me, at least) of craggy, petulant, primordial volcanic domes constantly spewing lava and ash down to the surrounding land. Unfortunately (well, fortunately, really) this is not the case. There are no fires here. There is snow, and sea, and moss, and trees. This land is grey, not red. But, what seems like a severe misnomer is actually a romantically simple illustration from a moment of history that has caught my imagination.

And with that, we cue Magellan. Five hundred years ago, when he discovered what was to become the Strait of Magellan, he eventually wound his way through this vast southern archipelago to the island which I now inhabit. Sailing by, he and his crew saw fire upon fire along the coastline lighting the night sky. They were bonfires on the homesteads of the indigenous people of the area.

...And history writes itself.

There you have it. A few fantastic facts from una chica en le fin del mundo who has a lot of time on her hands. I hope you enjoyed.

A Bit of the Mundane: A Two-Parter

En Route to Ushuaia

Early mornings. Little sleep. Last flight. I want to spread out. I find it uncomfortable to have my entire life smooshed into three bags and a guitar case. Despite my current discomfort, I am still able to close my eyes and imagine what my daily routine will look like in two weeks or so, when everything has settled down and I am (finally!) at sea.

…Reading a collection of correspondences between the great writer Vladimir Nabokov and close friend and famous literary critic Edmund Wilson. I forget what a joy V.N. is to read. As John Updike proclaims on the back cover of any new edition of Nabokov’s novels, “Nabokov writes prose the only way it should be written, that is, ecstatically.” The world needs its polymaths back.

A bit of the mundane. We were just served (crustless!) ham and cheese sandwiches here on my flight. Yeahh! I feel like I am eight-years-old, tops. Further, the passengers sitting beside me just offered me theirs’! (Did I relish mine that obviously?) I declined the sandwiches, but did take their chocolate cookie puffs. For later.

The forecast in Ushuaia calls for partly cloudy skies, the temp just above freezing. Colder than I expected, but spring is just about to have sprung, so I suppose.

Time to close my eyes.

From the Villa Brescia Hotel, Downtown Ushuaia

In one piece, and a series of nice surprises have made this day great. First, I have a room to myself. With a king sized bed that I am currently stretched out upon. Took a nice long shower, went down to a staff meeting where most of us were told to “just relax” (such blissful words!) until the Lyubov Orlova arrives on the ninth or the tenth (which in turn makes this the calm before the storm, seeing as we will have 24 to 48 hours to set up the ship before passengers arrive) but shhhhh…I can sleep in tomorrow and the next day and the next day, and the next… and I don’t have to fly anywhere.

Ushuaia is enchanting. It is ensconced on three sides by steep, white, forboding mountains that are in turn ensconced by low-drifting grey clouds. To the south is the Beagle Channel. Here the water is placid – no hint at the wild caused by the Pacific’s head-on collision with the Atlantic mere kilometres away where the channel opens out to sea. The town itself is quaint – European in architecture, with narrow streets and a steep steep hill that leads up from the pier. And the tulips are in bloom.

Walked around Ushuaia a bit today, grabbed some lunch, then had a coffee with two dining room servers, Phillip and his girlfriend, Steffie, and Stefano, a sous chef. I already love these people. Hello my name is…and I speak how many languages? Probably three. Fluently, which is the number one reason I am inherently envious of Europeans. And they’re funny as all hell and interesting and smart and lovely. We’re going to be a good group.

And maybe it’s a bit of the old Stockholm Syndrome talking, but I kinda can’t wait for the Lyubov Orlova to get here, to get settled in and get sailing. Yeah, that’s the Stockholm Syndrome talking for sure. Or delirium. It could be that I just need a nap.