And I thought we were a Nation of Tea Drinkers

As soon as you set foot in Uruguay you are struck by the amount of people clutching a decorative handle-less cup with a long metal straw (bombilla) and a thermos tucked under one arm. This is mate (pronounced mah-tey), and to call it the national drink seems a gross understatement.

The process of making and drinking mate has many similarities to the British tea ritual; a degree of acquired taste, various available blends, the bridging of class divides and forming the backdrop to many social situations. The striking difference is the extent to which Uruguayans take it outdoors, and there is a strong emphasis on sharing an individual brew (often amongst many).

The next time I see Luis Suarez getting off the Barca team bus before a big game I’m going to be looking carefully for evidence of mate paraphernalia stashed inside his tracksuit top.

PS: Incidentally Uruguay is a fantastic country. Shouldered between the significant tourist destinations of Brazil and Argentina it is much overlooked (though ironically the Uruguayan coastal town of Punta del Este is the place for affluent Brazilians and Argentines to holiday). The country has miles of wild beaches, an interior of beautiful rolling hills complete with gauchos on horseback, and a gem of a capital city.

Omnipresent Waitrose

My affection for Waitrose has grown over time. Initially it was a rare sighting as the company tried to gain a foothold in a competitive market, whilst also being a little over my student budget. Fast forward a decade or two and they opened a medium-sized store ten minutes walk from where I was living in Bristol, and significantly, on my way to work. I’d also managed to pay off the student loan.

Like UK politics, the big supermarket chains all seem to have coalesced around the middle ground in recent years. Traditionally more budget retailers such as Morrisons and Tesco have introduced premium ranges (‘Finest’ and ‘Best’), whilst those at the more expensive end have introduced low-priced lines (‘Essentials’ for Waitrose and something like ‘Everyday’ for Sainsbury’s). This meant that shopping at Waitrose was no longer necessarily a rare treat, but somewhere I could just about justify (at least to myself) a regular shop.

Then they introduced a loyalty card which further cemented the relationship. This enabled me to pick up a quality fresh coffee every day, absolutely free. The idea obviously being that if you go in-store to get a coffee, you’d come out with a load of stuff you didn’t know you needed until the sophisticated marketing machine did its job. Whilst I did occasionally get reeled-in this way, I liked to think I held a healthy lead in the matchplay stakes.

There were a couple of low moments, such as when Waitrose discontinued my favourite pizza, but it was a pretty stable relationship. So it was with a hint of sadness that I removed the Waitrose loyalty card from my wallet before heading off on the boat.

Imagine my surprise then, two days after arriving in St Lucia I was provisioning for the boat in a medium sized, very local supermarket, when amongst the aisles were tins of Waitrose ‘Essential’ products. This seemed rather bizarre but I passed it off as some strange anomaly – perhaps a container of Waitrose items fell off a ship in the Atlantic and washed ashore in Rodney Bay? 

But then it happened again in Chile and Uruguay (as well as the Falklands but that was somewhat more anticipated). But not only canned products this time. Whilst Waitrose’s canned seafood chowder is not to be sniffed at, Belgian chocolate cookies got me particularly excited.

We do live in an increasingly globalised world, but Waitrose products in these places? Now I’m half expecting my favourite discontinued pizza to show up in the Azores.         

     

Estrecho de Magallanes

I alluded to the quixotic history of the Magellan Strait in my last posting, and having anchored in Bahia Mansa off Paso del Hambre and spent some time ashore it is starting to really come alive.

This short stretch of coast contains several ruined pioneer settlements dating back to the 16^th century. Until the mid 19^th century this resulted in tragic consequences due to the inhospitable conditions and distance from any meaningful supply lines (Paso del Hambre translates as Port Famine) . The establishment of an independent Chile in 1818, followed by the introduction of steam driven ships, transformed the straits into an important trade route. It was only in 1849 that the settlement of Punta Arenas was founded, which today is the largest town in Patagonia.

My principle objective in going ashore was to visit the isolated grave of Captain Pringle Stokes, who was commander of HMS Beagle until he shot himself in the head due to the “effects of the anxieties and hardship incurred while surveying the western shores of Tierra del Fuego” (according to the inscription on the grave). This act of suicide precipitated the promotion of Robert Fitzroy to captain the Beagle and the subsequent appointment of Charles Darwin (all accurately disclosed in the historical novel This Thing of Darkness by Harry Thompson).

So with my head down into the breeze I struck out to find the cemetery. It felt good to be stretching the legs after several days of being cooped up aboard. Within this extremely desolate area there was a large, modern building on the ridge above the anchorage which had me wondering what this could possibly be. As I was pondering this I passed a four-wheel drive vehicle (all non-metalled roads in these parts) pulled over to the side of the road, and the guy behind the wheel beckoned me over.

“Where are you going?”

I was a bit taken back by the directness of the question, but the face seemed friendly enough. I explained I was headed for the cemetery of the English captain, making the link to the Beagle and Darwin to try and persuade him that I wasn’t completely bonkers. Just when I thought I’d totally lost him he piped up with the name “Harry Thompson”.

The conversation then transferred into English and Randy explained that the shiny building I had seen was in fact a new visitor centre that he had been project managing for the last 6 years. It was an even bigger stroke of luck when he pointed out I was actually on the wrong road to the cemetery and that he would give me a lift.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting you?”

“Well sort of, but I need a break anyway”.

Apparently he had been monitoring an area where people often come to barbeque (it was Sunday afternoon) as he was concerned about fires starting in the vicinity of his precious development.

It turned out that the project was more or less unique in the whole of Chile, a privately funded “Strait of Magellan Park”, backed by a local businessman, along with banks and the various tiers of government. Randy said that such a scheme would have been beyond the resources of the Chilean National Park body.

By the time he dropped me off at the cemetery he invited me and the rest of the Sea Wolf crew up to the visitor centre on Tuesday.

“Till Tuesday then”.   

So come Tuesday the four of us arrived at the visitor centre which was deserted to the point where it was slightly embarrassing how many people were working there. Like someone showing you where to park in an empty car park.

Randy generously waived the entrance fee for us, and gave some interesting insights into the history of the project and what it was hoping to achieve. He saw the visitor centre as a means to open discussion on what this stretch of coast means to Chileans, and particularly those living more locally. His perception was that historically the narrative has been dominated by the European settlers, and it was only really in his generation that this view has been questioned, with more recognition given to the indigenous tribes that lived here for thousands of years before the white man began charting the Americas.

The visitor centre wasn’t completely finished, but I was disappointed in what I saw. Whilst no expert on the area I had read enough elsewhere to find the displays lacking in the depth I was looking for. But maybe that was the point, simply to spark an interest and open dialogue about a very unique place.  

Everyone's Heading the Other Way

The Magellan Straits is one of the most historic natural channels in the world. The 310 mile S-shaped link between the Pacific and Atlantic was discovered by the Portuguese in 1520. In the centuries that followed some of the most illustrious navigators have plied this stretch of water, including Bougainville, Drake, Fitzroy and Slocum. It does feel quite something to be down here in a small boat following in these footsteps, surrounded by the dramatic scenery and sense of isolation that remains largely unchanged.

Timing of our entry into the western approaches of the Strait was important as you are exposed to the full fetch of the Pacific and the prevailing north / north-west frontal winds. Once inside substantial protection is offered by the thousands of islands on our starboard side, so the waves which are the real danger any vessel become much less of an issue. That said, the orientation of the western side of the Magellan Strait means that the prevailing winds not only blow uninterrupted down its path, but the winds are in fact accelerated by the topography. In the bottlenecks the anemometer has shown readings of 60 knots before becoming so overwhelmed by the wind speed that it just starts blinking. Throw in some snow flurries and gets quite exciting.

But what a relief to be travelling west to east with the winds at our back. Nearly all of the other boats we have met are going the other way which seems rather masochistic. Many of them are forced to shelter for weeks at a time in the protected caletas (coves) off the Strait, until suitable weather windows allow them to continue. 

There is of course good reason why most of the boats we meet are going in the opposite direction; we are travelling at a similar speed as those heading the same way as us and so we rarely pass each other. Less explicable is the fact that the marine life also appears to be going in the opposite direction – humpback whales bobbing and blowing their way sedately past, while the seals pop out of the water like rubber torpedoes. Whether this is part of a well trodden migratory journey or just a short-term run for cover I have no idea.

Travelling by night is pretty suicidal in these waters so getting sufficient protection from the elements in a caleta for the night is of paramount importance. This usually involves feeling our way up a narrow channel in the lee of the land, dropping the hook and then reversing towards the shore before attaching two long lines to the sturdiest looking trees available. The next big test will be transferring from the Magellan Strait into the Beagle Channel, which requires crossing some very exposed bodies of water, including the Aptly names Desolation Bay at 55 degrees south.

Living on a Floating Canada

Sea Wolf is a Canadian flagged vessel on which I differ from everyone else because I’m not Canadian. Below decks there is very little that would give any clues as to the nationality of the boat. The keen observer might pick up on maple syrup stowed in the galley and a higher percentage of Canadian authors in the bookshelves. Without more physical clues one is forced to seek out Canadianishness amongst Sea Wolf’s crew.

The first striking thing is that they are very proud of their country, and rightly so. A nation that began with British immigrants has continued to take in a wide range of displaced people with considerable success. I’ve heard it said that Canada is the salad bowl to America’s melting pot, in the sense that in Canada immigrants are encouraged to keep their identity, as opposed to the expected level of assimilation in the US.

And this brings us on to the prickly subject of their neighbour, and you strongly get the impression that Canada wishes it could be transplanted somewhere else on the world map due to issues of association. Whilst anxious to appear different to America, it appears there is much more that connects them than separates them. Or in the words of Jonathan Raban, “Canadian differential more as absence than presence”.

This is perhaps unsurprising given the crude way in which the bulk of the border divides the two countries. The rigid parallel of 49 degrees north makes no attempt to assimilate the natural geography of rivers and mountains, which typically tend to provide a division between communities and hence a contrasting psyche.

  

If the agitation of being linked with America wasn’t enough, there are also the historical and cultural ties to Britain and France. Whilst the Canadians on board like to poke fun at the British (rich pickings there), it is ultimately where they came from and the Queen’s head still appears on their bills. Again, resemblances appear closer than they care to admit.

The Canadian province of Quebec serves up another dichotomy. Those Canadians outside Quebec seem to view it with both disdain and respect, much in the same way that France and England observe each other. I’ve yet to meet a Canadian who doesn’t revere the city of Montreal for its sense of identity and place. 

And this appears to be the crux of it. Canadians are to some extent envious of the strong identities of the triple influences of America, Britain and Quebec. 

Galapagos Expectations

Land was a welcome sight after 11 days at sea, beating into the wind for the majority of the passage from the Panamanian Las Perlas Islands, turning the 700 mile rhumb line into a distance covered of over 1,000 miles. We passed some small uninhabited islands, little more than stacks, before arriving at the alarmingly named Wreck Bay on San Cristobal Island, the second most populated in the archipelago. And so began the unravelling of most of the preconceived ideas I had about the Galapagos.

I suspect my exposure to information (or lack of) surrounding the islands prior to arrival is fairly typical, hearing about them as a young lad from some elderly relative who hadn’t actually been there, but described as a magical far away land of unique flora and fauna shrouded in mystery. The next dollop of information came via biology class aged around 11. This was when the names Darwin and Beagle were thrown in, as well as the terms ‘survival of the fittest’ and ‘origin of the species’. Still no one I knew had been there, which was a major factor in ramping up the mysticism in my mind.

Generally when you arrive somewhere by boat it is a passport for greater access, and thus understanding of a place. You can reach locations that planes and cars can’t, and in my experience the local people tend to be more hospitable to those having arrived by sea, perhaps as a result of an appreciation for the more historic method of travel and the greater effort involved in getting there (unless you arrive in a superyacht with a helicopter on the aft deck, as recently witnessed on the small island of Hiva Oa, in which case most locals tend to scoff ‘wanker’, or some such colloquialism).

I recently read a book by the legendary French yachtsman Bernard Moitessier, who arrived in the near deserted Galapagos in the late 1960s, going from island to island as he pleased, harpooning turtles as he went. All I can say is those days are long gone. The islands have become increasingly protected, as they should be, but the bureaucracy surrounding the tourist industry has become bloated.

Shortly after arrival our boat ‘inspection’ was scheduled. This involved being boarded by no fewer than 8 people, though it was impossible to guess exactly what each of their roles were. A few questions were asked, a few forms were filled in, smiles and handshakes and then they all left as quickly as they had arrived. What a farcical arrangement. Our permit, which was the most extensive available to visiting yachts, allowed us to visit only three islands, and on those three islands we were only allowed to anchor in the principal harbour/bay. So, unusually our movements were far more restricted than the commercial tour boats plying the coast.

That said the few day tours I signed up for were spectacular. A dive boat out to Kicker Rock, a magnificent isolated island, was the highlight. Above the water line there were hundreds of breeding sea birds, including the poster bird of the Galapagos, the blue footed booby. Below the water line was a stunning cliff wall descending into the abyss below. All sorts of sea life had taken up residence in the pock-marked lava, including pencil spined sea urchins and chocolate chip star fish. Prehistoric looking green turtles went dreamily by, sea lions were darting back and forth and in between was a huge variety of tropical fish. Continuing deeper I saw black-tipped sharks which were of a modest 1.5 metres in length, but the highlight was seeing the much bigger hammerhead sharks (5 metres) patrolling the shadowy depths.   

The other thing that surprised me was just how large the two main towns we visited were. There has been a significant population increase in the more populated islands in recent years, predominantly from the Ecuadorian mainland. Very few people you speak to were actually born in the Galapagos, and this unsurprisingly appears to have led to a slightly incoherent sense of community and common culture. The streets were shabby and seemed unloved. What the community does have in common though, along with the Ecuadorian Government, is the desire to earn the tourist dollar (it cost US$3 to send a postcard to the UK).   

There is no doubt there is some spectacularly unique wildlife – notably penguins on the equator and the prehistoric looking marine iguana. The landscape is extremely volcanic and largely arid. The history of the islands is littered with attempts of naïve early European settlers trying to tame the harsh environment, with the result generally being them returning to their homeland within a few years or dying wretchedly. There was good reason for the islands being used as a penal colony.

In reality I only saw a small fraction of the islands as so much is off limits without the relevant permit/tour operator. I suspect with a decent 10 day tour package on the right boat the experience would be more rewarding in many ways. But one can’t help feeling that were it not for Darwin (who only spent a matter of weeks among the archipelago) the Galapagos would not be the tourist sensation that they have evolved into today. 

Classic Galapagos vista: lava, clear water and birds in flight

Lava tunnels on Isabella, make for great snorkeling

The iconic blue footy booby

The Alejandro Lopez

In the course of being on a boat for a long time you come into contact with all sorts of people. In the case of Sea Wolf you come into contact with a lot of mechanics given the ‘defects’ we have been dealing with.

When we arrived at Shelter Bay Marina, close to the Panama Canal on the Caribbean side, we had a number of significant issues to address. The anchor windlass base-plate had completely corroded in the San Blas Islands, the consequence of it being 17 years old and in a location which is permanently being attacked by salt residue. Solution – remove the corroded plate and motor, find out the model number, order a new part and fit. All fairly straightforward bar the over promising and under delivering Fedex. Similarly a new relay was ordered for the bowthruster.

Then came the fridge/freezer system. I really will try and save you the tedious mechanics, but some description of this is necessary to understand the issue, and by extension the man for the job, Alejandro Lopez.

He came into my life on Sunday 31^st May. It was good of him to come on a Sunday, especially as he lives in Panama City, at least 90 minutes away by car. A short man in his mid-thirties, slightly rotund, well groomed black hair and the arrogant swagger of someone confident of fixing your mechanical problems. He drove a Volvo and wore Ray Ban’s, somewhat exotic in Panama which gave further lustre to his capability. Just the person I needed I thought.

I explained the problem, that the engine driven (DC) fridge/freezer wasn’t working, but that the independent AC system was (powered by either shore power or the generator). He wasted no time in squeezing into the engine bay and confirming what we already knew, that there was no power coming from the magnetic clutch. Alejandro quickly suggested he remove the clutch, try to get a new one in Panama City, though failing that re-wire the existing one and reassemble. Just the sort of can-do attitude I was looking for.

He talked a lot, and as I’d been on my own on the boat for a couple of weeks I enjoyed asking the kind of open questions, whilst handing him spanners, that gave him the room to express himself. And express himself he did.  

Half Costa Rican half Panamanian, he had strong views on the full hand-over of the Canal in 2000 by the US, believing it to be a big mistake to lose the presence of so many Americans in the country on the basis of what they brought to the national economy, as well as the legitimacy they leant to the Panamanian Government. This has been the major political issue since Panama achieved nation status (with US backing, sound familiar?) in 1903. We also covered topics as diverse as the Kuna Indians (“I’m not racist but I can’t stand those people”) and prostitution in Panama City. He was formerly an aircraft mechanic before setting up on his own repairing boats, though apparently he could have been a doctor.       

He returned on Wednesday with the rewired clutch, though when this was installed and we turned on the engine this is when the fun really started. It transpired that while the clutch was now engaging the compressor, the compressor itself was knackered. And so it continued along the whole fridge/freezer system chain until we had replaced more or less all component parts. Furthermore, as we got deeper into it, the AC system (which till now had been working fine) stopped working due to shared electrical connections with the DC system. So two weeks into the work we were a small fortune down on parts and actually in a worse position than before the work began. 

Despite these set-backs Alejandro’s confidence in his ability to complete the work remained a persuasive force. That was until the final freon gas loading phase, when Alejandro’s body language shifted from prancing peacock to that of a person under pressure and at the limit of his own understanding of the matter in question. The freon loading, a dark art of injecting gas into the system under the right pressure and temperature conditions, was not going as expected and he didn’t know why. After struggling on aimlessly for a little too long he finally admitted he needed help and spoke to the manufacturer, who was more than helpful in discussing the issue with him and even agreed to send two technicians who were in the area over to the boat to have a look.

Armed with some larger orifices through which the freon could pass and a dose of reassurance from experts, the system miraculously became fully loaded and the swagger returned. 

This wasn’t quite the end though. Having passed through the Panama Canal and halfway to the Las Perlas Islands the engine driven fridge/freezer ominously stopped working. So with a sinking feeling we headed back to Panama City where Alejandro met us at anchor, late on a Sunday evening. You certainly couldn’t fault his commitment (or was it that the bank transfer for the work hadn’t yet taken place?). The issue was a faulty brand new compressor which Alejandro returned and replaced first thing Monday morning.

From beginning to end it tool a month to compete the work, during which time I met his father (dead ringer for the Spanish golfer Miguel Angel Jimenez) and brother in a professional capacity on the boat, and his wife and daughter in a more social setting. We shared scores of What's App messages and I came to love his use of emojis - bombs and guns among his favourite.

All smiles after a job well done, Bridge of the Americas, Panama City