Wednesday, January 02, 2002

As Shepards Watched Their Penguins By Night
Ah, English, my mother tongue. The ability to communicate fluently. To speak and be understood. To be spoken to and to understand. I hadn´t realized the full extent of how I missed this until now, when I have returned to Chile from the Falklands and even getting a bed for the night is a linguistic challenge, made all the greater by not having done it for a week.

But in the Falklands, everyone speaks English. And you don´t have to negotiate for a bed for the night, because if you fly in, you have to have already arranged a place to stay. Otherwise, you aren´t allowed in. Our bus from Mt. Pleasant Airport was delayed while a German man who had been on our plane but been unaware of this rule had phone calls made on his behalf to see if there was a place for him to stay, or else he was going to have to be put back on the plane. We were sorted through the joy of Emma´s having emailed Falklands House and we were installed in the cheapest bed and breakfast in Stanley. Cheap being a relative term. The two of us had spent four days in Chile for less than it would cost us to spend one night in the Falklands but hey, you do what you have to.

It was all worth it. Emma and I have fallen totally in love with the place. Its hard to explain why. The scenery is quite rugged and beautiful, and yet its starkly bare. There are no trees on the Falklands, with the exception of about four in Stanley which have been planted there years ago and nutured with the utmost care. I am serious. NOT ONE TREE. Not even a shrubbery. Just grass and diddle dee and tussock lumps in the fields. There are a lot of fields, as the primary industry of the Falklands is sheep farming. There are over three quarters of a million sheep on the Falklands. Not that you would notice this just driving around. This is because to support that many sheep requires a lot of land. The land is poor, and in a reverse of the usual "how many sheep per acre" you find in other countries, here is two or three acres per sheep, which is what it takes to sustain them. I have learned a lot about sheep and sheep farming this week. Revelling in my communication capabilities "lookatme! I am an intelligent human being!" I chatted to everyone about everything. Particularly the sheep shearers.

The shearers are an interesting lot. They´re an integral part of the island, there being about 20 of them and going to most if not all the farms. But they´re a transient part, being in the islands for about three months a year and as such people in town know who they are, but they´re their own subgroup. Basically, in the Falklands you have four groups of people. There are the shearers, who I have mentioned, the contract people, who come out for about 2 years on some sort of professional contract to monitor fish stocks or be solicitors (hey, I could do that. In fact, I just might. I would be oh so sorely tempted.) or conservationists or whatever and then go home, the squaddies (known as the "one eyes" since they tend to have lots of stories that go "when I did this, when I did that" - say it with a broad English accent and you´ll get the joke) from Mt. Pleasant, of which there are about 300 more than the entire rest of the population of the Falklands put together, and the Falkland Islanders, known as the Bennys, as when the squaddies arrived after the 1982 war and found everyone wearing wool hats, they thought they looked like Benny from "Crossroads". The name still sticks, and as with anything else in the Falklands (the "focklines") there isn´t any malice in it at all. In fact, I have never met a friendlier bunch of people. Anywhere. Ever. This isn´t just in connection with the rampant hitting on I mentioned in my last email. This is just in the day to day associations you come across. You meet someone, and the next day you´ll see them in the street, they remember you and go to great pains to say hello and make you feel comfortable. It was a great feeling to go to the races on Boxing Day (not Christmas Day as I thought) and just know loads and loads of people. Walking around town, you´d get waved at by most people driving past, people in the shops knew your name, it was wonderful. Its easy to fit in, and all in all everyone´s happy to meet someone knew, so long as you aren´t Argentinian (who are not actually allowed in the country, so they´ll never see the sign in a window by Stanley Harbor that says "Argentines - we will allow you in our country as soon as you recognize our right to self determination.".)

It could also be a little embarrassing. Christmas Eve, Emma and I went down to the pub. A little reluctantly, it has to be said, as we knew there would be excess of all fashion. "Its like dressing for battle", commented Emma as we were getting ready. But after a beer in the Rose, where we met Aaron, who owns the bus company that ferried us in from Mt. Pleasant, and his girlfriend and her parents bought us a couple of drinks, and feeling social, all six of us went off down to the Victory Bar, which is the happening place in town (the Globe being a close run second). All Christmas cheer was breaking out all over at the Victory, everyone wanted to buy us a Christmas drink, a chap named Craig particularly wanted to buy Emma one, and at one point late in the evening I went up to the bar to get a round in and came back to find Emma, um, well, how to say this, sucking his lips off his face. A few minutes later, she was gone for the evening. Huzzah for Emma and merry Christmas to her, but the problem was she had gone with the keys to our room in her pocket. I was rescued by one of the shearers, and in a version of events I am trying to convince myself is the new millennium version of staying in a stable with shepards on Christmas Eve, spent the night in a bunkhouse with five other shearers, all of whom unfortunately woke up before I left, which required a little explaining as to my presence. Since we were renting a car on Christmas, and had been asked if we could pick it up early so as not to interfere with Christmas Day too much, I knew Emma would be back by 8:30, so I got home then. My landlady found this most amusing, congratulated me and Emma and I headed off in the car, trying again for Volunteers Point, armed with a Christmas lunch of juice, sweets and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We tried, and again we failed. First of all, I allowed Emma to get directions to Johnson´s Harbor, the kicking off point for hiking to Volunteer´s Point. This was our first mistake. It turns out that Emma is useless with directions, so after one turning ("I think that´s it, but there wasn´t any mention of a gate"), and another ("Look, Emma, I´m telling you, this isn´t a road, its Land Rover track") I commandeered direction (easy to do if you´re at the wheel of the car) and headed into the tourist authority to grab a map. Then occurred mistake number two - letting Emma be the one to read the map. We did eventually make it out to Johnson´s Harbor in the end, and it took quite a while as the roads in the Falklands are treacherous beyond belief. I realize this is hard to comprehend, particularly when you consider that the speed limit is only 40 mph, but seeing as a) the high winds are a real gale force to contend with, b) the roads aren´t paved once you get out of Stanley, they´re all gravel, and c) we had one of about three cars in the whole Falklands that was not a Land Rover. We had a Citroen Xantia. Who knows why someone would rent this out to tourists, but they did. We know for next time. The MPA to Stanley road has signs all over it pointing out that the road is incredibly dangerous, and that 7 people have died and 186 been injured from the base recently on that road. Also, and this was the case when we set out, but we didn´t know what it meant or why, if the winds are up or weather is bad, the military will restrict the road, which means that military personnel aren´t allowed to travel on it as it is too unsafe. Yeah, it was a heck of a drive. But we finally got to Johnson´s Harbor, where you have to call in to the farm and get permission to go across their land. It was Christmas. All three houses in the settlement had gone into Stanley for the day and for Christmas dinner. No go on the Volunteer´s Point hike. So we sat, watched the harbor, ate our sandwiches, turned back out the road (opening and closing the gates to the sheep paddocks as we went on) and decided to keep on keeping on to Goose Green, which is a pretty little spot, and also the sight of a big Falklands War battle, not to mention the Argentinian cemetary. But by that point it was starting to get grey, so we looked, we noticed that again everyone was in Stanley except for the sheep (who were wandering through the middle of Goose Green, on what is presumably the Green) so we headed home and off to bed, waiting for the races the next day.

As I said, the races were great. Everyone knew us, the horses are exceptionally fine for working horses, the course is short (maximum race is 800 yards), but everyone is out. The army is in from MPA, the famers are in from the farm, and of course its at the back of Stanley, so everyone from town is there. Leaving Emma to chat to Craig for a minute, I wandered into the bar to get us a drink and this humongous cheer went up from a table at the left, filled with people I had met the previous couple of days. It turns out there are a lot of rumors in the Falklands going around about my spending the night in the shearer´s bunkhouse. Now, normally, I would find this sort of thing incredibly humiliating and not show my face in town ever ever again. But it became apparent very quick that again, there was no malice in it, its just a small town, and gossip is a staple of the diet. No one believes 90% of it, which is why it gets more and more outrageous as it goes on. Also, I think that even if I had done all that it was rumored I had, no one would actually have cared in the slighest. Just something to talk about, and that sort of thing is needed in a place where there are only two television stations (British Forces Television, and for reasons as yet fully unexplained, a Brasilian cable music channel), and the radio is the source for all non gossip information. (True news story while we were there. A cow wandered into a minefield. The army went to try to get it out. The cow went deeper into the minefield. Last we heard, the army were still trying to get it out.). In fact, the radio is also the source for gossip information, as the radio dedication show from 11 to 2 has all kinds of people taking the mick out of each other in all kinds of ways.

We did make it out to Volunteers in the end on the day after Boxing Day, having met the people from Johnson´s Harbor at the races and cleared up what we needed to do. Got the Citroen out to Johnsons, and then started to hoof it, but caught a lift for the last 8 miles. It was nice we got a lift, and it was good for them that they gave us one, as we experienced the typical Falklands experience, getting bogged down in a Range Rover, which involved a lot of pulling, pushing, and diddle dee branches for traction to get us out. Having picked up two strong lasses to throw their weight behind the axle worked well for them. Volunteers was well worth all the effort. Loads of Magellanic penguins, although we had seen plenty before, and over 300 breeding pairs of King Penguins (which are beautiful and regal and have a call that sounds like a car alarm, only slightly less jarring) and even more than that number of breeding pairs of Gentoo penguins, who are quite cartoonish in the way they walk, rolling around like Weebles. Chicks were everywhere, penguins were everywhere, the beach was crystal clear, the sheep were wandering about doing what they do (since there are 14,000 sheep on the farm there) and it was a glorious day. We got back into town, went out and socialized again, and then it was time to start planning what we were going to do on our last day. Mostly, we just stayed in Stanley, since we had returned the car, but Stanley is a great town, and since we now knew most people, even friendlier. We couldn´t stand to leave, but the small town feel didn´t leave us for ages. We took the bus out to MPA, and of course Aaron was driving, chatting away to us in line. We knew half (at least) the people on the plane with us, the immigration official, the customs inspector, the person who checked in our luggage and the security person. So it was less like taking an international flight and more like taking the school bus, as you could chat away happily. Its a great place. We´re already plotting a return in two years.

Later peeps. Happy Christmas, and may the new year be all you have wished for.

Peace, love and faith,

Anne xoxoxox

Next installment: New Years in Torre del Paine



Asia on $1.50 total, or alternate title "Only Mad Dogs and Fake Englishwomen"



The bank troubles continue apace, even here in Asia. Despite re-opening my account a month ago, I have so far managed to not get my ATM/Mastercard, a PIN number or checkbooks (nor can I access my on-line banking without the number from the front of the not yet received ATM card) from my bank despite repeated phone calls, visits to the local branch, etc. I'm currently travelling on the good graces of a few friends, and continue to try to sort it all out, which everytime it looks like its going to happen, doesn't. I literally arrived in Hong Kong with US$1.50 in my possession, and no way to access any other funds in my name. Although, this time (like every other time) the bank is promising me they'll sort it out. In fact, the situation has now risen to a standard that I have a special phone number, special people with special powers to help me (as in, the old non-special people weren't authorized to send me anything in say, Canada or even San Francisco since that wasn't the mailing address on the account, but now that I'm so darlingly special they are Fedexing me my card and a temporary PIN to me here in Hong Kong, plus giving me yet another month of free high class banking.) All in all, it says something about racism and appearance in its way. Technically, almost all countries require that foreigners entering their borders show that they have certain things, which generally means 1) a valid passport, 2) a ticket out of there at some point, and 3) "sufficient" funds or proof thereof. In practice, you will always be asked for 1, frequently asked for two, and if you're a relatively clean cut looking white girl who's got a nice, posh English accent when she's nervous you'll never be asked for the third. Which explains why I was allowed to enter with only the aforementioned US$1.50. Had I been a little scruffier (I'm sure after the 17 hour trip I wasn't looking so perky, perky, perky), dreadlocks, or was black or summat, there would have been questions. As it was, I walked up to the counter, handed the guy my passport, he did some flipping and some scanning of it, put in a stamp and the entire transaction was handled without a word.

So how have I survived so far? How did I get across Canada, through SF, into Hong Kong with no money and no card? Well, for starters I didn't leave the house with no money. But since I was supposed to be getting the old ATM card in Canada, I didn't have so much cash as carrying cash around is asking for it to be lost or stolen. And expenses have been minimal. I got the train tickets, and then in Vancouver stayed with my cousin, which was lovely (she is lovely, and so is Vancouver.), stayed the night in Seattle with my boyfriend's sister (also lovely, if initially a little nerve wracking since I am so terrified of meeting new people, but she put me right at ease.) and then in San Fransisco with my friend James ("Leroy" - for those of us in the know) Steele, who kept taking me for meals, etc as my first task on arriving in SF was to help him move apartments! Worked for both of us - he got big strong thighs to help schlep boxes and sofas up and down stairs, I got a lot of free food, a good friend to hang out with, and guided tours around SF and Marin from the back of a motorbike.

Now, I am the first to admit I am not someone who should be allowed to drive a motorcycle (neither am I the type of person who should be allowed to own a gun, but that's not really relevant here), but apparently I am precisely the sort of person who should be allowed to ride pillion on a motorcycle. Jim kept raving that I was the best passenger he'd ever had, which suprised me as 1) I didn't realize there was a talent to it, and 2) I would have thought I would have been at a disadvantage due to my large mass. The general consensus is that its the great balance I have from rowing, a thought which I am sure would come to anyone who's ever seen me stumble my way down the street, but though I stumble I rarely fall, so maybe there's more to that than at first appearance. At any rate, that's my story and I'm sticking with it. Across the Golden Gate Bridge at midnight on the back of the bike was a heck of a way to be welcomed to SF. I enjoyed the city, and also managed to hook up with my friend Victoria who in working it out I suddenly realized I hadn't actually seen in 14 years which came as rather a shock to us both. She's well, and we'd stayed in contact enough that while there was certainly news to catch up on, there weren't any great earth-shattering developments apart from the photos of her brother (my prom date!)'s wedding, which were interesting. I knew about the wedding, but the photos were quite funny, as the bride while obviously a lovely gal has a knack for looking just the wrong way when Vic takes a photo (I have the same issue with my friend Emma.) so there's an interesting side light there. Anyway.......

Kit worked with the airline to get my ATM card Fedexed to me at the airport in SF, but it all went horribly pear-shaped and didn't happen. More phone calls (hey, its one way to kill time waiting for your plane) to arrange things including Jim Steele saying "why didn't you tell me you only had $1.50 - I would have given you some cash!") and Kit wiring me $100 to HK to tide me over til the card arrives (which I now have so the situation isn't so dramatic as it was when I arrived), and I hopped on the plane, valium free (ok, so it was in my jacket pocket just in case) and acupuncture pressballed up. The flights were interesting. The cops met the plane in Tokyo as some guy apparently swapped seats and felt up a 10 year old, which is an international no-no, and Tokyo Airport was fun as it is currently a temple to Japan's new religion - World Cup 2002. TVs were everywhere, and everyone was glued to the games, switching channels every few seconds in an attempt to watch all games simultaneously, and then whap I was here in HK, complete with dodgy tum from the rather turbulent flight since the weather here is intermittent thunderstorms. And hot! Hot, hot, hot! After "I'll just put on another sweatshirt with my fleece, shall I?" Vancouver and San Francisco, the 30C temp and 91% humidity is sucking the life out of me, and I've remembered that the key to coping is lots and lots of water. My hair has responded by attempting to have a holiday of its own, and has been severely reprimanded and put in pigtails, which makes me look like a giant five year old, but at least keeps it out of my face.

I'm staying with Peng and Guan, friends of mine (via my friend Lian) who I met in Malaysia, who are now here working as lawyers for the Securities and Futures Commission. I'm angling for a tour of the stock exchange, but in the meantime am exploing on my own for a couple of days. I have my Octopus card, which is a mass transit card with a microchip in it which deducts the fare everytime you hop on or off the subway, ferry, bus, etc. Its all a bit high tech waving the thing around, but its handy and the fares are cheaper if you use it than if you pay cash, soooooooooooooo.

Speaking of ferries, I'm hopping one to Kowloon right now. Time for touristy phototaking to begin!

More as I get back into the swing of travelling, and of course as events warrant. In the meantime, I'm contemplating writing a book on how to see Asia on a severely restricted budget!

Best,

Anne

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