Day 4: Back in the protective pategonian fjords, under a clear sky and baking sun the vibe has improved. A swell sleep (double entendre?), a toilet that flushes again and brownies for breaky (I take 5) - what more could one want. Valerie, my long-suffering travel comrade and designated Spanish speaker, thinks she has bed sores from 3 days in bed. I feel bruised inside, but around the dining room spirits are high.
It looks like the day held up in Jurassic Park has put us about 10 hours behind schedule. For some that means a bonus, extra value cruise; for others missed flight and bus connections. While the crew help those affected reschedule, the unaffected rock up on deck and catch rays. People mill about over coffee, discussing where they've been / are heading & why the hell you'd even think to cycle the Andes. I spend a good while photographing new friends and mountains and hold a photographic Q&A for all. Folk play guitar & cards on deck and before noon the Kunstmann's out. The atmosphere couldn't be any more different to the day previous.
Faces appear that I've not seen all trip. The crew organise a game of Patgonian Bingo in the dining area. It becomes more and more rowdy down there as the bar puts the traditional Chilean Pisco Sour cocktails on special. A quid a pop, these cheeky lemony, egg-white headed badboys have that magic way of slipping down real smooth, leaving you thinking they ain't stong, when all of a sudden number 5 rips you of your dignity, balance and any control of the volume of your voice.
I join a gang of miscreants in finding a sneaky way to the prow of the boat and put away lager & Pisco Sours. Sandra, French Fred (who I took to calling French Frank) and Christoph fell particularly party to the power of pisco. A few bevvys in and I'm pretending to be Rose from Titanic. Aussy Davo, a weather beaten, wealthy miner, mumbled away in broad outback Australian. Difficult to age, well read and well smelly, even the two Aussie pilots could hardly understand the guy, but he was a legend. Sally, Charlotte and Paul, like good Brits, take on the logistics of extending the piss up on terra firma. The plan was to meet at 10pm in a bar in Puerto Varas, the next town on from Puerto Montt, where we disembark.
The sun gently dropped as Puerto Montt came into view, backed by the most archytypal, triangular Volcano a child could draw. Mount Osorno, the spitting image of Mount Fuji, sat bathed in a pinky orange glow. By the time we pull in, 14 hours late, it was dark. Fond farewells went round as people packed up and shuffled toward the cargo lift. In the hustle and bustle of disembarcation, enveloped in the oily ship smells, truck fumes and sheep shit, I somehow manage to bid Valerie a brief goodbye. It's strange splitting after travelling with someone 24/7 for a solid 6 weeks. Who the hell's gonna speak Spanish for me now?!
Nicole - that's who! Another Swiss Spanish speaker - result! We sort two taxis, pack them with packs and muchachos, wave goodbye to the Navimag and Peurto Montt (the dirty navel of Chile) and zoom off into the night. In Puerto Varas, the start of the Chilean Lake district, we all find a fart sack each and within ten minutes of the arranged meeting time, we are 9 in El Barómetro toasting Charlottes Birthday over bock beers, Pisco Sours and empenada platters. Bonza.
Barns
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