Antarctica: Disembarkation

Five thirty the alarm goes off. The night before still seems like it was the perfect idea.

No regrets to be had as I shove final items in my pack, and take pictures of the boots I walked across Canada in back in 2006, the boots I injured my knees in in Tokyo in 2008, the boots that saw me through the Alps and the Andes. The boots that never made it to Australia. Personified more than an Ikea lamp, waiting in the rain, are memorialized before being left behind.

For some time I'd thought about offloading them. And all my hikes are behind me now. They'd been encrusted with the water's salt, and were far past their prime. Still – it was hard to let them go. But attachments are made to be broken.

Showered, stationary and not grasping walls for once, I stumbled like a zombie up to breakfast. Halls were emptying of luggage. Passengers were making their way back to dry land. People were congregating hoping for final goodbyes, parting hugs, and final words.

With all things at their end, we made our way down the gangway to the waiting bus that took us to Ushuaia airport. There, within the gift shop, terrible products were observed. And exhaustion almost brought me to purchase terribly unneeded items. Saved, at last, I was by the realization of free wifi.

For the first time I had contact with the world outside. E-mails were made to confirm plans for California, and Japan thereafter. I'd need to make Singapore, Hong Kong, and China plans before long. But there was still time for that. Not much, but some. Off we were called to the plane said to be waiting at the gate.

The plane was not there. Nor was it there an hour later. But soon thereafter we boarded, sat down, and I promptly passed out. Sleep was much required by this point. A momentary awakening came as the food tray rolled by, and then I was out once more until the touch down in Buenos Aires. Ah Buenos Aires, back again.

Bussed to the hotel where the next two nights would be spent, bags were tossed in rooms, and rather than drifting off to sleep we gathered to wander Florida street from end to end, passing multiple McDonald's, Burger Kings, and sandal shops. I had Caramelized Milk Ice Cream. Where else can one get such a flavour? Bed Bug infested hostels were also passed. Good riddance.

The streets were much the same as they were when I last wandered them, except I saw seven goths and two people wearing LOST shirts. These aberrations made me wonder two things – had LOST become even more fantastic since I'd been away, and was there a goth convention in town? Where were these people two weeks ago?

For the first time in two weeks, we all felt hunger. It was about tea-time, our usual third meal. And yet no food was brought to us. There was no one making their rounds to keep our glasses full of water. For that matter, we had no glasses to speak of.

For the first time we appreciated the meals with which we had been provided.

On the boat a buffet of fruit, yogurt, bacon, pancakes, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and all other tasty treats were laid before us. Lunch time was a salad bar, and a buffet of hot treats which ranged from meats, to pastas, to all number of things looking to fill ones belly. There were also vats and vats of desserts. Every three days there would be a separate tray of fresh cooked foods. Tea time was sandwiches, and dinner was served from one of three choices.

On the boat we didn't eat because we were hungry, we ate because food was there. And at the time that seemed like more than enough reason.

Bellies always full we never knew hunger. Now, walking the streets, hours before our next meal, the feeling was - novel.

At seven forty-five the feeling of living in a televised re-run, and the thought of bellies waiting to be filled, ended. A bus picked us up to drive us to dinner, which would be accompanied by a tango show. Before we ate we were given lessons to the dance. Ridiculous lessons which I think I might try to remember for a drama game, or opening exercise to break the ice with new classes.

And then the meal began. I would have pumpkin pasta, salad, and poached pears. The tango show would last three hours. While this might seem wonderful to some, or terrible to others, it was made acceptable by the addition of an open bar. Asking for a beer and a coke confused the waitress. Someone else at my table spoke up indicating that I wanted them separate, saving me from a potentially disastrous mix.

For three hours we watched people dance in different costumes, loosing all track of the plot. It started in 1900, went to 1940, and at some point I think one of the female dancers was metaphorically raped. It was all very confusing. Others seemed to rectify this with bottle after bottle of red wine. Red wine. Ugh. Who drinks that stuff?

Between dances an old man sung. Speaking Spanish may have made the progression of events more understandable, but perhaps not. Perhaps the plot was as impossible to understand for all viewers as it was for us.

Three hours passed and we boarded a bus. Sure the bus had no driver. And sure two strangers hopped on it. And sure when we got a driver he said he'd take us to the wrong place – but none were in much state to complain. Mostly there was laughter at the confusion.

For what it's worth, we ended up where we should have – and then beds allowed for comfortable lapse into darkness. While I was warned of my roommates snoring, I heard nothing, and slept peacefully in comfort. Beds that do not try to toss one from their surfaces are a rare and wonderful treat as of late. And the pillows, finally the right size to fit my sleeping patterns? A true delight.

Any Port in a Storm

The Drake continues to shake, though at breakfast only two glasses break. No tables are empties of their contents. People begin to recover.

The dinner that was so haphazardly glossed over, yesterday, now comes back to my memory as one that was fraught with problems and disaster. Unlike the first breakfast, no chairs broke and no people were sent flying over tables – however, wine bottles, and glasses, did smash to the floor as the boat pitched. Near the end of supper as the service staff was stacking up dishes on a table to clear them away, that table's cloth was frictionlessly tempted to fall to the floor, taking all those items piles on to with it. And jugs of water placed precariously near the edge of service stations, boarded by coffee cups? These items didn't all make it either. But, at least the water jugs were made of plastic.

I wonder if we'll ever see statistics about the things broken on this vessel?

Cape Horn was passed as we all stood in the bridge, being thrown hither and thither. What fun! Closed toed shoes are advised.

After breakfast we are told that the ship is bouncing around too much for some of the morning lectures. I once more begin to power through my novel, trying to offload whatever weight I can before I fly.

One by one we are called down to settle our tab. My visit to the doctors ran me 29USD. Not all that bad to prevent the trip from being the most disastrous thing I'd ever experienced. Sea-sickness. This is not a pleasurable thing. And the amount of people still locked in their rooms as the Drake continues to quake, speaks wonders for how important any sort of pill, tab, or patch to remedy the situation can be.

Lunch time, a final lunch, with a final dessert. This lunch is good, but not nearly as exciting as the hamburgers and hot dogs from the day of the wedding proved to be. Meal time conversations run their course, as all things start to come to a rest.

It is announced that today's engine room tours are canceled. It is said that this is due to some sort of crisis in the engine room. I imagine the first engineer just can't be bothered. And I don't blame him one bit.

In the lounge, before dinner, the stashes of vodka we all thought we would need are collected together. A bottle of tangerine, one of peach, and one of raspberry. None of us drank as we thought we might. There was so much to do, and so much to see, and even a moment hung over would mean missing part of the adventure. But here, in the final hours, we gathered and attempted to make a dent in the collection. Vodka, it turns out, is not any of our favourite drinks. Unless it's Ukrainian. And made at Antarctic research stations. Then it's bloody magic.

At dinner I try to sit at a table with some folks I know, for a final chat. I get looks from the two sitting on the end of this table. They promptly evict me, telling me seats are reserved for two others. There has never, this whole trip, been such nonsense, and it's always sit where you will when you will. This is why we all carry books to the table, to save our seats. But – one speaks up. I can honestly say there have only been two people on this trip I've felt some hostility towards, but on a boat, we keep our mouths shut. When I am evicted, I smile, and move one table over – peopled with a group of similarly delightful people who I've come to enjoy. One nods towards the lady who sent me packing, and quietly mouths to me, “she's a cow!”

Someone else having said it, I can smile in reply, and move on.

Now, it may seem petty to have added this – but it illustrates an important aspect of the trip: Two weeks is a long time to keep idle politeness in check.

This table change has led to some great education, I might add. The island of Guernsey. One of the British Isles. I had no idea such a place existed, but now come to realize that while under British rule, they have their own government, currency, and closed off culture that leads – it would seem – to cultural madness. It is quite an amazingly unique part of the world, as are the other islands around it, and ones that i will look into closer in due time.

It's strange to be informed of places that you had no concept of even existing – it's like being told there's an eighth continent, and wondering how you'd missed it all these years.

Midway through our meal, the boat stops shaking, the forks come to a rest, coffee stops leaping from within the cups. And outside, there is no longer open seas, and endless horizon. Outside are the city lights of Ushuaia. Outside is the proof that we are home. Antarctica is behind us, and real life only a threshold away.

For some this means work, and family, and daily routine. For others it means travel where thought needs to be made as to where sleep will come, and how food is to be gathered.

The dream has nearly ended. But not quite.

After dinner, a final dinner, we head to the lounge where a movie starts to play. “What's it about,” I ask. She – whom I slid across hallways with on the first day rolls her eyes at me and replies, “Antarctica.” Of course.

The bottle of Raspberry vodka is grabbed, and we head off to the Polar Bear Bar.

It's the first time that I've been there this trip for any purpose other than simply looking outside through their glass walls. Sprite is used as a mixer, and over the next five hours the bottle is emptied between all those who wish to drink from it. It is the perfect ending to the trip. It is the necessary ending to the trip.

For some time the sense of mope-mope-mope that often accompanies the closing of one chapter was threatening to fall upon me. But this evening proved to be the closing that was required to make passing on perfectly acceptable.

Long conversations were held with all the right people, while jaw dropped faces, and open eyed expressions were passed on from those completely trapped between tables and walls by intoxicated conversationalists recounting the same discussion had twelve times over.

Openings, and chiming, “hellos,” were timed between passing moments of, “smell ice do ya?!”

Photographers, often locked away in sleep from nine pm stayed awake through talks of relationships, the following of passions, and lives to be lives – well until the morning had set in. Promises to get in touch when cities were passed through, made, and doctors explaining why lack of commitment is the perfect way to carry on between moments of dropping that sea sick patches might just be placebos paved the way for some to carry on to bed.

And finally officers discussed drinks by the liters, death is one engine stops, and strange sounds coming from the roof.

Pink bottle carried away, empty, by bar staff and clocks ringing four, it was finally time, after all moments had reached their optimum conclusion, for sleep. Back in my room I laid my head to pillow for the next ninety minutes that would be granted as rest.

Tiger hats, and yellow caps – photographers new and old – vodka from the continent – ice, penguins, whales, and dolphins – games invented – landings missed – waters tossed – blues never seen.

Off to Ushuaia

Dear the bed bugs that have been ravaging me the last two nights – if you could please stop, that would be great.

I woke up in the middle of the night with red spots all over my left arm, back of both hands, left and right foot, and the right side of my belly. They were as itchy as any mosquito bite I've ever experienced. Had I know of their existence I would have slept in my sleep sheet – but they had lulled me into a false sense of security by taking a week to build up to full force.

As I it now on the plane to Ushuaia I find I'm doing everything in my power to ignore the terrible itching. It is – shall we say – less than ideal.

When I woke up this morning I grabbed breakfast, and then headed back to my room to watch the recap of the Olympics' closing ceremony. Not having been nearly as addicted to the games as in years past – due to terrible soccer matches finding screen space instead of bobsledding, ice dancing, and the link – I didn't think it would be that tragic when the flame went out. Still – there was a slight tinge as the torch was lowered away and out of sight. I wonder what the feeling must be like for the city of Vancouver, planning for these weeks for so long, and then having them disappear.

There was no time to dwell on these thoughts as soon I was headed to the bus to get to the airport. Then it was a brief wait, a slight delay, and a perusal of Lonely Planet's guide to Antarctica (really Lonely Planet? Now you're just being silly.) Then I was up into the air. I tried my best to stay interested in the LotR: Appendixes, but once I got past the time lines to the family trees I started to nod off. And then I reached the three or four pages explaining the various calendars used in Middle Earth and that was just the end for me. Still, it could have been worse. Frodo could have kept popping up to fill me with rage.

I plan to do a breakdown on my feelings towards this epic text just as soon as I finish it. With only forty pages left, you'd think I'd press right on and power through. But I peeked ahead. Those pages explain the alphabet. The names of the letters, the various alphabets, and how they came into being. This has just become tedious.

On the flight I discovered that our voyage of the MS Expedition will be the first for the season as it has been having problems, and was held up in dry dock for quite some time. I'm glad that I knew nothing about this, otherwise I probably would have been tracking the progress of the ship with crossed fingers. As it is, I just learned of the problem after said problem ceased to exist.

Landing in Ushuaia is an experience. The airport is more like a delightful ski lodge than anything else. All wooden interior, with large glass windows offering a view of the snow capped mountains that surround the town in all directions. The town itself? For being the southern most in the world, it's rather large.

I checked into the hotel, allowed myself a moment or two to be amazed by the amazing room with kitchen, flat screen tv, couch, and plush chairs. I should be so lucky to end up with a place like this in Toronto when I get back.

And then I quickly dropped my gear and headed out to wander the city. All the while trying to ignore the crazy itches of the bed bug bites. I'll accept that this is a cultural experience that is important to have under my belt so that I may talk to fellow travellers about it – but that will be in the future, when the bites are gone, and I'm no longer feeling their wrath!

The town has two main tourists streets that extend down the waterfront. For the most part it's just souvenir shops mixed with restaurants, capped by an outdoors store at the end of each block. There's nothing all that special to it, but that's to be expected from a place like this which thrives mainly because of where people go from here. This is the Siem Reap, or Cuzco, of Argentina. You come here not to stay here, but because it's the doorstep to your real destination. Still – it could be a lot worse. There are apparently some great hikes, including one over a glacier, accessible from here. But, like I said in Peru, I hiked my last hike. And if I can't try to keep myself honest, well then what's to be expected?

After some wanders that introduced me to yet another hot dog (so much better than the New York variety, if only due to the double size, and the half price) and a soda I retired back to the hotel. Eight o'clock and the sun still shining. I'm told darkness will fall near ten. I wonder how this affects the locals.

The hotel was blessed with free wi-fi, and a lending library which consisted of eight books. I looked at them, one after the next, and couldn't believe what I was seeing. I wanted them all! The all needed to be mine! And quickly four were added to my collection. I replaced them with two that I'd been carrying around, not yet read – tragic that I'll probably, now, never read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, or Jane Eyre, but I know in my heart I made the right decision.

The fact that Go West, by the Pet Shop Boys, plays now over the loud speaker only confirms my decision. Could there have been a better sign? Nay. There could not have been!

Tomorrow – boarding the boat to Antarctica. See you in two weeks!