Against my better judgment today, I signed up for a mass catamaran trip called ¨Todos Los Glacieres.¨ According to my guidebook (a Moon Guide -- usually very adverse to mass tourism), this was the ONLY way to see certain glaciers.
The Bad: Absolutely regimented, canned commentary; a huge group of loud, contentious Israelis and an even louder shriekingly excited Japanese group (why must we all live up to our stereotypes abroad?). When something beautiful appears, everyone rushes to one side of the boat, brandishing digital cameras. My memories of some of the most striking moments are mostly of heads and frantically waving arms clutching cameras raised above the crowd.
The Good: If this was the only way to see these glaciers, it was worth it. (Although later I see a 12 person boat, with a rather posh look to it, maybe I had too much of the dirty hippy about me yesterday when I was shopping for glacier travel -- no one offered me the deluxe option). The glaciers are astonishing. Endless spiky rivers of gray-green ice, streaked with dirt like an over-used carpet, pouring down black mountain sides into the minty milky green sea. We only glance the edges of them, one (Glacier Upsala) is four times the size of Buenos Aires.
Perhaps my favorite are the icebergs. They are an astounding variety of blues - some, mottled, look like nothing so much as that blue and white styrofoam they make cheap coolers out of, others are a brighter, more consistent aqua, and look like those reusable ice packs you put IN the cooler. All are in fanciful, carved looking improbable shapes, strewn hither and thither on the improbable mouthwash colored water. I hate to keep using analogies to late 20th century chemically engineered products, but they look like so much packing material. As if an impatient energetic giant child tore through his presents and shredded all the styrofoam inserts on Christmas day.
A highlight: The iceberg vagina. You´ll believe me when I can post the pictures. Georgia O´Keefe couldn´t have done a better job of it. I was staring at it wondering if all the beef and red wine was affecting my imagination when I heard the huge band of Israelis exclaiming. ¨Cli-TOR-is! Vuulva! VAH -gin-a.¨ Well, now I know how to see say those words in Hebrew.
Another highlight: feral cows. One group of them in an apparently impossible spot -- a tiny spit of land surrounded by sheer-looking rock faces. But they seemed content and ehalthy, grazing the scrub vegetation. Startlingly hairy and muscular. How did they get there? Do feral cows swim? I know that feral cows sounds like something from South Park, or a Gary Larsen cartoon, but seeing cows (and bulls) wild and free... They became another animal. Dignified. More like how you´d see a buffalo or a moose.
So we sail the channels of Lago Argentino, stopping dutifully at each glacier hemmed in by forested cliff scapes. After about 4 hours, we disembark for a ¨hike¨. I´ve never hiked in a group of 250 before, and I hope never to do so again. The trail is flat and wide -- a good thing -- as much of the Israeli contingent probably have first hand memories of fighting with the Irgun, pre-48. The Japanese are clapping, and the Argentinians are singing, and every animal south of the Equator is in hiding long before we get there. We are put into language groups and marched off, albeit at a very stately pace.
I think of some sort of Eastern Bloc mass holiday recreation exercise. Or North Korea. ¨Happy Comrades Enjoying Dear Leader´s Natural Bounty.¨ The Communist image intensifies wehn we arrive at the ¨restaurant¨ for ¨lunch.¨ We are seated at long bare refectory tables, perhaps 30 or 40 to a side, and vigorous men in uniform start dishing up mystery green soup. The Israeli contigent, still remembering those early days at the kibbutz, fall to, while the Japanese pose for photos, still clapping, with their soup. I on the other hand, foolishly wave the soup man off, telling myself that the plato del dia will have to better. When it comes, it is a thin grey breaded cutlet topped with boiled ham, an inch of foul smelling congealed cheese and the barest hint of tomato sauce. To make matters worse, it, and the fries on the side, are ice cold. Dear Leader would be proud.
I disrupt the 5 year plan by insisting on settling up for my Coke forthwith, without waiting for the flan. I flee to the beach and enjoy, finally, an unscheduled 1'2 hour alone with the crashing of the glacier, the chirping of the birds and the rich scent of the undergrowth. I spread out on a sun-soaked rock, half expecting Stasi to drag me back to the ¨restaurant¨ at any moment. But I get my 1-2 hour, and by the time we are herded back into our catamarans, I am sun dazed and sleepy.
That should be the end of the story. But back on the catamaran, the adorable German college student who is traveling with her parents and sister, but has decided she prefers me to them (perhaps an obvious choice, but still flattering my unhip old self no end), and I have settled down for a long summer´s nap. We´ve shared our opinion that the glaciers are beautiful, but that we are a bit too cool for this whole scene and then we drift off, warm, cozy and comfortable. Suddenly, a sound like the worst ringtone scrapes across my forebrain. I start awake, looking accusingly at Bette. She, half-asleep, turns to me, ¨Was ist das?¨ The noise doesn´t go away. It slowly dawns on me. One of the Israeli women, more likely to be a contemporary of my grandmother than of my mother, is playing the recorder. Badly. All her companions are minding their own business, pretending nothing is happening.
I reflect a bit. What has she probably seen in her lifetime. Where has she been where music was verboten. How much has she survived to come here, to this afternoon, beside the glaciers of Argentina to play her recorder, free and brave and, OK, not that true, but free at least.
F*ck that. The recorder is a crappy instrument, and she´s a worse player. What´s more, it´s f*cking rude to play so loudly and so badly in a cramped space like this one when we´re all trapped. It´s actually unheard of. Bette mimes hitting her on the head with a mallet -- and for once in my life, I side with the German murderous impuse against the Jew. Everyone is staring at her, and no one will say anything. The crew is cowering in the corners, laughing silently, while the recorder plays on. Like a scraping, horrifying fingernails on blackboard. Worse than the worst subway singer.
I have to do something. For my people. For what´s good for the Jews. "Excuse me, Ma´am, we´re tired and just trying to sleep. I´m really sorry, but would you mind?¨ The whole boat is hushed, holding back laughter, egging me on.
She pauses. I think maybe she´s going to quit playing, I have this sort of shit'eating grin ready, thanks but no thanks, on my face, ready to be the good girl to her, but take the rest of the boat´s thanks at the same time. But then I see her eyes, and I realize she is fixing me with a good old fashioned evil eye. She´s not stopping, she´s just breathing in. After a good deep inhale, she starts playing again, louder and scratchier than before. The whole boat settles in for a good hour of misery. And like the British Army before me, I back quietly away, hoping Advil will at least dull the edges of all those loud, tuneless Boy-Scout-sounding off notes.
N.B.: Here in Argentina they have Hellman´s Ketchup. Also Hellman´s Mayonnaise is really lemony, and nicer than the made in the U.s.
