From Perito Moreno, with love

By Aditi De

As I fly from Salta in northwest Argentina to El Calafate in the south in November 2013, I am aware that mine is a journey into the unknown. I am in South America, where I know just three people in real time. I am over 15,000 km. away from home in Bangalore. But a voice intrudes on my musings, ‘Signora, will you be trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier?’ I look to my right at Franco, the 20-plus pharmacist from Uruguay. His is a high beam on life. Much like my favourite travel writers Paul Theroux (The Old Patagonian Express, 1979) and Bruce Chatwin (In Patagonia, 1977), Franco seems a perfect fit for Patagonia, the fabled landscape that occupies southern Argentina (and neighbouring Chile).

 

Lithe Annette, a schoolteacher in Montevideo, is Franco’s partner in the adventure of life. Leaning across him, she adds, “As teenagers, we dreamt of Patagonia. We saved for a year, trained for over three months, to climb Cerro Fitz Roy from El Chalten. It is 3359 metres high.’

 

Tuning in to their dreams, I cue in to my bank-busting, 99-day solo trip through Argentina, Chile. Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, El Salvador and Brazil. It is my gift to myself to celebrate my sixtieth year of life. Never a checklist tourist, I have been breathing in perfect moments as a traveller with a smattering of Spanish. But I have consciously opted out of treks ever since a close encounter with the ever after in Ladakh’s stark Markha Valley in September 2009.

 

Like the young Uruguayans, I have dreamt of Patagonia since I was a child. Ever since my Baba played us 78 r.p.m. records on a turntable, tuning us in to samba and tango. Who, I wondered, made such vibrant music, a far cry from Rabindra Sangeet or baul songs? That inspired my month in Argentina (‘the land of silver’). That is why I am aboard Aerolineas Argentina flight AR 1694, slated to touch down at El Calafate at 1530 hours.

 

‘Did you know that the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, where the Perito Moreno is, covers 16,800 sq. km.? It is 355 km. long and 48 km wide,’ Annette reads, flipping through the in-flight magazine. ‘About 18,000 years ago, a thick sheet of ice covered southern Argentina and Chile, right across the Andes range. Perhaps over 480,000 sq. km.’ It teases my mind.    

 

A gasp surfaces when I walk towards the small airport from the plane. For Lago Argentino lies close to the runway, its placid waters shimmering in over 50 shades of blue. It captures my eye, my imagination, my heart. I send a wish into the universe: please could I take a boat trip on this lake before I fly to Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost city on earth. But how? 

 

Conscious of my shoestring budget, I head for my confirmed dormitory bed in the log-cabin style Calafate Hostel at Gobernador Moyano 1226. The bed linen is freshly laundered; the hot water showers are clean and dry – and I have no fellow occupants till the next night. The Isabel restaurant downstairs (named after a risqué Argentinian actress of the 1970s) has a quirky wall of wine, with unsubtle price tags and an upmarket menu. By night, its discotheque attracts mainly restless, young Caucasians.

 

El Calafate is at the height of its November tourist season (the topsy-turvy seasons of the southern hemisphere charm me, as an Indian passing through). Spanish, with a dash of English and German, throngs the air. I dart into a store that sells handwoven, woollen ponchos. My fingers travel over one in bright purple, red and orange. The proprietress persuades me to try it on, her dancing, dark eyes a perfect match for her ear- hoops. Its giant folds overwhelm me, so I decline with dignity. How about Argentina’s national stone, the Rosa de Inca or rodocrosita, ranging from pale pink to rose red? If I buy the necklace, I may have to skip more than one meal on this trip. I resist. By 8.30 p.m., the sunset-streaked sky is poncho-bright with oranges, purples and reds.

 

Choripan! reads a board in front of a takeaway outlet, accompanied by an irresistible aroma. In seconds, I discover the Argentinian first cousin to a hot dog, with a chorizo sausage sandwiched in pan or bread. I choose one dripping mustard and pickled onions. Every bite warms me up as I hurry towards a sound, dreamless sleep.  

 

Perky and caffeinated by 7 a.m., the Viator adventure agency bus picks me up from the hostel reception. We head for Routa Provincia 11, which runs on to El Chalten, then 5000 km. north to Bolivia. Rumbling on, we gather travellers from the US and Germany, England and France.

 

Our dapper guide Juan tallies heads, then picks up the onboard mike:  ‘We are going to see the 8^th Natural Wonder of the World, the Parque Nacional los Glaciares. Since 1981, it has been a UNESCO World Heritage site.’

 

How large is the glacier, asks a French-accented child’s voice, rows behind me. ‘Our town of 22,000  in Santa Cruz province is named for the Calafate, a small yellow flower (berberis buxifolia) with a centre of flame orange,’ continues Juan, unfazed. ‘The Perito Moreno glacier, which may mean little black dog, is named for the 19^th century explorer Francisco Pascasio Moreno, who first identified it.’

 

‘But wait, I have answers for you,’ Juan adds, his eyes smiling at the inquisitive child behind. ‘The Perito Moreno glacier covers 250 sq. km. It rises 74 km above the L-shaped Lago Argentino, across a stretch that is 30 km. long and 5 km. wide. Below the water, the glacier could be 170 to 700 km. deep.’ The little voice rises, “Papa, Papa! I told you it was very very very big! So many huge kilo… kilo… meters! Is that as high as the moon, Papa?’

 

My eyes widen in disbelief as we pull up by the 1415 sq. km. freshwater Lago Argentino, whose waters flow into the Atlantic Ocean through the Santa Cruz river. Can dreams turn real so easily?

 

I shiver at the prospect of icy waters, unknown depths, as our mini-yacht – Victoria Argentina – pulls away from the shore. Inside the covered cabin, overlooking the lapping water, towering icebergs appear to be at arm’s length. Rosy-cheeked Angela, wrapped in a geometric native stole, sits by me, with cheerful Carlos by her side. Just over 30, they are from Colombia. She is a Peru-based marketing wizard; he is concentrating on his dissertation in International Relations from Buenos Aires.

 

Responding to the silent call of the ice floes, we scamper up the iron ladder to the deck. . I giggle uncontrollably as an iceberg shaped like a giant sleeping swan (to my overactive mind) floats by, its open crevices a near-inky blue. Like the shape-shifting clouds above, our water-craft dodges a taller floe, like a downsized castle with the lake as its moat.

 

Every breath is invigorating. My fingers brush my cheekbones, which seem seconds away from a dusting of ice. I pull on my gloves, in response to the nippy 11 degrees Celsius temperature. Looming ahead is the snow-iced southern Andes, with a great barrier of ice between us and the south face of the Perito Moreno. Tall lines, as if weather-etched on an ancient face, stretch across its towering height. In the blinding pre-noon glare, the glacier seems close enough. But when I stretch out my arm, the Perito Moreno remains a defiant 300 metres away.

 

Entranced, I gaze at the 61-metre southern glacial wall, in sync with the Patagonia of my mind’s eye. ‘I just overheard some Peruvian tourists,’ Carlos interrupts my thoughts. ‘On January 19, 2013, the Perito Moreno advanced so much that it created a dam along the Brazo Rico or southern arm of Lago Argentino. The water pressure was so high that giant shards of the glacier fell off, causing a rupture.’

 

‘The first rupture ever recorded here was in 1917,’ adds Angela, checking her smartphone. ‘Be careful, mi amor,’ says Carlos tenderly into her chestnut hair, but not in a whisper. ‘More than 32 people have been killed in 20 years since 1968 by post-rupture shards thrown metres away.’

 

Once we are back on terra-firma after an hour on the lake, I meander solo towards the railing-edged wooden walkways that trace a scenic route about 500 metres from the Perito Moreno south glacier face. I pass tourists disembarking to part with Argentinian pesos for steak or the traditional mate herbal brew. At every balcony overlooking Lago Argentino, visitors whisper in clusters, like worshippers at a natural shrine. I look past tall rows of mainly deciduous southern beeches like the lenga and nirre (in Spanish), towards the snow-iced, distant Andes.

 

The uneven patterns atop the glacier rivet my eye. As the Perito Moreno moves about a metre daily, its surface ridges and trenches resemble an otherworldly quilt. Its dense ice carves out crevasses or seracs. Over rocks or even natural debris, it forms cirques or moraines. Distant ice-trekkers, including Carlos and Angela, move like tiny aliens across this terrain. Wrapped in the unearthly silence that blankets us, a magical, mystical landscape pulses to life.  

 

I search my red windcheater for my sandwich lunch. Watching Juan’s retreating back down the winding path, wonder seeps into me as I settle on a bench. Natural whites and greys play over the towering wall of ice. My eyes stop at a pocket of intense kingfisher blue. In the lake below, paler floes drift through slightly muddy waters.  

 

A sharp crack, like that of a shotgun in a western movie, startles me. My cheese sandwich falls to the ground as gooseflesh covers my arms. I trample my lunch underfoot, then scrabble to toss it into a bin. Looking at the Perito Moreno, I notice that the kingfisher blue ice cave has vanished. It has ‘calved’ naturally, fallen into Lago Argentino in the sunny haze. A crowd cheers the natural wonder lustily.

 

I run to join them, glad I did not join the mini-trek on the glacier because the crampons issued by Viator would not fit my size 3 L.L. Bean comfort moccasins. I scan the other visibly blue Perito Moreno caves, my senses heightened. Over the next two hours, five more gigantic blocks of virgin ice calve into the lake from the sharp glacial tongues. As Aditi in wonderland, however temporarily, I am grateful that November windspeeds are not at their peak of 130 km.p.h.   

 

I sink to my haunches, arms draped over the railing, too excited to be self-conscious. Behind me a guide addresses some English-speaking tourists: ‘The Southern Patagonian Ice Field is the world’s third largest reserve of fresh water. The other two are Antarctica and Greenland. Why is the Perito Moreno still advancing, while most of the world’s glaciers are retreating? Glaciologists are still trying to figure itout.’

 

Four hours later, sunburnt but inspired by the secret life of the glacier, I head back to the exit point. I hear thudding feet behind me. I turn around to find Carlos. He pants, ‘Where have you been, Indian lady? Angela was searching for you…’

 

‘Look, Aditi, look!’ Angela waves her left hand, with a delicate diamond on her ring finger, as she hugs me. ‘Throughout our week in Argentina, Carlos was waiting for the right moment…’

 

Carlos steals the story away: ‘We fell back from the others atop the Perito Moreno. At the entrance to an ice cave, I knelt and proposed to Angela.’

 

‘I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I shifted to Lima in 2011,’ Angela cries, kissing Carlos one more time. ‘Amore, amore, amore…’

 

‘Aditi, you know about our special moment even before our families do,’ adds Carlos, gently kissing my forehead. ‘Our parents won’t know until a family wedding in Buenos Aires next weekend.’

 

Both dazed and dazzled, I realize I am teary-eyed. Because I believe in true love, in close encounters with total strangers – and in dreams that come true if you will them to life. Mine, long cherished, brought me far, far away.  To beautiful Perito Moreno in Patagonia. To South Americans who accepted me as one of their own, not merely a stranger from a distant land.

 Cheers to happily ever after, beyond the pages of fairy tales.

(This article was originally published in Rotary News India in November 2016.)