Cat and Mouse

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Somewhere in deepest Patagonia. 17.00.

When I arrived in Puerto Natales last night, the first snows of winter had already covered the great plains of Patagonia in a thin layer of snow. The snow was still falling as I made my way into town and it was still coming down hard as I turned in for the night (at the ungodly hour of 9pm). So it’s hardly surprising that I woke to a total whiteout this morning. Patagonia looked into her winter wardrobe and put on her most beautiful dress of all.

Such were the conditions as Fabián, my guide for the next few days, picked me up and set off from the lamp-lit streets of Puerto Natales into the endless night.

I shopped around a lot before choosing Fabián of Fauna Silvestrek, largely because puma tracking in this corner of the world is not a budget-friendly experience. Touring with one of the English-language conglomerates can set you back thousands of dollars for just a couple of days. Traveling solo necessarily makes wildlife tourism an expensive operation, since you inevitably have to pay the same rate that a group would cover between three or four, so I was relieved when I found a Spanish-language option which looked much more personal, reliable and affordable. Tracking pumas is easier here than anywhere else in the world, but never guaranteed, so you want to be sure you’re investing in the right guy.

Fabián, it turns out, was exactly the right guy.

It’s a two hour drive from Puerto Natales to puma country, on the edge of PN Torres del Paine. In winter, it’s arguably easier to find pumas – or mountain lions, as they’re known in North America – outside the national park, where the elevation makes for a more unforgiving climate. Along the way you pass all sorts of signs you’ll find nowhere else, warning of collisions with pumas, guanacos, rheas and even armadillos. I’m keeping my eyes peeled for a ñandú – a Patagonian variant of the ostrich, and one of only a handful of words that start with the letter ñ – but we haven’t seen any yet. Maybe they’re keeping a low profile in the outer reaches of the park.

Today and tomorrow (and very probably the day after) are all about pumas. That’s what I came all the way down here for. And today did not disappoint.

We found our first cat hidden beneath the shelter of a bush not too far from the road. Fabián located it amidst the white wilderness with a thermal scope, which is a seriously useful piece of kit – especially when the whole world has frozen over. It was a youngster, unknown to the local guides, that had killed a guanaco recently. Puma kills are known around here as carneos, and are used by the trackers in their operations around the park, as each kill usually guarantees that the puma will stay in the immediate vicinity for the next three to four days, attracting other scavengers in the process.

This one – NN (No tiene Nombre) – stayed hidden in its shelter, being more wary of us than its more habituated kin in the park. So the best I could do was a digiscoped shot with Fabian’s scope. Even so, I was on tip-toes with excitement. One puma already, within minutes of arriving in puma country! Score!

The trackers communicate with each other via walkie-talkies. You can spot their cars a long way off by the antennae affixed to the roof, which allow them to talk to each other across the vast and signal-less distances of Patagonia. As such, when one tracker locates a puma, they will tip off the others.

Following one such tip-off, Fabián led me to a featureless deep (one of thousands) where a tracker and his clients had gathered, searching for a female puma and her cub which were still in the immediate vicinity. Just how immediate became apparent when I saw the back and the kinked tail of an adult mountain lion appear all of a sudden behind the scrub just a stone’s throw from the road. We stuck around for about an hour to try and locate them, but pumas are magical creatures. For a beast that can grow to a whopping 2.6m in length, they have a remarkable ability to disappear, even in a landscape covered in snow.

It wasn’t that cold, in spite of the snow, and a flock of meadowlarks kept us company in the meantime, twittering noisily among the deep footprints left behind by a previous company of trackers. The males are especially spectacular with their crimson chests. The brighter the red, the healthier the individual – so naturally, the more successful the male with the ladies. Ladies and gentleman: the gymbro of the bird world.

Nearby, a small herd of guanacos kept a wary eye on the spot where the pumas had disappeared. If the trackers don’t guide you to a puma, the guanacos just might. Their high-pitched alarm call is usually a good sign that the apex predator of Patagonia is somewhere nearby. Incidentally, guanacos complete the set: having seen alpacas, llamas and vicuñas in Peru, guanacos are the final member of the South American camelids.

These handsome beasts were once to be found across all of Chile, but hunting whittled their numbers to zero not long after the arrival of the first European settlers, and these days their range is restricted to the Cono Sur, with an outlying population in Peru.

We came across another herd further up the road, consisting of an alpha male and his three female attendants, with a fifth on lookout high up on the nearest hill. These vaulted the fence and came right past the car – or rather, the alpha managed just fine, while two of his followers looked on in confusion.

We came back to try our luck with the pumas from earlier, arriving in the very nick of time to see them leave the shelter of the scrub and strike out into the open.

This particular female is called Lenga, after a local kind of tree whose branches are distorted by the fierce Antarctic winds. Lenga’s tail is similarly misshapen, though nobody knows why. She appeared one day, as wandering pumas often do, with her oddly-shaped tail, and her attendant cub, Ñire.

We watched them cross the frozen lake and climb up into the snow-covered mattoral until they were mere shadows among the scrub before the snow clouds concealed them from sight. If that had been it for our encounter with the pumas, I’d have been quite content. But we were only getting started.

Another handsome resident of these windswept wastes is the crested caracara, known locally as the carancho (amazingly, a lot of the local birds and beasts seem to have preserved their precolonial names). Two of them were perched at the side of the road, quite unfazed by the four-wheel drive that ground to a halt right in front of them. Seeing how unafraid so many animals are in foreign corners of the world really makes one reflect on how violently we have treated the countryside in the UK for its creatures to be so innately terrified of us. Food for thought.

Arcing around a snowdrift and following the edge of Lago Sarmiento, the largest of the region’s lakes, we soon came across another group of tourists and their attendant tracker walking up the road, armed to the teeth with enough telephoto lenses to inspire envy in the World Cup press box. The reason for their almost religious procession was padding along a few metres ahead: an adult female puma, known as Escarcha (Frost), one of the park’s habituated mountain lions. We fell into line, marching for about half a kilometre before Fabian told me to press on while he went back for the car.

Cue a rather awkward incident where the tracker of the other group told me – in no uncertain words – to get lost. The implication was clear: I hadn’t paid for his services, so I shouldn’t be walking with his group. When Fabián caught up to me, another tracker working for the Others rounded on him, accosting him for tagging along “without so much as saying hello”. They were so busy chewing that one out that nobody seemed to notice that Escarcha’s calls had summoned two adorable cubs from the snow.

After a short distance, Escarcha and her cubs disappeared into the scrub. Team Territorial struck out onto a nearby hillside to get a better view, and we knew better than to follow them. Sure, from our spot on the road, we couldn’t tell whether they had the best seats in the house, but in the end it was the cubs who levelled the playing field. In their constant scampering about, up the hill and back down again, they made no attempt to stay hidden for long.

Like many cats, baby pumas are born with bright blue eyes that gradually turn a golden-brown after about six months, which helped to age these youngsters considerably – not yet a year old, but past the blue-eyed stage of infancy. The zoom lens could have told me that, but as it turns out, I hardly needed it: one of the cubs, more curious than its sibling, scampered up onto the road and sat watching us for a while. I don’t know what was going through its head, but it was clearly thinking.

Nearby, Escarcha kept a languid eye on her playful cubs. Habituated does not mean tame by any standards, and anybody with half a brain knows not to get too close to anything with lion in its name – and especially if it is a mother and her cubs. Even so, to see such an awesome predator at such a distance… I had no idea we would be so lucky on day one!

Soon, most of the trackers and their teams had arrived to try to deliver similar views of Escarcha and her cubs. However, being largely creatures of the night, they were to be disappointed: after that last bout of curiosity, Escarcha and her cubs disappeared into the snowy tangle of a mata scrub and never emerged, presumably falling into a deep and wintry sleep as the temperature dropped beyond.

Together with the other trackers, Fabián and I were on stakeout for the rest of the afternoon, but to no avail. The meadowlarks were keen to point out the presence of the pumas by flocking around their chosen scrub and twittering noisily, before a ghostly cinereous harrier drove them all up into the air.

After vultures, harriers are probably some of my favourite creatures in the animal kingdom, The way they seem to float as they silently quarter their territories, traveling in ever-widening circles… together with the silvery grey colour of the males… they’re all kinds of magnificent. Words can’t even.

Shortly before six, with the light beginning to fail, Fabián signalled it was time to head for home. Chances are we may well run into Escarcha again tomorrow. Just as well: I was shaking something awful out there. One accustoms to the cold, of course, but those first few minutes after leaving the warmth of the car are definitely the worst as the body acclimatises. I must have looked like I had the ague – which would have rendered any attempts to take a steady photograph in the fading light almost impossible!

The return journey back to Puerto Natales was a lot more scenic than the journey up this morning, if only because the clouds had begun to break apart, defogging the world below. Where before all had been ghostly white, some mysterious deity had revealed a breathtaking landscape of sheer cliffs, towering mountains and grey lakes. It was already getting dark, so hopefully tomorrow (when the weather is forecast to be clearer) will produce some better landscape results. For now, I want to remember this view: yellow grass in the snow against a hopeful yellowing sky.

I got through today’s expedition on the restorative power of six cocktail-sized chorizo bites and a Starbucks caramel waffle, so I was a little peckish by the time we got back to base. On a tip-off from Fabián, I dropped in on Artimaña, a quirky restaurant in the centre of town. And what a find! Like a lot of the local establishments, it had a condor feather nailed to the wall (this seems to be a local tradition of some sort), but the food was incredible, all of it locally sourced and rustled up on command. Friendliest staff ever, too. I’ll have to come back here again – more than once before I leave, I’d wager. I don’t usually click with a place this quick, but there’s something Artimaña gets right in one hit. It might be the condor feather, of course, but I’d think I’m a bit more subtle than that.

Mammoth post – it’s not often I have so much to record. But today really was a red letter day, and I have to get this all down before I forget.

Tomorrow, Round II: pumas, and – with any luck – the enigmatic ñandú. Topping today’s ridiculous success rate will be hard, but I am as insufferably full of hope as I have ever been, supercharged by a full twenty-four hours in a frozen paradise. Fingers crossed! BB x

To the Ends of the Earth

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Hostel Coastal B&B, Puerto Natales. 18.48.

I know I’ve found somewhere absolutely desolate when I hear myself throwing the word “beautiful” around like a flail. And that just about sums up Puerto Natales. Desolate. But breathtakingly beautiful in its desolation.

Wind the clock back. I’ve had comfier flights. The journey down to Puerto Natales via an hour’s layover in Puerto Montt was perfectly smooth, but I’ve not yet recovered from the debilitating impact of a fourteen hour flight in an air-conditioned box, so my eyes and nose were streaming all morning. To add insult to injury, my ears clogged up upon landing in Puerto Montt, which was less painful than a nuisance that it was impossible to ignore. It was some relief when the last of the new passengers had found their seats and the plane was up in the firmament once again.

I did, however, get my money’s worth from the window seat. Chile’s Lake District is nothing short of spectacular. Think Cumbria if you will, but on a much, much grander scale, where the lakes are larger than cities and the mountains are merely supporting characters for the real stars of the show: the mighty snowcapped volcanoes, rising up and out of the earth in perfect wintry cones. Some of them were gently smoking from their summits; others forced the clouds to crest their peaks like waves, adding a further sheen to their majesty. This place is very high on my list of options for the last week – if I can only find a way to get down here overland, that is. I think I’ll have done quite enough flying by the time I get back from this cold corner of the world!

After Puerto Montt, the world below disappeared beneath the clouds for all of two hours. It was only upon the final descent, mere minutes from the tiny landing strip, that the snowy wastes of Patagonia finally appeared. If Santiago felt like Spain and the Lake District looked like England or even Canada, this is something else entirely. I have no yardstick for this kind of world. Not even Poland in the grip of midwinter comes close. The indescribable vastness of it all, scored with cross-crossing tracks and frozen ponds, appearing and disappearing at will beyond the snow clouds… it’s almost eerie.

Landing was no small feat either. The captain had to pull up out of the descent just moments from touchdown due to fierce winds, the likes of which I have only read about in books about this place. The ancient explorers called this land Tierra del Fuego after the many fires lit upon the shore by the indigenous Selk’nam, but Tierra del Viento may be a more appropriate moniker – this corner of the world seems to be ruled by the wind.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to get from the dinky little airport into town, but that question was answered quickly by the local transfer shuttle service advertising itself loudly in the arrivals lounge, and at $5 for door-to-door service, they’re practically giving it away.

It would had been a shorter service had the driver heard me correctly and taken me to the Hostal Coastal and not the Hostal Austral, which whacked another twenty minutes onto the trip and gave me a proper scenic tour of the backwaters of Puerto Natales. I suppose it doesn’t help that the two words sound similar, and I can’t blame the driver for defaulting to the one that is actually in Spanish. But this B&B is wonderfully homey, if a wee bit of a trek from the centre (we’re talking the minutes, tops, but it’s enough to make me reconsider going out in the cold and the dark for supper).

Puerto Natales is immediately a very different world to the rest of Chile. Even our layover in Puerto Montt had many of the same birds flying by as can be found in Santiago. But not here.

If check-in hadn’t taken a little while, I could have practically fed the chimango caracaras that were perched on the fence outside. I went searching for them later, but a family of fishermen spooked them off. It was a shame, but it was just as well – none of my photos came out right anyway as it was getting very dark. That’s why I came out to look around, really – to get my bearings and play around with the camera settings so that I’m not caught out if we should be so lucky as to find any pumas over the next few days.

Apart from the caracaras, the wildlife here is much more like what you might find in Antarctica. Imperial shags bobbing on the water in the bay and sinister-looking dolphin gulls with their dark feathers and red beaks. White-eared grebes sharing the shoreline with upland geese, steamer ducks and… what the?

That’s right, the guidebooks aren’t goosing you. Puerto Natales hosts a herd of Chilean flamingos during the winter months. Quite why they come here, to this dark and desolate corner of the world, I can only guess. Perhaps it has something to do with the legendarily rich Humboldt current. Either way, they are a decidedly strange sight: a mass of crimson and salmon pink in an iron-grey Antarctic sea.

I think I’ll call it a day there. My ears were rescued until the captain had to do that emergency manoeuvre and now they’re right back to how they were before. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had some kind of Eustachian Tube Dysfunction, only the last time it ended in a burst ear drum and three bizarre and painful months of diplacusis dysharmonica. That’s why I’m not trying to force my Eustachian tubes open by the conventional methods. With any luck, they’ll heal in time.

A good night’s sleep would be nice – I didn’t get much last night because the five Brazilians in my dorm decided to turn on all the lights just before midnight and have a jolly conversation at full volume about their respective cities. They didn’t get the hint until they left for the club, and when they did, the chap from Rio decided to ignore his alarm at four in the morning, so the fellow in the bed above him had to creep out and switch it off. At least, I think that’s what he did.

But now I have a room to myself for five nights. Bliss! I intend to make the most of it. Starting with a good kip. Tomorrow is another day. BB x

Another World

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Hostal Boutique Merced 88, Santiago de Chile. 16.15.

Now here’s a setup I really didn’t see coming. This time yesterday I was sitting in a living room in a comfy suburb of Santiago de Chile, some twelve thousand miles from home, knocking back a Corona Extra and watching Spain take on Belgium in their quarterfinal game. Twenty-four hours later, I’m in downtown Santiago, resting my feet for a moment after climbing up Cerro San Cristobal to see the Andes once again. If you’d asked me where I’d be and what I’d be doing at this stage of the summer back in December, it wouldn’t have been either of those scenarios, that’s for sure.

I must have been absolutely exhausted yesterday, because the last thing I remember is sitting down on my bunk bed and checking the time, which was about 18.50ish. The next thing I knew, it was dark outside, the numbers on my phone’s home screen had morphed to 03.10 and a man in the bunk above mine was snoring loud enough to rival an Amazonian thunderstorm. Maybe that was what woke me up. Either way, I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I whiled away a couple of hours trying to work out what to do with the last week.

Of course, I didn’t realise that my adaptor was too big for the sockets here until my phone was down to 3%. Fortunately, the giant in the bunk next to mine (seriously, he must have been at least 6’6”) had exactly the same charger as mine, so I sneakily put my phone to charge and waited for about an hour for it to juice up just enough to guide me to a ferretería in town.

Thus armed (and breakfasted) I detoured back to the hostel via the Parque Forestal to see what I could see (after all, I did bring the lens with me). A couple of Harris hawks kept putting the local pigeons to flight with their noisy circling, and I tried and failed to catch one of the park’s firecrowns as it flitted from flower to flower at blinding speed, but the austral thrushes were absolutely everywhere – and they were much less camera-shy.

They look a lot like the Chiguanco thrushes that were all around Cusco. Come to think of it, they don’t look all that different from the American robins of Central Park, in the right light. They’re clearly a very Santiago kind of bird. I guess I’ll be seeing more of them over the next few weeks.

I hadn’t really planned what to do with my day in downtown Santiago. Honestly, I had expected this week to be spent exploring the Lake District to the south, saving Patagonia for the end of the trip, but the guide I have hired is only working July this year, so I had to change my plans.

Santiago sits in a giant bowl, ringed on almost every side by the snow-capped peaks of the Andes. One finger of those lofty peaks stretches almost as far as Santiago’s heart. Crisscrossed by cycle paths and two very popular cable-car lines, the Cerro San Cristobal was just too great a temptation. As a rule, if there is a mountain nearby, I usually try to climb it. So that sorted out my plans for the day in one go!

It’s quite a climb – about an hour and a half up the eastern slope – but it does offer tremendous views of the capital city and its famous skyscraper, the Gran Torre Costanera, the tallest building in South America.

You can also appreciate the smog, which is really quite something.

I’m still tuning into the soundscape here, but three weeks in Peru have made the job a lot easier. I know a hummingbird now when I hear one, so it was fairly easy to find firecrowns on the way up – though they were nigh-on impossible to photograph, as hummingbirds so often are. One sound I did not recognise, however, was a strange owl-like call coming from the scrub. Merlin came to the rescue: it was a California Quail. I have wanted to see one of these enigmatic little things since I first saw them in Bambi as a kid.

California quail just isn’t the right name, though. They’re clearly quaver quails. Just look at the musical note embedded in the head of this dashing young male. You tell me that this handsome fella doesn’t deserve a musical name for wearing such a showy headpiece!

Speaking of showy headpieces, this tufted tit-tyrant was a nice find near the summit. For most of the morning, I could hear some kind of tyrant species high up in the trees, but this one came right down to eye-level and stuck around for a little while.

Santiago definitely looks better when you’re facing to the east. From the Cerro, the view out west is buried under a thick cloud of smog which seems perpetually fixed just above the horizon. The shape of the valley is part of the problem, trapping the exhaust fumes in a natural bowl, but it is something I’ve never seen the likes of before. I suppose I had better get used to it, as next year is likely to see me accompany some of my top public speakers to the world championships in Shanghai, and China is no stranger to smog.

Right at the very top, there is an enormous white statue of La Virgen de la Inmaculada Concepción, and at her feet, a small sanctuary. This seems to be the spot the locals make for in the afternoon, presumably to catch the sunset, as it was getting very busy by the time I reached it. Most of them doubtless made the ascent by cable car, as the lines to get tickets back down were just as big as they had been at the bottom. Foolishly, I still had my camera set to low-light shooting after my run-in with the quails, so when a buzzard-eagle appeared out of nowhere, I was woefully underprepared. I got off a few clean shots, but as it was close enough to see the glint in its eye, it was one of those encounters best left to the naked eye.

It didn’t get the same reaction from the crowd of sightseers that the condors did back in Peru – but then, Andean condors are twice as big and five times as heavy, so they really do command one’s attention.

I’m no less impressed by the Andes than I was when first I laid eyes on them. They really are the most impressive mountains I have ever seen, dwarfing every peak I have had the fortune to behold until now. Imagine growing up in the shadow of these mighty walls of rock and ice… Little wonder the Inca thought themselves divine!

My phone is nearly charged back up. Looking at the time, I think England have just set out against Norway in their quarterfinal game. I can’t watch or even follow the game on the radio thanks to the BBC being regionally locked, so I’ll just have to go for a walk and see if I can find anywhere playing the game en route. Could be a good excuse to take myself out for dinner, though I doubt I’ll do more than grab an empanada from a stall somewhere.

This time tomorrow I’ll be in Puerto Natales. It looks like Patagonia had its first snowfall last night. I can’t wait to see the snow again. It’s been too long! BB x

A Surfeit of Films

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Las Condes, Santiago de Chile. 10.50.

After a flight that seemed to go on forever, I have made landfall in Chile. Tomás, my host for the next four weeks or so, very generously offered to come and pick me up from the airport – an offer I found it impossible to decline, operating on about an hour’s proper sleep and six hours of sleepless shut-eye.

Being right at the back of the plane meant that I was the very last customer served dinner, by which point they had run out of everything but chicken. I hadn’t eaten much, so that was fine by me – I thought it was really top-notch, by plane standards (or any standards, for that matter). The film choices were fab too, once I’d worked out where to plug in the complimentary headset (hint: it’s in the armrest to your right). I watched The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor (largely on fast forward, as I’d had it on my mind a few days prior), considered Avatar III: Fire and Ash and then changed my mind and opted for Michael, the biopic about my all-time favourite artist that I had somehow managed to miss in cinemas this summer. I’m not normally a fan of biopics, lumping them somewhat unfairly under the same “cash-grab” category as Disney’s recent slew of remakes, but I thought this one was genuinely moving. Then again, I adore MJ and his music, so that’s probably my own bias talking.

I still managed to watch a silent version of Avatar on one of the telescreens in the row in front. It looked almost identical to the previous two films, boiling down to a sequence of who-took-who-prisoner and Eywa saves the day again, but maybe I was missing something without the dialogue.

I also managed to watch The Batman before landing in Santiago ahead of schedule at 7am this morning. That’s around six or seven hours of films, plus another six trying to get some sleep – and that’s still not the entirety of the flight time. That’s an indication of just how long the journey to Santiago is. Thank goodness it was all in the dark!

It took about an hour to get through customs, largely because the immigration control was very busy for seven o’clock in the morning. I had a gut feeling I’d be assigned to Gate 13 – unlucky for some – which I was, some thirty minutes later, only to find that Señorita Allende at the control desk was writing her next novella for each customer, so the queue for Gate 13 moved at a snail’s pace. I was two clients from the desk when she put on her coat, packed her things and signalled to the rest of us that her shift was over and to find another gate. The man at Gate 12 was much more efficient: a quick glance at my passport, a stamp (yay!) and through.

I was stopped at customs, which was an interesting change, because of the marmalade I’d brought over as a gift for Tomás and his family. I’d forgotten how much of a fuss is made of preserves! They let me through without a fuss – and with the marmalade, amazingly – but maybe next time I’ll stick to chocolate.

First impressions of Santiago? I’ve barely got to know the place, but from a single drive across the city to my host’s home in residential Las Condes, it’s a very different city to Lima or Arequipa. It feels instantly more like Madrid or Barcelona in its architecture, with its tower blocks and its vast network of underground highways. A dense wintry cover of cloud is currently hanging over the city, shrouding most of the snow-capped peaks beyond a grey veil, while the thick layer of smog that hovers above the city was immediately obvious upon leaving the airport.

It feels decidedly weird leaving England with a tan and a t-shirt, getting on a plane to somewhere abroad and immediately having to throw on a jumper and some warmer socks. It’s also a positively balmy 17°C here, a point emphasised by the faraway screeching of monk parakeets, an invasive species in most European cities but just as native to this strip of South America as the puma and the condor. It’ll be even colder down south in Patagonia. I hope my winter gear is warm enough!

I’m giving up on trying to catch up on lost sleep. It’s not working, and probably dangerous to try, or I really will throw my sleeping patterns right off. I’ll get a proper night’s sleep at the hostel I’ve booked in downtown Santiago tonight, after getting my bearings and catching the Spain v Belgium game, of course. Until then, let’s take it slow. Don’t want to burn out before I’ve even started my placement now! BB x

Retreat from the Heat

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

London Heathrow Terminal 5, London. 20.00.

So far so good! I hit the exact hurdle I expected at check-in – namely, Iberia failing to allow for middle names and slapping them on the end of my surname, making for one heck of a name – but the lady at the desk waved me on in without a fuss. My suitcase is off on its merry way, and in another half hour or so I’ll leave this charging station and set out after it.

It hadn’t really dawned on me quite how far a fourteen-and-a-half hour flight truly is until I saw it printed on my boarding pass. That’s an odyssey of a journey right there, and all of it in the dark, being one of those nightchaser flights that seemingly travels backwards in time.

My contact in Santiago has got in touch, so I no longer need concern myself with my suitcase once I reach the other side of the world – and that really is a load off my mind! I have an aisle seat at the very back of the plane, so I can’t guarantee I’ll have slept all that well by the time we arrive. I hope they have a decent film or two on tap! I’m conscious that I’m missing the France/Morocco quarterfinal as I write, but maybe it’ll be showing in one of the bars en route to the C Gates.

The news here is all about the heat – that, and Nigel Farage’s impending by-election against Count Binface. There are so many reasons I would move abroad – not least of all the number of colleagues who tell me (in the nicest possible way!) that they don’t think I belong here – but when it comes to political satire, we really are the best in the world. Where else would a would-be prime minister be forced to spend the summer debating against a man with a bin on his head?

Enough of this madness. Onwards! To a country of wonderful wine and breathtaking mountains where they speak my grandfather’s language. The forecast is eternally in flux, but it now looks like it’s set to snow throughout my stay in Puerto Natales. Strangely enough, it will be the first snow I’ve seen in nearly two years. I hope I have packed enough for the cold! BB x

Overencumbered

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Carriage B, Delayed 16.05 to London Paddington. 18.07.

No adventure ever worth setting out on ever started easily. That’s what I’m telling myself as I lug all of this junk across country. I have to face the facts. It was my decision to maximise my time in Chile, leaving a single day’s pit stop in the UK before setting out again for Greece. Both occasions require formal wear, but Chile is in the grip of deepest winter and Greece will be just past the zenith of its summer fury. It felt decidedly odd packing my quilted coat, gloves and rain gear when the temperature was ticking past 31°C outside, but I have to be prepared for any eventuality. I really dislike traveling with anything more than a few changes of clothes and a backpack, but on this occasion I have no choice. Thankfully, I don’t have to lug my Greek summer wear around Chile. It’s just getting all of this junk out of Somerset that’s the kicker.

It’s pretty hot out there. The corridor is full of suitcases and a pram, most of them belonging to a retiree in a summer dress. I wondered at first whether she was a candidate for the most inattentive grandmother on the planet, since she only popped out into the corridor to check on the inhabitant of the pram twice over the space of an hour – until at last she scooped up the little thing, which turned out to be a little brown puppy. She proceeded to try to encourage it to drink from a metal bowl of water – most of which went onto her dress and the floor – and then took it into the toilet cubicle, picking up super absorbent puppy training wipes from her pram en route. The Japanese family trapped in the corridor with me seemed more than a little bemused.

We were delayed again outside Castle Cary by a fire at the side of the track, which appeared to have started some five or ten minutes ago, judging by the speed of its advance and the trail of charred grass it had left in its wake.

Fires starting at the side of railway lines? Two heatwaves back to back? I’ve never known a summer like it. The sooner I am up in the air and down in the southern hemisphere, the better. I may have Spanish blood, but on this occasion the Englishman in me wins out. I’m really not a fan of this kind of heat.

23.03.

Check-in is officially open, but the website is telling me it’s “too early” to check in, despite the fact that this time tomorrow I’ll be one hour into my fourteen-and-a-half hour flight to Santiago. It’ll be something to do with the fact that it’s British Airways operating the flight out, not Iberia, and Iberia’s website usually forces me to input my middle names as part of my surname, since middle names don’t exist in Spanish society (but two surnames are expected). One of those two usual stumbling blocks.

I’m too tired to deal with it now. I’ve packed a proper headrest cushion for the journey, as it will be the longest flight I have ever been on in my life, so if I have to check in at the airport and get a rum deal as seats go, I guess them’s the breaks. At least I have Friday and Saturday to readjust! BB x

Waiting

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

The Flat, Taunton. 23.30.

Still no word from Chile. A voice in my head is trying to tell me that something is amiss, but I’m tempted to chalk that up to institutionalisation. I have to remind myself that I knew next to nothing about Villafranca de los Barros when I set out to live and work there for the best part of a year. I didn’t even have my accommodation thought through until a few days after I had arrived. There is simply a lot less stress in the way the Hispanics go about these things, and I should be on board with that – it’s the system I started out with. I wonder whether it’s just a psychosis of the English (or, perhaps, the Americans) that we need everything planned and sorted right down to the last detail.

I am not a planner. Sure, traveling twelve thousand kilometres without much of a plan might be reckless even by my standards, but it doesn’t trouble me. Not really. After all, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always store my luggage somewhere and go traveling.

England is back in the grip of another heatwave. This one isn’t as fierce as the last one, but it is noticeably hotter than usual. Perhaps I’m noticing that all the more because A) my barber’s has always been busy when I’ve gone by, so my hair is longer than usual; B) the fan in my air purifier has given up the ghost; and C) I’m packing for an austral winter, so I’ve had the odd experience of going through my winter wardrobe in 30 degree heat. The incoming El Niño may alter the weather in Chile while I’m out there in ways I cannot predict – it could be hotter, wetter or even colder than the average winter – so I have to pack for every eventuality. Thank goodness I paid for a suitcase this time around! I really hate traveling with suitcases, but at least it gives me the peace of mind to pack enough supplies to keep me comfortable, whatever the weather.

Just a short couple of posts for now – I don’t have an awful lot to report on. Just wanted to get back in the zone before the next adventure begins. Writing is an exercise, and like any sport, it needs a good warm-up! BB x

Against the Odds

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

The Flat, 19.20.

Well. That totally did not pan out the way I expected.

Image credit: BBC Sport

I’m not really one for football. When my students ask me what team I support – as boys can be relied upon to do year after year – my answer is a slightly evasive Real Betis, but to be honest, that’s only because of my fondness for the city of Sevilla and the Andalusian colours of its uniform. I couldn’t name you any of their players, nor have I ever watched any of their games.

The World Cup, however, is another matter entirely. Living and working in a boys’ boarding house pretty much demands an investment in the ups and downs of the world’s largest football competition, and with so many underdog teams defying the odds and Mr Trump meddling directly in the politics of the game, this one really has been one to watch.

When England blew past the Democratic Republic of Congo last week to secure a place in the last 32, I’ll admit, I didn’t fancy our chances. Playing vainglorious Mexico on their home turf, and in the high-altitude Estadio Azteca, no less? I really thought it might be a hard-fought but richly-deserved win for El Tri. Watching Judge Bellingham score not one but two goals within the space of a minute was electric here at home, so I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for the small battalion of England fans in the stadium, surrounded by an army of Mexicans in green and white, looking for all the world like Cortes and his Spaniards outnumbered by the Aztecs. I have to admit, by the end of the game, even this dyed-in-the-wool Hispanist was rooting for his home country. It was genuinely one of the best games I’ve seen in a while. I’ve always held up El Clasico as the gold standard, but after the last two Madrid/Barca games I watched ended in 0:0, this year’s World Cup has been a serious breath of fresh air.

Image credit: BBC Sport

I’m actually quite excited about the fact that I’m going to be in the Americas for the grand finale. Granted, Latin America’s involvement in the World Cup has come to an end with their defeat against Kane’s team: the rest of the games are in the unforgivingly tight grip of North America. However, Argentina and Colombia are still in the game, and in a matter of hours, we will know whether Spain or Portugal has made it through to the quarterfinals, so there is hope for the Spanish-speaking world yet. In a World Cup that has been shared with Mexico, that is not an insignificant detail. Given that I will be in Latin America for the next month and a half, it would be pretty electric to see one of the Latin teams make it all the way to the final.

Chile has rodeo, which is a sport I’ve always wanted to see. However, since I’m going in winter, I don’t think that’s something I’m going to achieve in my trip this time. I wouldn’t say no to some kind of sporting spectacle, though. It still surprises me to hear myself say that, but then, I guess my job must be rubbing off on me – and in a good way. It can’t hurt to be a little more open-minded. BB x

U-Turn

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

14.02, The Flat.

In the blink of an eye, my second year at Taunton has come and gone. It’s been another hurricane season, I won’t deny that. A little easier than last year, perhaps – if only because of the repetitive nature of teaching the same course – but every bit as busy. Since September, I’ve taken my student Funk Band out to their first external gig, joined a band of my own, taken a team to the Oxford Schools Finals Day for the second year in a row and led a public speaking workshop in the form of a legal practice (which, of course, I am totally qualified for…). I have returned to Extremadura under iron skies, taken yet another school trip to Barcelona and travelled all the way to Peru in search of the Andean condor on one of the most amazing adventures of my life. I have not found Her – Somerset is proving a very dry place – but I have made some good friends at work, which is a positive. I haven’t exactly had much time to commit to the search, and I have also spent almost every day of my holidays on the road, which is terribly self-indulgent of me, but it is how I survive the manic 24/7 existence that is working in a boarding school.

True to form, my summer holidays are set to follow the same trend. After a few days’ reprieve – just about enough time to tidy the flat and pack – I will be traveling across the Atlantic again, bound this time for Chile, nearly 1,500km further south than where I left off in April. Please don’t get me wrong – this one isn’t a purely self-indulgent adventure. I’m off to work at a school out there in Chile’s capital, Santiago, for three weeks or so. As to what form that work may take, I am still completely in the dark. I imagine any rational human being might balk at the idea of being less than a week away from traveling to the other side of the planet at no small expense without so much as an address or even the vaguest idea of what to expect, but I’m at that stage of my life where I am entirely my own agent and any change is welcome. The alternative is a rather static Somerset summer, alternating between driving lessons and debilitating bouts of hayfever. With my timetable for the next academic year allowing some time for the former, I think I can allow myself to dodge the latter by switching seasons in a Spanish-speaking country.

I won’t be hiding under an austral snowstorm all summer. When my five weeks are up, I’ve a wedding to attend in Athens, which I have been looking forward to for a very long time. Once again, I’ve only planned the beginning. How I get home after four days in the Greek capital remains up in the air. Maybe I’ll find a quiet spot in Thessaloniki and soak up the Mediterranean sun while I work on my novel. Or maybe I’ll travel back home across Europe, seeing Romania like I planned years ago. I haven’t decided yet.

I really don’t know what the next two months will bring. At the very least, I hope they bring change, whatever that looks like. My boss would really like me to stop saying yes to everything. She means well, I know. But if I don’t say yes to things like this, my youth will slip through my fingers and I will find myself in the same job ten years from now, still hoping that She will appear. The apps don’t work – everyone is exhausted – so, like a good scientist, I have to go and do the fieldwork. I don’t expect to find Her in Chile (let’s be honest, at a distance of nearly twelve thousand kilometres, it would probably be better for me if I didn’t), but it can’t hurt to try – and along the way, it would be nice to make some new friends and learn something new. I have work to do, of course – this Spanish Language A: Literature course won’t write itself – but with several long flights on the cards, that shouldn’t be a problem. With one “buffer” week on either side of my placement, I should have plenty of time to explore.

In short, I don’t know how this ends. I don’t know how it middles either. But I do know how it starts. Since I’m going all the way to the far side of the world, I figured I could go a little further. Before my placement begins – the day after the FIFA World Cup Final – I will be indulging my inner Attenborough once again in the desolate wilds of Patagonia. After a little shopping around, I’ve found a respectable guide who will take me in search of one of Chile’s most magical creatures: the puma. I didn’t have any luck with the jaguars in Manu this Easter, so hopefully Patagonia will deliver.

I hadn’t planned on going back to South America so soon – but here we are. Life is full of u-turns, but they aren’t always as exciting as this. So here’s to the summer of ’26! BB x

Heatwave

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

The Delayed 14.29 to Taunton, Reading. 14.51.

England swelters under the glare of an unseasonably ferocious sun. For the second day in a row, the temperature is pushing well into the thirties. It’s all the news can talk about. Trains are running slower due to speed restrictions, three children have “gotten into difficulties” while bathing (a tactful way of avoiding the potentially triggering d-words associated with fatal water incidents) and the whole of the South seems to have jumped into the car and carved out a four-square fiefdom on Bournemouth Beach.

I’ve hopped out east to pay my mother a visit, and in so doing stepped right into the hottest part of the country – bar London, of course, which is usually a couple of degrees warmer than the rest of the island. England is rather pretty in May, though she wears her best dress in the first two weeks of the month, when the flowers are still fresh and the wind is cool. Now, the early summer sun is at that particularly British angle where it’s high enough to burn but low enough to blind, and the heat feels more like the first week of August than the last week of May.

Retreating before the summer’s wrath, I have sought solace and shades along the banks of Hampshire’s rivers.

England is at its most beautiful wherever a river can be found. Crystal waters running over gravel, with shadowy trout and grayling darting from sunlight to shadow. Clumps of weeds and watercress wafting in the water as though in the wind. The trailing arms of a weeping willow gently tracing the water’s surface. Iridescent dragonflies of every shape and size – dragons, damsels and darters – hawking from bank to bank, playing a longer game than the mayflies, whose inert bodies drift downstream, their twenty-four hours spent. Chiffchaffs, wrens and blackcaps singing from the trees, the lazy purr of an overheated wood pigeon and, now and then, the explosive song of a Cetti’s warbler from deep within the darkest heart of a reedbed or thicket.

When I am traveling far from home, this is the image of England that I miss most of all.

Did you see the pike in that first picture? Don’t worry if you missed it – they are master ambush predators. Go back and see if you can spot it.

This corner of the River Alre passing through Alreston is supposed to have otters and kingfishers, but I was over the moon to see a pike. They were always my favourite fish when I was a lad, and it’s not hard to see the appeal for a young boy: fully grown, they’re huge, sinister, almost crocodilian monsters with soulless eyes and fins that move so slowly that their every twitch seems calculated. A perfect killing machine. Hardly surprising for a fish that outlived the dinosaurs, whose ancestors prowling Cretaceous rivers were not all that different from the river monsters that lurk in reedbeds outside Tescos and Sainsbury’s.

I can see why adventurous young lads might get a kick out of fishing up one of these ancient beasts, but I’m just as happy spotting one drifting between the weeds. It makes a change from chasing chiffchaffs through the branches of the tallest trees.

I’m racing home now, clearing the green fields of the Vale of Pewsey under a mercifully cloud-studded sky. I acquired a few books in a second-hand bookshop for a couple of pounds and a new sketchbook for a little more. I’ve been meaning to get my hands on the Horrible Histories books for a while, since they had an enormous impact on my art and my love for history and storytelling. Everyone seems to remember the enormously popular TV show (which, for my sins, I have never seen) but the books appear to have faded into collective oblivion. I dare say Martin Brown had more influence on my pen-and-line drawings than any other artist – besides the legendary Chris Riddell, of course.

Power’s running out. I’d better stop typing and leave enough juice on this thing to get me through the ticket barrier at Taunton station. See you around! BB x