by Tom Michell
But here at Punta Tombo I discovered something else, something I hadn’t been able to learn by watching Juan Salvado. What I hadn’t seen before was the familiarity of the birds and their involvement with each other. Many were parent birds tending their chicks, but even those that weren’t appeared to communicate continually with other birds through eye contact. No single action of a penguin lasted for more than a few seconds, after which it would stop and look at its neighbors. Having apparently derived the necessary reassurance or approval, the bird either continued with the action or started a new one. This was the social life of penguins, and what Juan Salvado so obviously needed and found a substitute for in people. But I felt a real sadness for him, because humans are incapable of the continual interchange provided by penguin semaphore. I wondered how long I could have lived with penguins as my only company before I felt the need for human companionship—the equivalent to the conditions Juan Salvado found himself in at St. George’s.
The ground around the beaches of Punta Tombo was riddled with holes and depressions in which penguins slept and nested. While some had only a few tail feathers hidden away, others were so deeply ensconced that only a beak tip was showing. These birds seemed to be the most inactive. They might have been sitting on eggs or chicks or staking a claim to the residence; I had no way of knowing and didn’t want to disturb them by investigating more closely.
The penguins were not alone at Punta Tombo. There were small herds of guanaco wandering nearby, with rabbits and occasional ñandús of varying ages and sizes. Although other species were often very close to the penguins, the contact was entirely peaceful, and I didn’t see any kind of interaction between them except on one occasion. My attention was caught by an unusually excited group of penguins behaving quite differently from anything I’d seen so far. A little group of perhaps thirty birds had formed a tear-shaped phalanx that was in pursuit of some kind of prey. The leaders were lunging forward and pecking at their quarry, almost as though they were attempting a tackle. When the first rank fell, then the second rank of birds rushed past to form a new vanguard of attack, leaving the fallen penguins to rejoin the group from the rear. This progress continued for a distance of some fifty yards as other penguins watched the spectacle from a distance but made no attempt to join in.
I had no idea what the penguins were doing until I managed to glimpse their victim: an armadillo was scurrying away from the pecking beaks. It was making for the bushes, and only when it reached the sanctuary afforded by the dense, thorny undergrowth did the penguins’ determined pursuit come to a halt. Had it been robbing eggs or chicks? I had no idea if that was part of the diet of these scaly creatures, but the penguins were not tolerating its presence in their colony and drove it out, relinquishing their chase only when the armadillo disappeared into the vegetation, impenetrable to all but the armored animal. Having been the victim of a penguin peck myself, I felt for the interloper and rubbed my scarred finger, all too aware of its consternation.
Walking around the penguin colonies, I got little reaction from the birds unless I came too close. If I did, they simply moved out of the way so that I had a clear space all around me. They wouldn’t let me get near enough to touch them or pick them up, but otherwise they seemed as indifferent to my presence as to that of the guanaco. When I sat on the ground they just continued about their business and ignored me as though I were not there at all. I felt completely at one with the environment.
My time with these birds passed too quickly. I walked down the tiny peninsula and along the coast. Every little cove and flat piece of land was occupied, festooned with penguins. It wouldn’t have been possible to cram any more penguins onto the finger of land.
I camped again that night in the wilds of Punta Tombo, at some small distance from the penguins, and some of the inquisitive birds came and watched me as I worked. Although they soon lost interest, they were quickly replaced by others as I pitched the tent and made my dinner of potatoes boiled in seawater, which I ate with butter and tinned fish.
In the morning they watched me eat breakfast, strike camp, and set off again. Having reached the southern extremity of my journey by traveling as close to the Atlantic Ocean as possible, I headed north once more, hugging the western side of the country.
On this particular day I stopped shortly before sunset with the foothills of the Cordillera, the mighty Andes, just visible. I rode the bike about five hundred yards away from the road and set up my tent between the tufts of pampas grass, which grows at an extraordinary rate to reach heights of six feet and more. I was well out of sight of the road and there was no likelihood of anyone finding me by chance.
I had a small, robust canvas tent with a very modern feature, an integral ground sheet. There were no zips, but the flaps tied with laces.
I prepared my food over a little alcohol stove, wrote up my travel log, completed my check of the bike and its tires, and retired to bed. The weather was cool and I was snug inside my sleeping bag. The waning moon had not yet risen, and so the evening was lit only by the stars. Otherwise everything was perfectly dark. I was tired and soon fell fast asleep.
Suddenly I was wide awake. The moon, in its last quarter, had risen while I slept and was now above the horizon.
Why had I woken with such a start? I listened. I could hear footsteps…slow, stealthy, deliberate footsteps…no mistake…very quiet…approaching the tent…and more than one set!
I was straining with every fiber of my being to hear clues as to who was approaching. My heart was beating fast, and I kept my breathing quick and shallow to reduce the sound.
There were other night noises, too. Gentle zephyrs stirred the pampas grass, and insects scurried. But there it was again—footfalls on the soft dry earth. I felt them as much as heard them. It was quite distinct, unmistakable.
Who could be creeping up on me, and why? If their intentions had been honorable, surely they would have called out from a long distance and declared themselves, not come creeping up like a thief in the night.
The noises were off to my right-hand side, of that I was certain. I unzipped my sleeping bag soundlessly. I could feel each tooth of the zip release as I eased it down until I could slip my legs out. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. My mind was racing. Two adversaries at least! What weapons did I have? All I had was a facón, a stout gaucho knife, and that was it. What use would that be? If they were armed and intent on theft they could shoot me and take what they wanted, and no one would ever discover my bones. In all probability mine were the first human feet to touch that particular piece of earth, such was the remoteness of the province of Chubut and the landscape where I found myself. The footfalls were getting closer now. They were plainly audible, as though persons unknown were creeping as stealthily as a fox on the dry turf.
I was going to be fighting for my life at any moment. Surprise was my only chance. I must not be trapped inside the tent or I’d be helpless. If I hadn’t been so stupid, if only I’d bought a gun, I wouldn’t be in this mess now! I should never have been so reckless as to travel alone. I cursed my yearning for adventure. The footsteps were within a few yards now and all I had was one lousy knife and a feeble torch.
I planned my moves as I slipped the knots tying the flaps of the tent. I’d spring from the tent with the torch and knife and shout “bang” as loudly as I could. The surprise might possibly give me the advantage for just long enough to get in the first strike.
I was ready, and the footfalls were now at the head of the tent. I could hear breathing! Five yards or less. It was now or never!
I sprang from the tent with the torch switched on, screaming “Bang! Bang! Bang!” as though my life depended on it, which of course it did! My knife flashed in the torchlight as I made a frenzied charge at my assailants.
I was promptly dazzled by two huge blinding white lights, which blazed back at me from the darkness. It took just a second for me to comprehend that my torchlight was being reflected by the eyes of a terrified, wandering cow
that found itself being rudely attacked in the middle of the night by a wholly demented Englishman who was evidently intent on slaughter or worse. With a frenzied bellow of panic, the cow turned tail and fled. Its footsteps, which again I felt as much as heard, receded rapidly into the darkness.
Shaking with fear, laughter, and the early morning chill, I followed the retreating miscreant bovine with the beam of the torch until I could see and hear her no more. I turned off the light and looked at the old crescent moon, now giving some form to the clumps of pampas grass below. Orion, the celestial hunter, was high in the sky of the Southern Hemisphere. He was towering above me proudly, his sword held erect and ready to fight, as I stood there on the ground, mirroring his stance.
Who needs a gun when we have our swords? he seemed to be asking. Obviously he didn’t have the slightest clue just how frightened I had been, or how certain that I was in mortal danger. Feeling very foolish, I went back to my sleeping bag, resolving never to tell anyone just how close that cow would have come to meeting its maker—had I been carrying a gun.
—
The next morning I set off once more for the long ride back to Bahía Blanca. Main roads in the more remote parts of Argentina are straight as arrows for miles on end, and hours sometimes elapsed between seeing other road users. The weather was fine, and unhurried ranks of white fluffy clouds stretched away to the distant horizon. I enjoyed the flat unvarying landscape of the pampas gliding smoothly by as I pondered Juan Salvado’s future. I was pleased the trip had demonstrated that, with my resources alone, it was possible for me to take the penguin to find his kin, at least if I could improvise some method of carrying him all that distance, but I was saddened by the thought of his departure. It certainly wouldn’t be an easy trip for the penguin, and I’d have to be certain that the hardships and privations of such a journey were the best option.
I was still an hour’s ride away from Bahía Blanca when I felt a sudden lurch and the bike’s engine petered out. Different emotions surged through me, principally frustration and hopelessness, as I considered pushing the bike for miles. At moments like this, the bike was becoming a Sisyphean punishment. I disengaged the clutch and allowed the bike to freewheel along as far as possible while I analyzed the last sounds I had heard from the engine. There had been no spluttering, just a sudden cutting out, so electrics were a more likely cause than a fuel problem, but had there been an expensive-sounding clink just before? I checked the spark plug and fuel line and felt increasingly concerned when I found that neither of these usual, easily rectifiable problems was the cause of the stoppage. Within a short time I discovered the broken exhaust valve rocker arm, which I couldn’t possibly repair on the roadside. With a sense of despair I started pushing the machine along the flat road.
I had been going for no more than twenty minutes when, to my delight and immense relief, a car drove past and stopped. After the driver had controlled his mirth at the thought of my relying on the motorbike for such a mission, he offered to tow me to the town. He promised he’d drive slowly. Sitting on the bike and holding two turns of the rope round the handlebars, which I could release quickly in the event of an emergency, we set off at a terrifying, breakneck speed. Only the thought of pushing the bike for thirty miles prevented me from abandoning my rescuer. On reaching Bahía Blanca, however, he drove sensibly, to my surprise, and even took me to the station, where I was able to catch the train as planned. I counted myself lucky. If the breakdown had happened in a really remote place I might have had to wait days for assistance or been forced to abandon the bike altogether.
During the long train journey back to Buenos Aires I made the decision to give up any attempt to reunite Juan Salvado with wild penguins. This latest breakdown made all thoughts of trusting the unreliable bike absurd. Of all the options that I had put together in the Harrods tearoom, the most satisfactory appeared to be keeping him at St. George’s. Juan Salvado certainly wasn’t unhappy living there, and in truth, I hated the thought of parting company with him. I’d had enough of crossing bridges before I’d got to them.
I would carry on as before and trust Juan Salvado to tell me what was best for him. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!”—this would be our motto.
I had gone to South America for the principal purpose of meeting people, exploring places, and seeing wildlife far from my knowledge and experience. Having grown up in the gentle, fertile rolling fields and wooded downs of Sussex, I yearned to experience the thin-air heights of the mighty Andes, the vast empty plains of Patagonia, the snowy pine-covered wilderness of Tierra del Fuego, and the arid, drifting desert sands of the Atacama. I longed to see the enormous waterfalls of Iguazú and the volcano of El Misti and witness the Inca civilization of Cuzco and Machu Picchu. I sought the magic of Lake Titicaca and to hear the thunder of the remarkable glacier of Perito Moreno. To meet and understand the people of those places and to explore all the lands in between was what I most desired; I wanted to learn from the inhabitants, whose language and customs were completely alien to me, and to have the opportunity to observe for myself some of the flora and fauna of that continent.
I craved the freedom to escape from the safe, ordered security of gentle, rural England and to take real responsibility for the choices I made. I wanted to find my “road less traveled by” and see where it led. I wanted to experience some of life’s challenges without the security of a safety net. If there are always cows in the field, hens in the barn, and dinner on the table, where is the challenge and excitement? I wanted to travel steerage and rough it for a while, to find out what Fate would drop into my life if only it had the opportunity.
The reality, of course, was often vastly different from my expectations, and there were moments when my resolve was sorely tested.
On my first expedition to the south of Bolivia in the high Andes, while Juan Salvado was lodging with friends, I was making my way to Potosí, a town renowned for its silver mines, from where I intended to fly back to Argentina. I had spent the night in a rudimentary hostel in a one-horse town not far from my destination. After checking out in the morning, I took almost all of the remaining notes out of my money belt, put it in my pocket, and made my way to an agency to buy tickets for my bus journey and flight. By chance, a carnival procession was taking place and I stopped en route to watch. There was a great crush of people in the plaza as the crowd jostled for the best view, and there was much noise and pageantry from the parade. The brilliance of color and light at that altitude, like the sound of the pipes and drums, is unforgettable. Even my drab old blue duffel coat seemed to take on the luster of a peacock’s plumage.
After a short while I turned to leave, but, on checking my pockets, I found to my horror that I had been robbed. I knew there was no point in shouting “Stop! Thief!” in either English or in Spanish, since practically no one in the crowd spoke the former and very few the latter. An artful little pickpocket had struck and then melted away. What would have been the point in alerting the local police? The crook was undoubtedly long gone. Very swiftly I came to the conclusion there was nothing to be done but to learn another lesson the hard way.
In total I had lost about U.S. $60, which, of course, had far more buying power in those days. I had nothing left besides some loose change and the clothes I stood up in. I could possibly have obtained funds by finding a bank and then attempting to grapple with the communications systems between the pueblo and London or Buenos Aires. I could probably have returned to my cheap hotel and tried to get help there. Instead, I decided to rely on my own resources to get as far as the border, where I would be able to access my Argentine bank account. This resulted in some very long periods of walking punctuated by occasional rides in rickety old trucks and dilapidated station wagons that were trundling past. I was extremely grateful to the owners for their assistance.
Late in the afternoon on the first day I arrived in a tiny little hamlet of about six houses. This unremarkable oasis with its little spring and sparse greenery was
a few miles off my planned route, but I had been assured by the driver who had given me a lift that there was a good possibility I might find a bed for the night. Sure enough, in return for a few coins I was given food and shelter by a family who lived in a very simply constructed peasant shack.
There were seven in the family: a mother and her six children, three in their teens and three younger, although I was told later that night there had been others who had died. The father, too, had died a couple of years before. No reason was offered, and I thought better of asking.
Their clothes were a mixture of homespun and cast-offs. The younger ones didn’t have shoes, and those of their elders were so damaged and beyond any useful life that I almost wondered why they bothered wearing them at all unless it was a question of pride. Their house was made of sun-baked mud bricks under a roof of tiles made the same way. It comprised four small rooms, having grown room by room along with the family’s requirements, as a result of which none of the floors or lean-to roofs lined up. Cooking was done over an open fire in a large metal pot, which was added to each day, and that evening we ate a stew made up of goat, maize, beans, and polenta. When the sun went down we huddled into one of the rooms, where we sat together on skins and blankets. Some of the neighbors came in, too, out of curiosity. There we struggled with good humor to understand each other.
I learned that infant mortality was high. I discovered that, although they could count, my new friends were essentially illiterate. They lived by keeping many goats and a few hens and growing what crops they could. At night the livestock was penned by the house to protect it from pumas, large wildcats that could easily take a goat (and a small child, I warranted).