I am going to tell you a story. It's a story that you may not believe, and to be honest, writing it from where I am now on a six hour bus journey weaving through the Andes from Argentina to Chile, I can barely believe it myself. About a year or so ago, Rob started to watch a series called Chef’s Table on Netflix. I was bored at work one day, the office was empty, it was lunch time and raining outside, so I decided to watch one episode and randomly chose Francis Mallmann. Well, if you’ve watched this episode and know what I’m talking about, keep reading, because you will understand the magnitude of our luck. If you haven't watched it, watch it now and come back to read the rest when you've finished. If you don’t really care, then stop reading because you probably won’t appreciate the magic. After watching the episode, I was blown away by Francis's attitude towards his style of cooking, not to mention the private island in deepest darkest Patagonia where the documentary is flimed. I then came across a blog post written by a woman who had been fortunate enough to spend a week on the island, by making contact via Instagram. I remember sending Rob the link and telling him, "wouldn’t it be amazing if we could go there?". It was acknowledged with, "indeed it would", but quickly dismissed as a pipe dream. I decided to let the idea rest and follow Francis Mallmann on Instagram instead. But throughout the following year, I found myself scrolling through his feed getting lost in the endless little squares of dreamy Patagonian perfection. Fast forward to ten days ago, when we were lying in bed in our Buenos Aires airbnb, exhausted after a day on our feet. I turned to Rob and said, “Fuck it, I’m gonna just message him, what harm can it do.” My excellent and well practised stalking skills had told me that Francis was currently in Buenos Aires, and my ‘if you don't ask you don’t get’ instinct kicked in. Rob was supportive but dubious to say the least. “Just imagine if he replies”, I said, whilst I constructed what I hoped to be a politely enthusiastic but to the point message. Rob half asleep replied “ok, but he won’t, he’s a busy man”. 9.10AM, 22nd March. Blurry eyed, picked up phone, read various emails, replied to some whatsapps. Casually checked Instagram. “HE’S REPLIED!!!” Oh my god, oh my god. And then he DM’d me stating casually that he was on his way to the island right now and that we were welcome. We were WELCOME, to the private Patagonian island of our dreams. And then I was whatsapping him and he was giving us instructions on how to get there but also saying we had until 2pm that day to confirm with him before he lost all reception for the next ten days. Frenzied panic, what about the bus we had booked the next day to Iguazu Falls? What about the flight to El Calafate we had just paid £600 for the day after next? How can we make this happen? We had to make this happen. “This is weird Charlotte, I don’t think it’s him. Why would he reply? It can’t be serious. It’s all too quick.” Well it is bloody serious Rob because now he is CALLING ME. Francis Mallmann blinking on my screen. I was sweating a little, I was nervous, I must have sounded like a twelve year old girl backstage at a One Direction gig. It was agreed, if we could get to Comodoro airport first thing in the morning, his driver would pick us up and our ride to the island would be sorted. It would be impossible to get there on our own, it's too remote and the roads are unpredictable. We had one chance to make it happen. 2pm was our deadline to confirm. It was 10.30AM. Action all stations, GO GO GO. Of course there would be a strike and a huge demonstration closing off most of the main streets, on the one day we had to run around Buenos Aires like lunatics. Suddenly our day was full of things that needed immediate action. First - sort our laundry, can’t go to an island with a bag full of dirty pants. Second - change our flights, pray that there is a flight to Comodoro that will get us there first thing. Third - find post office to ship home excess clothing, shells, suspected jade and other unknown maybe valuable beach rocks. Laundry was easy, collect that night. Change flights - thank GOD for Maria, our Aerolineas angel, who on hearing what adventure was at the tip of our fingers, decided to make the world spin the other way and do everything in her power to get us there. It worked. There was a flight at 4.40am, arriving 8am. Couldn't be more ideal. It was 1.30pm - desperate search for wifi amongst thousands of protesters to reach Mr Mallmann and give him our firm acceptance of his kind offer. 1.50pm, we get the famed Whatsapp blue ticks, receive confirmation of his driver’s details and we feel like we are in a dream. We celebrate with a street-side sausage sandwich and some really awful churros. Now, the post office. Worst ordeal ever. Don’t ever try to send a package over 2kg from Argentina, because apparently you need to get the items disinfected. What a way to piss on our Mallmann parade CorreoArgentina - you suck. Anyway, the short story is we managed it. Rocks and shells are on their way home in a stupidly expensive package. There aren't many things that will make me wake up at 2.30am with a smile on my face, but waking to head to a private Patagonian island is one of them. It was a very odd feeling, heading into something we knew practically nothing about. We had so many questions running through our minds, how were we getting there, when would we arrive, where would we sleep, what would we do? We didn't actually even know how long we would be on the island for and because of this we hadn't made any plans for where or what we’d do after the island. But, that was all part of the adventure. As promised, our names were on a sign being held by a chap called Gabriel at Comodoro airport, who turned out to be the father of Gabriel the younger, who is also a driver. We quickly made use of the airport wifi to tell our nearest and dearest we’d be offline for the next ten days and we were swiftly led to a plush blacked-out windowed 4x4 and we were off! Four and a half hours of bumpy dirt tracks and intermittent bursts of spanglish later, broken only by a toilet stop for a wee under a bridge in the middle of nowhere and some delicious calzones bought from the back of a car, we arrived at a little wooden pier with the most spectacular views. During the journey we had learnt that; a) there would be 11 people on the island in total and some of them may be British b) you can’t milk a llama c) Gabriel senior liked to fish. The plot thickened! Gabriel had to make the long journey back to Comodoro that same day (he made the eight hour round trip just for us!) so we were left sitting at the pier, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone reception, and no idea when our boat might be coming to collect us. But we were so happy, and curious, and excited that it didn't really matter. Forty minutes later and a chug-chug woke us from our pier-side snooze as we watched our ride breeze in. Brief pleasantries were exchanged, Martin was his name, we were to wait a while. "No hablo ingles". Twenty minutes later and the front of the boat was stacked full of wood and we were off. It was COLD. And seriously choppy. It wasn’t the first time (and I’m sure it won’t be the last) that we were grateful for our expensive all-weather jackets.
And then finally, after a ninety minute boat ride, we arrived at the place we would call home for the next ten days. A little wooden pier led to a wooden deck with a throne made of wood and some, yep you guessed it, wooden benches which sat outside the main cabin, a smaller cabin and what looked like a wooden large shed. The sun was shining and it was everything we had imagined it would be. To be continued... Comments are closed.
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AuthorsRob & Charlie's travelling adventures on their long journey back to London after living in Hong Kong. Four continents, twelve countries, lots of experiences. Archives
July 2017
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Robert Ware & Charlotte Nunn |