Port Stanley, Falkland Islands
Happy Halloween in the Great Southern Ocean. After beating into heavy seas for two days we made landfall in Stanley, capitol of the Falklands, and walk the streets without a wobble. We saw giant petrels, our old friends from South Georgia, the closest thing they have here to goblins, hovering along the waterfront, hungry, always hungry. In this prosperous yet folksy seaside town of about 2,000 people, most of them of British stock and proud of it, tonight's attraction at the Globe Tavern was listed as "military karaoke," which could be a little frightening. Better to have a dark beer, play darts and leave before nightfall, as we did, bound for Ushuaia and the end of a magical trip.
The local newspaper, Penguin News, carried the latest Wool Market Report, and "Praise for Rat Eradication Programme," and an admonishment, "Gossips, Get Your Facts Right." The local guide told of the current Falklands governor who a couple years ago arrived in the islands single, met a woman tourist, married her, and now has a baby girl and a permanent smile that makes him "chirpy." Apparently he and his new wife attend all official government functions and really kick it up on the dance floor. When the guide described her town as "not pretty but practical," we quietly disagreed. We found it pretty in many respects: the tidy rows of homes with their red rooftops, wooden shutters and yellow daffodils, and the ubiquitous Land Rovers making their sharp turns as the drivers waved earnestly to each another. We admired Christ Church Cathedral but didn't enter as a funeral was in process. Outside, parked neatly along the street, a line of Land Rovers waited, the first among them a beautifully modified Hearse.
The gift shop and grocery store owners seemed pleased to see us as we inaugurated their tourist season (our ship being the first). We cruised the crowded aisles and loaded our carts with Texas Barbecue Pringles, stuffed king penguins and rockhopper refrigerator magnets. Ah, to shop again. Stanley isn't a wilderness, but it's surrounded by one: the Great Southern Ocean. As such it's resourceful and creative, gracious and grateful; everything that comes from isolation. So while we leave behind this world, the earth the way it used to be, wind-tossed and wild, we prepare to re-enter the world we've made for ourselves, where every hour is rush hour, and we wonder: which one is more real? That, too, can be a little frightening.
Happy Halloween in the Great Southern Ocean. After beating into heavy seas for two days we made landfall in Stanley, capitol of the Falklands, and walk the streets without a wobble. We saw giant petrels, our old friends from South Georgia, the closest thing they have here to goblins, hovering along the waterfront, hungry, always hungry. In this prosperous yet folksy seaside town of about 2,000 people, most of them of British stock and proud of it, tonight's attraction at the Globe Tavern was listed as "military karaoke," which could be a little frightening. Better to have a dark beer, play darts and leave before nightfall, as we did, bound for Ushuaia and the end of a magical trip.
The local newspaper, Penguin News, carried the latest Wool Market Report, and "Praise for Rat Eradication Programme," and an admonishment, "Gossips, Get Your Facts Right." The local guide told of the current Falklands governor who a couple years ago arrived in the islands single, met a woman tourist, married her, and now has a baby girl and a permanent smile that makes him "chirpy." Apparently he and his new wife attend all official government functions and really kick it up on the dance floor. When the guide described her town as "not pretty but practical," we quietly disagreed. We found it pretty in many respects: the tidy rows of homes with their red rooftops, wooden shutters and yellow daffodils, and the ubiquitous Land Rovers making their sharp turns as the drivers waved earnestly to each another. We admired Christ Church Cathedral but didn't enter as a funeral was in process. Outside, parked neatly along the street, a line of Land Rovers waited, the first among them a beautifully modified Hearse.
The gift shop and grocery store owners seemed pleased to see us as we inaugurated their tourist season (our ship being the first). We cruised the crowded aisles and loaded our carts with Texas Barbecue Pringles, stuffed king penguins and rockhopper refrigerator magnets. Ah, to shop again. Stanley isn't a wilderness, but it's surrounded by one: the Great Southern Ocean. As such it's resourceful and creative, gracious and grateful; everything that comes from isolation. So while we leave behind this world, the earth the way it used to be, wind-tossed and wild, we prepare to re-enter the world we've made for ourselves, where every hour is rush hour, and we wonder: which one is more real? That, too, can be a little frightening.
