The Delta Equation...

I’m old enough to remember when flying was a pleasure, something to look forward to rather than a test of one’s endurance. In my teens, my first flight ever was from Seattle to Los Angeles, and a window seat enthralled me with vistas of Mount Rainier and the Cascade Range, followed by the Sierra Nevada and the Mediterranean landscapes of Southern California. I can’t recall what airline I flew—it might have been the now defunct Northwest—but the experience itself was memorable.

I’ve had comparable experiences since—once I flew a nearly empty Aerolíneas Argentinas jet from Buenos Aires to Miami that let me move around for the best views of the Andes, and provided three seats to stretch across after dark. Many times I’ve also flown the length of the Chilean Andes, and have relished the opportunities to snap aerial photographs of their natural and cultural landscapes, including cities, in the days before window seats cost extra.

Something New (For Me, at Least)

Still, I looked forward to my December flight with Delta to Buenos Aires via Atlanta, if only because I’d never flown that airline—which absorbed Northwest in 2008—nor had I ever been to the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport (ATL), the world’s busiest single airport as recently as 2017. Delta, a legacy airline, began its operations as a cotton crop-dusting operator in 1925—in the Mississippi Delta, of course—and has offered commercial passenger flights since 1929.

Anecdotally speaking, Delta has a pretty good reputation, and my first impressions were positive. For my morning departure at San Francisco International Airport (SFO), the personnel were congenial, lines were short, and I breezed through security without even having to remove belt or shoes. Because of that, I had a longer wait at the gate than I anticipated and, though I found Delta’s boarding procedures a bit confusing, we left SFO on time and arrived at ATL with plenty of time to spare.

Happily, there was no need to go through security again at Hartsfield. I had only eaten a small packet of almonds on the four-hour flight from SFO—another contrast with the past, of course—but found nothing but the lowest-common denominator fast-food options in Atlanta, so I refrained from snacking in anticipation of an on-board meal en route to Argentina. Again, Delta’s boarding procedures were a bit opaque, but we were all seated by the scheduled 9 p.m. departure time.

That’s when things started going wrong, however. As we waited patiently for takeoff, it was half an hour before an announcement informed us that we could not take off until the pilot’s seat received a necessary adjustment, and that mechanics were attending to the problem. In an update an hour later, we heard that the entire seat would require replacement, and cabin crew proceeded to distribute water to passengers (not having eaten since breakfast, I was feeling the first pangs of hunger). An hour later, we learned that the mechanics were successful, but that the repair would require an inspection. Finally, at midnight, we taxied onto the runway and took off for Argentina.

Finally in the air...

Delta's southbound menu from Atlanta

That was only the start of it. About an hour into the flight, as we were anticipating meal service, the crew began to serve a “Peach Bellini” sparkling cocktail that I would have turned down had I had the chance—but, somehow, only passengers on the right side aisle of the plane received them. I have a personal aversion to sparkling wines but, on the left side, I never even had the chance to decline.

The remains of Delta's dinner (no disrespect intended toward Ben & Jerry's)

Finally, dinner arrived in the form of a so-so grilled chicken salad, accompanied by bread that turned to be harder and colder than the ice cream dessert that followed. I managed to sleep about two hours before the egg and Swiss breakfast sandwich arrived and, shortly thereafter, we landed in Buenos Aires—at noon, three hours behind schedule, of course.

It's Better in Argentina?

Over my six weeks in Argentina, I had two orderly no-frills flights from Aeroparque, one with Aerolíneas Argentinas to the southern coastal city of Comodoro Rivadavia and the other on Norwegian Air Argentina to northern Patagonia’s fracking boomtown of Neuquén, capital of its namesake province. I didn’t expect anything special on board, though I was a little surprised that Comodoro’s glisteningly modernized Aeropuerto Internacional General Enrique Mosconi had no food service inside the security area. No matter, as I had abundant lunch options near our Palermo apartment.

Northbound Improvements?

My return to California, late last month, went somewhat more smoothly—Delta left on time, I had the opportunity to decline the Peach Bellini, the grilled chicken salad had mango rather than strawberries (which I don’t much care for), and I got a nightcap of Bailey’s on request. The breakfast sandwich, consisting of an Argentine medialuna with ham and cheese, was an improvement on its southbound counterpart. On balance, though, I found no reason to choose Delta over any of its competitors except that the price was right, but I’ll stop short of saying the company should have stuck with crop-dusting.

An Explanation

I've not posted anything on this blog in more than six weeks, and that's because of a computer issue that occurred as soon as I arrived in Buenos Aires that would have cost a small fortune to repair there, and the iPad and iPhone were too awkward to manage. That's left me with lots of material and, now that I've got my computer repaired, I'll be posting more frequently in the near (and not so near) future-—in the hope that everyone will follow along.

Ghost Towns of Patagonia? A Review of "False Calm"

When the great Charles Darwin looked back on his travels, he displayed a surprising affection for Patagonia’s endless plains: “"In calling up images of the past, I find that the plains of Patagonia frequently cross before my eyes; yet these plains are pronounced by all wretched and useless.  They can be described only by negative characters; without habitations, without water, without mountains, they support merely a few dwarf plants.  Why then, and the case is not peculiar to myself, have these arid wastes taken so firm a hold on my memory?  I can scarcely analyse these feelings; but it must be partly owing to the free scope given to the imagination."

A crossroads on the Patagonian steppe

Darwin’s focus was natural history, but he also observed Patagonia’s peoples and cultural landscapes, as he did in his description of the ruins of “Port Desire” (now known as Puerto Deseado): “It was formerly attempted to make a settlement here; but it quite failed from the want of water in the summer, and the Indians in the winter. — The buildings were begun in very good style, and remain a proof of the strong hand of old Spain.” He thought the area almost uninhabitable, though, “As the fate of all the Spanish establishments on the coast of Patagonia, with the exception of the Río Negro, has been miserable.”

María Sonia Cristoff—herself a Patagonian native—might agree with Darwin, but for different reasons. When I first saw False Calm – A Journey Through the Ghost Towns of Patagonia, the subtitle suggested something very different from what I then read about, an area I’d gotten to know pretty intimately over the course nearly 40 years. I had to check the Spanish version—“Un recorrido por pueblos fantasma de la Patagonia”—to clarify exactly what she meant. That wasn’t enough, though, as she wasn’t writing about abandoned settlements like remote Cabo Raso or the old Frigorífico Swift company town near Puerto San Julián, both of which I had visited regularly if not frequently.

Cabo Raso is a genuine ghost town on the coast of Chubut province

The Frigorífico Swift, on the outskirts of Puerto San Julián, is an industrial ghost town.

Cristoff, though, is not interested in nostalgia-laced curiosities in a region renowned for its wildlife and wild Andean backcountry. Rather, she focuses on what I would describe as semi-urban backwaters on the Patagonian steppe that begins just inland from the Atlantic and extends well beyond the limits of Darwin’s vision at Puerto Deseado, and I might call her experience a "stay" rather than a "journey."

Las Heras, one of Cristoff's "ghost towns," survives on fossil fuels.

Personally, I might also call her destinations "backwaters" instead of "ghost towns," and Cristoff is more an ethnographic participant observer of life in settlements like Cañadon Seco (population roughly 900), which is only 14 kilometers from the coastal oil town of Caleta Olivia (population 80,000 or so, which I know fairly well). Except for the inland oil town of Las Heras (population 23,000, which I’ve visited once), most other settlements are so far off the beaten track that I struggled to find them on road maps that showed only gravel tracks in the area.

Cristoff's hometown of Trelew is more prosperous than the towns she writes about.

She gets to know her destinations through residents who seem stuck where they are or, on occasion, are returnees (escapees?) on brief visits to their former homes. Her stories often tell us the darker side of small communities that we know exist but may prefer to overlook. These absorbing but taxing tales almost completely ignore prosperous places like Trelew—the author’s hometown—and nearby Puerto Madryn, which have flourished with the tourist trade, wool, and industries such as aluminum.

That said, this is a worthy counterpoint to Patagonia’s romantic image, as seen from afar or on brief sightseeing tours. I know the translator Katherine Silver slightly and, while I might still quibble with the term “ghost town” in English, it’s perhaps metaphorically appropriate to places whose inhabitants are wraiths even to their fellow citizens who pass through their communities. At the end of the day, the title “False Calm” implies aspects of Patagonian life that short-term visitors are likely to miss but are nevertheless important.

Where Are the Penguins?

As winter turns to spring – in the Southern Hemisphere – penguins are on the move, but it’s not for their Patagonia vacation. Rather, this is the season that most of them, after spending the winter at sea, migrate to their nesting sites in the South Atlantic and South Pacific, including Argentina, Chile and the Falkland Islands.

A solitary Magellanic penguin in the abandoned lighthouse at Isla de los Pingüinos

With that in mind, I thought I’d suggest some of my favorite sites for flightless bird-watching, except that they’re not flightless – they fly through the water! Penguin nesting sites occur on much of the coastline of both Argentina and Chile – there’s even one just a couple hours from the Chilean capital of Santiago – but access is best in Patagonia.

Humboldt & Magellanic Penguins

Visitors to Chile’s southern “lakes district” can take a detour to Chiloé – similar to Vancouver Island - only 27 km from the city of Ancud, where the northerly Humboldt penguin and southerly Magellanic penguin overlap their ranges at the Monumento Natural Islotes de Puñihuil (pictured above). These similar species nest in burrows on offshore islets, but local fishermen shuttle penguin-spotters within camera distance.

Puñihuil is easily the best accessible place to see the Humboldts but, elsewhere in Patagonia the Magellanics are present in abundance. The biggest colony is at Argentina’s Punta Tombo (pictured above), near the city of Trelew in Chubut province, but there are accessible sites near the Chilean city of Punta Arenas, at the mainland Otway Sound and the offshore Isla Magdalena (pictured below, where Patagonia cruises and local excursions both stop). At all of these, it’s possible to approach the penguins closely – often they’ll approach you - though there are some restrictions.

King Penguins

King penguins, which are not migratory, stand out for their size and bright colors, but they’re more common on remote offshore islands than in easily accessible Patagonian locations. Occasionally a wanderer shows up at Punta Tombo or another site where other species breed, but the most accessible choice is the private Parque Pingüino Rey reserve (pictured above) on the Chilean side of Tierra del Fuego. This is a full-day excursion by ferry and road from the city of Punta Arenas, but it’s well worth the time.

Rockhopper Penguins

An angry rockhopper in the Falkland Islands

Exactly what their name suggests, rockhopper penguins nest on stony offshore islands on which they land by force of waves and then, painstakingly, they hop up to drier nesting spots. These are “crested penguins,” along with their close relatives the Macaroni, which occasionally (but rarely) appears among them. One of the easiest places to see rockies is the Isla de los Pingüinos (pictured above), reached from Argentina’s picturesque Puerto Deseado, where there are frequent excursions in summer on rigid inflatables – sea conditions permitting. Despite an excellent paved highway, Deseado is out of the way but, if you have the time, there’s much more to see – including albatrosses, dolphins and sea lions.

Gentoo Penguins

Gentoos (pictured above) like kings, are not migratory – they remain in the same place all year. Unfortunately for penguin-seekers, those colonies are mostly insular, away from the continent, though there are occasional appearances elsewhere. The likeliest place to see them is on the Argentine side of Tierra del Fuego, at the historic Estancia Harberton ranch,  where a small colony has established itself on a nearby islet.

An Austral Footnote

More distant and more expensive to reach, the Falkland Islands – still less than two hours from Punta Arenas by air – have almost all the above species and sometimes more. It can also be expensive and time-consuming to get around the archipelago but in just one morning, on a 4WD jaunt just outside the tiny but still sprawling capital of Stanley, I once saw Magellanics, Gentoos, and rockhoppers, plus a single Macaroni (pictured above) and one lonely king. In a small king penguin colony on an outer island, I also saw a vagrant chinstrap penguin - usually seen only in Antarctica.

An Antarctic Footnote

And now for something completely different: even more distant and expensive, Antarctica has many of these species and more. The usual way to reach the frozen continent is with an expensive cruise but, in summer, there are flights from Punta Arenas to Isla Rey Jorge (King George Island), with the possibility of an overnight stay for an introduction to this environmentally strategic destination. I photographed the chinstraps above and the Adelies below there.