Who Knew???

On february 6th, our floating little slice of heaven pulled into Puerto Madryn, a largish town in the province of Chubut in Argentine Patagonia. Founded in 1865 by 150 Welsh immigrants who came by clipper ship looking to preserve their roots, Puerto Madryn and the neigboring village Gaiman are a testament to risking life and limb for a love of country and culture. We hear stories of the treacherous sea journey and of the many heroes and losses, commemorated all along the seaside tourist beaches by a plethora of monuments and statues. The original settlers 150 names are carved into granite at the point of their landing next to a little shrine and the caves they originally used for shelter. Our guide is a fourth generation Welshman with dry humor, a great sense of nationalism and the unique ability to slip a few slightly off-color anecdotes in without offending even the most prudish of our group. He was entirely charming as he told proudly of how his great-grandfather came to Madryn on the original clipper Mimosa. You can bet he has stories to tell. We weave our way past the seafront homes, a strange amalgamation of architectural styles, running the gamut from quaint brick homes with lacy curtains to Miami deco to princess castle. There is a certain dollhouse feel as well; most buildings are only two, maybe three stories and of a quite small scale. Adding to the surreal is that the place seems like a ghost town. Where are all the people??? It's friday afternoon (or maybe thursday, who knows anymore...) but there is a sense that everybody got in their cars and ran for the hills. Maybe they did. It's summer here and it could be that it's vacation time. Our coach takes us out of town and on a drive that could very well be through Arizona, if it weren't for the strange red flagged shrines to the gauchos that punctuate the desert highway. Mesas and scrubby greenery run for miles all around us. The hills are striated with green, rust, brown and pink--Bruce Chatwin described it in 'In Patagonia' as neopolitan ice cream made by God. It is exactly what it looks like. We eventually come to a tiny village tucked in and hidden by mountains--Gaiman. For the original settlers, there was no clean water source, so they went walkabout looking for one and found the site. I can't even imagine the journey walking across this desert and we're told there were more losses along the way. Understandable. Makes me thirsty just thinking about it, but thankfully for anyone silly enough to want to walk across this massive expanse today, there are water bottles at every roadside shrine. Water, a hot commodity around here, is thought to be lucky. I'll say. It makes me grip my evian bottle a little tighter. Gaiman is a quiet and most peaceful oasis of tidy low slung buildings--not a soul in sight except for one lone girl with wet hair who skips across the street and ducks in a miniature house. There are flowers and willow trees everywhere and a feeling of having travelled back in time. To where or when, I couldn't say, but South America in 2009 sure wouldn't come to mind. We stop at a tea house next to a river for Welsh tea and cake and are serenaded by a local choir in both Welsh and Spanish/Argentinian style. One gal has such a mellifluous voice it stops everyone, tea cup poised halfway between table and lips, to listen intently. All manner of cake eating and spoon-hitting-plate stops abruptly as she magically transports a bunch of slightly grumpy, hot travellers to a mystic place far away, exotic, graceful and maybe just a little bit sad.