Where Whales Smile and Seals Strut: A Patagonian Mission to Puerto Madryn

After an epic trip to Bariloche, our thirst for patagonian adventure could not be quenched. Once again, the compass pointed south: Léa, Sofi and I would venture eight hours down the Atlantic Coast, to Puerto Madryn, Chubut. The trip would be short, (just two days), but it would surely be epic. Our objective was clear: we were after whales.

It would not be a proper blog entry without a bus fiasco to impart, and this chapter of my Argentine adventure is no exception. Our bus was running late, and anxious to embark on the journey, I asked the man at the counter how long of a delay to expect. '20 minutos,' he replied, tersely. After 30 minutes, and still no sign of the bus, I returned to the counter, and making my best effort not to be annoying, asked again. '20 minutos.' This bi-hourly, déjà vu-inducing exchange repeated for about three hours, until our bus finally arrived. Señor 20 Minutos however, turned out to be the least of our problems...

1:37 a.m.: Approximately 2.5 hours after ETD

Little did I know that I was soon to embark on what we would later dub the 'Ride of Death.' This ride however, was no Splash Mountain. About 30 minutes into the trip, the bus began to shake. Perhaps, I thought, half-asleep and delirious, this vigorous trembling is normal. Not so. Soon, the bus came to a halt. Periodical stops are not uncommon, and so again, I thought little of it. But when I peered out the window, I discovered that we were not, as I had presumed, at a gas station or a bus stop. Rather, we were inside a very dark, very sketchy garage.

The situation inside the garage did not improve. Although the bus was stationary, it continued to shake furiously, up and down, side to side. I looked behind me at the other passengers for confirmation that something was terribly amiss, and was shocked by what I saw. While Léa, Sofi and I frantically peered out the window, trying to figure out why in the world we were shaking inside a random garage, and equally perplexing, why no one was making an announcement about it on the intercom, the other passengers read quietly or dozed peacefully in their seats. Had they been tranquilized by the complementary snack we had not yet eaten? Was there some unspoken Argentine understanding that we foreigners were not in on?

Before these questions could ever be answered, we left the garage of doom. Apparently the problem had been fixed. Our peace however, was short-lived. About five minutes later the bus began to shake and jerk. To add to the excitement, we were now moving at tilt, the passengers to my left at a distressingly lower level than my own. 'No estoy tranquila,' Léa whispered, ominously. 'Nos vamos a morir?', I asked, only somewhat joking.

Five sketchy garage-stops and 14 hours later, we arrived in Puerto Madryn, 6 hours behind schedule, but happy to be alive. We'd arrived too late for any excursion, and so we headed straight to my friend and fellow Fulbrighter Melissa's apartment. She was generous enough to host the three of us and show us around Puerto Madryn.

The following day also happened to be our last day, and so we had to make it count. Martín, our excursion guide, picked us up in a truck at Melissa's place, and we set off for Punta Ninfas (Nymphs' Point), the home to an impressive colony of elephant seals. Martín had brought along mate for the trip, and I eagerly offered to 'cebar' (serve).

As it turned out, pouring near-boiling water into a small yerba-filled wooden cup (mate), and passing it around while speeding down an unpaved dirt road in not nearly as easy as Argentines make it look. Most of the water and the yerba mate ended up on my clothes and on the floor, and by the time we arrived at Punta Ninfas, I appeared to have jumped in a pool and rolled in loose-leaf tea. Luckily, I had no one I to impress but the elephant seals...

Cebadora in training

Bumpy road = major mate spillage

'Why is it called Punta Ninfas," I asked Martín, inquisitively. Our guide stared pensively ahead, scratched his chin, and launched into the grand tale of Charles Darwin and his epic travels on the Beagle. Darwin, he recounted dramatically, spotted the elephant seals from afar on his ship, and claimed to have seen beautiful nymphs, lounging lazily on the shore. I later googled this explanation, and found not a single reference to Charles Darwin in relation to Punta Ninfas. Somewhat deceptive on Martín's part, but I give him props for creativity.

Martín, el Gran Chamuyero, leading the way to the beach

Perhaps Martín had invented the Darwinian nymph tale, but I could not deny that the female elephant seals we found at Punta Ninfas (the males had not yet arrived), indeed seemed to perceive themselves as divine nymph goddesses. I felt like a photographer on 'America's Next Top Model' as I snapped pictures of these colossal creatures of the deep. Sure they smelled like rotting carp. And yes, the ground shook with the roaring force of their not-so-femenine barks. These ladies though, sure knew how to strike a pose.

Léa and I sensed our inferiority along side the elephant seal goddesses 

As we walked along the shore, Martín made a miraculous find: a whale's tooth! In reality, whales don't have teeth, but rather bristle-like baleen which filters out krill and other tasty whale morsels, and (fun fact!) is made of the same substance as human fingernails. Name aside, I had to have this cetacean treasure. 'Could I please have the whale tooth?', I asked Martín, trying not to sound too excited. (In truth, I longed deeply for the tooth, and could hardly contain my excitement.) Martín handed over the whale chomper, and I clutched it happily.

In awe of my prize

Next stop: el Doradillo. Time to spot some whales! On the drive to el Doradillo, Léa and Sofi snoozed in the back seat, and once I got bored of taking embarrassing sleeping pictures of my two compañeras, I chatted with Martín. As it turned out, Martín knew very little about Puerto Madryn's flora and fauna. On the other hand, our guide was quite knowledgeable about soccer, and discussed in great detail, and at great length, his favorite team, describing everything from their tactical strategy to the team's origin and history. Meanwhile, I practiced my mate-serving technique as Martín ranted passionately for the two hours it took to arrive at el Doradillo.

At el Doradillo we encountered winds so strong we could hardly stand upright. Nevertheless, we got out of the truck at various points along the beach, fiercely searching the waters for la ballena franca austral, or, the southern right whale. They were no where to be found. Perhaps, we considered sadly, the siesta practiced by many Argentines is a whale tradition as well.

No whales in sight... Un garronazo!

Just when we had given up hope, seemingly defeated in our whale mission, I heard a faraway call: "Ballenas!" And there they were. The southern right whales. We frolicked joyfully down the beach, chasing after the whales, which, not unlike the elephant seals, also seemed to be putting on a bit of a show. The whales swam unbelievably close to the shore, periodically raising their callus-encrusted heads, revealing their sleek, endless bodies, amiably waving their glorious tails. They were massive. They were totally awesome.

Oh hey whale-watchers!

After our spectacular whale sighting, we headed back to Puerto Madryn, very satisfied and smiling broadly. Just as we got back to Melissa's apartment however, I stopped in my tracks, horrified. I had left my beloved souvenir behind in the truck. My whale tooth. Desperate, I called the agency and explained the grave situation to Juan, the man working at the office. 'What did you leave, señorita," he asked. After a thoughtful pause, I replied, "Well, um...a whale tooth actually."

"I'm not sure what to tell you, because whale's don't have teeth," Juan replied evenly, though clearly attempting to mask the fact that he thought I was insane. Once I explained that yes, I knew that it was not actually a whale tooth, he assured me that Martín would stop by the apartment and bring me my tooth. Joya.

The only problem was that we were leaving in 2 hours. I waited, and waited. No Martín. I called back to the office. "If Martín doesn't make it before you leave, he'll meet you at the bus station," said Juan, i.e. Gran Chamuyero #2. We left for the bus station. I called the office. No answer. At the bus station, I waited hopefully for Martín to appear, imagining our guide sprinting down the terminal, a Journey song playing dramatically in the background, whale tooth in hand. I had wished in vain. Martín never came.

On the bus ride home, I was devastated, but tried to think about the situation rationally. How did I know that Martín, who knew close to nothing about wildlife in Puerto Madryn, had not also lied about the whale tooth? Maybe, I considered, my treasure was just a piece of dried bark that looked curiously like a whale tooth. Had I been fooled? Had I used up all of my cell phone credit, and made a somewhat embarrassing scene for nothing? It seemed that the tale of the whale tooth would forever remain a mystery. Perhaps in this situation, ignorance was a preferable option after all. We had made the most of our short time in Puerto Madryn, and had not only seen whales, our principle objective, but had also enjoyed the delightful, albeit stinky company of the elephant seals. Overall, a mega 'Madrynense' success. 

AFTERWORD: 

Several days later, I received wonderful news from Melissa: "THE WHALE TOOTH HAS LANDED!" Melissa had worked her magic, and had not only recovered my precious souvenir, but also verified that it was, in fact, a baby whale tooth. How cool. My prize would be waiting for me in Puerto Madryn. I guess that means that I have no choice but to return...