Markham Nolan

‘There is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats’.
That’s what Mr Toad said in The Wind in the Willows. Had he been on board the Navimag ferry as it lurched about the Pacific like a drunk in a panic, he might have saved his tweedy mincings for another time.

The journey in question: a three-day gauntlet run down the Patagonian coast in a 400-foot ro-ro ferry during the worst Pacific Ocean storm in three years.

Money quote:

‘Careless diners somersaulted backwards off their chairs, their whirling limbs taking out neighbouring diners in a hail of expletives and mashed potato. The captain called through warnings of big waves on the intercom in urgent Spanish, at which everyone braced for impact.

Watery Peril in Patagonia – Sunday Business Post, June 24, 2007

Sailing slowly through snow-peaked Andean mountains, sipping wine on deck and watching whales; the Patagonian Fjords sounded like the trip of a lifetime. It was – but for all the wrong reasons, writes Markham Nolan.

Every continent has a few stand-out journeys that qualify under the ‘‘classic’’ heading.

Evocative and old-fashioned in nature, they include train journeys such as the Orient Express or the Trans-Siberian railway, or old world maritime voyages such as sailing across Africa’s Lake Victoria or along the Panama Canal.

Sailing the Patagonian Fjords along Chile’s western seaboard would seem to fit the bill. The trip generally takes three days, most of which are spent steaming slowly through narrow gaps between snow-peaked Andean mountains, which drop vertically into the saltwater canals.

On a good day passengers sit out on deck, sipping wine and watching whales, spotting leaping seals and keeping eyes open for friendly porpoise.

The rich folk dine with the captain, and the not so rich dine together with a canteen-style camaraderie found only on the open sea. The image conjured up was all deckchairs and quoits set against a background of crisp South American air, the odd glacier, and a martini or two. It would be grand.

Seduced by guarantees of a magical voyage, we signed up for a Christmas day departure on the Navimag line’s MV Magallanes, the only ship serving the route.

We braced ourselves for three relaxing days of mesmerising Patagonian scenery and lulling marine motion in the sheltered waterways. The trip was a Christmas present to ourselves, way beyond the backpack budget, but deemed worth it; a real voyage amid so much economy travel.

Of course, we missed the fine print or, rather, chose to ignore it. The guidebook warned that, in winter, cattle make up a large portion of the passengers and the boat hums with the aroma of urine and manure from the lower decks.

It said that the stench of bovine bunkmates could render the whole venture a horrid disaster, exacerbating seasickness and making three days in the back of a flatbed truck seem pleasant.

Beware, it added, of hidden delays and schedule changes. And the food ain’t great, either.

As we checked in, the cattle were thankfully absent, but were replaced by a large herd of expectant backpackers.

Lines were cast under blue skies, and, slipping away from Puerto Montt, we basked on the helicopter pad, drinking red wine in the sun, just like in the brochure.

Then came the warnings. After dinner, the crew told a now captive audience that there was a 12-hour patch of the journey where we skirted an impassable part of the canals by heading out into the Pacific.

Slight seasickness was common, and motion sickness tablets would be on sale at the bar in the morning, strong enough to ensure those affected could get some rest. Standard procedure, they said. Surgeons say that before they sew people back up, with the scissors still inside.

Thing was, they hadn’t checked the weather .Had they done so, they would surely have spotted the huge Pacific storm screaming in from the Southern Ocean.

The seas began picking up as we left the Golfa de Penas, and our 400-foot hulk of steel began lurching over and into the waves. The waves doubled in size every hour, until each impact felt like a motorway pile-up.

Green faces disappeared below decks, the worst place for them, while grinning iron-stomached fools staggered to the bow, cradling cameras from the spray.

Down in the shared cabins, the puking was well under way, and chunky yellow foam sluiced around the bathrooms, evidence that the advertised tablets had been under-subscribed.

Panic-stricken people staggered frantically along the corridors in pyjamas to vomit outside or risk waiting for a loo cubicle.

They bashed off alternate walls as the ship rocked haphazardly. Crew-members appeared from ‘do not enter’ doors armed with reams of sick-bags, handing them out to the ill-at-ease.

The ship was struggling to make ground now, barely hauling itself up faces of gigantic waves, before plunging off the crest into the trough below.

Those who had retired to their bunks risked being thrown out of them, experiencing moments of zero-gravity every time the bow dropped off a wave.

The coffee machine leapt off the bar and onto the floor, and in the kitchen curses and crockery flew in every direction. Chaos reigned for 14 long hours.

The outer decks emptied, and soon, being out on deck was generally no longer advisable, with spray breaking over the bridge and water washing down half the ship’s length.

Attendance at dinner was also understandably low. Those who showed up risked losing an eye to flying cutlery, and a moment’s lapse in concentration would see your plate take off from the table and skid sideways, pinballing between the legs of others.

Careless diners somersaulted backwards off their chairs, their whirling limbs taking out neighbouring diners in a hail of expletives and mashed potato. The captain called through warnings of big waves on the intercom in urgent Spanish, at which everyone braced for impact.

In the still of the morning, back in the safety of the canals, recovering passengers wandered ghost-like around the ship, surveying the damage.

The coffee machine had been roped back into place on the bar, but coffee was now off the menu.

The barman was busy restacking the fridge from the bottom shelf, which had become a kaleidoscope of fallen cans and bottles.

The information desk near the bar had been torn off the wall, and in the canteen, the furniture had been comprehensively re-arranged by Mother Nature.

The two days that followed were grey and rainy, and the promised scenery was out of sight behind low clouds and fog, but no one cared. The seas were flat.

The fabled Patagonian scenery may well have been magical, and though we hadn’t seen it we could vouch for that, because it did a brilliant disappearing act.

After docking in Puerto Natales, the herd of backpackers resembled turtles walking on their hind legs as they jostled to be the first down the ramp and off the ferry. Pacific storms hadn’t been on the brochure, and dry land seemed like Valhalla.

We thought ourselves lucky to get into port at all, never mind reasonably close to schedule, so the story of our foray in Force 10 winds was a keeper.

Our claims were backed up by news of the next victims. We had weathered the worst storm the MV Magallanes had seen in three years, and the boat apparently took a pummelling, the results of which were felt by those who inherited the ship for the return journey.

The ship duly broke down and sat at anchor for six full days, stranded in Patagonia.

Still, at least they got to enjoy the scenery. Bus ticket, please.

FACT FILE

All aboard: berths on the MV Magallanes can be booked online on www.navimag.com. Bunks start at €220, which buys you one quarter of a four-berth cubicle in a shared dorm.

All meals are included, alcohol and snacks are extra. Berths in an AAA double cabin (including dinner at the captain’s table) start at €516.

Getting there: Santiago is the nearest major hub, and can be reached via Madrid with Iberia from €964 return on ebookers.ie. Cheaper flights are available, with multiple stops in London and America, so shop around with budget operators.

Currency: €1 = 4.1 ARS (Argentinian pesos).

When to go: winter in Patagonia is not hospitable. Peak summer is in January/February, which gives you the best chance of good weather en route. Prices are higher in high season.

What to bring: fleece, and lots of it. Even in summer, a southern wind in Patagonia will chill your bones. Bringing a camera with a good zoom is advisable for spotting wildlife, and grab a travel guide to plan your onward journey. We found that the Rough Guide was the best for the area.

What to avoid: sea urchin soup, available in restaurants at Puerto Montt’s picturesque fish market, may sound like a delicacy. It looks and tastes like slivers of slug marinated in cloudy bilge-water. And it’s served cold.

Anything else worth seeing? So much. Patagonia is a hiker’s dream. Consider visiting the stunning Torres del Paine National Park for the pricey but worth it five-day hike.

Ushuaia, the world’s most southerly city, is a day’s bus travel (or a two-hour flight) from Puerto Natales and well worth visiting. From there, wealthy travellers can splurge on a trip to Antarctica.