Senor Nice (35 page)

‘Recognise that?’

A white cement eagle proudly surveyed its domain.

‘Of course. It’s the insignia of the Free Wales Army. Are they out here too? Inside that ranch?’

‘It’s rumoured they are. Locals have heard rifle shots and sounds like people training, but I don’t know. One of my friends knocked on the door once. The people who live there are Welsh, sure enough, but they said the eagle was in honour of the Welsh name for Snowdon, Yr Eryri – Eagle’s Nest. Take your pick.’

Next stop west was the small community of Las Plumas – Valley of the Martyrs – where we bought petrol. There had to be a tale attached to such a name.

During the last years of the nineteenth century the Argentinian government had embarked on its appalling so-called
Conquista del Desierto
, the ethnic cleansing of the Patagonian wilderness. Indians were massacred, imprisoned in barbaric conditions or banished from their homelands, provoking an unsurprising upsurge of hostility and distrust towards white men. The twenty-year-long friendly coexistence which had prevailed between the Welsh and the Tehuelche Indians, whom the Welsh called their ‘brothers of the desert’,
was threatened. On a day never forgotten in these parts a few Welsh settlers were mistaken by Indians for Argentinian government soldiers, brutally murdered and dismembered. One of the Welsh party, ex-
Mimosa
passenger John Daniel Evans, ‘Evans the Miller’, miraculously escaped and went on to found Trevelín – Mill Town – the westernmost outpost of Welsh Patagonia over 300 miles away. Although saddened to the core, the Welsh sought no vengeance and continued to refuse to join the government’s persecution and extermination of Patagonia’s indigenous population.

Motoring further westward another fifty miles, this time accompanied by 2 many DJs’ remix of ‘Where’s Your Head At’, I noticed the sandstone outcrops were steadily increasing in size to massive mountains of rock, Grand Canyon-style. Plateaus capped cylindrical mountains as if expecting the onset of the next close encounter with a flying saucer. The red sun overtook us and headed for bed. Manolo noticed the scenery had grabbed me.

‘Something else, isn’t it? Straight out of
Star Wars
. We call this place the Altars. Forget California; this is the real Death Valley. Shall we stop here for a rest? We’re about halfway.’

We smoked a joint Manolo produced from his pocket.

‘Do you recognise it?’

‘Recognise what?’

‘The dope you’re smoking.’

‘I can’t say I do, other than it’s extremely strong skunk. What is it?’

‘It’s Mr Nice Super Silver Haze.’

‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? How did you get hold of that?’

‘Do you know a girl called Polly from Kenfig Hill?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well I got this skunk from her a couple of weeks ago. I telephoned her last night and told her I had met you here. She was gobsmacked. Small world, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. But you wouldn’t think so, looking at this bit of it, would you?’

The horizon seemed infinitely further away than I had ever experienced. Monstrous rock altars filled my field of vision in every direction. Birds of prey, graceful and menacing, hang-glided among them. Visions of dragons and dinosaurs tickled my subconscious as I came to terms with my own insignificance. Bertrand Russell’s words jumped into my mind: ‘If the history of the universe were ever documented, it’s doubtful if the human race would be even mentioned.’ Night fell, switching on the lights of the Southern Cross. Its right arm, Mimosa, winked at me as I sought the solace of dream. Winds howled around the petrified pyramids. Beady eyes of curious foxes and guanacos – wild Andean llamas – glinted creepily in the starlight.

‘You take a blanket and lie on the back seat. I’ll wrap myself up on the ground – I prefer it that way.’

I took up Manolo’s offer and immediately fell asleep. We both woke up after just a couple of hours.

‘OK, Mr Nice, let’s make a move and try to get to Tecka before daylight.’

Manolo produced a plastic bottle of red wine and a Tupperware munch box, and we had a lively breakfast of home-made bread, hard sausage, pears, sharp cheese and walnuts before getting back on the road.

Dawn broke as the monumental rock formations gradually gave way to fertile plains, lakes, hills and streams. The snowcapped peaks of the Andes shed their clouds of morning mist and announced their dominating presence. We stopped for petrol just outside the small town of Tecka. A roadside mausoleum lay nearby.

‘You’ve probably not heard of Incayal, but he was the greatest chief of the Tehuelche. Tecka was his favourite place to camp. When the Argentinian government started killing all the Indians, Perito Moreno, the guy who discovered the
glaciers down south, persuaded the authorities to allow him to live in peace as keeper of a museum in Buenos Aires. After Incayal died, Moreno moved his body back here. It’s become a shrine now. There’s nothing else to see in Tecka, so we’ll keep going on this road. In a few hours we’ll get to Arroyo Pescado, and we don’t want to stop there either. It’s where a Yank murdered a Welshman, another event we don’t forget. It’s still full of Yanks. They come here for fishing holidays. I hate the place.’

Manolo related how the Welsh colonists, having been deprived of the Tehuelche as commercial partners, badly needed to export their products. They planned to extend the railway, and a brilliant engineer, Dafydd ap Iwan, came to work on the project. Dafydd ap Iwan established rail terminals at Puerto Madryn and Trelew and then conducted feasibility studies and surveys from Trelew to the Andes. He also became manager of the Arroyo Pescado branch of the Chubut Mercantile Company. In December 1909, Dafydd ap Iwan was held up and murdered in cold blood by a North American bandit named Wilson. Plans to complete the Welsh Pacific–Atlantic railway died shortly afterwards.

We drove for a few hours through gentle mountain passes past chuckling creeks until we reached the westernmost Welsh colony, Cwm Hyfryd, now split into the Andean foothill towns of Esquel and Trevelín. The colony boasted a police station and telegraph office. A hundred years ago its chief of police, Eduardo Humphreys, had made friends with his good neighbours Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Cholilo was only a few miles from Esquel.

Plateaus and plains came into view. A short distance away small troops of gauchos in their full regalia of flat-topped black hats, colourful bandannas and handlebar moustaches were rounding up a herd of Herefords.

‘It’s a cowboy movie, isn’t it?’ said Manolo. ‘See those black rocks over there? That’s where Butch Cassidy and the
Sundance Kid murdered a Welshman for no reason. We’ll pass by their place in a little while.’ A lonely abandoned shack lay rotting in a corner of a field. There were no notices and no visitors. ‘Good enough for them,’ said Manolo. ‘They did the place no good at all.’

We entered the dusty town of Esquel. Posters and signs referred to the Old Patagonian Express, the Welsh Co-op’s downfall. Local wheat couldn’t compete in price with the grain the train bought down from up north. At the Cassis Restaurant we had a delicious lunch of trout carpaccio followed by roast lamb. Manolo went to the bar to make a phone call. He turned round, put his thumb up and put down the phone.

‘Got some news for you about your great-great-grandfather, Mr Nice. That was Raoul. He’s had a word with Tommy Davies, a good man who knows just about everything that’s ever happened here. My dad thought a lot of him. Tommy is pretty old. He’ll be a hundred in a year or two. Anyway, he said his father had often talked about an Irishman called Patrick who had come to live in Gaiman and who did learn Welsh at the school there. But for some reason he left to go to live in Ushuaia.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s the end of the world.’

‘Which country?’

‘This country, Argentina. It’s right at the bottom of Tierra del Fuego. Next stop is the South Pole. I expect you’ll be off there now, won’t you? Why don’t you stay here and help me grow some weed?’

‘I’ve got to go there, Manolo, especially if it’s the end of the world.’

I arrived back at the Hotel Peninsula Valdes in Puerto Madryn in the early hours two days later. Reclaiming my bags from the concierge, I found the Saga tour group had just left. I had been looking forward to recounting my recent adventures and discoveries to Gareth. No matter. I was sure we would meet again one day in the Welsh valleys. My room was the same one I had had before. Feeling sore and stiff, I showered off the dirt and dust of the desert. It was a relief to have a proper bed again, and it did not take me more than a few minutes to fall asleep. I dreamt of deserts and prehistoric monsters.

I was still sleeping ten hours later when the telephone rang. Manolo was downstairs. I joined him.

‘All right, Mr Nice. Raoul and I have your flights sorted to Ushuaia. You can pick up and pay for the tickets when you leave. The direct flights were all fully booked; you’ll have to change and stay overnight at Calafate.’

‘No worries, Manolo. Calafate? Isn’t that the name of those flowers that Olwen likes so much?’

‘That’s right. The place is full of them, but people usually go there to visit the glaciers. You’ll have plenty of time to do that. You arrive late tomorrow morning and leave the next
evening. A good mate of mine, Carlos, lives near Calafate. I’ve spoken to him this morning, and he is going to meet you at the airport, take you to a hotel and make sure you are all right. His last name is Guevara, so as you can imagine everyone calls him Che. Not only that, he’s a doctor specialising in allergies and weird stuff like that, just like the real Che Guevara, and he even looks like him.’

‘Che Guevara was Argentinian, wasn’t he?’

‘Right again. Most people thought he was Cuban until
Evita
came out. You’ll like Che. He doesn’t say much, hardly anything, and he is a bit eccentric, but a great guy. I told him all about you. He’ll take good care of you. Don’t worry.’

‘Thanks, Manolo. You’ve done a lot for me this last week.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Nice. Raoul found out a bit more about your ancestor Patrick. While he was here learning Welsh he became close friends with another guy also learning Welsh, a Chilean called Juan Williams. The name probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but he was an admiral in the Chilean navy and fought in the war against Spain in 1865. For some reason he later resigned from the Chilean navy and came to live here. He and Patrick were inseparable, apparently, the best of mates. They left here together at the same time, probably for the same place, Ushuaia. That’s all Raoul was able to find out. Not much, but it’s something.’

‘That’s great, Manolo. I’m sure it will be a great help. Thanks, again.’

‘Raoul can’t take you to the airport tomorrow but someone from his company will pick you up here at eight o’clock in the morning. Raoul said to say goodbye and good luck. He would like to stay in touch. Me, too. I’ll see you either in Cardiff or back here.’

I took a long stroll around Puerto Madryn, reliving the excitement I had felt on first seeing Welsh street names. Although just a week had passed, I felt nostalgic. I went shopping and armed myself with books, CDs and souvenirs in
case I never had the good fortune to return. At the hotel I surfed the Net for any information on Chilean admirals called Williams, and to my surprise found some. During the middle of the nineteenth century Juan Williams Rebolledo, a captain in the Chilean navy, took possession of the Straits of Magellan, claiming them for Chile during a war against Spain. He fought again during the war between Chile, Peru and Bolivia but in 1880 fell out with the Chilean government. There was no mention of any connection with Welsh Patagonia or Ushuaia. Partly comforted and partly disappointed, I went to bed.

Raoul’s friend turned up with his taxi the next morning and we headed off along the now-friendly road through the wilderness. About halfway to Trelew airport I asked him to stop the car and got out. I wanted to stand alone once more in those magnificent silent plains and deserts that aroused such strange feelings in me. Was Patagonia really the ancient habitation of giants, whose footprints on the seashore had amazed early European explorers? At the airport I collected my tickets and boarded the flight to Calafate. The landscape changed from desert to fertile mountains as we flew southwest.

At Calafate airport I picked up my bags, walked into the arrivals hall and saw Che Guevara. Despite having been warned of the physical likeness Manolo’s friend bore to his namesake, I was not expecting such an impressive carbon copy. He wore shades, combats, army shoes with the laces open and a green Chinese Red Army cap. He was smoking a cigar, inhaling deeply.

‘You must be Che. I’m Howard, Manolo’s friend.’

Without saying a word, Che shook my hand, quickly turned and walked towards the exit. I followed him to a black van with the engine running and climbed into the passenger seat. The inside of the van was a combination of pharmacy and pet shop. There were cages of birds, frogs and reptiles; bottles of preserved animal parts; jars of herbs, spices and crushed
insects; boxes of bandages, antiseptic and antibiotics; and some new scientific equipment.

After ten minutes of driving in complete silence through colourful woods and fields we crossed a small river, and just before entering Calafate town parked outside the Hotel La Loma. Che spoke, for the first time, in precise impassive English: ‘It’s two star but comfortable. Please check in. You are expected. I have to go to a small village near here to attend to a patient. You are welcome to go with me. You will find it interesting, I am sure. I will wait here until you return.’

I checked in, put my bags into a homely old-fashioned little room, and rejoined Che in his van.

We drove for a few miles down a well-used country road and stopped at a ranch named Estancia Alicia. Trees stripped of their bark stood like great white skeletons. Flocks of birds flitted around searching for food and nest-building materials. Some were quietly feeding in the shadows of scarecrows; others were pulling the scarecrows to bits and carrying off the straw. Che grabbed a couple of cages and other bits and pieces, put them into a yellow holdall and got out of the van. We walked down a path to a wooden hut and in through its open doorway. Lying on a blanket, a naked young girl racked with fever sobbed continuously. A belt of fierce red blisters ran round her waist with a circular gap of unblemished skin at her navel. The girl’s father, his head in his hands and an open Bible on his lap, sat motionless on an upright chair next to a table. He looked up at us with pleading tear-soaked eyes.