The early starts are getting earlier: it was 3.45 this morning. I hope I get to the Falklands today because at this rate I will be having to wake up before I’ve even gone to sleep...
A taxi to the airport, another wait and then we were off for a four hour flight to Punta Reina in the far south of Chile where we would offload some passengers, wait an hour, and then head to the Falkland Islands. Surprisingly there were thirteen other people waiting for a taxi, men women and children, all Falklands bound. I had no idea who they were as at that time in the morning I had no great desire for polite conversation but I guessed from some of what was said they all lived and worked there in some way or another.
Santiago airport at 4am was as manic and busy as any airport I have seen in the middle of the day. Fortunately, as my bag was checked through and I had been given my boarding pass yesterday I was able to bypass the chaos of check in. I caught up with the other Falklands bound travellers at the gate and learned that it was a mixed group of contractors and people visiting family. On the plane Tom, a very personable PhD student working for the fisheries, told me that the one hour in Punta Reina had become seven owing to strong winds at the Mount Pleasant airfield. Despite this latest setback, if all went well we would still get there that night, the evening of my sixth day of travel.
At Punta Reina and now with time on our hands, Tom, myself and two others made the short taxi ride into town. A stretch of the legs, a few beers, and a good lunch in a panoramic restaurant overlooking the town improved our spirits. This place is everything São Paulo is not: it is small with uncrowded, open streets; the buildings are low slung, varied and colourful; and in every direction you can see hill or sky or sea and often all three. On top of that there was a cool, brisk breeze that after the last few days I can only describe as feeling simply clean.
Back at the airport I was surprised at the number of people now milling around, maybe sixty or more, waiting for the onward flight to the islands. It turns out that the Santiago flight that I have now joined has until recently been the established civil route to the Falklands and a number of people were rejoining here, having broken their route via Santiago for a break here in Punta Reina.
Ninety minutes later, and after the hustle of the dim, crowded and cavernous immigration/arrival room, I stepped out into the Mount Pleasant Airfield proper. I had made it, and over three decades since I was last here. I was met by Emma and Nigel and we headed off for the forty-five minute drive to Stanley. It was a drive that had a strong sense of the familiar, even though I was having to dredge that familiarity from years of memories. The road was still largely gravel, raised high off the peaty ground, although sections were now tarmac or smooth concrete. There was the clarity of the air and the beauty of the light. And there were the rugged granite outcrops pushing purposefully from an isolated and barren landscape. But all these were general recollections, the outlines of holes in my memory, and I could recall nothing specific about the details from three decades back.
We eventually reached Stanley, the islands tiny capital overlooking a natural harbour. My marathon journey to get here was over. Despite my tiredness it seemed silly not to celebrate my arrival so, with the help of Nigel, it was not until 1.30am that I fell into my bed here in Government House.
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