Malvi/klands. Day 2. First impressions.

A day of 'photographic safari' in Stanley. In the end, after such hyper-caloric breakfast, the planets were aligned to go for a 'power walk'. I strolled down Dean Street (my hotel lies in the upper side of town) to see the Angican mass at the main church of the city, Christchurch Cathedral. It is really nice: wooden roof, stone walls, stained glasses. Cozy. Built after collaborations from neighbours. With some hanging British ancient-type flags, and good ambience. A bit like those Harry Potter films. And there I stood, quiet, while a dozen people attended their service. The whisper with which a helper kindly muttered something, asking me whether I was a visitor to point me at the right place to stand was, then, my first official contact with an Islander. Some minutes after I came out and headed straight off to the Visitors Centre where I asked an old lady, of conspicuous British looks, who was knitting, for directions. She explained me everything, with candid patience, also whispering but this time without a Mass nearby. When I considered myself informed, I thanked jer for her time, and I took a look around. Several interesting items. But the two which really caught my eye were a couple of books: "The war from the Islanders' point of view", and "74 Days". I believe I will come back for those. 

I was reading, yesterday, that when the Argentine forces took over the Islands in the morning of April 2nd, 1982, many local people woke up to another flag and belonging to another country. And with military-patroled streets, where the soldiers with little or no night-time infrastructure would self accommodate in local people's houses. It was already autumn, so it was cold. So they could hardly avoid being considered 'invaders' by the locals. To make matters worse, the new Governor took 3 initial measures, all of them quite straightforward but with a high symbolic value: first, he changed the official language into Spanish. Then, he changed the sense of traffic, from right-hand side to left-hand side. And finally, he also changed he names of streets, sites and landmarks into Spanish. A whole shock to people, who thus longed for 'liberation' from day 1. Not difficult to imagine being a small kid, sleeping in the same room with my parents and other siblings, because I had strange people speaking in a strange language, equipped with dangerous 'toys', in the other rooms. And then, walking my same everyday streets down to school, but now named in a different manner, being almost run over by vans that speed in the opposite sense I have all my life been used to, shouting things I do not understand. Just to arrive in the school to attend classes delivered by a teacher who does not know how to do it, because the official language is now one she does not speak. So, there is some weeping at school. As there is weeping at home. The radio is also in that other, different language, so we cannot get informed about what is going on, other than by our neighbours. How could we possibly receive these people with open arms? They tell me that these lands used to belong to them 150 years ago, but why do we have to pay for matters past? We just want them to leave us alone!

Made me think a lot.

After my thoughts, I resumed my photographic safari: the hospital, the Governor's House, the Great War Memorial, the Solar System Walk, all spiced up by the ever-present local yellow flower, the 'gorse', and sunny sights onto the channel. 

When I was about to take picture of an old fashion car, in front of a house where 2 girls were laying in the sun, I heard "no photos, please". I was apologizing and about to walk out, when the owner of the house came by, starting a good dialogue that lasted some 10 minutes, and where we talked about just everything: the experience of the war, the 'invasion', the blackout rehearsals in Buenos Aires, in what was a candid, open, frank discussion. Two of his phrases I really kept in mind: "it is not about Argentina and its people. it is about the Governments. All that populist talk". and also: "That is what we really want: to be left alone". After some time, he excused himself because his Sunday chops were about to become coal. So I went on walking and taking pictures: the 1982 Memorial, the local newspaper, the Catholic church, the Post, the Town Hall, other interesting buildings. Bought some stuff for lunch, and went for a good, detox nap. So for my second part of the day I went to the Memorial Wood, a sort of small plantation of trees, one per each one died amongst the British forces, and then to the local cemetery. And back to the hotel where an old favourite of mine in those London days, broccoli and Stilton soup, was waiting for me. And to sleep, because Day 3 is the first with an excursion. Prior to that, I came across a couple in the kitchen, with whom I spent a good half hour chatting: he is Chilean, she is local. Thus, I got to know more interesting details about the life in the islands, but only for future posts, as the days draws to an end. The adventure continues.