ON THE ROAD WITH A GALLOPING GRANNY MARY TISDALL, NOW IN HER 85TH YEAR
Mary blazes through the jungles, cities and mountains of South America with group travel agency Saga. A dedicated traveller, she doesn't hang around moaning if she can’t find anyone to join her. Instead, she just signs up for group tours. Photos: Nigel Tisdall
More than a third of all overseas trips are now being taken by the over-50s. Nigel Tisdall struggles to keep up as his mother, in her 85th year, blazes through the jungles, cities and mountains of South America.
GETTING OLD HAS FEW ADVANTAGES, but one perk for elderly British travellers is that passports are free if you were born on or before September 2, 1929. If that seems a strange date, it marks the point at which qualifying citizens would have been 16 or over at the end of the Second World War. Introduced in 2004, this concession was a recognition of sacrifices made during that conflict, but it might also be a subtle prod to octogenarians to stop complaining about rising fuel bills and get globetrotting.
The £66 saving has certainly been welcome news for my mother, Mary, now in her 85th year. She knows full well that with some judicious internet surfing you can bag a return flight to Europe for that, and nothing will stop her travelling the world as long as health, funds and gardening duties permit.
As a proud "galloping granny", Mary hardly needs travel advice from the government If Mary, a widow for 15 years, can't find a friend or relative to join her, she doesn't hang around moaning. A bold, single traveller, she simply signs up for group tours run by companies such as Kuoni, Travelsphere and, her favourite, Saga.
Over the past few years Mary has whizzed round Thailand, Borneo and China with the over-50s specialist, but on this trip she has a dutiful son in tow - thanks to a little-known Saga rule that allows you to travel with a companion in his or her 40s. It took Mary a year of shameless nagging to sign me up, but here we are, embarking on a 16-night South American Adventure to see the highlights of Chile, Argentina and Brazil.
First surprise: there are 31 of us. Heathrow has never seen such a blizzard of fleeces, binoculars, sun-hats and sudoku books. "This is an unusually large group," admits our tour manager, Diana Jones, who greets us wearing the company's unmissable blue uniform. She has spent 18 years in the business, and this will be the eighth time she has led this adventure, but Diana is not jaded. "It's a wonderful and varied tour," she assures her guests, who gather together like an OAP hit-squad preparing to sort out those dreamy Latinos. Most are couples in their 60s or 70s, about a quarter are new to Saga, and about half the women have clearly made a policy decision not to dye their silvering locks.
So what spurs this eagerness to travel in the latter part of life? Some 35 per cent of all overseas trips are now being taken by the over-50s, and so many are choosing exotic destinations and adventurous activities that the Foreign Office has just issued a book of advice, World Wise, to remind older travellers to be fully prepared. As a proud "galloping granny", Mary hardly needs to be told all this - well, if you can get through marriage and parenthood (and in her case a World War), you can probably remember to fill in the "next of kin" details on your passport. The rest of our party also seems commendably self-sufficient, and so at ease with international travel it feels as though we're just off on a very elaborate outing.
While seeing South America is our focus, some of us are also clearly here for entertainment, companionship, to fill the pit of widowhood, and to enjoy their (possibly) hard-earned wealth before it all goes to the children, chosen charity, or - over my dead body - Gordon Brown.
Seventeen hours and 7,500 miles later, Diana is still perky. "How many people have been reading up about Santiago?" she asks over a welcome pisco sour in the Chilean capital. A few jet-lagged hands go up, but this is not a study tour and most are content to sit back and take what comes. "Are you a wine buff?" I ask a genial man enlisting for an optional excursion to the Concha y Toro vineyard. "No," he whispers, "but if we don't book this I'll have to go shopping."
Many present are first-time visitors to South America and, over the next fortnight, Diana will patiently explain about everything from caipirinhas to gauchos to Pablo Neruda, who is dispatched with a thunderous brevity: "Chilean poet, very left wing, probably bumped off, national hero, that's why we go." For Mary and me, the sunshine and leafiness of Santiago provides a pleasant landing, but it's all a bit too European. As our local guide, Judith, reflects over the coach microphone: "Chile is the most boring, shy, serious and organised country in South America." We much prefer Valparaiso, which was a booming port until the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914, and still has an endearingly raffish air, with multi-coloured buildings piling up the hillsides.
"Good graffiti!" Mary exclaims when we trail through its poo-infested back-streets, making me wonder what she gets up to on those quiet nights back in Salisbury.
By Day Five we are winging south to Puerto Montt, gateway to the Chilean Lake District. I make sure Mary gets a window seat and our godly views over the snow-draped volcanoes of the Andes are subsequently declared a highlight of the trip. Mary is also thrilled when she realises we are landing in the fabled wilds of Patagonia, and it's not long before she buys a souvenir plate so that this can be proudly mentioned when she hands round the nibbles back home.
Miguel, our next local guide, bluntly informs us that this impressive landscape
"suffered" an influx of Germans in the 1850s-80s, who rushed to get their towels down by the lakes after the Chilean government went on a recruiting drive for immigrants. Thanks to salmon farms, timber and tourism, the pioneering continues and the town is once again growing fast. We feel like high rollers when Miguel tells us that a smart new house here costs £70,000 - then he quietly adds: "I'd have to live twice to afford that."
The next morning it's bags outside our rooms by 7am, ready for an epic 12-hour journey over the Andes to reach the Argentinian resort of Bariloche. "Today," Miguel explains, "will go bus boat bus boat bus boat bus." When this crossing opened in 1913, it took two weeks by mule, oxen and steamship. We do it in a relay of coaches and ferries, passing through hearty mountain scenery enlivened by dive-bombing horseflies the size of bees. The snowy peaks are invigorating, the emerald lakes dream-like, but the best thing is the discovery of chocoñac, hot chocolate laced with brandy, which is heaven whatever your age.
Once in Argentina, there's one thing everyone wants to do: eat steak and drink Malbec. The atmosphere at dinner is so boisterous I suggest this was the real reason everyone booked their holiday and get a resounding, "You bet!", in reply. Saga groups clearly march on their stomachs, but Diana reckons we're exceptional because we all drink alcohol, too. Perhaps that's why everyone gets on, despite a very wide range of backgrounds.
I'm flabbergasted, though, at how some of us seem to travel so far just to be so petty. Scratched suitcases, unevenly split restaurant bills, incorrect change from a supermarket - at times the glories of South America get lost in a fur ball of pointless quibble that would drive many a tour leader to despair. But Diana's seen it all, and in another life would probably be leading orphans out of war zones. As she reflects one breakfast: "Some people call me mother, others Margaret Thatcher…"
After the clean air of the mountains, it's a shock to hit the grimy, polluted streets of Buenos Aires. Outside our hotel the poor are picking through the office rubbish, and we reach a low point with an appalling dinner at a nearby restaurant, La Posada de 1820. It's an unfortunate truth that if you travel in a large group you may at times get treated no better than farmyard animals, and the service and food here are so dismaying that we start to bond through moaning. Apparently, it's all down to a change of local agent, and once Diana fires a blistering report back to Saga HQ in Folkestone we are given complimentary wine at a subsequent meal by way of apology.
With the luxury of three nights here, Mary and I warm to a city of elegant parks, distinctive neighbourhoods and style-conscious porteños living beyond their means. We use our free time to visit the Eva Perón museum and botanical gardens, then rejoin the group for a brilliant tango show at the touristy but intimate theatre, El Viejo Almacén. The dancers and musicians are so impassioned we immediately buy the DVD and, now, when I call home, I sometimes hear the spirited strains of the bandoneón playing away as we discuss her latest computer glitch.
When Mary joins an excursion to an estancia to see gauchos, I go exploring on my own and get picked up by a rogue taxi driver who takes me to the wrong part of town, locks the doors and does his best to get hold of my wallet. Silly me - I now realise that, as with young kids, if you travel with a little old lady no one will mug you. In future, I will always travel with a stick-wielding granny for protection.
Our next flight brings a major scene change when we zoom north-east to the hot and humid jungles bordering the waterfalls of Iguazú, which run in a curtain of cascades for over a mile and a half. The red earth roads are filled with puddles like vats of tomato soup and our permanently cheery guide, Wilson, warns us that this natural wonder gets some 5,000 visitors a day.
We start our admiration from the Argentinian side, which involves boarding two packed-out mini-trains, then walking for 20 minutes in the hot sun to reach the Devil's Throat, where the refreshingly thunderous waters are so thick they resemble a massive sheepskin rug. Fortunately, the experience is far more relaxed on the Brazilian side, where we spend two storm-punctuated nights at the Hotel Das Cataratas. Opened in 1958 with a pink-and-white façade, tropical gardens and colonial-style rooms, it's full of character and Mary and I love it. Even better, guests can walk down to see the panorama of the falls in the morning before the bussed-in hordes arrive.
By the time we reach Rio de Janeiro, our final port of call, we are all friends - or at least tolerantly disposed to one another. The large group size has had its drawbacks: checking in at hotels and airports takes longer than you'd wish, and Mary has found it hard to hear the guides when sightseeing. But travelling Saga-style has many advantages, in particular the companionship, security and value for money. When we climb up Corcovado to behold the mighty statue of Christ the Redeemer and its unbeatable views, there is no doubting the wonder of such holidays. "Well I never, ever, thought I'd get here in my life!" exclaims one thrilled woman, who has come with her husband to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary.
This is the real marvel of our South American adventure, which in retrospect reads like an Odyssean feat. Nine flights, seven guides, six hotels, innumerable loo stops… According to my notes, Mary and I got on and off a coach 52 times. Like Thomas Cook, Cunard, Butlins and Freddie Laker, the Saga tour deserves a place in the annals of British holidaymaking for bringing the world to a generation who never dreamt they would be able to travel so far and with such ease.
I doubt it will last, at least in its present form with indomitable Dianas flying out to check that everyone gets their teas and coffees. Saga is already subtly shifting gears with brochures devoted to luxury retreats and upmarket adventures where the age restriction has fallen to 21 and the company name is buried in the small print.
For Mary and me, it has been an unforgettable trip that has brought us closer together, and it ends with a surprise back at Heathrow. Passing through immigration, she is hauled to one side and informed that her passport was reported lost in 2003. It seems Mary has been travelling all over the world on an invalid document and they will have to confiscate it. "What?" she explodes. "But I'm off to Spain in six days!"
Eventually, we get the passport back because it is about to expire, and I explain politely to the official that Mary will most definitely be renewing it, ready for another 10 years seeing as much of this damn world as she can.
As we young 'uns say: rock on, Granny.
© Copyright of Telegraph Media Group Limited 2007.
