Valdivia, Chile: They told me May was the rainy season in the south and rain it did, all day. I spent most of the afternoon slithering in and out of my poncho, shuffling from one dry place to another. The Fish market was entertaining but after a while I just went walking in the rain. From the right spot you can see all the way downstream to the mouth of the river and out to sea. Boats were still coming in and out, people doing what they do. I watched people for a while. You have to be cagey and not get caught but snooping from a distance is good exercise for the imagination. I watched an old grandmother with a little kid in tow. She was shopping for fish up on the adult level, with the fish on the counter. The child was hand in hand with her grandmother, one level down. Her view was of puddles on the wet concrete, people’s feet, buckets and boxes, spillage from the work being done above. She was exploring, bending over, reaching, only to be reined in each time. The old lady was multitasking. The kid finally had enough and just sat down, only to be picked up, loved on a little, put back down on her feet and they started over, like a loop film. I watched it repeat several times. I thought, ‘I’m half way around the world, watching grandmas and niños in the fish market. It had taken some effort and a lot of money to get here for this and it was worth every dollar.’
When I got back to the hostel it was dark. I opened the dorm door, expecting a dark, cool room. A floor lamp cast dim light and I was met with a rush of hot air. On the single bed someone was wrapped up in a blanket like a caterpillar in its cocoon. In the corner was a kerosene heater. There was some motion and I saw eyes looking out at me. I spoke in English, “And who might you be?” Esra Hemogle was probably in her late 40’s, slender if not wiery, maybe 5’2” with tightly curled blond hair down to her shoulders. She had checked in after me, cold and tired, paid for the heater and went right to sleep. She is a story by herself. A Jewish Turk from Istanbul, she and her sister owned a garment business. They designed, fabricated and marketed their own brand of women’s clothing. Then they got an offer they couldn’t refuse and sold the business. Esra decided to travel for a while; that was six months earlier. She went to University in Switzerland, fluent in 7 languages with no reservations about asserting herself.
The next morning at the bus station she told me that she liked traveling alone but sometimes it’s nice to have a counterpart. That’s when she told me, since we were headed the same way, interested in the same things, we would travel together for the next few days. She liked me, said I wasn’t like most Americans and to take that as a compliment. We didn’t talk that much but sitting next to someone you know, someone you can ask a question or make an observation without introducing yourself; I was alright with that.
There is an international youth hosteling organization that, as a member they will book your reservations ahead, assuring a place to stay even if you arrive in the middle of the night. Esra had booked us rooms at a hostel in Puerta Varas, on Lake Lianquihue. We agreed to a tour of Puyehue National Park the next day; I took bags to the hostel while she got our tickets at the tour office. That evening we met the other travelers at the hostel. Two young women, both lawyers from Rid De Janeiro, a particle physicist and his lady from San Paulo in Brazil. They were married but not to each other. That’s how they do it in South America I was told; when marriage becomes a business the heart looks somewhere else. For practical purposes, in South America, divorce is out of the question. Rather than embarrass the family you be discrete, out of town. They were all in their 30’s, happy to meet new people and be away from home. Paulo from San Paulo was outgoing and funny, his sweetheart was subtle and clever. The lawyers were hungry, thirsty and ready for a party.
The next morning we (Esra & I) were at the bus stop early and off to see Puyehue Nat’l Park. The highway runs parallel to the river which, at lower altitudes is the main feature of the park. The views we got from both the road and at observation points were spectacular. It is the wildest river I’ve ever seen, no shore line, just volcanic rock funnel with a steep gradient, white water plunging down through narrow chutes and over falls. They once allowed qualified white water Kayakers on the river but too many were killed and they stopped all that.
Driving through, stopping occasionally in small towns and villages, Esra made a cryptic remark, “There is nothing here that you can’t see in Austria.” The mountains, architecture, the names on business and public signage were all German. People there looked the part with German names but Spanish tongues. They were 3rd and 4th generation immigrants. No wonder German war criminals fled to Patagonia after the war. It’s where their relatives were.
The next day was a two day tour of Chilòe, the big island at the top of Chile’s archipelago. Several hours on the bus, a ferry ride later and into Castro, the main city. The island is about 100 miles by 30 miles. The Pacific coast line is so rugged, so dangerous only a few roads go there, no towns or ports there and only enough people to tend sheep. All of the civilized activity is on the sheltered, east side of the island. Old Catholic churches with domes and ornate statuary were covered in gold leaf. Inlayed mosaic floors and ceilings seemed out of sync with the simple life style and utilitarian nature of Castro. But down the coast an hour by bus, several fishing villages beckoned.
We met a young, college drop out from Oregon. Holly had taken a semester off to help her sorority sister who was enrolled in a grant funded program at their college. She had to spend the year collecting data on an environmental study project farther south in the islands and talked Holly into coming down. Crazy, then she and her “sister” couldn’t get along and Holly had become a tourist, her flight home still a month away. We spent the night and next morning in the little town of Quellón. We ate at a two-table restaurant with a galvanized metal roof, two feet on the shore and two feet in the water. I had giant grilled scallops, roasted corn chutney, steamed peas and new potatoes.
The woman who fixed our dinner had never been off the island. I would be the first to agree that travel is not necessary for a good, full life but likewise, it is still the best education a person can get. If I thought there was such a thing as fate or predestination, (and I don’t) at least it felt like I was where I needed to be. Photographs came out great and sea shells as nice as any I’ve picked up anywhere. There is a tendency to think how great it would be to live in one of those delightful places but the feeling doesn’t last. If you’re curious and want to see what is waiting for you up the line, you don’t get too attached to quaint villages and lovely people. When you are away from home the first rule of a good guest is, leave before you wear out your welcome. The next day we traced our tracks back to Puerto Varas.
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