Puerto Natales, Chile: Coco was waiting for me at the bus terminal. We started walking, she turned and told me to go in front since I knew the way. I made a wrong turn within sight of their place and she scolded me, told me to be serious. Her mother put me in the same room I had before. The grandparents had gone north to Concepcion for the winter, a little warmer there but the television was still on the same channel.
At the port facility the Navimag ferry was backed up to the loading ramp but there was no activity, the ticket office was closed for the day. I would be back in the morning. Boarding was scheduled for late afternoon but I needed to pay for my ticket and get a new bag. The backpack I bought in Santiago was really cheap, it came apart at the seams while in Bariloche.
The invitation to dinner wasn’t unexpected. They treated me more like family the second time around and it felt good. Coco made eye contact and laughed; asked if I needed her to guide me to the port. I said sure, but asked who would guide her back home. The next day at Navimag’s ticket office there was a hand written notice posted; boarding would be delayed until the next afternoon and departure would be later in the day. With time to kill I scoured every store I could find for something special, one of those things that just calls out from the shelf, something you can’t live without and you feel like it’s a stroke of fate when you find it. It’s funny what you do with time to kill. I found a heavy canvas duffle like the old WW2 military duffle bags, with a handle in the middle and a shoulder strap but it was brown and black with a cool logo.
I’d forgotten for the moment about my something special, just walking with my new duffle bag under my arm. Going through the motions, looking at every item in the window of a small gift shop I was ready to move on but realized I hadn’t really paid attention to what my eyes were seeing. My attention was drawn back to a small, copper sartén (skillet) propped up behind a stack of Russian nesting dolls. With a wooden handle the pan itself was too small for serious cooking but too big for a water dipper. I had already bought some Chilean copper, two small bowls and candle stick holders but all of a sudden, the sartén had my attention. It was more than decoration. It was utilitarian, with a purpose. I could cook with it. If you keep looking and believing you’ll find something you can’t live without, you find it. At the hostel that night I was back to being a guest again. They let me do my thing, checking, rearranging articles in the new duffle, passport and valuables in the case around my neck, alarm set and buenas noches.
Of eight passengers I was early but last to arrive at the ferry office. We would be spending four nights and three days together. Trucks were lined up on the ramp and people were scurrying about. Morning turned into afternoon and we all dozed off several times. Without notice the ship’s Purser arrived, studied his clipboard, counted heads and told us to follow him. Walking up and in through the same clamshell doors the trucks would use, we must have looked like the ten-little-indians-all-in-a-row but none of us lost our way. Once up on the landing above the cargo deck the Purser took names, assigned cabins and handed out keys. There would be a meeting in the lounge, two decks down and forward of the berthing area. It was adjacent to the galley and dining room, dinner would be served after that. As a parting comment he told us we would cast off when we were ready.
After half an hour, most of us had made our way to the lounge even though it would be another hour before our meeting. There was a 30-something couple, spoke Spanish and pretty much kept to themselves. They were pleasant enough but certainly content to keep their own company. A Kiwi petro-chemical engineer who berthed in the crew’s quarters clearly enjoyed privileges we did not. There were two students from the UK, University of Essex, Colchester, on summer holiday. Not unlike my twin boys at age 5 or 6, they were curious and daring, drawing off each other to push the bubble a little farther than if they were not together. Traveling with them was another student, a young Peruvian woman who was attending the University of Maryland. They were absolutely cool. Last was a 20-something Chilean woman, a civilian who worked for the Navy at a small base, nestled deep within the islands of the archipelago. At mid-voyage she would go ashore, we would offload supplies and take on fresh fish for the market in Puerto Montt. I rounded out the manifest as the 8th passenger.
Someone, probably the Purser, ran a movie on the big screen in the lounge. It was in English with the sound turned off and Spanish captions, too fast to read and translate, I went exploring. We had the run of the lounge and berthing decks and the walkways above us. The bridge was on the top deck with wings that extended out over the water. From that perch you could look down the side, all the way to the water. At dinner the crew ate in shifts, sat together near the serving line while we all gravitated to the windows. Roaming the decks again it got dark and still no sign of getting underway. Ladders and doors that were off limits to us were clearly chained off with big signs. Still, we could access the main deck forward, all the way up to the bow.
I set my alarm every two hours, not wanting to miss any action. I’m sure there would be some horn blowing and vibration but not taking any chances. My cabin was just long enough for bunk beds on the side wall and wide enough for a metal chair between bed and the other wall, enough space to sit and take your shoes off. Bags had to go on top or you couldn’t get to the door. There were two heads, one at either end of the corridor with private showers. Everything was adequate and well maintained but no frills, no frills at all.
When my alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. I’d slept so much the day before I had to get up, got dressed and went outside. Looking down across the cargo deck, farm trucks with 15 or more cows each were tightly parked so the only way to move about was on top of stock racks and rooftops. Bound for the slaughter house in Puerto Montt, the cows seemed resigned to their crowded conditions. Some complained but soon their plight would become much more serious.
No comments:
Post a Comment