When my mind gets loose off its leash it doesn’t go exploring, it goes back to old beliefs and ideas. It is not boring, I am just tired of it showing up in my writing. Spending so many words on why people behave like they do, it feels like digging in the same old hole just deeper. I don’t need the repetition and I don’t need to iron out any wrinkles. What I understood and believed last month or last year will evolve but one should expect that. Still the bones of that story show no sign of shape-shifting into a new creature. No less the defense of religious unbelief, especially Western Religion and The Sons of Abraham; I have about worn that out. Still it finds its way into writing that started out uncluttered in another direction. What I do believe is that I am better with telling Story than selling beliefs or philosophy.
Roll On Roll Off: If you know where Punta Arenas is then you get a gold star. If you know where Puerto Edèn is, you get my gold star as well. Wandering around Patagonia with no itinerary, it was June and that meant the onset of winter. In Spanish, El Fin de Mundo translates, The End Of The World, an informal reference to Ushuaia, Argentina. It is the southern most city on the planet, at the farthest tip of South America. It was snowing there when I left in June of 2005.
The small Chilean city of Punta Arenas, an all-day bus ride from Ushuaia, is located on the north shore of the Straights of Magellan. That time of year, if you want to catch a ride north on the NAVAMAG Ferry, this is the place. After a five day cruise up and through the Chilean archipelago we would arrive in Puerto Montt. The ferry was a roll on - roll off vessel with mostly cattle trucks on their way to the slaughter house but they book passengers as well. December is tourist season, June is not. There were only six passengers, two young Brits on holiday from university, an Australian petroleum engineer and a Peruvian student from Washington D.C. double-dipping travel with a visit to her grandparents. Then there was me and a young Chilean woman whose English was as challenged as my Español. We were a good match on the learning curve to help each other. She said she would be getting off before Puerto Montt. No stops listed on the schedule but I didn’t give it a second thought.
On the very top of the ship there was an observation deck with a railing, several benches and a huge chess board painted on the deck. The chessmen were made of painted plywood that fit together like puzzle pieces, standing tall enough to be moved from square to square without bending over. The Latino lady didn’t know how to play chess so I taught her. When the weather turned windy or cold the others went down into the lounge but we held out, speaking Span-glish and playing chess.
On the third day I learned that we would offload cargo at a small fishing village in the middle of the night. I set my alarm but no need. The slow, tight turns and blasts from the ship’s horn announced our arrival. It was pitch dark. On shore, far away village lights might have been stars but they burned steady while the real stars twinkled. A dozen fishing trawlers shuttled supplies back to their pier, taking turns at the stern ramp like trick-or-treaters at the door. I took photos, careful not to get in the way but always pressing for a better view. The young woman really was getting off before Puerto Montt, she was there in uniform, part of a small Navy unit stationed in Puerto Edèn. The town is one of the most remote places on the continent. The only way in or out is by boat or sea plane. The only avenues are deep, narrow, flooded canyons that plunge between steep mountainsides, no roads, no streets, only wooden piers and boardwalks between buildings. At times the channel between islands was so tight we moved at a crawl and I could have (in my youth) bounced a ball off the cliffs on either side. In Puerto Edèn it rains on the average of 350 days a year. With a population of about 200 souls, fishing and the military seemed to be the only attractions.
Backing up in a tight turn, with a few blasts on the horn and a fleeting backward glance the village lights disappeared and everything went silent. Two days later in Puerto Montt they offloaded passengers first, ahead of the cattle trucks. Walking past them on an elevated ramp, the stench of excrement washed out of the trucks and onto the deck was potent. We laughed at how lucky we were, the smell never reached us up front on the upper decks.
The day would be clear and sunny in Puerto Montt. My first task was to stow my duffle bag and guitar in a locker at the bus station. Cities in southern Chile are small, maybe five thousand people at most, nothing like the millions in Santiago. The next bus back into Argentina was in the morning so I shopped for souvenirs, bought several pieces of salmon leather from a shop along the waterfront. They skin the fish and tan it the same way they make any other leather. The grain side had scales instead of hair and you can see the scale pattern with its lateral line which is absolutely cool. I stayed in a hotel with private bath and my own telephone, not accustomed to fancy tourist accommodations. The snow was deep when we crossed the continental divide the next day, thru customs and back into Argentina.
Stories need a beginning, a middle and an end. This little vignette is too small to have legs of its own, just a story-bite from a larger story and it is all I am good for right now.
Roll On Roll Off: If you know where Punta Arenas is then you get a gold star. If you know where Puerto Edèn is, you get my gold star as well. Wandering around Patagonia with no itinerary, it was June and that meant the onset of winter. In Spanish, El Fin de Mundo translates, The End Of The World, an informal reference to Ushuaia, Argentina. It is the southern most city on the planet, at the farthest tip of South America. It was snowing there when I left in June of 2005.
The small Chilean city of Punta Arenas, an all-day bus ride from Ushuaia, is located on the north shore of the Straights of Magellan. That time of year, if you want to catch a ride north on the NAVAMAG Ferry, this is the place. After a five day cruise up and through the Chilean archipelago we would arrive in Puerto Montt. The ferry was a roll on - roll off vessel with mostly cattle trucks on their way to the slaughter house but they book passengers as well. December is tourist season, June is not. There were only six passengers, two young Brits on holiday from university, an Australian petroleum engineer and a Peruvian student from Washington D.C. double-dipping travel with a visit to her grandparents. Then there was me and a young Chilean woman whose English was as challenged as my Español. We were a good match on the learning curve to help each other. She said she would be getting off before Puerto Montt. No stops listed on the schedule but I didn’t give it a second thought.
On the very top of the ship there was an observation deck with a railing, several benches and a huge chess board painted on the deck. The chessmen were made of painted plywood that fit together like puzzle pieces, standing tall enough to be moved from square to square without bending over. The Latino lady didn’t know how to play chess so I taught her. When the weather turned windy or cold the others went down into the lounge but we held out, speaking Span-glish and playing chess.
On the third day I learned that we would offload cargo at a small fishing village in the middle of the night. I set my alarm but no need. The slow, tight turns and blasts from the ship’s horn announced our arrival. It was pitch dark. On shore, far away village lights might have been stars but they burned steady while the real stars twinkled. A dozen fishing trawlers shuttled supplies back to their pier, taking turns at the stern ramp like trick-or-treaters at the door. I took photos, careful not to get in the way but always pressing for a better view. The young woman really was getting off before Puerto Montt, she was there in uniform, part of a small Navy unit stationed in Puerto Edèn. The town is one of the most remote places on the continent. The only way in or out is by boat or sea plane. The only avenues are deep, narrow, flooded canyons that plunge between steep mountainsides, no roads, no streets, only wooden piers and boardwalks between buildings. At times the channel between islands was so tight we moved at a crawl and I could have (in my youth) bounced a ball off the cliffs on either side. In Puerto Edèn it rains on the average of 350 days a year. With a population of about 200 souls, fishing and the military seemed to be the only attractions.
Backing up in a tight turn, with a few blasts on the horn and a fleeting backward glance the village lights disappeared and everything went silent. Two days later in Puerto Montt they offloaded passengers first, ahead of the cattle trucks. Walking past them on an elevated ramp, the stench of excrement washed out of the trucks and onto the deck was potent. We laughed at how lucky we were, the smell never reached us up front on the upper decks.
The day would be clear and sunny in Puerto Montt. My first task was to stow my duffle bag and guitar in a locker at the bus station. Cities in southern Chile are small, maybe five thousand people at most, nothing like the millions in Santiago. The next bus back into Argentina was in the morning so I shopped for souvenirs, bought several pieces of salmon leather from a shop along the waterfront. They skin the fish and tan it the same way they make any other leather. The grain side had scales instead of hair and you can see the scale pattern with its lateral line which is absolutely cool. I stayed in a hotel with private bath and my own telephone, not accustomed to fancy tourist accommodations. The snow was deep when we crossed the continental divide the next day, thru customs and back into Argentina.
Stories need a beginning, a middle and an end. This little vignette is too small to have legs of its own, just a story-bite from a larger story and it is all I am good for right now.
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