PATAGONIA 31 - BAQUEDANO STATION

Mendoza, Argentina: When I walked out the door at Casa Pueblo I had everything I owned with me; I wasn’t coming back. Inside the bus terminal the tsch-shhhh sound of air brakes and the P.A. system echoing off the ceiling were unchanged from the day I arrived, just like the snow on the mountain. With my ticket to the airport in hand, I loaded my duffle under the bus, embraced my guitar and took a seat. The fact that the bus was not full seemed a good omen. Maybe there would be empty seats on the flight to Santiago. 

I have two guitars; one an expensive, concert, limited edition, Taylor acoustic that is too valuable to be dragged around South America. Several months before I left home, I was in Nashville, Tennessee, stopped at a prestigious if not famous, old guitar shop if for nothing more than to say I’d been there. I had been looking for a small, affordable guitar to take on my adventure but wasn’t shopping for it at the time. A pleasant young man approached and asked if he could help me. Not wanting to sound like a tourist, I defaulted to my need, looking for an affordable, parlor guitar; one I could take on a “Walk-about,” not believing anything in that shop would be in my price range. 

Larivee Guitars is a high quality, Canadian guitar company from Vancouver. They had just upgraded both quality and materials, plus a big jump in prices on their parlor guitar line and the salesman had two of the older models left. Larivee’s recommended price was $1,099 but the store had them marked at $799 and his boss had put a %50 off tag on these two. He suggested I see how it felt, how is sounded. I resisted the urge momentarily, like not looking at the naked lady: you resist just enough to satisfy a flimsy, moral formality and then concede to the sin with a clear conscience. I strummed through a few bars, stumbled through some three finger roll and smoothed my hands over the finish. The fret board action was light and precise. For a small guitar its sound was warm and full. My salesman sensed that I was sold. “Which one do you want?” From the mahogany body and maple binding to the spruce top, they looked identical. Without a second thought I said, “You play them and pick the one you like best.” A good, Larivee hard case came with it. That’s how I came to have such a sweet little guitar on such an unpredictably, bumpy adventure. Traveling light out of Santiago in April, I realized I couldn’t manage the big, hard case. So I stored it with Juan and Olvia, along with my suitcase at Terra Australis. Then I picked up a cheap, soft gig bag for the road south. 

Flying from Mendoza to Santiago, I didn’t know if they would allow it as a carry-on. Even such a short ride, checked with baggage I was afraid it would arrive damaged, even destroyed. Needless to say, I was a happy camper when they didn’t blink an eye. There were other guitars on board, squeezed between their owners legs; not a comfortable arrangement but after all, you sacrifice for the ones you love. Once off the runway we were thick in clouds, no classic view of the Andes but it was a short flight. You notice when the engines ease back and feel the change in angle of attack. Any traveler worth their salt knows that easy, idling sound of engines resting meant we were descending. Even a novice traveler would sense something earth bound when you hear the hum of wing flaps being applied and the clunk-clunk of landing gear folding down out of the wings. When we popped out of the muck we were on final approach, a minute later we were on the runway. 

My guitars have names. The precious one left behind is La Perla, the pearl. I hadn’t settled on a name for the little Larivee until somewhere in mid-adventure. The parlor guitar would be, El Peregrino, the pilgrim. Rolling up to the gate in Santiago I anthropomorphized, spoke to my guitar as if it had ears: “El Peregrino, next time we fly you will be safely stored in your hard case.” It would not matter where they stowed him. 

I didn’t have to pay the $200 ransom to get into Santiago this time. My point of origin was Mendoza, not Miami. After changing my Argentine currency back into Chilean pesos, I went outside to find a ride. My plan was to find a bed for the night, near the subway station where all of Juan’s walking field trips had begun. I told my taxi driver, “Un hostel  cerca la estacion de Baquedano.”  Baquedano Station was a main connector for the metro subway system. I knew the way back to Terra Australis and from there to my old haunts in Providencia. It was Saturday night and I would have to entertain myself on Sunday but I had the subway. 

My chauffeur pulled up to the sidewalk in front of an older home in a middle class neighborhood. Long stairs led up to a covered porch, stone on the first floor and wood shingles up to the third floor attic. He had called ahead and they were expecting us. Two little old ladies, sisters, with a big house; another clandestine bed & breakfast. The exchange rate made $1 American equal to about 600 pesos so 7,000 pesos for the night wasn’t bad. She didn’t want me in the kitchen but said she would cook anything I brought from the mercado. My room was on the 2nd floor, at the top of the stairs and I was ready for a hot shower. 

On the way, I had the driver go by Baquedano Station so I knew for sure how to get there. It was, maybe a 6 or 7 minute walk. With Sunday, plus three days before my flight on Thursday, I felt like I did the day before we flew out of Okinawa, back to California and separation from the Army. Just be where you are supposed to be and let it unfold. 

PATAGONIA 30 - GRACIAS, DE NADA

Mendoza, Argentina: The highway to Santiago was still closed; snow on the mountain. I walked back under the freeway, toward the park. On a neighborhood corner I noticed a small group crowded around a young man who was squatted down. Close up I could see he was playing the shell game. Put the pea under one of three shells, take bets, slide the shells around, fast talking as his hands moved over the shells. He stopped, lined the shells up in a row and asked the sucker where the pea was. The guy who waged a peso or two pointed at one shell and of course he was wrong. The dude took the peso and solicited another sucker, began the sliding shells and fast talk. I raised my camera and shutter-click, captured the game. In a heart beat he froze, scooped up the shells and turned on me. After a quick assessment he figured I was not a threat but gave me the finger-wagging, head shaking, no-no-no message. I hadn’t thought about it but sidewalk vice in broad daylight is universal. The con man wasn’t worried about being collared, but no photographs, no photographs, don’t do that. 

I moveed on to the festival, business was slow but still up and running, saw Wing at a different booth, she recognized me and waved. After a once-around there was nothing new so I headed into a neighborhood. There were shops at street level with residences above, 2, 3, sometimes 4 floors; found a table runner that complimented the colors in my house and bought it. The next day, one way or another, I would buy a ticket for over the mountain. At a gut level I knew it would be the airplane. Changing Argentine pesos into Chilean for the boat ride, then back into Argentine in Bariloche and soon, back into Chilean in Santiago, I would spend as much in conversion fees as on trinkets. Still, if you agonize over every peso it’s impossible to travel. 

I thought about my teaching/story telling experience in Santiago and Ushuaia, asked a taxi driver about any English language schools. He said there was one, did I need a ride. I pulled out the map and asked, where are we “donde estamos” and “donde esta la escuela?” where is the school? It was in the next block south of the Independence Plaza Park, where I spent most of the night before. I hadn’t explored that area yet. The big, old trees turned streets into tunnels and I was impressed how well the old buildings were maintained. Instituto Amicana is a university that specializes in language. It was a large, red brick building with a facade that made it look older than it was. The green spaces were secure behind an 8’, wrought iron fence. The ornate front gate was doubly locked and guarded by a security officer. 

I walked up to the gate, he stepped up to meet me. It was Friday, school should have been in session. I asked if I could come in and he stared the blank eyed look of someone who doesn’t speak the language. “Enseñan Ingles aqui, sí!” I asked; they teach English here, right? He nodded. Can I speak to a professor? “Puedo hablar con un maestro?” He told me to wait and walked off. I imagined how Oliver Twist must have felt, waiting for someone to toss him a crust. The wait felt longer than it was and I almost walked away. He returned with a young woman in trail. Liana Figueroa was 30-ish with red hair, dressed in a power suit, looking like a C.E.O. In short order I learned there were no students, that it was an inservice day, a workshop. I explained that my interest in the school had been to see if they might have need for a native speaking, gringo, story teller. We talked for a few minutes and she asked me to wait a little longer. She went back inside, a short wait and she returned. She wanted her boss to talk with me but that lady was too busy, asked for my contact information and how long I would be available. I had a few small, half page flyers, handed one through the gate. Unfortunately, I had a plane to catch in Santiago and I would’t be around more than a day or two. By Monday, I had to be over the mountain. 

She was a sweetheart. In the 7-8 minute conversation we both hung on the other’s words. Her English was perfect, with just a hint of British accent. But I knew, didn’t have to ask, that’s what you get when you learn English in South America from South Americans. She apologized that we couldn’t talk more, that she had to go back inside. I apologized that I didn’t have more time. She had my contact info on the flyer, I asked for her e-mail address. She went back to work, I went on my way. That was 13 years ago. We are still the best of “Pen-Pal” and FaceBook friends. With Liana, like Miguel Gunter in Ushuaia, you are in a strange place and you stretch the limits of coincidence. You meet someone who you probably had no business meeting and good chemistry keeps you connected, for maybe as long as you live. I do not believe in fate. Destiny is process, when the weight of the moment becomes carved in stone. I do believe in rooting around, looking under stones that show no promise, only possibility.              

I didn’t want to go back to Hostel Casa Pueblo too soon. I had a premonition about the next day, wanted to brush elbows with strangers and watch children do what they do. I bought a small geode, cut in half so the crystals gleamed inside. It probably came from China but it didn’t matter, it sparkled and it was in my pocket. At the bus station I fed the man the answer instead of the question, “No cambio!” no change. He sounded like an echo; “No cambio.” I asked, “The bus to the airport, when does it leave in the morning?” He didn’t have to check a schedule, “Siete y media.” he replied: 7:30. “Cuantos” I asked. “200 pesos.”  - “Gracias” - “De nada.” 

PATAGONIA 29 - PLAY SOMETHING

Mendoza, Argentina: I had a week to take care of all my unfinished business before my plane took off, Santiago to Miami. I knew on the front end, itineraries are like underwear, change as needed or wish that you had. On the day your plane takes off, you need to be on it. I wanted a couple of days in Mendoza, 5 or 6 days to wrap up things in Santiago. My unbridled explorer still wanted to go to Bolivia. I had the money but while on Navimag, between Puerto Natales and Puerto Montt I did the math; Bolivia would have to be the one that got away. 

As a bird flies, Mendoza to Santiago is about 150 miles but it’s up and over a 20,000 ft. mountain range. The bus has to stay on the road which adds another hundred miles. There was a seat on the bus for the next day and I was about to count out the money when the agent explained the caveat. It had been snowing on the pass for several days and it closed the day I arrived. When the weather closes the road over the mountains, there is no way to know when it will reopen. They have snow plows but it is not the Interstate system. The road can stay closed for weeks. In that case, the only way to get across is to fly or go back around, the way I came. When that happens the air fare from here to there goes up x3. I could buy the ticket and know it is good for some day, maybe soon, maybe not. Then as a last resort I could get a refund. 

Walking down town from the bus station meant crossing the superhighway at a nearby underpass. I picked up a map at the bus station and plotted my course to a mid-city park, near the business district. I shopped a little with nothing in mind. The long ride from Bariloche left me needing some exercise and the walking was good. Mendoza had a feel, a different kind of culture than anywhere I’d been on this trip. The pace was slower, people were more patient than in Santiago. Avenues, boulevards and even side streets were lined with mature sycamore trees. There were parks everywhere with lots of marble, white painted walls and wrought iron fences. After a token comparison it was a no-brainer; New Orleans with it’s monuments, parks and live oak trees: just different coordinates and culture. I walked until I’d had enough and headed back to check on the snow, up on the pass. 

At the bus station the man at the information desk must have thought I was just another self obsessed gringo and he would have been right. I wanted detailed information on snow, the road, the plows, the weather forecast; that he didn’t have. The mentality there is a little different than Michigan where no news is good news. In Argentina, no news simply means they don’t know. All he could tell me was, the road is closed. I went to an internet café, checked the weather and confirmed that it was snowing on the mountain. The forecast was more snow on the mountain, right! Jephthah and I asked our Inn Keeper about getting over the mountain and she deferred it to God’s hands, if not God then, the Gods. In Mendoza we were wearing sweaters but unzipped. The mountain pass might as well been on another planet. Only foreigners want to go to Chile; so why not stay a few more days and spend your money here! 

I took my guitar across the street, sat on a table top in the park and practiced. Tuning by ear, I broke the high E string and was upset with myself. Earlier in the day I had walked by a music shop and would take it there. I didn’t have a crank handle to spin the tuners or a wire cutter to trim strings. I figured I’d have them all replaced and tuned. Evening was coming on, Jephthah and I discovered a produce stand tucked in a little alcove on the street. We got mangos and went back across the street to the park again. His work with Amnesty International was a thin cover for running away. He just wanted some separation from overbearing parents and a girlfriend who wanted to get married and make babies. Déjà vu; I thought of Jos, my Dutch amigo from Ushuaia only forty years removed. Jos had been there with reservations about going back. Jephthah was wary from the start. He was meeting lots of people, developing a Latino network and traveling, in no hurry to assimilate the stereotype, American dream. We got along very well. Back at Casa Pueblo my bed had a new, at least a different mattress. It was sleepable, made me feel special. Before turning in I walked over to the bus station and got the latest information. I knew somehow that it wasn’t snowing in Santiago and my plane would take off on schedule. 

The next morning Jephthah had a long list of things to do; we had coffee together, I took my guitar and headed back down town. New strings and a setup, 400 pesos, about $14 American and that was a good deal. I had to pick it up after siesta and that was good too. Siesta in Mendoza was observed, at least wherever I went. I found the best way to deal with it was to take a nap. On a park bench, nobody bothers you. At city center, there was a big park full of big trees with sidewalks that divided it into quarters and then circular walkways that subdivided the quarters. While I sat, people arrived with push carts, began setting up booths and stands. There would be a festival beginning that night. I had nothing better to do so I waited, treated myself to empanadas, orange soda and watched. 

With my guitar on my back I wandered neighborhoods; I was in the high rent district. Big, three story, stone and brick homes on the same block with impressive buildings of similar design, museums, government offices; it felt like I should have a ticket to be there. Back at the park, I approached a young woman who was babysitting a peddler’s booth. The articles for sale were necklaces, leather cords with silver pendants, crystals and incense. I asked her name and she said, “Wing”. I moved my arms like a bird and she laughed, told me, “sí, como un ave.” Yes, like a bird. She was watching Leo’s stand until he returned. Leo was the artist, a silver smith. We talked, she knew enough English to help but it took several attempts to accomplish any real communication. What was remarkable was the tattoo on her left forearm. It was a dragon in flight with one wing and tail running up to the elbow, the other wing fanning out on her hand and fingers, the head turning under her wrist, consuming her palm and thumb. No matter how she moved, the dragon articulated in a dragon-like way. When Leo came back I asked about a particular design of a silver cross. I called it an Inca cross, commonly found in Inca art. He said he could make anything I could draw so I drew it. “Come back in an hour and a half,” he said and took off. Wing knew everyone who came by, introducing me I had more new friends in a short time than I could remember. 

Wing started helping customers, taking money and wrapping packages. I went wandering, first one circle-walkway and then another. There were buskers at the cross-walks and a gazebo in the very center with a native, panflute band. The weather cooled and fog settled in. When I got back around, Wing had gone and Leo was back. Two of his friends were there gabbing, they weren’t shopping. He opened a small box and there was the Inca cross, just like I drew it. I was delighted with it, asked, “Cuantos?” how much? He shook his head, “Nada”. It was the first time he had seen the design, said he would make more and sell them easily. If he wouldn’t take my money for the custom piece, I would buy something else. I chose a silver, Patagonian Thunderbird, mounted on a carved piece of coconut shell. 

Leo’s friend had been eyeing my guitar case. He asked, “Tocas?” You play? In Spanish, the word for Play is Jugar and it’s not used with making music on an instrument. You do not play the guitar, the word is Tocar, to touch. I nodded in the affirmative but included a disclaimer, needing help with the vocabulary: A beginner “Un principiante.” His eyes lit up, “Toca algo”, play something. So I strummed through the 12 bar blues, noodled a little with a lick inside the B7 chord and repeated a couple of turn arounds. It was cool, several strangers stopped to watch. My new amigo, in perfect English; “May I ?” With Leo it was, what you see is what you get. But the other two were toying with me. Their English was very good and he wanted to see my guitar. I turned it over to the young dude and he schooled us all in the blues. For a solid 2 or 3 minutes, without a pause he performed stuff that would hold an audience at any Kansas City blues club. He was genuine, showing off for sure but in a cool, warm way. He loved the instrument and I thought, ‘I am very ordinary but that little guitar is special.” 

At the bus station, “No cambio en la montaña?” No change on the mountain? They man said, “Oh sí, mucho cambio, mas nieve.” Oh yes, lots of change, more snow. I figured I had one more day; if the bus couldn’t run I’d have to shell out the 8,000 pesos to fly, roughly $250 American compared to $35 for a bus ticket. Then it occurred to me with so many people flying, would there be a seat left on the plane? I slept alright but woke up with the gloomy prospect of missing my plane. 

PATAGONIA 28 - GETTING MY CARD PUNCHED

  Bariloche, Argentina: On my way south I had spent a week in Bariloche when my plan was two days and move on. In that week I’d seen about everything. Buying chocolate would take an hour at most so I stopped by Escuela De Montaña. My former teacher Arianna wasn’t there but the old German school master was. A hand shake didn’t take long and I was out of things to do. When everything’s new, even gloomy weather has an up-side. Without a purpose, the second time around is just the same old place. Bariloche was still a cool place but boredom comes easy. Getting my card punched and moving on was my reason to be there. 

There was a different lady at the chocolate shop. I didn’t know if the first one would have remembered me anyway so there was no joy in retelling the story. Two kilos of new chocolate in the old tin, I packed it carefully in my backpack where I could keep it safe. I did splurge however, ate half a dozen chocolates, rationed out over a couple of hours but there was a chocolate high. 

We had omelettes later rather than early. Herman booked my bus ticket for that night, over 800 miles north to Mendoza. It’s a big city, over a million people in the metro sprawl. On the dry, eastern slopes of the Andes, it is to grapes and wine what Iowa is to corn. If you buy a bottle of Malbec anywhere, if not a California knockoff the odds are that it came from Mendoza. Herman wanted to know if he should book a hostel for me but I thought, no, I’ll wing it. We shot pool after lunch and watched the clock. The bus ride to Mendoza would be an all night, all day marathon. I don’t remember much about that except that we spent a lot of time on bad road, slow going with long delays at scheduled stops. 

The bus station in Mendoza was big, full of people, busses lined up in the street waiting for a place to unload. There was none of the organization and courtesy you find at baggage claim in an airport, it was push and shove, drag your stuff through people clamoring to reach their own bags at buss-side. When I emerged on the other side of the scramble I thought; OMG. We were deluged by hotel and hostel hawkers. I was used to hawkers but in Mendoza it was like having fleas. A dozen, maybe more, men waving brochures, all of them in my face, trying to get closer, trying to out-shout the guy in front of them. If I took a step back they all stepped forward. Obviously I was a gringo and gringos all have lots of money, everybody knows that so I was the bullseye.

I started with a polite rejection but they were not listening, only competing for eye contact and my attention. I laughed for a while, made faces at them, turned and tried to walk away but they outflanked me easily. Some rattled off Spanish so fast even a native would have to hear it again. Others, some whose English was no better than my Spanish just added to the din. I looked the nearest guy in the eyes and asked, “Comprendes no?” Do you understand? Quickly followed by, “Respondeme!” Answer me! After a few repetitions the guy would acknowledge that he did understand. Then I said, “Entonces dejame solo, vayas” Then leave me alone, go! Then I made eye contact with the next guy, second verse, same as the first. By the third guy they got the message, turned away and left me alone.  My plan had been to check out the message board where all of the hotel, hostel business cards and flyers would be posted. 

The crowd on the platform thinned out and the noise subsided. I pinned my duffle and guitar between me and the message board, you don’t let go and look away. If you’re not holding on to everything you own and look away, something will be stolen. I had a pencil and note pad in my pocket, started writing down addresses. As I made my way over to the information kiosk an inconspicuous, unassuming lady beckoned me. She had been leaning against the wall under the “Information” sign. I read her lips, “If you need a room, I can help.” I did and she did.

Across the street from the bus station was a park that took up the whole block. Looking through the fence and across the next street you could see her place. The walk was short, the price was right and I had a bed. In my 2-bed room I discovered a long hair, hippy type room mate from Massachusetts named Jephthah; he worked for Amnesty International. In our conversations the best I could glean was that he answered to a supervisor in the States and basically did what he was told. He was trying to get some legal assistance for an Indian tribe farther south. Who would have ever believed, European immigrants were trying to steal their land.

My bed was awful. It felt like bed slats in a sack. I can sleep on hard and smooth but sharp and pointy was a bad deal. I went back to the lounge and slept fully dressed on a couch. The desk clerk in the morning was afraid I might be a vagrant, not very friendly but I showed him my receipt. He apologized but couldn’t get it. If you paid for a room, why sleep in the lounge. “La sala estaba bueno,” I said, “pero la cama esta malo.” He still didn’t get it and my Spanish was close enough. I went back to English. “Only a gringo would understand.” He didn’t get that either. I felt much better after a shower and change into clean clothes. 

PATAGONIA 27 - NO QUICK FIX

Inside Passage, Chile: The northern reach of Chile’s archipelago has a lot of open water, even another stretch of exposure to the sea. But we had come north a long way and the weather was turning fair. The last full day was a holiday of sorts in Chile, a special day to recognize and appreciate mariners. I don’t know how they celebrate in Santiago or Concepcion but sea port cities have festivals and decorate their harbors, not unlike Cajun shrimper’s on the Gulf Coast, Blessing The Fleet on the first day of shrimp season. On board our boat, the Captain would come down from his lair, (none of us had seen him at all.) and eat in the dining room with the crew and passengers. I was more impressed with the boatmen of Puerto Edén than our ghost captain but with the trip winding down, anybody who might be even semi-important was worth watching. I was looking for some gold braid and esprit de corps. The cooks went the extra mile with both cake and ice cream. 

On the leeward side of the big island, Chiloe, where I had spent two days in May, calm water and moon lit sky signaled the onset of closure for this boat ride. It was like the day before school lets out; too late to start anything but too soon to relax. I bid Chris farewell earlier in the day, packed and repacked my belongings, walked all the decks and walkways I was allowed and then spent more time topside on the observation deck. You could see lights on shore in the distance and airplanes; stars don’t blink after all. The cows were quiet; if only they knew.

 
Murray was headed back to the Philippines, his agent had signed him on with a crew while we were on Navimag. I was the last to turn in, fully dressed, everything stowed; just my windup, travel alarm ticking in my pocket. I felt a little bump, then another. We were getting turned around, backing into our slot with the help of a harbor tug. I went out to the landing above the cargo deck. Puerto Montt was lit up but likewise, still asleep. It was 4:00 a.m. Murray came up, he felt the bump as well. We wished the other well in a genuine sort of way. Chances of ever meeting again were minuscule but for a couple of days we drank coffee and swapped stories. Cold breakfast was served early; fruit, cereal, bread, cheese and jam. Then the Purser collected keys, thanked us for traveling with Navimag, led us back down the way we had come aboard. 

Jeff and Jeff led the way, long strides, not looking back. It was daylight but no traffic, doors still locked up and down the street. After gliding in under clear skies it was clouded over again and showers were the rule. I found a modest hotel, got a room and stowed my bags. With just my back pack I set out to see Puerto Montt. I saw Susan twice through the morning, doing the same kind of meandering as me. There was a market place along the waterfront with small shops and vendadores, selling trinkets off of plastic tablecloths, spread out on the concrete. In a leather shop I found salmon leather. They carefully skin the fish, remove the scales and process the skin into leather. Fish skin it seems is no different than mammal skins; you can make wallets and hand bags with the natural scale pattern, even the lateral line. I bought several dark brown pieces. 

My water proof jacket served me well in Puerto Montt. Showers came and went but when it rained it came down in torrents. I found the bus terminal, bought my ticket. I was to the point I didn’t think much about how much things cost, only whether I had enough cash to get home. I would be headed back across the divide to Argentina with some business to finish in Bariloche, I needed a fresh supply of chocolate. Several days of sleeping in the same bed had let me forget the necessity of constant self monitoring. It goes with the vagabond life style. Onboard the bus with plenty of time to spare, I took a nap, surprised how easy it was to slip away. 

We got into the mountains quickly. Granted, winter was upon us but the snow depth still surprised me. Traffic was stopped at one point where a semi had jackknifed. They left the trailer where it broke down. Traffic was alternating one way at a time, squeezing through but it confirmed for me; down south there are no quick fixes, you simply work around the obstacle. 

In Bariloche, when I checked into Tango Inn they welcomed me like old friends do. I told them about the chocolate melting in Ushuaia, that I ate it all and needed more. They got a good laugh out of that but agreed, you gotta do what you gotta do. The dogs were still sleeping in the vestibule and I felt a weird sense of belonging. I heard a shout out from the back room, would there be omelettes in the morning? I told Herman I didn’t have any groceries and was quickly advised, “The groceries will be there when you wake up.”

PATAGONIA 26 - NOT SO PEACEFUL

Inside Passage, Chile: Everybody was anticipating the stop at Puerto Edén. It is a tiny village, the most remote destination in all of Chile. The only feasible way to get there is a Navimag ferry. There are no roads, only boardwalks. On average, it rains there 350 days per year. The 200 or so people who live there are either fishermen and their families, indigenous natives or military and national park personnel. At 2:30 in the a.m. we stopped in mid channel, did not tie up or drop anchor. The rear clamshell doors opened to accommodate five or six fishing boats loaded with fresh fish, muscles and cargo bound for Puerto Montt. 

The ramp was lowered even with the decks of the attending boats and the pace of activity turned frantic. The boatmen offloaded their stuff onto the ramp and then took on food, supplies, mail, tools, gasoline and diesel fuel, propane tanks. They got back a 30 hp outboard motor that had been to Puerto Montt for repairs, bags and boxes of who knows what. Whatever they need to survive that they can not do for themselves, Navimag shipments every few days has to meet that need. I saw Carmen, in uniform, climbing down into one of the boats. The scene was either washed out in a blinding glare from the portable lights or it was pitch dark. I didn’t have to be reminded, keep my distance. There was a maelstrom of bodies and materials, all perilously close to dangling cables, chains and winches. A short reach away were bobbing boats and treacherous, dark, deep water. 20 minutes later it was over. In the blink of an eye, the heavy laden fishing boats tooted their horns and sped away. A Navimag officer I’d never seen before was prodding us up the ramp. Before we could reach the stairwell the clamshell doors banged closed and you could feel the propellers start to turn. Underway, I went to the dining room where the juice machine and ice maker were always available, drank down some pineapple juice and reflected. It was 3:15 and if you didn’t know better, it felt like a lazy winter night on the inside passage. 

At breakfast all we talked about was the midnight rendezvous in Puerto Edén. Carmen had shared with us that life there takes some getting used to. She grew up in Santiago and could take leave, go home, she could live the familiar, urban life for a while. But for the natives, life was basically fish on the menu, rendezvous with Navimag and a lot of rain, and they seemed content. 

The engineer from New Zealand’s name was Murray. In his late 40’s I would guess, we shared digital photos and he downloaded mine onto a CD for me. He told some great stories about offshore drilling adventures in the Indian Ocean. He was between jobs, traveling like the rest of us. He knew somebody at Navimag, had a larger, more comfortable room in the crew’s quarters and free run of the boat. 

There are two places on the inside passage where the route skirts the outside islands with nothing between us and the Pacific Ocean. The two Jeffs, Murray and I were on the bridge with Chris the next afternoon. He asked if any of us ever got sea sick, that we should expect heavy weather and a rougher ride soon. The Pacific is not so peaceful at that latitude. As if waiting for his cue, we watched as the bow began to slowly rise and fall, sending spray over the foredeck. For the first time you could see swells rolling across our path. Then you could feel the roll; lean left, lean right. “If you feel queazy, either Benadryl or Dramamine help; check with the cook at dinner.”  We looked around, smiled silly smiles but nobody admitted to a weak stomach. A little smug, Chris added, “The cows aren’t going to like this at all. The drivers will be up with them all night, get them back on their feet when they slip and fall down.”  In bed, in the dark, pitching and rolling I didn’t have any stomach issues but I did think about Davy Jones’ locker.  By breakfast time we were on flat water again, in the shelter of the outer islands.

It was never an issue but I figured out the arrangement between the two Jeffs and Susan, the Peruvian student. They were not actually traveling together, she had been tagging along for a couple of weeks. I remembered what Esra told me back in Valdivia; women traveling alone have to be doubly concerned with safety. Alone, you attract attention, especially in a male dominant culture, looking vulnerable even if you are not. I think she tolerated me easily but certainly, she enjoyed not having to watch her back in my company. So Susan made friends with the boys, hung out with them, enjoying the advantage of their proximity. They liked her well enough but were always sneaking off, always alluding to extra baggage. I sat with her at breakfast after Port Edén thinking the boys would join us but they went to another table. She was cool in her own right. Quiet and plain around the guys, she made good company, good conversation without them. Born in Washington D.C. to Peruvian parents, she had dual citizenship. After visiting family in Lima, she went on holiday before returning to Maryland for classes in the fall. From Puerto Montt they would go their own ways. 

Our Navimag sister ship was on its way south, a day out of Puerto Montt. Like ships passing in the night: the saying suggests a near encounter at best but these two boats crisscross the same passage every week. We would see them at just about lunch time. Chris cautioned us, it happens fast. “When you hear the horn you only have a few minutes.” We were up on the observation deck; weather was still  low clouds and rain but if there was no reason to be down in, we all preferred to be up high, looking out. Even with wind whistling through the railings and antennas, we heard Sister Ship’s horn before we saw her. Almost dead ahead, coming at us, her small silhouette came out of the gray weather. Then there was a profile, red, yellow and blue markings and the horn blowing began in earnest. We passed close enough to see truck tops on her cargo deck. Waving, cheering, you’d have thought we knew someone over there. The noise stopped, they disappeared and Chris was right; “If your camera isn’t in your hand, you won’t have time to fetch it.” Not that night but late the next, the small boats from Puerto Edén would be waiting like pirates, like desperados waiting for the train. 

PATAGONIA 25 - ONE FIRST KISS

Navimag, Chile: We must have been waiting for daylight. When the sky went gray to pink I felt the engines throttle up. A few minutes later I felt motion. We headed south for an hour or so before making the move west and then another hour or so, north. All of us passengers turned out topside. The observation deck was on the very top, above the bridge and officers quarters. Not a lot of conversation, we were all caught up in the moment. 

When I went to Alaska in 2009, the mountains and fjords were spellbinding. It was normal for natives, transplants and wannabe pilgrims to beg the grandeur of Alaska’s prime wilderness. Of course the wide eyed newbies could only affirm that sense of awe. But awe is one thing and blubbering is another. I would nod my approval and say, “Yea, it’s cool.” Sometimes I got pushback, like “How can you not be dumb-struck?” Without any rhetoric I explained, “I’ve been spoiled; I did Patagonia before I came here.” Not that one is more special than the other but you only get one first kiss. 

There were two game boards painted on the deck, one with large checkers the size of hubcaps and the other, knee high chess pieces. You had to walk around the pieces, pick them up to make your move. Carmen, the lady who would be getting of at the next stop, she wanted to play chess so we worked on my Spanish and tried to remember some chess strategy. We both knew the moves but neither had any idea how to attack or defend. Her job was a collaboration between the Navy and the National Park. In the wee hours of the next morning we would stop in the middle of the channel to resupply the hamlet of Puerto Edén and she would go ashore there. 

The cloud cover was broken with occasional shafts of sunlight breaking through. I learned that was normal. The archipelago itself is a weather maker that doesn’t let much sunshine through so you relish the patches of blue. Soaking up the scenery is great but pretty soon you need to move and do something else. I went up to the starboard wing, off the bridge, looked inside and to my surprise my British cohorts were there, talking with the man. It turns out, whoever is in command can choose to let passengers on the bridge. The 2nd Officer’s name was Chris, he had the 12:00-4:00 watch both day and night and liked speaking English so getting on the bridge was easy. The boat pretty much drove itself but he showed us the manual systems and we studied his charts and radar. He was a music buff, listening to the blues, loved Clapton and B.B. King. Chris didn’t wear his uniform on the bridge and the informality seemed strange. I suppose we could have saluted or called him “Sir” but he liked spontaneity and we might as well have been drinking buddies. Sailing the inland passage does not have the rigors of the open sea but it gets tense when the boat negotiates tight spaces. Chris would send us off to the far window while he played with the thrusters. He would be on the bridge when we stopped at Puerto Edén but the Captain was always up for that stop as well. 

The bridge of a ship is where you want to be, at least if you’re on an inside passage. Looking up the throat of narrow channels, you can’t ignore vertical walls of black granite. The more I looked the harder it was to imagine if water was encroaching up the mountain side or the other way around. There are times when you have a quarter or half a mile of open water to the wall but it can narrow dramatically, quickly. From the bridge you see it coming. That first day there was open water on the port side but we were angling straight into the mountain on the right. Chris had played this game with others on other trips I’m sure and he enjoyed it. Jeff and Jeffrey (my English amigos) exchanged anxious glances and we all rolled our eyes. Uncomfortably close to the rocks Chris informed us; “The open water is a dead end.” As he spoke, a narrow gap in the wall appeared. “To transit these narrows we have to make a sharp 90 degree turn to port inside the narrows, with altogether maybe 30 meters clearance.” He loved it. This was where he truly earned his pay. It took half an hour to go a quarter mile. It felt like we were dead in the water but he was tickling the rudder and thrusters like an astronaut docking with the space station. Seals came up close, barking back and forth but nothing new for them. A Navimag ferry does this little dance, going or coming, every two or three days. Jeff, the taller of the two, likened it to riding an inner tube in the bath tub. Upstream a ways we had 100 meters on either side and it seemed like miles.

We ate cafeteria style with a cook spooning out portions. You could go back for seconds and we did. Good thing I’m not vegetarian, meat is central to every entree. I think the salad bowl was there to add color. I took my share of peas, avocado and corn but then I’m a gringo. After dinner we checked the movie; they ran movies in the lounge until the wee hours. Depending on which movie was playing, a few truck drivers came up from their lounge to watch what was showing on our screen. They had to keep their trucks clean so they could put feed on the floor. They didn’t want the cows to lose weight on the boat ride. Twice a day they hosed manure out of the truck, onto the deck and then to a drain that kept the deck clean. The smell tended to waft out the back and we didn’t notice but some of the drivers kept their trucks cleaner than they did themselves. Late at night the lounge reeked of cows, smoke and booze but come morning, it smelled of disinfectant and fresh air. I never knew who’s job that was but he was my favorite employee.