Flotando en las turberas de Chiloé
Floating on the peatlands of Chiloé
A suspended wooden walkway guides me through the tangled branches and tree trunks that form the overgrowth and offers views of the treacherous ground below. Puddles, thick mud and spongy peatlands made of Spaghnum mosses carpet the land. In some areas low lying shrubs and the Cypruss tree offer some shade from the relentless sun. The sun is strong and so too is the relentless wind. Crashing waves can be heard amongst birdsong in the trees.
And what was that? I stop and listen.
Was it the unusual squeaking sound of a tree branch shifting in the wind or a bird watching me? Everything is hidden in the peatlands of Chiloé, where the most illustrious creature of all, Darwin's 2cm long emerald green frog hides deep in the undergrowth.
The wind is cool, wild and refeshing all at once and the landscape is rugged. Weather beaten, wooden houses decorated with the quintessential Chiloé wooden tile dot the land behind the yellow grey dunes.
On the bus, a Chilean family is in front of me and is dropped off at their house. Other visitors play a banjo on the back of the bus and the accent and dialect everyone speaks on the bus is almost incomprehensible.
It is indeed incomprehensible, I only realise when I am the last one on the bus and ask for directions and the driver tells me that he said the name of the stop earlier. I had wanted to go to the Muelle de las Almas - the dock of the souls, a cliff viewpoint dangling over the ocean.
He then says something in the local dialect and I softly tell him "lo siento no entiendo" "que me pagues" - you need to pay me - he orders me, dropping me off the bus at the National park "pregunta por algún lado allí" he tells me, driving off and I enter the National Park of Chiloé.
I am handed a map of the park and two friendly guides help me back on track after paying my 4000 peso entry fee. A museum giving information from everything on the indigenous people's lives, an extract from Darwin's diary detailing his journey here on a canoe with a cow on board, a guide to the flora and fauna informs me. Together with a colourful diagram showing the retreat of the Patagonian icesheet at 15,000 years BP, and the subsequent eustatic sea level rise I feel like I am beginning to understand what makes this island so unique: its isolation from the continent
In amongst the gnarled and twisted branches that cover the path and block out the sun it is easy to understand why so many myths and stories of witchcraft and sorcery envelop this forgotten land. I step over a little wooden bridge in the middle of the wood, where the succession from dune to wood is most apparent and a little troll seems to glance up through the wooden sun bleached slats.
The museum also told me about Darwin's description of the relentless roar of the ocean in the backdrop of this landscape; and it's true - the work of the Ocean here is neverending. And even though I haven't seen it yet through the scrub and dunes, it is audible but does not deafen the delicate fluttering sound of insects' wings and rustling vegetation which crackles in the breeze.
So I carry on along the now gravel path and stop for a second to hear a chirping sound - could it be the frog? Nevermind the frog, a sudden rush of wind sends spores into the air from some vegetation nearby and they twist into a vortex, shimmering a spectral shade of green in the translucent, white light; nature's sequins.
Now, the path crosses the gravel road that the bus came along earlier where I misunderstood how to reach my destination, which I haven't made anyway - perhaps it was not meant to be - and I was supposed to come here instead. I close a gate behind me and start off on the aptly named dune route, which takes me on up high to a viewpoint, offering a sweeping view of the confluence of two rivers which meander their way to the expanse of the Pacific below. The roar is now louder.
The last part of the trail takes me down onto the beach, where the river has created a lagoon which is passable only by boat. From there, it is possible to see for miles South towards the stacks and stumps of a cliff system and North, where the ocean seems to have taken on a even more ferocious nature, smashing enormous waves up onto the grey yellow sandy beach, showering it in foam.
Smashed, bivalve seashells which seem white in the sunlight coverthe beach and I recognise them as machas, the shellfish I ate two days ago at Neruda's coastal home 800km north of here.
I see a park ranger on the way back and ask when the last tsunami was. "Dos mil diez", he tells me, "evacuamos toda la zona pero solo llegó hasta la playa." And, then he tells me the earlier one in 1960 ripped through the whole area, reaching the houses up on the hilltops and spilled on up through the lakes, forming the heart of the island of Chiloé, and I am quickly reminded at how ungiving nature is in its rawness.
Here, they take no chances when it comes to mother nature. But, despite the roar of the ocean, today, I'm told, is a calm, sunny day.
Enjoy it.
Back on the local bus, I pass a road sign. It is green and on it, reads grafitti "no al puente" - no to the bridge. A bridge could irrevocably change this island forever for the first time since the last iceage.
A suspended wooden walkway guides me through the tangled branches and tree trunks that form the overgrowth and offers views of the treacherous ground below. Puddles, thick mud and spongy peatlands made of Spaghnum mosses carpet the land. In some areas low lying shrubs and the Cypruss tree offer some shade from the relentless sun. The sun is strong and so too is the relentless wind. Crashing waves can be heard amongst birdsong in the trees.
And what was that? I stop and listen.
Was it the unusual squeaking sound of a tree branch shifting in the wind or a bird watching me? Everything is hidden in the peatlands of Chiloé, where the most illustrious creature of all, Darwin's 2cm long emerald green frog hides deep in the undergrowth.
The wind is cool, wild and refeshing all at once and the landscape is rugged. Weather beaten, wooden houses decorated with the quintessential Chiloé wooden tile dot the land behind the yellow grey dunes.
On the bus, a Chilean family is in front of me and is dropped off at their house. Other visitors play a banjo on the back of the bus and the accent and dialect everyone speaks on the bus is almost incomprehensible.
It is indeed incomprehensible, I only realise when I am the last one on the bus and ask for directions and the driver tells me that he said the name of the stop earlier. I had wanted to go to the Muelle de las Almas - the dock of the souls, a cliff viewpoint dangling over the ocean.
He then says something in the local dialect and I softly tell him "lo siento no entiendo" "que me pagues" - you need to pay me - he orders me, dropping me off the bus at the National park "pregunta por algún lado allí" he tells me, driving off and I enter the National Park of Chiloé.
I am handed a map of the park and two friendly guides help me back on track after paying my 4000 peso entry fee. A museum giving information from everything on the indigenous people's lives, an extract from Darwin's diary detailing his journey here on a canoe with a cow on board, a guide to the flora and fauna informs me. Together with a colourful diagram showing the retreat of the Patagonian icesheet at 15,000 years BP, and the subsequent eustatic sea level rise I feel like I am beginning to understand what makes this island so unique: its isolation from the continent
In amongst the gnarled and twisted branches that cover the path and block out the sun it is easy to understand why so many myths and stories of witchcraft and sorcery envelop this forgotten land. I step over a little wooden bridge in the middle of the wood, where the succession from dune to wood is most apparent and a little troll seems to glance up through the wooden sun bleached slats.
The museum also told me about Darwin's description of the relentless roar of the ocean in the backdrop of this landscape; and it's true - the work of the Ocean here is neverending. And even though I haven't seen it yet through the scrub and dunes, it is audible but does not deafen the delicate fluttering sound of insects' wings and rustling vegetation which crackles in the breeze.
So I carry on along the now gravel path and stop for a second to hear a chirping sound - could it be the frog? Nevermind the frog, a sudden rush of wind sends spores into the air from some vegetation nearby and they twist into a vortex, shimmering a spectral shade of green in the translucent, white light; nature's sequins.
Now, the path crosses the gravel road that the bus came along earlier where I misunderstood how to reach my destination, which I haven't made anyway - perhaps it was not meant to be - and I was supposed to come here instead. I close a gate behind me and start off on the aptly named dune route, which takes me on up high to a viewpoint, offering a sweeping view of the confluence of two rivers which meander their way to the expanse of the Pacific below. The roar is now louder.
The last part of the trail takes me down onto the beach, where the river has created a lagoon which is passable only by boat. From there, it is possible to see for miles South towards the stacks and stumps of a cliff system and North, where the ocean seems to have taken on a even more ferocious nature, smashing enormous waves up onto the grey yellow sandy beach, showering it in foam.
Smashed, bivalve seashells which seem white in the sunlight coverthe beach and I recognise them as machas, the shellfish I ate two days ago at Neruda's coastal home 800km north of here.
I see a park ranger on the way back and ask when the last tsunami was. "Dos mil diez", he tells me, "evacuamos toda la zona pero solo llegó hasta la playa." And, then he tells me the earlier one in 1960 ripped through the whole area, reaching the houses up on the hilltops and spilled on up through the lakes, forming the heart of the island of Chiloé, and I am quickly reminded at how ungiving nature is in its rawness.
Here, they take no chances when it comes to mother nature. But, despite the roar of the ocean, today, I'm told, is a calm, sunny day.
Enjoy it.
Back on the local bus, I pass a road sign. It is green and on it, reads grafitti "no al puente" - no to the bridge. A bridge could irrevocably change this island forever for the first time since the last iceage.
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