On the edge of nothing
"How many times does the ferry come here to this port?" I ask intrigued at the desolate landscape.
"Everytime the ferry passes." I'm silent to that response. The man who has just wound up a rope seems to think that is a good response but realises it wasn't the one I was looking for. Is this the Chilean sense of humour? I lived in Galicia for eight years. They say you don't know if Galicians are going up or down the stairs because their answers can be very vague - well this man must be going flipping sideways on the landing. "It comes and goes, comes and goes." Comes the extremely vague response as if that would satisfy my question.
"How many times a week? " I probe further, illiciting a more precise response.
"About twice a week."
End of conversation.
There was a flurry of activity as the parking deck of the ferry was turned into a makeshift department store selling everything from beer to tomatoes, car tyres to carrots in giant blue sacks. Money exchanged hands and fruit and alcohol was piled into weather beaten boats.
Families rowed up along side the ferry, throwing their ropes onto the deck which were quickly tied up.
They had come to stock up and there was a hive of frenetic, stressful activity where everyone was heaving their shopping onto little boats that once full, shot away into the deeper fjords and vanished into the misty horizon.
Everyone approaching the ship was excited to see it. There was a real buzz in the air in a land where nothing much happens.
As we leave port, the purchasers scramble off the green loading bay and onto dry land. We leave the fyord and enter the wider bay and we get just a small hint of how savage mother nature can be this far South. It is eight o clock, the day after the summer solstice (the sun sets here at 10) and the sky has turned an almost jet black, bathing the lush green treelined U shaped valley into an artist's palette of blue greys. The ocean is now a steel grey; where the propeller spins there is white spray and hints of turquoise water.
And it is very cold.
The damp chills to the bone.
Now, imagine Spring,
now autumn
and...shudder...winter.
This is the edge of nothing.
Puerto Cisnes
Sunday 23rd December 2018
"Everytime the ferry passes." I'm silent to that response. The man who has just wound up a rope seems to think that is a good response but realises it wasn't the one I was looking for. Is this the Chilean sense of humour? I lived in Galicia for eight years. They say you don't know if Galicians are going up or down the stairs because their answers can be very vague - well this man must be going flipping sideways on the landing. "It comes and goes, comes and goes." Comes the extremely vague response as if that would satisfy my question.
"How many times a week? " I probe further, illiciting a more precise response.
"About twice a week."
End of conversation.
There was a flurry of activity as the parking deck of the ferry was turned into a makeshift department store selling everything from beer to tomatoes, car tyres to carrots in giant blue sacks. Money exchanged hands and fruit and alcohol was piled into weather beaten boats.
Families rowed up along side the ferry, throwing their ropes onto the deck which were quickly tied up.
They had come to stock up and there was a hive of frenetic, stressful activity where everyone was heaving their shopping onto little boats that once full, shot away into the deeper fjords and vanished into the misty horizon.
Everyone approaching the ship was excited to see it. There was a real buzz in the air in a land where nothing much happens.
As we leave port, the purchasers scramble off the green loading bay and onto dry land. We leave the fyord and enter the wider bay and we get just a small hint of how savage mother nature can be this far South. It is eight o clock, the day after the summer solstice (the sun sets here at 10) and the sky has turned an almost jet black, bathing the lush green treelined U shaped valley into an artist's palette of blue greys. The ocean is now a steel grey; where the propeller spins there is white spray and hints of turquoise water.
And it is very cold.
The damp chills to the bone.
Now, imagine Spring,
now autumn
and...shudder...winter.
This is the edge of nothing.
Puerto Cisnes
Sunday 23rd December 2018
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