The Dock of Souls - El muelle de las almas
Dreary, that's the definition of today's weather forecast on my app - and to be fair sums up my mood for the last few days. It was forecast to be gorgeous, blue sky weather. And that's just it - here on the edge of the world you cannot depend on anything to be as it says.
But then, surprise surprise the sun burns through the clouds on the way to my destination.
At the dock of souls the sounds of crashing waves, birds and the roaring and honking of sea lions is broken only by a Bolivian teenager's beatbox blaring out some unintelligible raggaetton rap. Even the sea lions in the distance, down on the inaccessible rock platform seem to be rapping along, flapping their flab, even if that was not their intention today. As if that wasn't enough the teen decides that a close call version of the sea lions is needed for the public and does a roly poly down the hill, honking in joy.
The family move on and peace is restored; all that can be heard now is the chirping of a bird that has just balanced on the wooden fence marking the safe limit of the white cliffs. Everytime I get my camera out their wings flutter away.
An informative sign tells visitors that before the 1960 earthquake and following tsunami these cliffs used to be much more extensive, the whole area was a wave-cut platform where the white water which broke upon them was believed to represent the resting ground of the eternal souls of the dead. Where time flows slow, people reflect and that seems what this place is all about, reminiscing on thought. A land of pure melancholy.
In the background now, in amongst the dark blue crashing green waves is the now audible sporadic cry of sea lions ; the sound is akin to a builder that has dropped a brick on his big toe, crying out in an audible low pitched groan. I wonder for a second what the cry represents, because it is obviously not a brick being dropped on a big toe. And I also wonder if these sea lions will ever see the other side of Patagonia, on the Peninsula Valdes where I was a month earlier. Looking around at the other visitors, I instantly regret not making a sandwich with the ham I had in the fridge this morning and settle on a piece of fruit I find in my backpack instead. This is the perfect spot for a picnic when the sun shines and the wind doesn't blow, which is a combination that, actually, is too much to ask for this far South anyway.
I glance one more time at the cliffs and sea lion colony resting at their precipitous feet.
This may be the last time I am ever at this spot, unless of course this is, according to belief, the Dock of Souls, where we all end.
And with that thought an enormous 6 metre high wave tears into the cliffs below, showering them with foam.
But then, surprise surprise the sun burns through the clouds on the way to my destination.
At the dock of souls the sounds of crashing waves, birds and the roaring and honking of sea lions is broken only by a Bolivian teenager's beatbox blaring out some unintelligible raggaetton rap. Even the sea lions in the distance, down on the inaccessible rock platform seem to be rapping along, flapping their flab, even if that was not their intention today. As if that wasn't enough the teen decides that a close call version of the sea lions is needed for the public and does a roly poly down the hill, honking in joy.
The family move on and peace is restored; all that can be heard now is the chirping of a bird that has just balanced on the wooden fence marking the safe limit of the white cliffs. Everytime I get my camera out their wings flutter away.
An informative sign tells visitors that before the 1960 earthquake and following tsunami these cliffs used to be much more extensive, the whole area was a wave-cut platform where the white water which broke upon them was believed to represent the resting ground of the eternal souls of the dead. Where time flows slow, people reflect and that seems what this place is all about, reminiscing on thought. A land of pure melancholy.
In the background now, in amongst the dark blue crashing green waves is the now audible sporadic cry of sea lions ; the sound is akin to a builder that has dropped a brick on his big toe, crying out in an audible low pitched groan. I wonder for a second what the cry represents, because it is obviously not a brick being dropped on a big toe. And I also wonder if these sea lions will ever see the other side of Patagonia, on the Peninsula Valdes where I was a month earlier. Looking around at the other visitors, I instantly regret not making a sandwich with the ham I had in the fridge this morning and settle on a piece of fruit I find in my backpack instead. This is the perfect spot for a picnic when the sun shines and the wind doesn't blow, which is a combination that, actually, is too much to ask for this far South anyway.
I glance one more time at the cliffs and sea lion colony resting at their precipitous feet.
This may be the last time I am ever at this spot, unless of course this is, according to belief, the Dock of Souls, where we all end.
And with that thought an enormous 6 metre high wave tears into the cliffs below, showering them with foam.
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