Where mountains emerge from the ocean fjords are born
Where the mountains emerge from the depths of the Pacific and a faint beam of sunlight pierces the clouds, small amounts of white snow can be seen on the hillsides.
It's the Southern Hemisphere's summer but it isn't warm. I'm wearing thick winter socks, trainers, trousers, a shirt, fleece and ski jacket and considering another layer of trousers for warmth.
I'm on a thirty hour ferry trip on a cargo ship heading south to Puerto Chacabuco in Aysen, Chilean Patagonia, which I've been warned is difficult to get to but not impossible. My Spanish guidebook given to me as a present warns that a lot of courage and time is needed to travel this side of Patagonia; the carretera austral. If anything Chiloé has taught me, it is to be patient when it comes to the loose term public transport but here that's easy; there is plenty for the eye to see and despite what I've been told these Chilean fjords are anything but monotonous - every five minutes the scene or weather changes and our ferry does move along quickly.
Jagged peaks meet deserted beaches as far as the eye can see.
And that's only a partial view; I do hope for the cloud to break for the view must be incredible but I also think that we are incredibly lucky with this relatively dry, mild weather. The sea is flat. Last night, however, I felt the ferry rocking quite steadily as we crossed over the exposed section from Southern Chiloé to Melinka.
It's fair to note that there are a few tourists on this ferry too but the vast majority are very reserved and keep themselves to themselves - I even tried striking up conversation but have been met with very measured responses. It's a far cry from the hostels I've stayed in in Argentina and Valparaiso. Perhaps, people have come here for the solitude.
The Ports
At five in the morning we entered the first port, Melinka, a little hamlet on the edge of nowhere composed of some low lying islands out at sea to which this twice a week cargo ship are a lifeline. An eardrum busting announcement over the loud speaker jolted everyone out of what sleep they'd been able to muster up on the reclining black leather seats. At five AM it was still too dark to see the islands. I awoke enterring the second port, called Puerto Marín Balmaceda. We docked at eight and were there a good two hours offloading goods to the remote mainland town. I had seen a lot of Christmas presents being loaded onto the cargo ship.
I find myself curious about the other passengers on board. There are families, solo travellers, young and old people. The flashy oversized DSLRs make the tourists stand out. I wonder where they are going what plans they have, where they will spend the holiday season and the purpose of their trip. One brave man in Adidas shorts has fallen asleep on the plastic blue chairs at the back of the boat and another has put on his headphones and looks out at the mountains only 500m away from out ferry as we skate the fjords. Just as I type this I am distracted by another traveller, whose filthy bare feet, bounce up the stairs. The cargo ship is dirty and has a metal floor. Some take the word roughing it to extremes I didn't think possible. Think, I'll be keeping my trainers on, thanks.
I glance in the other direction and now we are entering a narrow channel created by an island to our right called "Isla Refugio" - Shelter Island. I wonder why it is called that. Maybe in storms this narrow inlet has calm waters.
Advice for fellow travellers
I recall last night and my mad dash for the bus to the grotty port town of Quellón. Everything is last minute here so nobody had advised me to buy my 60 mile bus ticket in advance. It only costs 2000 pesos anyway, here there are no savings by buying in advance. Having said that, I was shocked to learn that no tickets were left for the bus and the unsympathetic young lady serving me was in the least bit interested in aiding a foreign tourist - I felt a sharp dose of xenophobia being directed towards me - having experienced that before I knew exactly what it feels like. I asked if there was any other way to travel to Quellón (60miles away I remind you) that evening, and she told me quite nonchalantly- "Yes, you can walk", all the while looking at my backpack and bag of food. I think you'll agree some Chileans have an odd sense of humour and an even more curious sense of what constitutes a respectful level of customer service. Thankfully, when I insist on another route she tells me with an unapologetic indifference to ask "over there" waving her arm at me to leave her alone. As you guessed, I got a ticket on another bus, a better company called ELT and I was over the moon when the giant pink bus pulled up in Castro bus station, the brightest colour I'd seen in days. It felt like the great escape. (I should also note, two nice ladies from the island came to my rescue and helped me on the right bus and when off the bus, came to find me and told me how to get to the ferry; there are nice Chilotes* too). And if you were wondering the tourist information in Castro directed me to the bus station for bus times and information. They didn't seem to know what was going on either.
Deeper reflections on foreign tourism in Chiloé
Sadly I'm left leaving the island behind with a distinct sense that Chiloé is not as ready for outsiders as it hopes and even less so equipped for the foreign tourist, in spite of some lovely people's greatest intentions. I hope I am wrong but six days on this island has taught me that Chiloé is a traditional, conservative place that remains and wants to remain strongly rooted, unchanged, in the past. And I'm not sure our globalised world will accept that; I am sure there is a balance that can be struck. Simply ignoring the outside world is not the solution. Since when is ignorance a solution to anything?
Under construction, I'm told, is a bridge to the mainland and that will change Chiloé forever - for good or for bad; I just dearly hope that balance between conserving traditions and embracing new paths can be found. It is, after all, possible.
I am drawn again to the grafitti I mentioned the other day "a people who identify with their culture are invincible."
And I think it still holds true but after my last few days on the island it takes on a different meaning for me too now - it's important to identify with our culture for knowing ourselves gives us strength but I feel there is a risk in being excessively proud of one's culture as to do so can cause one to become close-minded and cloud one's vision of the flaws inherent in one's own culture or shared cultures. There are two daily newspapers on the island; el insular and la estrella - let's hope the bridge leads to the ideology brought about by the meaning of the latter.
Back on board
Not that us passengers travelling far can disembark but we are free to go to the cargo bay and watch wooden crates of mainly tomatoes, beer and onions being offloaded onto four by fours which move on up through the ferry and head onto dry land in another fyord where Puerto Melimoyu lies. Those three ingredients must feature heavily on the christmas shopping list here.
The weather closes in and the boat begins to rock a bit so I retreat inside to the communal area. There are two communal indoor areas on the ship; the cafeteria where the TV is blaring and the main seating area where several TVs are blaring and a baby never stops crying - I'm concerned by that incessant cry. I pop in my ear plugs and have a little siesta and am awoken to the sound of a squeaky dog toy being used over and over again. Please, please, never give a child under the age of five a squeaky dog toy; and least of all on a thirty hour ferry. You might not appreciate your ear drums or sanity but most of us do.
I glance outside and it has stopped raining - hurrah! So I escape again to sit at the back of the boat, type and watch the fjords go by.
The names of the Ports we enter become more and more imaginative.
The man running the ship's café is well informed, hard-working and a joker - he pretends to throw himself overboard. I ask about the ports and he points to a seagull enthusiastically - "That's called a seagull!" he tells me. And the ports, these are still to come:
Puerto Cisnes - Port Swan 4 hours
Puerto Gaviota - Port Seagull 7 hours
Puerto Aguirre - (no translation) 10 hours
And finally, Puerto Chacabuco (which I'm hoping is more happening than where we have stopped - 13 hours away).
We are half way!
To Port Cisnes
One of my headphones gives up on life and I am left with one working earphone which is just enough to drown out the squeaking dog toy and crying baby with a Britney spears megamix and, despite a children's play area, screaming children run carefree around the entire boat - which doesn't seem too safety conscious. There are multiple trip hazards - this ferry is a risk assessor's dream. Whilst the parents think it's amusing, the other passengers seem to have found ways to deafen them out.
Outside, between the cold shots of drizzle which sporadically dampen the ship, I sit at the back of the boat. It's half past six now and the sky has become a deathly charcoal grey and the lights have come on inside and out on the one deck there is to explore. I knew Patagonia would be tough weather wise but I didn't for one second imagine it to be this dreary - and this is summer.
However, my experiences over the last few days have helped me formulate my decision; I think I have decided to cross over to Argentina much sooner than I had anticipated - I'll make enquiries at Puerto Aysen. This is too far off the tourist trail.
As I type this a lonely, once red, rusty fishing boat sails out into misty water. Another green one passes an hour later and I snap that. And speaking of green, I almost have to imagine how green the vegetation is on the valley sides, for in the light everything is a shade of grey. The meteorological maps don't lie; these channels are some of the wettest places on earth. And today is a good day!
I was told I'd see a landscape of lush green vegetation, tree trunks the size of small houses all surrounded by snow capped volcanoes and turquoise glaciers and you know what - if I shut my eyes I almost can!!!
* Chilote = a native of the island of Chiloé, Chile
On the 30 hour (34) long cargo ship to Puerto Chacabuco
Saturday 22nd to Monday 24th December 2018
It's the Southern Hemisphere's summer but it isn't warm. I'm wearing thick winter socks, trainers, trousers, a shirt, fleece and ski jacket and considering another layer of trousers for warmth.
I'm on a thirty hour ferry trip on a cargo ship heading south to Puerto Chacabuco in Aysen, Chilean Patagonia, which I've been warned is difficult to get to but not impossible. My Spanish guidebook given to me as a present warns that a lot of courage and time is needed to travel this side of Patagonia; the carretera austral. If anything Chiloé has taught me, it is to be patient when it comes to the loose term public transport but here that's easy; there is plenty for the eye to see and despite what I've been told these Chilean fjords are anything but monotonous - every five minutes the scene or weather changes and our ferry does move along quickly.
Jagged peaks meet deserted beaches as far as the eye can see.
And that's only a partial view; I do hope for the cloud to break for the view must be incredible but I also think that we are incredibly lucky with this relatively dry, mild weather. The sea is flat. Last night, however, I felt the ferry rocking quite steadily as we crossed over the exposed section from Southern Chiloé to Melinka.
It's fair to note that there are a few tourists on this ferry too but the vast majority are very reserved and keep themselves to themselves - I even tried striking up conversation but have been met with very measured responses. It's a far cry from the hostels I've stayed in in Argentina and Valparaiso. Perhaps, people have come here for the solitude.
The Ports
At five in the morning we entered the first port, Melinka, a little hamlet on the edge of nowhere composed of some low lying islands out at sea to which this twice a week cargo ship are a lifeline. An eardrum busting announcement over the loud speaker jolted everyone out of what sleep they'd been able to muster up on the reclining black leather seats. At five AM it was still too dark to see the islands. I awoke enterring the second port, called Puerto Marín Balmaceda. We docked at eight and were there a good two hours offloading goods to the remote mainland town. I had seen a lot of Christmas presents being loaded onto the cargo ship.
I find myself curious about the other passengers on board. There are families, solo travellers, young and old people. The flashy oversized DSLRs make the tourists stand out. I wonder where they are going what plans they have, where they will spend the holiday season and the purpose of their trip. One brave man in Adidas shorts has fallen asleep on the plastic blue chairs at the back of the boat and another has put on his headphones and looks out at the mountains only 500m away from out ferry as we skate the fjords. Just as I type this I am distracted by another traveller, whose filthy bare feet, bounce up the stairs. The cargo ship is dirty and has a metal floor. Some take the word roughing it to extremes I didn't think possible. Think, I'll be keeping my trainers on, thanks.
I glance in the other direction and now we are entering a narrow channel created by an island to our right called "Isla Refugio" - Shelter Island. I wonder why it is called that. Maybe in storms this narrow inlet has calm waters.
Advice for fellow travellers
I recall last night and my mad dash for the bus to the grotty port town of Quellón. Everything is last minute here so nobody had advised me to buy my 60 mile bus ticket in advance. It only costs 2000 pesos anyway, here there are no savings by buying in advance. Having said that, I was shocked to learn that no tickets were left for the bus and the unsympathetic young lady serving me was in the least bit interested in aiding a foreign tourist - I felt a sharp dose of xenophobia being directed towards me - having experienced that before I knew exactly what it feels like. I asked if there was any other way to travel to Quellón (60miles away I remind you) that evening, and she told me quite nonchalantly- "Yes, you can walk", all the while looking at my backpack and bag of food. I think you'll agree some Chileans have an odd sense of humour and an even more curious sense of what constitutes a respectful level of customer service. Thankfully, when I insist on another route she tells me with an unapologetic indifference to ask "over there" waving her arm at me to leave her alone. As you guessed, I got a ticket on another bus, a better company called ELT and I was over the moon when the giant pink bus pulled up in Castro bus station, the brightest colour I'd seen in days. It felt like the great escape. (I should also note, two nice ladies from the island came to my rescue and helped me on the right bus and when off the bus, came to find me and told me how to get to the ferry; there are nice Chilotes* too). And if you were wondering the tourist information in Castro directed me to the bus station for bus times and information. They didn't seem to know what was going on either.
Deeper reflections on foreign tourism in Chiloé
Sadly I'm left leaving the island behind with a distinct sense that Chiloé is not as ready for outsiders as it hopes and even less so equipped for the foreign tourist, in spite of some lovely people's greatest intentions. I hope I am wrong but six days on this island has taught me that Chiloé is a traditional, conservative place that remains and wants to remain strongly rooted, unchanged, in the past. And I'm not sure our globalised world will accept that; I am sure there is a balance that can be struck. Simply ignoring the outside world is not the solution. Since when is ignorance a solution to anything?
Under construction, I'm told, is a bridge to the mainland and that will change Chiloé forever - for good or for bad; I just dearly hope that balance between conserving traditions and embracing new paths can be found. It is, after all, possible.
I am drawn again to the grafitti I mentioned the other day "a people who identify with their culture are invincible."
And I think it still holds true but after my last few days on the island it takes on a different meaning for me too now - it's important to identify with our culture for knowing ourselves gives us strength but I feel there is a risk in being excessively proud of one's culture as to do so can cause one to become close-minded and cloud one's vision of the flaws inherent in one's own culture or shared cultures. There are two daily newspapers on the island; el insular and la estrella - let's hope the bridge leads to the ideology brought about by the meaning of the latter.
Back on board
Not that us passengers travelling far can disembark but we are free to go to the cargo bay and watch wooden crates of mainly tomatoes, beer and onions being offloaded onto four by fours which move on up through the ferry and head onto dry land in another fyord where Puerto Melimoyu lies. Those three ingredients must feature heavily on the christmas shopping list here.
A helping hand in Caleta Puyuhuapi
A family zooms away from the ferry supermarket
Striking a deal
Santa is ready for his feast this Christmas Eve
I glance outside and it has stopped raining - hurrah! So I escape again to sit at the back of the boat, type and watch the fjords go by.
The names of the Ports we enter become more and more imaginative.
The man running the ship's café is well informed, hard-working and a joker - he pretends to throw himself overboard. I ask about the ports and he points to a seagull enthusiastically - "That's called a seagull!" he tells me. And the ports, these are still to come:
Puerto Cisnes - Port Swan 4 hours
Puerto Gaviota - Port Seagull 7 hours
Puerto Aguirre - (no translation) 10 hours
And finally, Puerto Chacabuco (which I'm hoping is more happening than where we have stopped - 13 hours away).
We are half way!
To Port Cisnes
One of my headphones gives up on life and I am left with one working earphone which is just enough to drown out the squeaking dog toy and crying baby with a Britney spears megamix and, despite a children's play area, screaming children run carefree around the entire boat - which doesn't seem too safety conscious. There are multiple trip hazards - this ferry is a risk assessor's dream. Whilst the parents think it's amusing, the other passengers seem to have found ways to deafen them out.
Outside, between the cold shots of drizzle which sporadically dampen the ship, I sit at the back of the boat. It's half past six now and the sky has become a deathly charcoal grey and the lights have come on inside and out on the one deck there is to explore. I knew Patagonia would be tough weather wise but I didn't for one second imagine it to be this dreary - and this is summer.
As I type this a lonely, once red, rusty fishing boat sails out into misty water. Another green one passes an hour later and I snap that. And speaking of green, I almost have to imagine how green the vegetation is on the valley sides, for in the light everything is a shade of grey. The meteorological maps don't lie; these channels are some of the wettest places on earth. And today is a good day!
I was told I'd see a landscape of lush green vegetation, tree trunks the size of small houses all surrounded by snow capped volcanoes and turquoise glaciers and you know what - if I shut my eyes I almost can!!!
A smiling face on the morning of the first day
* Chilote = a native of the island of Chiloé, Chile
On the 30 hour (34) long cargo ship to Puerto Chacabuco
Saturday 22nd to Monday 24th December 2018
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