Letter to a friend...

Dear Bridget,
Please forgive my long lack of correspondence. You know me well and so two months straight of pleasant weather and thirteen-hour days should be excuse enough for my virtual absence. Since coming back to Chile in the middle of January I’ve been set on “go.” My mom and a family friend, Sue, came back with me for twelve days to visit Chile. We spent several days in Santiago, eating, shopping, wine touring, museuming, visiting friends, traveling to Valparaiso, sight-seeing, etc. From there we spent several more days in the south hiking, horseback riding, whitewater rafting, and enjoying each other’s company. The two “viejas,” as they called themselves, developed the saying “The best surprise is no surprise,” as a result of the countless surprises we encountered while traveling here (charges for excess luggage, a bus that went off the road, drivers that don’t answer their phones and show up late, etc.).

They also came to the conclusion that one has to convert not only money in Chile but time as well: 20 Chilean minutes to every 60 clock minutes. This ruling came after we waited over an hour at a restaurant for our food. We placed bets as to whether the potatoes being peeled at a table near ours were for the mashed potatoes that we had ordered twenty minutes earlier. Even after having lived here for nearly a year I didn’t think it could be so. I stood corrected, however, when the cook rushed out and gathered the peeled potatoes and rushed back in, avoiding eye contact with us at all costs, knowing that we could have grown the potatoes faster than his restaurant was serving them.

After a sad goodbye, I went to Palena for a weekend with Fabian to see my first official Chilean Rodeo. It happened to also be the first official Chilean Rodeo in which Fabian was competing. I rendezvoused there with a German chick, Claudia, who I met in December, a curious lass who brought her dog, Monty, with her from Germany to travel the Patagonia by horseback. It was nice to have a female English-speaking companion, made the rodeo experience a bit more enjoyable as I struggled to learn about the point system and why exactly the horses have to violently pin the cows against the hard wooden corral walls. I’m still not sure I exactly understand or agree with the sport but it has cultural significance and that adds somewhat to its justification, I suppose. Although if one were to dismiss all acts of cruelty against humans and animals due to cultural significance there would be a great deal more suffering in the world.
Moral issues aside, I had a nice time.

Since then I have been busy working with tourists who have been visiting; I spent a week with the director of the foundation and his family traveling in the area. In Parque Pumalin we met with Douglas Thompkins, world-renown conservationist and owner of the park, to discuss reforestation plans, methods of dealing with the salmon industries and their contamination, and other interesting topics. He’s a legend in the area, for some a role model and for others a rich foreigner who has no business buying so much land in Chile. Meeting him was a highlight for me personally and also an important step in carefully maintaining a positive (but not too close) relationship with him on behalf of Patagonia Sur. He showed us aerial photos of areas that he’s spent years and hundreds of thousands of dollars reforesting and shared tales of two-faced back-stabbing locals who have sold him land in the past.
Ironically, our next step on the trip was a visit to Palena where thousands of acres of mountain forests were burning as a result of intentional burns that became uncontrollable. A valuable mushroom, the morel, grows in soil after fires and so farmers often burn their own property in order to harvest this fungus and export it to Europe. It is frustrating to think of the measures and time it takes to reforest a burned or damaged area and the ease it takes one person to light a match and cause damage for years to come. Apart from the valuable mushroom, fire is also beneficial to farmers for “cleaning” their land to make more pastures for grazing. The ecological value is overlooked or, more often, unknown, and locals destroy that value in hopes of raising 40 cattle. It is a reality that is sad for world ecology. On the flip side, prices of land are sky-rocketing as the ecological value is being realized and more foreigners are investing in conservation and tourism. This is a reality that is unfortunate for local farmers who can no longer afford to buy their own piece of land and will soon be forced to look elsewhere for work. It is also a reality that will have a positive effect ecologically, thereby preventing more devastating fires and the damaging effects of cattle farming. The best viable option then, for the future of Patagonia and its people, is tourism. If done properly, it both aids in conserving the precious ecology of the area as well as stimulating economic development for locals.

In keeping with the forest fire topic, after a meeting in Futaleufú with the CONAF workers (Chilean forestry industry) I was invited to accompany the helicopter pilot in during his round to check on the men at work on the ground and to evaluate the state of the forest fires. Talk about amazing. We flew directly over the flames, saw the ground brigades, wove through the billows of smoke, and returned to land on the soccer field of the Futaleufú school.

As you can see, my life since college has taken quite a dramatic turn. If you had told me that I’d be spending my third year in Chile working closely with matters in which I feel personally invested, I don’t think I would have believed you. Yet I wouldn’t have it any other way. Patagonia is a volatile place at this moment in time, its future lying in a tenuous balance between environmentally conscious development of its precious resources and the thoughtless exploiting of those same natural assets. I have grown to love the area tremendously, to have an emotional attachment to its landscape and its people. I consider myself lucky to be able to work not only among these things so dear to my heart but also to work for them and their continued improvement.
Well, what was originally intended to be a brief update has turned into a reflectional rant about my life in Chile. But that’s how I’m doing in a nutshell (a big nutshell!). I hope you’re taking care of Violet Dog and are enjoying all of the things the big city affords that I miss… theater, live music, bookstores, sushi… you get the picture. In the meantime, I'll take a hike in the mountains for you.

Love you and miss you, Nancy

My first visit to Melimoyu

The following was written during a ferry ride to Melimoyu, the coastal property belonging to Patagonia Sur. It is a very remote location and I had never been there before. Before boarding this ferry, the last leg of my trip, I had already travelled in another boat 45 minutes and in a car nearly 6 hours. This is the tale of my adventure travelling there, "sola."

I boarded this boat exactly twelve hours ago. In the midst of a light drizzle at 11:20 pm I was ushered toward the bright lights of the large boat, its imposing size seeming out-of-place at the port of Raul Marín Balmaceda, a teensy town inhabited by a mere 330 people. The boat was not unlike a spaceship, illuminated inside with activity abounding while outside the sleepy night was dark and incumbent. I walked hurriedly but cautiously up the slippery ramp, accompanied by Heriberto, a talkative fisherman type who carried my suitcase. Standing among the parked cars and trucks ready to be transported by sea, he explained quickly to the only official-looking man in sight that I am a foreigner (he could’ve saved his breath), I’m traveling to Melimoyu for the first time, I speak good Spanish, and they need to take care of me. In similar situations in the past this sort of introduction has left me feeling settled, actually taken care of. Not today. My suitcase, containing my laptop, was whisked away and I anxiously strained to see over a glimmery wet parked car to see my precious cargo tossed in a storage area behind a canvas curtain.
“Tu carnet?” My attention was returned to the official-looking man as I realized he was asking for my ID. I gave it to him and, much to my surprise, he put it in his pocket and walked away. At least I knew he couldn’t go far.
“Que le vaya muy bien!” Heriberto was talking to me now, saying a quick goodbye before he got off the departing ship. I gave him a hearty thank you, thanks for the coffee, for keeping me company during the hour-delay in the boat’s departure, thanks for the help communicating by radio from the police station to Melimoyu, yadda yadda.
Next thing I knew the boat was moving off into the darkness. I had arrived late and hadn’t even seen the port by the light of day, I had absolutely no concept of my surroundings. It was like floating off into an abyss. That’s probably how my suitcase felt as well.
There were no other passengers to be seen so I figured they had holed up somewhere. I consulted with the man who was operating the ramp-lifting lever (I’m sure that’s what it’s called). “Is there like, a place for passengers to sit?” I asked. The question came out clumsily, sounded much stupider than I had intended. He indicated a narrow staircase across the deck and suggested I go up, cross the catwalk, up again, and there I will pay. Hmmm. Maybe after I paid I could sit down.
I went up and found the catwalk to be more intrepid than I could have imagined, each side formed by a single metal rail that came to just below my hips. To my left I looked down at the cargo aboard the ship, careful not to hesitate too long for I felt the watchful eyes of my direction-giver measuring my every move. I walked a few steps on the slippery metal surface, hands sliding along the metal rails at my sides, and stopped again to asses the view to my right. The powerful stadium lights from the boat illuminated about three feet of the water below, far below, and highlighted the countless raindrops that gently patted its surface soundlessly.
At the end of the catwalk I encountered a control center of sorts where I again asked for directions. You can never be too sure. The all-male crew indicated yet another slippery staircase at the top of which I found a door, behind which I found a room in which I was delighted to discover rows and rows of reclining chairs not unlike those in an airplane cabin.
That initial delight in having a comfortable place to sit has since worn off and I am now nauseated by the smelly fishermen who are seated in front of me and the screaming children who roam the aisles. Oh dear. Please see photo of the seat and passenger cabin that I came to know very well.
But back to my initial delight; I chose a seat and settled in, knowing that I had three hours to wait until we would reach Melimoyu, the first stop of many before the boat reached its final destination, port Chacabuco, eighteen hours later. It was late and I planned on sleeping a bit before my stop.
Soon enough the official-looking man came around, returning ID cards (to my relief) and charging fare. I referred back to my explorer days on the buses of Santiago and borrowed an old technique, asking him to please let me know when we reach Melimoyu. Again I remind you, the reader, you can never be too sure. Mustering up all the officialness he could he said that would be no problem and I set to contentedly writing in my journal, finally feeling at ease for the first time since parting with Fabian four hours earlier. Rather than think about what would be awaiting me (or worse, not awaiting me) when I arrived at the unknown island I decided to relax and enjoy the ride.
It was late and the coffee I had shared with Heriberto before he accompanied me to the port had absolutely no effect in keeping me awake. I foolishly left my watch in Futaleufú and had no way of knowing the time when I finally regained consciousness. I asked a woman behind, the only being awake in a sea of drooling, snoring Chileans, what time it was. “Quarto para las tres,” she told me and my resting heart skipped a beat. Heavens, had I slept through my stop? Was the official-looking man not as reliable as the Santiago bus drivers in helping a gringa get to her final destination? Had he forgotten about me? What if I ended up in Chacabuco? How would I get back? Before my freaking escalated I remembered the advice I have given to my mom time and time again, our mantra during her visit here: Think before you freak. I decided I would wait a bit longer, we could be really close, and if by 3 a.m. there were no new developments I would seek out information.
A man in front of me stirred. “Disculpa, sabes más o menos cuanto tiempo queda hasta que lleguemos a Melimoyu?” He said something about “dando la vuelta” and “puede que llegues manana.” Apparently the puzzled look on my face did not convince him that I needed a further explanation because he got up from his seat and left. Huh? The boat turned around? I might arrive to Melimoyu tomorrow? Does that mean that we already passed it? Think before you freak. Think before you freak.
I also got up, feigned needing a trip to the bathroom, and hoped that en route I might bump into someone from whom I could wean some information.
Out on the open deck, waiting for the bathroom in a steady drizzle, I asked a smoker if he knew how much longer until we got to Melimoyu. “It may be a while,” he explained with a slight laugh. “We’re not going anywhere right now, the weather is too bad and they’re waiting for the go ahead to leave the bay.”
“You mean, we haven’t really gone anywhere??” I asked incredulously, hardly believing that with all the swaying I had been feeling we weren’t really moving.

“We left the port, “ he said, “but haven’t left the safety of the bay.” He chuckled again, either at the ridiculousness of the situation or at the fact that I had been unaware of our stationary condition for the past 3 hours. “Hopefully by early morning we’ll be moving.” I took note of a light in the distance and he informed me that it’s a “faro,” a light house. We continued small chat and then I resigned to my seat to try to sleep. It was, afterall, around four in the morning.

Ope, I was just told that lunch is awaiting me in the cafeteria, I’ll be right back.

Okay, so now it’s 1:11 pm. Lunch was filling but not tasty (reminiscent of Chilean meals in general), my company was interesting but not pleasant, and being back in my seat is familiar but not desirable. It has now been almost 14 hours that I’ve had the gratification of sitting in this seat, on a boat going nowhere. If I look out the window right now I can see in the distance a white mass atop a rocky island; it is the same light house whose glow I saw last night from the deck. Luckily the weather seems to be clearing up so, as my lunching companion/ the boat technician told me, maybe we’ll be moving by two. I won’t hold my breath.
The entertainment on this boat is not unlike the entertainment provided on a Turbus. At several points I have been reminded of the traumatic “Terminator” experience I once had while traveling by bus through Chile. The movies they choose to play are always loud and violent with feature endless sound effects. Luckily, two of these movies proved defective about 20 minutes into them and were turned off. At one point, the silence in the cabin was interrupted by reggeaton blasting from the television set. I couldn’t help but wrinkle my forehead in dismay and looked around to see if anyone else was sharing in my discomfort. Noting that many people were still sleeping and others were amused by my reaction, I took it upon myself to reach forward and turn the volume on the TV from 59 to 40. I continued my reading for another two pages but when the next Daddy Yankee tune proved even more unbearable than the first I lowered the volume to 30. Don’t these people know that club music is for people who are clubbing, not for people who have been stranded on a boat for thirteen hours? I envision scenes from Lord of the Flies and hope that no one goes postal on this ship. Considering how laid-back Chileans are, especially in the south, I would probably be the first candidate to react in any such manner. It has been my experience that Chileans are very used to shrugging their shoulders and saying, “Es lo que hay.” “It is what it is.” It has also been my experience that this attitude can be useful in dealing with situations when really nothing can be done but can also be damning in situations when something could be done but nobody does it. Chileans.

In the end, I was on the boat 19 hours before arriving to my final destination. When I arrived, the family who received me greeted me a loud applause. The said I was the first person from Patagonia Sur to take the public ferry (most arrive by charter plane). I didn't have the heart to tell them that after the experience I'd had, I'd probably be the last as well.