The George Washington 'Do

When my sister and I were little, we swam a lot at the public pool. It had large patches on the bottom where the sky-blue paint had peeled and left brown irregular polka dots. We half-joked that they were poop colonies, left by the little snot-nosed kids who didn't have the decency to leave the pool to do their business. There was an urban legend that someone had once squished their toes into one of the pool-residing turds. I remember being careful not to step on them and trying to push my sister so that she would step on them. Sisterly love.

It was at that same pool where I would loyally sit at the edge during adult swim and, unaware of the nubbies I was creating on the seat of my bathing suit as I dragged it on the abrasive cement, I would count the laps my mother swam. She would approach me, mouth opening like a fish and gasping for air. As she touched the side and began back for more, I would shout triumphantly, "TWENTY-TWO!!" making sure she could hear the count if her ear happened to be underwater. She didn't have to worry about the poop spots because her feet never touched the bottom of the pool.

If there was anything that could send my sister and I into a fit of giggles at the pool over and over again, it was the George Washington hairdo. Now mind you, my sister had extremely curly and at one point embarrassingly short brown hair. We called it her mushroom cut (a "bowlcut" gone amiss, tormented by her curls). This was not conducive to the 'do. I, on the other hand, had looong blonde hair that three summers in a row had an unnatural green tint from the chlorine in the pool. I justified that I was a Pisces, and admittedly tried to act like a fish on a number of occasions. Although not as successfully as my neighbor, Lucas Harris, who could be heard announcing from his 3 ft pool next door, "Beached Whale!" as he threw his own white flabby body, belly first, onto the sopping grass next to the kiddie pool.

But back to the George Washington. To accomplish this look, we'd immerse our heads underwater and then slowly lift them, facing the bottom of the pool all the while (probably looking the poop spots straight on, now that I think about it). This had a pleasing Cousin It effect that could only be topped by then gently flipping back the tips of the hair and pasting them to the back of the head, leaving a rolling wave along the hairline that perfectly outlined the face. This roll, in our minds, created a look that was the exact replication of our founding father, he who could not tell a lie, your hero and mine, George Washington. And the giggles flowed from our beings like the water flowed that from the pool jets, bubbly, tickly, and light.

Traveling Wiseman

Written November 10
The airbrakes gave a sigh of relief, whoooossshhhh, as the 25-passenger bus barreled down the hill and around the curve, snow flying off the tires as we went. I looked every few minutes at the driver’s face in the reflection of his mirror just to make sure he was concentrating, awake. He drove as if there weren’t 30 centimeters of snow on the ground, as if it weren’t still snowing. The traveler next to me, a gentleman who’d lived about forty or fifty years (it’s hard to tell with locals, they often age more quickly than city folk), must have noted my concern. “He’s a good one,” he told me as I strained to see out the windshield. “You can tell.” I smiled and replied that I hoped so.
We had left Coyhaique at 9:30 a.m. amidst heavy rain. By the time we reached Balmaceda, the next town about forty minutes south, the rain had turned to snow and the forested landscape was a winter wonderland. The date was November 7, late spring in Chile. Our destination was Cochrane, the second-to-last city on the Careterra Austral, the southern highway. On a normal day, the trip takes approximately 8 hours. I’d never been that far south before and was happy to be “traveling” in Chile again, to be seeing things for the first time.
From Balmaceda the bus continued south and climbed slowly through the hills of Reserva Nacional Cerro Castillo. The prominent rock formation that gives the park its name was invisible, completely shrouded in a cloud of whiteness. Romantic Latino music poured from the bus speakers and wooed passengers. I caught myself mouthing the words:

El frio de mi cuerpo pregunta por ti
Y no sé donde estás

My body’s coldness asks for you
And I don’t know where you are

It’s like a cheesy Richard Marx song: one can’t help but learn the lyrics as the song proves to be everywhere. And besides, Chileans love this stuff: the more pining, passionate, and powerful the better.
I rubbed the back of my palm on the window to clear the condensation but my attempt is in vain. As I squinted to make shapes out of the whiteness, the male singer concluded:

Si no te hubieras ido sería tan feliz

If you hadn´t gone, I would be so happy

With no view to enjoy, I decided to make small talk with my neighbor. I commented on the unexpected snowfall. “This is Patagonia,” he said to me smiling, and for the first time I noticed the the softness of his voice. Maybe he is only forty. “But you like this, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically.
Although he used the singular form of “you” in Spanish –tú– I knew he was referring to “you gringos.” One doesn’t make such an assumption after speaking with someone for 30 seconds unless associating them with a larger group. After all, most gringos do come to Patagonia because of a passion for the outdoors, it’s true. I replied that yes, I like this. I showed him a few mountain photographs from the book I was reading, Yvon Choinard’s Let My People Go Surfing, and we talked a bit about Futaleufu and Chaiten. He told me his name is Ruben and he works on road construction when he’s not working on his farm.

About five hours into the journey, we entered another section of “highway” (it’s nearly all gravel) that has especially high elevation and substantial snowfall. “El paso Cofre,” Ruben told me. “Cars always get stuck here.” Soon enough we came to a complete standstill behind a line of 5 vehicles: trucks, vans, and buses. Most of the men got out to see the situation and have a smoke. The three female passengers, myself not included, stayed put, looking fretful. I got out, camera at the ready.
Hoping to get some nice pictures of the lenga forest coated in fluffy snow, I broke through the deep snow and bounded contentedly toward the back of the bus. I didn’t expect to find two men with their pants unzipped taking advantage of the bathroom break and judging from the looks on their faces, they didn’t expect to see me either. Head lowered, I mumbled an apology and just as quickly returned to the front of the bus. Small talk, cigarettes, and picture-taking occupied the better part of half an hour while we waited for things to move along. It appeared that opposing traffic was the problem and upon pulling over (there was only one set of tire tracks in the snow) a bus became stuck.

Finally the line of vehicles moved on and the driver motioned for us to get back on the bus. We waited while opposite traffic slowly passed, occupying one of the tire tracks and making a new one as they went. Now our turn: wheel to the left, gear set to first, light pressure to the gas pedal… and the bus slid slightly to the right. Reverse. Nothing. First gear again. Slide to the right more. Shit. I looked to the driver’s face in the mirror as had been my custom. He was chewing his gum nervously now, his actions a bit hurried. After a few more attempts, several men got down and cleared the tires, pushed from the right… and then help arrived from ahead, several men trotting, some with cigarettes hanging from their lips, most with voinas on their head, the traditional gaucho hat.
I was impressed with their efficiency and teamwork; the bus rocked forward, slid back, rocked forward, slid back, rocked forward… and slowly advanced over the rough spot and inched to the left, back onto the tracks. As the men got back on the bus I applauded them, not caring if my cheerleader antics were culturally out of place. They of course seemed to appreciate the stroking of their machista egos.

A few hours later (now in the eighth hour of the journey and with still a few hours to go, I have by this time read over 120 pages in Chouinard’s fascinating book) Ruben asked where I’m from in the United States. In his soft voice he continued to inquire about my family. He was curious to know if I have frequent contact with them and if they’ve come to visit me in Chile. I explained to Ruben that I talk on the phone with my family at least once every few weeks and that my mom came to visit in January. I told him that I spent a few meaningful months with them in June and July. He seemed all too relieved by this information.
“One can have many friends in this life, but they can’t replace your family,” he assured me. “Your family forms your roots; they know you and they care about you like no one else can.” He paused, adjusted his hat, thought for a minute. “And it’s important that you keep in touch in with them because many young people these days, they leave their homes… and they don’t look back.” Ruben presented this information not as a chiding lecture but as a sad fact of life.

“Claro,” I replied, and I looked out the window at the cold whiteness beyond.

Scenes From Melimoyu

Scene 1:
A gravel road. Thick green foliage to each side. Three children walk ahead of me, ages 6, 11, and 12. Each wields an article from the church. The youngest, Michaeala, is carrying a porcelain statue of the Mother Mary. “La virgin va primero!” she yells as she sprints ahead. I suppress my desire to tell her to be careful, she may drop the virgin. One has to choose their battles with Michaela; she’s a strong-willed spunkster whose creativity is endless and whose attention span is not.
Gonzalo, average in age and personality, cedes his place as leader to his younger classmate. He is holding a cutting-board sized crucifix in both arms, cradling the adult Jesus like the babe that he once was. He turns around and looks at me to see if I have noticed his funny gesture and I assure him that yes, Gonzalo, you are quite comic.

Behind Gonazalo is Javiera, a girl who appears and acts older than her years. She carries two “flowerpots,” instant coffee tins wrapped in tin foil. Each foil flowerpot is the home of a bouquet of lovely pink carnations. Pink paper petals, stems of plastic.
I bring up the rear, me and my two candles. I find myself wishing they were lit, a nice touch to the impromptu daytime ceremony. In this way we proceed, single file, heading from the school to the church to return the borrowed artifacts.
I have been teaching these children English for four days now. They constitute the elementary school of Melimoyu. Michaela, Gonzalo, and Javiera: the entire school. The roll call in the morning takes no time. Grading papers is a cinch. The children have no choice in the matter; the closest school is three hours away by boat.
“Thee Itsty Bisty Spider…” begins Javiera, and I join in. The other two forget their godly ornaments and try to keep up. “OUT duh duh SUN end duh duh do duh RAIN.” In fact the rain has recently stopped, the emerald forest that surrounds us is wetly glowing, and our march is bathed in its glory.

Scene 2:
Same gravel road. Same thick green foliage. I’m walking toward the teacher’s house where I’m staying for the week. Before it appears from behind the trees I catch a whiff of something distinctly unnatural and unpleasant. Something chemically. A few more steps and I see dark smoke, alive, rising over the trees. Three more steps and the house is visible along with the pile of burning trash directly in front of it. They had told me that there is no waste collection here, that the town’s 38 inhabitants have no way to dispose of their non-organic trash. But still this comes as a shock. The smell of burnt plastic lingers in the air until the following day.

Scene 3:
Same gravel road (it’s the artery of Melimoyu, the only road that exists), I’m with Cecilia, the teacher, and another community member, heading to visit Gonzalo’s mother, Margot. She greets us at the door holding a tiny baby. Through conversation I learn that Sofía, the baby, is the first child to be born in Melimoyu since Michaela, six years ago. I also learn that Margot, a tremendous woman with light skin and dark hair, was beginning to feel lonely since Gonzalo is getting older and her oldest son has moved out. Her husband works for a salmon company and is away all day on the water. But now she has Sofía, she explains, to keep her company so she doesn’t feel so lonely. I nod as if I understand this line of thinking, this rationalization for procreation.
Margot sets the table for onces, the Chilean “meal” typically consisting of bread and cheese that is conveniently inserted between lunch and dinner. As I sink my teeth into the fluffy homemade bread, Cecilia asks Margot if she’s “gotten out lately.” I take this to mean “out of Melimoyu,” since it’s complicated and time-consuming to leave this isolated town. I am therefore surprised when Margot replies, “Yeah… I guess the last time I got out was when I went to the school for the Independence Day festivities.” I nonchalantly look at my watch to check the date. It’s October 1st. Chile celebrates its independence on September 18.

Scene 4:
Cecilia’s house, upstairs. It’s a spacious area surrounded by four plywood walls. Heat rises from the wood burning stove downstairs, keeping the space relatively warm. There’s one large window with a spectacular view of Volcano Melimoyu, detectable less than half the time due to the thick clouds incessant in the area. Now it’s dark outside and the only thing visible through the glass is the reflection of the single naked light bulb protruding from the opposite wall like an angry tumor. For furniture there’s a couch, a van bench, and a TV.
This is our meeting place for the first session of adult English classes. We started at the medical clinic but it was too cold there. Two of the four people present I haven’t met before today. They are Héctor, the twenty-two year old paramedic, and Marcelo, a middle-aged self-proclaimed entrepreneur.
After the class Marcelo asks me about Patagonia Sur’s tourism intentions. I start on my spiel about the company’s plan to foment local economic development through tourism while promoting conservation of the region’s vast ecological resources.
“I’m really interested in tourism myself,” he explains. He looks around to make sure the others who have gone downstairs are out of earshot. He lowers his voice. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that to speak poorly of the salmon industry is considered a crime in this town.” Another paranoid behind him. “But if I had to choose between conservation and the salmon companies, I’d choose conservation. An industry that exhausts and contaminates natural resources a mi no me sirve. It doesn’t work for me.” We hear someone coming up the stairs. In a normal volume Marcelo proceeds, “Would you like to come over tomorrow to have a coffee and we can talk some more?”
“Sure,” I tell him, utterly intrigued.

Scene 5:
The beach of Melimoyu. The kids from the school are participating in a clean-up with the salmon company, a clean-up that I suspect has coincided with my visit not by accident. Several male workers from AguaChile have already formed piles on the beach of trash: plastic feed bags, remnants from nets, nylon ropes, a shoe, plastic bottles, etc. The amount is staggering. A hundred feet from the shore, bushes lining the beach resemble Christmas trees, decorated by the wind with tinsel of plastic bags and strings. Red strings, yellow strings, blue strings, a plethora of colors represented in this one bush before me. For a second I consider it a great teachable moment; we could have an entire class on colors in English. I disentangle them, one at a time, and shove them into the large plastic feed bag.
But the job at hand is endless. Here the ocean’s tide is continually bestowing gifts of garbage to Melimoyu. Gifts associated not with Yuletide but with trashtide. One might argue politically incorrectly that the ocean is an “Indian giver,” that she is ungraciously “re-gifting.”
But from whom did she receive the waste?
That much is clear to even eleven and twelve year olds Gonzalo and Javiera. Both children’s parents work in the salmon industry. When asked who produces all the trash we were picking up they didn’t hesitate to respond, “Las salmoneras.”
Then why did Cecilia tell me that “the last thing the salmon farms do is empty garbage into the ocean”? Because her family and many others rely on the industry for income. Their houses are built with money earned from the industry. Their children’s mouths are fed with money earned from the industry. Their cars and plates and toothpaste and lamps and socks and satellite dishes and firewood are purchased with money from the industry. In fact, I was told that when the industry arrived in 2000 to Melimoyu, locals referred to it as San Salmonera: “Saint Salmon Company.” It saved them. And now they fear that a conservation-oriented NGO may wreck that salvation.

Today I got Waxed

written on September 3, 2008

Today I got waxed. It’s a quasi-masochistic ritual that I find quite enjoyable. It’s not available in small towns in Chile and it’s not affordable in the U.S. so it’s a special treat anytime I’m in the big city in Chile.

When I lived in Santiago, Marisol, my host mom, gave me my first ever waxing. I watched, intrigued, as she slathered the hot, caramal-esque substance on my legs. I flinched as she ripped off one long strip of it, unconsciously clenching my teeth and wincing. She insisted that the tenser I was the more difficult it was for the hairs to release. As if my forced relaxation would convince the hairs to just raise their arms in a state of zen and be lifted right out of the follicles willingly. I found it hard to believe and even harder to practice.

She told me my legs were “feas,” ugly, from using a razor and that if made the switch to waxing I wouldn’t get those red bumps. I tried not to pout. I also tried not to point out that my legs were much more muscular and shapely than hers, thank you very much. I silently concluded that waxing wasn’t for me.

A few months later, I got out of the shower of my Santiago home and realized that the combination of a chilly Chilean winter and my lack of interest in Chilean men had resulted in legs that resembled a wooly mammoth hide. I had quite a bit of time on my hands that particular day and decided to give this waxing gig a second chance. I chose to put myself at the mercy of a stranger rather than let Marisol touch my "ugly" legs again.

My clearest memory of that, my second waxing experience, was the way the woman rubbed baby powder on my legs when she was finished. I found her human touch to be divine. Not to mention the way my jeans felt against my hairless shins as I practically skipped home. I was hooked, and continued visiting this charming old woman roughly once a month during my remaining five months in Santiago. I even graduated to waxing above the thighs, a daring move for me.

Now, two years later, I’ve just returned to Chile after a summer visit to the U.S. The hair on my legs have again reached wooly mammoth proportions and this time I blame its unruliness on the 31-day mountaineering course in which I had participated in the states. I only have a short time in Santiago and, although my schedule is tight, I knew that it´s now or never. I have to make time.

I enter the “caracol,” a large gallery whose principal hallway winds around like a snail shell (hence it´s Spanish name), gradually forming several floors, each with a slight incline. There are salons on every side, including above and below. I walk with purpose, with a forged sense of confidence. It´s 9:30 a.m. and despite its location in downtown Santiago, the caracol is quite empty, the majority of the salons closed. I spot one on the third floor that declares in large blue letters on the glass fachade, “Centro de Depilación.” This will be my place. Besides, they probably get very little business located all the way on the third floor, it will be nice to give them mine, I reason.

I make three circles around the caracol before finally reaching the Centro. I knock. I am ushered in. “We have a special,” the only woman working tells me as she wipes her hands on her apron. “Half-leg and armpits for three thousand pesos.” That´s a little over six dollars. I look at my watch: 35 minutes until a meeting down the street. “Let’s do it,” I tell her.

She pulls back a curtain to reveal a bed not unlike that of a doctor’s examination room. It´s even covered with a strip of roll-out paper. She indicates a hanger and tells me to undress before she slips out.

It actually is like visiting a doctor, this process of getting practically naked (down to my bra and underwear) with a complete stranger. I gingerly remove my shoes, my socks, my pants. I sat on the crinkly paper and patiently waited.

I told myself, I’m never going to see this woman again so I shouldn’t really care what she thinks about how absurdly hairy my legs and underarms are. But then I couldn’t help but feel bad about the rap I was giving all gringos out there. I’m constantly aware of my position as an informal non-appointed ambassador for the United States. I’m always representing my country whether I like it or not. For some people, I’m the only American they may ever know. Usually I like to think I make a decent impression. This time however, I couldn’t help but imagine the stories this woman would share with her co-workers while they smoked cigarette and painted their nails. “I waxed this gringa the other day and she was out-of-control hairy. I mean, they must not ever shave or wax!” Puff. Exhale. Wave of cigarette. "You should´ve seen her. It was bad." I have to admit I feel a bit guilty about this and so try to explain about the mountaineering course, that it’s not usually this “bad” (although those who know me may offer contention).

The thing I’ve grown to enjoy about waxing is the challenge it presents to remain relaxed in an uncomfortable situation. I’m not referring to the social discomfort and awkwardness (I´ve been dealing with that ever since I first arrived to Chile on near daily basis) but rather the physical discomfort the process entails. That first time I thought Marisol was certifiably insane for insisting that I just RELAX. And since then that is just what I’ve trained myself to do. I repeast, quasi-masochistic. It´s striving for a state of zen, of controlling one´s breath in order to calm the nerves. And trust me, it´s not easy to not hold your breath when you see that someone is about to rip the hairs from your groin by the root. But it´s what I challenge myself to do. And lord knows I enjoy a good challenge.

The Twang that Soothes

Gives me peace, that twangy sadness
Provokes self-soothing
Like a baby
Alone

I dream a highway back to you

Where a highway doesn’t exist

Waters white with stinky sulfur
Lick up toward the sky
Between you and me

The fire lulls me to wakefulness
The twang to home
The cigarette to rebellion

Smoke falls behind my reflection
A glowing amber streetlight
Makes shiny everything
Sheds light on nothing

Not even the highway
Back to you.

A tea-stained napkin
Like a spot on a map
Dark in the middle
Concentrically lighter

“We have to look forward.”
But it’s the twang that soothes.

A winding ribbon with a band of gold

The rains stops for a second
And I lick my lips,
Look up to the sky

A silver vision come and bless my soul
I dream a highway back to you.

*italicized lyrics from Gillian Welch’s song “I Dream a Highway”

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.