On the Islands

The straight south of Puerto Montt was calm and mirror-like, cold and still in the early morning sun. We boarded a bus, which boarded a ferry, for the brief trip to Chiloe Island, a huge low landmass off of Patagonia. We planned to go to the national park on the west side of the island, maybe not that day, but later that week. This would be our first real stop, our first few days not in preparation or worry; just relaxation amongst the rolling hills of the far south.

It took us four hours to get to Chonchi, a ten street fishing village tucked in one of the many bays and inlets of Chiloe. The island of Chiloe is famous for having a unique architecture, one adapted to the harsh weather off the Pacific. The main church, which had rough-hew logs as buttresses, is a luminous yellow, with wood shingles on the walls, and a bright blue dome. It reminded me of the distant Russian Orthodox churches of Alaska, sitting on some lonely island out in the Aleutians. Many houses use very warm and bright colors on Chiloe, and it really does work to make the place a little less dreary.

Our hostelkeeper was a Canadian, Charles, late 50s, who apparently has spent most of his life moving from place to place, living in Indonesia, spending time in Mexico, Guatemala, Bolivia, all sorts of places. Well, now´he´s settled in Chonchi, running his hostel and mussel farm, generally being a regular guy. For an internationalist, he has fairly conservative politics- he offered pretty effusive praise for Pinochet, which is a little rare these days.

Anyway, Charles told us about a pirate fort (or, more accurately, an anti-pirate fort) just a few bays over. When Jeff´s eyes lit up, and the little sail loving child inside him stirred, I knew we were going to end up going. Sort of a mistake.

The tide was in, so we couldn´t walk along the beach (which would have been a three hour hike) so we instead walked in giant directional vectors, up the highway, down the highway, down to the beach, back up through some hedges, over a fence, through a cow pasture. We walked. By about hour four we were, maybe, halfway there.

We eventually found the beach, and things looked hopeful. Around a small bend, we come across a river, a deep, frigid, fairly fast moving river emptying directly into the bay. At this point we have three choices:
1. Give up and turn around.
2. Strip and wade across, hoping the tide will be out when we come back.
3. Hire an Indian guide.

Alexander goes first, carrying his clothing. Jeff goes next, and for reasons only he can explain, goes naked. This is a man who won´t wear shorts, but will stand around naked in a stream in Chile. I go last and, through sheer skill, manage to keep my boxers pretty dry. The water was indeed icy, but not enough to stop men on a mission.

So we walked. Though farmland, beautiful land with sheep and cows, friendly dogs, clucking hens. It was very pastoral to walk through, really, much better than I expected.

Well, we walked until we found out we were still miles from this fort. Then we quit. It felt pretty good. We hitched a ride back into town with some salmon farmers, blasting along roads it took us hours to follow. Charles cooked us a pot of mussels and we went to sleep.