Creative writing and travel writing from Tierra del Fuego to Torres del Paine via Punta Arenas, and via the Magellan Straits, at the tip of Patagonia, Chile and Argentina. Part 5 of ooAmericaS, Journey through South America.
From Ushuaia to Puerto Natales, via Punta Arenas, Argentina and Chile
Dec 17
Patagonia the pampa, the flatly undulating plains
Its soft golden brush tilted into the prevailing southwesterly winds
Its mulatto sheep, its grey sheep, its brown-ish grey sheep, wooled and docile
Its lakes and rivers and irrigation pipes, its oil drills too
Its free-ranging horses, and its herded horses, raised for race and gender
Its ferry boats, and its Patagonia dolphins,
Little Willies jumping over the water handsomely
Its vast, proud, emptiness, and its glazing sun
Its waters cold but not frozen, not in summer anyhow
Its flying birds of all flocks, sitting on rocks and watching the clouds turn purple
Its clouds and skies, its unforgettable horizons
Its roads built by Man for travel and now uninterrupted, unassuming, parts of beauteous Nature
Its graves and dead and fences to keep the livery in
Its strayed cows sometimes, or sheep, Its shacked roofs and farmhouses
Its great Estancias, red-roofed and blue-roofed
Its love of Jesus and, hopefully, above all else, Love
It’s the end of the world
As we know it, and only as such
—
The bus made us rise early at dawn
With full light out, four o’clock, after a few hours of sleep
The kind nightkeeper asks :Quieres cereales?”
To which I replied with fervor “Si por favor”
She prepared the sandwiches – ham and cheese and tomato, and butter,
I packed our bags
The nightkeeper hurried to remove the chairs from the tables,
And boil some water for the coffee, and bring eggs and jam and dulce de leche
We hurried to make them
The dining room was quiet – it being usually so full of different lives and their stories
We bade farewell the innkeeper, his inn, and his guests
The morning cool but not unduly cold, a quick shot at the sign of the world’s end
The rubber footing of the tripod lost itself forever in the Earth’s gravel
(but this will be remembered only for its symbolism, not for ay matter of gravity)
The bus was waiting already, a room full of people (a shuttle bus)
Local practice had some waiting for the last half hour,
But we were not late and so we all left together
The roads not icy, wet, the grey skies unremitting
Ushuaia left us a last taste of oily outskirts
Cisterns and warehouses, automotive shops, containers, tractors, gutted trucks and such increments of industrial townships
Then the road opened, new and and still wet
The young driver sped, pressing the gas lightly in the turns, and our fellow passengers slept
I saw a lake, and low-lying mountains, and felled wood
Much felled wood
Then gave way to sleep too
Rio Gallegos or Grande welcomed us still in that state
Invalidated to draw outside the gas station
Poor city yet forgotten by the busy traveller
A bowling alley, cleaning staff mopping the dark alleyways
Outside in the courtyard two giant bowling pins, gutted them too
Two big, well-fed dogs tore apart the trash
Digging through unseemly , tearing them apart ravenously
A few Israelis, fresh off their military service a Korean couple looking Japanese
An American who speaks perfect languages
Take the same route we do
A new bus, a bigger one this time
(Still far from the luxuries and 160-degree reclining chairs oft touted)
An albeit comfortable bus, and let’s leave it at that
Tired, pictures of the unscrolling landscape
The border comes soon
We still have four of the six sandwiches
Ham and cheese are not allowed
But the border patrollers are smiley and jovial, it’s a straightforward process
I ask if I can take a picture inside
They smile as they say no
But we are not done yet, customs is to come
Wolf down the sandwiches
She, her smaller body and appetite, made sick, leaves the second bread loaf
We are not in the clear
Scared for a bag of dried grapes
Risking prison and fines, losing hair over 100 grams of dried grapes
Customs
Immediately, as by design, llamas are in sight
Still scared for the grapes
There, we are now in the clear
Chile
O Chile!
Llamas, head high and proud, barons of the Oriental land
More sheep, wool by the ton, happy families
No wonder the importance of the shepherd in our cultures
As keeper – nay, protector – of these wonderful creatures
The sun is beaming
Blue skies as we haven’t seen in days, deep, life-giving blue
A very rough road awakes us again
Dust seeping the vents, its smell distinct and magical too
Everything here is
I dream looking at the unchanging plains
Their vast expanses of emptiness
Their fulfilled promise
Their forgetfulness of everything
Their tolerance for Us passing through them
(And thank the bus for its modern suspensions)
Finally, long, short hours after, giving in to the seeping heat…
To then discover a ferry departing
Thus we must wait
Step into the refreshing maritime air
Full of the smell of salt and seaweed and Nature and Life like no other sea in the world
Magic, Magellanic Straits water
Coarse, and smooth, and beckoning to the adventurous
A man waits on the beach alone, checking his cell phone
Picking his nose
Some street art, and of fine quality, in this remote outpost
A line of cars and trucks and buses waits for the ferry to return
It does, and we board
So do the trucks and cars and buses, behind us, with great care and maneuvering by the foremen, in tight formation on deck
We find a most comfortable seating area (I admit, ashamedly, to my surprise)
I leave her to sit tight by the window, plan on seeking the lapses of time on deck
But no sooner have I set up
An aged, sunny man – what a man, a Samaritan I should say – pulls me over
“Look, look.” He says, calmly, full of grace
I squint and see, skipping playfully in the cold, grey-green waters,
Two, three, four, even more
“Patagonia dolphins” says the wise man, leaving me to wonder
I run to the lower floor, run through the aisles
“Look, look
I tug her, rush her, ruin the moment
ashamed and sorry
Magic, Magellanic Straits water
Fervent and undulating, the wild’s tightly wound embrace
Brown cows, milk cows,
More crosses and graves, more plains adored, adorned in their simplest. Most sumptuous apparel
Light
More sleep
Control Carbineros
Another village, an abandoned escuela and cafeteria
No living souls in sight
But the endless rows of grazing sheep
Much felled wood, scorched or logged
Some construction materials, some discarded car bodies
Small streams winding through the grassy plains
Lavender shrubs grow dark violet, an old bridge
Sun finally lowered onto the last quadrants of the horizon
The skies a little bit pinker
An orange, soothing, cold and warm flow
And, as conjured with synchronous willfulness,
To the northeast, the first glimpse of Torres del Paine,
Of its shimmering, sharp peaks, of the glint of its snow-capped summits
We move flawlessly in this space, greeted by the same, all different, encroached trees hung onto the barbed fences, birds sit idly still, not even pecking at the ground or water, same huts seeming all but occupied, same outstretched road delivering us to our common Origins
Same same
To the Doors of Birth of Re-Birth, of Life Anew
On and on, on Ruta del Fin del Mundo
Bienvenida a Prinviza Ultima Esperanza
NB: Praise to the Spanish of ore for their remarkable lyricism in their choice of names, who knows if this may have helped them endure the terrible pain and violence they inflicted upon enlightened populations (think SS listening to the great classic compositions in concentration camps)
NB2: The sunset never ends, summer in the end of the world
For more from Tierra del Fuego, Punta Arenas, Patagonia, Chile and Argentina, see the photos from Punta Arenas, read the travel tips for Torres del Paine or view all the travel stories, videos, photos and writing from Chile on Rolling Coconut’s Travel section.
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