by Brian Keenan
There is a rough wooden dado around the restaurant/bar and the same big colour photographs of Viña and Valparaíso that you see on so many restaurant walls all over the country. A TV is on as always. Men with rugged, weathered, brown faces drift in for a drink. One man, who seems to be a permanent fixture, knocks back half-pints of wine.
The town square, little more than a dusty yard, has a tourist office (closed), a post office and offices for the rival phone companies, CTC and Entel. There are a few shops which all seem to stock the same limited choice of staid-looking clothes, tools, pharmacy items, toys and tourist knick-knacks. We take a short walk from the centre to the Plaza O’Higgins, a dirt track roundabout with a few flowers.
We wander along the shore past the navy base and the yacht club, whose anchorage is dotted with many small sailing boats.
Back at the hotel, a young man appears to put sheets on our beds and I manage to talk with him a little. He tells me that there are more people here during the Chilean summer holidays which have just ended and that they get a few European tourists, though never many. The hotel is large and pretty smart, yet I cannot imagine it has ever been close to full. I gather that the navy owns the place and that sometimes military and governmental delegations descend and give the impression of life.
I join Brian for a beer in the bar, aimlessly watching television for a while before turning in. I read as Brian nods off and starts snoring. Then I too get my head down. Despite my earplugs, Bri’s rumblings wake me a few times and I find myself getting angry with old, familiar resentments. My irritation takes an irrational turn as I begin to imagine his nasal sound effects are deliberate.
In fact I must have slept well as I wake refreshed, eager for the day. I go to breakfast ahead of Brian and find just the one table laid with toasted buns already cool on a plate. Looking through the picture window I see light and reflections on the river that comes up by the hotel and the masts of sailing boats further down towards the Beagle Channel. The dark river in the early morning mist looks jungle-like and I find myself daftly squinting through the brightening light for palm trees. I decide it is time for a cold shower.
Fichou is waiting for us in the town square with a young Israeli, Mordechai. Mordi is obsessed with getting his passport stamped with ‘End of the World’ and so we join him in a hunt for an office that might fulfil this desire. He has a contact, Ronaldo, who is a lawyer working for the regional government. Ronaldo advises us that the Chilean authorities do not stamp passports, only the Argentinians do – across the Beagle Channel at Ushuaia. Mordi is mortified but I can tell he remains determined for this trophy of his visit to Tierra del Fuego.
He has arranged to go on a sightseeing trip with a variety of acquaintances including Ronaldo’s wife Patricia. For want of anything better to do, Bri and I decide to join the excursion.
Driving around in a massive, beat-up old pick-up, we get to know Mordi a little better. He is twenty-four years old and has recently completed his national service – in military intelligence apparently. He is obsessed with the price of things: our cameras, the flight here, everything. He is staying somewhere in town and is outraged at the cost of our hotel.
‘Why you pay so much?’
‘Because we can, Mordi. It’s a good place.’
He is good-looking and eager to talk about his sexual conquests during his trip to South America. He explains that he was with a group but decided to go his own way. I cannot help thinking that maybe the decision was, at least, mutual but he does make an amusing foil for crazy Fichou. They tease each other a great deal, particularly about sexual appetites. When Mordi asks Patricia if there are any nightclubs on the island Fichou chips in, ‘Ah! You young men, always thinking of the girls!’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t, old man. You are the goat, eh!’
Fichou continues to film everything. The first time he starts his high-pitched, reedy French commentary for the film, the women jump with shock. It is hilarious. I would give a great deal of money to see his home movies, or at least watch his family and friends having to watch them. Most of the images would be hopelessly blurred, probably more dizzying than bucketing around on Alfonso’s farm.
He speaks in broken and obscene English. Every now and then he starts a diatribe, which, as with Mordi, is usually on the subject of being ripped off. When we stop at one point he starts up.
‘They people in the phone shop, they FUCK me!’ he screeches. ‘I ask them rate yesterday, they say five hundred peso per minute for international, today they – FUCK – say one thousand five hundred peso.’
Patricia, a pretty woman with short, salt-and-pepper hair, is Argentinian. Given the paranoid nature of the authorities down here and the proximity of Ushuaia, this leaves her rather exposed in spite of having a Chilean husband. She says her calls to friends and family at home are often bugged, sometimes cut off. When Brian asks why they are so paranoid she replies with a wry laugh, ‘Seventy per cent of the population here is in the military, police, customs, navy, air force. They have to do something!’
Away from the settlement we follow a stony track through woods and small valleys, catching regular glimpses of the Beagle Channel and passing a few isolated farms rearing cattle, sheep and pigs. The forests show the same strange mix of decay and rebirth that I had seen flying over Tierra del Fuego. There is much fresh growth but also much dead wood. Some had been deliberately burned but the introduction of beaver has meant additional destruction. Trees everywhere are nibbled and great areas have been reduced to wasteland. The beaver take only the leaves and small upper branches so the trunks lie naked and grey. We stop to look down on a large beaver dam and, as I try to take a picture, Mordi’s deep voice sounds close to my ear: ‘How big is your zoom?’
We move on to look at the Indian cemetery, a very neat little place on the shores of the channel. The only noise is the lapping of water on the beach. Family graves are enclosed by little white fences, and a curious tepee of sticks and animal skins surround a shrine to the Virgin. There are some garish red plastic roses and, spookily, the skull of an animal – a sheep, I think.
‘Why is the cemetery here,’ I ask our source of local information, Maurice, ‘so far from the Indian village on the other side of Puerto Williams?’
‘The Indians used to live here but were forced to move by the military in 1960. In the old days they used to cross the channel to see their Ona cousins. But that meant they were visiting enemy Argentina so they were rehoused the other side of town where they could be watched. The last pure-blood Yaghan died in 1996.’
The neatness of the cemetery seems somehow ludicrous, pathetic in this beautifully wild spot.
‘We have had a campaign to let them come and live here again,’ continues Maurice, ‘and now they can. We hope they can be happy here again. Patti helps them with their craftwork.’
‘Is the future bright, given there are so few of them?’
‘Mainly their life is as tourist attractions. It is sad. Many drink.’
We drive on along the shore of the channel, with Ushuaia gleaming in the sunlight as jumbo jets fly in and out. On our side the only thing in flight is the occasional upland goose. There are a few small fishing boats tied up in little coves and every once in a while a small abandoned dwelling. Brian, Mordi and Fichou spend much of the time snoozing, to the amusement of the ladies.
We stop off at one of the oldest farmsteads, Santa Rosa. Dogs and speckled pigs all rootle about the yard. There are a couple of large corrugated iron sheds and a fenced corral with cattle in it. Patti points to a bare, level piece of ground in the centre of the spread: ‘There used to be a large house full of fine old furniture. Not so long ago it burned down. They had no insurance so the farmer and his family now live in that little shack on the hill over there. Before, it was for the farmhand.’
The farmer’s wife comes over to talk to Patti and Maurice. She smiles a lot but her face is worn and deeply lined. There is no escape for her. Later we stop again when a stra
nge creature of twelve or fourteen plods down to the road behind a train of horses. The horses wander off and the skinhead spectacle walks over to the truck to talk to Patti and beg a cigarette. It turns out that she is a girl. Patti explains that she is mentally handicapped. I cannot help thinking of the movie Deliverance.
At the western end of the island we stop, as the road does, at Puerto Navarino. There are only five buildings. Three of them are the deserted quarters and offices for the carabineros, although one is still occupied by the navy. The last is a farm. It is a rather eerie place. Bri and I wander into the empty police station but there is nothing of interest. We join our fellows for coffee and chocolate cake that Patricia has miraculously produced from the boot of the truck. We all pose for photographs as Mordi and Fichou continue their banter.
Back in Puerto Williams, we walk down to the Yacht Club, which is in an old boat owned by the navy. The club begins to fill with the members of a German sailing party just returned from the Antarctic, all obviously well pleased with their trip. One of their number is celebrating his birthday so we all join in singing ‘Happy Birthday dear Dieter’ and then have to do it again when one of his pals finally gets his camcorder working.
There are other European and American yachties, one awful youth from the States droning on about music with a dull Nordic lad. Later I spot Mordi in a corner negotiating with a charter skipper for a passage to Ushuaia so that he can get his passport stamped. A deal is obviously struck as he raises his can of lager to us across the crowded bar, looking very self-satisfied.
The noise and the heat are getting to me and I decide to walk home. It is wonderful. The woods are all dark against the moonlight glinting off the water. I feel a sense of peace and mystery all around. Bri gets back shortly after me, having cajoled Maurice into giving him a lift.
On waking it takes a moment or two before I remember where I am. Last night I heard that one of the yacht charterers is an evangelical Christian. I imagine him hellfire and brimstoning it to his clients, ‘The End of the World is nigh!’ and them replying, ‘Well, I should bloody well hope so too, matey, with the prices you’re charging.’
After breakfast I decide to walk down to look at the Indian village on the far side of town. Brian elects to stay in bed.
‘What are you going to see? They’re not a freak show.’
On my way to town I stop near the Yacht Club. The dark clear waters here in the inlet from the channel could be the end of the mystic river far away in El Museo valley in the High Andes. I have a sense of being out of time, in a timeless place and I feel once more some of the magic of Neruda’s ‘harsh homeland’. These profound expressions of nature – the mountains, the deep rivers, the ‘spirit’ whirlwinds – perhaps they are all part of the rope that binds Chileans here even in such difficult conditions.
I see Mordi lugging the world’s largest kitbag onto a yacht. He waves. I return the salute but, bound up in my thoughts, carry on.
I walk on along the shore past the town and sit looking across the channel to Argentina. Suddenly I feel sad, wishing there was someone here to share this place and these emotions with me. I realize that much as the country still moves me, the feelings it is now stirring are of a desire to be home among loved ones. We have been travelling a long while and after seeing so many new and remarkable sights, having been to places of such great isolation, I need the familiarity and comfort of home.
At my feet delicate little shells lie scattered and I realize that, for the time being, I have had enough of the world’s grand scale. The landscapes of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego have disturbed me. It is like meeting some glamorous and beautiful character whom you wish to befriend but you cannot think how to open a conversation. You feel his distance, sense his isolation and want to embrace him. Then suddenly he turns his face and it is pock-marked, ravaged and cankered. You shudder and want to run but know there is nowhere to hide. You are only hiding from yourself, your fear of lost opportunity. It is a strange confusion of emotions. ‘At the end of my tether at the end of the world,’ I say to myself.
High above me, stunning clouds dot the sky. Some are moving, others still. A small fishing boat chugs across towards the port, wavelets come lapping at my feet and gulls gather a little distance away on the shore. The water is all calm though one can imagine it raging in a storm. Maurice said that there are many sharks in these waters, dangers lurking beneath the surface.
As I near the Yaghan village, I find my steps slowing, having lost the appetite for yet another ‘sight’ and appreciating Brian’s concerns of voyeurism. I turn back to the town square to meet him, following a winding path through a cool wood where the quiet and sweet scents restore my equilibrium.
I meet Fichou on a mission to post a great fistful of cards then join Bri for a final lunch in Los Dientes de Navarino. There is time only for a plate of chips and a beer. A party of American sailors sit at the next table talking loudly of the problems of marine insurance. A couple of local drunks prop up the bar. The ‘half-pints of wine’ man still lies slumped across the counter. When, occasionally, his head rises a few inches and his eyes flicker open, the barman roars in his ear ‘Buenos noches’ and everyone falls about laughing. Another, worse for wear but still standing, is a young man. He has a fine physique and a broad, handsome Indian face. Brian, casually taking in the scene, suddenly stiffens.
‘Look at that man, that’s the face on the statue in Punta Arenas!’
‘My God,’ I reply, ‘he could have been the model.’
In the sculpture he was bronze, wearing a loincloth, his eyes bright and alert. Now he is in jeans and weaving slightly, his eyes dilated. I feel sad, my mind spinning to faded black and white pictures of the last great North American Indian warrior Geronimo after his surrender. I wonder how you cope with being the last of your kind; how you bear the responsibility, even when you have no chance of victory, of leading your people to defeat.
I feel dog-tired but Bri is on great form, chatting away and making me laugh. It is a good thing to spend some time apart and have news to exchange. Perhaps we should have done this more often.
There are seats around the square and people gather to wait for the bus to the airport. We find an empty bench near the Entel phone company office. Fichou emerges from this building and sits with us, obviously seething. A woman comes out of the office and as she walks away he hisses, ‘She FUCK me with zee rate.’ He squirrels back in and we hear him shrieking, ‘How much – how much?’ I am sure his apparent madness must be a safer protection against potential robbers than the plastic bags in which he secretes his valuables.
Just before take-off, squalls of rain come gusting in and we are all slightly apprehensive. Safely off the ground we climb across the Beagle Channel and up among the high hills. The clouds floating below us look more like seaweed seen from the water’s surface than massed vapour. The rain flies horizontally past the window until we meet dense grey cloud and enter Nowhere.
The last quarter of an hour of the flight to Punta Arenas has the little plane bucking furiously in the wind. I am reassured to see the co-pilot nonchalantly reading a newspaper. Brian is dozing across the aisle. My immediate neighbour nudges me: ‘That one, he doan feel nuthin! Very good!’
The pilot wrestles with the controls before we touch down to a surprisingly smooth landing, for which he receives a generous round of applause.
On the bus out of town we catch our last sight of Fichou. Half hunched, his bags against a lamp-post, he is filming the exterior of the Braun Menendez Museum. His lips move and I imagine the commentary: ‘Maintenant je regarde le Musée Braun Menendez, la maison de la famille . . .’ A kindly man, inspiring a mix of sadness at his solitude and admiration for his venturesome spirit.
We chug out towards the airport. These are our last terrestrial views of the flat pampa. The sky is a warm blue with light cloud and so very, very wide.
Epilogue
TEMUCO – SANTIAGO
We sit eating sandwiches, f
acing each other on banquettes upholstered in gold velvet. Like the rest of the train, our sleeping compartment on the overnight express from Temuco to Santiago has seen better days yet is still infused with the grace and charm of another era. The Pullman-style coaches were built in Germany in the 1930s and, although nearing decrepitude, are preserved in a state of elegant disrepair.
This trip will take no more than twelve hours, yet it seems appropriate that our transport for this, the last stage of our Chilean journey, should make us feel as though we are embarking on one of the great transcontinental railways: across Siberia, Australia or India. The age and rickety nature of the train add an element of risk too, heightening the sense of adventure. After an uneventful flight from Punta Arenas to Puerto Montt and an easy bus ride from there to Temuco it seems right to be rounding off the journey in a more antique mode of travelling.
Temuco was the place I had promised myself I would come back to. But this time it wasn’t wholly by choice. The magnet of circumstance, predestination, call it what you will, brought us back here.
We had a few hours to kill before our dream ride into Santiago in a first-class overnight cabin on a train that was older than both of us. This was going to be the nightcap to our travels.
Our departure time allowed us several hours in the town. But there wasn’t much to see. With little to offer in the way of architecture or cultural respite, it exists in its moment and shuts down quickly. I loved its blandness, knowing that that was only a cover.
We were able to stash our belongings in a baggage check and go prowling round Temuco’s empty side streets. We were both dog-tired. A kind of claustrophobia surrounded our exchanges. Our mythic journey was over . . . almost, but we hadn’t the words to share it. A submerged sense of elation was bubbling beneath the surface but we didn’t know how to release that either.