11 Puerto Montt and Chiloe Island - fishing villages and music

March 1st - 8th: a week of fishing villages

Puerto Montt is a fairly large town: not as pretty as its smaller neighbour Puerto Varas, but nevertheless, it does have some attractions of its own, as well as being a central hub from where you can get buses to just about anywhere in the country.

This bizarre shop was run by a saxophonist, who told me he spent all day playing. "If you want to buy some ear rings or anything, just tell me," he said, before going back to his saxophone.

Typical mugs for drinking 'mate'

Highlights for me were Tengo island (just 5 minutes by boat), the fish market, where apparently sealions hang around at high tide (needless to say, I was there at low tide!), seeing small Chilean dolphins from the bus window, while riding along the coast towards Los Arenas,  a walk along the beach, from where I was

Fish market, Puerto Montt

offered (and accepted) a ride in a boat to a small rock, where lobos (sea lions) sometimes hang out (but not that day), and some excellent musicians busking in the street, on a wet afternoon.

Hitch hiking with a difference!

The coastal road was a bit hairy, and I was full of admiration for the skill of the bus drivers. At first, I´d hoped that they weren´t relying on the rosaries hanging off the windscreen washer, or the pictures of Jesus often to be seen by the driving mirror. After a while, I came to recognise that these items were more to protect them against other less careful drivers, landslides, or other 'Acts of God´ - as far as the drivers themselves were concerned, I never felt any lack of confidence.

Carretera Austral near Puerto Montt

This was the day that I first met a rather wild-looking North Chilean cyclist, on an old and very unusual bicycle: he had bought it cheaply somewhere on his travels, I learned later, having given his own away to some very poor people who had very little means of transport.

Next day, I ran into him again, this time outside the tourist office in Puerto Montt, in the rain. I noticed that he had a small stringed musical instrument on his back - one that he had bought in another part of South America - and he got it out of its case to show me.

Handlebars made out of animal horns - and a hooter, and a percussion instrument

Since I could not understand everything he was telling me, I asked him if he would come into the tourist office with me, so that the girls in there could help translate. The office was quiet, and the girls only too ready to oblige, as fascinated by his bicycle  as I was. He was 36, and had been travelling around South America on it for 10 years. His intention was to continue until he was 40, and then go back home and build a house. By 'profession', he was a magician, he said, as well as a musician.  He obliged by playing the stringed instrument and pan pipes for us: it's probably not many people who can play two instruments at once. Nevertheless, it seemed to me he could still do with a bit of practice!

I had the feeling that he wasn't used to this much attention, but he seemed to be enjoying it, and continued chatting to the girls for some time.

A few minutes after leaving the Tourist Office, I passed a group of musicians busking in the street. They were excellent, alternating between singing and playing the guitar and panpipes. Three of them were from Puerto Montt, they told me, and the fourth from Northern Chile. They got together just once a year.

Leaving some of my gear at the Casa Perla hostel in Puerto Montt, I took a bus to Chiloe Island for a few days, in the hope of seeing some wildlife from the ferry to Ancud. But after starting out on a promising morning, the rain soon started again - I would have to wait until the trip back to see one small pod of small dolphins, and some lobos (seals or sealions).

Puñihuil

The town of Ancud itself was disappointing, and everything seemed to be closed, including both tourist offices. However, a minibus was heading for Puñihuil, home of the Magellan and Humboldt penguins. Today was the village's annual feria. There was too much wind for the boats to run, but the sun had come out, the rocky coastline was beautiful, and the music provided for the village dancing was live: with (for me) the novelty of a horse skull, complete with teeth, being used for percussion.

Percussion at Feria at Puñihuil, Chiloe

Puñihuil 

 With the tide coming in, not the best place for a breakdown . . .

On to Castro, next day: a small town with colourful houses, some of them on stilts.

Castro

What exactly is this shop selling?!

Enquired about bike hire, but the season was over. Instead, took a short  bus ride to Cacao, with its lakes and National Park, on the Pacific side of the island. The Pacific waves crashing onto the distant shore were quite impressive, with the Tsunami exit signs a bit sobering. An emergency instructions leaflet suggested that in the event of a Tsunami, you should 'walk away' immediately.  "Run like hell!" would have seemed to me to be a more appropriate instruction!

Er - isn´t there something strange about this sign?

Again the weather turned a bit damp later that evening, but nevertheless, I took a walk to a nearby laguna, from where I got a lift back to the campsite from the National Park staff, in my favourite transport: the back of a pick-up truck.

Next day, the National Park trail through some trees was very short. The intention had been to head for the coast path, but getting to it involved quite a bit of road - this was on the ´Sendero de Chile' route, but not in the National Park itself. One of the National Park staff passed me and stopped to give me a lift. However, as we reached the beach, his intention appeared to be to drive into the waves. Not for me, I decided, and made a hasty exit.

Local buses not always up to the high standards elsewhere

With the path not clear and the weather damp again, I suddenly lost interest, and headed back, to take the afternoon bus back to Castro, and out to Achao: a small coastal town, on the island of Quinchao, just off the Eastern coast of Chiloe, not far from Dalcahue. recommended by a Chilean couple I had met at the campsite. Reversing the bus onto the little ferry that was to take us there, was quite an operation.

Achao was beautiful, as was the evening, with lots of fishing boats: so much so, that I decided to stay an extra day, with a relaxing afternoon at the far end of the island, at Chequian, a small community where only seven families lived. Its beautiful beach was deserted, apart from a number of birds, one ferry heading for the mainland, and an occasional motor boat, dodging between the smaller islands just off the coast.

Achao

Chequian

Next day, time to head back for Puerto Montt and Puerto Varas: time was running out, and having enjoyed the few days of colourful boats and fishing villages, I wanted to see the Chilean Lake District: with the improved weather, the  volcanoes should hopefully now be visible, even though views could be hazy on days when the wind direction was such that the ash from the still slowly erupting Volcan Puyuhue was blowing the wrong way. On a fine day, I was in luck at last. As we neared Puerto Montt, we saw a small group of small dolphins bobbing in and out of the water, as well as the long-awaited lobos.

Moonrise at Sunset: Achao

05 Border Crossing into Chile and Villa O´Higgins

Tuesday, January 31st: time to start Phase 2 of this journey, moving back into Chile, ready for the journey up the Carretera Austral: a largely unpaved 1240km route through rural Patagonia, stretching from Villa O'Higgins in the south of Chile, to Puerto Montt, starting point for the Chilean Lake District:    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carretera_Austral . The road is mainly unpaved, surfaced with ripio (stones and gravel), and there are often more cyclists and motor cyclists on it than cars, buses or trucks. It is renowned for the rainforest, lakes and glaciated mountains that you pass on the way.



(Map courtesy www.villaohiggins.com)

At the recommendation of the hostel staff, took the 8.30 transfer to Lago Desertio: only to find that Tuesday was the one day that the boat to the other side of the lake didn´t leave until the afternoon.  No problem: according to the sketch map provided, you could trek to the Argentinian border post at the end of the lake, in just four hours; so Dutchman Hans and I set off on our way, across the swinging suspension bridge.

Suspension bridge at Lago del Desierto: start of the trek

After that, despite some pretty woodland and waterfalls, the path was a bit of a nightmare: steeply up, steeply down, across tree stumps, through unbridged streams, and boggy bits.

The path was reasonably well marked, after the first couple of hours - except for where the path divided. Hans offered to take some of my stuff for me, but was already carrying a load of his own, so I didn´t like to accept. Eventually, I encouraged him to continue at his own pace. Seven hours after starting, I arrived - having met just a group of  French and Australian people, and one German girl cyclist (travelling without her bike, which was to follow her later by boat): blue-lipped from eating the Calafate berries that legend says will ensure that the consumer returns to Patagonia. All of them were coming from the opposite direction.

Calafate berries: photo Istvan and Henrietta

I arrived at the Argentinian passport control just before the boat, to find just a few tents scattered around the lake: a beautiful place to camp, as well as being free.

As for the border guards, I wondered what they had to do to get such an idyllic placement - though how bored they must get, unless they were avid readers? Did they have to be studying, and in need of time for it? With just 2 boats coming in each day, each with just a handful of people, what did they have to do? People coming the 22 km from the opposite direction wouldn´t be likely to arrive much earlier than the local boat.

Around their hut were a few horses, and a family of  large ducks were searching for food around the lake. A few meters away, they had a small round building with a pub football game outside it, and a barbecue-type cooking range inside.

There were six of us camping that night, waiting to be ´signed out' of Argentina, and we thought of trying to get our paperwork done this evening, so as to be able to make an early start next day - but by 6pm, one of the border guards had gone fishing, and the other was busy watching TV. They would be open again for business at 8am, we were  told.

I awoke next day to hear the wind roaring, and didn´t feel keen to get up. Neither did the border guards, it seemed, since by 8.30, their office was still locked - though through the window, I could see that the TV was still on.

The elderly Italian guy was also waiting. I decided to go and explore a bit. Perhaps, if I had a poke around the guards' leisure facilities, it would at least wake the dog up, who would then alert the guards? It didn't work: the dog was also sleeping.

A few minutes later I returned, to find that dog or no dog, work had indeed begun. The Italian signed out of Argentina, it was my turn. However, this involved starting a new page in the book, which had to be meticulously ruled up, and thought given to the headings for each column. (Could have been at least 3 days since the last time this had been done.)

At last, duly signed out of Argentina, I could begin. The first 7km section through the trees up to the border should take about 2 hours or so, I´d been given to understand, .after which there was a straightforward jeep track. Sure enough, compared with the previous day, today´s trek was a walk in the park, despite being twice as far. Crossing from Argentina into Chile was uneventful, with just a metal stack, saying Argentina on one side, and Chile on the other: the border police were stationed 4 hours further on, just 1km from the boat.

                         

Prior to that, the route took you across what looked like a runway for mountain bikes - and sure enough, at the end of it there was an ´Aerodrome´ sign: if this was an emergency landing strip, I didn´t want to be the emergency, particularly if the plane didn´t have mountain bike tyres! Heard later that yes, it was disused, but it had been the scene of bitter border disputes and shootings, as recently as the 1980s and 90s, and that at that time there had been families living there, who had built the runway.

Eventually, met 2 Australians and 2 Belgians coming the other way, who had been told that the boat might not run the next day, because of the wind. Arrived at the passport control soon after 4pm.

Passport inspection post, Candelario Mancilla, Chile

Tripped over a couple of chickens and a sleepy Welsh collie, rang the doorbell to warn the gendarmie to get the ink pad ready, and walked in to fill in the inevitable form, and have my passport stamped once again .Noticeable that at this border post, there was no nonsense about signing declarations to say that you were carrying no food. These border police evidently recognised that if you were walking for 7 hours, you needed food.

Met up with the Italian, Hans and 2 student social workers from Santiago, who had been at the campsite. The awaiting passengers were joined by another woman, who arrived from somewhere by tractor drawn cart/taxi, driven by one of the gendarmerie, 5 minutes before the boat came in.

VIP taxi - driven by one of the border post guards

Waiting for the ferry at Candelaria Mancello

The Robinson Crusoe boat arrived at the appointed time, and 2 English cyclists jumped off. They lived in Yorkshire, the girl told me, though the young man, Gareth Vickers, was from Monmouth. "Really?" I asked. Don´t suppose they knew Alan Morgan, whom I´d known for the past 40 years, since he was a young boy. Oh yes, he said. And his sister Vivienne!

The exchange was witnessed by one of the boat staff, who told me that some while ago, he was working somewhere, when his first love walked in - they hadn´t seen one another for 20 years! Wherever you are in the world, he said, just wait at a corner if you want to see somone you know!

Boat ride itself was like being on a ride in a funfair: up, down, side to side, BANG! Spray everywhere, as we rode the waves, but we survived. Really rather glad that I hadn't opted to extend the ride for another five hours by camping overnight again and taking the boat in the morning to look at a glacier.

Lady from Santiago came over and chatted to me, and then introduced me to her husband, her friend, and the friend´s daughter, who had studied near York. Off the boat, we all piled onto a Robinson Crusoe bus, for the last stage of this border crossing into Villa O´Higgins, along a road that had been blown out of the cliff with explosives: a narrow road following a lake, with some spectacular drops below . . . .

Bridge near Villa O'Higgins

Road near Villa O'Higgins

Camped  at El Mosco hostel. Camping area a bit desolate looking, but inside was beautifully cosy, built by the owner Jorque himself. Took it easy next day, meeting a number of local people as I looked into the possibility of buying a secondhand bike for the trip up the Carretera Austral. Hans Silva from this village had promised to try and find me one, but the bikes he had were not for sale. Jorque's friend Maurizio, who owned the Eco campsite, did have a bike, but said it was much too big for me. He knew someone who had quite a good one for sale my size, but this man had just left for Cochrane and wouldn't be back until Sunday. And so it went on, and I decided that perhaps it just wasn´t meant to be.

Watched a plane come and land: extraordinary that such a small village should have a runway.

Runway at Villa O'Higgins

Even more extraordinary, Maurizio told me, was that five men had taken three years to build the runway , with nothing but hand tools! He spoke of the amazing  courage of the pilots who landed there. (Surely of the passengers too, I couldn´t help thinking.)

Himself originally from Valparaiso, he also said he never ceased to be amazed by the way country people survived here. There was a woman of 67 living in the village who had been 'born on the glacier', and her 94 year old mother was still alive.

Hit lucky the evening before leaving. Some Hungarian people living and working in Santiago, Izvan, an astronomer, and Henrietta, a biologist, asked me about my plans, and when I said I was going to Tortel, offered me a lift, since they were going too.