Christmas in la Patagonia

I
A generous ride brought me north to the bustling town of Coyhaicae, famed destination for fly fishermen and a restocking center for local campesinos, in northern Patagonia, Chile, on Christmas eve. Here I admired how perfectly street lights stood perpendicular to the pavement, in sharp contrast to craggy wind-weary trees bowing towards the weathered rock. Taking a break from the coastal-based fisheries project, I headed for the hills, and had thought that spending Christmas alone in the Cerro Castillo mountains would be memorable, in a solitary sort of way. But the hike had gone more quickly than I thought, I been completely skunked fishing in Lago General Carerra, and a chance ride al dedo (hitching) had taken me all the way back to town. I was now pleased to get to see the social side of the holiday in these parts, and glad to get some respite from the relentless Patagonian wind.

Finding a place to stay for the night turned out to be a challenge. Every hostel, every house advertising hospitaje in its windows turned me away at the door, telling me they were full for the night. Even at the peak of daylight hours here in the southern hemisphere, darkness eventually descends at this southern latitude, and it looked like I might be forced to walk a long way in the dark before hitting the hay. I passed another hostel and was given same response- all rooms full. This one, however, offered to allow me to camp on their lawn. Camping, for me, seems to loose its appeal once submersed into the world of cars, boomboxes, and barking dogs, but this night I gratefully accepted the offer and headed out the door to find a nesting site for the night.

On the cracked steps of the hostel sat two Israelis and several liters of Cristal beer. Both sported fine mohawks, were probably around 20 years old, and one was playing a nylon-stringed guitar like he was a backup for Ted Nugent.

“Hey man, what’s….whoa, do you have a moustache?! Wow, there’s nothing cooler than a moustache!”

“Except Mohawks of course,” I replied, entertaining their egos.

“And mullets. Especially she-mullets.” These guys were clearly hip to what’s hip. “Hey man, where you from, and what’s your favorite band? Cause we know them all, let us play you a song. Any song,” touted the taller brother, sans guitar.

I hesitated, adjusting to the words spoken in English and to the rare haircuts, certainly foreign to Patagonia. I delayed by telling them where I’d been traveling, and where I call home. I’d heard little but latino love ballads (Te quiero, te quiero…) and morphed Christmas tunes (Navidad, Navidad, hoy es Navidad to the tune of Jingle Bells…) for a while. “Hmm, well, you know any Tom Waits, Floyd, Modest Mouse?” I was being simultaneously truthful and difficult, as my choice bands have a knack for writing eccentric, complex songs.

The Israelis were unphased. “Not Alaskan bands, man, bands that everybody knows. Tenacious D. That’s what you want. And here you go, from us to you,” said the brash singer. With that they launched into several songs, complete with all the original songs’ pauses, inflections, and attitude, and with the bonus of middle-eastern accents. The guitar player was a joy to listen to; the singer was not. Together they had plenty of heart. After a while I bid farewell to the Israeli brothers, who were still singing irreverently and with volume to spare, and headed into town to check out a midnight mass. With the Hebrew rockers lording over the camping grounds, I was in no rush to roost for the night.

The Coyhaicae Catholic church sits on the northern edge of the town’s central square, looking south. Mass here was a lively affair, with people of all ages in attendance, despite the late hour. Babies inside and dogs celebrating in the streets contended for air time with the priest and speakers throughout the service. The actors in the manger scene weren’t noteworthy but the ornate costumes were, and the live stand-in for baby Jesus was a truly beautiful baby. I’m no Catholic but thought the service and songs beat the pants off the Tenacious D cover band.

Back at the manger, things had settled down. I pulled out my tent- actually just a three- meter by two-meter sheet of one-millimeter clear plastic bought a week earlier at a hardware store- scavenged a few rocks and a ridgepole, quickly erected my shelter in the dark, and tucked into my sacko de dormir for the night. The stars were burning bright, and I could see the southern cross constellation to, surprisingly enough, the south. A few hazy thoughts about the grass within my tent not quick smelling right crossed my mind before I dozed off.

Christmas morning shone bright and clear (not ordinary Christmas weather for a Mainer, where tradition mandates a holiday mix of wet snow and freezing rain). Not a single wispy cloud interrupted the baby-blue sky. As I woke, olfactory-cognitive coordination improved, and the reaction was less than pleasant. There was something amuck in my stall. A look to my left, and then to my right, cleared up the confusion. On one side lay a hunk of fleshy bone, partially decomposed, although fortunately not nearly as maggot-ridden as the head of the dead cow I’d encountered on a hike a few days back. On my other side, lay a nice pile of the remains of what was likely the rest of the meat, after being fully processed by a large dog. Santa had visited my humble abode, and he’d come bearing presents!

I said a quick prayer of thanks for the heavenly forces which had guided me around the landmines the night before when setting up camp, keeping me clean and relatively fragrant. I then headed out to enjoy the beautiful day.

II
To celebrate the union of my good fortune, the holiday, and the fantastic weather, I decided to treat myself to a big breakfast, before exploring a trail network in Coyhaicae’s nature reserve. True to relaxed latino culture and signifying the importance of the holiday, not a single supermarket, store, or restaurant was open. After ambling around town until noon, I finally found a small panaderia in the process of opening its latches. In I marched, and proceeded to assemble a venerable feast for one. I bought one of each kind of pastry the store made, a can of frutillas en jugo (strawberries in their own juice), and a bottle of Colo de Mono, which was advertised as a traditional holiday drink, which I imagined was the Chilean parallel to eggnog.

On a sunny patch of grass on the back side of a gas station, I feasted. Each pastry was soaked in strawberry juice. The half-dozen pastries were gone in short order, at which time I had serious stomach pains. It took me a couple of hours to recover from this food coma, which gave the sun plenty of time to burn and dehydrate this pathetic white chap.

Stomach recovered and spirits still high, phase two of the Christmas plan was to explore a protected forest of the outskirts of town. Partly due to poor planning but mostly due to an odd tendency to create illogical personal challenges, I showed up at the reserve with no food and my only my eggnog substitute to drink. At this point I took further inspection of the drink’s label and contents, and learned that this certain drink, Tail of the Monkey, is actually more like a bad Kailua, a somewhat sickening coffee liquor. And alcoholic. Not my cup of tea for this endeavor. But the challenge had been set, and there was no arguing with the judge.

The first five or so kilometers of the trail were quite nice. The following several were, to my recollection, quite sinuous. Small hills, in the blazing heat and with the monkey on my back, became valiant struggles. I passed several streams which would likely have yielded potable water, but for some reason, this felt like cheating. By the time I ambled out of the partial shade of the reserve and down the dusty and sun-baked road to town, the monkey’s playful, comedic demeanor had given way to pain and thirst. Time is a good remedy though, and by the time I was in the town proper, the monkey has jumped ship. The day, although unique, had been beautiful in it’s own way. Water never tasted so sweet.

This is a longwinded way of wishing all a happy holidays. May all of you be so lucky as to successfully dodge foul meats and dog poo where you lie, keep all of life’s little monkeys off your backs!

Chiloe's wild west

In northwestern Isla Chiloe sits the small city of Ancud, population around 25,000, one of the larger cities on the island. West of Ancud, and extending south for the entire west coast of the island, is wild, undeveloped coastline. Most of this is officially protected as park land. Road access is rare and few fishermen work on this western coastline, especially as compared to the busy eastern shores. This is understandable, as the western coast lies directly exposed to the Pacific, while Chiloe’s eastern shores open into the Gulf of Ancud.

Directly west of Ancud is one place where a road does manage to snake all the way to the wilder coast. Half way to the coast the road turns to a rough dirt road and houses effective end, save the occasional capensino dwelling. Here is the Pinguineria- a protected nesting area for two species of penguins (Magellanic and Humboldt)- and an area frequented by tourists from all over the world. A few restaurants catering to tourists spring out of the beach about where the grass begins, although today they appear closed. The black and white penguins seem to be web-footed gold to these restaurants and the Ancud agents who sell (overpriced) package tours to tourists.

Just down the beach from these restaurants, benefiting from the wind and swell protection that the penguin-speckled islands just offshore offer, a group of artesanal fishermen live right on the beach in the warmer months. Their camps are the just like many salmon setnet fish camps in Alaska- simple, functional, snug, and homey. These are members of a local fishing cooperative, known here as a syndicate, which together manage and harvest the local loco, a mollusk of high value, with an appearance that sometimes leads to it being mistaken as abalone. When not diving for loco, these fishermen are die-hard skiff fishermen.

I walk up to four fishermen on the beach and strike up a conversation with the closest man. Mario, in his mid-30’s with an easy smile, has an uncanny knack for known half a dozen synonyms for any particular word. The fishermen on the beach are four of 60 men and women in the local loco syndicate, which controls, monitors, and enforces loco harvesting in the waters directly offshore of this particular beach. I’m told that there are roughly 15 of the loco syndicates in the region. Loco longer than 10 centimeters along the long axis are harvested between March and July (mostly in June and July), at which time they’re the plumpest. Recently, loco have been garnering about 7,000 pesos/kilogram (roughly five bucks a pound) for fishermen, and earnings are split evenly between all members of the syndicate. Price-sharing and local management are both somewhat rare in the fisheries these days, and the concepts here are progressive. Many eyes are keeping tabs on how this management regime pans out, and the Chilean loco fishery is well known to fisheries management insiders worldwide, both for this artisanal control and its history of being overharvested.

This being outside of loco season, attention here is now on other species. Mario divides a gillnet with three others on the beach. They parcel the long net into shorter lengths, roughly 100 feet in length, to make each piece more manageable for one or two people to handle, using only human power. The gillnet mesh is larger than any I’ve seen before- probably 10 inch diagonal- and I’m told that it’s for manta ray (never has thought to eat these before myself). Also targeted here are cholga, chorita (mussels), almeja, lapa, macha (three types of clams), trimulco,, picuyo (two morphs of whelk), picoroco (a suiting name for barnacles), luga (kelp), bacalao (cod), pejigallo (elephantfish), jaiva (Dungy crab), merluza (hake), and corvin (undetermined finfish). This guys, like many fishermen who have their vocation entwined with their passion, basically will fish for whatever is abundant and of market value.

The fishing fleet here consists of a dozen or so 25-foot boat powered by 40-horsepower outboards. The skiffs are all fiberglass- certainly an anomaly on Isla Chiloe- and are probably a testament to the rough seas on this side of the island and to the financial success of the fishermen. Four men routinely go out in each skiff. Profits are split six ways- two shares go to the boat, and one share each to the fishermen. I suppose this equates to a crewshare of 17%. I’m not sure why I was made privy to these particular details. I’m now passing them on because I think that it shows how democratic and up-front the decision making seems to be in this local fishery. Disagreements are hashed out face-to-face in the cabin in the evenings. Too often in bigger fisheries accounting and payments are conducted with hazy and/or creative arithmetic.

In the cabin, we enjoy tea, mate, and a delicious salty crumble of fishy that once, I think, resembled a smelt. We eat boiled dungy crab by bashing the shells between two rocks. I’d guess I ate about a few heaping teaspoons of sand mixed in with the delicious crab, didn’t mind a bit. Ten of us are packed in to the one-room cabin, and ages ranged from 15 to 50, sitting on crates, stumps, and partially repaired chairs. This crew is sharp and tuned in not only to local marine affairs, but foreign affairs as well. Both affect them directly. I was informed that George Bush had recently had a pair of shoes thrown at him during a press conference (news to me), and we all had a good laugh over this. [Bush is uniformly disliked down here, although Chileans seem to have amazing patience with Americans, seeming to understand and forgive our national decision to give him a second term as president, although his stint seems to have had negative impacts on Chile.]

A poster of cetaceans on the wall kicked off another lively subject. Many species of whales are frequent visitors to the productive waters just off Chiloe’s west coast. These fishermen had all had very close encounters with various whales, and Eduardo, the oldest man in the room by a decade, retold with animated detail of the time that a sperm whale came up from below and grazed his boat. He told us that it knew exactly where the boat was, and only wanted to scratch it’s back- no harm intended. I told Eduardo a few sperm whales in Alaska and British Colombia had learned to pick fish off the longline as gear was being hauled, and that this sometimes infuriates fishermen, for stealing their fish. His response surprised me, as had the collective perspective of this group of fishermen since I first walked up to them on the beach. “Tienen hambre, exacto como nosotros,” he said with a shrug and a smile. They are hungry, just like us (humans).

I head out to take a walk on the beach in the dark, and bump into an ancient man, taller and skinnier than the rest of the group, with a long beard seeming to drip off his chin. His son, no spring chicken himself, appears behind him, and introduces his dad as “Rusputan”. Rasputan has a cracked but functional headlight on his forehead. I ask where they are going, and am told that they’re going out for loco…and a few confusing sentences which I interpret as, “the holidays are coming and we want a little extra money to have a real feast.” They say this with grins, I smile and laugh, taking this as a joke, as I’ve just been impressed for the full day with the structured internal management and embedded social welfare of this tight-knit group of fishermen, who seem to protect and share their collective resource so well. The two laugh as well, and were probably just pulling this gringo's leg. Probably.

Quellon, a serious fishing port

The chaotic fish dock in Quellon immediately brought to mind Melville’s description of the Nantucket waterfront in Moby Dick. Although currently a vague and distant image for me, I remember the author’s description of the place as being simultaneously chaotic, exciting, and intimidating. Quellon is certainly this. Several men wandering around who would fit the casting role for Queequeg. An Alaskan parallel, somewhat stretched, would pair Dalcahue with Homer and Quellon with Kodiak- slightly less hospitable, a touch more fish-crazed. Longer hair, more tattoos, a bit more trash on the sides of the streets. Piercing stares or no acknowledgement at all. Very few things are more intimidating in life than a commercial fisherman’s stare, even for those accustomed to the trade. I think the Quellon dock is fantastic.

Lots of fish come into Quellon. It is a major port for many of the boats which fish to the south, stretching towards Patagonia. Almeja (clam), merluza (hake), congrio (kingklip, the eel/cusk-like fish highly prized in Chile), dorado (a congrio-like fish, not the speedy and iridescent dorado, aka dolphin, often caught in the tropics), caracol, corvina, and peliyo are all commonly fished here. Luga (red algae) is harvested by divers, transported in larger vessels (tenders) back to the dock, and here in town there are two plants which dry the algae and ship to Santiago, where it is where it is used as a thickener in many products, including shampoo and ice cream.

Almeja are harvested by divers, using dive boats similar to those from Dalcahue. Today the dock is piled with clams, in places 3 feet high. Wild-eyed men shovel the clams into 40 kilogram bags. On average, I’m told boats will bring in between six and nine bags’ worth of almeja per day. This is the result of a long day’s work for five fishermen, three buseos (divers) and two marinos (men working the deck). Here and now, almeja are worth 170 pesos per kilogram. This works out to around $15 per fisherman the day.

I’m told that commercial divers for luga spend most of their days in 40-50 meters of water, but I’ve also seen divers in the intertidal harvesting what appears to the same leafy, inedible algae. Like those used to harvest almeja and navijela, most boats are between seven and eight meters in length. Boats are paid 200 pesos per kilogram for the crop. Like most of fishing, the pennies (or pesos) add up, bit by bit. These fishermen all take great pride in their boats, and most show every sign of really enjoying their chosen livelihood.

Pressure on divers’ ears when 50 meters below must be intense. I’m told that the acclimation is brief. I think tolerance for pain is pretty damn high in these parts.

Larger longliners are moored just off the dock. Pablo, a young deckhand on an 18-meter longliner, lets me in on a few details of his fishery. Pablo and the seven others aboard the Mar Bravo use fixed hook and line gear, very similar to that used in Alaska. Only the mantles of squid are used for bait, and they mainly fish for the congrio and dorado, both well-endowed with fins and valued for their firm white meat. Cod, one of the most evolutionary successful finfish in the world, are caught here too. The boat heads out to fishing grounds for 15 day stints, then returns to it’s native harbor for a week or so to rest it’s engine, it’s crew, and to restock. For many of the days on the water, when not in transit, the crew gets very little sleep. Fishing continues around the clock, and the larger crew allows for them to cycle through three-hour naps. Hooks always need rebaiting, fish need to be gutted and iced in the fish hold, gear has to be set out and hauled back. This is remarkably similar to much of the halibut longlining in Alaska, and Pablo and I, separated by language, culture, and around 10,000 miles of Pacific Ocean laughed at our parallel paths in life, despite the small differences. We headed into town for a celebratory beer.