* * *
After
four months, twice the time I had originally planned but half of what felt
sufficient, my time in Coyhaique had finally ended. Every day it felt like I learned twice as much as the day before it, and that the next day there was something new to be done. I became lost in the development of their projects, and time slipped away from me.
 |
| Planting carrots |
But what exactly did we do on the farm? My last description
was a bit incomplete. To call it a “farm” is a bit inaccurate; it was a form of
subsistence farming, but even so, that seems to imply that they grow crops for
survival. A better word would be “project,” a project in permaculture, and wasn’t
just in the food. The entire idea behind it was to create a lifestyle with 100%
organic self-dependency; that from the ground up, every aspect of their lives
be organic, home grown, or hand-made; that they could remove themselves from
industrialized food, tools, building materials…everything.
 |
| Made entirely from recycled and organic materials |
The project is a generation old: it was started
by a group of people, among them Martín’s mother and father, who bought the
land and planted the first trees, hundreds of them, resulting in a forest which
now envelops the property on the fringe of town. Nowadays those first few have
other work going on—when they were just starting out they couldn’t manage much
without an income, and so are still “in the system”— but still live on the
property in houses built, like all the structures there, with organic or
recycled materials, and help out when they can. Martín and Paz are the real
jewels of the project: with a field of pine trees, ample planting ground, and
experts all around them, they’ve had an ideal space to cultivate the life they
live now, and are constantly working to achieve that original goal of complete
self-sustainability, always starting new projects and improving old ones.
 |
| Making mulch |
 |
| Martín working outside the "community hall" |
Mingalegre, as I learned the project is
called, is true to its namesake. Though I’ve struggled to find a direct
definition or translation in English, the word “minga” in Spanish has to do with community effort: people coming together
to do a job or project, saving time and energy and exchanging knowledge in the process.
Martín and Paz embody this idea. Besides accepting volunteers (which is
obviously the reason you’re reading about this), they were constantly teaching
workshops and classes—both around the region and within their own garden—and
organizing meetings and reunions with people from all over Patagonia in order
to spread knowledge, sow the permacultural spirit, and establish and grow the network
of like-minded people. By the end of my time there I got to know quite a few
people who worked in permaculture, and in my travels I’m constantly surprised
to find that people know of Mingalegre—sometimes
by name, sometimes by description, and sometimes just by the people living
there. More than once I’ve discussed the half-famous “hippies” (same in
Spanish) living in mud houses on the edge of Coyhaique, and every so often I’ll
find the odd picture in a magazine or news article.
 |
| Teaching a workshop |
 |
| Mingalegre, fully functional |
* * *
As
difficult as it was to leave, while in Coyhaique I had contacted a man in Tierra
del Fuego about volunteering on his sheep farm, and we agreed that the job was
to start the first week of January. So, with that destination in mind, I packed
my things and left Mingalegre,
walking to the edge of town. There was a lot of road between me and Tierra del
Fuego, and my only means of covering it was hitchhiking. Luckily, I was quickly picked up by a local construction worker, and from then on it was nothing but freedom.
Villa
Cerro Castillo was my first stop, named for the famous National Reserve whose
hiking trail and titular peak are located nearby. I spent the night in town and
set out the next day on my hike. The reserve was gorgeous. The trail cut
through a forest of lenga set on a
steady incline, and after a few hours I was surrounded by intimidating peaks, jagged
rock encrusted with glacial ice. I spent two days there. Day one was a light,
winding climb through the forest. It was magical. Day two I started the real
ascent, during which the trail gave way to the steep, rocky, ambiguous scramble
the reserve is famous for. Where the first day I was treated to a smooth,
distinct dirt trail that snaked through the forest, the second was more of a
scavenge, spent poking my way from one vague landmark to the next, each
further, sketchier, and more difficult to spot than the last. By the time I had
reached the top, the ground had changed from dirt and sand to a bed of loose,
sharp rocks, and the wind often threatened to knock me over. The view from the
top, though, was worth it. Cerro Castillo
is a landmark, a jagged, spindly peak that supports a glacier, perched high
above its very own glacial lake. I skirted the edge of the massive formation
and headed back down, ending up in the village once again. From there, it was
one more night of rest and hot food before I was back on the road.
Puerto
Ibañez proved to be a quiet, boring little town, as did Chile Chico and Los
Antiguos after it, but the boat ride between them was fun, as was the walk between
Chile Chico and Los Antiguos. After a quiet weekend of border hopping, I was in
Chile Chico with a fresh visa, looking to head to Cochrane. Chile Chico is
a bit off the beaten path, and the only route back to the main highway is a tiny gravel road,
threaded through the hills that border the lake. After waiting hours by the
side of the road in Chile Chico, I was finally picked up, along with a group of
Israeli backpackers going the same way, by a firewood truck returning from a
day’s worth of deliveries in Chile Chico. We piled into the bed of the now
empty truck and soon were bouncing along the rough road, which wound around
hills and through the spaces between them, rising and falling, the lake
constantly in view. Across the marble blue waters glowed massive, snowy Andean
peaks, pale blue in the waning sunlight and reflected vaguely in the water where
the glare from the sun outshone them. We had front-row seats to one of the best
sunsets I’ve ever seen. The Israelis got much better pictures than I did, but
that didn’t stop me from trying.
Unfortunately, the leñador could only take us halfway, to a village between Chile Chico and the highway, so we were
stuck for the night. The tiny town didn’t have much in the way of supplies and
was devoid of hostels, so I spent the night camping by the side of the road
with the Israelis, chatting about cultural differences, life goals, travel
plans, and whatever else people talk about. The next morning we were up bright
and early, and soon we were picked up by another friendly trucker who brought
us to the crossing. The Israelis, heading north, were soon picked up by yet
another supply truck, and with a wave and a shout were gone forever. Such is
the road. I didn’t have such luck and had to wait a while longer, but a few
hours later a bus passed me by headed for my destination: Cochrane.
Yet
another focal point along the winding Carretera
Austral, Cochrane is a tiny city of less than 5000 inhabitants, nestled,
like many other cities I’ve written about before it, among the Andes. From the
town square one can see green hills and snowy peaks. Cochrane is especially
quiet, and the people are extraordinarily friendly, down-to-earth, and
peaceful. I enjoyed my stay there very much: that evening I checked into a
campsite and found myself chatting with a German biker for hours. There are
bikers everywhere along the Carretera.
The next day I had a relaxing day hiking around the local reserve, which was
set alongside a river of the purest, bluest water I’ve ever seen.
Taking
the advice of a friend from Coyhaique, the following day I decided to head to a
bigger reserve in Valle Chacabuco. Preparing for a two-day hike, I bought some
food (mostly cookies, bread, and avocado, the staples of my diet for…the entire
month) and headed to the road, looking for a ride. I couldn’t have been
luckier: within minutes I was picked up by the park owners, on their way back
after a supply run. Not only did they give me a ride, a map, and some tips
about the trail, but they also showed me around their fancy organic garden,
gave me a place to store my guitar (thankfully), and gave me some chocolate for
the road. Super nice guys. That night I set out for the trail, my load
significantly lightened.
The
park turned out to be awesome. I spent three relaxing days wandering around and
hiking at a cool pace. I slept in a forest and by the side of a lagoon. I spent
a day off the beaten path, following tangled animal paths and scrambling up
grassy hillsides towards a nearby hilltop. I took lots of bad pictures of
guanacos, and I saw a Condor. Hiking alone is cool.
 |
| Lenga trees |
 |
| Prime real estate |
From
Cochrane my next destination was Caleta Tortél, and once again, hitchhiking
made things far more interesting than I could have expected. As I walked to the
edge of town, I passed a man waiting by the side of the road, with nothing but
a small backpack and a massive bag of dog food. I sat with him for a few
moments and we got to chatting; he told me he was from Tortél, that he had come
north to buy food for his dogs—tremendous beasts, he showed me pictures—and
that he was now on his way back. He didn’t own a vehicle, and didn’t see the
point of paying for a bus when people would take you for free, so there he was.
I sat with him for a bit, but soon felt I had to be on my way. The hitchhiker’s
code dictates that you leave a traveler to his spot, and find your own. I
wished him luck and continued down the road.
It
wasn’t long before a firewood truck offered to take me to the nearest
intersection a few kilometers away, but from there I still had nearly 60
kilometers to go, and the sun was getting steadily lower in the sky, so I took
out my guitar, hoping for a miracle. I hadn’t sat there for more than 5
minutes, however, when the man from the side of the road appeared and
approached me, smiling. We sat together and chatted some more: he told me he
had traveled the world for ten years as I was doing, with all his possessions
on his back. I began to worry about the sinking sun, but just as I began
considering the extra space in my tent a lonely little truck pulled up and
offered us a ride. With our things in the back and the three of us piled in the
cab, we set off. The truck was owned by a single driver, who used it for his
own private business. We talked about the region, about work, about life and
the universe. The usual. We passed lakes and mountains, and the gravel highway
barreled through the ever-thickening foliage—we were truly entering deep
Patagonia. It was a good drive.
Turns
out being in the back of a truck is the way to travel. With my back to the
window, I watched as the narrow gravel road snaked away behind me, disappearing
behind towering cliff sides and thick vegetation: flourishing ferns, leafy
bushes, pines, and the giant cypress that the region is famous for towering
above it all. The road flowed through rivers and around lakes, and every so
often we would pass a shelter with smoke billowing from the chimney, or a campesino with his herd of cows.
Once we pulled into town, I walked with the couple who were nice enough to take me. They were ecology students, and told me that the climate in this area is technically high altitude rainforest. The only place in the world this type of climate exists is in Washington state. Pretty neat! As we walked, it became quickly apparent that what they said was true. Caleta Tortél is built on a series of wooden walkways which border the river, walkways which are constantly invaded by a diverse range of vegetation. It is a beautiful town.
 |
| The backend of Tortél's walkways, in the thick of the rainforest |
I
searched for a while for somewhere to stay, but quickly remembered what the
hitchhiker told me. I knew he worked with wood making figurines, trinkets, and
other artisanal whatnots, I knew he had a shop in town, and I knew he was
relatively well known by the name Chino. I set about asking people where to
find him, and soon found myself at his house. It was nearly Christmas, so he
and a friend were butchering a lamb as I arrived. He was truly Patagonian. We
ate well that night. I spent the night on the floor of his workshop, with his
giant dogs.
Even
though it was wet and rainy the next day, I spent the morning exploring the
town, trying to get lost in the twisty network of walkways that climbed the
hills surrounding the lake. That night Chino invited me to a friend’s place to
share Christmas Eve dinner. It was a supremely nice gesture, and seeing as
there are less than 700 people in the town in total, everyone knows everyone,
so it was a pretty good party. Once again, we ate lamb.
The
next day I said my goodbyes and headed out for the road again. Someone gave me
a ride to the intersection, again in the back of a pickup. The wind was blowing
in my face as I watched the town shrink away. I spent Christmas waiting for a
ride to the last stop on the Carretera: Villa O’Higgins. Christmas cheer was in
short supply this year, apparently, as I didn’t get picked up until the next
day. Hitchhiking is funny: if you spend one minute cursing humanity for
ignoring you, you spend the next thanking it for being so kind and interesting.
In the end, I made it to Villa O’Higgins just fine.
Being
the last stop on the Chilean side of the highway, my next job was to locate the
ferry agency and buy passage across the lake, and then to wait until the
fateful morning. Villa O’Higgins is tiny, tinier than any other town I had been
to, and there wasn’t a lot going on, but I spent a couple days with a Swedish
couple who were waiting for the same boat as I was. We chatted about travel and
life and stuff. The boat ride itself was beautiful, three hours of choppy, icy
blue glacial waters surrounded by pristine mountains, but I was too tired to
take much notice.
The
landing was much more interesting than the voyage, however, because from here
began my journey across the border: a 22 kilometer trek through forests,
mountains, and muddy swamp. The first 15 km or so were on a lovely gravel road,
surrounded by mountany forest, but in an instant the gravel abruptly ended and
was replaced by a narrow, wet, muddy, bicycle tire marked foot trail. I
followed the trail as best I could as it weaved between trees, crisscrossed
rivers, cut through flooded meadows, and generally tried to throw me off as
much as possible. After following what turned out to be an animal trail for
nearly an hour, I gave up for the day and set up camp, but early the next day I
awoke determined to find the end, and soon after I was greeted to the welcoming
site of Fitz Roy looming in the distance. I was nearly there, and finally had a
landmark to guide me. |
| 24 km to go |
 |
| In the middle of nowhere |
 |
| A most tricky trail |
 |
| A very, very welcome sight |
 |
| Very tricky indeed |
After
checking in to the country at the Army base, I took another boat across a
different lake and caught a ride into town. The hike to Fitz Roy turned out to
be more or less a day hike, but I took my time and enjoyed it all the same. Lenga forests had become par for the
course at this point, but I was treated to some fresh views of valleys and a
truly impressive peak.
After
El Chaltén was El Calafate; I got a ride from an airport taxi driver with a
soft spot for hitchhikers. We got along great. El Calafate was pretty boring,
but I was able to make a fire and cook some hamburgers, a welcome change after
weeks of raw veggies and bread. From El Calafate the destination was Puerto
Natales; a nearly fruitless day of standing beside the road eventually yielded
a friendly van driver who took me the entire 300-something kilometers,
including the border crossing, which is generally a no-no. We discussed all the
usual topics, but it’s always nice to get a fresh take on things.
Just
as soon as it had started, I was back in Puerto Natales, almost exactly a year after I had been there last. It was as beautiful as ever, dark and windy despite it’s 16 hour days. I spent a night there and booked a bus
to Punta Arenas, where I would meet my next host and begin the next phase of my
trip. As glad as I was to have a bed and homemade food, I was sad for the lost
of freedom that only the open road can afford. But at last, my back was to take
a rest, and for that I was thankful.
No comments:
Post a Comment