Today was our first completely new experience in Patagonia, the area of Puerto Chacabuco. This area is entry to the Aysén fjords, one of the top areas in Chile for adventure tourism. The boat drew into the port early in the morning.
As we came down the long fjords I was struck by the emptiness of the place. “Patagonia is like Alaska,” I wrote in a text to my brother-in-law, “without all the people.” About 9:30 the tender boats were starting to shuttle people to the shore.
After breakfast, we went on the bow to enjoy the scenery.
I was determined for some reason that we needed to be on one of the first boats, so I made pushed John to keep moving. We went down and received our tickets in the lounge. I was disappointed we were in group four.
I should not have worried. We were ashore in a fairly short time, and after surrendering a banana to the local authorities, who had accumulated enough contraband fruit to have made a fine salad for a Christmas potluck, we were on a little shuttle bus from the dock to the “domes” where we were to meet our tour operator. The domes were clearly places for people to wait for transport in the rain, and their shape suggested just how much it must rain in this area. The place was jammed with minibuses and taxis and there were plenty of local people offering a trip to the attractions for a negotiable amount. But enPatagonia, the local firm I had chosen for our trip, was one of them. I looked closely at my printout for the first time and realized that I had unnecessarily rushed us. The tour was not scheduled to commence until eleven thirty, and we were only supposed to be there 15 minutes before that. We were an hour early.
And there was not an hour worth of stuff to do in Puerto Chacabuco. There was just about nothing there except the port and a few houses. I would gladly have stopped in at the local parish for Christmas Day Mass, but the only church in town was a small Assemblies of God building that looked like it had recently been an auto repair shop. And it was closed up tight. So we walked around. Most of the houses were small and ramshackle. This was the most impressive place we saw.
Around the town, there were the unmistakable signs of urban planning at its worst. We walked by a park located close to nothing in particular with no seats or play equipment. Not far from the port, there several rows of tiny, prefabricated houses, all the same shape and color, though it looked as if only a few were actually occupied. We stopped into a large hotel on a bluff overlooking the harbor. I wondered if this too had been a government-subsidized project because there were only handful of people in the dining room and this is the very height of tourist season in Chile.
We returned to the domes and finally I found a woman in a red jacket holding the enPatagonia sign. We learned later that her name was Ann and that she was a middle school teacher in Laramie, Wyoming. It turned out that we were the absolute last of their guests to arrive, but we were still able to leave well before the scheduled time.
Our tour guide was a local woman named Isadora, though she preferred to be called “Izzy.” Her English was excellent, and she was certainly passionate about the area and its people. We thought at first that she must also have been a teacher, particularly when she quizzed us and gave out stickers for correct answers, but she had never been in front of a classroom.
Our first stop was by the Aysén River. Izzy explained that this river was once far deeper and that ships could navigate it all the way to Puerto Aysén until the runoff clearing the land for farms filled it with silt. Now only a few fishing boats come up the river and they can only come and go at high tide.
We stopped in the town of Aysén. It was a pleasant little settlement with the usual plaza in the center of town flanked by a Catholic church and some municipal buildings. We were surprised, though, to see horses grazing freely in the park.
They were annoyed when we tourists wanted to take their pictures, and the trotted down the streets in an equine huff.
We next drove up the Simpson River valley. Along the way, we stopped and Ann showed us both the river and a small homestead.
Ann explained that it was still pretty typical in Patagonia for people to live as self-sufficiently as possible in isolated houses or farms.
We later stopped on a bridge over the river.
We had to occasionally get out of the way for a car.
From there we continued on to a small estancia or sheep farm where we were to have lunch. The place was modest but spectacularly located in a lovely valley. Like many Patagonians, these farmers had a special outbuilding designed for grilling lamb and having parties.
We were greeted as we went in with a Pisco Sour, a drink whose charm I really do not understand, and a far more appealing piece of deep-fried bread. The lamb was nearly finished cooking. Ann explained that it had been cooked over the embers of the fire for five hours.
John snapped that picture just before they took the beast into the kitchen to be cut up. Ann led me in so I could get pictures of that.
We had a pair of locals do traditional dances for us. Izzy told us that these two are well-known competitors in the Patagonian folk dance world. I am not sure how large that world is, but both of them had some definite talent.
A young boy — I think he may have been one of the owner’s grandchildren — was apparently learning some of the traditional dances.
And towards the end of the afternoon, they invited some of our fellow tour guests to dance with them. This man and his wife, Indian by birth, currently live in the suburbs of Sacramento. They had two teenage boys with them who obviously found just everything about being on a cruise with their parents embarrassing. And seeing dad dance with some strange woman in Chile — well, you could tell that they wished that the earth would just open up and swallow them! Both parents frankly enjoyed their discomfort and so did I!
The food was absolutely exceptional.
But it was all too soon time to get back to the ship. As we left we all stopped to say hello to the alpacas in residence.
And after our delicious meal, we were not surprised that the other sheep were a little wary of what happened when tourists arrived.
It was a nice Christmas day, even if we were away from family and church, and one I do not think I will ever forget.
