Chile II: Thirty Hours of Island Life

Looking back at Coyhaique before it disappeared behind the mountain was like the last view of Shangri-La. For a few moments the sun broke through and lit the bright green plateau on the outskirts of town. Its edge was fringed with a line of dark green trees which came to an abrupt stop as the earth dropped away and fell into the river below. It all goes to show, sometimes the most beautiful thing about a place is the road out of there.

We’d had eight days of rain with another ten forecast and Coyhaique wasn’t the most desirable of places to hole-up in and wait it out. We cancelled our plan to drive the 115km south to Puerto Ingeniero Ibáñez which was, as far as we knew, the last of the paved section of the Carretera Austral. It was miserable weather for riding and as for scenery, well, we couldn’t even see the mountains because clouds and mist obscured most of them. The road to Puerto Chacabuco was very quiet. We arrived at 9:00 AM only to find the parking lot deserted and the ferry delayed until 3:30. There wasn’t must to see in town, and no signs of life, until we found a small hotel on a hill. It served coffee on white linen tablecloths so we stretched that out as long as we could. After several hours of waiting back at the port, we were sent over to customs to get a piece of paper for Bolívar (his boarding pass?), and I was told to stop taking photos because we were in a military zone.

We were the second of only three vehicles to board the boat, and the only bike. Nobody knew where to put him so it was up to Fran to make his own parking space. He tucked Bolí in under an upper-level gangway which proved to be an excellent choice when the seas began to swell some hours later. I handed our tickets to the purser who was polite but disregarded Bolí’s pass, then sent me upstairs. When Fran came along later, looking for his “esposa”, the same officer beamed a hearty “Welcome aboard Mr. O’Connor!”, as if my “esposo” was bloody royalty or something.

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Upstairs we commandeered a row of five red velveteen seats at the front. The huge windows were grubby and opaque but gave out to a captain’s eye view of everything ahead. The sun had briefly shown its face during boarding (‘nice of you to show up), and the rain was holding off.  We were beginning to think we might have made a big mistake. Had we given-up too soon? Maybe the forecast was wrong? Was the Coyhaique spaghetti really that bland? Outside, the hillsides were very green, with trees, so many trees. The mountains behind were dark blue and foreboding, and everywhere there were islands, but scant signs of habitation. I saw only one small cottage until the first stop. It was a substantial settlement with multi-coloured wooden buildings, like those in Greenland, but up there they’d had sunshine. All changed less than an hour into the voyage. In thousands of slanted needles, the rains came. The boat tilted left, then right, and great waves of grey water washed over our windows, like sitting in a giant car-wash but without the fun of suds. It didn’t let up until just before dusk, and I staggered outside as we left one fjord and entered another. It was magnificent. And it was savage. Standing on the top deck after days of riding in dark green tunnels, the sky opened and I now saw towers of bare rock, thin waterfalls of incredible height, silver waters and at last, snowy peaks.

The rows of crimson seats remained almost empty. Like the bus service it was, there were many ports of call throughout the evening and night. The ferry was taking the hard way through the Chonos archipelago, in through narrow passages to the deepest peninsulas and islands, all the way back towards Puyuhuapi, before returning to the larger channel. Our stops were at places like Puerto Cisnes (Swan) and Puerto Gaviotas (Seagulls) and the few towns with harbours were small. Sometimes it was only packages that were picked-up or dropped off, with small vans coming on board, unloading, then driving off again. Just before dark I was back on deck in time for a stop at a small, stone pier. One solitary figure stood at its tip, a large shopping bag at her feet. Apart from the low line of grey green scrub behind her, the bag was the only splash of colour, and she the only sign of life.

The coffee bar didn’t open till 6:00 PM and sold sandwiches, cazuela (the local stew) and empanadas. The nice boy behind the counter gave us hot water so our noodles could supplement the scant offerings. We spread out for the night, but with the TV continually on we counted a lot of Chilean sheep until 6:30 AM. (They’re very slow. Did you know that?) Even awake, the hours passed only with reluctance; the coffee counter didn’t open until 9:00 AM. I couldn’t understand a snack bar that’s open just three short times in thirty hours. Too tired to read and too awake to doze, I could just make out the latest small pier. Another desolate strip of concrete leading down to cold water. No new cars, ‘not sure why we even stopped. There didn’t seem to be anything beyond the ramp. This was as inhospitable a land as I’d ever seen.  More people must have got on during the night and the place was beginning to look a bit like a tenement. Clothes were draped across chairs and railings and bored toddlers swung and climbed wherever they could. The purser came to check on us several times, I’m not sure why. Maybe because he and “Mr. O’Connor” had hit it off so well from the start. Whatever the reason, he was a kind man who showed us his video of sailing round Cape Horn, and shared his stories of working in the North Sea which involved various escapades in ports along the Irish and English coasts. I’m not sure which was the more dangerous.

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The second day wore on, much better now after a cup of coffee, a revived empanada and a few smiles exchanged with those who’d been with us since the early hours. Outside, winter had turned to summer and the passing islands looked almost tropical. After Melinka, the second to last stop, we came out of our protected channel to cross a gap to the open sea. There were a few queasy hours rocking and rolling, but made-up for by a spectacular sunset. We reached Chiloé Island and Quellón harbor at 9:30 PM. The family at our cabana had waited-up, lit the stove and left warm bread in a basket. It was a fitting reception that mirrored a unique journey: no frills, quiet, friendly acceptance and good, down-home cooking.

There’s not much I can say about Quellón in the rain except that it’s the site of the end of the Pan American Highway in Chile. All the way from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to this unassuming spot beside a dark sand beach on Chiloé Island. We marked this momentous stage in our journey by wandering around shivering in the drizzle. It was just us, a lonely figure contemplating a stone crucifix and a couple of Brazilian motorcyclists. They took our photo, and we took theirs. Now, already soaked, we began our drive up the island. It was a pastoral scene, with rolling hills and forest, very much like Ireland. However, also like Ireland, it was limited to three colours: grey, green and wet. In the mist, Castro’s stilt houses also looked muted as they stood sunk in dark mud, abandoned by a tide that no doubt had done the smart thing and left in search of warmer climes.

At the top, in Ancud, we explored the town and shoreline but the best part really was the restaurant next to our hotel. There we ate local fish and drank local beer while looking out over the Pacific. But in the end, like the tide, we left in search of the sun. On the short ferry ride across the Chacao Channel to the mainland, we met a small group of American motorcyclists on a tour.  They were heading to a spa resort for two nights. I envied them that, but nothing else. After Puerto Montt, the weather improved and by the time we reached Entre Lagos, we were under sapphire skies. Oh, the joy of a warm spring evening. It made up for the expensive accommodations we found ourselves in: a dreary, dusty cabin that slept six. But it was by Lake Puyehue, and more importantly, on the road to the Argentinian border.

This part of Chile was coming to an end but there was no doubt in our minds the ferry had been the right decision. Accepting that the south’s south was never an option for both of us on Bolívar had been a bitter pill to swallow. That said, the south of Chile is inaccessible to most people, the last third being mainly a series of crumbled archipelagos. And as for the end of the road and Villa O’Higgins? Well, (big sigh), three hundred and fifty-odd kilometers of dirt and gravel was way beyond our skill level, and it was stupid to even contemplate learning this type of driving while at the bottom of the world.

In the end, thirty hours on water with the islands’ inhabitants was a consolation prize of unexpected proportions. It was certainly not something that could have been replicated on the road. Sometimes you just have to climb off the bike and get right into the middle of someone else’s daily grind. This particular slice of life was certainly one of cold comfort. Just imagine, your bus is a boat, and the bus stop has cold green water lapping at your feet. And there’s no shelter, no splashy ads to read while you wait in the rain. Worst of all, you know that in spite of the timetable, the “bus” is only going to ever come, if and when Nature says it will. It’s her schedule, and that, as we’ve found out, is that.

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