Chris Coxen's travel journals, squirrelly drawings, stories, and more.
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I’ve always admired socks. They’ve never burdened themselves with the election of a side, equally content to find themselves on the left foot or the right foot but now, behold, in this harsh wretched polarized political landscape, even the non-partisan innocence of socks is dashed like a Division 3 jock’s dreams on graduation day.
During the winter of five years ago, I hopped on Boston’s
longitude of just over 70 degrees W and rode it south like a cowboy, crossing
over the Equator where the winter had magically turned to summer and I eventually
found myself in Chile. Months after that trip, I initiated my life’s most
successful romance with Pam. Although humble and bashful, this dynamic lady was
filled with wonderful surprises, one of them being a Magellan-like aptitude for
travel. I often bored her with my joyful reports of Chile to the point she
broke down and decided to return with me for two weeks. We arrived on Christmas
day.
Our first stop was the town of San Pedro in the Atacama
Desert, known as the driest place on Earth although it did not earn this title
until five years ago. Before that point, before meeting Pam, my love life was
known as the driest place on Earth.
The journey was a 24-hour, three-flight trek so our first
day was like one long siesta. San Pedro survives on tourism so the town is kept
in a cute, charming state. Many of the structures are built using a mud-based
technology. The locals have an undoubtedly native look which is lovely
considering how poorly so many of the native tribes have fared in this part of
the world. Stray dogs loitered everywhere like meth heads and cats walked along
the tops of walls, staring down condescendingly at passersby. At our casual
rooftop restaurant, a little black cat with the most pathetic meow caused my
better judgement to evacuate and soon I found myself feeding him next to our
table.
The next morning we visited Valle de la Luna which repeatedly slapped us in the face with surreal desert, lunar-like landscapes. I half-expected to see Roger Moore confidently drive by on a moon rover with a film crew in tow as they shot a scene for Moonraker 2.
After parking our car at one of the various stops in the park, we walked for about 30 minutes, absorbing an unforgiving desert sun. The path ended at a stunning narrow view point where one could take a dramatic photo. With an inspiring disregard for tourism etiquette, a couple sat in the perfect photo spot for several minutes, not allowing Pam and I to capture the bleak and beautiful landscape without human presence. It was bordering hysterical as they looked right at me as I attempted to gather a pristine image.
The perfect view…almost. This picture makes me think I should go into business selling 80-year old non-functioning engines that are stranded in the desert next to abandoned mines.
We drove south through San Pedro and to the Laguna Cejar situated in the massive salt flat of Salar de Atacama where, for $20, one could have the unique pleasure of swimming in a very salty little puddle. Once dry and out of the small laguna, everyone looked like a high-sodium potato chip. After being sunbaked for a few minutes, bathing suits became crustier than an old poor Republican.
Yes Pam, it’s called a sunset.
The following day we drove southeast on Route 25 for an hour
and a half. With an elevation of almost 4000 meters (San Pedro is around 2400
meters), the air was cool and welcomed. The main attractions here are a salt
flat by the name of Salar de Talar and judging from the photo below, Pam’s
hair.
Hair drama at the salt flats.
Clearly Chileans in these parts either don’t drink liquids
or have five-liter bladders as there was no toilet to be found in this bare but
special area, causing us to pee behind a boulder like a desert fox.
On our return, we visited Laguna Miscanti and Meñique
and lunched with a friendly Dutch-Slovenian couple in the small town of
Socaire. The Slovenian woman was kind enough to give us background information
on our current First Lady that I did not know proving once again that the
average European citizen knows more about the US than the average American. I
was just impressed with myself for knowing that Slovenia doesn’t border
Scotland.
On our way back to San Pedro, we stopped in the town of
Toconao for a visit of Valle de Jere where we viewed ancient rock drawings and
walked along a small canyon river. At one point, I managed to awkwardly bathe
in the river’s shallow waters. Ever the concerned scientist, Pam noticed the
laughable amount of animal droppings all along the river shore and immediately
grew concerned over the possible presence of parasites in the water. To make
her feel better, a deal was struck that I would keep my head above water.
Must be where the big-bladdered Chileans relieve themselves.
At the hotel that night, we relaxed outside behind the
dining area. I smoked a fine cigar given to me by my thoughtful landlord. Pam
looked for the Milkyway as she did every night in Atacama. We then ended up
talking to a jovial couple from São
Paulo, Brazil, Bea and Denis. When the two spoke alone, Bea laughed to the
point I kept thinking I had a juggling mouse on my head that I did not know
about.
The next day, we drove north to take in the handsome lands around Guatin and to Machuca where hundreds of flamingoes stood in the water of a laguna. We drove back into town along a dodgy, tire-destroying road and then northwest to Yerbas Buenas where we encountered more stone/cave drawings. Perhaps my drawings are not better than these 2500-year old renderings but mine are a hell of a lot funnier. I’m sorry but a picture of a stick figure standing next to a llama doesn’t bring the laughs.
Proving yet again that you can protect your head from the Sun’s harmful rays and look great at the same time.Flamingos.As I said: not funny.
On our last day in Atacama, we drove back to the airport at Calama and flew to Santiago and then on to Puerto Montt in the Lake District. On the second flight, I was able to easily pick out all of the places I visited in the Lagos area in 2015 in addition to what looked like a wild fire feeding on a large area of brush on the side of a small mountain. On the first flight down, an amiable Chilean man sat next to us in the window seat. Right before takeoff, he face-timed his male partner and arranged his phone so he could see his partner’s face and his partner could see out the window as the plane took off. It was so sweet but the partner’s expression spoke of no joy or interest in the event. He looked at his phone with no discernable expression while drably smoking a cigarette and drinking out of a water bottle. On the other end, in the plane with us, the man was giddy with the concept of this shared takeoff.
Being bold, risk-seeking American tourists, we spent our one
night in Puerto Montt at a Holiday Inn Express. That evening and the following
evening, I dealt with stupid travel logistics on the phone and email: ferry
questions, credit card limits, car rental insurance. I was tired so these pesky
items irritated me and a crust formed on my exterior. I felt like my dad. I
don’t know how my parents dealt with travel irritations (or any kind of
irritation) and six kids; they should be immortalized in some parenting hall of
fame for that feat alone. There were years that eight of us squashed ourselves
and our belongings into a station wagon and drove two to three days down to
Florida in the middle of the summer. Suicidal.
The next morning we ate on the 11th floor of the
hotel and enjoyed a larger version of our bedroom’s view. For a boring hotel
choice, the view of the bay area was full of flavor. An old Chilean man
approached Pam and asked if she was Chinese. Pam said no. The old man said his
wife is Chinese. He then filled the mildly awkward conversation gap by telling
us to try the fresh cherries.
We checked out and drove south to the small seaside town of Hornopiren which loosely translates to “horny pyro”. The main road we travelled, Ruta 7 known as the Carretera Austral was mainly paved but alternated with sections of gravel. Reaching points of interest would require some driving on rough roads. In a gas station, I saw a couple of white dudes driving some over-the-top extreme 4X4 vehicles. I chuckled to myself as I knew there would also be locals traversing the same rough roads at a faster pace in 20-year old sedan shitboxes.
After lunch and checking into our “cabaña”, we roamed around the town like one of the innumerable stray dogs. Most of the dogs were friendly but the ones that seemed to be associated with certain properties barked angrily at us. I was tempted to remind these dogs it was my and Pam’s third wedding anniversary and that they would do well to exercise some kindness.
Yes Pam, it’s called a river and the water flows in the direction you are conveniently looking in. Giant wood carving in Hornopiren.Other side. The furrowed brow and closed eyes cause me to think this sleeping sculpture is having a nightmare about an IRS tax audit or being naked in a cafeteria.An example of a dog that hated our guts.A rare case of a toilet looking worse on the outside than on the inside.
Below is a video of me in Hornopiren using an outdoor elliptical machine while smoking a cigar and wearing a tiny 25-year old backpack:
The following morning we boarded a ferry bound for Caleta Gonzalo. It lasted four and a half hours and was always flanked on one or two sides by forest-covered mountains that seemed to rise out of the water, leaving no impressions of foothills. In the background of these green hairy mountains, their taller snow-covered siblings stood imposingly, giving the scenery the feel of a family photo.
On our way to the hotel, we hiked up a steep trail along a series of waterfalls. Closer to Chaiten, we began to notice huge areas of dead trees. Wondering what the cause of these enormous, intermittent patches of wooded death, I suddenly remembered that this was all due to the eruption of Chaiten Volcano after a 9000-year nap.
Effortless.
Other than some grey lifeless forests here and there,
everything else was green and pristine with only a small town or settlement
every so often. The amount of traffic on the roads was minimal. This preferably
low presence of humanity was most likely due to the difficulty of arriving
here. Long and/or multiple ferry rides were required which kept numbers down. I
did spot a grass airstrip where wealthy vacationers probably flew in on a
Cessna plane to stay at an all-inclusive luxury fishing lodge for $7000/week.
Our place, Cabañas Yelcho en la Patagonia, was not of this
caliber but it was nice enough. The hotel and cabins were on the shore of the
20-mile long Yelcho Lake. That night we were massaged by a decadent five-course,
New Year’s Eve meal special that was more refined than a French aristocrat.
The following day Pam and I entered the beautiful national park
known as Parque Pumalin. This park was initially purchased by one of the
founders and owners of both The North Face and Esprit clothing companies,
Douglas Tompkins. He and his wife at one time, with the help of other
investors, owned more than two million acres in Chile and Argentina, making the
Tompkins one the largest private landowners in the world. This land was
eventually given to the Chilean government which boosted their national park
holdings by 40%.
We embarked on a six-mile hike that took us up to a worthy
viewpoint and back down to one of the nicest, most glorious campsites I have
ever seen. On our walk, we saw a pair of Magellanic woodpeckers. They were
large boisterous creatures looking like a more powerful version of the Pileated
woodpecker. Further on, Pam pointed at a tree and yelled, “CAT!”. Eight feet
high in a tree was the cutest black animal that had the appearance of a stocky
black cat. It stared at us briefly, quickly descended the tree and ran off.
Thinking it may have been a cub of a dangerous, large, wild
cat, I armed myself with two rotting sticks before I found one that gave me at
least a snowball’s chance in late March of defending ourselves. Pam elected to
arm herself with a smaller stick and a rock. She looked ferocious.
We were not attacked and later discovered the creature we encountered was a small, endangered wild cat known as a kodkod or güiña. Locals and guides were surprised that we saw one since they are elusive and seldom seen. A guide we met a couple days later said he’s never seen one of these shy cats his entire life. I do love it when I’m awesome without even trying.
Not the güiña we saw but here’s an example of these darling little suckers.
Back at the hotel, I jumped in the lake. The water was
absurdly fresh and pure, like I was swimming in a huge bowl of smartwater.
Strong winds blew in from the north. As I stood on shore, two girls left their
parent’s beach blanket and approached me while I stood on the shore. They
interrogated me about the two yellow kayaks nearby. I told them that they could
use them. They continued to grill me with questions but I had difficulty understanding
their rapid Spanish. Finally they felt comfortable that any potential liability
issues they could possibly take on through their vague kayak borrowing/theft
had been passed on to me.
They adorably dragged the little yellow boats to the water’s edge, boarded their craft and struggled to make if off the shore due to the wind, giving the appearance of paddling on a treadmill. I kept a quasi-vigilant eye on them due to the potentially dangerous conditions and the fact that their parents were incredibly busy not giving a shit about their children’s wellbeing. The youngest one gave up and brought the boat back to shore while the adolescent girl plowed her way into the water and around a rock jetty. Normally a safe maneuver, it was made dicey by the fierce wind. I continued to look at her and then her parents who seemed more at ease with this event than Don Draper would be after a few Old Fashioned’s. It dawned on me that these were 1970’s parents. As long as there were no adolescent-eating sharks in the water, they were quite fine leaving these mini ladies to their poor judgement.
Lago Yelcho…where a young girl almost ate it on a kayak.
The next morning we headed south and stopped at a path that lead us an hour’s walk to a glacier. As impressive as it was, we soon discovered that it had receded 200 meters or more in the past 20 years or the same pace as my hairline. I’m guessing part of this reduction was due to climate change but it was also possibly a result of tourists illegally climbing up to touch the glacier, thereby compromising the ground underneath it. A couple years ago, six or seven tourists were killed when they climbed up to the glacier and part of it cracked off and crushed them.
Pam feeling sad about being smaller than a leaf.Actually, if you look at the red lines of recession, my hairline appears to have receded more than this glacier.
We returned to the car and carried on to the charming town of Futaleufu, six miles west of Argentina. On our way we passed through what could only be described as a valley of death. For several miles, along the banks of the Rio Burritos, a zone of dead trees and eroded soil stretched up to a half mile on either side. Further down, this natural disaster clipped the top of the village of Santa Lucia but seemed to spare most of it by then heading southwest.
Later in the day someone informed me of the cause of this. An enormous piece of glacier fell down into a lake below. Unfortunately, the banks of this lake had been compromised by heavy recent rains and soon the Rio Burritos River valley found itself in a full-on mudslide that devastated a massive section of land. Remembering how the northern part of Santa Lucia had been chewed to bits, I asked how bad the loss of life was. I was told that, by the grace of God, this disaster happened on an election day which meant that the school that was wiped out by the mudslide was empty that day. That said, about fifteen people did lose their lives in the disaster.
Carnage from the mudslide. Everything that is barren ground in this picture used to be full of some form of tree or plant life.
Of the small towns we had passed through in the past few days, Futaleufu was the nicest. Still not immune to the abandoned homeowner and municipal projects here and there, it seemed to have the greatest identity thus far. In fact, the style of the buildings reminded me more of the ones I saw five years ago on the other side of the Andes in Argentina. I assume this is explained by the close proximity of Argentina.
View of the Futaleufu area.
Our hotel, Hotel Barranco, was a nice place with a pool and
like most buildings in Chile, allowed you to hear almost everything transpiring
in adjoining rooms. The following day, Pam and I were accidental audience
members to a sex show happening below. It was as close (and pretty damn close)
as I will ever come to being in a foursome and it made me never want to stay in
a hotel again. I hoped these freaks at least had the decency to put some plastic
down first.
That night we ate at a restaurant called Martin Pescador. It
was commanded by a Chilean woman Tatiana and her husband Mitch who was from New
Mexico. The food was art. I lost count of how many courses we consumed. We were
so impressed that we returned the following night. When I asked Mitch what the
menu would be the next day, he said he had no idea; they had to wait to see
what fresh ingredients they could get their hands on and build from there. I
asked for one of their handwritten menus and Mitch had his wife sign it. I
promised it would be framed.
After two days, we retraced our steps and were soon again in
Chaiten. On our way, we stopped by a lodge owned and operated by my sister’s
college friend Lisa and her husband Franz. They in fact had three other lodges
like this one spread out in northern Patagonia. Franz is originally from
Holland and is an internationally renowned fly fisherman. Lisa is a top-shelf
chef and business lady so the two have been able to build a business that
attracts wealthy people from the US primarily for one week at a time.
I had not seen Lisa in probably 30 years and in that time
she changed little. Energetic, alert, armed with a knowing smile, good at
reading people, and a touch sassy; Lisa was as I remembered her when she stayed
at our house when I was young and fantastic. She reminded me of the funny story
of how when we all watched TV at night, my father and some of the rest of us
would do sit-ups during commercial breaks. It was wonderful to be reminded of
this glorious memory.
That night we stayed in a nice little guest house in the
very unremarkable town of Chaiten. That said, the people were nice and so were
the many stray dogs and cats that approached us in hopes we had a spare steak
in our pocket. We ate at a simple restaurant with an outdoor fireplace whose
hot coals were transferred into a nearby grill used to cook our food. The grill
man told me his firewood was from nearby trees felled by the 2008 volcanic
eruption. He pointed to the volcanic ash still found in the cracks and crevices
in the wood. We finished our simple but effective fare. I shook hands with the
stout owner/cook. Shaking his beefy hand was like trying to grab a muscular
butt (not that I know anything about that).
In the middle of the night, I heard the sound of a peeing human so distinctly I found myself anticipating being caught in a golden shower without an umbrella. Again, the poor construction of the building and walls allowed sound to pass from the common bathroom into our room as if there were no walls. In fact, I think Chilean builders have found a way to design walls that somehow amplify the sound of one room into the next.
Pam standing at the bottom of a waterfall with a staff for some reason.
The following day we took ourselves and our car on a
six-hour ferry to the island of Chiloe. Once on land we immediately headed
north and boarded a 25-minute ferry back to the mainland. Another hour and a
half took us to an unbelievably charming guest house just north of Puerto Octay
called Zapato Amarillo. I stayed here five years ago and it was one of my
favorite “hotel” experiences not just in Chile but in the world. The two or
three acre property was well planned but felt more than natural. Five buildings
that had a northern European look to them adorned the property in a
complimentary manner.
Three of the buildings had long grass growing on the roof
(on purpose) which I’m told is a Norwegian design and helped give the property
the vibe of a Hobbit village. But more than these elements, more than the
uncountable varieties of flowers and fruits growing or the curious birds that
have decided to call this yard their home or the simple but comforting
interiors or the Photoshop-perfect view of Osorno Volcano or anything else,
it’s the owners that give Zapato Amarillo a level of soul rarely found in the
hospitality industry.
Nadia is from Valparaiso, Chile and Armin hails from
Switzerland. They met decades ago in Chile and opened their guest house around
1998. With the help of friends and family, they built practically everything
found on the property themselves. Their story, their property, Nadia and Armin;
it was all something out of a fairy tale.
I told them their prices were too low but they simply smiled
and shrugged awkwardly. Although it was a lot of work, they relished in their
business and in their lives. It was as if this place was a heavenly laboratory
where they were allowed to experiment with their joyful, pure desires in any
way they saw fit.