Mexico

I have found my way back to Baja for another kayak guide training course which departs in the morning. I love everything about these trips- the amazing interface between desert and ocean, the shifting colors of ocean and sky, the feeling I have when I stretch out under a dome of stars, feeling great after a full day of paddling, snorkeling, and hiking; lungs full of fresh air and belly full of fresh food.

My Mexican colleague, Isis, is a delight to work with, picking up my slack with logistical concerns and making the best guacamole and tortilla soup you'll find anywhere. We have a routine by now and it just gets more and more fun. During the course we taught in April we returned to visit our friends on Isla San Jose, two generations of ranchers who have lived on an impossibly beautiful stretch of remote beach for fifty years, the only residents of the entire island. We met them on our first visit to the island three years ago, when we stopped in to buy a goat. The old man, Tacho, carefully selected the animal and humanely slaughtered it, while his daughter Linda pounded out fresh tortillas and chopped pico de gallo for a most memorable taco experience. The following year, we paddled up to the beach unannounced and they greeted us warmly, saying that just the week prior, they'd been wondering if we'd ever come back. Linda's husband Fernando took me fishing for red snapper off the rocks that evening as pelicans dove for their dinner, backlit by a magnificent sunset. Soon a bucket was filled and Linda worked her magic again. Before leaving the next morning, we showed our thanks by humping a few dozen sacks of concrete up to the ranch house from the beach. Coming back this year, the greeting was even warmer, like a meeting of old friends. Typically reticent Linda dropped her work and beamed as she embraced Isis. This time we celebrated with a goat and some fish. We helped Tacho thatch a roof and dug a new watering hole for the livestock. The students had the unique opportunity to see what life is like for a rural Mexican family eking out a simple living in a fantastic place.

After the gear was washed from that April course, I caught a flight to Mexico City. In 48 hours I soaked up as much street food and culture and tequila as I could. I found delicious tacos al pastor right around the corner from my hotel near the Zocalo, plus heaps and heaps of wonderful pastries at La Vasconia, and a wonderful omelet stuffed with Oaxaca cheese across the street at cafe El Popular. I marveled at Diego's mural at the palace, and at the Pre-Columbian treasures collected at the Museum of Anthropology and stood in Diego and Frida's amazing kitchen in the Coyacan neighborhood. Memo, a friend of my guiding colleagues, showed me around the university area and fed me delicious tequila plus some squash blossom quesadillas. I love to hit a new city this way, short and sweet, on public transportation- leaving groggy and full of good food and a bit hungover, with a couple museum ticket stubs in my pocket and sore feet.

A bus took me to San Miguel de Allende, a well-preserved colonial city four hours to the west of the capital. I think it was west, I never looked at a map. Kristin was studying Spanish there and we had made plans to spend a few weeks together, our crazy international itineraries intersecting again after our three months in Africa.

It felt like an odd place, incredibly beautiful yet hollow, like a Faberge egg. It's a mecca for a certain kind of retired American and you see them everywhere- he in an expensive Panama hat, she with a grey ponytail, both in loose-fitting linen clothes, feeling just a little smug that they have found the authentic Mexico. The place caters to them, with more than its share of yoga studios, juice bars, transcendental meditation classes, and posh home furnishing stores.

I can definitely appreciate the appeal- it's a great place for long walks through the cobblestone streets and all aspects of life seem saturated with color. But it was all just a bit too precious.

When Kristin wasn't in school we too went for those long walks and marveled at those colors and bought huge sacks of produce from the markets and dove into some serious cooking.

We sat on the roof and sipped margaritas, munching on Isis' guacamole and some improvised salsas. We started each day with a vampiro, a blend of fresh beet, orange, and carrot juice; until one beet took the blame for our brief bout of Moctezuma's revenge.

We stuffed poblano chiles with oaxaca and requeson cheese and baked the most delicious chile rellenos ever. We blended leftover black beans for delicious enfrijoladas, and gently sauteed squash blossoms to fold into quesadillas. When Kristin got her way, we went out for posole at La Alborada, where an old woman stirs a cauldron of the magical stuff like a witch from MacBeth. We strolled through the streets in a downpour, squeezed under an umbrella while everyone else huddled under eves, and made our way to a cafe for an authentic Mexican chocolate con churros. Once inside, I mocked the owner, a famous Argentine actress, for covering the place in photos of herself, then realized she was sitting at the next table.

My last week in SMA coincided with Semana Santa, and the pageantry was impressive. It had begun two Sundays before Easter, with a dawn procession to bring a treasured statue of Jesus from one town to the next. The whole route was carpeted in the amazing murals of crushed flower petals and herbs, and the streets were strung with garlands and lined with lanterns and real and paper flowers. It was an amazing spectacle. Another evening, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, saw altars pop up all over town in public places and inside houses, also elaborate and containing symbolic flowers, herbs, and bitter oranges. People walked the streets and visited the altars, where they were offered a drink or frozen treat that symbolized something I've forgotten. Other days there were elaborate processions through the streets, complete with Jesus being flogged, and hundreds of locals playing Roman soldiers.

Our final weekend together was ripe with symbolism, and not just the Christian kind. On Holy Saturday we hesitantly went to a bullfight. It was very interesting and quite beautiful in many ways, but also disturbing and sad. The bull was destined to suffer and die....there was no other possible outcome here. We also saw a couple men dragged off to the hospital after the bull got a piece of them.

On Easter Sunday we gathered in the square for the "destruction of the Judases". Colorful, life-sized pinatas of human figures were hanging above the street- maybe 20 of them. One by one their fuses were lit, they spun for a while and then exploded into bits. When the smoke cleared there was nothing left but a pile of wreckage- kids scrambled to grab a leg or arm, and the heads were gathered to be auctioned off.

Later we sipped drinks and played backgammon at a roof-top bar and smiled and laughed. I would leave the next morning, and we would return to our separate lives. But for right then, there was one last perfect Mexican sunset, and the best taqueria in the world just a short cab ride away.

Reflections on 9/11

"Don't bleed the propane 'til you see the whites of the pilot's eyes".

That was one piece of advice from a veteran river guide before the trip. There were many others, mostly dealing with how to stay reasonably warm and dry on a late season river trip down the Tatshenshini/Alsek Rivers. The message about the propane was simple- the outer coast of southeast Alaska has very finicky weather in September, it is possible to get stuck for a few days, make sure you have propane, extra food, and whisky. But the day turned out to be bluebird. A crisp autumn day with a nice high-pressure bubble keeping all the clouds away. We bled the propane, dumped the drinking water and milk, deflated the rafts, gorged on the last of the food, and threw some frisbee as we waited for our planes to arrive.

The trip was ambitious- seven friends(JBell, Corndog, Miller, Chris Chambers, Anna, Cara, and myself) with minimal river trip experience, fairly new to the wilds of Alaska, floating a very remote river system pretty late in the season. We were pounded by a couple intense storms, and were tested at various times, but made it through and loved every bit of it. For ten days we travelled by raft through the biggest protected wilderness in the world, starting on a canyon in the Yukon Territory, floating through British Columbia as glacial melt swelled and widened the river, navigating swift channels and iceberg calved from huge valley glaciers as we rode the mighty river to the sea. We saw no one for ten days, and we relied completely on ourselves and each other. Surrounded by huge mountains, glaciers, and rivers, were we as free as could be. On the last night of the trip, on the shores of magnificent Alsek Lake, we sat around a fire reflecting on the trip and toasting the folks who made it possible: our boss who had an unused permit, friends who loaned us gear, gave us good advice, helped with the shuttle. For some reason, "Osama bin Laden" came out of my mouth, hardly a household name at the time. Later,I lay out under the clear sky looking at the stars and the streaks of northern lights, unable to sleep but feeling very peaceful. It was midnight, four AM in New York City, September 11, 2001.

The next day, after prepping the gear and throwing some frisbee, we started watching for the planes to arrive at the grassy airstrip used by a bear hunter. The appointed time came and went with no planes. This was unusual because bush planes in Alaska usually run on time, and the weather was perfect for flying. The ground-to -air radio, which allows communication with pilots, was picking up nothing, so we assumed it was broken. Finally a call was made to the bush plane office in Yakutat. Our first contact with another human in ten days went like this:

Us: "Hi. We were wondering where are planes are."

Them: "YOUR PLANES? THE UNITED STATES IS UNDER MAJOR ATTTACK! THE PENTAGON HAS FALLEN THE WORLD TRADE CENTER HAS FALLEN, IF YOU WERE IN THE AIR RIGHT NOW YOU'D PROBABLY BE SHOT DOWN."

Us: (after passing the phone around and absorbing this information. "How will we get back to Haines?"

Them: "Get back to Haines? Well, what would you do then?"

Them: "You are on your own."

In retrospect, it was a confusing and upsetting time, and I can forgive the woman in the office for her hysteria. She probably thought we were trying to fly on from Haines to somewhere in the lower 48. But, the message we absorbed was "World War, no Haines to go back to."

Disbelief lead slowly to acceptance and assessment. We didn't have much, but there were worse places to try to survive. There was a river full of fish and a hunting cabin we could break into. But, I couldn't think about anything but my sister, Eliza. A recent graduate from NYU, she had stayed in NYC and just landed her first job, a position with Time Warner that started while we were on the river. Even hours later, as we got more information I didn't know if she was OK. I couldn't remember where her new office was. Finally, I reached my mother on the satellite phone and found out she was fine, and that her friend and roommate had escaped the WTC. I broke down with relief and despair and everything else I was feeling.

Soon our group dynamics broke down too, and the infighting began. There was blame to be doled of for our lack of extra food, and people had very different responses to the attacks, some expressing that they were in some way justified by US foreign policy, which I found very offensive. At one point I remember sitting with Corndog in an old truck at the hunting camp, listening to a Steve Earle cassette. If you only have one cassette at such a time, you could do worse than Steve Earle.

Soon, the bear hunter returned, himself very nonchalant about everything. He gave us some moose meat and in return we cut brush from his runway over the next couple days. A fisherman gave us a salmon. The weather turned bad. Really bad. Morale was low.

Of course, all planes were grounded, so for the first couple days we couldn't hope to leave. We cut brush in the downpour and made a huge pile on the runway, the bear hunter sparked it with a big bucket of diesel fuel and fanned it with the prop of his plane. He then roared down the runway and took off, if only to flaunt the FAA grounding.

A lot of folks were stuck in bush Alaska, 600 of us according to a report I read later, so the government was working to lift the grounding for the bush planes first. Unfortunately, when it was lifted, there was a catch. Planes could only cross the border if they had a special transponder, which our hired Cessnas did not. We had to wait for a weather window that allowed for a flight around 15000 ft. Mt. Fairweather, and kept us out of Canada, or hire something bigger, and much more expensive. On Sept. 16 we finally made our way out to the main airstrip of the fish camp, cautiously optimistic. Three sandhill cranes overhead seemed a good omen for three planes we hoped to see. They did arrive, to much celebration. We loaded the gear onto one, and split ourselves between the other two. The half of our group in the last plane had a more cautious pilot, who refused to follow the other two through a hole in the clouds, instead returning to Yakutat. It would take an Alaska Airlines jet, the state ferry, and a couple more days for them to finally make it back. So, it wasn't until Sept. 18 that our group was reunited in Haines.

We are all still friends, and we love Alaska more than ever. In fact, today, ten years later, three of us will gather under a similar perfect blue sky to smoke some salmon, play some tunes, and throw some horseshoes. My sister married someone she probably wouldn't have met if not for 9/11, so my niece and nephew are two wonderful results of that terrible day. The world changed, and lots of awful things were perpetrated on its citizens as part of a long chain reaction that stemmed from that day in September. But despite it all, the one simple lasting message for me is that life is beautiful and every day is a gift to be savored.

Across to Argentina

We wrapped up the course with five days of trekking in Parque Glaciares near El Chalten, Argentina. More phenomenal weather and a final morning sunrise view of Mt. Fitz Roy made for a happy ending to the South American adventure.

Torres del Paine

The famed park in Chilean Patagonia was our location for part two of the trekking course. It was welcome respite to get up into the drier pampa and a spell of good weather meant great views of the enormous Glacier Grey and the dramatic Torres at sunrise. We completed the loop of the entire park (the "Q"),

plus side trips, in ten days. This place can be crowded, but with good reason and definitely worth it.

To the tip

Coming right on the heels of the sea kayak debacle, the 24 day Patagonia trekking course in february restored my faith in my chosen career. From the start it was apparent that our group dynamics would be fine and the itinerary, split into three parts, would be challenging and spectacular.

We began with a five day "out and back" shakedown to Cabo Froward. This little known trek follows the coast of the Straits of Magellan to the very tip of the American continental landmass. The terrain alternates between beach scrambling and forest scrambling and gives the trekker a great sense of the interface between the ocean and the temperate rainforest. The going is often slow, as beach travel tends to be, but this only makes it easier to check out the tide pools and tundra bogs. The notorious wind and rain was at a minimum and we were treated to fantastic views across the straits to Tierra del Fuego. We crossed three significant rivers, for a total of six crossings, including a neck deep fording of the frigid Rio Nodales at 9 PM with a storm brewing. Travelers that reach the tip are rewarded with a final, airy climb to a giant cross sculpture, erected to commemorate Pope John Paul II's visit to Chile in the 1980's.

On the day we were there it was clear and beautiful and "the end of the world" actually seemed like an apt descriptor of the place. Aside from a stealth, late night attack on our camp by a pack of foxes, the course was off to a great start.

Sea Kayak Course in Patagonia

The strike, it turned out, was the easy part. In our 20 day expedition sea kayak course through the wild fjords of southern Patagonia we faced incessant rain, wacky winds, big seas, dense forest thicket where pitching a tent was practically impossible, faulty communication systems which nearly lead to an evacuation by the Chilean Navy, entrapment on a ranch, and undercooked lentils. I personally was challenged by foot fungus, mysterious hand blisters, explosive diarrhea at an inopportune time, and sunglasses that jumped suicidally out of a hatch and dove to the bottom of the sea. All of these were but petty inconveniences when compared to some really horrible group dynamics. In the coming months there would be plenty of recrimination and finger-pointing. Apparently some folks missed the obvious point here, when you plan an international expedition, things often go wrong. The learning comes in how you deal with those things.

Despite the challenges and some suffering, we completed our objective of accessing some of the most remote tidewater glaciers on the planet, and exploring a part of the world few people get to see, especially in a way afforded by a sea kayak.

Near the end of the course our group of seven found ourselves trapped in a small fjord, due to a strong tidal ebb current courtesy of the new moon. We couldn't paddle against the current, and "eddy-hopping", a kayakers term for using the surrounding areas of slack water, was not an option. So, how about killing some time with an impromptu lesson in ferrying in current?

I slipped into the strongest part of the flow and maneuvered into the sweet angle that allows the current to slip past while you more or less hold position with a few adjustment strokes. This is called surfing, and river or sea, it is the paddler's nirvana. The water rushes past, but everything becomes briefly still and perfect.

The rain eased to a slight mist and the elusive sun began to poke through. A rainbow spanned the arc of the fjord behind me. Giant kelp blades glistened in the sun. Two southern sea lions leaped in unison behind me, enjoying the current as much as I was. Storm petrels arced and swirled above my head. My kayak carved effortlessly through the glassy flow.

Even when nothing seems to go right, the ocean always offers these perfect moments of beauty and light. For this reason I will probably be powerless to refuse the next time the office says, "How about a kayak course in Patagonia?"

Por fin!

On Monday the students readied the van twice to attempt the trip to Puerto Natales and twice were denied. Morale was low and there was plenty of misdirected blame to go around. By evening they were back at the hostel in Punta Arenas, ready to go at any moment.
As the Navimag ferry approached the Puerto Natales harbor, cars and people descended on the port. They had threatened a blockade and riot police were also out in full force. I decided to accompany some folks from the hostel who were trying to get on the boat. As we walked down at 10:30, the deep blue of the darkening summer evening sky made for a dramatic backdrop against the hundreds of black flags. For all the bluster, though, it was a pretty tame mob. Families turned out, and groups of teenagers on summer vacation. They waved flags and made up chants against the president and laughed and aped for gringo would-be photojournalists. The whole thing felt more like a school pep rally than civil unrest. This is what´s derailing my course?, I thought.
Police ushered our friends through to the ferry office, but they were not allowed on board until 3:30 the next morning. Meanwhile, passengers on the boat who´d traveled three days from Puerto Montt were being briefed on the situation for the first time, and given the choice between staying on the boat for a three day round-trip ¨cruise", or getting off in a town still very much under siege. Protesters got on board to speak to the foreigners in Spanish and English."Our fight is against the government. it is peaceful. You have nothing to fear. You can walk around freely. But, who knows when you can leave town."Some stayed on board, some chanced it.
Those who got off chose wisely. By Tuesday morning, whiffs of an end were in the air. Still, I had to lugs hundreds of pounds of trip food across town on foot because the taxis refused to pick me up. The students were in the van and on their way so I was finally optimistic enough to start buying perishable food. By midday it was clearly over, after a few more vehicle parades through town and a lot of honking and flag-waving.
The students arrived in a terrible mood, but started to perk up when they looked at maps and checked out our fantastic itinerary. We scrambled all day to buy and pack food and check gear and now were ready to head out. Even with the lost days, we´re looking at a 19 day unsupported kayak expedition through the fjords of Patagonia. Hasta luego!

Day 7- Under Siege

Over the past three days the Red Cross has evacuated around 1000 tourists from here in Puerto Natales. Folks waited for hours or days at the school that was turned into a shelter, their luggage taped with tags to one of two destinations, El Calafate in Argentina or the Punta Arenas airport. The elderly and families were given priority, loaded onto an Army convoy, and transported through the blockades to the tiny Puerto Natales airport where Chilean military planes arrived to fly them out. Some waited all day at the school to no avail. We got used to the parade of people each morning, rolling their luggage down the main street to the school, with looks of cautious optimism, then the opposite, dejected procession in the evening. The lucky ones who made it out didn't fare much better. The little town of El Calafate was soon overwhelmed and the Punta Arenas airport quickly developed an enormous backlog. Luckily, these are the best equipped refugees around and soon people had fired up their camp stoves outside the airport to make up for the lack of available food.
The popular Torres del Paine National Park was finally evacuated and closed on Saturday, so 1500 trekkers who had been stuck there instead found themselves stuck in Puerto Natales. Our little band of refugees at the Erratic Rock hostel was inundated by a huge crowd coming from the park. Bill turned no one away, using every couch and even putting people in the former brothel next door, a cold and dilapidated structure that I've called home for the past week. Many people also stayed at the Red Cross shelter. We ran out of bread, but Bill still cheerfully cooked omelettes for all 35 of us each morning.
Most businesses have been closed, but the little grocer a few doors down has been doing a very brisk business selling staples. Amazingly they still seem to have quite a bit of food and wine, but the beer supply is running low.
I've been back and forth with US embassy officials, trying to find a way to get my students here. They are still in Punta Arenas, treated to a daily show of tire fires and endless processions of honking cars. Unfortunately, people are still only focused on getting people out, not in. Every day it seems like there is an end in sight to all of this, and every day it drags on. Bits of news or rumor filters through the gringo mill, and all information is hard to confirm.
Last night we heard from someone at the US embassy that the roads were briefly open. We found a van, but had trouble finding a driver willing to brave the blockades and the likelihood of getting stuck here in Puerto Natales. Finally a plan coalesced this morning. Pato drove the Erratic Rock van on a recon mission, it's logo covered by the ubiquitous black flag of the protesters. To no avail. No vehicles were being allowed to pass.
Now, a few hours later, they're trying again, this time for real, with students on board and yerba mate as a bribe.
Meanwhile, here in Puerto Natales another drama is playing out. The Navimag is approaching the port. This is the once weekly ferry that delivers people and food to southern Patagonia. Will the protesters allow it to dock? Will the hundreds of ticket-holding tourists be allowed to board? Will food be unloaded? Many folks here at the hostel have tickets on the return trip to Puerto Montt in the north, and are counting on the ferry as their escape.
Those not trying to leave are scraping up food rations for a refugee barbecue tonight. Hmm, there are a lot of street dogs wandering around........

Gore-Tex Refugees

An international kayak expedition/course is always a big endeavor. There is a tremendous amount of gear to gather and prepare. There is route planning and charts to pour over. There are permits to clear, menus to plan, food to pack, kayaks to procure and check, electronics to charge and dry bags to pack. Students need to arrive from all over the place with luggage intact. In our case here in Patagonia, the Navy must be placated through meetings and gear checks. The weather must cooperate, to a certain extent. Then the last dry bag is somehow crammed into an already full hatch and the last kayak is coaxed from shore.You feel the water take over and the grab of the paddle. Now there are other concerns- safety, schedule, group dynamics- but it's really just you and the sea, town worries fade away and the rhythm of the tides and wind takes over. If you get there......
We have another hurdle to mount, one completely beyond our control. I am in Puerto Natales, where the course is to begin and end, while the students are in the larger gateway city of Punta Arenas. The strike has completely cut off the two, stranding hundreds, maybe thousands of foreigners and throwing a big fat monkey wrench into our plans. What seemed to be a small protest against a natural gas price hike, has dragged on and morphed into a regional crisis. It's almost completely peaceful, but has already proved to be a huge inconvenience for visitors to Patagonia at the height of the summer season. People can't get to or from Torres del Paine National Park, or to the airport to catch flights home. Food is often difficult to find because most business are closed. When stores are open, supplies are starting to run a bit thin.
Yesterday, with no resolution in sight, many tourists chose to shoulder their backpacks and walk 15 miles to the Argentine border. They were successful after a long day's hike, but others from my hostel who tried to walk to the Park ended up coming back after many hours. They had hoped to catch a sympathetic ride on the far side of the blockade, but cars have stopped coming after many were harassed and vandalized.
Two days ago a meeting with the local governor was called for foreigners stuck here in Puerto Natales. So many people showed up (400-500) that it had to be moved outside. The crowd was tense and somewhat angry, shouting that we were being held hostage. Someone yelled, "you got the miners out faster than us", to much laughter and applause. "We are hostages! You are using us as a bargaining tool in your conflict!" others yelled. All was very dramatic. De facto group leaders emerged and gave impassioned declarations. I was frustrated too, but thought a little perspective was in order. Sure, people have been inconvenienced, but come on, this is not Darfur. You are trapped in a place with restaurants serving king crab and roast lamb and good wine and there are nice beds to sleep in.
The governor said that, as a party in the dispute, he couldn't help, and so was calling in the Red Cross. Now, after two days the Red Cross is organizing some evacuation flights this afternoon. Hundreds of people are lining up with their luggage at a makeshift shelter.
Unfortunately, since I'm trying to get students in, not out, this is not a help to us. All six students made it in to the Punta Arenas airport in the last two days. They were forced to walk many hours into town, but are all together at our hostel there. Punta Arenas is the center of the opposition and the town is filled with street blockades and big demonstrations. I guess it's an early exercise in team-building for the group.
Yesterday brought a brief ray of hope when the government caved on its initial plan to increase fuel rates by 17%, and offered a 3% increase. Unbelievably, this compromise was refused and the strike continues. The latest news is that all businesses in the region will close on Monday. Ay yi yi!
If only we can get the students here and out on the water, all will be fine.....

Strike

On the road just outside of Puerto Natales, in front of a sign welcoming visitors to the tourism capital of Patagonia, is an enormous statue of a extinct giant sloth waving a huge black flag. The statue honors the milodon, a 10000 year old creature with the body of a grizzly and the tail of a kangaroo, found 100 years ago in a nearby cave. The flag is a recent addition, lashed on by protesters angered by a proposed hike in natural gas prices. Here in chilly Patagonia, people rely on natural gas to heat their homes and power their hybrid cars. The government has historically subsidized this fuel to bring costs to the consumer more in line with the warmer parts of the country. A proposed cut in the subsidy would raise prices here in Patagonia by 17%.
The solidarity shown by the milodon is emblematic of the widespread reach of the protest. All roads into and out of every town are blockaded, the streets are mostly deserted and almost every business is closed. All this has put our 24 day expeditionary sea kayak course
in a bit of jeopardy. I'm in Puerto Natales and was planning to head to Punta Arenas today to meet the students and shop for food. The status of the airport is unclear, so I'm not sure the students will even arrive at this point, and there is no way for me to get to Punta Arenas right now without a helicopter.
I arrived in that most southern of port cities five days ago after several flights from the US. The flight from Santiago was fantastic, with amazing views of the northern and southern ice caps, and the fjords. The mountains gave way to the windswept, barren Patagonian steppe, until we finally reached the end of the continental landmass at the Strait of Magellan and landed in Punta Arenas, a cold and windy ramshackle port town with a scruffy charm.
I soon made my way to Puerto Natales and dove into trip prep, gathering the tremendous amount and variety of gear needed for a trip like this. I found a proper nautical chart and poured over the proposed route with German at Tutravesia, who is providing kayaks and logistical support.
The biggest hurdle was supposed to be the Chilean Navy. Without their approval there would be no expedition. A simple formality when I paddled in Chile 10 years ago had become a serious bureaucratic affair. I was seated at a conference table across from three officials, all starched uniforms and epaulets and hairstyles that I believe are called the "deep side part". There was a chart on the wall and a pointer and the whole thing reminded me a bit of Dr. Strangelove.
Some recent mishaps had made them somewhat wary of kayakers. I was grilled on my experience, on that of each member of the group, and on the specific safety and communication equipment we'd be carrying. The meeting was followed up with a long and thorough written application. All was in place for their august seal of approval, the ferocious winds were lying down out of the fjord, and then.... Strike!
Yesterday I biked out of town, past the vigilant milodon and some real-life black-necked swans to the barricade.
It was an orderly and peaceful scene that could have been anywhere. Working class families feeling the squeeze of rising prices and stagnant wages. So for now I'm stuck here at the wonderfully cozy Erratic Rock hostel, along with lots of other folks trying to go trekking in Torres del Paine. At least the wine and cheese shop is still open...