Christmas in la Patagonia

I
A generous ride brought me north to the bustling town of Coyhaicae, famed destination for fly fishermen and a restocking center for local campesinos, in northern Patagonia, Chile, on Christmas eve. Here I admired how perfectly street lights stood perpendicular to the pavement, in sharp contrast to craggy wind-weary trees bowing towards the weathered rock. Taking a break from the coastal-based fisheries project, I headed for the hills, and had thought that spending Christmas alone in the Cerro Castillo mountains would be memorable, in a solitary sort of way. But the hike had gone more quickly than I thought, I been completely skunked fishing in Lago General Carerra, and a chance ride al dedo (hitching) had taken me all the way back to town. I was now pleased to get to see the social side of the holiday in these parts, and glad to get some respite from the relentless Patagonian wind.

Finding a place to stay for the night turned out to be a challenge. Every hostel, every house advertising hospitaje in its windows turned me away at the door, telling me they were full for the night. Even at the peak of daylight hours here in the southern hemisphere, darkness eventually descends at this southern latitude, and it looked like I might be forced to walk a long way in the dark before hitting the hay. I passed another hostel and was given same response- all rooms full. This one, however, offered to allow me to camp on their lawn. Camping, for me, seems to loose its appeal once submersed into the world of cars, boomboxes, and barking dogs, but this night I gratefully accepted the offer and headed out the door to find a nesting site for the night.

On the cracked steps of the hostel sat two Israelis and several liters of Cristal beer. Both sported fine mohawks, were probably around 20 years old, and one was playing a nylon-stringed guitar like he was a backup for Ted Nugent.

“Hey man, what’s….whoa, do you have a moustache?! Wow, there’s nothing cooler than a moustache!”

“Except Mohawks of course,” I replied, entertaining their egos.

“And mullets. Especially she-mullets.” These guys were clearly hip to what’s hip. “Hey man, where you from, and what’s your favorite band? Cause we know them all, let us play you a song. Any song,” touted the taller brother, sans guitar.

I hesitated, adjusting to the words spoken in English and to the rare haircuts, certainly foreign to Patagonia. I delayed by telling them where I’d been traveling, and where I call home. I’d heard little but latino love ballads (Te quiero, te quiero…) and morphed Christmas tunes (Navidad, Navidad, hoy es Navidad to the tune of Jingle Bells…) for a while. “Hmm, well, you know any Tom Waits, Floyd, Modest Mouse?” I was being simultaneously truthful and difficult, as my choice bands have a knack for writing eccentric, complex songs.

The Israelis were unphased. “Not Alaskan bands, man, bands that everybody knows. Tenacious D. That’s what you want. And here you go, from us to you,” said the brash singer. With that they launched into several songs, complete with all the original songs’ pauses, inflections, and attitude, and with the bonus of middle-eastern accents. The guitar player was a joy to listen to; the singer was not. Together they had plenty of heart. After a while I bid farewell to the Israeli brothers, who were still singing irreverently and with volume to spare, and headed into town to check out a midnight mass. With the Hebrew rockers lording over the camping grounds, I was in no rush to roost for the night.

The Coyhaicae Catholic church sits on the northern edge of the town’s central square, looking south. Mass here was a lively affair, with people of all ages in attendance, despite the late hour. Babies inside and dogs celebrating in the streets contended for air time with the priest and speakers throughout the service. The actors in the manger scene weren’t noteworthy but the ornate costumes were, and the live stand-in for baby Jesus was a truly beautiful baby. I’m no Catholic but thought the service and songs beat the pants off the Tenacious D cover band.

Back at the manger, things had settled down. I pulled out my tent- actually just a three- meter by two-meter sheet of one-millimeter clear plastic bought a week earlier at a hardware store- scavenged a few rocks and a ridgepole, quickly erected my shelter in the dark, and tucked into my sacko de dormir for the night. The stars were burning bright, and I could see the southern cross constellation to, surprisingly enough, the south. A few hazy thoughts about the grass within my tent not quick smelling right crossed my mind before I dozed off.

Christmas morning shone bright and clear (not ordinary Christmas weather for a Mainer, where tradition mandates a holiday mix of wet snow and freezing rain). Not a single wispy cloud interrupted the baby-blue sky. As I woke, olfactory-cognitive coordination improved, and the reaction was less than pleasant. There was something amuck in my stall. A look to my left, and then to my right, cleared up the confusion. On one side lay a hunk of fleshy bone, partially decomposed, although fortunately not nearly as maggot-ridden as the head of the dead cow I’d encountered on a hike a few days back. On my other side, lay a nice pile of the remains of what was likely the rest of the meat, after being fully processed by a large dog. Santa had visited my humble abode, and he’d come bearing presents!

I said a quick prayer of thanks for the heavenly forces which had guided me around the landmines the night before when setting up camp, keeping me clean and relatively fragrant. I then headed out to enjoy the beautiful day.

II
To celebrate the union of my good fortune, the holiday, and the fantastic weather, I decided to treat myself to a big breakfast, before exploring a trail network in Coyhaicae’s nature reserve. True to relaxed latino culture and signifying the importance of the holiday, not a single supermarket, store, or restaurant was open. After ambling around town until noon, I finally found a small panaderia in the process of opening its latches. In I marched, and proceeded to assemble a venerable feast for one. I bought one of each kind of pastry the store made, a can of frutillas en jugo (strawberries in their own juice), and a bottle of Colo de Mono, which was advertised as a traditional holiday drink, which I imagined was the Chilean parallel to eggnog.

On a sunny patch of grass on the back side of a gas station, I feasted. Each pastry was soaked in strawberry juice. The half-dozen pastries were gone in short order, at which time I had serious stomach pains. It took me a couple of hours to recover from this food coma, which gave the sun plenty of time to burn and dehydrate this pathetic white chap.

Stomach recovered and spirits still high, phase two of the Christmas plan was to explore a protected forest of the outskirts of town. Partly due to poor planning but mostly due to an odd tendency to create illogical personal challenges, I showed up at the reserve with no food and my only my eggnog substitute to drink. At this point I took further inspection of the drink’s label and contents, and learned that this certain drink, Tail of the Monkey, is actually more like a bad Kailua, a somewhat sickening coffee liquor. And alcoholic. Not my cup of tea for this endeavor. But the challenge had been set, and there was no arguing with the judge.

The first five or so kilometers of the trail were quite nice. The following several were, to my recollection, quite sinuous. Small hills, in the blazing heat and with the monkey on my back, became valiant struggles. I passed several streams which would likely have yielded potable water, but for some reason, this felt like cheating. By the time I ambled out of the partial shade of the reserve and down the dusty and sun-baked road to town, the monkey’s playful, comedic demeanor had given way to pain and thirst. Time is a good remedy though, and by the time I was in the town proper, the monkey has jumped ship. The day, although unique, had been beautiful in it’s own way. Water never tasted so sweet.

This is a longwinded way of wishing all a happy holidays. May all of you be so lucky as to successfully dodge foul meats and dog poo where you lie, keep all of life’s little monkeys off your backs!

Chiloe's wild west

In northwestern Isla Chiloe sits the small city of Ancud, population around 25,000, one of the larger cities on the island. West of Ancud, and extending south for the entire west coast of the island, is wild, undeveloped coastline. Most of this is officially protected as park land. Road access is rare and few fishermen work on this western coastline, especially as compared to the busy eastern shores. This is understandable, as the western coast lies directly exposed to the Pacific, while Chiloe’s eastern shores open into the Gulf of Ancud.

Directly west of Ancud is one place where a road does manage to snake all the way to the wilder coast. Half way to the coast the road turns to a rough dirt road and houses effective end, save the occasional capensino dwelling. Here is the Pinguineria- a protected nesting area for two species of penguins (Magellanic and Humboldt)- and an area frequented by tourists from all over the world. A few restaurants catering to tourists spring out of the beach about where the grass begins, although today they appear closed. The black and white penguins seem to be web-footed gold to these restaurants and the Ancud agents who sell (overpriced) package tours to tourists.

Just down the beach from these restaurants, benefiting from the wind and swell protection that the penguin-speckled islands just offshore offer, a group of artesanal fishermen live right on the beach in the warmer months. Their camps are the just like many salmon setnet fish camps in Alaska- simple, functional, snug, and homey. These are members of a local fishing cooperative, known here as a syndicate, which together manage and harvest the local loco, a mollusk of high value, with an appearance that sometimes leads to it being mistaken as abalone. When not diving for loco, these fishermen are die-hard skiff fishermen.

I walk up to four fishermen on the beach and strike up a conversation with the closest man. Mario, in his mid-30’s with an easy smile, has an uncanny knack for known half a dozen synonyms for any particular word. The fishermen on the beach are four of 60 men and women in the local loco syndicate, which controls, monitors, and enforces loco harvesting in the waters directly offshore of this particular beach. I’m told that there are roughly 15 of the loco syndicates in the region. Loco longer than 10 centimeters along the long axis are harvested between March and July (mostly in June and July), at which time they’re the plumpest. Recently, loco have been garnering about 7,000 pesos/kilogram (roughly five bucks a pound) for fishermen, and earnings are split evenly between all members of the syndicate. Price-sharing and local management are both somewhat rare in the fisheries these days, and the concepts here are progressive. Many eyes are keeping tabs on how this management regime pans out, and the Chilean loco fishery is well known to fisheries management insiders worldwide, both for this artisanal control and its history of being overharvested.

This being outside of loco season, attention here is now on other species. Mario divides a gillnet with three others on the beach. They parcel the long net into shorter lengths, roughly 100 feet in length, to make each piece more manageable for one or two people to handle, using only human power. The gillnet mesh is larger than any I’ve seen before- probably 10 inch diagonal- and I’m told that it’s for manta ray (never has thought to eat these before myself). Also targeted here are cholga, chorita (mussels), almeja, lapa, macha (three types of clams), trimulco,, picuyo (two morphs of whelk), picoroco (a suiting name for barnacles), luga (kelp), bacalao (cod), pejigallo (elephantfish), jaiva (Dungy crab), merluza (hake), and corvin (undetermined finfish). This guys, like many fishermen who have their vocation entwined with their passion, basically will fish for whatever is abundant and of market value.

The fishing fleet here consists of a dozen or so 25-foot boat powered by 40-horsepower outboards. The skiffs are all fiberglass- certainly an anomaly on Isla Chiloe- and are probably a testament to the rough seas on this side of the island and to the financial success of the fishermen. Four men routinely go out in each skiff. Profits are split six ways- two shares go to the boat, and one share each to the fishermen. I suppose this equates to a crewshare of 17%. I’m not sure why I was made privy to these particular details. I’m now passing them on because I think that it shows how democratic and up-front the decision making seems to be in this local fishery. Disagreements are hashed out face-to-face in the cabin in the evenings. Too often in bigger fisheries accounting and payments are conducted with hazy and/or creative arithmetic.

In the cabin, we enjoy tea, mate, and a delicious salty crumble of fishy that once, I think, resembled a smelt. We eat boiled dungy crab by bashing the shells between two rocks. I’d guess I ate about a few heaping teaspoons of sand mixed in with the delicious crab, didn’t mind a bit. Ten of us are packed in to the one-room cabin, and ages ranged from 15 to 50, sitting on crates, stumps, and partially repaired chairs. This crew is sharp and tuned in not only to local marine affairs, but foreign affairs as well. Both affect them directly. I was informed that George Bush had recently had a pair of shoes thrown at him during a press conference (news to me), and we all had a good laugh over this. [Bush is uniformly disliked down here, although Chileans seem to have amazing patience with Americans, seeming to understand and forgive our national decision to give him a second term as president, although his stint seems to have had negative impacts on Chile.]

A poster of cetaceans on the wall kicked off another lively subject. Many species of whales are frequent visitors to the productive waters just off Chiloe’s west coast. These fishermen had all had very close encounters with various whales, and Eduardo, the oldest man in the room by a decade, retold with animated detail of the time that a sperm whale came up from below and grazed his boat. He told us that it knew exactly where the boat was, and only wanted to scratch it’s back- no harm intended. I told Eduardo a few sperm whales in Alaska and British Colombia had learned to pick fish off the longline as gear was being hauled, and that this sometimes infuriates fishermen, for stealing their fish. His response surprised me, as had the collective perspective of this group of fishermen since I first walked up to them on the beach. “Tienen hambre, exacto como nosotros,” he said with a shrug and a smile. They are hungry, just like us (humans).

I head out to take a walk on the beach in the dark, and bump into an ancient man, taller and skinnier than the rest of the group, with a long beard seeming to drip off his chin. His son, no spring chicken himself, appears behind him, and introduces his dad as “Rusputan”. Rasputan has a cracked but functional headlight on his forehead. I ask where they are going, and am told that they’re going out for loco…and a few confusing sentences which I interpret as, “the holidays are coming and we want a little extra money to have a real feast.” They say this with grins, I smile and laugh, taking this as a joke, as I’ve just been impressed for the full day with the structured internal management and embedded social welfare of this tight-knit group of fishermen, who seem to protect and share their collective resource so well. The two laugh as well, and were probably just pulling this gringo's leg. Probably.

Quellon, a serious fishing port

The chaotic fish dock in Quellon immediately brought to mind Melville’s description of the Nantucket waterfront in Moby Dick. Although currently a vague and distant image for me, I remember the author’s description of the place as being simultaneously chaotic, exciting, and intimidating. Quellon is certainly this. Several men wandering around who would fit the casting role for Queequeg. An Alaskan parallel, somewhat stretched, would pair Dalcahue with Homer and Quellon with Kodiak- slightly less hospitable, a touch more fish-crazed. Longer hair, more tattoos, a bit more trash on the sides of the streets. Piercing stares or no acknowledgement at all. Very few things are more intimidating in life than a commercial fisherman’s stare, even for those accustomed to the trade. I think the Quellon dock is fantastic.

Lots of fish come into Quellon. It is a major port for many of the boats which fish to the south, stretching towards Patagonia. Almeja (clam), merluza (hake), congrio (kingklip, the eel/cusk-like fish highly prized in Chile), dorado (a congrio-like fish, not the speedy and iridescent dorado, aka dolphin, often caught in the tropics), caracol, corvina, and peliyo are all commonly fished here. Luga (red algae) is harvested by divers, transported in larger vessels (tenders) back to the dock, and here in town there are two plants which dry the algae and ship to Santiago, where it is where it is used as a thickener in many products, including shampoo and ice cream.

Almeja are harvested by divers, using dive boats similar to those from Dalcahue. Today the dock is piled with clams, in places 3 feet high. Wild-eyed men shovel the clams into 40 kilogram bags. On average, I’m told boats will bring in between six and nine bags’ worth of almeja per day. This is the result of a long day’s work for five fishermen, three buseos (divers) and two marinos (men working the deck). Here and now, almeja are worth 170 pesos per kilogram. This works out to around $15 per fisherman the day.

I’m told that commercial divers for luga spend most of their days in 40-50 meters of water, but I’ve also seen divers in the intertidal harvesting what appears to the same leafy, inedible algae. Like those used to harvest almeja and navijela, most boats are between seven and eight meters in length. Boats are paid 200 pesos per kilogram for the crop. Like most of fishing, the pennies (or pesos) add up, bit by bit. These fishermen all take great pride in their boats, and most show every sign of really enjoying their chosen livelihood.

Pressure on divers’ ears when 50 meters below must be intense. I’m told that the acclimation is brief. I think tolerance for pain is pretty damn high in these parts.

Larger longliners are moored just off the dock. Pablo, a young deckhand on an 18-meter longliner, lets me in on a few details of his fishery. Pablo and the seven others aboard the Mar Bravo use fixed hook and line gear, very similar to that used in Alaska. Only the mantles of squid are used for bait, and they mainly fish for the congrio and dorado, both well-endowed with fins and valued for their firm white meat. Cod, one of the most evolutionary successful finfish in the world, are caught here too. The boat heads out to fishing grounds for 15 day stints, then returns to it’s native harbor for a week or so to rest it’s engine, it’s crew, and to restock. For many of the days on the water, when not in transit, the crew gets very little sleep. Fishing continues around the clock, and the larger crew allows for them to cycle through three-hour naps. Hooks always need rebaiting, fish need to be gutted and iced in the fish hold, gear has to be set out and hauled back. This is remarkably similar to much of the halibut longlining in Alaska, and Pablo and I, separated by language, culture, and around 10,000 miles of Pacific Ocean laughed at our parallel paths in life, despite the small differences. We headed into town for a celebratory beer.

Isamar II and the Dalcahue dive fleet

Esteban, a Dalahue native in his late 30’s, does not have the imposing attitude or build of the stereotypical Gloucester or Kodiak fisherman. Clean-cut and hair combed, he rows his tiny yellow dory out to his boat wearing clothes that seemed more suited for church than for fishing. Yet aboard his pride, the Isamar II, it is immediately clear that he knows exactly what he’s doing. An attitude or broad shoulders, while sometimes the accompaniment of a salty fisherman, can just as often be misleading. Esteban, without need for ceremony or costume, is plenty salty.

The Isamar II is one of around 100 dive boats which fish around Dalcahue. Amazingly enough, I hadn’t even recognized this fleet of boats, which are all colorful, low-profile crafts around seven meters in length, as a distinct fishery until this morning. My eyes had been quick to identify the modes of fishing I was familiar with- longlining, gillnetting, pot-fishing for crabs- and had somehow overlooked or misinterpreted the function of a bulk of the Dalcahue boats. Trickery of the eyes!

To give my embarrassed senses a bit of credit, dive boats, when at rest, have very little gear on deck which might give away their line of work. This is exactly what makes this type of fishery so popular with small-scale independent fishermen- small capital costs for gear and a relatively small boat. This is what distinguishes the artisanal fleet from the industrial fishing vessels, which usually use larger boats, expensive gear, require bigger crews, and are often owned by a corporation or a fish processing plant.

Aboard the Isamar II, the day’s first task was to briskly offload the catch from the day before. This time of year, navijuelas, razor clams, are the targeted species. From the outside this shellfish seems to be more closely related to a cigar than the classic bivalve, although when cooked there is no mistaking the clamminess. About 300 kilograms (700 pounds) of live clams, in mesh bags of around 30 kilograms (70 pounds) each, were brought out of the boat’s hold and passed onto the dock, where they were weighed and then carefully piled in the back of a small pickup. Esteban settled up with the buyer, and we cut our lines from the dock and were off.

The crew aboard consists of Esteban, Cesar, and Jose. (Cesar is the exact likeness of George Clooney, and middle-aged woman in America would doubtless swoon over him. Luckily this hadn’t gotten to Cesar’s head, if he was aware of it at all.) I had offered to help with any work, but my primary goal was to not get in the way. These three were old hands at their work. The Isamar II has two sister ships, Yely and the Don Jose, and the three boats travel together to fishing grounds and share information freely. This time of year, the trio of boats were concentrating on an area only an hour or so from town.

South Americans have a traditional drink, yerba mate which is native the nexus of Uruguay, Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina, but has crossed many other borders and is quite popular in Chile as well. Loose, shredded mate is placed in a small cup or gourd, boiling water is added, and the scalding hot drink is enjoyed fairly quickly through a filtered metal straw, a bombilla, before being passed to the next person in the room. There is a special ceremony surrounding the communal drinking of mate, perhaps somewhat like passing around a peace pipe. Mate drinkers the world over are cringing at my sacreligious description, and I can only apologize. Perhaps, after learning more about the importance of the drink, I’ll remedy my description. Regardless, I’ve mentioned mate here because it plays an integral part in the fishing day aboard many of the small boats: the day begins, is split, and end ends with this custom. I can easily see how the drink can easily be a celebration for fishermen who routinely spend eight to ten consecutive hours on the ocean floor.

After the morning mate, Esteban and Cesar quickly suit up. Jose is in charge of maintaining the air supply for the divers and maneuvering the boat to keep the divers within range of the air hoses. Despite the warm air, the ocean is still cool in these parts- I would guess in the mid 50’s- and the two divers don full wetsuits, as well as masks and fins. They strap on lead weights to the back and legs to reduce buoyancy, each grab a long mesh bag and a modified pair of longnose pliers, and without fanfare, slip overboard. For Esteban, the transition church-going clothes to submersion in the water takes less than 10 minutes.

Now only Jose and I are on deck. Jose starts up a rusty five horsepower engine and eases the throttle to a slow idle. This engine serves to pump pressurized air into a holding tank, which in turn supplies the divers with air through long yellow hoses. The hoses disappear into the dark water. Bubbles give clues as to where each diver is working. Jose is kept quite busy tending to a number of tasks. These are the often overlooked parts of fishing, regardless of the quarry: he lights a fire in the galley stove, repairs a radio, prepares a hearty meat soup from scratch, rewires a speaker. All the time, he is continually lengthening or uncoiling one of the diver’s air hoses, checking the pressure of the tank, or pulling the anchor and bringing the boat closer to the divers. The three boats are sometimes within shouting distance, and a joke is occasionally passed between decks. The tiny, heavily-bearded man aboard the Yely is especially entertaining to watch listen to, and he darts around deck almost as quickly as his high-pitched exclamations jump across the water.

The boat is an exhibition of marine resourcefulness and healthy frugalty. Recycled wood utilized for non-structural parts of the galley (for those new to the boat world, galley is the marine equivalent to a kitchen/living room; the head is the marine version of a bathroom, although the Isamar II doesn’t happen to have one. A five-gallon bucket or waiting suffice.) Potable water is plumbed into the galley in an entertaining blend of garden hose, PVC, and copper piping. Twine is devined by unraveling strands of large frayed line. The diver’s belts, on which they carried heavy lead weights, have been repaired countless times.

Twelve meters down, Esteban and Cesar work the muddy sea floor, probing each dime-sized divot with their adapted pliers, carefully pinching the delicate shells of the clams, pulling straight up, and then smoothly depositing the living cigar into their mesh bag before shifting their attention to a new depression. Too much pressure from the pliers crushes a clam’s shell and makes it less valuable; too little pressure and the clam, sensing danger, flees with astounding speed for the center of the earth. The 100 centimeter mud dash of a razor clam is almost certainly a benthic mollusk world record. In speed and physique, naviquelas are the greyhounds of clams.

After filling their mesh bags, the divers rise up to the surface, pass the 30 or so kilograms of clams up to Jose, swing themselves aboard, take a leak, and quickly return to the water and disappear for the bottom. This happens every couple of hours. Why they both seemed to go through the effort of getting aboard, seemingly only to pee, is beyond me, as the wetsuits are two-piece. Perhaps this is a brief excuse to take a break from sucking compressed air through a tube. Something most of us take for granted when at work.

By noon, I estimate about 200 pounds of clams are aboard. At the Dalcahue dock, fishermen have been getting around 500 Chilean pesos per kilogram (roughly 30 cents/pound). The two divers took a short break to enjoy a bowl of Jose’s soup and pass around the steaming matte. Once again, the divers slip backwards overboard and descend, leaving only bubbles and two snaking yellow hoses as markers. The clams accumulate on deck, and Jose carefully stacks them in mesh bags and sets them out of intense stare of the sun. Constant adjustments on deck, constant searching and plying below. This is tiring, repetitive, physically demanding, honest work- these are the characteristics that define commercial fishing all around the world. By evening, I estimate 600 pounds of clams aboard- slightly less than the boat’s catch yesterday. A rough estimate of the boats total gross for the day is around $200 US dollars. After expenses, each fisherman may go home with the equivalent of $40. While not a large amount in the US, this is significantly better than minimum wage here in Chile, which converts to roughly $10 per full day of work (assuming an 8-hr shift).

Esteban and George Clooney climb aboard, looking somehow reluctant to quit. This is exactly what they’ve done for the past few weeks and is exactly what they’ll continue to do tomorrow and the next day, yet for them this is no reason to cut short today. With impressive efficiency, the two divers shed their wetsuits, wash both the suits and themselves, and are back in civilian clothes, hair combed, before the kettle water has time to boil. Pass around the mate, pull the anchor and we’re off.

According to Esteban, this is how most days go aboard his boat. They fish for five or six days a week, and most days they sleep on dry land. Sometimes they venture out for multiple days at a time. When there is a closure on razor clamming, they instead target almeja (think your “classic” clam), or they’ll dive with gaffs and hook the bottom-loving congrio (an eel-like, cusk-like fish) in the gills and stuff it into a bag. I would love to witness this spectacle, as I imagine the congrio are anything but willing partners in the activity.

With the colorful 24-foot Isamar II, some very basic equipment, and lots of perseverance, Esteban, Cesar, and Jose each support a family. Their shellfish and fish are either sold fresh in one of the Dalcahue markets or are processed in the fish plant, which is located no more than 100 yards from the top of the dock. The route that the harvested fish take once caught is as simple and straightforward as the methods used to catch them. This very simplicity may just be one of the keys to a sustainable fishery.

One busy little port

A proper fishing tale is on its way. Here's a more general perspective of Dalcahue...

DALCAHUE, CHILE
Targeted fish: merluza (hake), congrio (kingklip, an eel-like fish), manta raya, pejegallo (elephantfish), almeja, navijuela, otras (clams of several varieties), jaiva (dungeoness crab), sentoya (king crab), choritos (mussels, mostly cultivated), ostras (oysters), occasionally pulpo (octopus) and bacalao (cod)
Methods of fishing: gillnet, longline, dive, mariculture, crab pots
Footwear: black rubber boots or snorkeling fins
Favorite local sayings: Si, po. Any short sentence ending in “po”. (This is the local equivalent to New Englander’s “Yessah”, or Newfoundlander’s “Yis, bye.”) Pesca gordo (the big fish)- the boss
Local food: curranto (mix of shellfish, meat and potatoes, cooked in an earthen pit), pinchanga (mix of meats, cheese, picked vegetables, egg, french fries), completos (basically a hot dog with extra fixings)
Drink of choice: Cristal beer, Fanschop (beer with Fanta added), pisco sour, Nescafe (cafecito)
Local entertainment: weekly craft fair, food and traditional dance festivals at the fairgrounds, handline fishing from the ramp, eating lots of ice cream
Local music: long drawn-out love songs, especially by Luis Fonsi; reggaeton
Select Local Fishing Boats: Tiburon V, Tamara, He-Man, Rosario, El Guerrero Arco-Iris, Lidia, Pamela III, Elisset, Taimar, Cachalote, Yely, Isamar II, Don Jose, Karina

Merry Mariculture

I would be misrepresenting the marine fisheries of Chile if I didn’t at least mention the extensive aquaculture. Although my perspective may be biased towards the (more) wild and (more) natural fisheries, aquaculture may well be viable and sustainable for some species, despite the scowls it often receives in Alaska. The difference between aquaculture and wild fish, when examined closely, is somewhat hazy, and in this blurry gray lies hatchery-raised fish. “Pure” wild fish are more rare than many people realize.

Along the coast of Chile, few areas with decent protection from wind and swells are without the telltale buoys of aquaculture. By area, the aquaculture seems to be mainly devoted to salmon (I believe mostly Atlantic, but some coho), but by volume I suspect shellfish may account for the bulk of cultivated fish. Aquaculture specific to shellfish is known as mariculture, and around Chiloé mariculture abounds. From hilly vistas in most any coastal town, literally thousands of neatly aligned buoys can be seen, marking strings of growing shellfish.

In Dalcahue, I passed a few hours with yet another exceedingly patient Chilean by the name of Mario. Mario is a worker in one of the cultivo marinos located roughly a kilometer from the Dalcahue docks. He has nice wrinkles from smiling and sports a black gorro (hat) that has seen better times. While his days may not have the excitement of the unknown that characterizes the chase for wild fish, Mario spends his share of time in and on the water, and shows the roaming gaze into the distance common among mariners in any country.

Mario cultivates choritos (mussels) for a small mariculture business, one of roughly 1,000 such ventures in the Gulfo de Ancud, he estimates. A main line is stretched between two buoys 100 meters apart, each buoy anchored to the bottom. Between 30 and 80 lines drape down to a depth of eight meters below the surface off this main line, and farms are usually established in 15 or more meters of water. On these secondary lines which hang vertical, chorito hop on and grow in the sunny upper water column. No rocks needed. Mario’s company buys tiny seed mussels collected from the wild, and then carefully creates this webbed home in a food-rich zone for these shellfish to fatten. After a year of growth, the bivalves are ready for the market (although if you gave the choritos the choice, they’d probably politely decline, preferring to keep swinging on their artificial vines).

Mario tells me that cultivated choritos are superior to those harvested in the wild, but that on the market choritos are valued equally, regardless of origin. He works six days a week, eight hours a day, with duties ranging from setting up the buoy-line infrastructure, to planting the seeds, to harvesting. For this he brings home 160,000 pesos per month, Chilean minimum wage, roughly $260 US (or $11 per working day). His work as international mariculture spokesman was unpaid but highly appreciated, and hungry mouths around the world reap the benefit of his sweat. Mario smiled slowly when I told him this (what odd things gringos say!), and then ambled up the dusty street with his son for a late dinner. A farmer-fisherman swapping muscles for money, mussels for bread.

Latino love songs and a man in drag

Isla Chiloe has preserved it's traditional customs more than other parts of Chile, which have embraced commercialism and consumerism much like Americans. Still, the tunes coming out of most homes, cars, and stores, even in the small fishing towns, has been fairly mainstream latino music. Luis Fonsi, a Puerto Rican native, is a phenomenal hit right now. I'd be willing to bet I've heard this song (No Me Doy Por Venecito) at least a dozen times per day...In the hip talk-show scene of Chile, one odd character, Rupertina, is quite famous. She is a man in bad drag, and although I can't fully understand her sense of humor, she's a household name. Check her out if you like: In addition to slow love songs, young Chileans also love Reggaeton. It's pretty hard not to like the beat. Here's a very popular artist down here, and a song that's an sign of the global influence of the internet and virtual friend network. As best as I can interpret, the singer is singing about a virtual girl who doesn't actually exist... Other popular artists here in Chile, if you are now converted, include "Camila", "Alexis and Fido", and "La Oreja De Van Gogh". This is contemporary Chile, and it's broadcasting even into the small coastal towns.

Dalcahue dock life

I’ve been posting myself on the Dalcahue dock, speaking with every boat that ties up. So far, I´ve had lots of friendly encounters, have made a couple friends, and have only one enemy- the sun- which is determined to turn me into a sentolla (king crab). Dalcahue is located on the eastern shore of Isla Chiloe, looking out towards the Golfo de Ancud, which is thick with islands big and small. Most of the boats are moored in the protected channel between town and the nearest satelite island (Isla Quinchao), but they tie up to the dock to take on supplies or to offload.

There are boats here ranging from 20 to 60 feet, painted every imaginable color, and every craft is wooden. Most are set up with living quarters in the forepeak, a fish hold midship, an aft cabin, and small covered deck in the stern. From what I’ve gathered, all of these boats fish within the gulf (of Ancud), and they take trips ranking from five to 15 days in order to fill their holds while still being able to keep ice and thus preserve their catch. Boats are rigged as longliners, gillnetters, and boats loaded with small pyramid-shaped crab pots. Other are tenders set to transport fish, or boats which service the mariculture farms all around. As a great alternative to buoys, here they use big chunks of white styrofoam. I’ve seen Argentine hake ande eel offloaded, and this morning a boat delivered around seven tons of haiva (dungeness crab). I’ve seen a few incidental king crab and manta ray, which are also directly targeted here at times. Sea lions (here called lobo del mar, sea wolf) and dolphins pass by from time to time.

More than any other offload, the smaller boats have been delivering the strangest fish I’ve ever seen. It has large pectoral fins, a tail similar to a thresher shark, an iridescent body, and a probiscus scout that might be best described as a trumpet! A wild-looking fish, known here as pejegallo. As best I can tell, it´s known in the english-speaking world as elephantfish, is apparently exported to Japan, and looks like something that would live only in deep ocean trenches.

All of the fishermen I’ve spoken with have been very patient with this gringo. I’m sure it´s hard enough for one of these guys to understand a foreign accent and limited vocabulary. Add to that a guy who speaks especially slow and with halted speech in his native tongue, and now you’ve got a real challenge! After hearing me out, most of the fishermen have either told me that they’re just getting in from a trip and are about to rest for a few days, or that they simply don’t have any extra sleeping space whatsoever. This is undoubtedly true.

I did have one offer to go gillnetting for the eerie elephantfish, and I was told to meet at the dock at midnight for a five day trip. Unfortunately, midnight came and went and the boat never showed- perhaps they hended to leave early. There I was, walking the dock at one in the morning, no plans for where to spend the night (not uncommon for the evening, but uncommon for this late). Luckily I’d made good friends with Alexandro, the harbor securty guard, and he kindly offered to let me sleep on his floor when his shift finished. The offer was especially generous for a man who was about to finish up an eight-hour shift which earned him a meager $10- about enough for two decent meals here- and I gratefully accepted. We continued with our two-way language lessons as we walked towards his house.

Describing a place as being at a cultural crossroads must be a journalistic cliche, but since I’m no journalist I think I can get away with it. Here you see fishermen rowing ancient dories out to their moorings, but I’ve been questioned continuously about La Pesca Mortal (The Deadliest Catch). The town was without power yesterday for “system improvements”, but cell phones are everywhere. This is just life here, I think. I’ll keep watching, and hopefully soon I’ll jump aboard for a fishing trip.

Saludos del Sur

Warm greetings from Delcahue, Isla Chiloe, Chile. I decided to venture down to Chile, because this country has an immense coastline, because fishing is very important to its economy, and because I’d never been south of the equator. I’m now sitting at 45 degrees south. It really is summer down here when it´s winter “up there”.

I didn’t many any binding plans as to where I’d go once I arrived in Chile. The basic plan was to ask as many people as posible as to which region of the country had significant comercial fishing this time of year. Once I’d gotten enough responses, I made a decision, moved to the area recommended and repeated the process. In this manner I’ve continued heading south to a small town of Dalcahue, by way of the town of Castro, Isla Chiloe, the small city of Puerto Montt, and the capital of Santiago.

For those interested I’ll include a brief mention of observations I´ve made as I passed through these various towns. The hot item in Santiago this Christmas, it seems, are dancing plastic ponies and robotic, cartwheeling stuffed-animal dogs. Puerto Montt is rich with hand-knit shawls, sweater, and socks. Isla Chiloe is full of amazing little hawks, which also somehow also resemble pigeons, almost too common but endowed with the ability to move in ways which never get dull to obseve. I’m temporarily calling these pigeonhawks unitl I learn their true name. Castro, amazingly enough, has buildings bragging more of a color spectrum than Newfoundland. Delcahue has shellfish everywhere you turn- in its art, crushed shells lining its streets, on restaurant plates. Clams, mussels and oysters are being cultivated just offshore, markets offer lukewarm shellfish to anyone brave enough to dare. And all parts of Chile are well endowed with breasts. I don´t intend for this to be inappropriate or sexual or funny, and no I haven´t been looking any more than at the shells or pigeonhawks. I believe it´s just a fact here in Chile- an honest observation- not to be taken any farther than that. Delcahue also has lots of small fishing boats, so I'm excited to see what's going on on the water in these parts.

Rusty scallop boats and shiny lobster trucks

DIGBY, NOVA SCOTIA
Targeted fish: scallop, lobster, herring, dogfish
Methods of fishing: side dragger (trawl), onshore and offshore traps
Footwear: Dunlop, Viking, and Baffin rubber boots
Favorite local saying: “They’re all a-gone uphill.” (fishing north in the Bay of Fundy); “So you ain’t a Bluenoser?”
Local food: fried scallops
Drink of choice: Alexander Keith’s IPA or red
Local entertainment: Hard telling. Judging by stickers on fishermens’ trucks, watching NASCAR racing.
Select Local Fishing Boats: Chief Charles Paul, Marianne Louise II, Greyhound, Maybe 99, Royal Fundy, Secret Sea, Artemis, Thundercat, Surchin IV, Elva G, Undaunted, Chief William Saulis, Fundy Retreiver

While waiting for a Brazilian visa application to bump its way through the Brazilian-American beaureacratic pinball machine, and since the constant wind hitting the southern Newfoundland continued to keep the boats at bay, I decided to spend a few days exploring the fishing scene in Nova Scota. The province has an interesting way of controlling fishng effort for lobster, while still keeping fresh “bugs” heading to market. A rotating schedule ensures that some part of the province is open at any particular date. After glancing at the chart of openings, I pointed my sails towards Digby, which lies on Nova Scotia´s west coast.

Digby, it turns out, is a beautiful town founded (in the conceited Anglo-American sense) by Loyalists who were booted from New England around the time of Paul Revere. If a person was ever inclined to buy a authentic five-bedroom Victorian-style house with an expansive yard and ocean view to match, this may be the only place to get the wntire package for less than Sarah Palin’s October wardrobe.

More than its lobster, Digby’s true claim to fame is its scallop fleet, which was once the largest of its kind in the world. A glance at the town’s boardwalk shows that tourism now plays a big role in the local economy, but just behind the flashy signs lies a struggling region. Somehow, though, Digby seems to be struggling in an amazingly elegant way.

The scallop fleet is comprised of side draggers, meaning that they drag their trawl off one side of the boat (usually the starboard it seems) rather than astern. To me, side dragging isn’t an intuitive thing for a boat to do. It seems to be asking for trouble. In my perspective, it also ensures an awkward-looking, asymmetrical boat. This is of course all irrelevant when the scallops are plentiful and the price is high.

These days, the scallop population is in a rut (fishermen maintain that scallops have always had huge natural oscillations in regional populations), and the state of the fishery is evidenced by the impressive amount of rust visible on the draggers. Shortly after inquiring, I was offered the chance to take a fill in job on one of the draggers. A great chance to really see the fishery. If I wanted to go, the boat was leaving at two in the morning (that night), and coming back after a week or so.

A blend of tides, temperment, and testosterone make late night departures common in the fisheries. This didn´t worry me a bit. The volume of rust covering the deck of the boat did. I decided to pass up the opportunity.

In my pass through Digby, I witnessed two other fisheries- targeting lobster and dogfish- and these may well exhibit the range of profitability in the world of fisheries. Roughly a dozen lobster boats steamed to and from the Digby docks. The boats were incredible hulks of modern design, half as wide abeam as they were long. Sternless 50 foot boats that stretch 25 foot abeam seemed like their decks were made for pickup basketball, not marine travel. I’m more accustomed to the smaller and much more sleek and unassuming Maine lobster boats. A small efficient boat like those built for Maine’s craggy coast just wouldn’t cut it in a fishery which offers huge rewards for being able to set 400 traps in one trip. There certainly were lots of big, new trucks near where these lobster boats tie up.

A few miles out of town, half-way down a long, thin peninsula known as Digby Neck, I ran into an 50 year old deckhand stripping rusty hooks from old groundline, spilling out of a cracked plastic bucket. He explained to me that he longlined for dogfish in the Bay of Fundy. Sometimes the sharks were “uphill” (up the bay), sometimes the were “downhill”, but the price was always the same- 11 cents per pound. Not really enough to pay for gas and lunch. Pick one or the other. Once in a while you lucked out and caught a halibut for dinner, he said. I immediately felt spoiled, but perhaps I shouldn´t have. Digby is yet another place where people fish for more than just a way to pay the bills. What else would you do, and where else could be better?