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!