A smallish fishing village situated in a protected cove of the Chilean archipelago and shadowed by a large mountain behind, Puerto Cisnes has a relaxed and casual ambience about it. The pebbly beach and scattered fishing boats in various states of repair all add to the atmosphere, as does the scent of fish hanging in the air.
Looking back on Puerto Cisnes from a boat in the harbour.
A fisherman and his dog in a boat stranded on the beach by the outgoing tide.
Walking along with the girls who had managed to find me as I was arriving on the bus, we pass dozens of old fishing boats. In some we see old weathered seamen busy working away on their vessels. Some are painting, others cleaning, while others have sections of their boats in pieces, and are repairing them.
Other "old salts" were standing around in pairs or in groups, with some leaning on their boats, engaged in various conversations. Most were puffing away on a pipe or some type of cigarette. Smoking in these parts is very common, and with the cold air the smoke lingered around the same area for a while in a translucent cloud, highlighting its source.
Some of the many boats gathered in the tidal creek.
After following the road that hugs the beach for a while, a sandless beach filled instead with various styles and sizes of rocks and pebbles, we turn to head uphill and into the housing section. Only two blocks later we arrive at our destination, the home of a lady that I only ever addressed as "Pastor." This is where I will be sleeping while in Puerto Cisnes. For now it is only us, the rest of the team are not yet here, as they were still in the Internet Cyber shop where they discovered that I was arriving less than half an hour ago.
The far end of the road that hugs the beach is also the road into Puerto Cisnes.
The House
This house, tired and old from the outside, is also tired and old on the inside. But it feels like home. My bed rests on the upper floor of this steep roofed house, and my feet almost touch the sloping ceiling. Holes line the area around my feet, the thin paper-board ceiling not having the strength to withstand so much touching. The laddered stairs leading to the living areas below, has old and worn, rounded steps that make the journey slippery and dangerous without maintaining concentration and a firm grip on the handrails. There are no bedrooms downstairs, so all who stay for the night become acquainted with the dangers.
Downstairs, there is carpet on the floor that is looking a little tired, but it warms the feet nicely in this cool summer climate. A fireplace in the lounge room provides a good amount of heating for the house downstairs and although it also heats upstairs for a short while too, the heat escapes through the thin ceilings. Broken tiles arrayed around the base of the heater indicate the layout of the original tiles they had come from. Nobody seems to notice their broken state even when standing on them. After all, they still serve their function.
In the morning I discovered the shower. Freezing cold ice water poured out of the shower head. There was no possibility for hot water in this shower. It did not exist. As I stood under it, I felt chilled to my bones. This sort of treatment could only be accepted during the mild days of summer. During winter it would become unbearable. The only way for a warm wash is to boil some water and mix it in a bucket.
The Pastor's house located behind the church.
But even with all of its defects, the house oozes a comfort and peace throughout. From the moment I entered I was able to fully relax and be natural in that place. The girls tell me that many houses in Chile look tired and old on the outside, but when you enter they are mansions. This house was an exception to that rule. However it was warmer than many places much richer.
The Pastor
The lady whom I knew only as "Pastor," became a pastor of the local church after moving to Puerto Cisnes with her husband many years ago. During the early years here, her husband was the pastor in this small fishing based port town, but he died suddenly, leaving her and their three very young daughters.
The church rules stated that the wife of a pastor could continue his work should he die in the middle of his pastoring term. The choice lies with the lady as to whether she does this or not. This lady chose to continue the pastorate. It was not a very easy choice for her, but she did not realise that at the time.
Being a pastor's wife does not mean that you understand the workings of the church or how to even run one. In fact she had taken little notice of the details, assuming that her husband would always be around to take care of them. He wasn't, and in the midst of her grieving she took up the role of trying to pastor the thriving church.
The beauty of Puerto Cisnes.
For many people a female pastor is hard to take, and there was a great deal of resistance from both inside and outside the church to her leading. She also found the role much tougher than she ever thought it would be. Confiding in me, she said that if she had known before how hard it would have been then she never would have chosen to do it. The number of people in the church reduced dramatically during those early times. Eventually it reduced to the faithful few who chose to remain.
Over the hard years she has seen both the church and her daughters grow. Now one of her daughters is married and another one is just about to leave home. She will be going to university in one of the bigger cities in the north. Within a few months from now only one of her three daughters will still be at home.
In this family, money is scarce. There is no man to earn money for the household, and the money from the church only supplies part of what is needed. So to make up the difference, this tough yet gracious lady goes out and works in a house every day. Her task of cleaning and cooking for the children there, acting as both nanny and maid, supplies her with a small but adequate earnings each week. Enough that the family can live adequately with their basic needs catered for. Luxuries still have to wait.
The Beach
As the sun slowly headed for the horizon, I slipped out of the house to take some photos of the sunset. With a beach full of fishing boats it seemed the perfect opportunity to capture the orange rays of the fading sun. So armed with camera and tripod, I wandered down the two blocks to the road along the shore and slipped down the embankment to the beach.
Two boats near the creek ready to leave on the next high tide.
A tidal beach with a gentle slope that shows a great deal of land at low tide and virtually none at high tide, it was filled with fishing boats of all sizes and states of repair. Decaying boat frames, large boats and row boats, smaller fishing boats, and power boats all in various colours of orange, red, yellow, green, blue and more. They were scattered all along the length of this wide beach. Some boats, normally floating and anchored, had been left to sit high and dry while the tide waned low.
The beach had no sand, but little rocks and dark coloured, rounded pebbles covered its surface. Negotiating this surface was much easier with shoes than barefoot, as I discovered earlier on. There were some patches along the length of the beach that consisted of something resembling coarse sand or ground shells, but these patches were few and far between and quite restricted in their size.
The nearest thing to sand was next to the tidal creek.
Just beyond the beach, anchored in the tranquil waters of the picturesque harbour, a great many boats of various sizes, shapes and colours rested quietly. Long thick anchor ropes ran out from trees down along the rocky beach surface reaching deep out into the harbour to the boat they secured. At one of these trees stood a cow, covered in coils of rope all over its head. It gave me a bewildered look as if to ask why it would be hanging out at a tree on a beach amongst fishing boats. I joined it in its confusion.
Looking out over the bay from one of the trees on the beach.
As the sun crept lower to hug the horizon and began to create a blazing red sky that reached across the water, I busily took as many photos as possible. It was a beautiful end to the day with deep orange reflections off the water looking over dark silhouettes of boats and an occasional bird wading past in elegant obliviousness to the beauty of their surroundings.
Some birds searching for their evening meal.
A Day with the Team
My plans were that I would arrive in Puerto Cisnes in time to spend some good time with the team there from YWAM Puerto Madryn in Argentina. It didn't work out that way in the end. With all of the bus connections, and missing my bus connection to Puerto Cisnes the same day I arrived in Chile, then by the time I arrived at Puerto Cisnes, the team had already arranged to move on to another port town a couple of hours north.
The only thing was, true to the transport style of southern Chile, there was only one bus leaving for the small town that the team was heading for each week. And it left the next day. So it ended up all of my travels that we had just under one complete day together. Fortunately I had arranged with the lady Pastor to stay one extra night before I too could depart. My transport was to be a boat heading north.
The bridge where the girls found me.
So the next day we all bought our tickets and then decided that it would be cool to go exploring the local creek. This is the one that travels under the bridge where the girls met me only yesterday. One of our group had seen a trail leading off down the side of the creek the other day and wanted to explore along it to see where it would lead us. We all agreed it would be a bit of fun.
This trail was wide and easy at first but quickly turned narrow and overgrown. Being adventurers we all pressed onward. At one point the trail split with one path leading upward. After first exploring this one we came to an open field leading onto people's houses. Wrong way. We returned back to our original pathway and took the low route.
Some fishing boats a long way upstream in the creek.
The further we went on this path the more wild it became. At one point it was filled with water, requiring careful stepping along the edges to keep our boots dry. Then it was like a rainforest, and filled with beautiful ferns and mosses. All of this eventually gave way to rocks... rocks that turned out to be a reinforcing wall along the edge of the stream that we were following. This then suddenly became a dead-end, with thicket and brush too thick to continue onward. So we went back.
Not all the way however. Just to the point where we could climb down from this rock wall on which we were standing, and get alongside the creek. From here we selected a place that seemed reasonable for a crossing and, still with the desire for adventure coursing through our veins, we removed our boots and stepped into the freezing cold water.
After I had crossed, it was time for the others.
It was so cold that by the time I reached the other side of the stream, my bones were aching. Somewhere during the crossing I had managed to wet a part of my jeans even though they were rolled up pretty high. Now that I was across, it was time for the others to take their chances. We moved the bags over first, then each one removed their boots and rolled up their jeans.
Girls are generally at a disadvantage in these sorts of things compared to guys because they are often shorter. The water levels of a creek are not discriminatory, and one slip will wet even the most carefully prepared. I guess that is why the two girls ended up with such wet jeans. Although there were no major slips, their jeans were wet from the knees down.
It was only once we had started crossing that one of the girls looked upstream to discover to her horror that only two hundred metres further upstream there was a bridge. Here she was, standing knee deep in super freezing cold water, and a bridge was only moments away. By then however it was too late. She was committed to the crossing.
The bridge only meters from where we crossed over.
Afterwards we all headed up to the bridge to admire its sturdy construction and to ponder on how useful it would have been had we found it before attempting our river crossing. I was not convinced however, since in looking for an adventure and not finding it in the trail, I at least felt as though I had found a little one in the river crossing. I was content.
On My Own Again
By the time we returned back to the house, it was time for the team to pack up and head off on their bus. I followed them down to the bus point and waved them goodbye, then returned to the house once again. There was nobody present when I returned, so I headed up to the Internet and waited for a machine. With only one small Internet place, it was often busy and there was a waiting time.
The team from Puerto Madryn heads for their bus.
Everyone squeezed into the small bus, with some old lady enjoying the photo opportunity.
After returning from the Internet, I was let into the house and started chatting with those present. After a while I headed back out to take some more sunset photos of the beach. It was my last night in this beautiful and very interesting small town. Dinner was ready later on, so I sat down with the family to enjoy the extensive range of foods available on the table.
It was during dinner that I heard the story of this amazing lady Pastor and her daughters. The one who wants to study will be choosing nursing if she can get into university. At the small local school, she had not been able to get the entry grades that she needed to enter university, so this first year away is a year of study and pre-entry exams. This will get her the papers and results that she needs to continue with her dream of nursing.
After a lot of chatting, and with our dinner already starting at a typically late hour, it quickly ran past midnight and was time to head to bed. This was the last time that I would see this family. In the morning I rose early and was out the door to reach my boat before it left. I should have heeded the advice I was given.
I had been advised that the boat was always late and that it was not such an issue to get there early. However, being the first time that I had even seen a boat enter the harbour, I wanted to be sure I made it there and did not miss it.
Boarding the boat in the morning.
Well, I certainly made it. The boat was one hour late and then waited in harbour for one and a half hours while they loaded vehicles. Then a truck drove on and they unloaded all of its timber onto the decks one plank at a time.
The truck and the timber that was unloaded for over an hour.
There had been plenty of time to have been able to say goodbye. I was sorry that I had missed that opportunity. Now I was moving on and had no idea if I would ever return here again. I did leave a note however, and was very glad that I did. It said thank you.
Now my boat adventure was about to begin. I was on my way north, travelling once again. How I love to travel.
More photos of Puerto Cisnes
As the sun reached lower it broke through the clouds with this display.
Looking at the sun over a small stream of water flowing onto the beach.
The gentle waves of boats in the harbour.
Watching the sky through a puddle of water on the beach.
Boats waiting quietly in the early morning.
A quiet morning over Puerto Cisnes.