Puerto Montt & Chiloé

Puerto Montt is the last major town on the next 1,000 kilometres into the wild south of Patagonia. The wind turns to the unusual direction of north, and thus fully offshore to Tierra del Fuego. Kiting is out of the question at ten degrees in constant rain. I enjoy the last sparks of civilisation with Star Wars in Spanish at the cinema. The Chileans are irritated by my hearty laughter to Yoda’s “Los libros, ¿leido has?”.

My big dream of travelling 2,600 km down the Carretera Austral gravel road to the end of the world in Villa Ol’Higgins is shattered. Neither the kind Chileans in a large Facebook backpacker group nor the posting of requests in numerous hostels and tourist information centres is any good. I can’t find a second driver and have to cancel the hire car because my driving licence has been stolen.

Although I could continue with the buses or hitchhiking, which are becoming increasingly rare and expensive in the south, I also feel that after almost a whole continent I’m simply running out of steam carrying 40kg of equipment. For the last two weeks I’ve preferred to drink lots of good wine alone in front of a film in the evening rather than swapping stories with other travellers – or even actively travelling.

I travel four hours by bus and ferry to the beautiful village of Castro on the island of Chiloé. Old fishing boats rot on the beach and pile dwellings are reflected in the mirror-smooth sea in front of it. The wind has gone. Everything looks like New Zealand, the trees, the ferns, the houses – only much harder, wetter and colder. Everyone is wearing outdoor clothing, and the face of the shop assistant in the local shopping centre’s swimwear shop shows signs of moderate depression.

During a short break in the rain, a Mexican estate agent takes us past deep blue bays to the historic village of Chonchi. A 100-year-old wooden church calls itself UNESCO. The other wooden houses struggling to survive in the harsh weather are much more interesting with their rusting corrugated iron roofs, sagging foundations and broken windows. The restaurants serve salmon from the nearby fish farms in breathtaking sizes and without any side dishes. Whole sides of beef hang in the shop windows of the butchers.

The national park in Cucao, half an hour further along the Pacific, closes before we can start a hike. The wind is playing catch with me. Wherever I go without a kite, it blows – but as soon as I approach the equipment, it stops again. Almost as if it wanted to imitate my travelling style. From the last hamlet before nowhere, a rusty truck takes us back to the hostel. The driver says he loves the quiet life here. The radio sings “Eyes without a face”. Outside, wet sheep are standing in the rain, inside good Chilean Carmenere is once again moistening our throats. I am very tired.