Note: For the benefit of travelers and armchair adventurers who have been stuck at home for months on end, I am posting a series of diaries about my travels to the island of Tierra del Fuego, exactly 25 years ago. This was my one and only forestry assignment outside the United States. Knowing that it would be a memorable experience, I kept a journal and took dozens of pictures. These diaries are based on my writings. A few details have been obscured to avoid revealing confidential information about the companies who paid my way.
Perhaps these stories will encourage some of you to post diaries about your own travels. Cabin fever levels are high these days. Readers will appreciate firsthand accounts of travel to remote lands.
This is the second diary in the series. If you missed the first one, here is the link:
A Forester's Adventures in Chile, Part 1
In our last exciting episode, I left everyone in suspense. At the start of my very first trip to the Southern Hemisphere, a weather delay left me stranded in Miami late at night. By the time my connecting flight arrived, the international flight to Santiago had already departed. The airline was kind enough to give us a voucher for a nearby hotel. I would remain on US soil for one more day. With no further ado, let’s pick up the story.
January 27, 1996
Today dawned sunny and warm. American Airlines had given me a hotel voucher, and I had one more day to spend in a place where English was spoken. There was little that I could do besides wait for the nighttime flight. As the day warmed up, the swimming pool beckoned. Just one problem: Expecting to spend all of my time in a cool climate, I had no poolside clothes. The hotel gift shop was happy to relieve me of $55 for swim trunks and a Miami souvenir t-shirt. As I hung out around the pool, I would occasionally leaf through the pages of my English-Spanish dictionary. I felt as though I was cramming for an exam for which I was poorly prepared.
After dark, I took the shuttle to the airport, made my way to the gate, and boarded the 10:30 flight to Chile. The faint odor of stale cigarettes permeated the cab of the plane, as this was in the “good old days” when the airlines were phasing out in-flight smoking, but allowed passengers in the back few rows to light up. Sitting next to me was a guy from Atlanta who was also making his first trip to Chile. We made some small talk before drifting off to sleep. Considering that I usually don’t sleep well on planes, I had a decent night’s rest.
January 28, 1996
As the flight approached Santiago, the crew turned on the lights and began serving coffee. One by one the smokers in the back of the plane woke up to have their first-of-the day nicotine fix. The view from the window seat was not spectacular. I was hoping to see jagged Andes peaks, but they were lost in clouds and smog. Instead I saw semi-arid hillsides and irrigated valleys. From my vantage point, I could only catch glimpses of the sprawling city of Santiago. When the plane landed and I walked into the terminal, I knew that I was out of my sheltered cocoon and would be on my own. Customs lay ahead, my first big test. I had memorized a couple sentences of Spanish to describe the contents of that big green trunk. The officials accepted my explanation without inspecting anything. I breathed a big sigh of relief, and made my way out of the main terminal.
My boss had cautioned me that, as soon as I left Customs and stepped outside, taxi drivers and other entrepreneurs would descend on me, and sure enough they did. The domestic terminal was within walking distance, so I did not need their help. I wheeled my luggage down the sidewalk and found my connecting flight. To my pleasant surprise, this flight and all of the others that I would take within Chile were smoke free. According to my itinerary, my seat was left window. It turned out to be right aisle instead. Oh well, if this is the worst that’s going to happen today, I can handle it.
About four hours later, we landed in Punta Arenas. From my starting point at 33° north latitude, I had traveled all the way to 53° south. My brain was addled from all of the motion and noise and too much sitting down. Fortunately there was no jet lag due to time zones, as this was pretty much a straight-south journey.
Upon landing, it occurred to me that I was totally dependent upon my colleagues meeting me at the airport. The last thing I needed, as tired as I was from the long flights, was to be explaining to a taxi driver where I needed to go. Fortunately, two of the North American foresters and a local employee were there to meet me as I stepped off the plane. They drove me to the office first, giving me a quick tour. Then we had a leisurely dinner. In Punta Arenas, only the tourists eat dinner before 9pm. The restaurants get more lively later on as the locals arrive.
Our group was based at a hotel called Finis Terrae (End of the Earth). I was a long way from home, for sure.
January 29, 1996
Punta Arenas was not the final destination of this journey. With it being the only city of any size in the region, the timber office was located there. The timberlands were far away, requiring a trip across the Strait of Magellan and a long drive to the south. I spent most of the day in the office getting acquainted with the people and with the details of the job. The field work would be done using data recorders and software that I knew very well; thus the learning curve was not very steep. The measurements were metric and the species were new, but the basics remained the same.
A Chilean forester name Pepe let me ride along on two of his errands. He spoke decent English, and described some of the landmarks along the way. He pointed out some of the local flavor, such as the parking attendants who roamed the streets collecting parking tolls. Human parking meters.
With the office work done, we returned to the hotel and had dinner there instead of going out. I was still a bit weary from the travel, but a good night’s sleep would fix that.
January 30, 1996
The only must-do item on today’s calendar would happen in the afternoon. I slept in, and then went to the hotel’s breakfast room. Food was laid out in trays and dishes, self-service. The only surprise was the pan of “plain” scrambled eggs that tasted like fish. Later in the morning, I went on a walk with two of the foresters from the Pacific Northwest. Our primary destination was a money-changing store. Each US dollar was worth about 400 Chilean pesos. As we randomly walked along city streets, we stumbled upon a naval museum and decided to spend some time there. It was good practice for me to read the Spanish-language displays and interpret them for my colleagues who knew less of the language than I did.
Next up, the flight over Tierra del Fuego. The lead pic in today’s diary is from that flight. The next diary will have more aerial views.