Caleta TortelCaleta Tortel

Published on October 24, 2019 ⋅ 6min read

Soggy, squelchy mud was visible through the cracks in the wooden planks underfoot. The main causeway, a creaking, groaning mass of wooden piles and planks, staggered its way down the hill, like a drunkard stumbling home at night. On both sides, arms of boardwalk extended out to small dwellings, as if to keep the causeway steady in place. In the bay below the hill, old boats lay abandoned in the mud left by low tide, and crabs could be seen scuttling over their shattered hulls. In the sheltered inlet, there was naught but a breath of wind to curl the plumes of smoke rising from every chimney. With insufficient wind or currents to disturb the water, tiny waves softly lapped against the shore; their soft sussuration like shallow breaths from a sea in slumber...

We were somewhat surprised when a small minivan turned up to take us to Tortel, if only because all the pictures advertising the bus service had larger, nicer-looking buses on display. At this point though, we really shouldn't have been surprised. It was par for the course.

The driver loaded the packs onto a roof rack, covered them with a tarp and tied them down. Mine was on the bottom, but I still prayed that it wouldn't fall off. The amount of dust in the interior of the van was an ominous sign. We soon found out why.

Stuck behind a truck towing a boat for at least half the journey, there was so much dust kicked up by the tyres that it became hazy inside the van. Everyone, except the driver, had to cover their faces with cloth to stop breathing in copious amounts of dirt. I'm sure that the scenery was also spectacular, but we couldn't see it, we were driving in a cloud for most of the journey. It was actually rather worrisome how close the driver followed the truck, considering there was zero visibility of the road ahead! He was basically tailgating him.

With about half an hour to go, we finally managed to pass the truck and breathe again.

Caleta Tortel was the biggest, smallest town yet. Home to only 507 inhabitants, it spanned some 19,938 square kilometres. We had 12 hours to wait for the ferry to arrive and the town was dead.

I had woken up with a sore leg, which I must've acquired at some point during the walk the day before, so I stayed near the bus stop and looked after the bags while dad went off exploring a nearby trail for an hour or so.

I watched the tourist information officer kick a soccer ball around with a street dog, for lack of anything to do (on both his and my part). When Dad returned, we decided to head around the bay to wait near the docks where the ferry would arrive.

Caleta Tortel was unlike any of the towns we'd been to thus far. Nestled into the hillside around the bay, the town was entirely on stilts and connected by wooden board walks. Every house was raised off the ground. The ground looked a bit swampy and apparently in winter everything becomes covered by snow. Walking down the wooden paths, past the ramshackle buildings with furls of smoke curling out of the chimneys, down to the bay, where old rotting boats lay stranded on the shore in low tide and the smell of seaweed was strong, it really reminded me of a real life "pirate" town. If Jack Sparrow had come stumbling drunkenly out of a tavern as we walked around the bay, singing "yo, ho, a pirate's life for me!", I honestly wouldn't have been surprised. It felt like it could have almost been straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean, were it not for the modern style boats and satellite dishes on the roofs.

I joked to Dad that it should be called Caleta Tortuga, not Tortel.

It was only a short half hour walk to reach the ferry departure point, or rather, what we imagined was the departure point, since there was no sign to indicate it. Diego, the guide back in Coyhaique, asked me what Chile could do to improve its tourism industry...well, there's a good example: signpost to tourists the departure point for the ferry which only comes once per week!

Every now and again, while treading on the boardwalk, a plank would creak and sag underfoot, and you'd wonder, "is this the one where I fall through?" It was rather disconcerting.

With nothing to do but wait, I lay down on the planks near the boat ramp and had a nap in the early afternoon sun. It was going to be a long 10 hours to kill...

Around 6pm, the sun had sunk behind the hills and the shade had become cold. We had seen a sign for a restaurant earlier, which opened in the evening, so we migrated there for the warmth and to put some food in our bellies. Who knew what the food would be like on the boat? (spoiler: not terrible, but not great either)

The boat arrived around 10pm in the pitch black. There were no lights at the boat ramp where it pulled up, the crew shone a floodlamp from the boat itself to light the way. By this time, more people had come out of the woodwork and were milling around, waiting to board as they lowered the bridge to the ferry and tied up the mooring lines. We were handed blankets as we boarded, and had to stow our big packs in the cargo hold.

Inside, the main cabin consisted of a single aisle with two large reclining seats either side. Underneath it was the galley, where we would eat for meals, and up top was a small deck which allowed you to walk the length of the ship. Most of the ship was used to carry vehicles, with the passenger section being a small sliver on the right. The seats were spacious, much bigger than airplane seats, and reclined a generous amount. Not quite enough to lie flat, however.

To be honest, there's not a whole lot to say about the ferry ride; it was 40 hours of sitting around and waiting to get to Puerto Natales. Imagine your longest flight, then stretch it out for 2 days, add some bigger windows and seats (most of the time it was cloudy or rainy, so didn't see much), gentle "turbulence" of the waves, and a bit more freedom of movement to walk around. But mostly, it was just sitting.

The food was definitely better than what you get on the airplane, but not by much. Our breakfast was 2 slices of bland white toast bread surrounding a single thin slice of ham and cheese, with a tiny little cupcake as an accompaniment. Lunch was spaghetti with a dollop of cheese sauce which contained some unidentifiable little strips of meat (I'd guess probably ham?) and with a bland, slimy soup and an apple. Dinner was a boiled chicken wing in some sauce over rice, with another slimy soup that most definitely was made of different ingredients due to its appearance, but somehow tasted exactly the same as the one at lunch. On the second day, breakfast was the same, and lunch was (you guessed it) soup! Plus a couple of very dry, pino empanadas. A Chilean staple. Overall, it was exactly the quality of meal you'd expect from galley food. And while it wasn't the most delicious, it did provide at least a small distraction from the monotony of sitting and waiting.

I might have enjoyed it a lot more if my leg hadn't been sore. It seemed no matter which position I sat in, it was awfully uncomfortable and hurt. After the boat had a brief stop at a tiny village called Puerto Eden on the first day, Dad grabbed the deep heat and painkillers from his pack in the hold, so I was at least able to massage some of that into my leg when it became unbearable. I tried to hobble around the boat, but the swaying of the ship made it difficult to limp around without losing balance and I was worried that, if I had pulled or strained my muscle, a sudden overextension of my leg due to loss of balance might hurt it further.

When we finally arrived at Puerto Natales, they tuned the TVs to the news channel and we found out all about the riots and arson which had started over the weekend. Thank goodness we were no longer in Santiago!

Despite arriving 2 hours earlier than the expected arrival time, we were late to get off the boat. Due to high winds and strong currents, the captain couldn't steer the boat in to the dock, so we ended up crossing the bay and having to wait over 2 hours for the wind to die down a bit before we finally disembarked the ferry.

With all the civil unrest happening in Chile, it was probably a good thing that our next destination was Argentina...