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The Vista Social Club1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Itinerary | Home
Located outside the national park, Puerto Natales remains a fishing village, though outfitters are sprouting up to offer every kind of excursion, from rock climbing to kayaking, and the cinder-block motels are being displaced by new boutique hotels. The most prominent among them is the copycat resort of Remota, with its all-inclusive packages, guided treks and pisco sours over topo maps at seven. Remota looks like Explora on acid; its trapezoid windowpanes stand side by side like dominoes ready to tumble. Inside, all common passageways seem inclined, so that the walk to the dining room is a walk up the coastal hill, past huge, open, circular fireplaces to a vista overlooking Última Esperanza, or Bay of Last Hope – so named because it was a common wrong turn for ship captains unfamiliar with the Strait of Magellan and leads not to the Pacific but to the edge of the Patagonian icefield. The end of the road, whether by land or sea. What you can never escape in Patagonia is the winds, which wreak constant havoc with the sky, producing fluffy nimbuses and sleek spears of vapour that scurry beneath rib-caged wave clouds. At home, such winds would be portents of imminent and severe storms, but here they have, to our surprise, delivered us a week of near perfect weather. Winds blow through life every day. Lynn loves the wind. I, like the balsam bogs that first caught my attention, am more prone to huddling against it. But it’s not something you can avoid. Every day is full of bluster, so it’s better to stand in its midst. On every excursion we’ve made, Lynn has grabbed me by the hand and pulled me onto a promontory to let the stiff breeze wash over us. On our last day at Remota, we awake to perfectly clear skies and for once decide to leave our rain gear behind. But when we’re on horseback two hours later, the skies finally deliver the storm they’d feigned all week. Our gaucho guide, Adan, brings us to shelter deep in a forested valley, lights a fire and heats some water. He pulls from his pack a gourd, a silver-plated sipping straw and a bag of herbs and introduces us to maté, the intoxicating South American tea enjoyed throughout Chile and Argentina. The infusion is made from native holly, the gourd from the husk of a calabash fruit, and it is drunk according to strict social ritual. The gourd is always passed to the right. Everyone drinks from the same straw. As one sips, others make conversation. And you never say gracias until you’ve had enough. Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
