sea legs/land legs

Have you ever read the David Foster Wallace essay titled "The supposedly fun thing I´ll never do again"? The boat was something like that. Unlike Wallace´s experience, this was no cruise in a traditional sense. This was a cargo boat simply outfitted with passenger facilities. And we were not sailing on light blue waters. There were no bikinis, poolside drinks, etc. (Though we did play bingo the last night). The level of cruise-ness depended on the attitude of the passengers. If they wanted four nights and three days of party, they could have it, but they would have to be ok with flourescent lights, blinding sterile surfaces, cold metal and rough waters. It is also the off season, which means the fun loving summertime students have gone back to school. The weather is frigid, the seas rough. We, the passengers, were the stragglers. We got our tickets at ridiculously discounted prices and still we failed to fill the dining hall. There were, in fact, more cows on board than people. There were probably twice as many cows. They lived quite unhappily inside trucks at the stern of the boat amongst the other cargo containers. They shuffled around uncomfortably in their cramped quarters as we fought our way north through the windy fjords. They never stopped mooing--moos of fear, discomfort, surely sea sickness. They also never stopped smelling. Even when the winds on deck were strong enough to knock you down, the scent of the cows, and increasingly their feces, wafted (often violently) through the air. With that said, the passengers were ready to party. They were ready with their cases of liquor and junk food. They were ready like freshman are ready for dorm parties. A sort of `What happens on the boat stays on the boat` mentality pervaded. There were of course some calm native Chilenos who kept to themselves or serious science-oriented foreigners, but the rest could be divided into two groups. There were the bleary-eyed working class Chilean men, who were rarely at breakfast but always in the bar, and then there were the backpacking party gringos, always at breakfast but also always in the bar. The latter group were the people that they talk about when they talk about the Gringo Trail. They were from all over the US, Europe and Australia but had all met eachother in all the places you are supposed to go. They were on a sort of circuit. They already had inside jokes. They had bought booze together. They were facebook friends. I recognized many of them from the famous mountains--we had passed eachother on trails beneath glaciers. And here we were, all stuck together for three days. Here is a basic timeline:
Night one: Board the boat. I was in a starboard side bunk with a girl from Oakland and one from Australia. I was quite pleased by the quaint little cabin--complete with roomy lockers and curtains to pull around your personal bunk. I walked around the boat,watched the cows being loaded on board and then went to sleep. Meanwhile, above me, two floors up in the bar, the party had already begun. Booze was being pulled out of backpacks and blurry digital photos being taken. Or so I assume. I slept well that night.

Day One: Breakfast promptly at 8am. A safety briefing and short science lecture given in spanish and english on the glaciers. The lecturer, whom we got to know well, was quirky and incomprehensible. His lectures-there was one each day-were scattered at best yet frought with cringeworthy humor. I played cards for a long time with some of the partiers. I found they were not so bad. Lunch was promptly at 12:30. Salmon, potatoes, cauliflower. I read for a while, played some more cards, went on deck here and there. The partiers had decided it was time to start drinking. Upon joining them, I found that we could, in fact, be friends. Booze did a lot to help this. The night, after a prompt 7:30 dinner of beef tenderloin, was exactly that giddy-freshman-dorm-getting-to-know-you kind of thing. People were very drunk, very friendly. The lights were very bright, the surfaces very shiny, very cold. It all felt nightmarishly familiar. I enjoyed myself nevertheless.

Day Two: Pouring rain and angry wind. Once again 8am breakfast. Science talk on Flora and Fauna. At around lunchtime the rough waters began. The rest of day two was, for me, thus spent either rolling uncomfortably in my bunk wishing for death or vomitting violently on deck also wishing for death. There was more partying that night. Few were as sick as me. Inside, they drank wine with their spaghetti and bolognese sauce while I dry heaved into the wind, so full of the scent and sound of the equally ill cows. I finally slept though I suspect the cows never got proper rest.

Day Three: 8am breakfast. Science-culture talk on the island of Chiloe. Calm waters. I had some very lengthy discussions with some germans about business and emotions. Befriended a hipster from New York. Read some. Went on deck. Watched the cows. Felt so very appreciative of my health and of the relatively placid waters. The waters were so very placid that I not only ate my pork chop dinner, but I also drank wine, and a fair amount of it. This was the last night, the night they want you to remember: bingo night. This took place, of course, in the bar. The prizes were ship paraphanalia, mostly baseball caps and fleece vests. However, If you won any given round, you were awarded, or rather punished, by having to dance in front of the rest of the passengers. They were considerate enough to dim the lights when it was your turn to dance, but still it seemed cruel. I played with no aim to win. Once there were no more vests and caps to win, bingo was over and we were left to our own devices. The party crowd tried with varied success to finish the booze they had brought on board. The giddiness in the room was different than the first night. It was a giddiness to see land, to step off board and leave it behind.

Day four: We disembarked early at Puerto Montt and made a mass exodus to the bus station. I got on a bus going to the island of Chiloe while others went north, east, south. While I have made some very fond contacts, I was happy to say farewell. ONce in the lovely, grimy little port town of Ancud, I went walking around looking for a place to stay. I never felt so happy to be carrying such weight with me as I moved over solid ground.
And Chiloe has already turned out to be everything I wanted. Both sleepy and chaotic, lovely and filthy. I have already eaten steaming fish soups and tasted oysters and smelly soft cheeses from the markets. I have ridden the rickety rural buses around to see the funny little towns with their tin houses on stilts and brightly painted wooden churches. Everyone honks and waves and asks you if you want a ride. The weather changes by the minute and no one seems to mind. I have learned to put plastic bags in my shoes and ignore it as well.
Tomorrow Mariana, my dear sweet friend from the Estancia will meet me here. She is taking her vacation. She will give me all the gossip about the staff back in argentina. We have no plans, just to hike, canoe, eat, look for hot springs.