Tomatoes in Paradise

March 22, 2005—Fall Equinox

It’s an overcast, blustery day on Navarino Island. The Patagonian wind whistles by, pummeling the air and creating ripples on the channel. Screeching like a tea kettle, it kicks up clouds of dust and rocks as it gusts through the unpaved streets. The clouds hang low overhead, enshrouding the dark green forested mountainsides and dropping snow on the Fuegian peaks. Turns of the weather are constant and extreme in these parts and in the same day can go from hot and sunny to cloudy and rainy back to sunny again. It is officially autumn, and predicting the weather is no easy task here in the southernmost town in the world.

My home for the next month or so is Puerto Williams, the capital of the province of Chilean Antarctica and the government seat of the county of Cape Horn. My house has a spectacular view north across the Beagle Channel and towards the island of Tierra del Fuego twelve miles away. Technically, I’m in Chile, and the land across the way belongs to Argentina. Borders seem at best irrelevant in such a remote area, but it’s clear from Puerto Williams’ officious military presence that sovereignty is no laughing matter. In 1978, a dispute with Argentina over ownership of the islands had both countries mobilizing troops and preparing for a war that was averted only by papal intervention. Tensions have subdued since then, but the fact that 75% of the town’s current population are military personnel seems to imply that the town’s primary raison d’être is to maintain a Chilean presence in the region. At night, lights blink from the Argentine side of the channel, as if to say, “We’re here, too.”

Originally a settlement of the indigenous Yámana, Puerto Williams was founded as a military base in 1953 and opened to civilians in 1986. Its current population is approximately 2,300, most of whom are affiliated with the Chilean navy. Civilian residents live in brightly-painted tin houses, while navy personnel live in smart white pre-fab American houses. The sweet scent of woodstoves drifts through the streets, and white smoke billows up from the round metal chimneypipes. The houses have a slightly musty odor and a stillness broken only by the crackling of the fire in the woodstove, the principal heat source on the island.

The town is laid out along a handful of potholed streets frequented by barking dogs and the occasional horse. The centro comercial (downtown) consists of the post office, a couple of corner stores, a travel agency which doubles as the tourism office, and the Patagonia Airlines office which doubles as a fax/copy center and delivery center. I haven’t been able to find a newspaper, but there is a radio station, and announcements are communicated to the general public by a van driving around town with a microphone and loudspeaker. The television offers an impressive array of Argentine and Chilean shows. Cell phone coverage has yet to reach the island. There are no internet cafes, and people go either to the town hall or to the mayor’s office to check email. It’s free and—with a connection of 12 kbps—none too speedy.

Nothing, in fact, is too speedy here, and the uncompromisingly unrushed pace of life has been a bit of an adjustment for me. Even by Chilean standards, it seems extreme. Entire days pass in pursuit of errands that in the U.S. would take half an hour but in Puerto Williams somehow stretch into hours and even days. Even at that, external factors - a cancelled flight, a loose cow, a missing part to be shipped in from somewhere else, someone having gone unexpectedly on a month’s vacation – often make it impossible to check things off the list with any semblance of efficiency. It’s hard for my gringo mind to accept the fact that I have seemingly all the time in the world and yet nothing to show for it at the end of the day. Writing has been a good antidote for this, but I long for a more overt expression of my productivity. My fingers itch for the knitting needles I left in Punta Arenas.

Most of the activity that does happen involves transport to and from the island. The turbo-prop plane arrives at 11am from Punta Arenas and leaves again half an hour later. On the channel, fishing boats make their way out to sea, their motors humming and flags flapping in the wind. Sailboats and navy vessels drift by, as does the occasional cruise boat en route to Antarctica.

But the most important arrival is the Friday ferry from Punta Arenas that comes with the weekly supply of groceries and fresh produce that is the islanders’ primary source of food. Last week’s arrival was particularly welcome as the ferry the previous week had never showed up, leaving the produce sections of the local grocery marts woefully bare. When Friday’s shipment finally arrived, people followed the delivery trucks around town and elbowed each other to get to the fresh tomatoes. Nelson was able to grab three, which we have been savoring all week. Only two more days until the next shipment, if it arrives on schedule. We’ll keep you posted.