June 7, 2004
  PATAGONIA, CHILE 

  I rise now with the sun in a 200-year-old barn, a few horizons away from any semblance of civilization. I put a couple of logs in the wood-burning stove and wait calmly for my breath to disappear and the water to boil. It is winter in Patagonia, and for a California boy, it 
  takes an open mind and an abundance of patience to make it through the 
  saturating chill of Chile's southern reaches. That and a heavy jacket. 
After all, this is the tip of the world.

    From the window I watch an old man in a jumpsuit feed carrots from our  garden to a pair of horses as he runs his fingers through their  bristles. Soon, my bosses tell me, my backyard will be full of animals:  cows, pigs, goats, llamas. I've even heard wild boar mentioned casually  over a glass of red Carmenere. And of course, what collection of rare  Patagonian fauna would be complete without the native saggy-throated  chicken, which lays blue eggs with bright double yolks? Visions of Dr.  Seuss in chef's whites stream through my head:

Scramble, fry, boil, or poach:

Blue egg fowl with two orange yolks...

The first moments of the day here usually pass in curious disbelief;  sometimes I feel like I am strolling through my childhood, caught in  California, building drip castles o­n the beaches of Big Sur, running  through the rain-soaked redwood forests. Other times, I roam the realms  of Tolkien's Middle-Earth. But today, when I step outside and find  myself caught between the endless blue of the Pacific and the smoky  morning breath of a forest older than Homer, I remember how real this  all is. This is my new home and my new job - Parga, o­ne of Chile's newest  ventures in ecotourism: 8,000 acres of rugged coastline and ancient  flora, rolling hills and penguin colonies. And I am to be the chef.  Though the accommodations and the surroundings are unthinkably plush,  this is more than another pampering getaway for the ultrarich.

  Parga's just opened, and is developing into a fully sustainable resort:  Guests will dine o­n vegetables and herbs grown in our organic garden,  fish swimming in our waters, lamb shanks and pork loins currently  grazing outside my window. We work with the local community - the  fishermen, the farmers, the shepherds - encouraging sustainable  practices, developing new and ecologically sensitive methods for  catching fish, growing produce and raising livestock. The Wilderness  Foundation, a nonprofit environmental group in charge of development at  Parga, hopes that the experience offered to guests - wandering through  the forests, kayaking around the penguin colony, feeding the animals,  picking and preparing seasonal produce - will serve as a model for  sustainable tourism nationwide.

The vision is ambitious, but so goes the trend of ecotourism and  conservation in Chile. "Chile is still considered a developing  country," Greg Locke, the director of the foundation (and my boss),  says, "so we are in a key position to create models that can be  replicated, affecting the way our natural resources are employed in the  future."

Much of the terrain in southern Chile, stretching from the  glacially carved fjords of the Carretera Austral to the arctic tip of  Tierra del Fuego, is still up for grabs. In many ways, the fight to  secure the land has been polarized between environmental groups like  Locke's and the country's major industries. Mining, timber, and fishing  are Chile's top three industries and thus possess serious political  clout in Santiago. Resource extraction forms the traditional base for Chile's economy, and the government still supports ecologically  disastrous ventures throughout the south: the massive aluminum plant in  Coyhaique, the proposed damming of the Futaleufu River, and the  continued clear-cutting of the ancient alerce trees. But at the same  time, lawmakers in Santiago have glanced into the crystal ball and  found, paradox or not, that tourism and conservation are essential to  the country's economic future. So while they continue to support big  industry, they also have begun offering concessions and subsidies to  green-minded projects in the south.

Still, much of the burden of conservation has been left up to the  private citizen. Up and down Patagonia, people - foreigners and Chileans  alike - have been purchasing parcels of land for the sole intent of  preservation. The undeniable leader of these green philanthropists is  the outspoken gringo Douglas Tompkins, founder of North Face and Esprit  clothing, whose 800,000-acre, privately-owned Pumalin Park has  generated front-page controversy for the last decade in Chile. Critics  have been skeptical from the start concerning his intentions with land  that spans from the Pacific to the Argentine border, effectively  cutting the country in two, but his recent donation of the land back to Chile is bound to quiet the cynics.

I'm not quite sure how I ended up in this Patagonian crossroads of  ecotourism and politics and pan-seared salmon. For these past months I  searched for jobs, for a real life in Chile, unsuccessfully. Then o­ne  day, I cooked the right piece of fish for the right person, who hired  me as the chef here. Life below the equator is already a strange  existence, and even as lovely as it might seem today picking herbs in  our garden, chatting with penguins, I won't kid myself: It was not easy  getting here...

April 3, 2004 

OFF THE COAST OF CHILOE, REGION 8

The ocean swallowed our Zodiac at 3:30 this morning, the gale-force  winds and horizontal rain making our precious rubber motor boat easy  prey for an angry sea. We were anchored off the coast of Chiloe, an  island 1,200 kilometers south of Santiago, when the knot holding the  Zodiac to the main boat came undone. I awoke to the sounds of the  cranking engine, readying for the sunrise reconnaissance mission. My  first day of work aboard Cahuella, a tour boat built in the traditional  fisherman style, and it already looks like my tenure at sea is up;  without the Zodiac, we cannot pick up our five passengers in Castro  today. The boat owners dubbed me, at least temporarily, the cook of  this charming vessel and though I'm thankful for a job, I see the  uncertainty of future meals in the quiver of celery stalks hanging with  the rest of the neglected vegetables in nets o­n deck, slick with  rainwater and sea mist.

The day is spent in desperate pursuit of the $12,000 runaway Zodiac. My  companions are three seafaring Chileans, reared o­n the tides of the  Patagonian Pacific. With a three-hour lead and strong easterly winds,  the Zodiac is likely out of our reach, lost in the rising swells of the  Bay of Ancud. Our o­nly hope is that it was caught among the dozen tiny  islets off the coast of Chiloe, mere specks of green amid the vast blue  of the bay. The crew is somber, determined; the cook silent, pale,  incapacitated. Britt Lewis, current employer of said seasick cook, is  not going to be pleased.

Even in my helplessness, I am still somehow swept up by the changing  tides in the south of Chile. Austral Adventures, Lewis's company that  runs seven-day cruises around Chiloe and the Carratera Austral, is just  o­ne of hundreds of adventure-tourism outfits operating in the lower  regions of Chile. Popular destinations throughout the Lake  District - like Puerto Varas and Pucon - are following the New Zealand and  Costa Rican tourism models by attracting travelers with the  magnificence of their surroundings. Trek through glacier-studded Tierra  del Fuego, climb Volcan Villarica, raft down the perilous Futaleufu.  Come to Chile and you might leave with the sense that Mother Nature was  just too tired for the rest of the world. And while some countries have  suffered the cultural and environmental impact wrought by mass tourism,  most people in Chile - from government officials to Signora Gomez busy  baking crab empanadas for dreadlocked gringos - are pleased with the way  the country is handling the world's increasing interest in Chile's natural wonders.

"Tourism is the most democratic of all industries," says Lewis. "From  taxi drivers to artesanos, there are more owners and people in control  of their own destinies than any other industry." Like many tourism  operators in Chile, Lewis stresses cultural sensitivity and local  involvement; his boat was constructed by locals, using wood and  products from Chiloe, and except for this gringo and his saute pan, is  operated completely by native chilotes. Lewis sees the rise of  adventure, eco-, and agritourism as a financially and environmentally  positive addition to life in Chile. "It is in the interest of this type  of tourism to be eco-friendly," he explains, "because its very success  depends upon the intact nature around."

As for me, my very success depends upon the recovery of o­ne lost Zodiac  boat. I was fortunate to find this job; a simple meal cooked for a  friend a month ago brought me here, tossed at sea with three strangers  with salt and wind stained to their skin. Chile is like that:  opportunities as tour guides, bartenders, and English teachers abound  for foreigners, you just need to be open to the discovery, as glorious  or humbling as it might be.

The day has grown thin and weary, and even the rain needs a siesta. We  have scoured the shores of ten islands unsuccessfully and are o­n our  way back to port when o­ne of the crewmates calls out from behind a set  of binoculars: "Mira, mira! Afuera!" Two hundred yards off in the  distance, washed up o­n the rocky coastline of the last satellite  island, is the zodiac. A crowd of old men and little children has  gathered around the inflatable boat, poking it with sticks as if it  were some alien spacecraft fallen from the sky. And so the trip will go  o­n. I will wield my knife boldly o­n Chilean waters. But sadly, I found  this job too late: With winter approaching, this is the Cahuella's last  voyage of the season. So when the last tomato is diced and the last  filet of congrio seared, I will be back o­n that bus o­nce again.

March 16, 2004  PAN AMERICAN HIGHWAY   I have seen El Edad de Hielo - better known as 20th Century Fox's Ice  Age - five times in the past two months, animated humor for each leg of 
  the 16-hour bus trip between Via del Mar and Puerto Montt I have embarked upon. I sip nonchalantly from an impromptu piscola - the national cocktail of choice and the easiest way to endure the 1,300-kilometer trek - and mouth the Spanish subtitles even before they appear o­n the television set hanging over the aisle.

I love the south of Chile - the shimmering lakes, the Andean grandeur, the infectious friendliness of the people, and maybe, I think half-soberly to myself, if I just keep coming back, someone will ask me to stay. I did not come to Chile to travel; I came here to live, and 
after two months of searching for a life here, I wonder if there is o­ne  to be found for me. Perhaps my parents were right: Maybe I should have  put the backpack away, stayed in the States after graduation, entered  the so-called "real world."

o­ne thing is for sure - nobody in this country wants me as their English  teacher. I have dropped resumes all over Chile. "No tienes mas  experiencia? No tienes un TEFL?"? has been the country's collective  response. No, I don't have any experience teaching English, and I never  had the time, the money, or the patience to get a TEFL or CELTA  certificate before coming to South America. My best friend's  girlfriend's milkman - or something like that - told me I'd be cool without  o­ne, that Chileans have an insatiable thirst to learn English and that  teaching jobs abound for young gringos like myself. In hindsight, to  base a six-month stint to the bottom of the planet o­n the words of o­ne  optimistic dairy purveyor might have been a bit careless. Chile, the  continent's safest and most economically stable country, is the  burgeoning beauty of South America, and businessmen and bartenders are  dying to make mergers and martinis in the official language of this  globalizing world. But without a reputable certificate or some serious  experience teaching English in a foreign classroom, the government  won't relinquish the chalk. And so here I am, trying to dig up whatever  work I can: cooking, serving, herding llamas. Anything.

"Quieres chocolate?" the girl o­n the seat beside me asks suddenly.  Until this point, I was too busy with brandy and subtitles to notice  this gorgeous young chilena; I silently scold myself before accepting a  piece. Requisite small talk is lubricated by pisco and cacao. Ten hours  later, the bar of chocolate is gone and I know more about Carmen Gloria  than I knew about my last three girlfriends combined. She tells me how  her doubt in God consumes her and how it hurts to see her parents in a  loveless relationship; I tell her that everything I do is driven by  fear.

In Chile - more than in Spain or Thailand or Guatemala - a piece of  chocolate is likely to lead to a life story. From the desert of Atacama  to the glaciers of Tierra del Fuego, an effusive, genuine friendliness  unites the people of this long, skinny country. A smile will take you  incredibly far here; throw in a bit of Spanish with those pearly whites  and you might be having dinner tonight with that old man and his little  dog you just met in the park. As I leave the south dejected, still  unemployed, I take comfort in the inescapable warmth of the Chileans.

With daybreak approaching, as the rest of the bus sleeps, Carmen Gloria  and I are inching ever closer to each other. She holds my hand softly.  I make a move toward her but she puts her palm to my chest to stop me:  "That woman sleeping there," she says in a sweet whisper of castellano,  pointing across the aisle, "she is my mother." But she's asleep, I  think immediately, but then, o­n second thought, I see no reason to  complicate this moment.

When I come back from the bathroom later in the  trip, she is gone, vanished into the outskirts of Santiago. Her number  is o­n my seat, scribbled across a ticket stub. I may or may not see  Carmen Gloria again; it does not matter.

When I get home to the little caba in Reaca - my home since arriving  in Chile - it isn't as hard as I thought it would be. Solitude lurks  around every corner abroad, but in Chile, where teeming life is found  inside every restaurant, at every market, o­n every bus ride, even the  loneliest leaf never blows alone. I don't know where this wind will  take me, but by traveling, by removing myself from the familiar, I am  placing my faith in unknowable elements. This country is as lovely and  warm as any I've known, and if I am open to the journey, maybe the wind  will blow me somewhere beautiful.  

Photos by Lonely Planet Images\Brent Winebrenner and Matt Goulding