Punta Arenas is an odd town. It seems to forget its at the end of the world, and looks inwards on itself. Its a sprawling grid of statues, city driving, casinos, hotels, civic history plaques, seaside promenade, cycle tracks, tanks, tooting horns, horrendous looking nightclubs, massive shopping centers and the other trappings of a big city. Perhaps there is a reason for all that. We rented a car and headed south.
To the south ruta 9 runs through forests and over bog. Rusting boats are pulled up on the beach. Wind battered, shambolic buildings scarcely dot the landscape. Grey clouds swirl above, and the grey Magellan strait stretches out. On the horizon, the far side can be seen. Toward the Pacific, the white of the last of the snow stands clear on mountains on both sides. Apart from the mountains, it reminds me of the Hebrides. The Strait is much wider than I expected.
We pulled off the road at Fuerte Bulnes. This is where the first Chileans came. They sailed down from Chiloe, stuck up a flag, and claimed the Strait of Magellan. A replica fort stands on the spot. We wandered around the empty wood and peat buildings, peered at the rusting cannons, and looked out to sea. From the site, the far side of the water is a maze of grey islands drifting in and out of the fog. There is not much at the fort. We drove away. The first settlers left as well - they had picked a site without any water and a lot of wind.
Up the road, we paused at the middle of Chile monument. This is half way between Arica and the South pole. Chile includes its Antarctic claim on all maps. The 2002 census proclaimed 130 Chileans living on Antarctica proper, and optimistically proclaims it a rural region.
Down another road, we found Puerto Hambre, another attempt to live on the side of the strait. Spanish settlers came here in 1584 and founded the port. The plan was to deny the straits to the English pirates who were raiding their pacific ports. In 1587, the English captain Thomas Cavendish stopped there, to find everyone dead of starvation. He renamed the place Port Famine. There is nothing at the side now but an odd marker. In the bay, there are many tied up fishing boats. The local shellfish have a disease, resulting in many many warning signs and the odd dead tourist.
Further south, we stopped at a memorial to Phillip Parker King, then the grave of Captain Pringle Stokes, the first captain of the HMS Beagle. Both came here to survey the Strait. Pringle Stokes committed suicide. Sat down below the grave on a massive bit of driftwood. Stared out at the water. Waves hissed onto the beach. Clear water, stones at the bottom. The odd shell. A squall splatters down.
Over the Rio San Pedro, the road became impassable for a normal car, so we walked. At the end of the road, there is a bullet-pocked sign proclaiming Cabo Froward, the end of the landmass, to be another 38k. We walked out on the beach for a bit. A long strip of seaweed on in the water. Only our footprints in the sand. The beach is clean. The woods come right down to the shore.
On the way back, the sun came out. The water is green close in and blue further away. We are going to see penguins tomorrow. Back in the Office in a week or so.
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