Heeeyho Readers! I'm having hitchiking itchy-itchy legs. Here's a story from Tales of a Patagonian Journey.
Rain sloshed over the streets of Ancud as the raw, frightening night approached. Equipment was humid, clothes drenched, streets swamped. Ancud was reasonably-sized, bigger than Dalcahue. Such cities are never world-class for hoboing around and sleeping exposed. A few decrepit deviant characters lurched around the central plaza near the docks. Drunk old fishermen. What a disastrous combo of misfortunes. I stopped under a dripping eave to gobble a sandwich. A miserable stray dog slept all curled up to my left.
My endeavor steered me to the Fort San Antonio, also known as Batería de San Antonio. Forts are usually something of great interest. While observing the coastal line from a vantage point near the artillery, I spotted a stretch of sand that looked like a beach in between two steep grassy banks. “Hmmm, maybe…” I muttered.
Ancud is the first town most people hit when visiting Chiloé Island from the north. The city was established in 1768 to function as the capital of the archipelago, position held until 1982. Founded as bulwark against foreign powers in colonial times, the city played an important role in the Chilean colonization of Patagonia in the 19th century.
When Chiloé became directly dependent on the Viceroyalty of Peru, in 1767, the construction of a series of fortifications began with the aim of protecting the coastline from the threat of pirates and other foreign powers. It was in this context that the Fort of San Carlos was founded.
In 1820, Governor Antonio de Quintanilla began a refortification of the Tecque Battery (one of the four batteries), increasing its fire capacity. He named it San Antonio, in honor of the patron saint of the new fortification.
More walking; more rain. Morale was low. I shouted from the street to call this young guy’s attention. He seemed younger than me by the looks and was chilling on the porch, smoking rolled tobacco. He approached the gate.
“I'm looking for the beach. Is it safe to sleep there?”
He dragged his cigarette. “Follow this street and you'll be there. It should be safe,” he guaranteed. Just as I was about to continue, he asked, “Where are you from by the way?”
“Far… Brazil…”
“That's cool, and you are travelling like that? On this weather?”
“Yeah… no money, no choice, I guess.”
“I also travel quite a bunch,” he revealed, “Where have you been? Why don’t you come inside? Up for a hot coffee or something? Maybe you can put your tent in the garden, I don't care.”
Mathias was a travel passionate himself. We engaged in long-lasting dialogues and coffee runs. We also shared rolled cigar until we could no longer even look at it. I was terrible at rolling the soft paper around the tobacco. For Mathias it seemed like a therapy.
“You put the tobacco here, not too much, nor too little. Then you put the tip, this way it's easier to roll… you see?” he showed. Mine always turned out loose and twisted and looking like a dead shrimp.
We chatted until late at night about various subjects. From government to marea roja. About travel, study, biology too. More tobacco, more coffee. Rain was falling outside; the room filled with smoke. I resigned to my tent below an orange tree at the safety of his patio after both of us collapsed. The other day I needed to get out of there before his parents showed up.
I'd risen to a certain point in the journey where the feeling of being closer to home saddened me. The next day a decision had to be made. Should I ditch my job and continue vagabonding or honor the responsibility and go back to Brazil? With that in mind, I fell asleep.
This short story is part of my book, Tales of a Patagonian Journey, that is currently on Amazon--check it out, I think it's an honest book ^~
If you know how I can sell the book for crypto, please, let me know on the comments!
Peace.
Did you know that I have a book out? Check this!
Access Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/6500272773?
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~Love ya all,
Disclaimer: The author of this post is a convict broke backpacker, who has travelled more than 10.000 km hitchhiking and more than 5.000 km cycling. Following him may cause severe problems of wanderlust and inquietud. You've been warned.
