11. Barter Village

After passing Adam Island and rounding Eve Island, which is six kilometers south of it, you will reach the Port of Eden.

Puerto Eden ("Port Eden" in Spanish) is located on Wellington Island, in the middle of the 1,800-kilometer-long Patagonian archipelago.

Steep, rocky, uninhabited islands tower over and line the surrounding waters, with no human figures, livestock, or buildings in sight. Even the nearest town is about 500 kilometers away by sea. Puerto Eden is an isolated village in a vast, uninhabited area.

Despite the Spanish arriving in South America in the 16th century, the Alacaluf tribe had lived in the region long before.

"What? Puerto Eden? It's a native village and a crazy place. Money isn't accepted; everything is exchanged for goods. Furthermore, your belongings can be taken without notice but not with bad intentions. They simply don't distinguish between what's theirs and what's yours."

I heard these rumors during a previous visit to a town in Chile.

 

When I arrive at the desolate Port of Eden, my voyage through the islands is already in its ninth week. I dock Aomi at a small wooden dock and step out onto the quiet shore of the island.

"What a lonely village." A few shabby houses dot the landscape under the light rain, and only one path resembles a real road. The ground is swampy, with sparse grass and trees struggling to grow. I can't walk in some places because my boots sink. It is a cold, remote land near the 50th parallel south.

It has been four weeks since I last visited an inhabited island. To find out how to get fresh meat and vegetables, I go to the police station. In front of the one-story wooden building that resembles a house, a pole flies a Chilean flag in red, white, and blue.

"Unfortunately, the climate here is too cold for growing vegetables, and meat is quite rare—people typically only have it about once a month. Our supplies are brought in by ship every two weeks. Would it be possible for you to wait until then?"

At the door, a tall man named Garcia answers, looking apologetic. Although Chilean city policemen usually carry submachine guns and wear grass-colored uniforms, he is dressed casually in a sweater, much like a civilian. Remarkably, as many as four Carabineros (policemen in Chile) have been sent to this small village of just 330 people.

Just to get some eggs, I walk through the village, my shoulders wet from the light rain. A few slightly worn pants and sweaters are in the blue bag on my back. I have heard the villagers are interested in used clothes, so I want to trade them for eggs.

Eventually, I find a shabby house that looks like a storage shed. Several chickens are running around on the ground nearby. As I approach, a young man shows his face through a crack in the broken door. I try to speak to him in Spanish, even though I do not speak well.

"I want some eggs. I need them for my voyage."

"Nothing for you."

Not only does he look unpleasant, but he also seems to have a bad personality.

"Um, about some clothes..."

Upon hearing this, the man's attitude changes, and he invites me into the house. The room has only one tiny window, similar to a prison cell, and is dimly lit as if it were evening. There is nothing that resembles furniture or decorations; It's a poor and gloomy house.

The man calls his wife; they both pick up the old clothes, examine them very carefully, and say:

"What the hell? I don't want these rags."

I am speechless for a moment. What "luxurious" people they are. These clothes may be old, but they are not dirty or torn. Moreover, they wear better clothes than I do. I feel very frustrated as if someone is making fun of me, but I keep asking with gestures and manage to exchange for eight muddy eggs.

 

The next day is another gloomy day with light rain.

The journey through the many islands to Cape Horn will take several more months. Since Aomi uses the small diesel engine every time she enters and leaves the island bays, it is necessary to refuel here. According to the Carabinero, some residents have their own diesel fuel supply.

I begin my walk along the coast toward the house I am told about. Several broken small boats have been pulled up on the rainy gravel beach, making the surroundings even more desolate.

Soon I arrive at a house by the sea that is a little more splendid than the others around, with larger glass windows. This family may be "wealthy" in this village.

"De dónde viniste? " ("Where are you from?" in Spanish)

"De Japon" (From Japan)

The conversation begins at the entrance. I explain that I have been away from home for a year and a half and that I've been traveling along the Chilean coast for about six months. I also mention that I need diesel fuel.

"What was your job in Japan?" asks the older, short man. He seems to be the head of this household.

"Developing computer software."

Then the man says in front of the whole family with a know-it-all attitude:

"Oh, then it must be an electrical job so you can fix the electrical malfunction. I have a Yamaha generator that won't start. Fix it."

I reply in frustration:

"Computer software has nothing to do with electrical repairs, and besides, if it won't start, it's probably an engine issue rather than electrical."

This village lacks a regular electricity supply, so at night, small generators start up noisily in the Carabineros' residences and the homes of a few wealthy families.

"Anyway, you're from Japan, an electrical engineer, right? Fix the generator, and I'll give you the diesel fuel for free."

Though frustrated by the misunderstanding, I'm familiar with engine repair. I grab my wrench and start disassembling the generator under the roof overhang.

Two hours later, as soon as the tiny two-stroke engine starts with a pleasant growling sound, everyone gathers in a room, connects the electrical wires from the generator to a bare light bulb, and begins playing cards.

I return happily with 30 liters of fuel and a bucket full of mussels and clams.

 

Overnight, news of the generator's repair spread throughout the village, sparking excitement by morning. The villagers live on fishing, collecting mussels and clams from the sea, and smoking them. However, unexpectedly, their small boats are powered not by sails or oars, but by American and Japanese outboard motors

It is surprising to find such modern tools in this remote village. But unfortunately for the villagers, as well as for "me," most of them are broken.

They crowd around Aomi to ask for repairs. The outboard motors are essential fishing tools for them; one costs more than they earn in a year, making it a precious property. Since repairs are impossible in this village, their frustration must run deep. Reluctantly, I decide to help.

After two full days of repairing the outboards, I finally find myself at a loss. Every time I fix one, another one appears. I quickly realize that I would never be able to leave the village at this rate. I pack up my repair tools, shake hands with the carabineros, put on my boots and oilskin, and try to start Aomi's engine.

"All right, let's go!"

Still, for some reason, the engine won't start. No matter how hard I turn the starter handle, it just keeps spinning without starting.

Eventually, the departure is postponed, and now it is time to repair my own engine. Disassembling the exhaust valve and piston is a tough job.

"Heaven may have punished me for trying to escape from the village."

 

The repairs stretch into the next day, with the cabin floor and my hands covered in oil. As I look out the window, the sea presents a gloomy, rainy scene. A shabby little boat emerges on the gray surface of the water, approaching Aomi's side. An old man in a dirty sweater, soaking wet from the rain, is on board.

He makes a clattering sound on Aomi's deck as he places giant red crabs, known as "Sentolla," a valuable specialty of the Patagonian Archipelago in Chile. He says they are a thank-you for fixing the outboard motor. Even one would make me very happy, but he is giving me five of these magnificent crabs.

I immediately take out the American powdered milk and soup mix that I've carefully stored, and hastily offer it to him.

From now on, there will be a crab meal festival every day. Will I get sick from overeating? No, it is okay to eat crab until I get tired of it because I have come all the way to a crab-producing region.

And, considering this carefully, it looks pretty natural: people from a country producing outboard motors naturally repair them, and those in a crab-rich region offer crabs in return.

 

A week after the arrival, Aomi leaves Puerto Eden.

Honestly speaking, I don't want to leave. The difficult journey will begin again: the dangerous voyage with invisible rocks ahead being hidden by constant rain; the fear of whether I will reach the next cove before sunset; and the nights spent at anchor, fearing the fierce winds in the pitch-black darkness—all of this will return. If possible, I would prefer to stay in this Garden of Eden.

But that is not possible. It is already February, and autumn is approaching in the southern hemisphere. Yet, my journey through the Patagonian Archipelago is only halfway done. I must hurry south, or I will only reach Cape Horn in winter.

With determination, Aomi and I set out again, venturing into the unexplored seas ahead.