Observations From The Field - Chile - Making The Great Flood 2008
The following recollection is originally from an email sent to my family during the making of my short film The Great Flood. The film screened at Sheffield Documentary Festival in 2009 and again in 2013 (as one of the best 40 short films ever screened at the festival during its 40th anniversary event). The film was selected by Werner Herzog for his Rogue Film School in 2011.
June 28th 2008
Dear Family
We set sail from Puerto Natales northwards to Puerto Eden around 6am. Navigating through fijords and tiny islands, I couldn´t believe some of the narrow passages that this large ferry managed to skillfully navigate it´s way through. Sometimes the ship ground to a halt before a large mountain before turning respectfully and meandering it´s way past, sometimes only metres away from large daunting rocks. Here before us came Drake, Darwin, Magellenes and Fitz Roy. Whilst in the process of losing their way, or becoming stranded along some shore, many of these waterways have been granted such ominous sounding names like Last Hope Sound, Salvation Bay and Desolate Bay. Even the region that we were in is called Ultima Esperanza or Last Hope.
Porpoises, seals, dolphins and various birds such as Kingfishers, Imperial Shags and Seagulls made themselves known to us along the route. Then there was the sunlight down here. Golden rays filling the sky, our eyes and our hearts with a sense of false warmth in the freezing, windswept morning. No snow though, just pockets of frozeness implying winter. Only 24 hours at this point to Eden.
I had assumed, foolishly, that upon arrival into the tiny village of Puerto Eden we would hop off the ship onto a jetty and find the person that we needed to communicate with, a Kawasqar indian named Juan Carlos Tonko. I had been told days earlier by my anthropologist contact that he would be there to help us with the project and would also put us up for perhaps a small fee and some gifts of food, coffee and tea not easily obtained on the island.
However, the boat arrived again to another incredibly beautiful morning around 8am. In the morning mist rose Puerto Eden surrounded by glorious snow-capped mountains. The waters around it ever so still in the crisp morning air. The village itself is tiny, only 176 inhabitants, and the houses of the whole village appeared to cling to the edge of the water stiched together only by wooden boardwalks. Small shack like houses of all colours sat on top of stilts and lay beneath corrogated iron roofs puffing with smoke. Yellow fishing boats sat idle in front of the houses in the absence of a tide.
As the ferry began to slow down I started to realize that in fact it wasn´t heading any closer to the shore and that indeed there wasn´t a jetty to be seen anywhere around. A group of small boats began to whizz their way through the water towards us like dragon flies. The sudden noise of our ship lowering it´s anchor made me realize in that sudden moment that I had no idea how to reach shore.
Following the few other peple off the boat we came across the mad cacophony and activity of dozens of fishermen as they quickly loaded on and off goods, food, fish, propellor blades and lots of cardboard boxes from the half lowered ramp of the ship. Orange lifejackets blurred by us whilst Scott, my cameraman, and I looked on statically. Around either side of the lowered ramp were around four boats huddled together. As the orange blur began to lessen I hurried up to one of them and asked how to reach shore. ´Just jump in any of them,´ came the reply.
Once aboard the small fishing vessel another problem came to mind. Where exactly are we going? The captain of the vessel asked me. The house of Juan Carlos Tonko said I. Ah, said the captain, that´s on the other side by the mainland next to the navy station. Another 15 minutes later we were on shore, by the jetty of the navy, our piles of luggage sat worryingly amoungst the hardened frost of the small jetty and no sign of anyone at home in the house of Juan Carlos.
We waited in the glorious sunshine, and we waited. The ferry that brought us here slowly drifted off into the distance and behind the island. Now safe in the knowledge that no-one was home nor that we could escape the island, I went up to the navy building to see if anyone was home. No sign. Scott and I decided to do some filming seeing as it was such a nice day, but time was beginning to drag on.
Eventually a dark blue figure emerged from within the navy house. Leaping up we made ourselves known to the sailor who then mentioned that he would try and radio Juan Carlos to see where he was. An hour or so later he was still nowhere to be found. In all that time I could see glaciers slipping away before me, tales of ancient Kawasqar fishermen evaporating and only a film of nice scenic images of Puerto Eden remaining.
We´re going to take you over to the house of Juan Carlos´ mother said another sailor. She might be able to help you. OK, another chance, let´s see what happends now I thought. Upon arrival over the other side of the bay we found ourselves in one of the houses on stilts sat in front of Carolina, Juan Carlos´ wife and his mother Gabriella. Looking at his mother Carolina said, ´150,000 pesos (150 pounds) for an hour´s interview.´ Oh, said I. ´
And you can stay in the hostel of Don Jose.´ Oh repeated I. Not as friendly as I was led to believe. The ice was certainly cracking now and the glaciers were melting off into the distance.
Entering the house of Don Jose felt quite a lot like entering the last chance saloon. To get there you have to walk along the boardwalks. No roads or cars here. It would have taken 5 minutes but for the ice still clinging ferociously to the boards. In I walked to a sitting of lunch where everyone literally stopped what they were doing and stared for a moment. To be honest, that moment seemed to feel more like a year. Four people from the boat were on one table looking at us in disbelief. further along was another table with an old couple and two similar looking old brothers and another older lady. Do you have a room for two? I asked as a log on the fire crackled away the silence. The old couple looked at each other confused as if they didn´t even know each other. After some mumbling and hand waving they both looked up at me and said yes!
Sitting down to lunch the first thing that one of the other travellers there said to me was, ´What are you doing here?´ That was probably the hardest question that I´ve ever tried to answer.
So that´s where the new story began. I´m still not sure what´s going to happen yet. All I know right now is that I had four days to completely re-work the idea and that probably wasn´t long enough. I spent two days familiarizing myself with the place then three days filming interviews before leaving Puerto Eden. I think there´s enough for a short film here. The main issue that I found interesting is that Puerto Eden is going to change forever in a year´s time due to the salmon farms coming their way. Environmental disaster looms for them and they´re quite afraid as to what is going to happen. We did film one Kawasqar indian, an old man who rowed us to a tiny island known as the Kawasqar cemetary. That was quite moving though his Spanish was so thick and broken it was really hard to understand.
As for glaciers well, on the way back from Puerto Eden and once back to Puerto Natales, we visited the Torres Del Paine national park. A massive park full of overly impressive mountains, glaciers and vast, vast valleys carved majestically out of the ice age. On the way to Lake Gray to visit a glacier we stopped to film that special moment when the sun hits the edge of the mountains. Our guide looked up and pointed to two youthful condors circling curiously above us. Perfect.
Once by Lake Gray we could see the glacier about 5km away. As we treked along the edge of the lake huge chunks of blue ice sat abandoned near the edge of the lake. `This is known as the iceberg cemetary,´ said our guide, `where icebergs come to die.´
An hour´s walk later we could only see the glacier from afar, impressive as it was slowly slithering it´s way down to sea level. That´s as close as I could come to it. Partly due to the weather and partly to do with it being low season. A boat sat wrestling the waves of the lake on the other side from us normally used during the high season. So close.
However, nothing moved me as much as the spirit of the people of Puerto Eden. They choose the simple life even if it means a hard life. Power only comes on for 5 hours, there is one public phone box, there is a small medical clinic but if anything serious happens they are a days boat trip from anywhere. There´s one school but classes are constantly interrupted by faultering generators. People are slowly moving away and the community is disintegrating. However some cling on to their paradise, they love it there and I can´t blame them. Being so remote away from mobiles, emails, stress whilst the sea provides so much food. I found it all quite moving really.