Wednesday, 4 Feb 2004
CHACABUCO, Chile
Warning: Those of you who are fed up with the routine, mundane nature of your indoor desk jobs are advised to skip today's entry. You'll only feel worse.
A Chilean valley to be flooded by the Alumysa project.
Photo: Daniel Beltra, Greenpeace 2004
Buenos tardes! I'm writing to you somewhat sheepishly from a hammock on the deck of the Greenpeace vessel Arctic Sunrise. To my left are the snow-capped peaks of the coastal mountains here in Patagonia, straight ahead is the small fishing port of Chacabuco, and to my right are verdant hills from which a condor just descended. I can't help but think that if everyone could experience such beauty, there would be more peace and happiness all around. (Those are clearly the words of someone drunk on sun. Hiccup.)
It's a quiet day on the ship. Most members of the Spanish-speaking crew have left to join 13 kids who are camped in one of the areas that will be flooded by Noranda's Alumysa project (see Monday's dispatch for details). The children are members of "Kids for Forests," an international project Greenpeace launched to encourage youth involvement in protecting threatened forests. The kids participate in all kinds of ways, including leafleting, meeting with public officials (young people have such a knack for explaining things clearly and simply!), and attending international conventions. And, of course, camping. The "campaigner contingent" staying on the ship (project leaders, press officers, logistics coordinators, etc.) is in Puerto Aisen, meeting with a number of other Chilean NGOs to discuss strategies for stopping the Alumysa project.
Being neither a Spanish-speaking crew member nor someone who needs to attend meetings, I am, well, here in the hammock. This is probably the part where I should fess up and tell you that the Spanish I have been interjecting periodically throughout these updates is merely to impress you -- I barely speak a word, and have become completely accustomed to that look of utter bafflement that results from my feeble attempts to communicate. Fortunately, in this country, smiling and enthusiasm go a long way.
A typical day on a Greenpeace boat.
Photo: Greenpeace.
As I type away, putting expedition updates on the ship tour website and snapping photos of crew members before they can stop me, most of those remaining on board are busy painting. If you're curious as to what people actually do on Greenpeace ships when not blocking whaling vessels or cargo ships carrying ancient forest wood, that's usually the answer. Yesterday they chipped paint. Today they paint. Tomorrow they will chip paint. The day after ... and so on. Of course, that's an oversimplification. Running the ship is an enormous undertaking -- there are engineers, outboard mechanics, and most importantly, cooks.
The cooks deserve their own paragraph. They control the quality of your life on board the ship. They are providers. They are artists. They have, by far, the most difficult job. During this trip, for example, they are cooking for 34 people, seven days a week, 10-plus hours a day. To make matters worse, they have to cater to a range of special diets -- vegetarian, vegan, peanut allergies, etc. In fact, my cabin-mate Monica from the Chilean office is extremely allergic to pepper, so they have had to stop using it in most of the dishes they prepare.
But the results are divine. And Rosano, the head cook, who speaks passionately about protecting the world's ancient forests, is equally passionate about only one thing: "You'll get very fat on this ship, Meghan," he told me proudly while sitting on deck the other night. "That's what I'm here to do." So far, so good.
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