I spent my first morning in Futaleufu walking around. I left Brooke off leash as most village dogs were. In the first half hour she had picked-off a chicken. I scolded her and removed it from her mouth. I had never held a dead chicken in my hand. It was warm. Brooke had snapped it's neck in a Milli-second. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Some children played nearby but weren't looking at me so I tossed the limp bird into a ditch and kicked it towards a culvert. Chickens were everywhere. They were like little street gangs. I leashed Brooke and assertively said "No" whenever she eyed and started leaning towards strutting feathers. Fortunately she learnt quickly. Soon after she was off leash again. In the whole five months I was there she killed only two other chickens. Pretty good for a bird dog genetically wired to pursue fowl. On the two other occasions I apologised and offered to compensate the owners. They refused any sort of payment even when I tried to insist. Patagonians were like that. I never had a bad experience with anyone the whole time I was there.
A couple of days later it was Christmas Eve. I attended a Mass at a tiny Catholic church. It was standing room only inside. It was a cold night and the wind battered the church. I found space along the side wall, warmed up and people watched. I don't remember anything about the Mass. I do remember feeling I was in a different place, a very rural place. The faces around me looked foreign and I felt I was immersed in a very different and distinct culture. The wind was howling at 100km, it was black outside and I was at the bottom of the world. Montreal seemed a million miles away, so did Santiago!
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