Exchange Eats: Patagonia

Illustrations by Grace McKenna

Two weeks ago, two friends and I completed the W-trek in Chilean Patagonia with ten complete strangers. However, we did not follow the classic route that carves a ‘W’ through the notoriously unforgiving landscape, but a personalised route that Strava’s GPS satellites recorded as a stodgy box shape. 

The substantial size of our group and our tour agency’s meticulous ethos meant our provisions were strictly rationed into four boxes of industrial quality. Unsurprisingly, these somewhat halted our movement, imploring us to rely alternatively on a boat transfer service and sheer desperate will, to crawl from campsite to campsite. And crawl we did, like a scurried formation of predatory beetles with shells of toppling Decathlon plastic, dragging our plastic box prey in a militaristic unison of exhaustion. Each caja (box) was rigidly divided into, most importantly, food and cutlery but also pots, pans and other cooking utensils such as a portable camping stove. Each caja therefore equaled the weight of a small Patagonian puma. 

I ardently avoided the dreaded pink kitchenware box. I succumbed to individualistic tendencies and avoided it like anyone sane would a Patagonian puma. Forgive me dear readers, but this seemed a valid last resort to save the energy required for the daily hiking toll. By the fourth day the rest of the group caught on and I could no longer cower away from the metallic and plastic cacophony. With each stir of the pan, I let out a weighted sigh.  

What we ate, when we ate and how we ate relied on our miscellaneous group’s ability to transport and manage said boxes. Food preparation would begin at 7pm and cooking quickly became an attractively warm buzz of movement and steam, providing ample opportunity to wade off minus temperatures. As it transpires, cutting and slicing are brilliant finger calisthenics, proving handy at evading premature frostbite. I had never seen a group of people so readily squabble over onion chopping duties. I was devastated when my newfound friend jumped the carrot cutting gun before me. I lingered instead over the bubbling cauldron of lentils, manically alternating my body weight between my feet to evade numbness. I greedily de-steamed the windows of the humble cooking cabin, settling in for a front view of Patagonia’s ‘four seasons in one day’. I nervously watched our tent, abused by torrential rain, hail, snow and then teased by the sun, all within five minutes of my exclusive viewing time. 

Breakfast duty preparation was liberation from the climate’s ruthless quirks. Any BnB breakfast would be put to shame against the breakfast beheld by our treasure chests. We devoured bread with manjar (a condensed milk spread like dulce de leche) and gallons of warm milk, courtesy of the camping stove, over oats with bagged yogurt and bagged jam. Plastic bag packaging has haunted me throughout this semester- I will bow down and kiss the first glorious yogurt pot with a lid I see. The simple food, a product of collaborative labour, was pure satisfying comfort. Excited conversation complimented our steaming steel camping mugs which I put down half wearily, half smug when jeered to say ‘tea’ in my British accent.  

Securing the boiling water for the humble cuppa was a mountain to climb.  One had to face wicked jealousy towards the toasty Refugio’s central heating, chatter your teeth and pray they would take pity on a humble camper in need of a warm thermos. I feigned a special interest in Patagonian flora and fauna leaflets to exploit their glorious radiators. I also become perhaps too acquainted with their basic snack selection. I wistfully reminisced on Edinburgh’s distribution of free period products, scorning at them being levelled with the 8,000 pesos (approximately 6.53 pound sterling) Pringles. The Refugio's inflation of food products capitalized on the extreme remoteness of the location- hikers get hungry and some (don’t you worry, I packed my trail mix) are willing to banish their homely savory cravings at 8,000 pesos a crunch. We all have our vices though, right?  

Aside from tea, the tour company had stretched their budget to fill a Glühwein shaped hole, to secure stellar reviews from the German majority group. It was a warmly welcomed alternative to the hot water that we had been glugging to maintain body warmth. I was pleasantly surprised at the sophistication of the box’s whole cinnamon sticks and admired the expertly sliced orange segments (I hasten to add that I was responsible for their finery, exploiting the task to warm up my fingers). A metaphorical weight was alleviated as my favorite ‘El Gato’ red wine glugged into the industrial catering size pot. Each glug was one less strain to carry. Naturally, we consumed as much of the wine as humanly possible.  Our alcohol coats worked fabulously that night to ward off the minus ten-degree temperature night.  

The following weekend I reunited with some members of the group over dinner in a family home turned student residence in Santiago’s residential Ñuñoa neighbourhood, a world apart from the desolate, albeit beautiful, Parque Nacional Torres del Paine. We enjoyed a sit down home-cooked vegetarian lasagna with a glass of red wine; I jokingly reminisced on our Glühwein. Although I was only half joking- the routine precision of communal cooking had undeniably fortified our friendships. The make-do, basic nature of mealtimes in Patagonia will remain one of my fondest memories.