By Anna Robert of Westminster College
Patagonia Student Program – Fall 2019 Semester
It’s 8 AM right now in Coyhaique and the rest of team Cogiue is slowly waking up, shuffling their belongings into their packs with sleepy eyelids. Somewhere outside a truck is beeping and cars race by. Their noises are harsh and mechanical after waking up to birds every morning for months. I’m going to miss those birds, even the obnoxiously loud honk of the bandurrias flying over Rio Cochrane. But birds are everywhere, and I know I’ll find some other loud, winged thing to wake me up back in Salt Lake. That’ll be easy. The real work comes as I fight to keep growing and changing from the experiences I had this semester, and not just packing them away like cheap Christmas decorations. Transference is one of the messiest parts of experiential education. Each one of us will return home soon, left to spin threads that somehow, tie our carefully curated semester into the rest of our lives (our ‘real’ lives) like a patch in a quilt. Looking around, I think this group will have no problem with that task given how neatly they’re organizing their things. But as for myself, I’m not quite sure how the process will go.
I don’t know how it will go because the most valuable gift that this program gave me, the water it poured into my thirsty soul, was how to unlearn something. Unlearning is not forgetting, but rather the opening of your mind to the notion that the way you already know something, doesn’t have to be the way you know it forever. It’s sort of like crawling out from under the foundation of a house, blinking in the sun for a while, then realizing you can raze that house to the ground and rebuild it however you want, whenever you want, if you’ve got the courage. I won’t tell you what I unlearned this semester — not over a computer, anyway — but I will tell you that for me, it could only happen here and now. Only with this homestay, these research projects, this group of ragtag conservationists who all work as hard as they can to make themselves, and the world around them, a better place, could I unlearn so many things so beautifully. One might even call it cosmic. So no, I have absolutely no idea to transfer this experience back to my ‘real life’ in the States, or even if I want to. Because, you know what? As I perch on this top bunk, watching my friends laugh at their revolting socks and dreading the imminent, too-fast airport goodbyes, it’s here that feels like ‘real life’ to me.
THE STORY OF US
A short creation story about the community created here through the research and mutual sharing of one another’s gifts. Written in honor of all that “Braiding Sweetgrass” by Robin Wall Kimmerer taught us about stories and about the world.
On the wild and beautiful earth, there is a river called Pascua that runs deep and swift. The river is the color of sweet mint, and she twirls through bejeweled mountains and regal forests, flooding the in-between places until she reaches the sea. She makes her own music to dance to, a lovely tumbling song of freedom and joyfulness. Her song is loud, and draws all creatures to herself.
Even the evil ones. They came in buzzing waves, chopping the forests and drying the bogs and staring at her with the hungry eyes of angry men. They choked her, the river, and the sudden rest in her song reverberated through the world.
The first to arrive was a merman. He swam as fast as he could to find his love, the river whose songs have called him since he was a merchild. When he came, he brought an army: an army rallied by his words, moved to fight the demons. They were successful, but an army only stays when there’s a battle to fight. The merman knew that all manner of demons would try to choke the river and steal her magic. So again, he swam, to the home of his friend the green-backed firecrown.
“Let me tell you,” he declared “I’ve had a vision. I can see the others coming, the ones who hear this river’s song. And when they come, we are going to make this river safe. No matter what it takes.” The hummingbird smiled, excited, and flitted off to see the world while she waited for others to answer the call. And answer the call they did. On black chested buzzard eagle’s back and in her talons; a caiquen, a rufous collared sparrow, a puma, a coigue, a lenga, a chucao, a swallow, a spider, a huemul, a thorntailed rayadito, a guanaco, and the sun all made their way to the singing river and the merman.
With the open arms, the merman welcomed the newcomers with a feast of acceptance and celebration which went long into the night. By morning, the River Listeners (for that’s what they call themselves) had decided exactly what it was that they would do for their beloved Rio Pascua.
The next day, before the others awoke, black chested buzzard eagle took to the skies with her sharp, demon finding eyes, and her adventurous spirit to watch over the others. She would see everything; the River Listeners needed her courage to keep them safe. The sun woke next, sharing her warmth with her friends and shining her light to force the demons out of the shadows. Rayadito giggled at the sun, waking all the others with her joy—and they slowly packed their things to embark on their demon-fighting quest.
The River Listeners headed out in all different directions—some to the sky, some to the woods, all over the mountains and bogs. The swallow and the rufous collared sparrow sang their sweet notes to coax the other frightened animals out of their hiding holes, thanking them for surviving the demons and making them laugh. Puma prowled around, chomping demons to bits and playing pranks on the swallow to keep himself occupied. Guanaco worked tirelessly, sheltering the frightened animals and the dying plants from the relentless rain until they smiled again. Huemul talked with the old trees and rocks and the mosses to find out everything he could about how the demons had come to find the river. Green backed fire crown and spider chased the demons with the fervor of a thousand angry hornets, leaving no rock unturned.
It went on like this — the River listeners criss-crossing each other’s paths, working as hard as they could to encourage Rio Pascua to sing again, by vanquishing the darkness and bringing her native protectors back from their shell-shocked state. It seemed an impossible task, and the more they worked, the more they tired. It felt hopeless.
It was on the hardest day that River Listeners found their strength again: the angry winds of the sea blew over the river, unleashing the tears of the sky on them. The wind was so strong that it blew spider and hummingbird far away to other worlds. Ragged and hopeless, each member of the River Listeners followed the sound of Chucao’s voice back to the edge of the river. She sat waiting, with Coigue and Lenga, her ears ready to listen and her soup ready for serving.
Coigue and Lenga extended their arms to shelter the tired group. “This may be the biggest fight of your life,” Cogiue said, “but we have to keep going because Rio Pascua needs us and when we finish, we can go home.” The group shared a sad laugh. There was still no hope to have.
From the shadows, there was a tiny meow. Guina, wide eyed and small, poked her head into the light of the fire. She took a big breath, as big as she could possibly manage, and exhaled out into the valley. From their camp, the RiverListeners saw a web of electric blues, greens, oranges, pinks, purples, yellows and browns appear as if out of thin air. It stretched in all directions covering land and sky, shining pure with energy.
Guina smiled. “Spider taught me that trick,” she said. “He’s not the only one who weaves webs. Each of your spirits have left unique gifts here as protection for Rio Pascua. She and I have been watching you, seeing the things you share with the animals and the land here. Those threads which are the best parts of you, now offer the best protection for Pascua. All you need to do is unite your gifts and tie one last thread around the river to keep the demons out forever.”
The group was silent for a moment. Then, Caiquen, ever the wise mother goose, stood up and arranged the River Listeners behind her like they were her own goslings. Lenga drew up a map for Caiquen to follow, to trace a perimeter around Rio Pascua, and the group set out on one final journey.
When they were done, Rio Pascua sang louder and with more love than she ever had before, protected by the web of community that the River Listeners had left behind.
