How Tomake Canipe Beds

the writer of the Southern Cross

Punta Arenas to me is primarily a writer: Francisco Coloane.

For this reason, especially for this, I wanted to come back here, before embarking for Antarctica. To fill the eyes of the bay which has received the ashes of a man in his own words I opened up another world.

Coloane has lived more than ninety years, to tell the Patagonia, Tierra del Fuego, Antarctica, the stories and people who lived in these wonderful places and impossible.

of these sites have been able to grasp the size and fantastic adventure. And if there could believe that there can be only one explanation: the first to pass his talent on many pages I have torn the heart, these places Coloane experienced them, with all his heart. Patagonia has known more wild and romantic.

These parts had arrived in the twenties of the last century, as a boy. He had met the first labor movement and peasant struggles in the big estates Menendes, perhaps the most important landowners of the entire planet. He sailed the Pacific with people today who find it hard not to wrap it in an aura of legend, heroes of a hard time pioneers.

Some island was still inhabited by indigenous few survivors. They knew, they picked up their suffering, in the years when this was far from obvious, it denounced the massacre. He told the cancellation of entire peoples at the hands of traffickers in hides, businessmen, missionaries,

convicts, soldiers without honor and without mercy. Hunters of the Indians is just the title of one of his books, I treasure it religiously, side by side on a shelf at home.

Coloane, in short, not only sang the magic of this place, was able to find the entry for their horrors.

One day, very old, returned here, to fish out the dreams of his youth. It found a few and the distilled bitterness in these words:

Perhaps growth and beauty can not surf together without being shipwrecked.

Coloane died in Santiago, Chile was August 2002. His good friend Luis Sepulveda, another great writer who gave us the South American continent, reminded us that way.

With him something new into the home of Literature, the noise of stormy sea and the voices of thousands of adventurers lost in the desolate plains of Patagonia and in the solitude of Tierra del Fuego.

Often the imagination does not hold the virtue of modesty. And I am looking at these waters, -tics but these words, I can really feel at home in the tattered clothes of any of those lost adventurers.

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