Naming Rights
Where names in the Patagonia come from and where they are going.
We signed up for a rafting daytrip with a couple of Chilean river guides who won the women’s national rafting championship two years straight. In the summer, they guide rivers for adventure tourists like us traveling up and down the Carretera Austral.
The Baker River is Chile’s largest river in terms of volume, and one of the world’s last, large rivers flowing along a completely natural course with no stops, no hydroelectric dams, none of man’s hindrances (thank you Patagonia sin Represas!).
Before we jumped into the raft, she reminded us that the Baker is not pronounced Baker. You say bah-ker, which is how a Spanish speaker would say it. The river is named after Thomas Baker, an admiral from the British navy who once explored this part of the world in the mid 1800s, surveying ocean, lakes, and rivers, which then was par for the course in the British Empire.
Strange names from a wide range of sources are common in the Patagonia. Next to the Baker, you see Bertrand and Cochrane. Further down, you find an O’Higgins, and of course Fitzroy, for whom the most famous granite tower of the Patagonia is named: an English ship captain who never even saw the peak.
There is something to say about names, especially in the Americas where many places carry two, sometimes three. The first humans probably gave the lakes, rivers and mountain peaks names, but they eventually disappeared, buried in the dust with their bones. Once the Spanish conquistadores arrived, naming and renaming places was an effective way to vanquish the local culture. The Spaniards left the most indelible mark, often just replicating their hometowns on the other side of the globe. Here, you have your Cartagenas, Cuencas, Méridas, and Santiagos, among many more.
Then you have all the places named after the heroes of the patria, the men (because they are always men) who fought to gain independence from Spain. There are two men whose legendary status transcend borders, whose names adorn more towns, squares, parks, and streets than any other: Simon Bolívar and San Martin. Each was an idealist, a mascot of patriotism, and an icon of liberty. Their memories still feed the appetite of the fervent nationalists of the day. True, Bolívar and San Martin are the heavyweights, but the rest of the heroes get plenty of local love. In fact, they are so ubiquitous, you can’t seem to escape them. In Chile, you cannot enter a town without turning down Arturo Prat or O’Higgins street. In Argentina, all routes eventually take you up Belgrano and back down Sarmiento: Heroes converted in addresses.
Names teach you something about a town or city, the traditions it wants to honor and the identity it is trying to achieve. Then a new generation comes along and decide that some of these heroes weren’t heroes after all, or today’s society just wants to put newer, more modern heroes on their street signs. We see this all over the US where Cesar Chaves and Martin Luther King Jr. boulevards are now a common site. Latin America is probably slower to step up to the name-changing game.
Last year, as part of a protest, a group of artists changed the name of Santiago’s metro stops to honor Chilean women, the nation’s first woman doctor, Eloisa Díaz, for example. When you ride the metro every day of your life, and every stop is named after a crusty old guy who killed a bunch of natives to establish the modern nation state 200 years ago, you sort of become inured to one side of history: the side of the victors. Then again, I’m certain that is the point.
The latest name change in Latin America took place on Plaza Baquedano in downtown Santiago, where I lived for four years. The new name is Plaza de la Dignidad, a name that has nothing to do with heroes or conquest or government, rather the will of the people. Even Google showed it as such for a short week before changing it back to Baquedano, a military general from the 19th century. In our modern times of revolution, change is slow.
In the Patagonia, many names exist because a plucky European explorer, traveler, or scientist put it on a map or in a book for the first time. No doubt, many of these towns and villages never existed before those Sirs came along, while others renamed the already-existing native names with euro-friendly, ego-aggrandizing names. South America’s second largest lake has a few: the Chileans call it General Carrera (yet another military general in the times of independence), and the Argentines call it Buenos Aires. Sarmiento and Belgrano were already used. The natives call it Chelenko, a more appropriate word meaning choppy waters, because the lake is more like a sea with its sudden 3-meter white caps. General Carrera is lackluster; Buenos Aires is blah, neither can meet the greatness of the lake. Chelenko has potential. You want a really strong name for a giant lake in South America: Titicaca. Enough said.
A few hours north of Lake Chelenko is Futaleufú, a town and river in Chile’s Patagonia. A river so wild and violent, it seems no name could do it justice. Futaleufú actually comes from the native Mapuche and means really big river, but most end up shortening the name to Futa. I guess for every Futaleufu, there will always be a Baker or two. Perhaps being named after some random Euro dude is better than having no name at all, or worse, being called Rio Claro, Rio Colorado, or Rio Negro, the names of hundreds of rivers all over South America. Somewhere on the road, I remember crossing a bridge over the Rio Rio. Now, that’s economy of imagination!
Finally, there are all the geographical wonders beyond the rivers and lakes, such as rock formations and waterfalls that were named in the last 100 years. It seems that whenever somebody came upon a canyon, a narrow pass, or a frightening looking crevice in the earth’s surface, this they declared La Garganta del Diablo,or Devil’s Throat. That’s right, every country has at least three. And if there is no feature resembling a garganta, you can count on a Silla del Diablo or a Piedra del Diablo. Any scary rock outcropping or strange formation is the devil’s work. The opposite holds true, especially, for waterfalls named after La Virgin, a name as pure as the water it represents. After all, would you rather bathe in the devil’s dirty bathwater or the crystal-clear waters of la virgin? Every town in Colombia has a virgin, or should I say every virgin has a town. And when La Virgin is too busy, there are always brides or their dresses or their veils to use in naming waterfalls. For a bride is just another version of the virgin.
With the arrival of mass tourism, names have taken on the new role of marketing. Driving the Andes, you will see several opportunities to see Rainbow Mountains, naming ploys that help communities capitalize on the tourism boom. And if there are no rainbow mountains around, there might be an 8th wonder of the world in the midst. Glaciers, massive waterfalls, elaborate caves all fit the bill for the eighth wonder marketing. The number 8 is captivating because it automatically evokes the number 7, a magical number from ancient times. I haven’t seen any adverts for 9th or 10th wonders of the world. This makes me wonder why.
When you get to thinking about names, how they shape our perception of a country, its people, and its history, you realize how important they are. What’s for sure is that in the course of colonization and settlement of the Americas, the European’s desire to name everything after himself, his king, or his homeland went beyond obsession. Maybe some of our narcissistic behaviour is born out of the same urges, and that is probably why we say things like “make a name for yourself”.
A name seems like it is everything, but rarely does one last forever.
Originally published at https://nicoparco.com on February 19, 2020.
