An Island Argues over a Bridge...Which Business Says It Badly Needs (int'l edition)

Crossing the Chacao Channel to the southern Chilean island of Chiloe is a tourist's delight. Crystal blue water contrasts with snow-capped volcanoes on the mainland. As the island nears, emerald forests and rolling farmlands beckon. But island resident Carlos Kramm sits in the cabin of his refrigerated truck, quietly fuming. This is no pleasure trip. The 40 minutes he spends idle in the hold of a ferry only adds to the four-hour ride ahead to his home in Quellon, Chiloe's southernmost town. The manager of an ice plant on the island, Kramm eagerly awaits the long-promised construction of a 2.5 kilometer bridge--to cost $300 million, financed by private investors who will collect tolls--that will connect Chiloe with the mainland by 2006.

Over the past decade, traffic to the island from both tourism and industry has more than doubled, to almost 400,000 vehicles a year. Summer is crunch time, when tens of thousands of tourists in cars line up to board eight small, overtaxed ferries. ''I have to move 100 tons of ice a month off the island,'' Kramm says. ''In summer, it can take up to two hours just to get on a ferry. If they build the bridge, it will take five minutes to get across.''

Many of the 130,000 islanders, however, adamantly oppose any link with the coast, even though they don't see much chance of stopping the bridge. These rugged individualists, almost all of Spanish descent, have long boasted of their self-sufficiency. For lack of nails, many of the island's 150 historic wooden churches were built with pegs and intricately slotted shingles. In the 1950s, residents crossed the channel on sailboats. There is no newspaper on the island, no airport, no university, and a single two-lane highway. Economically pinched, islanders are endlessly inventive: At a recent food fair, more than 100 dishes from locally grown potatoes were served. And then there's local mythology--a cavalcade of trolls, sirens, and witches. ''The island has a magic,'' says sculptor Luis Ortega, 48, who fled smog-choked, crowded Santiago three years ago to settle in Chiloe. ''If they build a bridge, the island will fill up, and the magic will be gone.''

WHO'LL USE IT? Chilotes, as Chileans call their island brethren, are already dealing with a rising tide of satellite TV, cellular phones, video stores, and tourism. Some fear that a bridge would make the nascent lumber industry more profitable, leading to clearing of ancient forests. Although Chilotes complain about unpaved roads and limited health care, few want to deal with the pressures of quick growth. ''What we have to ask ourselves is: Who among us will really use this bridge?'' asks Miguel Millar, manager of radio station Estrella del Mar in Ancud. ''We never leave here. Most people in Chiloe can't afford to take vacations. This is a gift from government to Big Business.''

Indeed, bridge-backers do hope the link will spur the salmon industry, already clocking 30% annual growth. Hundreds of salmon pens dot the pristine, chilly fjords of the island's protected interior coast. The island provides about half of Chile's annual $800 million in exports of farmed salmon and trout, projected to quadruple by 2010, to 800,000 tons a year. ''We don't have any problem with delays now. But we will in the future,'' warns Ian Lozano, CEO of $35 million salmon feed maker Salmofood in Castro.

Many Chilotes, too, are thinking about a future beyond salmon, possibly fueled by adventure tourism. Unemployment is still severe, averaging 8%, compared with 6% nationally in the 1990s. ''Not one of these people who criticize the bridge has ever provided anyone with a job,'' growls shellfish exporter Hector Vera, 69.

So the debate rages, dividing co-workers, friends, and family members. To generate healthier discussion, Chilote playwright Carlos Gonzalez is touring the island with a new production entitled The Song of the Chucao, in which actors debate the virtues of the bridge. A native bird, the chucao lives in deep brush and is rarely seen, but signals its presence with a throaty whistle. According to legend, if the chucao sings on your right side, it will be a good day. If on the left, a disaster. Quips Gonzalez: ''That's the issue. On what side will this bird sing? We're not sure.'' But it looks as if the islanders will find out soon.

By Greg Brown on Chiloe Island