I sit here on this 23rd day of October with my liter of Escudo, that`s Chilean for piss-water, or beer, in the town of Coquimbo. The month of rent expired in the pension in Valparaíso and it was time to rubber tramp it up north. La Serena and little sister, Coquimbo are 450 kilometers or so north of Santiago on the Pacific Coast. I got off the bus the other day, packed to the gills, with directions in my head to an inexpensive hostal in La Serena. After searching for what seemed like hours because of the miniature house on my back and asking many an innocent bystander how to find Hostal Hibisco, blisters starting to form on my feet I stopped into a natural remedies store, Hierba Santa. I knew I had to be close, but the Peruvian lady sitting at the counter didn`t know either. She asked her husband of the hostel`s wherabouts but he was unsure as well. The two conferred for a moment and offered me a room in their house, connected to the storefront through a door in the back. $5.000 pesos a night, which is right around $11 US dollars or so, is $2.000 pesos less than any hostel I`ve been able to find so I took them up on their offer. This might be a good way to get to know some more normal, hard-working Chileans from the 4th region of Chile. It turned out to be a great opportunity to meet Ruben and Lila, her daughter and granddaughter and to be temporarily a part of their family. We exchanged phone numbers, emails and Lila even has a daughter in Lima and a brother in Iquitos that can possibly help me down the road.
It turns out the Hostal Hibisco was literally right around the corner, not half a block away. Funny how life`s plans can twist and be completely changed by coincidence, fate or some other force unbeknownst to us. I made my way to the beach, probably the last time I will be able to sink my toes into the sand for a while, and inquired about surfboard/wetsuit rentals. I would gladly pay US $11 dollars an hour, but the weather was overcast and cool for the first couple days here. Go figure the sun decides to come out on the day that I`m heading for the desert. Exploring the city, I found a scaled-down version of the archaeological museum I saw in Santiago. Rambled on down to the Plaza de Armas, which is just like Spain`s Plaza de España, in that it seems like every city, no matter how small has one. I wandered into the main cathedral in La Serena and realized that Thursday twelve o´clock mass was about to start. Uh oh. Better get outta here while I still can... No. I decided to stay for the duration, dawning my "Anthropological lense" to see what a Chilean mass was like. Hopefully this isn`t too technical a description, but it seemed like any other mass except for the padre and his helper spoke in Spanish, oh, and it was a lot shorter than all the others I´ve been to.
Roughly 30 minutes later, I emerged from the cold and solemn hall tp find a band setting up. ¡Buena honda! People adorning coats embroidered with the Gobierno de Chile logo, gobierno being government, were testing the sound quality, arranging cables and what not. Thinking nothing of the Government`s presence, I proceeded to cross the plaza, Gypsy women persistantly asking for money for their babies, to buy some postcards. The band started playing so I returned to the other side, skillfully dodging the gypsies, to find a badass quartet including an electric/acoustic guitarist, an electric/acoustic bassist, drummer and an accordian player. Is accordianist a word? Even though they were held at gunpoint to play Chile`s traditional Cuica music, it was hard to restrain myself from dancing. But I did a pretty good job nevertheless, in part, because informal dancers lined up across from their respective partners who knew exactly what they were doing. And my best attemp at describing the dance would surely be better than my best attempt at atually performing it. White handkerchiefs in hand, clapping above their heads, they proceeded to perform a type of "chicken and rooster" routine, coming close but not too close and then backing away again. Some fancy footwork and the uncanny ability to finish the routine exactly when the song ended was quite swell to observe.
On Friday, I hopped on a micro to Valle Elqui, or more specifically the town of Pisco Elqui. Shortly after leaving La Serena, we passed a rather large earth dam that was retaining an equally healthy-sized reservoir. It was after this point in the journey up the valley that vast vineyards of grapes started to proliferate. It was easy to see the water line, where the irrigation stopped and the steep dry mountains began. This area is surely (one of) the Napa Valley(s) of Chile. Many of the big pisco sellers have distelleries in the valley, including Capel, Mistral and Tres Erres. I may have touched on it briefly before, but pisco is a hard alcohol made from fermented grapes. Think wine on steroids. The "Piscola", pisco and coca cola, "Pisco Sour", pisco, lemon juice and sugar, "Papaya Sour", papaya juice, pisco and sugar are just a few of the specialties mixed with this dangerous drink. The type where one is enough, two is perfect and three is too much. Luckily, tourist season still hasn´t officially sprouted its full set of wings so the valley was relatively calm. Pisco Elqui is about an hour and a half from the Pacific Coast, in one of the innumerable drainages of the Andes Mountains. A quaint little town whose economy is undoubtedly fueled by the tourist boom in November, December and January and the sales and production of, yep you guessed it, pisco. Many more places than not had signs advertising places to stay, tours, tourist activities, food, spirits y punto. Exploring the town didn´t take too long, a couple main streets, a few back alleys and a main plaza. I wandered into a real touristy joint with gravel floors and a multi-armed lighting system in the shape of flower stalks spreading out across the main room´s ceiling. The one tourist accessory they don´t have in Pisco Elqui is a cajero automático, or rather, an ATM. But oh great, they accept credit and debit cards with the mere twitch of a pen. After my ham, tomato and cheese pizza, minus the marinara sauce of course, I asked the waitress if there was a path leading up to one of the surrounding mountains. She immediately mentioned that she had a friend who gives tours. "Yeah, but I´m really just looking to take a walk without the tour", I said. Accurate directions have been relatively hard to come by so far in my South American travels, but this lady accurately described my desired path. Maybe I´m getting better at understanding the Chilean version of Spanish, yeah, don´t break your arm patting yourself on the back buddy. Walking up the hill past the main plaza, complete with benches, a fountain, swingset, trees and even a church, I took a left just past the artesans fair and another right a block up the road to the promised land. Walking for a half hour left me sweating, parched and burping up pisco-flavored fumes. There was a nice rock to provide some shade at the first "leveling out" of the road. I wouldn´t have even noticed it if not for the mountain biker on the trail high above, leading further up the valley. Following it for awhile led to a smooth outcrop where the wind was whipping, the sun blasting and vistas stunning. It´s neat that vista mean the same thing in English and in Spanish. It was a great experience to sit down for a 30 minute meditation session in this miraculous location. There were towering peaks all around, expansive and brilliantly green vineyards covering the valley floor below and a solid row of alders that separated the green from the brown, the inhabitable from the uninhabitable, civilization from wilderness. I try not to think about the conversations I had with the cute girl, native to Elqui Valley, on the bus this morning, nor the process of comparing bus ticket prices for the upcoming journey, but what I am doing at the current moment: breathing and sitting. Cross-legged, palms facing up, letting nature´s best "freebie" warm the skin. Not a complete sentence.
Heading back down the valley, the town of Monte Grande is the birthplace and home for many years of Gabriela Mistral, or rather, Lucila de María del Perpetuo Socorro Godoy Alcayaga. She was the Chilean poet that won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1945 and passed on in ´57. I remember reading some of her works in prior Spanish classes, but as for their specific names or content, I am at a loss. Sacked of energy from the sun and all the tourist activities, I zonked out on the bus ride back to "Hierba Santa". Finished out the night with some seriously heavy conversations with Ruben about his involvement in various military factions helping to fight the Communists. I´ll try to expand on this later, because I really couldn´t believe the stories, but also didn´t think that he was lying or embellishing. When I wrote this it was 3 o´clock in the morning of October 24th, the Expreso Norte carrying me and my bags northward through the early morning fog.
I leave you now in the grace and favor of the Lord, whichever one(s) that may be. Buenas tardes gringolandia.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Wharf Rat
It was time to take a trip out of Valpo and experience the Chilean capital of Santiago. I packed up my bag on Saturday and hoofed it on down to the bus station, which also happens to be right across from the Congress building. I definitely didn´t get a jump on the day because my friend Sara, who also studied at Western, and I were out late the night before. I had the supreme privilege to be present during her karaoke debut. Is there a more appropriate first karaoke song than Journey´s "Don´t Stop Believin"? I personally can´t think of one.
I´m sure you´ve experienced the sensation of "sensory overload" many times before. The feeling of everything happening all around you at once washed over me immediately after getting off the bus. Trying to figure out where you´re going, staying aware of the personal space around you AND trying to take in the sights to gain a first impression of a new place can be hard to juggle indeed. My strategy is to first and foremost stay aware of the space directly around me, but also to notice the individuals in the immediate and surrounding vicinity. Then I start to tackle where I need to get to, and last but not least is gaining the first impression of an unfamiliar location. A good bit advice I once learned from "Hitchhiker´s Guide to the Galaxy" is Don´t Panic. It´s natural to feel overwhelmed when sensory overload kicks in, but problems can arise when the symptoms visibly manifest themselves in your person.
Arriving in the immense city about an hour before sunset, I jumped on the Metro, which we might call a subway, heading for the vague destination of Barrio Bellavista. After knocking on the doors of 4 hostels that were completely full up, I started to get a little nervous. I would pay more money to stay in a legitimate hotel before curling up in a bush somewhere. Luckily it didn´t come to either of these last resorts and I ended up finding a room at the inn at "Hostel Providencia". Dropping off my bag in the room, I headed back down the street, past Plaza Italia, to the lively sector of Pio Nono. Just walking down the street was a trip in itself. The bars and restaurants, or restobars, as Chilean business owners are fond of calling them, leave pedestrians a small lane on the sidewalk to pass through. Tables and chairs stocked with happy bodies and the overenthusiastic host obstruct an easy passage. Not that I aspire to hermit status, but just wasn´t quite ready for this extreme hustle and bustle of the main drag, I decided to seek out a Moroccan joint the guidebook mentioned called "Ali Baba". After hanging a few starboards and ports, I found what used to be the restaurant they were talking about. This wasn´t, by any means the first business or museum that the "2010" guidebook had led me astary on. I can only figure that because of the 8.5 earthquake in Consunción last February, many of the businesses and museums that were there when Lonely Planet came through had to move or shut down. Anyways, I explored some more and eventually stumbled on a place called "Istanbul" which specialized in one of my absolute favorite foods, the kebab. If you´ve never had kebab before, it´s a Middle Eastern sandwich type deal that resembles a gyro. With vertical,spinning posts of beef and chicken from which the meat is shaved. Accompanying this carniverous treat in a grilled piece of flatbread were spiced onions, tomatoes, lettuce, something resembling ranch dressing and spiced ketchup. A relatively inexpensive and delicious meal.
The next day I woke up early, okay I woke up at 8:30 and attacked the day with touristic ferocity. Gosh darnit, I´m gonna get my time and money´s worth out of this capital city. On Sundays most of the museums around town waive the entrance fee. El Museo de Bellas Artes was the first stop of the day. In the museum´s main hall college students were busy producing their own versions of bellas artes. One of my favorite exhibits was the film "The Last Silent Movie", which consisted of audio/visual recordings of languages that are now considered endangered or extinct. After a few well-spent hours of musing around the museum, I leather-tramped it over to Museo Histórico Nacional, which showcased some absolutely great paraphenalia from colonial times, the revolution and reconstruction periods and even more contemporary pieces. Half of Marxist President Salvador Allende´s token eyeglasses were on display in a glass case. All the Chilean newspapers were forced to report that he committed suicide after the golpe de estado, or rather, coup d´ etat carried out my the military on September 11th, 1973, but he was most definitely murdered. In another museum I stumbled onto some footage a reporter had captured of the brutal takeover in front of La Moneda, the palace where the president and congress reside. Shots echoed throughout the streets for hours, tanks reinforced the military´s dominating presence, airstrikes from overhead caused massive devastation and the firefighters were ordered not to intervene. In one part of the documentary, the military even starts shooting at the very room in which the reporter and his staff are located. Elections were called off and anyone that was seen as a "threat" to the dictatorship started disappearing including reporters, leftist politicians, professors, protestors and even your everyday Joes.
Back to the less pertinent narrative, my stomach was-a-rumblin´ after the second museum of the day, so I set out with grabbing a bite to eat in mind. Mercado Central is a huge indoor fish market with accompanying seafood restaurants to boot. Not being especially partial to seafood, I rambled on to the outskirts of the market and found a more low key joint to endulge my palate. The typical Chilean dish of Chorillana consists of a sturdy base of french fries, runny eggs and sauteéd onions in the middle, and bits of steak and chorizo sausage to top it all off. I´ve heard that some places take much pride in preparing this prestigious dish. You know how at some high-fallutin restaurants consider it an insult to ask for A-1 sauce with your steak? Well, rumor has it that some places consider it just as much of an insult to ask for ketchup with your chorillana. Luckily, this place was more down to earth, so I proceeded to douse the mountainous heap, meant for more than one person, with ketchup.
About to burst, and suffering from hunger pains, I walked to another exhibit that housed some neat and provocative photography from artists around the world. Everything from a dwarf in a wheelchair painting beautiful landscapes, to lesbians performing the act of love and quite a bit in between, the former and the latter that is. Museo de Arte Precolombino was next on the list and the only museum that charged for entry that day. They had to kick me out, not because of misbehavior, but because of the closing hour had arrived. The statues that ancient Central and South American pre-Columbus cultures took with them to the grave in order to ensure a safe and effective trip to the afterlife were fascinating. The pipes that they used to get in touch with a particular God were also very noteworthy.
It happened that my friend Kristin and her sister Julie were also in Santiago for one last night of fun before Julie headed back to the States. Without any prior planning, our respective hostels found themselves a mere 2 blocks away from each other. We met up for some dinner on the main drag in Barrio Bellavista. The Porotas con Longaniza turned out to be a sound choice, consisting of beans, pumpkin, some other forgotten ingredients all mixed up together accompanied with a couple of sausages. We ended the night with a drink at a restaurant designed for the elderly, seated as La Mesa Pablo Neruda, or Pablo Neruda´s table. Unsure of whether the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda had actually sat there, or they were just appealing to their target market of the elderly, we rambled back down the street and said our goodbyes.
The next day, I wasn´t feeling quite as ferocious about being a tourist so I slept in, took a shower, had a cup of coffee and hit the pavement at 1:00, or rather 13:00 hours. I sat down at one of those tables mentioned earlier designed to obstruct foot traffic and attract business. A 1/4 chicken with french fries for just about $4 dollars was the choice for today. When the waiter brought out the plate, I asked him for some ketchup and his response "Ahh, se acabó" made me laugh. They were out of kethup. As a spoiled gringo, I can say in good conscience that the lack of ketchup was definitely factored into the price of the meal. And it turns out that mustard isn´t that bad of a substitute for ketchup concerning its application to french fries.
Cerro Cristobal, or St. Christopher Hill was the next stop on the agenda. This is an 867 meter hill with a huge statue of the Virgin Mary looming over the city. It might not have been the best day to scale the hill considering the thick layer of smog that had settled over the city, but it was free and therefore awesome nonetheless. There were some break dancers putting on a spectacle under the Virgin´s watchful and protective gaze. Kids ran around throwing pebbles at each other. The sun beginning to set, I figured it would be better not to stay up on the hill, that Midwesterners would surely label as a mountain, after dark. So, I made the trek back down the hill and called it a day. Alright folks, I could continue rambling but I´ll explain about my failed attempt to reach the hot springs outside of town which included 40+ stops on the Metro and a lot of backtracking, thus. This is Elvagabundonumerouno writing to you for the last time from Valparaíso, Chile. Tomorrow, I leave for La Serena in Northern Chile and embark upon the northbound journey. Buenas tardes tv and radio land.
I´m sure you´ve experienced the sensation of "sensory overload" many times before. The feeling of everything happening all around you at once washed over me immediately after getting off the bus. Trying to figure out where you´re going, staying aware of the personal space around you AND trying to take in the sights to gain a first impression of a new place can be hard to juggle indeed. My strategy is to first and foremost stay aware of the space directly around me, but also to notice the individuals in the immediate and surrounding vicinity. Then I start to tackle where I need to get to, and last but not least is gaining the first impression of an unfamiliar location. A good bit advice I once learned from "Hitchhiker´s Guide to the Galaxy" is Don´t Panic. It´s natural to feel overwhelmed when sensory overload kicks in, but problems can arise when the symptoms visibly manifest themselves in your person.
Arriving in the immense city about an hour before sunset, I jumped on the Metro, which we might call a subway, heading for the vague destination of Barrio Bellavista. After knocking on the doors of 4 hostels that were completely full up, I started to get a little nervous. I would pay more money to stay in a legitimate hotel before curling up in a bush somewhere. Luckily it didn´t come to either of these last resorts and I ended up finding a room at the inn at "Hostel Providencia". Dropping off my bag in the room, I headed back down the street, past Plaza Italia, to the lively sector of Pio Nono. Just walking down the street was a trip in itself. The bars and restaurants, or restobars, as Chilean business owners are fond of calling them, leave pedestrians a small lane on the sidewalk to pass through. Tables and chairs stocked with happy bodies and the overenthusiastic host obstruct an easy passage. Not that I aspire to hermit status, but just wasn´t quite ready for this extreme hustle and bustle of the main drag, I decided to seek out a Moroccan joint the guidebook mentioned called "Ali Baba". After hanging a few starboards and ports, I found what used to be the restaurant they were talking about. This wasn´t, by any means the first business or museum that the "2010" guidebook had led me astary on. I can only figure that because of the 8.5 earthquake in Consunción last February, many of the businesses and museums that were there when Lonely Planet came through had to move or shut down. Anyways, I explored some more and eventually stumbled on a place called "Istanbul" which specialized in one of my absolute favorite foods, the kebab. If you´ve never had kebab before, it´s a Middle Eastern sandwich type deal that resembles a gyro. With vertical,spinning posts of beef and chicken from which the meat is shaved. Accompanying this carniverous treat in a grilled piece of flatbread were spiced onions, tomatoes, lettuce, something resembling ranch dressing and spiced ketchup. A relatively inexpensive and delicious meal.
The next day I woke up early, okay I woke up at 8:30 and attacked the day with touristic ferocity. Gosh darnit, I´m gonna get my time and money´s worth out of this capital city. On Sundays most of the museums around town waive the entrance fee. El Museo de Bellas Artes was the first stop of the day. In the museum´s main hall college students were busy producing their own versions of bellas artes. One of my favorite exhibits was the film "The Last Silent Movie", which consisted of audio/visual recordings of languages that are now considered endangered or extinct. After a few well-spent hours of musing around the museum, I leather-tramped it over to Museo Histórico Nacional, which showcased some absolutely great paraphenalia from colonial times, the revolution and reconstruction periods and even more contemporary pieces. Half of Marxist President Salvador Allende´s token eyeglasses were on display in a glass case. All the Chilean newspapers were forced to report that he committed suicide after the golpe de estado, or rather, coup d´ etat carried out my the military on September 11th, 1973, but he was most definitely murdered. In another museum I stumbled onto some footage a reporter had captured of the brutal takeover in front of La Moneda, the palace where the president and congress reside. Shots echoed throughout the streets for hours, tanks reinforced the military´s dominating presence, airstrikes from overhead caused massive devastation and the firefighters were ordered not to intervene. In one part of the documentary, the military even starts shooting at the very room in which the reporter and his staff are located. Elections were called off and anyone that was seen as a "threat" to the dictatorship started disappearing including reporters, leftist politicians, professors, protestors and even your everyday Joes.
Back to the less pertinent narrative, my stomach was-a-rumblin´ after the second museum of the day, so I set out with grabbing a bite to eat in mind. Mercado Central is a huge indoor fish market with accompanying seafood restaurants to boot. Not being especially partial to seafood, I rambled on to the outskirts of the market and found a more low key joint to endulge my palate. The typical Chilean dish of Chorillana consists of a sturdy base of french fries, runny eggs and sauteéd onions in the middle, and bits of steak and chorizo sausage to top it all off. I´ve heard that some places take much pride in preparing this prestigious dish. You know how at some high-fallutin restaurants consider it an insult to ask for A-1 sauce with your steak? Well, rumor has it that some places consider it just as much of an insult to ask for ketchup with your chorillana. Luckily, this place was more down to earth, so I proceeded to douse the mountainous heap, meant for more than one person, with ketchup.
About to burst, and suffering from hunger pains, I walked to another exhibit that housed some neat and provocative photography from artists around the world. Everything from a dwarf in a wheelchair painting beautiful landscapes, to lesbians performing the act of love and quite a bit in between, the former and the latter that is. Museo de Arte Precolombino was next on the list and the only museum that charged for entry that day. They had to kick me out, not because of misbehavior, but because of the closing hour had arrived. The statues that ancient Central and South American pre-Columbus cultures took with them to the grave in order to ensure a safe and effective trip to the afterlife were fascinating. The pipes that they used to get in touch with a particular God were also very noteworthy.
It happened that my friend Kristin and her sister Julie were also in Santiago for one last night of fun before Julie headed back to the States. Without any prior planning, our respective hostels found themselves a mere 2 blocks away from each other. We met up for some dinner on the main drag in Barrio Bellavista. The Porotas con Longaniza turned out to be a sound choice, consisting of beans, pumpkin, some other forgotten ingredients all mixed up together accompanied with a couple of sausages. We ended the night with a drink at a restaurant designed for the elderly, seated as La Mesa Pablo Neruda, or Pablo Neruda´s table. Unsure of whether the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda had actually sat there, or they were just appealing to their target market of the elderly, we rambled back down the street and said our goodbyes.
The next day, I wasn´t feeling quite as ferocious about being a tourist so I slept in, took a shower, had a cup of coffee and hit the pavement at 1:00, or rather 13:00 hours. I sat down at one of those tables mentioned earlier designed to obstruct foot traffic and attract business. A 1/4 chicken with french fries for just about $4 dollars was the choice for today. When the waiter brought out the plate, I asked him for some ketchup and his response "Ahh, se acabó" made me laugh. They were out of kethup. As a spoiled gringo, I can say in good conscience that the lack of ketchup was definitely factored into the price of the meal. And it turns out that mustard isn´t that bad of a substitute for ketchup concerning its application to french fries.
Cerro Cristobal, or St. Christopher Hill was the next stop on the agenda. This is an 867 meter hill with a huge statue of the Virgin Mary looming over the city. It might not have been the best day to scale the hill considering the thick layer of smog that had settled over the city, but it was free and therefore awesome nonetheless. There were some break dancers putting on a spectacle under the Virgin´s watchful and protective gaze. Kids ran around throwing pebbles at each other. The sun beginning to set, I figured it would be better not to stay up on the hill, that Midwesterners would surely label as a mountain, after dark. So, I made the trek back down the hill and called it a day. Alright folks, I could continue rambling but I´ll explain about my failed attempt to reach the hot springs outside of town which included 40+ stops on the Metro and a lot of backtracking, thus. This is Elvagabundonumerouno writing to you for the last time from Valparaíso, Chile. Tomorrow, I leave for La Serena in Northern Chile and embark upon the northbound journey. Buenas tardes tv and radio land.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Echoes
"Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine"
Okay, so it´s not a Jimmy Buffett song, but I felt a strong calling to bring a verse from my favorite Pink Floyd song to you in hopes that you might watch their DVD "Live at Pompeii". Good stuff. Now, maybe I have mentioned them before, the temblores that are extremely common here in Chile. So far, I´ve probably experienced 6-8 of these earthquakes whose epicenters are far off or possibly even underwater. They result in a shaking or trembling of the earth that rocks the old, wooden pension I´m living in. The other night, my bed got to rocking, no, not in the good way... and I sat up immediately because you just never know if it´s a real earthquake or just a temblor. This one happened to be the latter, but when I went back to sleep I started to dream about an extreme shaking of the pension. And in the ever-so-real dreamland, the structure almost fell over, but thankfully not in reality.
It´s hilarious to me that everytime I pass by the local pet food store, there are all sorts of pigeons getting a free meal of different types of feed and seed. With dog food, cat food, bird food to choose from, I just wonder which one is their favorite. I never cease to laugh when I pass the carnicería, or butcher´s shop, to find a vagrant guard dog sleeping just outside the wide open front door. You´re just torturing yourself pal, although at the end of the day, the well-rested canine might possibly get a handout for his invaluable services.
Two days ago, I set out to examine an old, rustic cemetary that I previously spied from the bottom of the hill. The elaborate graves consisted of immense monuments that would dwarf many a house in Valpaiaíso. I guess these tombs are a type of house as well, but are used to provide shelter for life after death. Sepulchres that guard your bones from the elements and scavengers during the long, cold, eternal resting place, located 6 feet under ground. Or should I say 2 meters bajo de la tierra? I was disappointed to see Cementerio Número 2 barred from entry, so I snapped a few pictures from outside the 13 foot, steel railing and continued on up the hill. I´ve recently taken to the rapidly emerging sport of "urban hiking". As the microbuses and colectivos quickly pass by, you must resist the urge to stick your thumb out and hitch a ride to the top. With my favorite blue shirt drenched in sweat, I rounded a bend and exchanged pleasantries with a fellow walking down the hill. His words rang clear, "Oye, te doy consejo, si continuas arriba del cerro, te van a robar". It´s English equivalent being, "Hey, I´ll give you some advice, if you continue up the hill, you´re gonna´ get robbed". He proceeded to tell me about another young kid that was urban hiking in the same place about a week or so before. Not sure if he was Chilean or a foreigner, or many other details at all really, except for that he had his backpack, wallet and cell phone all stolen from him in broad daylight. Thankfully I got to learn this lesson the easy way that day. I thanked the gentleman for his advice and stopped my progress up the hill, stood there for a minute or so and turned around. About 3/4 of the way to the bottom of Cerro Loma, I noticed some smoke emanating from a short distance to my right, probably about 150 yards or so as the crow flies. Immediately, my mind jumped to the possibility of a house fire. Sure enough, following the dark black smoke down to its source, I could see wild flames sprouting from somewhere behind a closely grouped bank of houses. Construction workers came out of their gated project right across the street, microbus drivers stopped on their respective sides of the narrow inclined street, and pedestrians all stopped to watch the blaze. Shortly after I stopped to watch the flames, volunteer fire engines came careening up the road, one after another, with horns and sirens audibly marking their arrival. Sometimes, the microbus drivers would gawk so long that traffic was backed up 6 to 8 cars deep. I experienced frusturation watching them press pause on their respective tasks at hand, especially when a fire engine would be one of the automobiles halted in line. Horns, swear words or shaking fists didn`t seem to have any effect on the drivers` thick skulls.
The next day, I was walking down the street past a little news stand and saw the foto of the tragedy from the day before. With the accompanying headline, "Horror en Cerro Loma", I bought the periodical for a mere $200 pesos, or about $0.45 cents. It turned out that a total of 3 houses burned that day from grease that ignited in the kitchen. Two bomberos, or, firefighters received minor injuries and were rushed to the hospital, and one or more bloggers got a terrible, non-fiction story to spread to the rest of the world.
I have a couple "good" fire stories from my youth that might apply here. When I was super young and my Pops was still living in Kendrick, Idaho and Ma had already moved into Clarkston, a neighbor boy was playing with bottle rocketsand started a brush fire. Luckily, Pops was right there with his shovel and easily put out the fire. Another time when I was quite a bit older living in the house on Grandview Drive, a good friend Nathan, Pops and I were lighting off fireworks out front. See, I`m glad I can look back on this now and laugh, but it`s generally an unusual choice to light the fuse on a firework whose function you have absolutely no idea. this one in particular was a high-powered "bee" which took off-a-buzzing a good 18-20 feet and landed in the pasture behind our backyard. The dry weeds instantly ignited and I can vividly remember Pops saying, "Uh oh, that`s gonna be trouble". He ran inside, grabbed the phone and the firefighters came out and extinguished the burn. After the flames had been put out, Nathan`s question seemed so odd, "When you called 911, did they ask how may I help you?" Another time when John, Ma and I were living out on Alpowa Creek Road, we returned from a vacation only to find 360 degrees around our house, high up on the hill, had been completely charred. Thankfully, the green lawn and the brick house were left completely unscathed. My most recent bout with fire happened at our house on Cherry Street, that is now called "River Canyon Drive", or some other ridiculous monstrosity. An immense grass fire that had started somewhere up Asotin Creek was being fueled by intense winds and a new subdivision was currently being put in. Hence the reason for the renaming of our simple and wonderful Cherry Street. The flames came dangerously close to the framed walls and roofs that composed the skeletons of the houses to be. This burn somehow snaked around the subdivision, (had they remembered to pay off the fire gods too?) and wound its way to the draw in between our neighbor`s and our houses. This was the closest I`ve ever been to being on the front lines of fighting fire. In the evening, when the sun was hanging low in the sky, I hopped on the 4-wheeler with my boots, gloves, a shovel and a multi-gallon spray tank filled with water to offer my help. Go figure that they refused the assistance of a sober, able-bodied, albeit unexperienced young-in but accepted the help of a much older, yet experienced neighbor driving his 4-wheeler with one hand and toting a can of Keystone Light in the other. I speculate that it wasn`t the first can of piss-water that he had made his way through that day. But, when the fire was threatening out house, I did get to climb up onto the roof of the shop, spraying the area around our property with water. Figured I earned my keep for the day even if the "official" firefighters didn`t think I was worth much...
All for now, this is Elvagabundonumerouno signing out. Goodnight tv and radio land.
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine"
Okay, so it´s not a Jimmy Buffett song, but I felt a strong calling to bring a verse from my favorite Pink Floyd song to you in hopes that you might watch their DVD "Live at Pompeii". Good stuff. Now, maybe I have mentioned them before, the temblores that are extremely common here in Chile. So far, I´ve probably experienced 6-8 of these earthquakes whose epicenters are far off or possibly even underwater. They result in a shaking or trembling of the earth that rocks the old, wooden pension I´m living in. The other night, my bed got to rocking, no, not in the good way... and I sat up immediately because you just never know if it´s a real earthquake or just a temblor. This one happened to be the latter, but when I went back to sleep I started to dream about an extreme shaking of the pension. And in the ever-so-real dreamland, the structure almost fell over, but thankfully not in reality.
It´s hilarious to me that everytime I pass by the local pet food store, there are all sorts of pigeons getting a free meal of different types of feed and seed. With dog food, cat food, bird food to choose from, I just wonder which one is their favorite. I never cease to laugh when I pass the carnicería, or butcher´s shop, to find a vagrant guard dog sleeping just outside the wide open front door. You´re just torturing yourself pal, although at the end of the day, the well-rested canine might possibly get a handout for his invaluable services.
Two days ago, I set out to examine an old, rustic cemetary that I previously spied from the bottom of the hill. The elaborate graves consisted of immense monuments that would dwarf many a house in Valpaiaíso. I guess these tombs are a type of house as well, but are used to provide shelter for life after death. Sepulchres that guard your bones from the elements and scavengers during the long, cold, eternal resting place, located 6 feet under ground. Or should I say 2 meters bajo de la tierra? I was disappointed to see Cementerio Número 2 barred from entry, so I snapped a few pictures from outside the 13 foot, steel railing and continued on up the hill. I´ve recently taken to the rapidly emerging sport of "urban hiking". As the microbuses and colectivos quickly pass by, you must resist the urge to stick your thumb out and hitch a ride to the top. With my favorite blue shirt drenched in sweat, I rounded a bend and exchanged pleasantries with a fellow walking down the hill. His words rang clear, "Oye, te doy consejo, si continuas arriba del cerro, te van a robar". It´s English equivalent being, "Hey, I´ll give you some advice, if you continue up the hill, you´re gonna´ get robbed". He proceeded to tell me about another young kid that was urban hiking in the same place about a week or so before. Not sure if he was Chilean or a foreigner, or many other details at all really, except for that he had his backpack, wallet and cell phone all stolen from him in broad daylight. Thankfully I got to learn this lesson the easy way that day. I thanked the gentleman for his advice and stopped my progress up the hill, stood there for a minute or so and turned around. About 3/4 of the way to the bottom of Cerro Loma, I noticed some smoke emanating from a short distance to my right, probably about 150 yards or so as the crow flies. Immediately, my mind jumped to the possibility of a house fire. Sure enough, following the dark black smoke down to its source, I could see wild flames sprouting from somewhere behind a closely grouped bank of houses. Construction workers came out of their gated project right across the street, microbus drivers stopped on their respective sides of the narrow inclined street, and pedestrians all stopped to watch the blaze. Shortly after I stopped to watch the flames, volunteer fire engines came careening up the road, one after another, with horns and sirens audibly marking their arrival. Sometimes, the microbus drivers would gawk so long that traffic was backed up 6 to 8 cars deep. I experienced frusturation watching them press pause on their respective tasks at hand, especially when a fire engine would be one of the automobiles halted in line. Horns, swear words or shaking fists didn`t seem to have any effect on the drivers` thick skulls.
The next day, I was walking down the street past a little news stand and saw the foto of the tragedy from the day before. With the accompanying headline, "Horror en Cerro Loma", I bought the periodical for a mere $200 pesos, or about $0.45 cents. It turned out that a total of 3 houses burned that day from grease that ignited in the kitchen. Two bomberos, or, firefighters received minor injuries and were rushed to the hospital, and one or more bloggers got a terrible, non-fiction story to spread to the rest of the world.
I have a couple "good" fire stories from my youth that might apply here. When I was super young and my Pops was still living in Kendrick, Idaho and Ma had already moved into Clarkston, a neighbor boy was playing with bottle rocketsand started a brush fire. Luckily, Pops was right there with his shovel and easily put out the fire. Another time when I was quite a bit older living in the house on Grandview Drive, a good friend Nathan, Pops and I were lighting off fireworks out front. See, I`m glad I can look back on this now and laugh, but it`s generally an unusual choice to light the fuse on a firework whose function you have absolutely no idea. this one in particular was a high-powered "bee" which took off-a-buzzing a good 18-20 feet and landed in the pasture behind our backyard. The dry weeds instantly ignited and I can vividly remember Pops saying, "Uh oh, that`s gonna be trouble". He ran inside, grabbed the phone and the firefighters came out and extinguished the burn. After the flames had been put out, Nathan`s question seemed so odd, "When you called 911, did they ask how may I help you?" Another time when John, Ma and I were living out on Alpowa Creek Road, we returned from a vacation only to find 360 degrees around our house, high up on the hill, had been completely charred. Thankfully, the green lawn and the brick house were left completely unscathed. My most recent bout with fire happened at our house on Cherry Street, that is now called "River Canyon Drive", or some other ridiculous monstrosity. An immense grass fire that had started somewhere up Asotin Creek was being fueled by intense winds and a new subdivision was currently being put in. Hence the reason for the renaming of our simple and wonderful Cherry Street. The flames came dangerously close to the framed walls and roofs that composed the skeletons of the houses to be. This burn somehow snaked around the subdivision, (had they remembered to pay off the fire gods too?) and wound its way to the draw in between our neighbor`s and our houses. This was the closest I`ve ever been to being on the front lines of fighting fire. In the evening, when the sun was hanging low in the sky, I hopped on the 4-wheeler with my boots, gloves, a shovel and a multi-gallon spray tank filled with water to offer my help. Go figure that they refused the assistance of a sober, able-bodied, albeit unexperienced young-in but accepted the help of a much older, yet experienced neighbor driving his 4-wheeler with one hand and toting a can of Keystone Light in the other. I speculate that it wasn`t the first can of piss-water that he had made his way through that day. But, when the fire was threatening out house, I did get to climb up onto the roof of the shop, spraying the area around our property with water. Figured I earned my keep for the day even if the "official" firefighters didn`t think I was worth much...
All for now, this is Elvagabundonumerouno signing out. Goodnight tv and radio land.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Searchin´ for my lost Shaker o´ Salt
Greetings one and all, this is Elvagabundonumerouno dropping in to say ¡Buenas tardes amigos! Yesterday was the 4th of October, which also happens to be my Ma and Step-dad´s Anniversary. I´m a terrible son because I don´t actually know how many years they have been together. All I can say is that John has been in Ma and my lives for longer than I can remember. Without a doubt, I have watched these two souls meld into one, whole, functioning unit and I am grateful that Ma found such an awesome, caring and loving companion. Yes, I was jealous of her affection for John when he first came into the picture 15 or so years ago. They both hold to the story that I went so far as to kick the intruder once. But I honestly do not remember this violent outburst and have since refused to believe it. Okay, I can be quite the little bastard (sorry for the "French" Aunt Debbie, but this is clearly the perfect word to describe my demeanor sometimes) so maybe it´s possible that I did do something of the like. Fine, I kicked him when their love was fiirst taking root in the springtime of courtship. But now it is an absolute privilege to have John as part of the family, and I am honored to have him as a step-father. He and Ma do an excellent job at keeping each other on an even keel and I have no doubts that they will still be together in the afterlife. Whatever that may mean to you. So, with my most heartfetl congratulations, happy anniversary you two. I am literally raising my 8 ounce glass of Dos Medallas (Two Medals) Chilean wine to John and Ma being together forever.
Enough of the mushy stuff, speaking of Chilean wine, I bought a bottle of Santa Rita Cabernet Savignon in the grocery store today for $1.250 pesos. That´s right around $3 U.S. dollars for a decent bottle of wine. Not that I would have even the slightest inclination of what a decent bottle of wine tastes like... All I am saying is that it tastes a whole lot less sugary and gross than the $6 dollar bottle of wine I buy when I´m trying to impress a girl in the States. I´ve always been a beer drinker myself, but no matter the cost, or quality, wine will always register higher on the class scale than beer. Go figure right? This message goes out to Mike and Mary Jo Corby, Libby Wuestenberg, and anyone else who I may have forgetten who enjoys a nice glass of wine: If you´re looking for top notch product at a fraction of the price, it is definitely worth the trip to Chile. Seriously. More Europeanized than its other South American counterparts, you can find a nice, clean, friendly bed and breakfast with a wine tour included for less than $30 dollars. -Lonely Planet guide book
It amazes me that la primavera (springtime) already brings in fresh strawberries, oranges, apples, bananas, peppers, onions, potatoes, garlic, avacadoes, tomatoes, peas, and other fruits and veggies that I have inevitebly forgotten. An intensive study of Chile´s food system would be fascinating, but a bit of speculation will have to do for now. I´m inclined to mention the readily available fruits and vegetables available at the local verdulería because my diet has consisted mainly of the aforementioned items, chorizo and eggs. This combination produces a strange and horrific stomach brew that manifests itself in gaseous form, probably from the sheer change in eating habits. On the up side, I spend a lot of time walking around and am not around many people for a prolonged period of time so the only one who suffers is me. But I digress. I assume that the majority of the fruits and veggies don´t have to be shipped halfway around the globe in order for them to arrive in the hands of the consumer. Without crossing into the land of "preaching", but rather bordering it, have you ever looked where the peppers come from that are bought at Costco in the middle of winter for a relatively low price? For the majority of Americans it probably doesn´t even matter or effect them personally as long as the immediate price is low. Obviously this is a clear benefit of living in the U.S. We can get what we want, when we want it, without liquidating the savings account. But somewhere, someone is taking a hit for the service or goods they supply. Most all of the time, when dealing with the interconnected and globalized food market, it is the people closest to the source, or rather, the farmers. Let´s develop this thought a bit further although I know there has been many a researcher to do a much better job than I will. The easiest way for farmers to increase their profit is to provide more product, rather than increasing the quality of the product they are already supplying. Will an increased quality of product even be appreciated in the global marketplace? Or is cost the deciding factor of what stocks U.S. supermarket shelves? Just for the record these questions are not meant to be rhetorical, just open-ended musings that may lead somewhere and then again, may not. And those of us who live in wealthier nations are most definitely not going to settle for eating peppers in the summer but not in the winter. So, they must come from another location, clearly Canada can´t supply us with our favorite variety of greens all the time. In other words, the demand for out-of-season products is always present in places where money is of little or no object. In turn, the supply of these products will also be present based on one of the basic economic laws of capitalismo. Aren´t cognates great?
Here in Chile, I guess that I´m able to pay such a low price at the verdulería because the middlemen, or the transporters and holders that play a role in getting the product in the hands of the consumer, are utterly non-existant. So why are we able to pay such a low price at Costco or Fred Meyer for the "same" product when there are so many more people along the chain that also need to get their cuts? Here are some speculative reasons, feel free to mention anything I may have missed or overlooked!
1)The poverty level in export oriented countries can be very high. This makes individuals and families willing to accept lower than low prices for the foods and services they are provding.
2)Huge corporations are able to control the prices they pay for food products because the farmers need access to the evolving global marketplace.
3)Raw transportation prices depend on the price of oil that the producers have no control over, diminishing their rights even more to say, "Hey man, give us a fair price for this top notch product we´re supplying!"
4)Other middlemen costs of receiving, packaging, transporting and displaying the product add "value" to what the consumer will ultimately be purchasing.
5)Local, import-oriented markets provide a method of comparison of prices, or rather, competition that drives prices even further.
6)Federal and state level governing systems are currently promoting deregulation of tariffs that ensure disproportionate earnings for the people at the very start of the supply chain.
Alrighty, well that was the rant for today. (Abrupt transition) I mentioned heading to Patagonia next Sunday, but the operativo I volunteered for with the Red Cross won´t be until the 16th of October. The Road Life will have to wait a little bit longer and I will be forced to suffer through my own fruit and vegetable induced farts for a little while longer as well. A small price to pay for the style of life I get to enjoy currently. Since the 1970 Grateful Dead show at the Fillmore East is about over, so too are my rantings and ravings for this edition of Elvagabundonumerouno. If you made it all the way through this one, you´re a trooper, but then again, I really didn´t find that lost shaker of salt either. Take care folks.
Enough of the mushy stuff, speaking of Chilean wine, I bought a bottle of Santa Rita Cabernet Savignon in the grocery store today for $1.250 pesos. That´s right around $3 U.S. dollars for a decent bottle of wine. Not that I would have even the slightest inclination of what a decent bottle of wine tastes like... All I am saying is that it tastes a whole lot less sugary and gross than the $6 dollar bottle of wine I buy when I´m trying to impress a girl in the States. I´ve always been a beer drinker myself, but no matter the cost, or quality, wine will always register higher on the class scale than beer. Go figure right? This message goes out to Mike and Mary Jo Corby, Libby Wuestenberg, and anyone else who I may have forgetten who enjoys a nice glass of wine: If you´re looking for top notch product at a fraction of the price, it is definitely worth the trip to Chile. Seriously. More Europeanized than its other South American counterparts, you can find a nice, clean, friendly bed and breakfast with a wine tour included for less than $30 dollars. -Lonely Planet guide book
It amazes me that la primavera (springtime) already brings in fresh strawberries, oranges, apples, bananas, peppers, onions, potatoes, garlic, avacadoes, tomatoes, peas, and other fruits and veggies that I have inevitebly forgotten. An intensive study of Chile´s food system would be fascinating, but a bit of speculation will have to do for now. I´m inclined to mention the readily available fruits and vegetables available at the local verdulería because my diet has consisted mainly of the aforementioned items, chorizo and eggs. This combination produces a strange and horrific stomach brew that manifests itself in gaseous form, probably from the sheer change in eating habits. On the up side, I spend a lot of time walking around and am not around many people for a prolonged period of time so the only one who suffers is me. But I digress. I assume that the majority of the fruits and veggies don´t have to be shipped halfway around the globe in order for them to arrive in the hands of the consumer. Without crossing into the land of "preaching", but rather bordering it, have you ever looked where the peppers come from that are bought at Costco in the middle of winter for a relatively low price? For the majority of Americans it probably doesn´t even matter or effect them personally as long as the immediate price is low. Obviously this is a clear benefit of living in the U.S. We can get what we want, when we want it, without liquidating the savings account. But somewhere, someone is taking a hit for the service or goods they supply. Most all of the time, when dealing with the interconnected and globalized food market, it is the people closest to the source, or rather, the farmers. Let´s develop this thought a bit further although I know there has been many a researcher to do a much better job than I will. The easiest way for farmers to increase their profit is to provide more product, rather than increasing the quality of the product they are already supplying. Will an increased quality of product even be appreciated in the global marketplace? Or is cost the deciding factor of what stocks U.S. supermarket shelves? Just for the record these questions are not meant to be rhetorical, just open-ended musings that may lead somewhere and then again, may not. And those of us who live in wealthier nations are most definitely not going to settle for eating peppers in the summer but not in the winter. So, they must come from another location, clearly Canada can´t supply us with our favorite variety of greens all the time. In other words, the demand for out-of-season products is always present in places where money is of little or no object. In turn, the supply of these products will also be present based on one of the basic economic laws of capitalismo. Aren´t cognates great?
Here in Chile, I guess that I´m able to pay such a low price at the verdulería because the middlemen, or the transporters and holders that play a role in getting the product in the hands of the consumer, are utterly non-existant. So why are we able to pay such a low price at Costco or Fred Meyer for the "same" product when there are so many more people along the chain that also need to get their cuts? Here are some speculative reasons, feel free to mention anything I may have missed or overlooked!
1)The poverty level in export oriented countries can be very high. This makes individuals and families willing to accept lower than low prices for the foods and services they are provding.
2)Huge corporations are able to control the prices they pay for food products because the farmers need access to the evolving global marketplace.
3)Raw transportation prices depend on the price of oil that the producers have no control over, diminishing their rights even more to say, "Hey man, give us a fair price for this top notch product we´re supplying!"
4)Other middlemen costs of receiving, packaging, transporting and displaying the product add "value" to what the consumer will ultimately be purchasing.
5)Local, import-oriented markets provide a method of comparison of prices, or rather, competition that drives prices even further.
6)Federal and state level governing systems are currently promoting deregulation of tariffs that ensure disproportionate earnings for the people at the very start of the supply chain.
Alrighty, well that was the rant for today. (Abrupt transition) I mentioned heading to Patagonia next Sunday, but the operativo I volunteered for with the Red Cross won´t be until the 16th of October. The Road Life will have to wait a little bit longer and I will be forced to suffer through my own fruit and vegetable induced farts for a little while longer as well. A small price to pay for the style of life I get to enjoy currently. Since the 1970 Grateful Dead show at the Fillmore East is about over, so too are my rantings and ravings for this edition of Elvagabundonumerouno. If you made it all the way through this one, you´re a trooper, but then again, I really didn´t find that lost shaker of salt either. Take care folks.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Volcano (Vulcán)
Today was the second cloudy day I´ve experienced here in Chile, but living in Northwestern Washington for 4 years given me the opportunity to become accustomed to ¨ugly¨ days. In fact, there is a sense of security in the clouds that from a ceiling over my head. Although clouds would actually do very little to stop me from being flung far into outer space if, for some reason or another, gravity reversed itself. From my comfortable perch on the beach, I can see an immense smattering of houses that seem to blend right into one another on the hillsides. Each hill plays host to at least one high rise apartment building, precariously placed near the middle of each hill. Cranes and lifting machines that resemble the AT-AT walkers from George Lucas´ Star Wars movies line the edge of the water where the bay wraps around further to the south. Uniform in shape but not in color, shipping containers form a banner in between the bay and the city. Looking straight out into the dull green Pacific, a handful of ships are packed to the gills with these containers. It´s difficult to tell if they are even moving without examing them carefully with another object in view. This is something that has always fascinated me. Where are these floating steel ogres going? What are they transporting? My guess is food that inexpensively produced in South America that can be sold at 10 (or more) times its cost in another land. Or possibly immigrants are awkwardly packed like sardines awaiting the start of a new life. Perhaps there are kilos of marihuana or cocaína destined for Miami or Singapore in the containers. I would absolutely love to travel aboard one of these mighty ships to complete the trans-ocean journey one day. It might be better to organize a documentary for some academic purposes rather than pay a smuggler $10,000 dollars to ship you out in a storage container. Just maybe.
Yesterday during a rest between basketball games, the oldest fellow proceeded to explain to myself and another German student about his experience traveling through Mexico. He said that in the Mexico City airport, the federales asked to see his money to prove that he wasn´t just a vagrant looking to take advantage of Mexico´s numerous state benefits. Haha? They took his $3,000 dollars, quite a substantial greasing of the palms I would say. Somehow, yes there are gaps in this story, he managed to arrive at the U.S.-Mexico border and hired a coyote to take him across to the "Promised Land". He made his way to the Bay Area where he lived for 15 years studying engineering. Next time I see him, I´m going to ask questions such as if he had family in the Bay Area, if he knew English before embarking on the journey, and where his journey originated. Even temporary immigrants´ stories are some of the most intriguing I´ve ever heard.
Since I wrote to you last, Ecuador´s president, Rafael Correa was taken hostage in a coup d´ etat. This is nothing new for the country, it has seen 7 presidents in the last 13 years, 3 of them being overthrown in coups. Correa leans toward the left side of the political spectrum siding more frequently with Venezuela´s president Hugo Chávez and Bolivia´s president Evo Morales. 10 hours after soldiers took Correa hostage in a hospital in Quito, military officials managed to liberate the Ecuadoran president. The presidents of the Union of South America (UNASUR) met shortly after the violent incident. The country is still in a declared state of emergency. Being one of the countries I originally intended to visit, this news startled me substantially, but only time will tell if it will be safe to travel there when the opportunity arises.
But my first journey out of Valpo will be to the south. Next Sunday or Monday, I plan on making a solo voyage to Patagonia. I´ve begun to get restless staying here in the city although I´ve had the chance to experience some truly wonderful happenings. Waiting one more week is necessary because the nice ladies at la Cruz Roja, or rather, the Red Cross, said they could use my help distributing clothes and other necessary items to homeless people aroung the city. Finally something constructive to do with my time! It´s a little bit tough because most people have jobs or in school while I get to walk around the town getting to know its ins and outs. A week or so in Patagonia will be great to do some hiking, camping and overall communing with nature in an environment unlike any other. Shortly thereafter, I think it will be time to start the journey north to Peru. With an entirely necessary stop in San Pedro in the Atacama desert, it will be life on the road once more. Quoted as "the driest desert in the world", you can rent bicycles or hire a guide to explore its vast expanses.
Well folks, I think that is surely enough out of me. After "bummin´ around" this beautiful place for a while, the need for change and travel has struck me once more. To quote the legendary anchorman, Ron Burgundy, "You stay classy San Diego, you stay classy".
Yesterday during a rest between basketball games, the oldest fellow proceeded to explain to myself and another German student about his experience traveling through Mexico. He said that in the Mexico City airport, the federales asked to see his money to prove that he wasn´t just a vagrant looking to take advantage of Mexico´s numerous state benefits. Haha? They took his $3,000 dollars, quite a substantial greasing of the palms I would say. Somehow, yes there are gaps in this story, he managed to arrive at the U.S.-Mexico border and hired a coyote to take him across to the "Promised Land". He made his way to the Bay Area where he lived for 15 years studying engineering. Next time I see him, I´m going to ask questions such as if he had family in the Bay Area, if he knew English before embarking on the journey, and where his journey originated. Even temporary immigrants´ stories are some of the most intriguing I´ve ever heard.
Since I wrote to you last, Ecuador´s president, Rafael Correa was taken hostage in a coup d´ etat. This is nothing new for the country, it has seen 7 presidents in the last 13 years, 3 of them being overthrown in coups. Correa leans toward the left side of the political spectrum siding more frequently with Venezuela´s president Hugo Chávez and Bolivia´s president Evo Morales. 10 hours after soldiers took Correa hostage in a hospital in Quito, military officials managed to liberate the Ecuadoran president. The presidents of the Union of South America (UNASUR) met shortly after the violent incident. The country is still in a declared state of emergency. Being one of the countries I originally intended to visit, this news startled me substantially, but only time will tell if it will be safe to travel there when the opportunity arises.
But my first journey out of Valpo will be to the south. Next Sunday or Monday, I plan on making a solo voyage to Patagonia. I´ve begun to get restless staying here in the city although I´ve had the chance to experience some truly wonderful happenings. Waiting one more week is necessary because the nice ladies at la Cruz Roja, or rather, the Red Cross, said they could use my help distributing clothes and other necessary items to homeless people aroung the city. Finally something constructive to do with my time! It´s a little bit tough because most people have jobs or in school while I get to walk around the town getting to know its ins and outs. A week or so in Patagonia will be great to do some hiking, camping and overall communing with nature in an environment unlike any other. Shortly thereafter, I think it will be time to start the journey north to Peru. With an entirely necessary stop in San Pedro in the Atacama desert, it will be life on the road once more. Quoted as "the driest desert in the world", you can rent bicycles or hire a guide to explore its vast expanses.
Well folks, I think that is surely enough out of me. After "bummin´ around" this beautiful place for a while, the need for change and travel has struck me once more. To quote the legendary anchorman, Ron Burgundy, "You stay classy San Diego, you stay classy".
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