Thursday, January 19, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Buenos Aires (12/7-12/20)
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| Scott carrying Peter's bag |
When we got to the hostel, I slept, but Scott and Peter went on some adventure until 5am with two Swedish girls (ask them about it if you're interested). The next morning, Ben, Daniel and I had set up a rendezvous at the bar of the Sheraton. Go figure. I walked there via the bustling pedestrian walkway on Calle Florida, stopping often to consult my map. On one such pause, I was standing at the corner of a small kiosk, back to it, when someone slashed the strap of my purse! I'd heard about this move as a popular thieving tactic for crowded areas, and as soon as I felt slack in the strap, I did a wildly overexaggerated acrobatic move to clutch my bag. Somehow, a moment later, I was holding my bag - the thief was foiled! I waited until my heart was beating at a regular pace, then inspected the damage - only to find that what I thought had been a malicious purse-snatching attempt was actually just a worn seam on the strap failing. The seam had simply come undone. I have to hope it was amusing for any onlookers to see a gringa calmly reading a map one moment, and comically wheeling her arms to grab her own purse the next. Ha, ha.
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| Elated reunion/searching for apartments |
The thing to do, of course, was to go and buy some choripan - grilled chorizo sausage stuffed into a French roll, with your choice of toppings - and some beer, and go sit in a park to wait for the apartment rentals we'd contacted from Craigslist to call us back. This happened a few hours later, and Ben, Daniel and I went to check out the place. It was a one-bedroom apartment with one queen and one single bed, a kitchen, a living room replete with a computer and TV, a bathroom, and a large patio with high walls (good for keeping beer pong balls from getting lost). We decided to think it over that night, and stay at the hostel while we considered.
Of course, being who we are, we immediately made friends at the hostel, and were having so much fun with said friends that we were politely asked to leave at around midnight, so the rest of the hostel could sleep. We went to the club conveniently located next door, where we noticed the people in line looked rather young. Plus, several of them were inexplicably wearing sailor costumes. Did we miss something?
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| In da club |
That being said, we had a great night dancing amongst the self-conscious teenagers, and I went home at 3am quite satisfied with the evening. I showered, got into bed, and went to set an alarm on my cell phone - only to see I had several text messages from a Spanish friend I'd met on the trail in Patagonia, and who had been trying to meet up with me in BA. So I got dressed, grabbed Ben, and we went and danced with my friend and his Argentinian friend at the same club until the sun came up. I taught them some Bay Area dance moves, which they discounted as something I'd made up...
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| Dealing with accounting/USD headache |
The first night in the apartment, we (naturally) decided to have a housewarming party. We invited our friends from the hostel, my Spanish friend, and a Dutch girl Scott and I had met in the mines of Potosi. Pretty soon, we had a decently-sized, roughly gender-matched group playing beer pong on our back patio. None of our guests had ever played the game before, and were thrilled to learn. We ended up teaching them several variations on the game, until an upstairs neighbor poked his head out and entreated us to move our party inside.
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| Housewarming party crew |
The following day, we decided to check out the inaugural festivities. This was not difficult to do, seeing as the major avenue bisecting our section of the city had been blocked for the day. This was so that president-elect Cristina Kirchner could travel in her personal cavalcade from the Casa Rosada ("Pink House," Argentina's version of the White House - it's actually pink). It was an exciting time to be in the city, not least of which because we'd noticed many pieces of graffiti art championing President Kirchner, or, as she is more often just called affectionately: Cristina. It seemed odd and wonderful that, although she'd been in office already for a year in the stead of her late husband, Nestor Kirchner, she was still so popular amongst the citizens. There were certainly parallels to Eva Peron, particularly because Cristina's primary qualification (and apparently the basis for her campaign) was that she'd been married to the late socialist president. Nestor is often depicted in graffiti, banners, and T-shirts in a scuba costume; he famously likened Argentina to a diver underwater, and called for the country to rise to the surface.
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| Beer pong, even with injuries |
Our routine invariably also meant that each day a dish would get broken, someone would get stepped on while sleeping, and/or Ben would gash his elbow open on the broken ceramic soap holder in the shower (good thing we all had First Aid kits. Except Peter, of course).
Another interesting aspect of living with four boys was the fact that most of the women in BA are inordinately beautiful. I'm not sure why, but there seems to be an abnormal concentration of elegant and striking women in the city, and Peter decided there needed to be a code word for indicating that one of these women was near. He settled on the word "maté," which refers to the bitter Argentinian herbal tea drink popular throughout the country. Once this had been established, of course, Peter abused the term aggressively; any woman wearing a short skirt or sporting undone hair qualified as one of the most beautiful women in the world, and the incessant chant of "maté, maté, OH! ...look at that maté!" got more than a little bit annoying.
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| Hanging in the living room-cum-bedroom |
That's it! Thanks for reading, and thank you to all who made our journey what it was :)
Please check back in a few days for a final video account of our travels!
Monday, January 16, 2012
Boca Juniors (Special Guest Writer: Scott) featuring Peter, Ben, and Florida Guy
Quick Disclaimer: I don’t have a great memory, so I wrote this little episode as a way for me to remember the specifics of our Boca Juniors game saga. It might be a little detail-heavy for the casual reader compared with the rest of the blog, but I’m confident you can slog through it, and I’m definitely glad to have it written down. Here you go:
It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon and the game was starting in two hours. I had spent the entire day trying to get somebody to go with me, and it was beginning to look like a futile effort. Everyone was either hungover, still drunk, or asleep. After nearly five months in South America, I had yet to attend a soccer match and witness firsthand the spectacle of tens of thousands of idiots singing, dancing, and chanting in an effort to will their team to victory.
As time continued to dwindle, I decided that I would go by myself. Finally summoning the gusto to get off the couch and head out the door, I made one last offer to convince the others to join me. Struck by a sudden characteristic burst of enthusiasm, Peter and Ben resolved that they would come. Daniel and Hayley remained in their respective states of sleep and facebook as we headed out the door.
With no idea how to get to the stadium, how to get tickets, or how to not be completely and utterly clueless on how to do anything resembling attending a soccer match in Buenos Aires, we headed down trash-laden Calle Mexico toward the larger thoroughfare of Calle Santa Fe. Our internal compasses (Peter’s I-Phone) directed us south along Santa Fe. We walked for several minutes until we realized that there was less than an hour until game-time, and decided that we needed a faster means of transportation. As Peter is wont to do, he suggested that we take a taxi to the stadium. As I am wont to do, I looked for a cheaper option. We flagged down a bus with ‘Boca’ across the front of it, and asked the driver if he was going to the stadium. The sea of blue-and-yellow-clad Argentineans filling the bus was answer enough.
Four blocks later, we got off the bus at the sight of the colossal Boca Stadium, nicknamed The Bombonera (Chocolate Box). Painted bright blue and yellow, the stadium loomed in front of us. Peter immediately bought a five-foot-long Boca flag from a street vendor, and I snapped about 10 I-Phone photos as he enthusiastically waved the flag above his head with the stadium in the background. This photo shoot proved significant because we had decided to bring only a single camera (I-Phone) between the three of us, and the impressively short battery life of the I-Phone would ultimately fail at the most inopportune of moments, and in the most majestic of fashions (the screen went black – truly spectacular).
We crossed the empty lot that separated us from the stadium, slightly surprised at the small number of fans on their way to the game; it was now half an hour to game-time. A man approached us, offering to sell us tickets to the game that looked suspiciously like Argentinian bus passes, for 300 pesos a piece. We declined, and continued towards the group of security guards waiting at the outer stadium fence. We asked them where we could purchase tickets, and were surprised to find out that only season-passholders could attend the game.
As we stood outside the gate and looked hopefully for some divine intervention to help us, a scummy-looking Argentinian man approached and asked if we were looking for tickets. Unable to distinguish whether this was truly the divine intervention we had been waiting for, or simply a bus-pass-selling-hustler, we affirmed that we were looking for tickets and followed him around the outskirts of the stadium.
After several minutes we reached a security checkpoint where our newfound buddy spoke quickly and discreetly to the guards, who then parted to let us through. We passed through the next several security stops in similar fashion until we reached the final fence separating us from the stadium itself. The Argentinian talked with the guards again, but this time they refused to part. We shifted our weight nervously and waited. A few minutes went by, and the man was unable to weasel us into the stadium.
He motioned for us to move away from the entry queue and sit innocently on the curb. He said he would go try to get the tickets and that if he wasn’t back in half an hour, we should stop waiting. Thinking that we were getting into something shady, but not having a better option, we obliged and sat in wait. Before walking back through the numerous security checkpoints, he revealed that the game didn’t start until 7:10pm; we had about two hours to figure out a way to get in.
After waiting on the curb for about ten minutes, discussing every option from bum-rushing the security guards to climbing the 20-foot-tall fence, we decided that the man wasn’t coming back, and that even if he did it was unlikely that he would have legitimate tickets. We stood up and walked towards the security point from which we had come. As we were passing the guards, they stopped us and asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We guardedly responded that we were, and the security
guys told us to wait with them and that our tickets were on the way.
After several minutes, two new Argentinian men approached us and clandestinely asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We said yes, and they directed us away from the security guards. With their backs turned to the guards, they pulled out
three tickets that looked like bus passes that had been written on with a typewriter; we were not convinced, and asked them how much they wanted for the tickets. They were asking three hundred pesos each (about 70 US dollars, we had earlier agreed that we wouldn’t pay more than 100 dollars), and we started haggling. We finally got them down to 200 pesos each, and then to 150. At that price, it was a risk we were willing to take, but I decided to confirm with the security guards that they were in fact legitimate tickets.
The security guard who had first stopped us to ask if we were the three guys looking for tickets responded “son buenos” (they are good), and we discreetly paid the scalpers 450 pesos for the tickets. I say discreetly, but in reality there is no chance that three gringos lifting up their shirts and reaching into bulging money belts is ever secretive, especially when one is wearing a giant Boca flag and Raiders cap.
Anyway, we kind of thanked everyone who had been involved in this covert series of events, and were directed around the stadium to the entrance we had first tried to enter. When we presented the tickets to the guard at the gate, he said we couldn’t enter there and that we needed to continue further around the outskirts of the stadium. Slightly unnerved by the wry smile the guard had worn after seeing our tickets, we walked across an empty field and through the downtrodden yet colorful (predominately blue and yellow – the Boca Juniors’ colors) slums.
After avoiding several scalpers and “bar owners” who invited us to drink in their bar (“es seguro” – it’s safe), we reached another potential entrance to the stadium. We presented our tickets with feigned confidence to the security guards – first Ben, then Peter, then me. Peter and Ben got in fine, and the security guard let me through the gate before saying “no es bueno” (“it’s not good”), referring to my ticket, which he then pocketed as he told us to keep moving with the queue to the next checkpoint. Bewildered, I followed Peter and Ben to another group of security guards at the next gate.
When Peter and Ben showed their tickets, the young guard said that we were at the wrong entrance, and that we had to leave this section of the fenced-in compound and enter at gate 11. He made no indication that the tickets were fake, and we realized that the security guard who had confiscated my ticket could have been in cahoots with the scalpers. We walked back out towards these first group of guards, and Ben said “robaste su boleto” (you stole his ticket), to which the guard responded that he didn’t know what we were talking about, but that if we needed tickets he had a friend nearby who could sell us some. The friend approached us and offered to sell us another bus pass ticket for three hundred pesos.
Increasingly frustrated with the questionable integrity of every single stadium employee, we appealed to a nearby uniformed policeman to help us determine what to do next. In broken Spanish we attempted to present the situation. After several minutes of observing our wild gesturing and spanglish spouting (it’s more difficult to speak Spanish when you’re excited or emotional… the same thing happens to me in English), the policeman revealed that he had seen the guard take my ticket, and that it had been unquestionably fake. Not wanting to forfeit Peter and Bens’ tickets by asking if they too were fake (it seemed unlikely that the scalpers sold us only one fake ticket), we sheepishly walked back through the gate and into the Boca ‘hood.
Someone with less fortitude might have taken this opportunity to reflect on their chances of getting into the game with two fake tickets for three people and conclude that it was time to throw in the towel. Luckily, we had maximum fortitude that day.
We walked around the stadium to the gate that the young security guard had directed us to, and squeezed through a hole in the fence to evade the first security checkpoint. We then walked to the next checkpoint, where they frisked us without even asking to see our tickets. Thinking our luck was changing, we reached the final security checkpoint; it was surrounded by several guards and a plethora of uniformed policemen. Ben and Peter showed their tickets to one of the security guards, who, without hesitation, said they were fake. He took Peter’s ticket. He then took Ben’s ticket, contemplated something, and handed Ben his ticket back.
Dazed and confused, we slowly backed away from the cop-cluster to assess our next move. Suddenly a roar erupted from inside the stadium, and a barrage of fireworks lit the sky above us with a deafening combination of Piccolo-Pete-style screaming and bottle-rocket explosions. The crowd roared again, and, checking our watches, we realized that it was 7:10 PM and the game had just begun. As we looked around, we noticed that there were no longer any fans entering the stadium; consequently, the 20-or-so uniformed police and hired security guards had nothing to do besides aggressively eyeball the three gringos who had just been banned from entering the stadium but had not yet left the premises and were clandestinely conspiring on how to get in.
A tall Argentiniam man wearing a green button-down shirt and slacks approached us and said “Que pasa muchachos?” (what happened boys?); we gave him a brief summary of our exploits thus far. He told us that there was no problem and that he would help us. We spent the next ten minutes intermittently making small-talk with him (he said that he had visited Florida once – thus earning his future nickname of Florida Guy) and telling him our slightly modified sob-story, featuring the three of us as poor volunteers who had spent nearly all our remaining money trying to fulfill our lifelong dream of attending a Boca Juniors game.
Suddenly a troll-like policeman shoved Peter in the back, nearly knocking him to the ground, and started shouting at us to leave the area. We confusedly complied while several police aggressively ushered us towards the exit gate. As the police left, Florida Guy asked us how much money we really had. Stepping away from him for a minute, we conferred and determined that we had about 300 pesos left; we told him we had 200. He said that was fine, and told us to wait outside the exit gate behind a piece of plywood so that the police couldn’t see us. We hesitantly agreed, and exited past the security guards, through the fence, and into the Boca neighborhood.
Sitting on the curb behind the piece of plywood, we became increasingly aware that, while we had not been accountable for trying to enter the game with fake tickets, we most definitely would be accountable if we got caught doing whatever we were doing with 200 pesos and Florida Guy. Discussing the situation, we agreed that we could feign ignorance if we were to get caught, and that we had invested too much time, money, and emotion to quit now. After several minutes Florida Guy exited through the gate, told us that everything was fine and that we should prepare the money and follow him. Having never “prepared the money” before, we were a little unclear on the concept, but gleaned that one person should have the money located in a discreet, easy-to-access place, like a hand. At some point before we reached the entry gate, Ben gave Florida Guy the money; it was so quick that I didn’t even see it happen (I still suspect PayPal was involved…).
I started getting apprehensive as we approached the entry gate; it was the same gate and group of security guards that had confiscated my ticket half and hour earlier.Needless to say, I didn’t like our chances of fleecing our way past them again.
I was quickly proven wrong as Florida Guy exchanged a few quick words with the guards, then flashed something at them, and walked through the gate. We followed him through, trying not to acknowledge that we recognized the guards. As we came to the next security checkpoint, Florida Guy once again talked to the guards, showed them something, and was let through with us in tow, although these guards were more vigilant and confiscated the knife in my pocket. Approaching the final level of security, which consisted of electronic turnstiles with magnetic ticket-scanning and a huge group of police officers and security personnel, we could smell success. Florida Guy walked over to a man holding a clipboard and wearing a suit, and they talked for several minutes as we three gringos waited nervously.
Finally, Florida Guy indicated that we should enter the turnstile. All together now. Ben was pressed against the subway-style arm that blocked our entry, with Peter pressed behind him, me behind Peter, and Florida Guy behind me. The 20 police officers and security guards stared with interest, but made no indication that we couldn’t, as it appeared we were going to do, enter the game using a single ticket. Florida guy reached over to the turnstile scanner and held a game ticket up to it. He signaled for Ben to go through, and the turnstile revolved. Peter successfully followed Ben through, but as I pressed against the turnstile arm it refused to move. With a sinking sensation I realized that this would be as close as I would get to the game. I looked up and saw Peter and Ben waiting guardedly on the other side.
Helplessly standing in the turnstile, trying not to make eye contact with the myriad police officers staring at me, I turned to Florida Guy for guidance. He indicated that he would be back in a few minutes, and darted around a corner towards the exit of the stadium and out of sight. I assumed I would never see him again, and began using my laser-vision to burn an escape route into the ground below me (the guy from the X-Men who has laser-vision is also named Scott - maybe not a coincidence?). Just as I was beginning to burn through the ground to my salvation, Florida Guy returned. With a quick flick of the wrist, he flashed another ticket at the magnetic turnstile.
I bumped into the unyielding arm several times as he continued to spastically wave the ticket at the scanner. He eventually directed me to a different turnstile, scanned the card, and the arm moved to let me through. Without looking back at Florida Guy, Peter, Ben and I nervously tiptoed up a set of stairs, past several other police officers, and up to a sort of causeway.
We looked out over a sea of blue-and-yellow-clad, flag-waving, singing, jumping, dancing Argentinian fanatics; there wasn’t a police officer in sight. In unison, the three of us let out a triumphant roar of victory, exchanged exuberant high-fives, and marveled that we had finally bribed our way into the game. Then the I-Phone died.
Without exaggeration, it was the greatest sporting event I have ever attended. The pulsating energy and joyful abandon of the fans were contagious and inspiring, and our entrance odyssey made us that much more appreciative to be there. When Boca finally did score a goal in the 80th minute, we were surprised to notice that the festive chants and dances continued much as they had before. It was then that we realized that we were at more than a sporting event – we were at a celebration of life.
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| Scott approaches the stadium |
As time continued to dwindle, I decided that I would go by myself. Finally summoning the gusto to get off the couch and head out the door, I made one last offer to convince the others to join me. Struck by a sudden characteristic burst of enthusiasm, Peter and Ben resolved that they would come. Daniel and Hayley remained in their respective states of sleep and facebook as we headed out the door.
With no idea how to get to the stadium, how to get tickets, or how to not be completely and utterly clueless on how to do anything resembling attending a soccer match in Buenos Aires, we headed down trash-laden Calle Mexico toward the larger thoroughfare of Calle Santa Fe. Our internal compasses (Peter’s I-Phone) directed us south along Santa Fe. We walked for several minutes until we realized that there was less than an hour until game-time, and decided that we needed a faster means of transportation. As Peter is wont to do, he suggested that we take a taxi to the stadium. As I am wont to do, I looked for a cheaper option. We flagged down a bus with ‘Boca’ across the front of it, and asked the driver if he was going to the stadium. The sea of blue-and-yellow-clad Argentineans filling the bus was answer enough.
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| Peter, proud of his Boca flag |
We crossed the empty lot that separated us from the stadium, slightly surprised at the small number of fans on their way to the game; it was now half an hour to game-time. A man approached us, offering to sell us tickets to the game that looked suspiciously like Argentinian bus passes, for 300 pesos a piece. We declined, and continued towards the group of security guards waiting at the outer stadium fence. We asked them where we could purchase tickets, and were surprised to find out that only season-passholders could attend the game.
As we stood outside the gate and looked hopefully for some divine intervention to help us, a scummy-looking Argentinian man approached and asked if we were looking for tickets. Unable to distinguish whether this was truly the divine intervention we had been waiting for, or simply a bus-pass-selling-hustler, we affirmed that we were looking for tickets and followed him around the outskirts of the stadium.
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| Scott and Ben follow the scalper |
He motioned for us to move away from the entry queue and sit innocently on the curb. He said he would go try to get the tickets and that if he wasn’t back in half an hour, we should stop waiting. Thinking that we were getting into something shady, but not having a better option, we obliged and sat in wait. Before walking back through the numerous security checkpoints, he revealed that the game didn’t start until 7:10pm; we had about two hours to figure out a way to get in.
After waiting on the curb for about ten minutes, discussing every option from bum-rushing the security guards to climbing the 20-foot-tall fence, we decided that the man wasn’t coming back, and that even if he did it was unlikely that he would have legitimate tickets. We stood up and walked towards the security point from which we had come. As we were passing the guards, they stopped us and asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We guardedly responded that we were, and the security
guys told us to wait with them and that our tickets were on the way.
After several minutes, two new Argentinian men approached us and clandestinely asked if we were the three guys looking for tickets. We said yes, and they directed us away from the security guards. With their backs turned to the guards, they pulled out
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| Ben and Scott, unclear on what they were doing |
The security guard who had first stopped us to ask if we were the three guys looking for tickets responded “son buenos” (they are good), and we discreetly paid the scalpers 450 pesos for the tickets. I say discreetly, but in reality there is no chance that three gringos lifting up their shirts and reaching into bulging money belts is ever secretive, especially when one is wearing a giant Boca flag and Raiders cap.
Anyway, we kind of thanked everyone who had been involved in this covert series of events, and were directed around the stadium to the entrance we had first tried to enter. When we presented the tickets to the guard at the gate, he said we couldn’t enter there and that we needed to continue further around the outskirts of the stadium. Slightly unnerved by the wry smile the guard had worn after seeing our tickets, we walked across an empty field and through the downtrodden yet colorful (predominately blue and yellow – the Boca Juniors’ colors) slums.
After avoiding several scalpers and “bar owners” who invited us to drink in their bar (“es seguro” – it’s safe), we reached another potential entrance to the stadium. We presented our tickets with feigned confidence to the security guards – first Ben, then Peter, then me. Peter and Ben got in fine, and the security guard let me through the gate before saying “no es bueno” (“it’s not good”), referring to my ticket, which he then pocketed as he told us to keep moving with the queue to the next checkpoint. Bewildered, I followed Peter and Ben to another group of security guards at the next gate.
When Peter and Ben showed their tickets, the young guard said that we were at the wrong entrance, and that we had to leave this section of the fenced-in compound and enter at gate 11. He made no indication that the tickets were fake, and we realized that the security guard who had confiscated my ticket could have been in cahoots with the scalpers. We walked back out towards these first group of guards, and Ben said “robaste su boleto” (you stole his ticket), to which the guard responded that he didn’t know what we were talking about, but that if we needed tickets he had a friend nearby who could sell us some. The friend approached us and offered to sell us another bus pass ticket for three hundred pesos.
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| Florida Guy at the checkpoint |
Someone with less fortitude might have taken this opportunity to reflect on their chances of getting into the game with two fake tickets for three people and conclude that it was time to throw in the towel. Luckily, we had maximum fortitude that day.
We walked around the stadium to the gate that the young security guard had directed us to, and squeezed through a hole in the fence to evade the first security checkpoint. We then walked to the next checkpoint, where they frisked us without even asking to see our tickets. Thinking our luck was changing, we reached the final security checkpoint; it was surrounded by several guards and a plethora of uniformed policemen. Ben and Peter showed their tickets to one of the security guards, who, without hesitation, said they were fake. He took Peter’s ticket. He then took Ben’s ticket, contemplated something, and handed Ben his ticket back.
Dazed and confused, we slowly backed away from the cop-cluster to assess our next move. Suddenly a roar erupted from inside the stadium, and a barrage of fireworks lit the sky above us with a deafening combination of Piccolo-Pete-style screaming and bottle-rocket explosions. The crowd roared again, and, checking our watches, we realized that it was 7:10 PM and the game had just begun. As we looked around, we noticed that there were no longer any fans entering the stadium; consequently, the 20-or-so uniformed police and hired security guards had nothing to do besides aggressively eyeball the three gringos who had just been banned from entering the stadium but had not yet left the premises and were clandestinely conspiring on how to get in.
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| Peter and Ben, hoping their luck is changing |
Suddenly a troll-like policeman shoved Peter in the back, nearly knocking him to the ground, and started shouting at us to leave the area. We confusedly complied while several police aggressively ushered us towards the exit gate. As the police left, Florida Guy asked us how much money we really had. Stepping away from him for a minute, we conferred and determined that we had about 300 pesos left; we told him we had 200. He said that was fine, and told us to wait outside the exit gate behind a piece of plywood so that the police couldn’t see us. We hesitantly agreed, and exited past the security guards, through the fence, and into the Boca neighborhood.
Sitting on the curb behind the piece of plywood, we became increasingly aware that, while we had not been accountable for trying to enter the game with fake tickets, we most definitely would be accountable if we got caught doing whatever we were doing with 200 pesos and Florida Guy. Discussing the situation, we agreed that we could feign ignorance if we were to get caught, and that we had invested too much time, money, and emotion to quit now. After several minutes Florida Guy exited through the gate, told us that everything was fine and that we should prepare the money and follow him. Having never “prepared the money” before, we were a little unclear on the concept, but gleaned that one person should have the money located in a discreet, easy-to-access place, like a hand. At some point before we reached the entry gate, Ben gave Florida Guy the money; it was so quick that I didn’t even see it happen (I still suspect PayPal was involved…).
I started getting apprehensive as we approached the entry gate; it was the same gate and group of security guards that had confiscated my ticket half and hour earlier.Needless to say, I didn’t like our chances of fleecing our way past them again.
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| Inside the Boca Stadium |
Finally, Florida Guy indicated that we should enter the turnstile. All together now. Ben was pressed against the subway-style arm that blocked our entry, with Peter pressed behind him, me behind Peter, and Florida Guy behind me. The 20 police officers and security guards stared with interest, but made no indication that we couldn’t, as it appeared we were going to do, enter the game using a single ticket. Florida guy reached over to the turnstile scanner and held a game ticket up to it. He signaled for Ben to go through, and the turnstile revolved. Peter successfully followed Ben through, but as I pressed against the turnstile arm it refused to move. With a sinking sensation I realized that this would be as close as I would get to the game. I looked up and saw Peter and Ben waiting guardedly on the other side.
Helplessly standing in the turnstile, trying not to make eye contact with the myriad police officers staring at me, I turned to Florida Guy for guidance. He indicated that he would be back in a few minutes, and darted around a corner towards the exit of the stadium and out of sight. I assumed I would never see him again, and began using my laser-vision to burn an escape route into the ground below me (the guy from the X-Men who has laser-vision is also named Scott - maybe not a coincidence?). Just as I was beginning to burn through the ground to my salvation, Florida Guy returned. With a quick flick of the wrist, he flashed another ticket at the magnetic turnstile.
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| Peter celebrates with Boca fans |
We looked out over a sea of blue-and-yellow-clad, flag-waving, singing, jumping, dancing Argentinian fanatics; there wasn’t a police officer in sight. In unison, the three of us let out a triumphant roar of victory, exchanged exuberant high-fives, and marveled that we had finally bribed our way into the game. Then the I-Phone died.
Without exaggeration, it was the greatest sporting event I have ever attended. The pulsating energy and joyful abandon of the fans were contagious and inspiring, and our entrance odyssey made us that much more appreciative to be there. When Boca finally did score a goal in the 80th minute, we were surprised to notice that the festive chants and dances continued much as they had before. It was then that we realized that we were at more than a sporting event – we were at a celebration of life.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Uruguay: La Paloma & Montevideo (11/30-12/7)
We left the community before our week was up, and there was a distinct change in the peoples' attitudes toward us after we announced our departure. The first thing we did upon leaving the place where we'd felt so restricted was to buy beers and walk to entire distance to the milk factory, brandishing our bottles at the cars rolling past, whose drivers must've thought it odd to see two gringos drinking beer at 10am.
One of the drivers (in a open-top Jeep) was so amused by the sight that he offered us a ride, which we gratefully accepted.
We caught the bus without much trouble, although one of the people waiting at the stop looked suspiciously like one of the men from the community - a spy? Soon we were Buenos Aires-bound, beers clutched thoughfully in our hands as we watched the countryside slide past. I thought I was close to falling asleep for the remainder of the two-hour ride, when I suddenly realized that the beer had gone straight through me; I needed to pee. Fortunately, when I crawled up to the front of the bus, my pitiful expression was enough to tug on the heartstrings of the driver and his sidekick. They stopped the bus at a toll plaza, and the 50 passengers waited patiently as I ran to the nearby restrooms, relieved myself, and ran back. That never would have happened in Bolivia...
In Buenos Aires, we were struck suddenly with indecision. We'd left the community on the pretense of meeting our friends in Buenos Aires, which was true, but the first of our friends wouldn't be there for another two days. After some deliberation (over all-you-can-eat parrilla, or grilled meats), we booked a hostel for the night, with the option to cross the Rio de la Plata to Uruguay for a quick few days the following morning.
[Aside: Argentina's capital, Buenos Aires, and Uruguay's capital, Montevideo, are the geographically the closest capitals in South America. They are separated by the mouth of a large river, Rio de la Plata, which drains on an east-west course between the two cities. Now, the literal translation of "Rio de la Plata" is "River of Silver," or, more colloquially, "Silver River." However, at some undisclosed point in history, someone must have mistranslated the name into English, and as a result, every person/map/guidebook/sign that attempts an English translation of the river does so as "River Plate." Because, you know, "plata" kind of resembles "plato." I have no idea how this agonizingly glaring mistake continues to be perpetuated without fuss, but apparently the Argentinians have no problem with it. If you don't believe me, look for the river's name on this map, the soccer team named after the river in this headline, or the team's actual website. It could definitely be that I'm missing something here, but I think it's hilarious.]
The next morning found me offloading some of our more heavy-duty camping gear and some dirty laundry into the hostel's storage room (I wouldn't return for these items for almost two weeks - whoops!), and the two of us barely catching the Buquebus (boo-kay-boose), a giant boat that would ferry us across the river. One three-hour ferry and a two-hour bus ride later, we were in Montevideo, Uruguay's capital. We booked our bus to La Paloma, a small beach town about four hours north of Montevideo, for a few hours later, then went to drop our backpacks at the baggage guarderia. Unfortunately for us, the baggage employees seemed to think that the saddlebags and tent (Scott's) attached to our backpacks counted as separate pieces of luggage. I managed to convince them that the saddlebags were part of the original design of the packs, and they relented. When I asked if I could leave my canvas handbag as well, they informed me it would cost 10 Uruguayan pesos. I decided to hold onto my bag. They would not, however, allow Scott's pack to remain intact, and demanded that he separate the tent from it's convenient nesting-place on the rear of the pack. Frustrated, Scott did so, but when they told him it would cost 30 Uruguayan pesos to check the tent (approximately the same size as my canvas bag), Scott got annoyed. He tried to ask why the price of leaving the tent was different from that for the bag, and the employees called their manager. A tall, thin man arrived, took one look at Scott, and informed us (not-too-politely) that we would not be allowed to leave any of our bags at their counter, and would we please step out of the way so that the people behind us could be helped. It took several minutes and a choripan (fresh bread roll with a grilled chorizo sausage stuffed inside) before Scott had calmed down from the blatant injustice and the manager's effrontery.
We caught our bus to La Paloma a few hours later, and I napped on the sunset drive up the coast. We arrived in the tiny beach town well after dark, and asked at the bus station for camping options. We were directed generally towards a sparse forest of evergreens behind the station, and began walking uncertainly into the dark. A few minutes later, in the midst of barking dogs and a trailer-truck graveyard, we met a lanky man who pointed up a dirt track through the trees. It took us another few stops and strangers' vague directions before we located the campground, whose office had closed within the last 15 minutes (it was 10:45pm). Not wanting to backtrack, and adamant that we would not stay in a hostel, I began sneaking around the premises until I found two men in a lit doorway. One was the proprietor, and a few minutes later we'd registered and paid for the night.
He told us a bit about the campground as he walked us to our site, and it turns out that in the peak of the summer - January 15th to 31st - it has a pool, its own grocery store, an internet cafe, a fingerprint scanner to enter the park, and space to accommodate 7,000 campers. We asked him to repeat himself.
Fortunately, while we stayed there, there were only ever two other groups: an Australian couple who we christened The Most Boring People We Met In South America, and enormous crew of adolescent boys who claimed to be part of a family reunion of traveling musicians. Their favorite activities involved yelling at our tent, stealing our bread, and making lewd pantomimes at the naked blowup doll one of them had produced. Their gestures never failed to elicit the same low-volume group laugh.
The next day we did the (boring) 20-minute walk into town, only to find that La Paloma's economy lies entirely in providing services to the thousands of tourists (Uruguayan and otherwise) that descend upon the town during two weeks in January. Because we were visiting outside of those two weeks, however, we noticed a distinct lack of stores/restaurants/businesses being open, and certainly none of them adhered to the hours posted on their storefronts. Despite these setbacks, Scott successfully rented a surfboard from a surf shop, and I rented a bicycle from an old mute in his apartment. Consequently, Scott spent the next few days surfing, and I spent them riding blissfully through the woods and along the verdant, windy coastline. There are few things I love more than bicycles.
We also did a decent amount of cooking in our BBQ pit - I'd left our frying pan in the hostel in Buenos Aires, but Scott still had the tin plate we'd bought as a makeshift lid, and we used that coupled with a scarf-potholder to cook eggs, chorizo, onions, peppers, and toast. (We'd planned a full-on breakfast for my birthday morning, but awoke to find that the adolescent minstrels had stolen many of our groceries. I left them a pity-inducing note saying they'd ruined my birthday, which was untrue.)
We left the morning of my birthday, and after an interesting bus ride with an entire futbol team, we made it to Montevideo. My one request for my birthday was that we stay in a legitimate backpacker's hostel (as opposed to a cheap hotel), so that we could make friends, take advantage of computers/TVs/games, and have resources to get linked into the city's best offerings. We settled on a hostel, then went out for lunch (with wine). After lunch we picked some fizzy wine coolers, and sat in a main square drinking, chatting, and watching kids play with defunct soda cans.
Later, we headed back to the hostel to wait for Scott's friend, Peter, who came to join us from the United States. In anticipation of his arrival, we made a water-filled condom balloon, which we dropped on him from the rooftop as he emerged from his cab. The boys spent the night catching up and playing my least-favorite drinking game: quarters. At some point, Scott stuck candles my mom had sent with Peter into a cranberry bread loaf (also courtesy of Robin Moller, via Peter), and they sang. However, we'd started drinking early, and by the time it was late enough to go out, I was exhausted and went to sleep instead. I was also disappointed that none of the hostel's inhabitants had decided to join us; we later found out that everyone else in the hostel was actually a study-abroad student, and it was their finals week.
The next day, Scott felt badly that my birthday had been overshadowed by Peter's arrival (I think I was a bit jealous that after five months of traveling with Scott, I suddenly had to share his attention with someone else). In order to rectify the situation (as he saw it), he offered to let me cut his hair, which I'd been trying to convince him to let me do for several weeks. What's more, he said I could cut it however I liked...I'm fairly certain he was expecting me to say no, because as my face lit up, his fell. Moments later, I'd obtained a pair of scissors and a comb, and we were up on the rooftop. I chose to model the haircut after this one I found online, and I think I did a fairly good job. Scott even forgot about the weird, South American douche-style cut I'd given him, and it wasn't until almost a week later that he finally had me cut it normally in Buenos Aires.
We spent longer than we'd anticipated in Montevideo, and drank 25 liter-sized beers during our stay (we later returned all the bottles in bulk to a grocery store - the combined rebate was enough to buy us a whole bottle of rum). These we consumed while playing beer pong in the hostel, swimming in "River Plate" in the company of showering bums, and riding rental bikes miles along the beachfront in the sunshine. We also spent one evening with all of the foreign exchange students (all of whom were from Argentina or Brazil) at a birthday party for the hostel's dueño (owner), which featured lavish appetizers, many family members, and an absolutely gigantic vat of clerico - a sort of white sangria with tons of fruit in it, sometimes served in a hollowed-out melon.
Another night, we'd gone for a late beer run, and Peter decided to show off his newfound pole-climbing capabilities. He shimmied up a street sign, and Scott and I were so delighted by it that we made him do it again...unfortunately, he must've stepped in dog feces at some point, then smeared it on the pole from his shoes, so the second time he came down from the pole, his shirtfront was covered in it. He ran back to the hostel to change, and when he returned, Scott and I were engaged in a fascinating conversation with a potentially-homeless man named Marcelo, who turned out not only to have terrible facial hair, but also to be a racist.
All too soon, it was time to return to Buenos Aires to meet my college friends, Ben and Daniel, and to wrap up the very end of what had become the trip of a lifetime.
One of the drivers (in a open-top Jeep) was so amused by the sight that he offered us a ride, which we gratefully accepted.
We caught the bus without much trouble, although one of the people waiting at the stop looked suspiciously like one of the men from the community - a spy? Soon we were Buenos Aires-bound, beers clutched thoughfully in our hands as we watched the countryside slide past. I thought I was close to falling asleep for the remainder of the two-hour ride, when I suddenly realized that the beer had gone straight through me; I needed to pee. Fortunately, when I crawled up to the front of the bus, my pitiful expression was enough to tug on the heartstrings of the driver and his sidekick. They stopped the bus at a toll plaza, and the 50 passengers waited patiently as I ran to the nearby restrooms, relieved myself, and ran back. That never would have happened in Bolivia...
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| Cycling along "River Plate" in Montevideo |
[Aside: Argentina's capital, Buenos Aires, and Uruguay's capital, Montevideo, are the geographically the closest capitals in South America. They are separated by the mouth of a large river, Rio de la Plata, which drains on an east-west course between the two cities. Now, the literal translation of "Rio de la Plata" is "River of Silver," or, more colloquially, "Silver River." However, at some undisclosed point in history, someone must have mistranslated the name into English, and as a result, every person/map/guidebook/sign that attempts an English translation of the river does so as "River Plate." Because, you know, "plata" kind of resembles "plato." I have no idea how this agonizingly glaring mistake continues to be perpetuated without fuss, but apparently the Argentinians have no problem with it. If you don't believe me, look for the river's name on this map, the soccer team named after the river in this headline, or the team's actual website. It could definitely be that I'm missing something here, but I think it's hilarious.]
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| Beer pong at our hostel in Montevideo |
We caught our bus to La Paloma a few hours later, and I napped on the sunset drive up the coast. We arrived in the tiny beach town well after dark, and asked at the bus station for camping options. We were directed generally towards a sparse forest of evergreens behind the station, and began walking uncertainly into the dark. A few minutes later, in the midst of barking dogs and a trailer-truck graveyard, we met a lanky man who pointed up a dirt track through the trees. It took us another few stops and strangers' vague directions before we located the campground, whose office had closed within the last 15 minutes (it was 10:45pm). Not wanting to backtrack, and adamant that we would not stay in a hostel, I began sneaking around the premises until I found two men in a lit doorway. One was the proprietor, and a few minutes later we'd registered and paid for the night.
He told us a bit about the campground as he walked us to our site, and it turns out that in the peak of the summer - January 15th to 31st - it has a pool, its own grocery store, an internet cafe, a fingerprint scanner to enter the park, and space to accommodate 7,000 campers. We asked him to repeat himself.
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| Scott was ambivalent about his new haircut |
The next day we did the (boring) 20-minute walk into town, only to find that La Paloma's economy lies entirely in providing services to the thousands of tourists (Uruguayan and otherwise) that descend upon the town during two weeks in January. Because we were visiting outside of those two weeks, however, we noticed a distinct lack of stores/restaurants/businesses being open, and certainly none of them adhered to the hours posted on their storefronts. Despite these setbacks, Scott successfully rented a surfboard from a surf shop, and I rented a bicycle from an old mute in his apartment. Consequently, Scott spent the next few days surfing, and I spent them riding blissfully through the woods and along the verdant, windy coastline. There are few things I love more than bicycles.
 |
| Returning bagfuls of liter beer bottles |
We left the morning of my birthday, and after an interesting bus ride with an entire futbol team, we made it to Montevideo. My one request for my birthday was that we stay in a legitimate backpacker's hostel (as opposed to a cheap hotel), so that we could make friends, take advantage of computers/TVs/games, and have resources to get linked into the city's best offerings. We settled on a hostel, then went out for lunch (with wine). After lunch we picked some fizzy wine coolers, and sat in a main square drinking, chatting, and watching kids play with defunct soda cans.
 |
| Family party at the hostel! |
The next day, Scott felt badly that my birthday had been overshadowed by Peter's arrival (I think I was a bit jealous that after five months of traveling with Scott, I suddenly had to share his attention with someone else). In order to rectify the situation (as he saw it), he offered to let me cut his hair, which I'd been trying to convince him to let me do for several weeks. What's more, he said I could cut it however I liked...I'm fairly certain he was expecting me to say no, because as my face lit up, his fell. Moments later, I'd obtained a pair of scissors and a comb, and we were up on the rooftop. I chose to model the haircut after this one I found online, and I think I did a fairly good job. Scott even forgot about the weird, South American douche-style cut I'd given him, and it wasn't until almost a week later that he finally had me cut it normally in Buenos Aires.
 |
| Caldron of clerico |
Another night, we'd gone for a late beer run, and Peter decided to show off his newfound pole-climbing capabilities. He shimmied up a street sign, and Scott and I were so delighted by it that we made him do it again...unfortunately, he must've stepped in dog feces at some point, then smeared it on the pole from his shoes, so the second time he came down from the pole, his shirtfront was covered in it. He ran back to the hostel to change, and when he returned, Scott and I were engaged in a fascinating conversation with a potentially-homeless man named Marcelo, who turned out not only to have terrible facial hair, but also to be a racist.
All too soon, it was time to return to Buenos Aires to meet my college friends, Ben and Daniel, and to wrap up the very end of what had become the trip of a lifetime.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Mendoza & WWOOFing (11/24-11/30)
Mendoza
The border crossing from Chile into Argentina was definitely the most official-looking crossing we'd done, and - because we were in a tiny minibus - we were required to disembark, wait in line, get our stamps, unload the minibus, wait in line, go through a (not-very-rigorous) inspection, and reload the minibus. This all occurred between 2:00 and 3:00am, so when we arrived in Mendoza at dawn, we were completely exhausted. We bought some oreos to break our bills, then caught a taxi to an area listed in Mr. Planet has having hostels. Somehow, despite our complete exhaustion, we visited two of them, then settled on the cheaper of the two. We slept until the afternoon.
When we awoke, we were fairly hungry, and set out in search of provisions. Our hostel had a kitchen, so we aspired to find a grocery store. Unfortunately, it was just after 2pm, which - in Argentina - means it is siesta. Normal work hours in Argentina range from morning to 2pm, then there is a collective napping throughout the city, during which time only a very small number of large commercial establishments, like Santander Bank or Lider grocery stores, are open for business. Around 5pm, everything reopens, and business as usual extends until perhaps 8 or 9pm, to make up for the pause. We were caught in the vicious no-man's land of siesta, and there was little we could do. We wandered the wide, tree-lined avenues, at the moment decorated largely with barred storefronts and closed doors. After wandering for over an hour, we finally found a shop with Simpsons-themed hotdogs. As in, the "Pancho Homero," and the "Completo de Bart." Lovely.
That evening, after futher exploring the city, we decided to make dinner at the hostel. I picked fairly picnicky style foods, but Scott was hankering for some chorizo. He bought a package of hulking purple meat tubes, and attempted to fry two in a pan. Strangely enough, purple chorizo does not change color as it cooks, and Scott ended up eating something I wouldn't force upon my dog.
Throughout Scott's foray into sausage cooking, I chatted with an eccentric older couple also staying in the hostel (hotel). The man had blocked the hallway earlier with his wheelchair to give us an unabridged version of his immigration from Italy, marriage to his first wife, courtship of his current wife, their travels, their various properties, and their life together. He claimed his wife was German, but in actuality she was Chilean, of German descent. She spoke not a lick of German, English, or Italian, but rather was relegated to her native Spanish. The couple, who was probably nearing 80, owned a farm not far from Mendoza, and the husband, Domenico, had no qualms espousing the virtues of Chilean farmhands while denouncing the Argentinian ones. His wife, on the other hand, in a garbled mixture of Chilean Spanish and random words in English, wanted to discourse on the merits of expelling gas on a timely basis (after hearing the Chorizo-Maker, who was blissfully unawares of this bizarre exchange, break wind in the kitchen). Yet another of the fascinating bounty of characters who it is our pleasure to discover each day...
There is really only one reason tourists visit Mendoza, and one might argue that it is largely the same reason tourists visit Argentina at all. Be they wet, tannic, fruity or full, the wines of Argentina provide a draw matched only by California's Napa Valley and the South of France. Nearly all the wine in the country, though, is produced in one region: Mendoza. Being something of a wine aficionado, I was eager to spend our day in Mendoza immersed in tastings at many of the region's famed bodegas, or wineries. Traditionally, tourists will either visit the bodegas - the most popular of which are located outside of the city of Mendoza in the town of Maipu - by private bus or by bicycle. We looked into both options (as well as rafting, cool, Scott), and decided that there was third, underutilized but perfectly functional option: we could take a cheap city bus to Maipu, hop out at one of the many bodegas (indicated on a simple diagram on the back of a brochure from the bike company), and visit a few on foot.
This proved slightly more difficult than it initially appeared, since there were several construction detours in Maipu. We passed many tourists sailing blissfully along on their bikes, then finally asked the bus driver where we should disembark for the bodegas. He looked faintly surprised, then shook his head sadly, "This bus will not go there," he informed us. Along with two other befuddled Americans who'd opted for the cheap-but-difficult route, we got off the bus and asked for assistance at a nearby gas station. The woman identified another bus, but was unsure if it would take us where we wanted to go. This whole thing was made more difficult by the fact that the bodegas are spread throughout the countryside in all directions.
Nonetheless, when the new bus arrived, there were no passengers, and the bus driver, who seemed bored and drowsy in the early afternoon heat, offered to drive us directly to one of the bodegas. He dropped us off on a long, quiet country road bordered on both sides with majestic trees and a babbling brook. We tipped our personal taxi-bus driver heartily.
We visited two bodegas: Tempus Albus and El Cerno. Scott had never been wine tasting before; I'd only been once, and we reveled in the sudden high-class activity after so many months of "roughing it." We marked down the Tempus Albus Tempranillo and the El Cerno Malbec and Chardonnay, thinking we'd seek them out when we got to Buenos Aires, and perhaps import a bottle or two for the tasting pleasure of our family.
Back in Mendoza, we were sleepy from the wine and the lomo completo (steak, ham, cheese, fried egg, lettuce, tomato, onions, various sauces - positively sickening) we'd eaten before heading out to the wineries. We wandered a bit, packed up our bags, and caught a local bus to the station, where we would catch a bus to Buenos Aires. We cut it close, with only moments to spare, but soon were underway.
Buenos Aires
A few weeks before, we'd contacted several farms on the WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) Argentinian list, and we'd received offers from two of them to come and spend a week working for them in exchange for room and board. One, near Mendoza, was a family of four, with a small, sustainably-minded farm. The other, near Buenos Aires, was purported to be a permaculture community of 70 people committed to various pursuits, including sale of vegetables and goods from their bakery to the nearby town. They professed to be engaged in holistic living, with regular interaction between the many families. Excited by what was clearly a thinly veiled description of a hippie commune, Scott and I chose the latter. Our instructions to get to the granja (farm) led us to a main plaza in Buenos Aires, where we were to catch a two-hour bus into the countryside northeast of the metropolis. Of course, we managed to butcher the directions, and took an hour-long detour on a random city bus until we realized we'd long since passed our plaza destination. Backtracking, we finally caught the correct bus, and headed for the peaceful agrarian landscape.
From the bus, our instructions dictated we get off the bus at La Serenisima, a well-known milk factory. We were excited by the quaintness of the directions, and we only received one or two sidelong glances as we - two Americans laden with heavy backpacks - hopped off the bus at a freeway turnstile, with only a dilapidated auto repair shop within a half mile. We entered the shop, hoping for directions to the milk factory, but when we explained our purpose, the owner exclaimed that the farm we were searching for was located just next door to his home! He wouldn't hear of us taking a taxi, and instead closed his shop early (4pm on a Thursday) and took the liberty of driving us there himself.
We visited his other business, a pet food shop, on the way.
The only problem was that, when we arrived, the land he thought belonged to this elusive community had now been converted into a paintball field. We groped for a while, down country "blocks," which were actually just narrow grass pathways between farm plots.
La Granja
When we finally arrived at the gate, we could see an open compound inside, with a sprawling adobe building on the left, an enormous oak tree shading a circular kind of dance floor dead ahead, and a swimming pool, filled with murky hosewater off to the right. We could only see a few of the inhabitants, but immediately noticed that all the men had thick, bushy (untrimmed?) beards, and the women were wearing what I can best liken to the costumes from the movie The Crucible.
A younger man with a thin, wiry frame and foreboding black brows over a sun-browned face welcomed us, and took us to a nearby wooden table where a fellow WWOOFer, from Florida, sat drinking cold water and reading. We chatted, half in Spanish, half in English, and Ossiel, the man who'd greeted us, explained to us that because it was Saturday, no one had worked that day. They'd have a party that night, and work only a few hours on Sunday. We'd have our first real taste of work on Monday.
It all sounded good to us, and we were just starting to get comfortable when a young woman in an ankle-length floral dress approached shyly, to show me where I'd be sleeping. Yacara (I'm sure my spelling of their names is an abomination), as she was called, was soft-spoken, very short, and glanced furtively at me as I spoke, with a tiny smile on her lips. She led me through an enormous compound of fruit trees, rolling lawns, and eucalyptus, to a small structure at the back of the property. She explained to me that this house was for the single women, and presented me with some clothes. There had been a disclaimer in the second email we received from the community, informing us that all members of the community wore modest clothing, and that we would be expected to do the same. If we didn't have any, they would be happy to provide us with some. There had also been brief mention of twice daily meetings in which the whole community sang and danced; while this had stirred misgivings in Scott, my visions of reliving the romanticized hippiedom of the '60s grew firmer.
Yacara apologized as she waited, unabashed, for me to change into the pants she'd given me - ballooning purple cotton genie pants. I was allowed to wear a large T-shirt I had with me; she explained that everyone wore loose clothing so as not to be distracting or provocative. She smiled approvingly at my new appearance, then led me back to the dance circle under the oak tree for my first taste of community "meetings" (they use the term reunion in Spanish).
About 50 people, mainly around their early thirties, with several young children and a few twentysomethings, sat in a patient circle of chairs and benches around the edge of the circular cement clearing, sipping hot maté (typical Argentinian drink, traditionally made from bitter herbs and hot water and consumed from a special type of hollow gourd with a filtering straw) and smiling serenely at each other. Suddenly, a girl of about six stood up and began to sing. At this signal, several things happened simultaneously: a band I hadn't noticed, comprised of violin, recorder, and guitar players, picked up her tune; the entire assemblage began to sing where the girl had left off; and about 20 people moved from their chairs to the center of the ring and began executing a complex circle dance with crisp precision. I glanced at Scott, seated with Ossiel on the other side of the circle, and I could see the surprise I felt written plainly on his face. The group must've known hundreds of songs and their accompanying dances, and after a few, Yacara pulled me into the circle to participate. It was pretty entertaining, her calling little commands at me so I could keep up with the dance. Mostly it involved holding hands and skipping, clapping, and spinning.
After I tired of just watching the dancing (it went on for about an hour), I began trying to listen to the lyrics, which were entirely in Spanish. They spoke of love, acceptance, and sharing, but a common word kept surfacing in their hymns - Yeshua. After a bit, I turned to Yacara and asked her, innocently, "What's Yeshua?" She smiled, encouragingly, and told me that Yeshua is another name for God. It was around that time that the dancing dwindled, and the whole group stood in an all-inclusive circle. One by one, as the mood struck or didn't strike them, people began to give thanks, say prayers, or just praise Yeshua. It was not until we were in a close circle of people in simple garb, hands raised to heaven, asking for forgiveness and strength, that Scott and I realized that "permaculture" was not the most important adjective to this community. It was, first and foremost, a religious one. We felt we'd been lured there on false pretenses.
Diary Entries:
Today was mostly considered a day of rest, with only a few hours of work. Scott and the other WWOOFer went to the fields to weed and I picked lettuce, then washed it, then tore it into pieces (this was salad for 60 people, so it was a huge amount!). Then I washed about a thousand dishes. The kids here are really adorable, and apparently get to choose if they want to stay in the community at the time of their bar or bat mitzvah, around 13. I can't imagine any kid making that decision on their own, however.
I keep asking people how long they've been in the community, and how they found it, and there's a common thread in their stories that they arrived and instantly felt that this community was something thad had long been missing from their lives. One girl, a young Australian, came here as a WWOOFer two years ago, stayed for a week, then left. But two days after she left, she felt compelled to return, and has been here ever since.
They don't consider themselves Christians, and in fact this morning dedicated themselves for some time to impromptu outbursts of Christian-bashing...one man asked me if I was a Christian, and when I said no, he replied "good."
The food is very good though, and they always use chopsticks, which is fun...
This place makes me feel strange and sad. I feel I can't deal with how childlike and joyless this life appears to be. People laugh and joke, but I feel guarded, and can't do the kind of irreverent banter I'm used to with Scott.
People keep asking me questions I don't know how to answer, because Hayley The Good Guest/People Pleaser goes up against Honest Hayley. Everyone has asked me (1) where I'm from; (2) how old I am; and (3) what I do back home. Like a script. There doesn't seem to be anything to talk about with these people, and I don't know if that's my fault for being too timid or theirs for being too boring. Everyone has Hebrew names, and I'm scared to ask what their names were before, although I'm not sure why.
I'm finding myself questioning what it is that usually makes me happy, because it doesn't seem to be here...
Scott and I went for a walk after dinner today, and he expressed a concern of falling under the "spell" of this community...I don't think he ever would...
Yet these otherwise totally normal-seeming people apparently had their "aha!" moment when they arrived in this community. I think if they worshipped plants or water gods instead of Jesus and the Bible, I'd be more open...
Today was the first day of actual work, and it was hard! We weeded, planted, and harvested in the field in the hot sun, in full heavy clothes. Nice breaks: from 9-12:30pm we worked, then lunch and rest until maybe 2 or so, then work until 4, snack, then work until 6. The field team was Scott, Josué, Juan, Barlevav and me, overseen by Ossiel, who was initially super nice to us, but has turned irritable and snappy to me, and a bit to Scott. Scott thinks it's because he resents that woman works harder than he does. I'm not sure why, but it's unpleasant.
People keep pushing these weird conversations on us - one guy told Scott that all their communities (there are communities of this type that keep in touch with each other all over the world) will reproduce until they have 144,000 children, then the kids will kill everyone. Another guy told me about having no shoes as a child, but he is glad because life is just a test, and suffering is necessary.
The strangest thing is that much of their meeting discussion revolves around how to approach outsiders, make them feel comfortable, and thereby gain more members for the community. I keep wondering if they are having certain conversations for Scott and my benefit, but the weird thing is that I don't think they are...
The whole experience was undeniably different, and it was interesting to see the way people in the community began to change in their treatment of us throughout our tenure there. We stayed for five days, but I think we might've stayed longer on a different WWOOFing commune - one that didn't have such a strong religious aspect.
That being said, I have great respect for everyone who lives there; they have read the Bible and determined that God bades His followers to live a simple, communal life of worship, close to the earth, and they are doing an admirable job of evincing the principles they believe in most. Would that everyone could live with such purity and unabating adherence to the practice of their beliefs, whatever they may be.
The border crossing from Chile into Argentina was definitely the most official-looking crossing we'd done, and - because we were in a tiny minibus - we were required to disembark, wait in line, get our stamps, unload the minibus, wait in line, go through a (not-very-rigorous) inspection, and reload the minibus. This all occurred between 2:00 and 3:00am, so when we arrived in Mendoza at dawn, we were completely exhausted. We bought some oreos to break our bills, then caught a taxi to an area listed in Mr. Planet has having hostels. Somehow, despite our complete exhaustion, we visited two of them, then settled on the cheaper of the two. We slept until the afternoon.
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| Wine tasting at Tempus Alba |
That evening, after futher exploring the city, we decided to make dinner at the hostel. I picked fairly picnicky style foods, but Scott was hankering for some chorizo. He bought a package of hulking purple meat tubes, and attempted to fry two in a pan. Strangely enough, purple chorizo does not change color as it cooks, and Scott ended up eating something I wouldn't force upon my dog.
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| Dreaming of Malbec |
There is really only one reason tourists visit Mendoza, and one might argue that it is largely the same reason tourists visit Argentina at all. Be they wet, tannic, fruity or full, the wines of Argentina provide a draw matched only by California's Napa Valley and the South of France. Nearly all the wine in the country, though, is produced in one region: Mendoza. Being something of a wine aficionado, I was eager to spend our day in Mendoza immersed in tastings at many of the region's famed bodegas, or wineries. Traditionally, tourists will either visit the bodegas - the most popular of which are located outside of the city of Mendoza in the town of Maipu - by private bus or by bicycle. We looked into both options (as well as rafting, cool, Scott), and decided that there was third, underutilized but perfectly functional option: we could take a cheap city bus to Maipu, hop out at one of the many bodegas (indicated on a simple diagram on the back of a brochure from the bike company), and visit a few on foot.
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| Scott inspects his wine's opacity |
Nonetheless, when the new bus arrived, there were no passengers, and the bus driver, who seemed bored and drowsy in the early afternoon heat, offered to drive us directly to one of the bodegas. He dropped us off on a long, quiet country road bordered on both sides with majestic trees and a babbling brook. We tipped our personal taxi-bus driver heartily.
We visited two bodegas: Tempus Albus and El Cerno. Scott had never been wine tasting before; I'd only been once, and we reveled in the sudden high-class activity after so many months of "roughing it." We marked down the Tempus Albus Tempranillo and the El Cerno Malbec and Chardonnay, thinking we'd seek them out when we got to Buenos Aires, and perhaps import a bottle or two for the tasting pleasure of our family.
Back in Mendoza, we were sleepy from the wine and the lomo completo (steak, ham, cheese, fried egg, lettuce, tomato, onions, various sauces - positively sickening) we'd eaten before heading out to the wineries. We wandered a bit, packed up our bags, and caught a local bus to the station, where we would catch a bus to Buenos Aires. We cut it close, with only moments to spare, but soon were underway.
Buenos Aires
A few weeks before, we'd contacted several farms on the WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) Argentinian list, and we'd received offers from two of them to come and spend a week working for them in exchange for room and board. One, near Mendoza, was a family of four, with a small, sustainably-minded farm. The other, near Buenos Aires, was purported to be a permaculture community of 70 people committed to various pursuits, including sale of vegetables and goods from their bakery to the nearby town. They professed to be engaged in holistic living, with regular interaction between the many families. Excited by what was clearly a thinly veiled description of a hippie commune, Scott and I chose the latter. Our instructions to get to the granja (farm) led us to a main plaza in Buenos Aires, where we were to catch a two-hour bus into the countryside northeast of the metropolis. Of course, we managed to butcher the directions, and took an hour-long detour on a random city bus until we realized we'd long since passed our plaza destination. Backtracking, we finally caught the correct bus, and headed for the peaceful agrarian landscape.
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| Circle dancing in the community |
We visited his other business, a pet food shop, on the way.
The only problem was that, when we arrived, the land he thought belonged to this elusive community had now been converted into a paintball field. We groped for a while, down country "blocks," which were actually just narrow grass pathways between farm plots.
La Granja
When we finally arrived at the gate, we could see an open compound inside, with a sprawling adobe building on the left, an enormous oak tree shading a circular kind of dance floor dead ahead, and a swimming pool, filled with murky hosewater off to the right. We could only see a few of the inhabitants, but immediately noticed that all the men had thick, bushy (untrimmed?) beards, and the women were wearing what I can best liken to the costumes from the movie The Crucible.
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| Harvesting "tilo" or lindon for tea |
It all sounded good to us, and we were just starting to get comfortable when a young woman in an ankle-length floral dress approached shyly, to show me where I'd be sleeping. Yacara (I'm sure my spelling of their names is an abomination), as she was called, was soft-spoken, very short, and glanced furtively at me as I spoke, with a tiny smile on her lips. She led me through an enormous compound of fruit trees, rolling lawns, and eucalyptus, to a small structure at the back of the property. She explained to me that this house was for the single women, and presented me with some clothes. There had been a disclaimer in the second email we received from the community, informing us that all members of the community wore modest clothing, and that we would be expected to do the same. If we didn't have any, they would be happy to provide us with some. There had also been brief mention of twice daily meetings in which the whole community sang and danced; while this had stirred misgivings in Scott, my visions of reliving the romanticized hippiedom of the '60s grew firmer.
Yacara apologized as she waited, unabashed, for me to change into the pants she'd given me - ballooning purple cotton genie pants. I was allowed to wear a large T-shirt I had with me; she explained that everyone wore loose clothing so as not to be distracting or provocative. She smiled approvingly at my new appearance, then led me back to the dance circle under the oak tree for my first taste of community "meetings" (they use the term reunion in Spanish).
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| Just some modestly-clothed people planting lettuce! |
After I tired of just watching the dancing (it went on for about an hour), I began trying to listen to the lyrics, which were entirely in Spanish. They spoke of love, acceptance, and sharing, but a common word kept surfacing in their hymns - Yeshua. After a bit, I turned to Yacara and asked her, innocently, "What's Yeshua?" She smiled, encouragingly, and told me that Yeshua is another name for God. It was around that time that the dancing dwindled, and the whole group stood in an all-inclusive circle. One by one, as the mood struck or didn't strike them, people began to give thanks, say prayers, or just praise Yeshua. It was not until we were in a close circle of people in simple garb, hands raised to heaven, asking for forgiveness and strength, that Scott and I realized that "permaculture" was not the most important adjective to this community. It was, first and foremost, a religious one. We felt we'd been lured there on false pretenses.
Diary Entries:
Today was mostly considered a day of rest, with only a few hours of work. Scott and the other WWOOFer went to the fields to weed and I picked lettuce, then washed it, then tore it into pieces (this was salad for 60 people, so it was a huge amount!). Then I washed about a thousand dishes. The kids here are really adorable, and apparently get to choose if they want to stay in the community at the time of their bar or bat mitzvah, around 13. I can't imagine any kid making that decision on their own, however.
I keep asking people how long they've been in the community, and how they found it, and there's a common thread in their stories that they arrived and instantly felt that this community was something thad had long been missing from their lives. One girl, a young Australian, came here as a WWOOFer two years ago, stayed for a week, then left. But two days after she left, she felt compelled to return, and has been here ever since.
They don't consider themselves Christians, and in fact this morning dedicated themselves for some time to impromptu outbursts of Christian-bashing...one man asked me if I was a Christian, and when I said no, he replied "good."
The food is very good though, and they always use chopsticks, which is fun...
This place makes me feel strange and sad. I feel I can't deal with how childlike and joyless this life appears to be. People laugh and joke, but I feel guarded, and can't do the kind of irreverent banter I'm used to with Scott.
People keep asking me questions I don't know how to answer, because Hayley The Good Guest/People Pleaser goes up against Honest Hayley. Everyone has asked me (1) where I'm from; (2) how old I am; and (3) what I do back home. Like a script. There doesn't seem to be anything to talk about with these people, and I don't know if that's my fault for being too timid or theirs for being too boring. Everyone has Hebrew names, and I'm scared to ask what their names were before, although I'm not sure why.
I'm finding myself questioning what it is that usually makes me happy, because it doesn't seem to be here...
Scott and I went for a walk after dinner today, and he expressed a concern of falling under the "spell" of this community...I don't think he ever would...
Yet these otherwise totally normal-seeming people apparently had their "aha!" moment when they arrived in this community. I think if they worshipped plants or water gods instead of Jesus and the Bible, I'd be more open...
Today was the first day of actual work, and it was hard! We weeded, planted, and harvested in the field in the hot sun, in full heavy clothes. Nice breaks: from 9-12:30pm we worked, then lunch and rest until maybe 2 or so, then work until 4, snack, then work until 6. The field team was Scott, Josué, Juan, Barlevav and me, overseen by Ossiel, who was initially super nice to us, but has turned irritable and snappy to me, and a bit to Scott. Scott thinks it's because he resents that woman works harder than he does. I'm not sure why, but it's unpleasant.
People keep pushing these weird conversations on us - one guy told Scott that all their communities (there are communities of this type that keep in touch with each other all over the world) will reproduce until they have 144,000 children, then the kids will kill everyone. Another guy told me about having no shoes as a child, but he is glad because life is just a test, and suffering is necessary.
The strangest thing is that much of their meeting discussion revolves around how to approach outsiders, make them feel comfortable, and thereby gain more members for the community. I keep wondering if they are having certain conversations for Scott and my benefit, but the weird thing is that I don't think they are...
The whole experience was undeniably different, and it was interesting to see the way people in the community began to change in their treatment of us throughout our tenure there. We stayed for five days, but I think we might've stayed longer on a different WWOOFing commune - one that didn't have such a strong religious aspect.
That being said, I have great respect for everyone who lives there; they have read the Bible and determined that God bades His followers to live a simple, communal life of worship, close to the earth, and they are doing an admirable job of evincing the principles they believe in most. Would that everyone could live with such purity and unabating adherence to the practice of their beliefs, whatever they may be.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Santiago & Pichilemu (11/16-11/24)
Santiago: the puking episode
After a tearful goodbye in Punta Arenas, Scott and I caught a very early plane back to Santiago, where we'd arranged to spend the night at some strangers' house. I'd found the two Chilean brothers through the website Couchsurfing.org, which helps travelers connect with locals willing to give them shelter for one night or several. We'd used CS (as it is familiarly called) before, in France and Morocco, and I'd initially contacted this pair about staying with them in early November, before we met up with our parents. However, getting stuck with no money in Calama and taking 20-hour bus rides in Bolivia caused us to arrive later in Santiago than anticipated, so it wasn't until we returned from Patagonia that we finally met the guys with whom I'd been communicating for weeks!
We learned from a brief stop at an internet cafe that our hosts wouldn't be home until 3pm, and since it was only 10am or so when we arrived, we decided to get lunch and hang out in the Plaza de Armas for a few hours, to watch the setup for a free concert that night. Ever since we'd arrived in Chile, we'd seen signs for TelePizza, a chain with appealing deals for cheesy, mouthwatering pizza. So, unsurprisingly, lunch brought us to TelePizza, where we each ordered a medium pizza with one topping. I chose mushrooms (bored yet? I swear, it gets better). When I got the pizza, the cheese tasted a bit gluey, and the mushrooms were greenish and sweating. But I was starving, and ate the whole thing anyway. I was to learn that gluttony has its consequences...
A bit later, lounging in the boiling sunshine of the Plaza and chatting with the guy with a "Turistik" sign attached to his head (who later yelled at a little boy for asking him where to find a subway station, since he was not a tourist information booth, but rather a guy advertising a city bus tour by the company Turistik - how confusing), I began to feel unsettled. The Turistik fellow was telling us about the education protests in throughout Chile, and how there was to be the large monthly protest in Santiago in just two days.
The situation in Chile is such that for the last five or six months, students - both high school and university - have been occupying their schools in order to protest government negligence of the Chilean public school system, as well as the high cost of legitimate education. But our new friend also told us that 17 million people live in Santiago, though, so who really knows where he obtained his facts? We did see students throughout the city protesting and asking for donations, so we hoped that he was right about the coming large protest, which I wanted to see. Throughout our chat, however, I began to feel sweaty and thirsty, and increasingly uncomfortable. I thought it was just the heat, so we got some water and sat in the shade. I put my head down on my backpack while Scott watched a chess tournament, and for an hour I felt okay. As soon as I stood up to leave, however, I began to feel very nauseous indeed. I looked so pathetic that a nearby couple took pity and gave me a suggestion for some medication at a nearby pharmacy. On our way, Scott stopped to ask the man putting in a new trash liner on a garbage can if there were any public bathrooms; while he was answering, I projectile vomited into the can in front of them. Thank goodness he'd already put a liner in...a moment later I felt obligated to deter a homeless man who was reaching into the can in search of bottles...
We began walking, because I was nervous of puking in the metro, but we stopped for frequent rest periods, and for me to vomit in various public places. When we finally arrived at the couchsurfers' house, it was nearly 8pm. We chatted (in Spanish); I felt ill; the boys made dinner; in what I can only assume was incredibly lucid Spanish, I talked to the pet guinea pig about how delicious he would taste; Scott drank some gin and gingerale, a beverage he invented on the spot; I projectile vomited in the toilet; and we found out both our hosts could speak English, but didn't really feel like it today. Santiago is famous for an alcoholic beverage called a Terremoto (earthquake), and when our hosts found out we'd never tried it, they took it upon themselves to buy the ingredients and whip some up. Unfortunately, the combination of white wine, pisco, grenadine, and pineapple ice cream didn't exactly help with my stomach.
The next day, we wandered through the city, stopping at a park where a homeless man shoved nails in his nostrils and Scott gave him 200 pesos; we also stopped at the funky, artsy Bellavista area surrounding the Cerro San Cristobal. We made friends with a group of girls who deterred us from climbing the Cerro (hill), claiming it was too dangerous. Since I was still feeling sick, I agreed with them, and we spent some time with them learning Chilean slang (incredibly different from any other country we'd visited; for instance, they put the syllable "po" at the end of any sentence to add emphasis) and laughing about cultural differences. Back in Bellavista, we stumbled upon an International Tango Festival, oddly located in an upscale shopping mall. Among those dancing were backpackers in Tevas, 80-plus-year-olds, and an incredibly intoxicated girl who threw herself at anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact with her.
We finally made our way back to the CS house (a rather loooong walk), where we found our hosts waiting nervously in the kitchen for our safe return. Their worry melted into delight when they saw we'd brought groceries for dinner, and we enjoyed some gingingerale together. Casually, I asked about "the whole Pinochet/Allende thing," and what followed was an incredibly detailed lecture on Chilean presidential politics and economics for the last 50 years. While fascinating, it was a bit more than we'd bargained for, and we fell gratefully asleep immediately afterwards. The following day was the protest.
We weren't exactly sure where or when to find said protest, and were concerned when we arrived at the city center to find business as usual. Was it a small protest? Had it already happened?
Santiago: the protest episode
We asked around, and finally gave up and began walking to a metro stop. All of a sudden, we came across a police barrier, with what appeared to be army tanks guarding the blockade. Our Turistik friend had explained to us the different types of vehicles utilized by the riot police, and from his descriptions we recognized a guanaco (name for an animal that is related to a llama and spits) - a large tank with turrets on top designed to squirt water from pressure hoses at protesters (get it? it spits!); a zorrillo (skunk) - tiny, quick tank that ejects tear gas from its underbelly while in the midst of rioting crowds; and something that looked like a large size Volkswagen bus with bars on the windows - a mobile barracks.
We followed the barricades down the road to where we could hear chanting, then turned left and could see a critical mass of people marching down the center of a boulevard. As we neared and then began to pass alongside the crowd, we realized we were viewing nothing less than a parade, celebrating the freedom and right to education. There were groups doing intricate marching dances in front of drums and brass bands, people singing, chanting, and waving banners, flags, and signs. They ranged in age from perhaps 15 up to 75 years old, but shared a common joy as they reveled in exercising their right to support something in which they believed fervently.
Scott and I kept moving right up the column until it turned onto a vast, several-lane avenue, where tens of thousands of demonstrators were pooling at a police barricade at the avenue's end. We kept weaving through the crowd until we reached the end fence where the parade had stopped, and it was here that we had our first hunch that perhaps not everyone had peaceful intentions. While we were snapping pictures, a quarrel broke out between students on one side of the fence and police on the other, and suddenly everyone was pulling on gas masks, covering their faces with bandanas, and running frantically away from the conflict. Scott and I ran as well, and maintained our distance, even though the skirmish appeared quelled.
After about a half hour of wandering the crowd, who was milling about, alternately buying soy burgers from the many opportunistic vendors and gathering in small groups to pass around lemons (for tear gas) or a joint (because their parents weren't around), we decided we'd had enough of the peaceful protest. We left the corralled area of the masses (where many people were watching a stage with music and positive messages), and looped around to the police side of the lines. We found ourselves in a new crowd of a completely different variety - we were suddenly immersed in a mismatched crew of younger students, worried parents, rubbernecking onlookers (us), and several agitated media crews. All eyes were trained on the short block ahead, where protesters wearing T-shirts tied over their heads were squaring off against a whole cohort of police vehicles. The protesters were throwing chunks of rubble from the broken street at the tanks, while the police would intermittently rush the assemblage and blast them with tear gas from the zorrillos or charge them aggressively with the guanacos. Since we were located behind the police side, we found ourselves dodging the furthest of the rock launches, and at the same time catching whiffs of the peppery tear gas. Additional riot police managed the spectators, warning us when the rocks got close, and trying to block the news crews from charging ahead with the guanacos for choice footage. This went on for close to an hour, with occasional arrests made by the riot police, who brought the young perpetrators back to the moving barracks and roughly locked them in. It occurred to me that the people opposing the riot police at this point were not necessarily doing so for their education rights, and may not have even been students. Instead, I guessed that they were simply the "hoodlum" type - the angsty kind who expressly look for opportunities to defy authority. I thought it a shame that what had been such a peaceful, positive protest had devolved into this frenzied melee.
Finally, the police organized a final charge, and broke through the leading ranks of the protesters, who began to flee around the corner of the block. They reassembled at the next block, and the whole standoff moved accordingly. When we arrived at the scene (spectators were now occupying the space previously held by the protesters), we saw that one of the zorrillos had been upended and was flaming. We watched as the protesters threw new rocks, and the police retaliated with their water cannons and tear gas. The protesters with their T-shirt masks looked like terrorists on foot defying military might; the whole scene was an apocalypse.
Finally, the police broke the ranks again, and it was over. Back on the main avenue, a few stragglers hucked bits of debris halfheartedly at the vehicles, but most had turned and fled. Smoke was everywhere, with burning piles of trash and noxious bouts of tear gas filling the air. We stared, helplessly, as a lone protester ran past in front of us, and a riot cop carefully aimed a tear gas bomb directly at us. It detonated perhaps 20 feet from where were standing, and I immediately began to run...it was too late. We'd been exposed to small quantities of tear gas almost constantly up to that point, but this was different. I began coughing, my throat on fire, and had to squeeze my eyes shut against the crackling pain inside them. I turned the corner and stopped running blindly, leaning against a wall with my hands over my eyes. I couldn't open them. I could barely breathe. It felt like someone had pulled my eyes out, then squeezed lime juice in the sockets. Scott - who was somehow less affected - took a picture of me. A stranger handed me a lemon, and urged me to suck on it to ease the effects of the gas. It eventually subsided, and I felt better, but that is something I hope never to experience again.
We started back towards the city center, ready to be out of the war zone. We came across a small group of teenagers who had overturned a giant recycling pod, and were gathering the bottles to throw. Far down the avenue, we could see the conflict continuing. We figured we were safe, and sat down to rest. Moments later, a zorrillo, stink glands flaring, came zooming down amongst us, scattering the bottle-collectors.
Scott and I leaped to our feet and began sprinting in the opposite direction, the other teenagers following suit. I glanced back to see the zorrillo had abandoned pursuit, but before I could heave a sigh of relief and slow my pace, a guanaco, pregnant with water in its cannons, came screaming around the corner. In pure flight mode, Scott and I sprinted hard away from this spitting monster. As it bore down upon us, another running adolescent grabbed my hand and pulled me down a small alleyway and behind a car. Scott followed.
When we emerged from our hiding place, the street beyond was drenched. Perhaps a dozen students, who'd been wandering empty streets only a minute before, stood frozen in their tracks, entirely soaked with water, and shivering pitifully. I felt wronged; Scott and I, and for that matter many of these students, had been far from the front lines. We decided we were probably the only tourists in this part of town today, and chose to make a swift departure from the area. In the metro, on the way back to our temporary CS home, many of the riders were clutching lemons and rubbing their eyes.
Pichilemu: the scene
Scott was ready to get out of Santiago. We packed our bags, cleaned the kitchen, left a note for our hosts, and caught a bus to Pichilemu, a surf town a couple hours south of Santiago. In typical fashion, a couple hours turned into five and a half (no movie), and we arrived in Pichi well after dark, disoriented, and hungry. A man met us as we disembarked, and offered to walk us to his friend's hostel. Wary as we were, this time we weren't scammed; the hostel was cheap, clean, and charmingly decorated with seascape murals of whales, seaweed, and the like.
We'd initially heard of Pichi from the San Franciscan girl, Carolyn, we'd met on the trail in Patagonia, so it was only a little surprising when, the next morning, we ran into her at a bread shop. She'd arrived about two minutes earlier, having taken a 52-hour bus ride directly from Punta Arenas, so we acted the guide and brought her back to our hostel. We spent the day surfing, lying on the beach, and taking advantage of the personal kitchen we'd discovered in the (surprisingly large) rambling hostel.
In keeping with the Chilean tradition of mixing wine with juices and sodas (red wine with Coke, white wine with Sprite), we also invented "juice boxes," which involve buying a 500cc box of wine, adding peach nectar, and drinking the concoction out of the top of the box with a straw. These kept us from getting too thirsty when we tried the Pichilemu delicacy of HUGE empanadas stuffed with cheese and your choice of crab, olives, heart of palm, chicken, tomatoes, basil, etc., which we ate at least one of almost everyday.
Pichilemu: the camera episode
We spent five nights in Pichilemu, the most memorable of which was the night we invited a Chilean man we'd met and his friend to come play American drinking games with us in our hostel room. One spoke fairly good English, and the other one only spoke Spanish, so we had a good time explaining rules, chatting, and sharing cultural differences. The next morning, when I awoke, I noticed my camera was not on the table, as it had been the night before. I looked through my things, and couldn't find it.
Having been robbed of my camera last year in the infamous Moroccan Tent-Slashing Episode, I immediately assumed the worst of our guests. Carolyn and Scott were sure the camera was somewhere within the room, so we each disassembled our packs, then moved them outside, then took apart the room while looking for it. It was only then that they were convinced. Carolyn called Manuel (*not his real name), who'd given her his number the night before, but he didn't answer. Juan (*also not his real name) had mentioned that he was only in town temporarily, and was working to set up the new Movistar shop. We sought him out (the shop was literally across the street from our hostel - great sleuth work), but the sincere, doe-eyed kid with the unfortunate haircut didn't know anything about the camera. We asked if he could vouch for Manuel, but he claimed he'd only met him a day or two before, and couldn't be sure he was an upstanding character. We recalled Manuel saying something about owning a brewery, so we set out to find it, meanwhile discussing various tactics for the confrontation. Carolyn was all for "droppin' mugs," and causing a scene, but we were all hoping it wouldn't come to that. After following various peoples' directions, none of which brought us anywhere near anything remotely resembling a brewery, I began to wonder if Juan could help us further. We returned to Movistar to find Juan squatting over a bucket of mortar paste. It wasn't until I was poised looking down at him, hands on my hips, and opened my mouth that I realized I intended to interrogate the kid.
"Robaste mi camara," (You stole my camera) I accused him, fairly aggressively. At first he smiled, thinking it was a joke, but as he continued to meet my steely gaze, his huge brown eyes welled with tears, and he shook his head vehemently. He maintained that he knew nothing about my camera, and even before he offered to let us search his room, I believed him. We declined, I apologized perfunctorily, and we went in search again of Manuel, the undeniably sketchier of the two.
Our sleuthing took us all over town, including into a falafel shop where a chastened-looking teenager informed me she knew Manuel, but was unable to tell me where he lived. Our luck changed when we ran into Mauricio, the dueño of our hostel, for whom we'd left a note of the incident. He informed us that Manuel did not, in fact, own a brewery, and instead simply brewed beers at his home, in a residential area just outside of town. On our way there, we stopped to ask directions at a police commissariat, at which point we realized we were at a police commissariat. When I explained to the police that we needed directions to track down someone who'd stolen my camera the night before, they kindly asked if perhaps I did not want directions, but instead would like their professional assistance. This seemed like a reasonable idea, so we gave the policemen Manuel's phone number, and they dropped him the proverbial line. Now, I must assume that most people are unaccustomed to receiving cold calls from the police, and further have come to assume that Manuel's intentions were never malicious, merely opportunistic. The poor guy came rushing into the police station 20 minutes later, claiming he had not taken our camera, but had been able to get it back from "the guy who stole it." We asked no questions. He led us back to the hostel, where he'd stashed his bike before walking to the police station. Bafflingly, he told Carolyn to put her hand into the goal pocket of the foosball machine, and when she withdrew it, there was my camera (he explained he'd stashed it there moments before, since walking into a police station with stolen goods was not his idea of a fun Sunday)!
We knew Manuel had taken the camera, but I believe that he simply saw an opportunity and - without thinking - took advantage of it. When he was given a chance to make a different decision and rectify the situation, he did so, at a personal risk to himself. He could easily have told the police he had no idea what they were talking about, or said he would come to the station and have stayed away. He knew we would be gone in a few days, and I feel both lucky and proud that he would choose to voluntarily correct the ills he had committed. Later that night, in a gesture both admitting his guilt and assuaging it, he gifted us two bottles of his much-discussed artisanal brews.
Pichilemu: the Thanksgiving episode
When we met an American, Mat, in the mines of Potosi, Bolivia, we'd chatted casually about meeting up for Thanksgiving, as we hadn't met many Americans traveling in South America. Mat's additional draw of being a self-proclaimed turkey-cooking expert solidified the deal. We'd exchanged a few messages about meeting up for the holiday, but Scott and I were pretty sure we'd still be in Pichi. I went to send Mat a message about our whereabouts, only to find I already had a message from him, informing me that he would be in the "small beach town of Pichilemu" for the holiday. I know this keeps happening, but it never fails to astound me.
We met up with Mat and friends a few days before Thanksgiving for some surfing, tandem-bike-riding, and juice boxes, but strangely didn't end up actually having the holiday with him. Instead, Carolyn and I decided to have Thanksgiving the day before the actual holiday, since Scott and I had plans to WWOOF in a few days (I'll explain soon).
Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, since we only had a three-person gathering), it is impossible to purchase an entire turkey in Chile. We ended up settling for a luscious chicken, and simply called it a turkey throughout the day.
The Menu
-stuffed "turkey"
-cranberry stuffing
-Aunt Kit's avocado/ grapefruit/ pomegranate salad
-gravy
-mashed potatoes
-bread
-mulled wine
-fruitcake (Scott's addition - who likes fruitcake?)
It was truly divine. We finished early enough that we were able to catch the bus back to Santiago that evening, laden with Ziploc bags full of our leftovers. Then Scott and I said a quick goodbye to Carolyn and snagged an overnight minibus across the border into Argentina, to our next stop, Mendoza.
After a tearful goodbye in Punta Arenas, Scott and I caught a very early plane back to Santiago, where we'd arranged to spend the night at some strangers' house. I'd found the two Chilean brothers through the website Couchsurfing.org, which helps travelers connect with locals willing to give them shelter for one night or several. We'd used CS (as it is familiarly called) before, in France and Morocco, and I'd initially contacted this pair about staying with them in early November, before we met up with our parents. However, getting stuck with no money in Calama and taking 20-hour bus rides in Bolivia caused us to arrive later in Santiago than anticipated, so it wasn't until we returned from Patagonia that we finally met the guys with whom I'd been communicating for weeks!
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| Slimy mushroom pizza on left |
A bit later, lounging in the boiling sunshine of the Plaza and chatting with the guy with a "Turistik" sign attached to his head (who later yelled at a little boy for asking him where to find a subway station, since he was not a tourist information booth, but rather a guy advertising a city bus tour by the company Turistik - how confusing), I began to feel unsettled. The Turistik fellow was telling us about the education protests in throughout Chile, and how there was to be the large monthly protest in Santiago in just two days.
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| Our couchsurfing hosts |
We began walking, because I was nervous of puking in the metro, but we stopped for frequent rest periods, and for me to vomit in various public places. When we finally arrived at the couchsurfers' house, it was nearly 8pm. We chatted (in Spanish); I felt ill; the boys made dinner; in what I can only assume was incredibly lucid Spanish, I talked to the pet guinea pig about how delicious he would taste; Scott drank some gin and gingerale, a beverage he invented on the spot; I projectile vomited in the toilet; and we found out both our hosts could speak English, but didn't really feel like it today. Santiago is famous for an alcoholic beverage called a Terremoto (earthquake), and when our hosts found out we'd never tried it, they took it upon themselves to buy the ingredients and whip some up. Unfortunately, the combination of white wine, pisco, grenadine, and pineapple ice cream didn't exactly help with my stomach.
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| The peaceful part of the demonstration |
We finally made our way back to the CS house (a rather loooong walk), where we found our hosts waiting nervously in the kitchen for our safe return. Their worry melted into delight when they saw we'd brought groceries for dinner, and we enjoyed some gingingerale together. Casually, I asked about "the whole Pinochet/Allende thing," and what followed was an incredibly detailed lecture on Chilean presidential politics and economics for the last 50 years. While fascinating, it was a bit more than we'd bargained for, and we fell gratefully asleep immediately afterwards. The following day was the protest.
We weren't exactly sure where or when to find said protest, and were concerned when we arrived at the city center to find business as usual. Was it a small protest? Had it already happened?
Santiago: the protest episode
We asked around, and finally gave up and began walking to a metro stop. All of a sudden, we came across a police barrier, with what appeared to be army tanks guarding the blockade. Our Turistik friend had explained to us the different types of vehicles utilized by the riot police, and from his descriptions we recognized a guanaco (name for an animal that is related to a llama and spits) - a large tank with turrets on top designed to squirt water from pressure hoses at protesters (get it? it spits!); a zorrillo (skunk) - tiny, quick tank that ejects tear gas from its underbelly while in the midst of rioting crowds; and something that looked like a large size Volkswagen bus with bars on the windows - a mobile barracks.
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| A zorrillo, covered with protesters' paint |
Scott and I kept moving right up the column until it turned onto a vast, several-lane avenue, where tens of thousands of demonstrators were pooling at a police barricade at the avenue's end. We kept weaving through the crowd until we reached the end fence where the parade had stopped, and it was here that we had our first hunch that perhaps not everyone had peaceful intentions. While we were snapping pictures, a quarrel broke out between students on one side of the fence and police on the other, and suddenly everyone was pulling on gas masks, covering their faces with bandanas, and running frantically away from the conflict. Scott and I ran as well, and maintained our distance, even though the skirmish appeared quelled.
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| Guanaco, "spitting" at protesters |
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| Post-conflict: black mist is smoke, blue mist is tear gas |
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| Teary, unable to see |
We started back towards the city center, ready to be out of the war zone. We came across a small group of teenagers who had overturned a giant recycling pod, and were gathering the bottles to throw. Far down the avenue, we could see the conflict continuing. We figured we were safe, and sat down to rest. Moments later, a zorrillo, stink glands flaring, came zooming down amongst us, scattering the bottle-collectors.
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| Escaping the tear gas |
When we emerged from our hiding place, the street beyond was drenched. Perhaps a dozen students, who'd been wandering empty streets only a minute before, stood frozen in their tracks, entirely soaked with water, and shivering pitifully. I felt wronged; Scott and I, and for that matter many of these students, had been far from the front lines. We decided we were probably the only tourists in this part of town today, and chose to make a swift departure from the area. In the metro, on the way back to our temporary CS home, many of the riders were clutching lemons and rubbing their eyes.
Pichilemu: the scene
Scott was ready to get out of Santiago. We packed our bags, cleaned the kitchen, left a note for our hosts, and caught a bus to Pichilemu, a surf town a couple hours south of Santiago. In typical fashion, a couple hours turned into five and a half (no movie), and we arrived in Pichi well after dark, disoriented, and hungry. A man met us as we disembarked, and offered to walk us to his friend's hostel. Wary as we were, this time we weren't scammed; the hostel was cheap, clean, and charmingly decorated with seascape murals of whales, seaweed, and the like.
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| Glad to be back on the coast |
In keeping with the Chilean tradition of mixing wine with juices and sodas (red wine with Coke, white wine with Sprite), we also invented "juice boxes," which involve buying a 500cc box of wine, adding peach nectar, and drinking the concoction out of the top of the box with a straw. These kept us from getting too thirsty when we tried the Pichilemu delicacy of HUGE empanadas stuffed with cheese and your choice of crab, olives, heart of palm, chicken, tomatoes, basil, etc., which we ate at least one of almost everyday.
Pichilemu: the camera episode
We spent five nights in Pichilemu, the most memorable of which was the night we invited a Chilean man we'd met and his friend to come play American drinking games with us in our hostel room. One spoke fairly good English, and the other one only spoke Spanish, so we had a good time explaining rules, chatting, and sharing cultural differences. The next morning, when I awoke, I noticed my camera was not on the table, as it had been the night before. I looked through my things, and couldn't find it.
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| Giant empanadas |
"Robaste mi camara," (You stole my camera) I accused him, fairly aggressively. At first he smiled, thinking it was a joke, but as he continued to meet my steely gaze, his huge brown eyes welled with tears, and he shook his head vehemently. He maintained that he knew nothing about my camera, and even before he offered to let us search his room, I believed him. We declined, I apologized perfunctorily, and we went in search again of Manuel, the undeniably sketchier of the two.
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| Drinking juice boxes on the beach |
We knew Manuel had taken the camera, but I believe that he simply saw an opportunity and - without thinking - took advantage of it. When he was given a chance to make a different decision and rectify the situation, he did so, at a personal risk to himself. He could easily have told the police he had no idea what they were talking about, or said he would come to the station and have stayed away. He knew we would be gone in a few days, and I feel both lucky and proud that he would choose to voluntarily correct the ills he had committed. Later that night, in a gesture both admitting his guilt and assuaging it, he gifted us two bottles of his much-discussed artisanal brews.
Pichilemu: the Thanksgiving episode
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| "Turkey" |
We met up with Mat and friends a few days before Thanksgiving for some surfing, tandem-bike-riding, and juice boxes, but strangely didn't end up actually having the holiday with him. Instead, Carolyn and I decided to have Thanksgiving the day before the actual holiday, since Scott and I had plans to WWOOF in a few days (I'll explain soon).
Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, since we only had a three-person gathering), it is impossible to purchase an entire turkey in Chile. We ended up settling for a luscious chicken, and simply called it a turkey throughout the day.
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| Happy Thanksgiving! |
-stuffed "turkey"
-cranberry stuffing
-Aunt Kit's avocado/ grapefruit/ pomegranate salad
-gravy
-mashed potatoes
-bread
-mulled wine
-fruitcake (Scott's addition - who likes fruitcake?)
It was truly divine. We finished early enough that we were able to catch the bus back to Santiago that evening, laden with Ziploc bags full of our leftovers. Then Scott and I said a quick goodbye to Carolyn and snagged an overnight minibus across the border into Argentina, to our next stop, Mendoza.
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