Trails & Techno_text_december 16

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lunes 16 de diciembre

Destino: Valdívia

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Modo: Avión, ómnibus y Taxi Distancia: 1,796 kilómetros

Punta Arenas a Valdívia, Chile

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Multiple Ironman and Casio watch alarms sounded at 8:00, and I rose first, anticipating a hot shower. Surprisingly, our Swiss flat mates had already risen and were sharing breakfast with Manuel’s parents in the dining room just outside of our bedroom door. While I was glad to see everyone up and enjoying their breakfast, a strange thought occurred to me: Of all of the places that we had stayed, this would be my first real exposure to international modeling. All of the elements were there: the runway (a narrow corridor from the bedroom through the dining room to the bathroom), the paparazzi (every guest was toting at least one 35mm camera), the outfits (I chose a smart 100% cotton white towel for my debut) and the audience (a captive group of hungry and stylish Europeans). I donned my Tevas and a white toalla, took a couple of deep breaths, strolled out onto the cold Chilean catwalk and was greeted by a chorus of chuckles and “Buenos dias.” I waved and lowered my head anxious to get past the dining onlookers and into the shower. I made my way down the hallway and walked directly into the kitchen where Manuel’s wife was handling pancake duty. Sensing that I was lost, she motioned toward a small door adjacent to the kitchen which turned out to be the bathroom. There would be no need for wake-up mocha javas this morning. I could only assume that the subzero shower water was being pumped in directly from the Strait of Magellan. Actually, I was a bit surprised when water came out of the showerhead instead of salt-encrusted icicles. Anyway, the hard spray chilled me to the core, and I was in and out in two minutes flat. The walk back to the bedroom was slightly less amusing as my chascón had disappeared and most of the other guests had returned to their individual rooms. After our showers, we ate breakfast as planned at 9:00. The meal 90

was wonderful: panqueques con dulce de leche, jamón, queso, pan arabe, y jugo. (Just what a couple of growing gringos needed before braving the thirty-degree morning chill of Punta Arenas.) We walked down to the LanChile office and made a tentative reservation for a flight north to Valdívia on Tuesday. Better luck and a lower fare greeted us at the LADECO office down the street, where we booked seats on the 12:50 flight out of Punta Arenas direct to Puerto Montt for 37,000 Chilean. Next, we went to the national phone company office (Entel), so I could make a long overdue call to my folks back in the States. Simultaneously, Andy called his friend from the University of South Carolina and our point man up in Santiago, one John Hodges. I was impressed by the quality of the Chilean long distance phone service. I had read more than one article raving about the national telecommunications infrastructure (100% digital); yet, this was my first brush with a telefonica chilena. I made a call to my parents over 7,000 miles away and the satellite connection was crystal clear. Moreover, the thirteen minute call only cost 4,000 Chilean pesos , which came out to a little over US$1 a minute. It was good to catch up with my viejos, and Andy got the green light from John for our weekend revelry in Santiago. It was now time to start the second leg of our Patagonia odyssey. We left the Entel office at 10:30 and had to book it back to Manuel’s home in order to catch the downtown shuttle out to the airport at 11:00. toalla: towel We paid 1,000 Chilean for the twentychascón: bed head five kilometer trip north to the airport. panqueques: pancakes dulce de leche: delicious Upon arrival, we checked our bags for the caramelized ice cream. pan arabe: Arabian bread flight to Puerto Montt and cruised the $37,100 Chilean: US$ 84 concourse kiosks for some local recuerdos. viejos: slang for parents. Literally, one’s elders. Upstairs in the airport bar, we enjoyed an recuerdos: souvenirs or ice-cold pint of Austral and some last minute memories. The best airport recuerdos are usually local people watching. t-shirts, or remeras locales.

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The flight departed at 13:00, and we kicked it old school back in aisle sixteen looking down on the beautiful peaks of the Patagonia that we had gotten to know so well over the previous two weeks. Ladeco flight #70 touched down at Puerto Montt’s Aeropuerto El Tepual around 15:30 where the temperature was at least ten degrees warmer than in Punta Arenas. According to our pocket guide, the night train from Puerto Montt to Santiago in the high season would be pulling out at 16:30, so we really had to step on it. We yanked our mochilas off of the baggage cart and were the last two passengers allowed on board the ETM airport shuttle to downtown Puerto Montt. After forking over 650 pesos each to the driver, we walked to the back of the crowded bus, stood at the rear next to the bathroom, and tried to enjoy the ride into town. Our preoccupation with getting to the station on time was compounded by the pungent Is there a later flight? germicidal odor wafting from the baño. Twenty minutes into the trip, we ran into some heavy bumper-to-bumper traffic caused by a major accident. A van heading from downtown to the airport with fifteen passengers on board had run Rough ride to the Airport off of the road and ended up wedged down the steep bank on the opposite side of the road. Paramedics were already on the scene, and no one appeared to be seriously hurt. We rolled our eyes when the ETM express lumbered into the Puerto Montt bus terminal. The scene outside the window was a total zoo: hundreds of passengers, street vendors, micro drivers, hot dog vendors and dozens of shoe shine boys. Fortunately, standing at the back of the bus did have one previously unforeseen advantage. Instead of waiting for the bus to come to a complete stop, we pulled rank, bolted down the center aisle and were the first two passengers out the front door. Much to the driver’s 92

displeasure, we snuck around to the back side of the bus, opened up the luggage compartment and pulled our packs off: an unequivocal “Don’t” on South America’s list of Traveling Do’s & Don’ts. We ran to the front

Do: Don’t: Do: Don’t: Do: Don’t:

Request a bus seat on the “pasillo”. Get stuck sitting near the “baño”. Watch as your bags are being put on the bus. Pull them out of the luggage hold by yourself. Arrive at the train station early.. Get there four days early.

of the bus station, hailed a cab and jumped in going eastbound to the train station at 16:15. We had fifteen minutes to spare. After a quick spin through downtown, we reached the front entrance of the Estación de Tren five minutes later, just in time for the 16:30 departure to Santiago...which would be leaving exactly four days later on December 20th. Once again, the on-the-road rumors and highway hearsay which we were using as a not-too-inteligente supplement to our travel guides, had landed us in the right place at the wrong time. Actually in this instance, make that the wrong place at the wrong time. Not only would summer train service not begin for four more days, the lady at the boletería told us that trains didn’t even serve that station anymore. It was a mere ferrocarril figurehead serving up train tickets without actual train service to an unsuspecting public. Which raises the question: Why the hell did the taxista race through town and drop us off at a deserted train station? You would think that a local resident working in the bustling transportation industry might be cognizant of the comings baño: bathroom pasillo: aisle, corridor and goings of the various transportation estación de tren: train station vessels passing through his hometown. inteligente: smart. The opposite being estupido. Moreover, we should have been tipped off boletería: ticket window found in by the three-wheeled rusting baggage carts bus terminals and airports. The mostrador is another useful and lush vegetation growing out on the four word when looking for a ticket wooden train platforms. Still, the counter. ferrocarril: railroad. abandoned station was worth the price of 93

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admission for a train fanatic like me. The lifeless interior seemed to yearn for the noise and commotion that it once knew during the golden age of train travel. A rusted diesel locomotive sat quietly on one of the rail sidings in a sea of waist-high weeds. Vintage Coca-Cola signs cracked and peeled in the stiff breeze coming off of Puerto Montt Bay. As our chances of catching a northbound train were not likely to improve, we resolved to search out an alternate mode of transit. On our way out, we both noticed a beautiful thirty-foot mural painted above the station door

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commemorating the anniversary of train service from Puerto Montt to Santiago. The whimsical paintings depicted typical rail passengers in various settings. Andy and I agreed that the oeuvre of one particularly full-figured gal lounging naked in her compartment was certainly ample incentive for anyone, including ourselves, to ride the Chilean rails. It was a short walk to a downtown rental car office where a sweet travel agent mistook us for wealthy globetrotters doing the Patagonia on $500 a day. She smiled and told us that we could rent an ultraminisubcompact for the low, low price of US$130 per day. Realizing that, once again, the bus would be our cheapest option, we high-tailed it back to the Estación de Omnibus. This was, undoubtedly, the biggest desastre that we had experienced to date on the road. A large, one-room terminal with over forty bus company ticket windows. Neon lettering on each window advertised service to nearby towns. As we didn’t recognize the names of the cities listed on the windows, Andy consulted the travel guide, while I scoped out the individual ticket counters. 94

We had decided to spend a few days up north in the hip little town of Pucón, but direct bus service from Puerto Montt to Pucón was not an option. We had to decide between one of two possible overnight destinations: Valdívia or Temuco. As a bus to Valdívia was leaving in five minutes on the Estrella del Sur line, we opted for that ride at a reasonable 2,400 pesos. We tossed the mochilas under the bus, and I stood at the bottom of the steps, while Andy ran back inside the terminal for some bottled water. Two minutes later, the driver started backing up and I pleaded, “Por favor, espere un minuto!” At first, he pretended not to notice the noisy gringo standing at the foot of the stairs and attempted to shut the door. Relenting, he shifted into neutral and waited for Andy who climbed aboard seconds later. There were only five other people on the bus for the first leg up to the town of Osorno. The most exciting part of the ride for me personally was sitting in the bathroom stall with the tiny sliding glass window open as we drove through downtown Osorno. The fact that I am so easily entertained now is a sure sign that we have been out in the wilderness for too long. Oh well, Santiago and a healthy dose of urban nightlife await this weekend. At the Osorno bus station, I jumped off and grabbed a Quattro and a couple of packs of crackers for the final leg north to Valdívia. Given more time, we would have certainly ventured into downtown Osorno which is home to some fine German restaurants and brewpubs. At approximately 20:30, the nearempty Estrella del Sur bus turned off of Avenida Picarte and into the crowded Valdívia bus station. Valdívia (pop. 112,000) is a relatively large town that lies at the confluence of four main rivers: the Valdívia, Andy looks out as the Cau Cau, the Calle Calle and the Cruces, thus earning the liquid moniker, City of the Rivers. we reach Valdívia 95

Upon arrival, we entered the main terminal to see if we could possibly catch a night bus to Pucón, but the last one had left an hour earlier. Acknowledging that more off-trail downtime was inevitable, we began looking for a place to stay. I leafed through our Chile travel guide, while Andy hit the bathroom for which he was promptly accosted upon leaving. Apparently he had forgotten to pay seventy centavos for the right to use the public toilet. “Capitalism at its best,” he quipped after coughing up exact change to the gatekeeper o’ the baño. We rolled outside hoping to quietly go about finding a place to stay when…BAM!...we got the full-frontal hospitality assault from a halfdozen peso-hungry housewives. After two weeks of travel, we were very familiar with this obligatory lodging presentation from the local citizenry hoping to kindly share a room in their home in exchange for a few pesos. However, in Valdívia, this process is elevated to another level: frenetic. The offers are aggressive and borderline confrontational as women were stepping in front of one another to get our attention All the while, they were reeling off the amenities of their digs: “DESAYUNO!... HABITACION PRIVADA!…BAÑO PRIVADO! …CABLE!” Some of the señoras even went as far as to verbally trash the accommodations of their neighbors and competitors. “No, no, no, la suya es muy lejos, la suya es súcia!” One woman, María, was extremely persistent following us around both inside and outside the bus terminal, as we tried to find some lodgings in peace. We even considered walking back into the bathroom to get out of her gringoscope, but neither one of us had seventy cents for safe bathroom passage. So she approached us, she gave us a flyer, she gave us her business card and, finally, she pulled out the pièce de résistance: a full-color photo album with 4” by 6” glossies of, what else, her home. It did indeed look very nice. Evidently, the importance of having a strong portfolio isn’t just limited to models and architects here in Valdívia. Still, María wanted 4,000 pesos and we, trying to save our collective jack for Pucón, were looking to spend about half of that amount. 96

Suddenly, a different woman, Pilar, and her daughter cornered us at the entrance of the bus station and asked us to come stay at their home for 2,000 pesos each. So, against our better judgement, with cash flow being our sole criterion, we piled into the back seat of their black Ford Falcon that was idling in the adjacent parking lot. Behind the wheel was a much older gentleman, presumably the father/husband of our impromptu Valdivian greeting party. Pilar sat up front with her husband while her daughter, chain-smoking Lucky Strikes and gazing out the window, sat in the back with us. Detecting that we were not one-hundred percent sold on their pad, Pilar proceeded to tell us more than we ever wanted to know about her home. And much to my surprise, the daughter even threw it into highhabitación privada: private room. Traveling gear sales mode at odd solo, you’ll want a habitación sencilla. When intervals. I glanced over at sharing a room, ask for a doble. If you don’t like sharing a toilet seat and shower, you her and noticed that she might request a baño privado. would be very quiet waiting baño privado: private bathroom la suya es muy lejos: hers is very far away. for a lodging amenity or a la suya es muy súcia: hers is very dirty. nearby landmark to pop supermercado: supermarket centro: downtown, very centrally located into her head. Once that synapse had fired, she would shout the amenity and/or landmark out loud three times. “Supermercado!, Supermercado!, Supermercado!…Centro!, Centro!, Centro!...Cable! Cable! Cable!” Apparently three was the optimal number for making a convincing sales pitch in Valdívia. Mercifully, after a ten minute drive, we pulled into what we assumed was the family’s driveway. As our three tour directors suddenly turned silent, Andy and I shared some nervous laughter. We were both thinking: “O.K...This is it…This is where the Valdívia street gang pops us…We’re goin’ down.” Sure enough, there were three sketchy-lookin’ dudes hanging around the back of the house where our intended room was located. Actually, our “room” was the family garage converted into a bizarre Escherian labyrinth of wood paneling and twin beds. The dark garage had all the aura of a gutted work-in-progress on This Old House. Unfortunately, Bob Villa and the Chilean PBS camera crews were nowhere in sight. 97

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Not feeling all too comfortable with the lodgings and our distance from the bus station, we stood firm and asked, as agreed, to be taken back to the hostel of María. In a last ditch bashing of her bed and breakfast foe, Pilar cautioned that María’s place was “muy caro,” but I countered that location, not price, was our primary concern. Even though this was not entirely true, we really did not want to offend these folks who had driven across town and brought two total strangers to their humble home. Out of courtesy, we paid them 500 pesos for a ride back to town during which the once-garrulous backseat daughter sat in complete silence. Perhaps feeling betrayed by the two fickle gringo boys sitting to her left, she gazed at the Lucky Strike burning in her right hand and said nothing. Instead of going directly to María’s, we went to another hostel across the street from María’s, because Pilar was dead set against losing us to her fiercest B&B rival, who had trash-talked her casa at the bus station. Andy walked into the tiny red-and-white Hospedaje La Casa de Amor and came out either unconvinced or just plain unsettled by the idea of the two of us staying at a place called the House of Love. Running out of prime lodging options, we grabbed our bags out of the car and turned in the general direction of María’s house. As we began to walk, we could hear additional footsteps on both sides of us. Inexplicably, Pilar and the female owner of the House of Love were walking along with us. I thanked the ladies and explained that there was no need

for them to accompany us, but Pilar replied, “No, está bien…Esta es la casa de amigas…María es mi prima.” Go figure. Once inside, we were taken through the shaded backyard and up a spiral staircase at the back of the house. This was the poshest place that we had seen on this trip. Ten dollars bought us one queen size bed, two bunk beds, a thirteen-inch color TV, an private shower and brand new carpeting. The atmosphere was equally pleasant as we could hear Chilean folk music drifting from a neighbor’s yard where a local group was 98

practicing outdoors. Unlike the aspiring grunge garage trio back in El Calafate, these musicians sounded like they could actually charge admission to one of their outdoor gigs. At 21:00, we went to town for some late vittles. The 2,800 peso churrasco y huevo club sandwich was very good at a joint called Dino’s (of Flintstones fame) Downtown. Andy made short work ofThe Barney steak sandwich, and we each polished off a chopp of icy Cerveza Fred. At 22:00, we wandered back home to Casa María and fell asleep watching some bizarre Sharon Stone sexy-suspense-thriller. The low budget flick was made worse by the horrible job of Spanish language dubbing. The only words that seemed properly translated were Maldición and Te quiero. Andy and I agreed that the local Chilean network should have saved the money on dubbing and chosen to broadcast one of her finer films like Basic Instinct or Sliver. As far as we could remember, neither of those movies had any dialogue. Complex female characters like Catherine Tramell and Carly Norris were far too sophisticated to communicate using mere words. Body language- mostly naked- was their key to survival. As bad as the Stone piece was (no pun intended), it was still a bit more entertaining than the Keanu Reeves flick airing on the other movie channel. Did Bill &Ted really merit a sequel? With no remote control for the idiot box in sight, my only option was to fall asleep listening to the all-night B-movie marathon. I looked down from my bunk at Andy who was already passed out cold. I felt like we had been in Valdívia for a month. In fact, after only three hours, we were both anxious to say “chau” to the “City of Four Rivers and One-Hundred Haggling muy caro: very expensive No, está bien: No, it’s alright. Bien can also mean good or very. casa de amigas: a house of friends María es mi prima: María is my aunt. An uncle is a primo. churrasco y huevo: sausage and egg. chopp: mug, A popular beverage container for a chilly cold one. chau: casual way to say good-bye, or see ya. Much more informal than saying Hasta Luego (Until Later) or Adios (Farewell). maldición: curse, profanity te quiero: I want you.

...the City of Four Rivers and OneHundred Haggling Housewives Housewives.” We were both ready to dive into the outdoor sporting mecca that is Pucón. Tomorrow would mark day fifteen of Patrick & Andy’s Excellent Adventure. Now there’s an original screenplay. 99