Santiago June 14, 2015
In Mendoza, 8am, waiting for the sun.
I sit in the 10th floor cafe with coffee and toast, looking out over the city. A red glow emerges on the horizon; light spills slowly across the city. The sunrise takes forever–well, nearly 30 minutes. This is no way to rule the world. What sort of example does it set for the creatures below? Shall we be similarly lackadaisical and indolent? How then shall we accomplish the important tasks of existing? How shall we fill the sky with scraping buildings, dredge the soil for sparkly things and black sludge, solve the mysteries of the universe? Rise and shine, Mr. Sun, I have places to go and crap to think about it.
For instance, last night in the shower, I may have solved the puzzle of the missing wash cloth. Cowering from the water pressure, trying to adjust the flow so that I wouldn’t lose an arm, it occurred to me me that some day they will introduce low flow shower heads in Argentina. However, I hope it doesn’t happen in the next couple weeks; I didn’t know a shower could be like this. I suffer a twinge of guilt with each reservoir I drain, but it is refreshing. And in a flash of insight, I realize that this is why they don’t use wash cloths. With a firehose for a shower, who needs scrubbing?
Monday, June 8, 2015, I enter the Andes. I left Mendoza looking tor a post office. Found one, but it was so crowded and confusing I walked out. Took the wrong road into the Andes. Dead ended at a local rafting spot. I thought for sure my map showed the road going through. Put on my glasses and now I see; two roads from either side dead end at nearly the same point. Ah well, it was a nice ride through enormous vineyards. I backtrack, and now I need gas again and I cannot find it on the highway. Weird, how do you not put gas stations on the highway? Argentina, sometimes you worry me. So I get off the highway searchign for gas. I turn into a town which turns into a city, much bigger than I would have thought, and yet it takes fifteen minutes to find gas. There are 100’s of cars driving around me; what do they run on? Eventually I find the highway again, and I reenter the Andes. Curves, finally some good curves. It’s looking like the day may be salvaged, and then the winds pickup. Crazy winds, gusting chaotically. Dust devils sprout around me, sand blows off the sides of the canyon. High winds and curves are a treacherous combination. This isn’t fun at all. Slow down and concentrate.
I don’t go vey far; the guidebooks say that Uspallata is the last place worth stopping before crossing into Chile. The hotel seems nice on the outside, but I’ve chosen poorly. The owners live below me, and I can hear their family; it’s like being in a room in their house. Worse, some idiot kids blast music on the street for several hours. All I hear is the thump of the bass. I am tempted to go out and yell at them, but this is not my country. The food museum is lousy, but I notice that all the stores are advertising “Alfajores” in large colorful fonts. I ask the clerk, and he hands me a metallic package for $1.50. I buy it; its basically a Ding Dong. This is not a good day. I feel uneasy; I write nothing.
But there is usually a next day. I wake up early and install the GoPro camera on the bike. The guidebooks say the next 75 miles or so are some of the most spectacular in the Andes. I will be in the shadow of Aconcagua, the tallest mountain outside the Himalayas. It’s an excellent ride, and the winds are much reduced. The mountains are impressive as promised, but I won’t even try to tell you about them, I’ll show you. The GoPro works. It’s not the same as being here, but it’s better than a string of adjectives. As films go, my videos are somewhat lacking in narrative, but I just watched a couple hours, and I was entranced. Your mileage may vary.
The day begins more interestingly than I would have expected. I ride a ski lift up a mountain in an abandoned ski town. I wasn’t intending to do it, but it was there. The lift was the only thing open. There wasn’t even a kiosk selling empanadas. I’d never been on a lift before; I’ve never skied. I can’t say it wasn’t exciting, especially on the return. Staring down a thousand feet, the wind howling, the chair swinging, I had to have a little talk with myself, remind the adrenaline to keep itself in check.
I made another stop for a photo op with the big mountain, and then… magic.
I stop in Las Cuevas because there’s a big sign in front of a building that says Hostel. Nobody answers the door. I’m not surprised; everything, everywhere seems to be closed, and worse, I appear to be in the ruins of a ghost town. Nonetheless, 100 yards up there’s a cafe, and it’s open. I ask why everything else is closed, and the guy tells me the posada across the highway has rooms. This seems dubious, but I decide to check it out. A sign on the door of the posada says I should go to the restaurant down the way to inquire. This feels like a goose chase, and I wasn't actually intending to stop anyway, but there’s something about this god-forsaken nowhere that pulls me in. I trek over to the restaurant, and ring a dinner bell suspended in front of the door. A charming young woman opens it, confirms there are rooms.
She gets a coat, and walks me back to the posada. I’m hooked when the door opens. It’s a two-story cabin set up like a hostel, rooms with bunks open onto a cozy living area and a kitchen. It’s a million years old, and yet it’s obviously cared for. It’s funky decrepit in the best possible way. She gives me the ancient skeleton key, and tells me the restaurant is open for dinner until 10pm. And then she adds: If I want to go for a walk and find some wood, I can make a fire in the fireplace. I’m beside myself with excitement. I don’t even point out that there are no trees anywhere for miles.
It’s obvious that no one else is going to show up; this is my castle. The wind howls at the windows and knocks at the doors, and it’s as cold inside as out, but there’s an electric pot in the kitchen. I retrieve the instant coffee packets buried deep in my camping gear, provided by Mom. (Thanks, Mom.) I sit at the kitchen table, listening to the wind, watching the nearly vacant highway.
I’ve been given an invitation to walk around and collect wood. I take this as an imperative to explore. I am in absolute nowhere and what an astonishing place it is. My initial ghost town impression is more or less correct. Most of the buildings are empty and crumbling. I begin to realize that the wood I am supposed to collect is not from trees, but the remains of houses. Away from the highway there are abandoned railroad tracks running through an enormous rusting barn. In front there’s a sign: “Welcome to Argentina.” At some point in the past this was a place of some small significance, a rail station that greeted travelers crossing the Andes. I wander among the ruins; I discover a miniature glacier and a shrine to the virgin. The shrine has plaques reiterating its significance going back to 1952. They end in 97; the door of the shrine lies shattered on the rocks. I offer a small prayer for her salvation.
At 8pm I venture back to the restaurant. The young woman, Lisia, seems happy to see me, and I’m clearly the only guest all day (week?, month?–who would stop here?) She shows me to a private room, impossibly homely and attractive. She and another slightly older woman will cook and serve. They light a fire in the fireplace, and their dogs come to sleep on a sofa near me. Oddly, I feel great warmth towards these animals. Nothing is awkward. Lisia and the other woman are from Buenos Aires; they are sophisticated, friendly hosts. They recognize they are in nowhere, but it’s not forever, and they find it’s isolation alluring. Lisia's family owns the land. I ask her for her favorite items on the menu. She is pleased that I am willing to try a vegetarian entree, suggesting spinach crepes. I wonder if she is rebelling against her Argentinian roots. I order a bottle of the very best wine, and their favorite dessert. The food and wine are excellent. I tip them all of my remaining pesos. After dinner, Lisia shows me that there is an actual restaurant upstairs; it’s an amazing dining hall, with a fully stocked bar against the wall. Everything is clean and dusted, but no one comes.
Lisia gives me a small basket with bread and jam and coffee for breakfast. I head for home where I make a fire in the fireplace out of fallen buildings. It’s just me, and the fire, and the wind.
I don’t know what I did to deserve such a day of perfection. As I sit here watching the last of the dying embers, I want to thank every god known to man. And Las Cuevas, and the Virgin, and Zuccardi Q Malbec 2012.
Buenas Noches.
Do I romanticize the story? Of course, but I did so even as I experienced it. Yes, I could mention other details, like the lack of heat. When I ran out of buildings to burn, my stiff, blue fingers clattered against the keyboard without feeling. Of course, it did give me an excuse to put on my $150 wool underwear (which is very nice). Also, the posada didn't have internet access; when I write the guidebook to Las Cuevas, I’m docking them a star.
But more seriously, did I romanticize the story? There are other versions I could have told: Cold and tired, I’ll sleep anywhere. I end up at a rundown cabin in hell, but before I can unpack, I’ve got to pry boards off abandoned buildings to stay warm. The restaurant is run by a couple of eccentrics who let their dogs sleep on the sofa while I eat. It’s a miserable, starless night in desolate ruins; I shiver myself to sleep.
But even more seriously, is there a Truth about this place? Is there a Truth about my experience? Is there a Truth about how I actually felt about it? Is there a Truth about it’s meaning or significance? Even to me?
More entertainingly, did I even try to tell the truth? Perhaps I should have told the version in which Lisia accompanies me back to the posada on a feeble pretense? We end up making slow, philosophical love by the fire. Or how about the version where it turns out that Lisia is a spy working against the Peronistas? She’s waiting for a shipment of wash cloths sent specially from some place where they have wash cloths. I try to convince her to leave the spy trade, and accompany me back to Texas. But just as she is on the verge of a new life, she is attacked and killed by a rabid guinea pig, deviously deployed by the socialists. I am only saved by my wool underwear. Tearfully, I collect wood from the fallen houses to create a funeral pyre blessed by the virgin. The dogs howl in the moonlight as she burns.
Yeah, that’s the version I should have gone with. That’s the one I’m going to remember.
In the spirit of professional bicycling, here’s more dishonesty: Today I rode a bicycle up the highest mountain in all of Chile establishing a new speed record for tourists. Well, it felt that way, and I did ride up a steep hill that overlooks the city. It took more than an hour with a couple short breaks. I was pretty impressed with myself, and I swear that I used no performance enhancing drugs, really I didn't. Honestly. The reward for making it to the top is a great view of the entire city, and an opportunity to coast down the ridge on the backside of the hill.
The hill I climbed is called San Cristobal; at the top there is a statue of the Virgin honoring the Immaculate Conception. On a nearby hill there's a statue of the Green Giant, honoring the introduction of refrigeration, beatifying the frozen pea... No, wait, it's actually a crucifixion. Well, I think on a third hill they have a small shrine commemorating the discovery of penicillin... No, no, it's another crucifixion... Ah well, each morning Chileans rise and celebrate industry and science with a dense shroud of smog, anchored above them by the surrounding Andes.
After coasting down Cerro San Cristobal, I criss-crossed the city, visited a market, watched street performers in the Plaza de Armas. I’m tired now, maybe exhausted; I’m too worn out to know which. I’m sitting in a restaurant. I’ve splurged on grilled salmon with Tres Leches for dessert. Much as I love them, I wasn’t sure I could handle another empanada. I have admired empanadas since I was in High School. Marini’s Empanada House on Westheimer served over 30 flavors. It was among the first restaurants I ever went to without my family. The Marini family also had a branch in Acapulco; I visited when I was there. In its dreams the Hot Pocket yearns to be an empanada. I’m sorry, Hot Pocket, you are not worthy even of the drippings in my beard.
I am now in Santiago, Chile. (Yes, this was going to be my final stop; but things change.)
Any guidebook will tell you that Chile is the most modern, stable, sophisticated country in Latin America. It’s obvious everywhere you look. The highways have paved shoulders and good consistent signage. Stores are clean and brightly lit; restaurants have absorbent napkins. The bathrooms have low flow shower heads. (There’s still no wash cloths so I guess I need a new hypothesis on that one.)
I went for a long walk yesterday afternoon, lasting into the night. I’m thoroughly impressed. If Buenos Aires was relaxed and comfortable, Santiago is like everyone is a happy family hanging out in the living room. That’s not the right metaphor, but this feels like the sanest place on Earth. There’s no urgency; people wait together at the crosswalks for the light. There is neither aggression nor apprehension in their body language, even as they walk alone on quiet streets after dark. There are no sidelong glances, no arms pulled tight around a shopping bag. Everyone seems OK.
There are groups of kids here and there, quite a few on skateboards, and while they might be a little loud, they’re generally polite; they give way to pedestrians. It’s clear that they don’t see themselves as outcasts within their own culture. I walked past a group of kids in full 1970’s London punk regalia. One strikingly attractive boy had fantastic spiked hair 10 inches high. I stared longer than I needed, and he recognized it. He gave me the warmest, friendliest smile I’ve ever seen with a safety pin in it. I smiled back; I hope mine was anywhere near as pleasant. You can’t generalize a culture on the smile of a single punk, but I doubt this kid was even capable of sneering.
Even the protestors are cheerful. Protesting is common, and early in the walk I pass a group of college age kids, dressed as ragtag clowns. They’re blocking the entrance to a fashionable clothing store, dancing and singing. They’re clearly having a grand time. That this is permitted, and that it’s done with such joy, seems to me a clear sign of a healthy society. These kids have to believe that it’s worthwhile to protest, that they can have an impact, and it’s worthwhile to care. They’ve not abandoned the belief in meaningfulness and morality.
Santiago is a better place than Houston. There are bicyclists and subways and streets set aside for pedestrians. The main thoroughfares are full of open air restaurants and cafes. And did I mention that everyone is so at ease?
I’ve learned a bit more about crime in Chile. While muggings and assault are rare, there is at least the perception that theft is common. Everyone believes that anything that’s not tied down will be stolen, and most stores: drug stores, cosmetics stores, hardware stores, office supply stores, are merely long counters with items displayed behind glass where you ask a clerk to get what you need. In food museums, you’re supposed to check purses and backpacks at the door, and there are security guards wandering the aisles. I suspect paranoia, but it is interesting to see. Could it be that all these easy-going Chileans are thieves?
Crime, and the perception of crime are so complex. In Buenos Aires, the guy who helped me with the motorcycle had only one association with Houston: Dean Corll, a mass murderer who killed at least 28 young boys and buried them in his basement in the early 70’s. Though I think I had heard of this before, I had to Google for the details. It may say more about my helper than Houston, that this was his only association, but he went on to inquire about violence in the U.S? Do I carry a gun? Do I worry about getting killed in a mass shooting? How many children have I personally murdered? It was obvious that he had a pretty violent image of the U.S. Of course, Europeans generally have the same conception. America is the wild west.
I always feel uncomfortable dabbling in sociology, but it’s hard to avoid when you travel. I have looked up some statistics comparing international crime rates online. Mainly, the details are murky. The U.S. imprisons far more people than any other country in the world, so you might think we’re the most dangerous. Of course, drug offenses lead the list of reasons. When it comes to the murder rate, we’re kind of in the middle, and very similar to Argentina and Chile. However, when it comes to other violent crimes like rape and robbery, the U.S. looks far worse. Interestingly, Brazil has a murder rate nearly 5 times higher than the U.S., and yet this too may be misleading; for it may well be that most of the murders occur among acquaintances. The numbers may mean very little about danger to visitors, rather that social norms license extreme behavior in emotionally fraught circumstances.
Honestly, I don’t know what I’m talking about on these issues, but unsurprisingly, I will assert that perception and reality interact in complicated ways. I assert that there is no such creature as “The Truth about the dangerousness of South America.” The dangerousness of South America is a phrase that does not pick out any object; it is merely a convenient abstraction. Does this mean it isn’t dangerous to travel here?
I suspect we parse the terrains of crime, and danger, and morality much like we parse the terrain of language. Prepositions present some of the most interesting cases. In Spanish “por” and “para” tend to give English speakers fits. Both translate instances of the English term “for,” as well as “by," “through," “over” and others as well. Textbooks make suggestions about how to understand the differences, but they acknowledge that there is no obvious logic distinguishing all uses. Of course, to a mind programmed in Spanish, there just is “por” and “para,” the terms create the categories. Studying a foreign language makes one more aware of the peculiarities in English. Why do we say “IN the house” but “AT home”? If you’re tempted to come up with the unique, right answer to this question, you may be missing the point. We cobble together a language, at least some of it through accident entrenched by habit. But in turn the language parses reality. What’s right, what’s dangerous, what’s meaningful? These categories are created at least in part by our practices and beliefs, entrenched by habit of thought and action.
I’m only too aware how blithely I’m ignoring a rich literature on these issues. But in some ways, it's this painful awareness that has kept me silent for 51 years. I have to stop caring what careful academics say. Yes, I have gained enormously from their work, but I can't write that way. And here, I’m only trying to give a feel for a phenomenon that is already familiar to most, even those who know nothing of philosophy. Our reality is full of subjectivity and interpretation. Our feelings and desires are often unclear even to ourselves, and constantly changing. Our language is full of peculiarity and arbitrainess. Our beliefs are inconsistent and unstable. We live in realms of chaos; perceptually, linguistically, symbolically, intellectually… And yet, we generally manage OK, and sometimes we thrive.
I was playing the ATM my first night in Chile. I inserted the card, and crossed my fingers that I might score some money. I was pretty shaky on the exchange formula. When it asked how much I wanted, it said something about charging in dollars. I didn’t fully understand, but I typed in 300, with a few more zeros. The punctuation didn’t look right, but I figured it would decline if it didn’t like the quantity. I experienced a moment of panic when it spit out a stack of blue money nearly a half inch thick. Oh God, what did I do? These bills are worth ten thousand each!? I had no idea what I held; did I just empty my bank account? I had to wait until I got back to the hotel to figure it out. Apparently, I had requested 300,000 Chilean Pesos, about $500.
The ATM is a conduit into the dark realms of financial structure. The gods of the financial kingdom protect their own existence by maintaining and manipulating the rules of their domain. Not knowing this structure is not the same as it’s non-existence.