Chilean Adventure 2020

Tales of travel often sound romantic and dreamlike. My first big trip after university was literally a life changing odyssey of discovery of the world and its people. More importantly, it was a post-grad twelve-month PhD in endurance. The trip was a physical and psychological sea voyage – more like a plague ship than a luxury cruise. Many days felt like a symphony of bad luck, filled with wrong turns, unfortunate events, and boatloads of bad people encountered. However, truth be told, I experienced a greater number of kindnesses and good fortune.

So our plan for today was to go to a famous National Park in the mountains with our guide Augusto. Last night, somewhere around 2am, I noticed Truus stirring. No choice, really. The only way I could not have noticed the thrashing, turning, and moaning was if I had been in a medically induced coma or some other vegetative state. This had all of the earmarks of early stage stomach flu (worst case), or food poisoning (best case). 

Getting sick while travelling is almost inevitable. You’re eating strange-and-not-always-grand food. You’re exposed to a host of unfamiliar (in this case, Spanish-speaking) pathogens. You’re pushing your body and mind to the point of exhaustion and beyond. The worst is that there’s often no time built in to your travel plan to accommodate “down days”. You just have to suck it up and keep going.

Today was an exception. I was lying next to Truus, in the quiet hours of the night, hearing the street dogs barking and her even less optimistic suffering. In my mind I was planning the best Spanish phrases I could use to explain to our guide (in a few short hours) that “Mi Esposa”, was at death’s door and unable to spend the next 8 hours twisting through the mountains in his pick-up truck. “Truus can stay in bed, and hopefully be in decent shape for our big road trip back down South on Wednesday”, I thought to myself.

At some point, I drifted off to sleep. When the alarm went off at 7:30am, I asked Truus how she was feeling. “I’m good. Better. Ready to go.” Lourdes’ water apparently has nothing on the power of a lifetime of eating Dutch Stampot, because this was a recovery of religious proportions.

So off we went with our guide Augusto, in his 4-wheel drive pick-up. His Peruvian wife cleaned the windows inside and out, and bid us farewell. Truus and I had travelled this road on Monday, so we were anticipating the turn-off for the National Park. Along the way, Augusto gave us lots of information, and we stopped in a few places of tremendous beauty that we had previously blindly passed. When we got to the turn-off, Augusto kept going towards the lake we had seen the day before.  After a few moments of back-and-forth, it was clear, not surprisingly, that we had had a failure-to-communicate moment. I was in the back seat, and Truus and Augusto were discussing options. In the end, we agreed that he would take us to the back side of the mountain, close to the Volcano. We would also see some villages on this route, and be back in Putre at the agreed upon time.

What we didn’t quite appreciate until later was that Augusto was primarily an alpine guide. He has climbed every mountain and volcano of significance in the North multiple times. He is of this place, and knows the topography like the back of his hand. He told me that he doesn’t even use maps, but can climb autonomically, ever aware of his location relative to the mountain. He is indigenous, and a climbing savant. Truus and I were suffering mightily at the 5000M elevation, but he was fully in his element. “Sometimes when I’m climbing a steep section of a mountain”, he explained, “It’s like it’s nothing, like it’s as flat as a pancake.” “Good to know”, I wheezed.

So our improvised day with Augusto turned into an amazing experience. We saw countless vicunas, alpacas, llamas, and another animal called a Viscacha. The Viscacha looks like a cross between a small kangaroo (stands on hind legs and hops) and a big rabbit. They’re actually oversized South American rodents – similar to chinchillas. They have long hindlimbs, and a long, bushy tail that curls behind them, making them look like something you might see in a StarWars movie. 

We also visited a number of near ghost villages in the mountains. The former residents, mostly indigenous people, have largely abandoned these places. The young people left first, and the elders have mostly given up their homes. There are still a few stubborn folks who refuse to leave. Many come back once per year for a religous fiesta, led by a priest who travels to the village for the 3-day party.

Truus, an aesthete of buildings in a state of collapse, was in her element. The missed flamingos promised by the trip to the National Park were fully forgotten, and we revelled in the beauty of the High Plains in the magical places between Chile and Bolivia.

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We arrived in Arica, in the far North of Chile, at around 7pm. The flight from Santiago lasted only 3 hours or so, but it felt longer due to the absence of electronic entertainment of any kind. The plane was a an ancient Airbus model circa. 1990, with a linoleum aisle down the centre of the bird that was about 4 feet wide. Remember when you could go to the bathroom anytime, without getting blocked by passengers or meal carts? I now have indisputable proof that this existed at one time. The bad news is that SKY Airlines has squeezed an extra 4-6 rows of available seating in the length of the fuselage. The safety instructions, however, were original and vintage. So the diagrams of recommended “crash position” were fully incongruous with the reality of the seating. The passenger in front of me was basically sitting in my lap, with only a slab of 30 year old foam separating us. So, the concept of bending forward and putting my head on my knees, would only be possible if a pack of Saudis with surgical bone saws were around to assist.

We didn’t know much about Arica when we arrived. Truus had mentioned something about “Carnival” being on. Didn’t think much about it until we connected with a young Chilean family who were in town for Carnival celebrations. Carnival is a 3 day fiesta of drinking, dancing, parades, more drinking, and much carrying on. Our new best-friends-de-jour gave us lots of very useful information about Chile and her history. They filled in a lot of blanks on cuss-words  in the graffiti we were seeing, and why the people of Chile are so fed up.

They had been to the parade on Saturday. In the middle of the celebrations, one group of women dancers stopped and switched things up. First a group of female dancers broke into their rendition of the “You are the rapist – you are the problem” female anthem, directed at men in general and the authorities in particular. Later, a group of women started marching with their fists raised and one hand over one eye. With the weekly protests across Chile against the government, the police have taken to firing rubber bullets randomly at anyone around the protests. Many protesters and journalists have been blinded by these actions. The authorities admitted that a photojournalist (aged 19) was blinded in both eyes due to a security officer firing at him at close range. It’s a sad situation. Our friends, of course, draw inspiration from this occurrence. They describe the current mood with pride – “It’s as if the Chilean people are finally waking up after 30 years of slumber.”

We went into town on the Sunday to catch the closing day’s events. The previous night’s fiesta had lasted until 5:30am. We got to town about noon, and were told the parade would start at 12:30pm. Around 1:30ish (roughly on-time for Chile), the dancers and musicians started to assemble. It was a colourful collection of indigenous peoples from Chile, Peru, Bolivia, and more. Folks come from all over South America to Arica to take part. Very joyful and celebratory. Pity we couldn’t stay longer to enjoy the events.

Truus and I had to head off towards a place called Putre, a little village in the middle of the Andes, very close to the Bolivian border. We arrived Sunday late from Arica. It was a slow, twisty climb through the Andes to get here, through fog and truly treacherous mountain roads. We’re at about 12K-13K feet of elevation, and I basically we feel like we stayed at the fiesta in Arica and woke up with an an all-day hangover.

The people here look very different from the majority of the folks in Santiago. Santiago is full of people with very light-skin and generally having Euro-Spanish features. Here in the North, the people are very dark with indigenous features.

Took a drive today further in the direction of Bolivia to look at a glacial lake Truus found in this area. Truus got some truly remarkable pictures of mountains, snow-capped volcanoes, lava fields, and alpacas/lamas galore. The drive there and back was actually better than the destination. Our intention was to walk around the lake. I wouldn’t call it a senior moment, but the sound of our own wheezing combined with near paralysis brought on by altitude (let’s blame it on that), convinced us to shorten the walk. I think we lasted something approximating what our good friend Gus MacPherson would consider a sufficient opportunity to do his necessary tri-daily biological transaction al fresco in the months of January and February. We agreed that discretion was the better part of valour, and headed back to Putre.

Tomorrow we have arranged with a local tour operator to drive us 2+ hours to tour another place of interest here – National Park las Vicunas. It’s an all day tour, so who knows what awaits.

The people here are beyond friendly. When we were talking to the tour operator in broken Spanish/English, his two young daughters came running from their residence at the back to storefront. The youngest daughter, age 5, came tearing around the corner at me like a demon. I bent down to say hello and she jumped into my arms and gave me a massive hug. Spent the next 15 minutes playing with his daughters and their collection of plastic dinosaurs while Truus was arranging the trip and haggling over the price.

This place gives you beautiful scenery, but even more of these kinds of unexpected moments of pure joy.

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Truus and I are having a planes, trains, and automobiles day. We left our Airbnb at around 10:30am and took the Metro to the end of the line. There’s a big bus station there that’s less dodgy than the Central Station – a local recommended we had a lesser chance of being robbed there. We had a coffee and then grabbed the airport shuttle at 11:30am. It’s a 15 minute ride to the terminal, and it costs $1,900 pesos per person, so less than $4,000 pesos for the trip. A cab ride from our place in the city to the airport cost $25K pesos, and the one we took from the airport when we arrived didn’t have any air-conditioning. Sometimes, travelling on the cheap is actually a better way to go.

The terminal was pandemonium. This is a domestic flight we’re taking to Arica in the North. Over 98% of the travellers are Chilenos heading out to see family or his a domestic vacation spot. We joined a massive line and it took an hour to snake our way to the front. We’re flying with Sky airlines. It’s a local el cheapo charter. I think that they called it Sky because that’s the only thing that you get for free with your ticket. Sky economy (what else would we take?) class has strict limits on baggage – one checked back each with a max weight of 23kgs, and one carry-on each with a maximum weight limit of 16kgs. 

Packing our bags this morning was like a Barnum & Bailey side show. The only things missing were the smell of stale popcorn and repeating organ music. Da da dada de ye ya da dada, Da da dada de ye ya da dada, daaaaaaaaAh. We were shifting shoes, nicknacks, clothes, cosmetics around trying to balance the load and avoid an overweight penalty or extra bag charge. Having no scale with us, . we ultimately just accepted that we would likely be punished somehow, squeezed our bags shut, and headed off.

I put Truus’ bag on the scale first. She came in at 20kgs. I knew this. When she was stuffing her shit in her new lightweight, high tech, Densley clamshell, she refused to take anything of substance. All of the dense, metallic, lead-based items were designated for my vintage, pre-9-11 Samsonite coffin-on-wheels. When my bag is empty, it weighs over 10lbs. My spidey-sense was tingling when I hefted the beast onto the weigh scale. Interestingly, the naught weight registering on the scale was -0.3kgs, meaning that they were gifting people about 1lb as a benefit of the doubt. “I’m gonna need that margin”, I thought to myself.

The digital scale hit 22.7kgs. Perfect pack. No problemo.

On to airport security we went, feeling chuffed with the events of the day to date. Everything had gone to plan, or so we thought. We breezed through security, but my 14.9kg carry-on never made it through the airport screening. Truus was impatiently wanting to hit the duty-free shops, but my bag had gotten shunted to an isolated conveyor – never, ever a good sign. After a few minutes, the “Seguridado” officer signalled that he needed to do secondary inspection on the bag. He came over and asked, “You have a bottle screw in your bag, si?”. In the chaos of packing, and desperately trying to shift ballast from my likely-to-be-overweight suitcase, I had inadvertently put our dollar store made-in-china cork screw in my carry-on. I stepped forward to try to help him find it, but was told to step back behind the yellow line. So he proceeded to take everything out of my bag in a fruitless attempt to find the offending item. It took him so long that his shift actually ended and another agent took over. Several x-rays and CAT scans later, the culprit was found, isolated, and deposited in a big glass trophy case of all recent contraband. Among the items: switchblade, dozens of corkscrews, kitchen knives, a big white serated BBQ spatula, some kind of spy glasses that posed some kind of clear and present danger.What can I say… you got me!

We picked up our “compact” car!

Our first tour of Santiago is drawing to a close. Tomorrow is our last day of school. Just about everyone in my class is heading out for other destinations in Chile and parts unknown in South America. 

I’ve probably had encounters with 20-30 or so different people at the Escuala Bella Vista over the last 4 weeks. They fall into a few different buckets:

·         The very young ones who have finished high school, and have come here prior to starting a career in the army or doing higher education – these are almost entirely Northern Europeans, with Germans leading the pack. They are 19 going on 30. Most have come here alone, undaunted by the language or perceived culture barrier. This is the pan-Euro generation who welcome learning new languages and cultures. Basically, they’re Merkel’s Militia, a hoard of fearlessly optimistic “Jugend” that compares to the wave of Peace Corp youth inspired by JFK in the U.S. in the 1960s, except these kids have cell phones and credit cards and are mostly interested in documenting their experiences on Instagram.

·         The burn-outs are next. This group has already graduated and got launched into one kind of career or another, but are feeling overwhelmed and are searching for a different life – you know, a life experience that they can be seen to be enjoying on their Instagram account. So you get the picture, this group isn’t that dis-similar to the first group. The point of difference is that these guys/gals thought to (or were expected to) act responsibly and start earning money. Unfortunately, no one clued them in to the fact that life after school is a lot of drudgery and hard work. So they have a vague sense of loss, that something didn’t click for them, or something was felt to be lacking. There are a few Germans in this group, but there are also Swiss and Australians too. 

·         The “Jubilados”, that being the Spanish word for retired, are where Truus and I slot in. This group is in a powerful minority position. Put it this way, we’re stronger than the Greens, but not quite the NDP in terms of representation. We’re treated with benevolent patience and tolerance by the students. Daily I get looks from fellow students like, “Who let the old guy in here?” It’s like their dad crashed their regular coffee bar. The teachers like having us around, to balance the demographics in the class and keep them from feeling too old and out of touch with the kids. So far it’s been a mixed bag of folks, but the dominant nationality among the retired folks is U.S. In general, these Yanks tend to be relatively liberal – meaning that they likely only own hand guns. I’ve been avoiding them like the Asian flu, wherever possible.

Truus suggested going to explore another new neighbourhood after dinner. We ate early and hit the Metro just in time to catch the end of rush hour, which is around 7pm. The commuters get crammed in like sardines. No question of personal space, but the mood remains light throughout the 15 minute trip. Truus and I are on high alert since my wallet was stolen. I hold onto my money belt that is now dangling just above my groin, like I’m imitating Michael Jackson post-Thriller. Truus holds my arm for stability, her other arm clutching her Fort Knox uncuttable travel bag in a Dutch death grip. We arrive feeling squeezed, mildly violated, but financially no lesser off.

The “Barrio” we’re looking for tonight is called Paris-Londres (London). It’s one of the few remaining older places in Santiago, with cobbled streets and Euro architecture. We exit the Metro and head off bravely towards the place Truus has identified on the map. First thing we see is a downtrodden neighbourhood book market that is packing up for the day. A couple of young kids are running around playing as their Mom closes up her kiosk for the day. The boy has no shoes, but is carrying his mom’s cellphone. Truus and I walk through this funky neighbourhood for a while until Truus senses that we’re in the wrong place. I cross the street, but she starts talking to a young couple heading home at the end of the day. Truus waves me back. We’ve gotten turned around and these two Chilenos have decided it’s too confusing to set us right with mere directions. They offer to walk us to the place we’re looking for. It’s 15 minutes out of their way. We pass the time chatting in our broken Spanish and making friends. When we’re delivered to the spot we were looking for (that we never would have found), we say goodbye, thanking them for their hospitality. Hugs and kisses are exchanged. This is normal in Chile.

As we took our leave, I was struck by a thought. Chileans are basically like the Newfoundlanders of South America. The country itself is kind of like an island, isolated from the rest by the ocean and the Andies. The vibe here is very similar to NL. Respect and courtesy and good humour are de rigueur. Anything less is not acceptable, unless you’re robbing a clueless tourist.

It makes the other reason for our visit to this neighbourhood that much more poignant. At the edge of this area is the seat of power in Chile, “La Moneda”. In front of the building is a massive Chilean flag. A large area around and adjoining La Moneda is surrounded by barrier fencing. Armoured crowd control vehicles stand at the ready. Kitty corner to La Moneda is the building housing the Department of Defense. This was the epicentre of the military Junta in the time of Pinochet. The basement of this building was a torture centre and weigh station for dissidents and activists scooped up to keep the order. 

A couple of blocks away and around the corner, in the middle of the old Londres road, is a non-descript building, number 38. This was a very dark place of murder and crimes against humanity. The place was used as a clandestine not-so-fun house by the infamous DINA secret police (Dirección de Inteligencia Nacional). It’s now a kind of memorial to the victims, but the wounds have yet to heal. On the walls, the graffiti is pointed: “Fucking Cops”, and “You can control parts of the city, but you can’t stop the revolution”.

We’re back in Santiago for a few days to pick up our third Stooge in a couple of weeks. For now, Truus and I are excited to be heading North to our next adventure.

Darren heeft gisteren uitgebreid geschreven over de algemene begraafplaats van Santiago. Het heeft op ons beiden enorme indruk gemaakt. Allereerst de historische muur met in het midden de naam Salvador Allende. Aan één kant staan alle namen van personen die tijdens Pinochet zijn ‘verdwenen’ met de laatste datum dat men ze heeft gezien. Aan de andere kant staan alle namen van mensen die zijn geëxecuteerd met datum van en leeftijd. We hebben ook Salvador Allende’s Graf bezocht. In een uithoek van de begraafplaats heeft het regime mensen begraven zonder naam en op het graf een metalen kruis gezet. Tot op de dag van vandaag is m’n bezig om iedere persoon of personen per graf te identificeren.

Er zijn twee te onderscheiden gedeelten van de begraafplaats. Het rijke gedeelte en het arme gedeelte. Het rijke gedeelte spreekt voor zichzelf. Men heeft veel geld gestoken in het bouwen van de graf kapellen. Het ‘arme’ gedeelte is enorm. Het bestaat uit betonnen blokken met verschillende verdiepingen vol met urnen. Het moet gezegd dat de mensen van Chile bijzonder goed zorgen voor de overledenen. Het was ontzettend druk met families die verse bloemen brachten de begraafplaatsen schoonmaakten of gewoon als familie sociaal bij elkaar zaten. Verder hebben we het Museo Chileno De Arte Precolumbino bezocht. Heel erg interessant. Ene gedeelte bestaat uit art van de Pre-Columbian America en Chile voordat Chile bestond. Zal ook daarvan een foto toevoegen. Heb ook maar eens een Chileense vette hap geprobeerd. Een hotdog met avocado en tomaten en jawel, mayonaise. De Chilenen zijn gek op mayo. Vanmiddag nog naar een interessante markt geweest en nu maar weer studeren. We hebben nog maar 1 week in Santiago voordat onze reis door Chile begint. Waar is de tijd gebleven, we hebben het hier ontzettend naar de zin. Ciao Truus

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Today we ventured out into Santiago to see some of the most important places before we leave for parts unknown a week or so from now.

Truus had a few places on our list. In the morning, we wanted to see the “Cemantarios General”, also known as the General Cemetery.  For me, nothing says Saturday morningvacation like an early morning jaunt to a place of immense sadness.

Actually, it’s not entirely what you might think. This cemetery is more than a place of remembrance and reverence. The cemetery is, in its scale and structure, kind of a roadmap Chilean society and recent history.

First a bit of info for you, to put things in perspective. The cemetery is one of the largest in all of South American. It was founded 200 years ago. The number of “residents” is more than 2 million. It is likely the size of a very large London Park – covering 210 acres. The grounds are filled with trees and hundreds of ornate sculptures. There are many mausoleums, large and small, housing multiple members of well-to-do families. The cemetery is the final resting spot for former Presidents, famous writers & artists, and dozens of other persons of renown. 

Augusto Pinochet is not buried here, but, in the centre of the Northern half of the grounds, is a massive wall and monument to the dead and disappeared – victims of the Pinochet government directed genocide that lasted for nearly 20 years. The monument is stark and simple but the families of the victims have humanized it by adding pictures and remembrances to those who were taken from them. In the centre of the wall is the name of Salvadore Allende. His body is actually buried in another part of the cemetery, but I’ll get back to that.

As we progressed further to the North, we were struck by the immense scale of the place. We passed many vendors setting up stands to sell refreshments, flowers, and grave novelties for those visiting their loved ones. The streets in the cemetery – yes there are roads and avenues inside the cemetery with names like, O’Higgins Way, Horwitz Road, and Monkeberg St. – fan out to the horizon. The structures housing the dead started to take on the appearance of low-rise Soviet Bloc apartments. These 3-4 story post-mortem condo barracks were massive. It basically felt like one giant Cosco of death. The grounds here are kept by a small army of male and female caretakers. On the walls, discretely placed, are signs saying “Your tips are our livelihood.”

As the morning wore on, we walked further and further into this place of grief. The number of Chilenos coming to visit relatives and place flowers or an offering on their resting place was truly astounding. This was a regular Saturday morning in Santiago, and the people, old and young, singular and in groups, came quietly and dutifully to pay respects.

Towards the Northern border of the cemetery, we came upon an open field of sheet metal crosses. There were hundreds of them. The name of this place is “Patio 29”. At the beginning of the coup  d’etat in 1973, government forces would randomly dump some of the bodies of the murdered in this place overnight. They erected crude crosses with the marker, “NN” or “no name” (no nombre). In the decades since the government has transitioned to a democracy, forensic scientists have worked diligently to try to identify the victims. It has not been an easy task, due to the fact that, in some instances, multiple bodies were buried together. Also, the victims had been beaten and disfigured beyond recognition. The importance of this undertaking to the people of Santiago cannot be overstated. Nearly all of the original makeshift crosses has been given a name. It doesn’t in any way reduce the pain and tragic loss, but it restores a kind of dignity that was taken from the victims.

No visit to this cemetery is complete without a pilgrimage to the burial monument of President Salvadore Allende. The late morning heat was rising fast, and we had, according to Truus’ fitness step counter, already covered a lot of miles. We pushed on and spent 20 minutes going around and around the Northern labyrinth like we were chasing Algernon the mouse. Multiple questions in broken Spanish to different people, helped not at all. We were lost, and I was ready to pull the plug. Truus, no surprise, was on a mission and wouldn’t relent. Back at the entrance to the cemetery for the third time, and a super friendly security person put us on the right path. Ayenda’s resting place was on the SOUTH half of the cemetery. 

The Southern half of Cementario General is a different world. This is the high rent district. The crypts and mausoleums are beyond grand. We’re talking Trump mausoleum grand. The moneyed people of Santiago have/had a serious case of grave envy. The names of the architects are carved into the sides of these structures as a kind of advertising to future clients. Most of the biggest structures are for people that are not listed in the guide as persons of note. They were/are not kings, but rather aristocrats and captains of industry. The irony is almost too much to bear – they mostly paid for their luxurious final places of internment via the labours of those many souls resting in the North.

We turned to the pathway leading to Allende’s place. On the way, we came face-to-face with a friendly-faced Chilano boomer riding a massive Kowasaki motorcycle. He pulled off to the side of the pathway and stopped to let us pass by him single-file. He smiled at us and said in Spanish, “Looking for Allende? You’re almost there, just another 60 metres straight ahead.” A little further on and we saw a large wooden cross looming. When we got around to the front we could see it was a massive crucifix. Around the figure were candles and tributes to relatives passed. Turns out that there are two versions of this crucifix. The one we were looking at was “Christo Rico”, or Rich Christ. On the North side of the cemetery, a more modest “Christo Pobre”, or Poor Christ, looks after the economy passengers. Even in death, perhaps especially so, the line between the haves and the have-nots is stark in Chile.

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The day’s homework done, Truus & I are just kicking back and enjoying some awesome, vintage $3 supermercado Chilean wine. The sun is down, and with it the heat of the day has lifted. We’re hangin’ in our flat in Santiago, or “The Big Empenada”, as it’s never likely to be known. 

The truth is that the city is named for a Spanish conquistador sent by the Peruvians to take charge a while back. Pedro de Valdivia (or Pete to his friends) reached the valley of the Mapocho (the river that keeps showing up in our pictures) on 13 December 1540. It was tasked to him to convince the native Picunche people that it was a good idea to build a thing called “a city” on behalf of the King Carlos I of Spain. What may have got lost in translation was that this would be the beach-head for governorship of Nueva Extremadura (The New World). The natives figured the guy with the horse and the cool clothes must know what he’s doing, and, after a few cups of eggnog spiked with rum, chose to accept the deal, rather than killing the strange interlopers in their beds en masse.

So, on 12 February 1541 Valdivia officially founded the city of Santiago in honor of St. James, patron saint of Spain, near the Huelén. To seal the deal, the conqueror renamed the hill as “St. Lucia.” The city name Santiago turns out is a garbled and crude nod to the Latin Sanctu Iacobu, “Saint James.” If they had it to do over, I think the natives would acknowledge that they should have spent less time imbibing and more time sharpening their spears. 

Well, what’s done is done. Switching to the present, the back of our flat in present day Santiago looks out onto half a dozen other high-rise apartment buildings. We’re on the tenth floor, so it’s kind of like being in our own personal South American Rear Window Hitchcock film. We keep a hawk-eye on the neighbours, like we are watching a Telenovela. Every siren, clanging noise, shriek of joy, cheering of a gooooooooaaaaaaaalllllll, and mundane trash pickup gets registered in our database. The restaurant downstairs sings happy birthday to one of their patrons, on average, 3 times per evening.

Life in Santiago is densely packed. It’s a mostly and increasingly vertical city. Anything new that gets built has verticality.  Seen from on high and at a distance, it could be any large U.S. metropolis. This is fully intentional. They appear to be following the same blueprint as China, Singapore, Dubai, and other places where raw ambition is spinning their navigational gyroscope.
You notice it on the roads, in the subway, and in the way people move through the streets and stores. You notice it also in the unique old style burroughs where the traditional Spanish-style low-rise dwellings are the norm. Our school is in one of these places, between San Cristobel (Hill of the Virgin Mary) and the North shore of the Mapocha river. We went there today after school for a walk-around. It’s very trendy, toney, and upscale. It’s also ground zero for many of the protests that have dogged Santiago for the last months. It’s a place where realities are colliding and those not benefiting from prosperity have come to have their voices heard. A bit ironic given that this is likely pretty much the spot where Spanish Pete and his buddies set up camp back in the day.
The more things change…

The D-Day invasion in June 1944 started at 6:30am. By 06:30 on Saturday morning, Truus and I had been up for an hour, showered, and prepped for our own assault on the La Morado Glacier.

The school that we’re at offers extra-curicular activities through the week – cooking classes, salsa dancing lessons, city tours, and more. On the weekends, there are more adventurous outings to the environs of Santiago. Given that the general age of students at the school is 24 and younger, the activities are geared towards folks who don’t yet have a clue what glucosamine or anti-inflammatories are. 

Truus had spoken with the organizer of this week’s outing, a hike to the La Morado Glacier in the Andies mountains. The description was as follows: 

·         2 hour drive to point of departure

·         4 hour hike to the glacier

·         3-4 hour hike back

·         Group snack of baked empanados – prepared in a traditional wood hearth oven

·         2 hour drive back to Santiago

“Do you think we can do it?”,  Truus asked me rhetorically on the day of sign-ups for the trip. “Do I have a choice?”, I thought to myself, seeing clearly that Truus had already set her mind on us taking the North Face route to the summit. “No problem… we can handle it”, I said, fully denying the logical left hemisphere of my cerebral cortex.

We left Santiago at just after 07:00, in a white mini-bus with little air-conditioning, and absolutely no hint of suspension. Each bump on the road felt like a ride on the Wild Mouse roller-coaster at the CNE. We grinded on the road for an hour to the outskirts of the city where we stopped to pick up our “guide” for the day, Carmillo. Carmillo was a man of few words. He also, it later turned out, followed the Japanese / Darwinian school of guiding, whereby he chose to lead a sub-group of the youngest & strongest to the top, while the elderly and infirm were left to fend for themselves. More on that later.

We stopped in a small town to use the bathroom and purchase final supplies. It was a pretty pueblo, teeming with wild dogs. From there, we headed into the Andies on a winding track, that deteriorated into a stone mountain pass. We eventually arrived at the entrance to the El Morado trail after a couple of security checks with the hydo-electric and mining companies that control this area. Chile is a business-first kind of place. The President is strongly considering selling big chunks of Patagonia to mining interests. 

When we left the bus, our guide spotted 3 giant condors circling the mountains overhead. “That’s very lucky”, he said in Spanish, “don’t normally see condors at such a low elevation.” It was quite a site to see these giant birds of prey soaring in the sky. Andean condors are like the original spy satellites. Their wingspan is more than 3 metres. They are the largest raptors on the planet, and can cruise at an altitude of 15,000 feet. “What do they eat?”, I asked. “Only dead things”, he said. So these scavengers, basically Chilean vultures, had suddenly appeared at the moment that our group exited the bus. Duly noted. “Though”, I thought, “I would describe this occurrence as something other than ‘lucky’”. Keeping my own growing sense of dread at bay, we set off semi-cheerfully into the abyss.

The trailhead overlooks the temporary housing and worksite of the company. It’s a 40 degree climb of 30 minutes before you’re underway and you enter an undisturbed panorama of sheer mountains and moonscape valleys. The son, 30+ degree heat, and increasing altitude slightly dampened our enthusiasm, but the beauty of the place is profound.

The next hour was spent walking towards our goal, which eventually became visible in the distance. We crossed a river stream where a group of wild horses were lingering and drinking from the rushing water. The grade of the climb started to increase. Our guide encouraged us to walk faster. This was the “easy” part of the trek. The push to the glacier would be “slow” and “difficult”. “Huh”, I said, checking the sky to see if the vultures were still circling. The 23-year old Aussie in our group, who showed up without a hat or cover from the sun, was struggling mightily already. The Swiss-German contingent seemed to be enjoying this leisurely stroll in the mountains. When we hit the higher altitudes and the grade became steeper, our group started to spread out, slowly at first, but then to the point that it didn’t even appear we were part of the same expedition. The Teutonic trio were 700 metres ahead. Truus and I were next, followed by a laggard Swiss girl who had stayed back to take pictures of the horses, and then the Chilean apprentice who was supposed to bring up the rear and take care of the gringos. Another 500 or more metres back was Ms. Botany Bay. 

To get to the last stage and approach the glacier, we had to cross a semi-raging river by stepping/hopping from stone to stone. The only way to do it was to step on submerged stones, feeling first with your walking stick to identify a likely solid/stable candidate to jump onto. I saw the lead group cross the river and sensed the tenuousness of the endeavour. “Where do we cross?”, Truus asked me. “See them – that’s roughly the place”, I said squinting through the blinding light to approximate where they were crossing. “But I’m sure the guide will wait to get us across”, I said, as I watched the Werhmacht division delicately cross the river, and continue their ascent without looking back.

Left to our own devices, we somehow managed to get across, and, eventually made it to the glacial lake (the place with the brown water and chunks of ice). El Morado is a hanging glacier. The basin valley below the glacier is beautiful and raw. No chance of a Fairmont or Trump Hotel being built here anytime soon. We hung out there taking pics and re-charging for the return hike. As we were leaving, I noticed a cairn with a plaque and a picture for a Chilean musician, positioned discriminately at the edge of the valley. Not sure if it was a burial place or just a memorial for his ashes. Perhaps, it was just a big middle finger to the condors in the sky – the one that got away. Either way, I was, in that moment, slightly envious of the departed soul that he didn’t have to walk the 3+ hours back to the trailhead.

“Create results, not excuses”. That was what was on the t-shirt of the Chilano I passed, while I was walking back to the Metro post my afternoon workout at one of the Everyday Fitness locations in Santiago. That pretty much sums up the Chilean mindset. It’s all about the results for them.

That’s very evident at the school we’re at. The pace of learning is breathtaking. We’re faced with a daily tsunami of nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions, and irregular grammar. My class is full of German cyborgs who are absorbing Spanish like they’ve dialled up the Mother Ship in The Matrix and are downloading textbooks en masse. They try to include me in some of the exercises, but it’s clearly a matter of pity for the senior citizen who reminds them of a familiar simpleton from their home villages.

Be it as it may, we’ve finished our second week at the school and have settled in to a routine that has become our new normal:

07:00     Wake up and turn on the Ozzie Open to catch the latest live action

07:15     Coffee in bed

07:30     Shower and prep for the day

08:00     Breakie and emails + homework that we should have completed the evening before

08:30     Prep to leave, chastened by the knowledge that you’ve forgotten everything you learned the day before

09:00     Flurry of activity to get out the door

09:15     Head downstairs and turn right to go to the river to grab the path we take to school

09:20     Confront the Manhattan level crush of cars, motorcycles, bikes, people, jugglers, merchants, etc.

9:50        Arrive at school

10:00     ?Como estas? 

13:40     Classs is over… WTF?!

13:50     Heads spinning, make our way slowly back home speaking a mix of garbled nonsense languages –Spanish, Dutch, English + some old Yiddish I learned as a kid that, from the trauma, seems to be bubbling to the surface. The rest of the day is a blur of shopping, occasional outings organized by the school, meal prep, cleaning, homework, Netflix, blogging, Yatzee, and existential reflection. Needless to say, the time is passing by very quickly. In two weeks we’re scheduled to leave Santiago for parts North. I now know, literally, what “Tempus Fugit” means. Truus: In my class are 8 students, 2 Americans, 1 Fin, 1 German, 1 Swiss, 1 Australian, 1 Slovenian and me. Beside the intensity of the program to teach us vocabulary, grammar and to communicate with each other, is the heat that makes it for me hard to concentrate. There is no AC in the class rooms. The daily temperature is 30+ and always sunny. Needless to say school is not easy! However the teachers are amazing they are very supportive and positive and we students indeed have a lot of fun. The pics we add today are all pics from our daily routine. Every morning lots of retired men are watering and cleaning the park. The río Mapocho suppose to be clean, brown color comes from all the minerals and mining according to the Chilean people. Darren and I try to study during our morning commute in the park. Not sure if it always works. Ciao

Santiago is an active place. There are people moving everywhere, and in every manner of motion – cars, bicycles, motorcycles, e-bikes, scooters, runners, pedestrians, jugglers and guys on stilts walking through traffic. There are unofficial impromptu market stands on most walkways and bridges, people selling fruit, nuts, sweets, cigarettes, lottery tickets, sunglasses, rolling paper, cold beverages, and ubiquitous clothing laid out on tarps at particular streetcorners with regularity.

Chileans are very entrepreneurial and highly motivated to provide for themselves and their families. They likely spend a larger proportion of their income on food, entertainment, electronics, cars, and fashion. They also appear to be unselfconscious and unapologetic for their appetites. They’re basically the most “American” of people. It helps that the effective tax rate in Chile is closer to the U.S. than Canada or Western Europe. In 2017, Canada came in at 22.8 per cent, actually below the OECD average of 25%. Chile was at 15 per cent, along with South Korea and Mexico, versus up to 35 per cent in Belgium, Denmark and Germany.

So, it’s a bit surprising that Sundays in Santiago are reminiscent of 1970s Toronto. Nearly all of the shops on the high streets are closed, as are most restaurants and bars. It’s not the law – the Costanera Mega Shopping Mall – the Eatons Centre of Santiago – is, like Ontario, open for business. Selected other shops, snack bars, and restaurants are open as well. It’s interesting that these tirelessly ambitious folks still largely view Sunday as a day of rest.

One might think that it’s the result of the continued influence of the Catholic church. However, a massive pedophilia scandal involving priests and a Vatican cover-up, has shaken the faith of many here.  It appears that family, and the importance of spending quality time with those in your inner circle, is even more important. That shows on the people and the way that they interact with each other.

What also showed, in the neighbourhood “Barrio Lastarria” that we visited today, is that many people have had enough of a social order that is slanted towards the rich. Graffiti and broken windows are common here. And when citizens are consistently writing “Death to the president”, “Justice or you will be murdered”, “Cops are murderers”, and plenty of other stuff in Spanish I can’t yet understand, it ain’t good. 

One of the chief players in the Chilean Catholic church scandal was a guy named Bernardino Piñera, an influential Chilean priest who is also happened to be a paternal uncle of current Chilean President Sebastian Piñera. When confronted with the charges, Piñera claimed that it was fake news and that he had had “impeccable behavior. Sound familiar???