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A Return to Chile
After working the river season in West Virginia for the summer, then spending
Thanksgiving with the family in Pittsburgh, I park my car in Chattanooga, TN,
get on a plane to Santiago, Chile, and prepare for my second season in South
America. I step off the plane, pass through customs into the warm summer of
December, and it’s a bit like coming home.
* * *
We made it back down to Futaleufu on December 17th. And we got
here through our original plan A, after foregoing plans B, 3, and epsilon. You
may remember that our plan was to cross into Argentina and drive down the
overland route, crossing back into Chile at Futaleufu. This is much mellower
route (and cheaper…Argentina has better gas prices, and better gas) than
driving down to Puerto Montt then taking the 12 hour ferry across the gulf.
Unfortunately, after three days of paperwork in Santiago, we still didn’t have
the correct document to cross the border legally with a chilean vehicle.
Everything was done right in Santiago, but we learned that it takes 20 days for
the actual transfer of names in the country’s computers to take effect. So it
was looking like it was to be another ferry boat ride. Some of you may remember
me writing about our adventure on the ferry last year, and I was thinking that,
well, the ride couldn’t possibly be any higher adventure this time around.
Quickly extinguishing that line of thought (in a universe of infinite
probability, things can always get worse, and according to a certain axiom, they
often do, especially during times when you least want them to), we turned our
minds to more practical matters, such as booking a space on the ferry. We
learned that the ferry schedule had undergone changes since last year. One
company had gone out of business, and the other, picking up the extra traffic
with the same number of boats and runs, was overbooked. So it was looking like
there would be no getting to Futa for another week. This was unacceptable for
John, who was scheduled to work in three more days. He was starting to look into
plane flights down to Chaiten, leaving me and Natty and Bret with the van to get
it down there at our leisure. Then we turned to our good friend Marcela, who,
bless her heart, seems to have connections in every part of this country. She
happened to know a customs officer who was working the Argentine border outside
of Puyehue. She gave him a call, and told him we were coming. She gave us his
name (Oscar), and told us to ask for him, and to give him her name, and a story
that we had all agreed upon. By the time we had arranged all this, it was 4:30
in the afternoon, we were still about 300k from the border, and the border
closed at 9. So we beat feet all the way to Puyehue, and made it to the border
check literally minutes before they closed. We still had to cross our fingers,
to see if this whole scheme was going to work or not. As it turned out, it did,
and we found ourselves driving through Argentina. Paved roads all the way to
Esquel. We stopped in a little restaurant just north of San Carlo Bariloche and
had steak and wine (Argentina is famous for its steak), then drove into the wee
hours and camped at a gas station, so we could gas up in the morning. Next day,
we drove into Esquel around noon and did some last minute shopping for stuff
that you can’t get in Futaleufu, did some internet, ate another steak dinner
at Parrilla Maria, then did the last 35k leg of the journey, rolling into Futa
midafternoon Thursday, utterly amazed that we had pulled it off.
And it was like coming home. It’s such a beautiful, friendly little town.
Everyone knows just about everyone else. How can you not love a town with dirt
streets, and paved sidewalks? It’s laid out in a grid, only about 1k square.
You can walk from one end of town to the other in 10 minutes. This year,
they’re paving the block that surrounds the town plaza—a little grass park
with trees, shrubbery, benches, and in the middle, a statue of Bernard
O’Higgins, the country’s Irish liberator from the 15th century. I
find it amusing that way down here in Patagonia, on the other side of the world,
every city, town, and village has a main street called O’Higgins. They’ll
probably finish the paving sometime around mid-June, if they continue working on
the typical Chilean time pace.
Our first step was to find a place to live. The house we had rented last year
was taken. And word on the street was that it was really tough for Gringos to
rent houses down here. We did a little asking around to a few folks we knew from
last year. We stopped by our friend Tatiana’s place. She owns a restaurant
called Martin Pescador (that’s Kingfisher to you and me), one of the nicer
restaurants here in town. She was stoked to see us, and invited us in for
dinner. We contributed wine, then washed the dishes for her in the kitchen
afterward. We put out the word that we were looking for a house when we first
got there, then shortly before dinner was ready, this guy named Angelo stopped
by. He had rented a house just down the street for himself and some friends, but
his friends had changed plans, and he was looking for housemates.
The next day, we went to see the place. Last year, it was a little hospedaje,
but this year, the landlady was looking for somewhat more permanent residents.
It’s a great house, much nicer than the one we had last year. It’s got a
woodburning stove in the living room for heat, and this thing called a Califon
for hot water. And it’s got 5 bedrooms upstairs, so it was perfect. So now,
me, Natty, and John are sharing the house and rent with Angelo, and are paying
significantly less than what we paid last year. Yesterday, Angelo and I built a
frame for a sink, and installed running water in the kitchen, which is now fully
functional. The lady who owns this house, and lives just on the other side, is
the sweetest old lady you’d ever meet. According to Angelo, we all just call
her “Abuelita,” or grandma. She keeps an impeccable garden throughout the
entire space of the yard, of flowers, herbs, and various other plants. Our first
morning in the new house, she brought us some fresh baked bread and marmelade.
Angelo is a pretty interesting dude. He was born in a little town called
Puerto Natales, which is way, way down south in Patagonia among the fjords and
glaciers, almost into Tierra del Fuego, and he still considers it home. His
father’s an electrician there. Angelo makes his living leading trekking trips
around and through various parts of Patagonia. He has a website, and works when
he gets clients, which are almost exclusively gringos. He’s opening up a
little pub here in town. He’s planning on opening on the 10th of
January. He speaks some English, and we both want to practice our second
languages, so the way it’s been working out lately, is that I’ll talk to him
in Spanish, and he’ll talk to me in English.
My Spanish has picked up pretty much where it left off last year, with a few
big leaps forward in grammar, thanks to a book I studied this past fall. I’m
now using at least four different verb tenses in conversation, and my vocabulary
has doubled since last spring. As far as understanding and following normal
conversation, it depends on the day, and who it is. There are days when I can
carry on almost normal conversations. And there are times when I talk to
somebody, and don’t understand a single word, and realize how much my Spanish
still sucks. And the more I learn about Spanish, the more I notice how thick the
accent is down here.
Speaking of thick accents, our buddy Tito is still in town. Remember him? He
was our neighbor last year. He, his wife Macarena, and their 3 year old son
Esteban lived in the house next door. We ran into him in the bar Scorpions the
other night, and did some catching up over a bottle of wine. Macarena is
pregnant, so they’re getting ready to be parents for a second time. Tito has
become a bombero (fireman) here in Futa this year. He related to me how his dad
had died this past winter. He owned a bunch of land next to the river,
overlooking Throne Room rapid. I asked him how he died. He told me it was a
heart attack. I told him how my dad had died the same way. Then we shared a
toast to our fathers. We’re all invited to Esteban’s 4th birthday
party this coming Sunday.
So we’re back paddling on the Rio Futaleufu, which is still just as
beautiful, big, blue and awesome as when we left it. It’s not running as high
as it was last year, and it’s looking like it’s going to be a slightly more
normal water year. I’ll be shooting video on a trip coming up with Ex Chile,
Chris Spelius’s company for six days starting on the 26th. I’ll
also be working a little with Harvey at Guias Nativos, the local rafting company
owned largely by Marcela, that has since changed its name to Futaleufu Explorer.
Jan 9
Some more random observations about Chilean life:
Chileans are often vague and noncommital when
giving directions. The details are often hazy. When asking directions, the
answers usually consist of “go that way aways,” “down over there,” and
“make a turn somewhere up there.” If you want the actual names of the roads
or streets, and the directions (ie. left or right), you have to ask. If
they’re not sure, they may make something up. This is (usually) not because
they want to be malicious and amuse themselves by sending gringos in the wrong
direction, but because most of them sincerely want to help, and don’t want to
disappoint you by not giving any information (the theory being that information
that may be wrong is better than no information at all).
On a similar topic…it’s easier to get around
in this country once you figure out the system of roads and signs. Most of the
roads have numbers, but nobody really uses them. The signs, and subsequently,
the people who give directions, refer to the roads by the next town down the
line on that particular road. So look for the town on the map that you’re
going toward, then you might see a sign with an arrow pointing toward that town.
If you’re lucky.
Some random observations about life in Futaleufu:
Between Christmas and New Years is when the town
starts to get busy, and the tourists start to filter in. That’s when the
restaurants start to have more than one or two things on the menu, and when the
hospedajes and cabanas open their doors for the season.
In front of the town plaza – one square block of
carefully manicured grass, hedges, paths, benches and trees – sits the
combination police station/library/municipal building. In front of this,
overlooking the plaza, sits a small hexagonal structure (a patagonian style of
architecture called a “quincho,”), glassed in, with a a DJ booth, connected
to a powerful speaker system that faces the plaza. On any given sunny day, they
play music to the plaza and town over the sound system. The music ranges in
variety from salsa-style dance music, to disco, to alt-punk, to pop, to more
dance music. (I want this job…I had a very powerful vision of myself behind
the soundboard, spinning tunes to Futaleufu. Maybe if this videography thing
doesn’t pan out, I’ll put in an application. I hope Chileans like Jamiroquai…)
Kids and teenagers can be seen out front, riding bikes, kicking soccer balls,
and hanging out.
Don’t go into a little store here and buy
something small, say, a bar of chocolate or gum, and try to pay with a 10,000
peso bill. It’ll break their cash box for the day…if you try to pay with a
20,000, they’ll even give you a dirty look. They love it if you have exact
change. And don’t you dare try to leave without the receipt. Their entire tax
system is based upon handing you a small rectangular hand-written slip of paper.
The town is getting pretty busy these days, and everyone in the house has
been working since before Christmas. John is contracted to shoot video of
rafting trips at Bio Bio Expeditions. Their clientele are almost exclusively
Americans, who book week-long excursions with the company, and John spends the
entire duration of those trips in their private camp. As for me, I find myself
doing the same job as John did last year. I’m contracted to shoot the videos
of the big trips for Chris Spelius at Expediciones Chile. Our first big one
started the day after Christmas. Unlike Bio Bio, ExChile is based here in town,
and the clients stay in one of the hotels here in Futa, and the trips leave from
there.
Here’s how my week went…
Day one. Attended big meeting, after a dinner in the hotel dining
room, with new clients, who had just arrived that afternoon from the chartered
plane from Santiago to Puerto Montt, then the chartered plane from Puerto Montt
to Chaiten, then the chartered bus from Chaiten into Futaleufu. Mitch Sasser is
the trip leader. He stands up and addresses the trip. He spends about 20 minutes
welcoming them, and outlining the general itinerary and activities for the week.
He introduces Ben, the other guide. Ben goes over some more preliminary FYI.
Then briefly introduces me. I stand up to give my spiel. I try to keep it short
and low key, for now…”I’m Ken, I’ll be coming along on most of your
activities this week, and I’ll either be taking video or shooting photos. Some
days, you’ll have video and photos, with the help of a photographer named
Sebastian who will be working with me. At the end of every day, you’ll eat
dinner while I put this all together in the computer, then after dinner, I’ll
show you the video I put together,and a slideshow of the high quality digital
photos from the day, all in a little multimedia presentation…” This draws
some interested nods of approval. A lady then proceeds to blurt out…then yer
gonna sell it, right? “Well, I was planning on waiting to talk about that a
little later in the week, when you’ve had a few days to see what kind of
product you’re getting, but yeah, that’s the general idea.” They seem
impressed, but not quite sure what to make of me. The feeling is mutual.
This trip would be an opportunity to either (a.) work really hard and make a
very large sum of money, or (b.) work really hard and make no money at all,
depending if they bought our multimedia package at the end of the trip or not.
The rest of day one was spent tracking down all the necessary equipment I would
need to pull this off. My video camera. John’s digital camera. Spare video
batteries, charged. Spare camera batteries, charged. Hand towel with plastic
ziplock for the camera case. Camera case. Umbrella. Shit…buy umbrella at the
“getting stuff place.” Luckily, have them in stock. (Turned out not to need
it…every day of shooting was bright and sunny.) Firewire. Had to borrow this
from Chris Spe…John was using his out at the Bio Bio camp. Paddle helmet
lifejacket sprayskirt shortie fleece shortie jacket neoprene shorts longsleeve
jacket longsleeve fleece in case weather turns nasty all in gearbag next to the
door ready to go. Paddle. Blank HI8 tapes. Memory card. Clean hard drive on
laptop. Wait. First, archive and burn old photos on disc. Now, clean hard drive.
Memory card reader. Firewire reader. Drybox. Firewire reader adaptor. Pleasure
beads. Lubed french tickler. Sorry…just checking to see if you’re still
reading. Sunscreen. Put in gear bag. Test equipment. (Not the french tickler.)
All appears to be well. Finally, talk with Sebastian, make sure we both know the
program tomorrow.
Sebastian lives in Santiago, is about 24 years old, and spends his summers
here in Futa with Chris, doing most of Chris’s work for web design, and art
direction. In return, Chris pays for his schooling and housing. His one chance
in Futaleufu to earn a little of his own money might be to work subcontracted to
John and I, taking photos on this trip, then sharing in a pre-agreed-upon cut of
the total profit from the sale. Correction: potential sale. We hadn’t
sold yet. And I wanted to make sure we had a high-quality product to offer them.
Sebastian had, last year, tried to work this same program with us. He didn’t
kayak, so could only go along with the shuttle driver, taking pictures of the
rafts at two strategic points where the river nears the road. He would come back
with maybe 10 photos of the whole trip, all in low-quality, minimum-pixel
settings. This would not do, and John had taken the time to explain this to him.
He was not happy with the criticism, but seemed willing to work with us. We
talked over our program for the next day.
Day two. First day of activities. The group of clients numbered 15. In
the morning, half the group would go on a horseback ride, and the other half
would go sea kayaking, on one of the large lakes in the area. In the afternoon,
the groups would switch activities. This was not a day for videos, it was a day
for still photography. I introduced Sebastian to the group that was going
horseback riding…This is Sebastian, he’ll be taking photos of you today. He
doesn’t speak much English, but he’s an excellent photographer, and should
come back with some nice shots of all of you. I went sea kayaking, and Sebastian
took his bike to follow the horseback ride, and at the end of the day, we had
about 80 digital photographs which Sebastian carefully organized into a
well-organized file, and a slideshow presentation. As it turned out, Sebastian
took way better photos than I did, and he was able to make mine presentable
through some impressive photoshop skills. My confidence in him was growing.
Day three. Most of the group would go kayaking on a class II section
of the Rio Espolon. A few other folks who weren’t up for it went on a mountain
bike ride. Sebastian went with these folks with his camera. Time for me to make
a video. My work day started from when I went to load my kayak on the equipment
trailer around 8, then went to the hotel to meet the trip. Spent the day
shooting footage of the gumbies kayaking in the “sit-on-tops,” or as I like
to call them, “swim-besides.”
Sometime around mid-day, Ben related to me one of the dumber questions he’d
ever been asked by a tourist. I’ve heard some ridiculous ones over the years
(“Do we take out in the same place we put in?” “No, we don’t have any
circular rivers.” “Are there mountains under the trees, or do they just get
taller as they go up?”) but this one ranks right up there. It was that
morning, and one of the ladies asked him, “So, do these people have a
Chief?” She was apparently serious. With a straight face, he tried to explain
to her that no, they had a democratically elected mayor, town council, and board
of tourism. Questions like these bring forth in me an often preoccupying
question of how someone so inconceivably unobservant and dumb can have so much
money. Apparently, America is full of these people. Maybe being a moron has some
as yet undiscovered Darwinian survival value. They’re certainly thriving,
prospering and proliferating. Hmm…
At the end of the day, the guests went back to the hotel for dinner, and I
went to the house to begin phase two of my day, editing. By about 10, the
clients were done eating, and we moved them into the bar for our presentation.
Sebastian had put together an even better slideshow than the night before, and
my video was a big hit. A positive sign. The line was cast, and they were
starting to bite.
Day four. The first day of real whitewater. The safety team would be
Ben and Mitch guiding the rafts—18-foot oar-mounted Maravias, along with
Harvey in the safety Cataraft, and Chris’s 16-year-old nephew Andrew
safety-kayaking. We were running Bridge to Bridge, the class IV continuous
section of the Futa, with a bonus of two more class IV-V rapids down below the
second bridge in the McCall section. Same program as yesterday. Videoboating on
the Futa (or most other whitewater rivers, for that matter) is not an easy job.
I get face shots and interviews at the put-in. Then I sprint downstream to the
first rapid, dropping in by myself, finding a spot to shoot from, then pulling
my camera out of the drybox and setting up. Shoot the trip coming through.
Sometimes I narrate when I shoot. Trip makes it through. Back in the box. Back
in my boat. Sprint past the trip to next rapid. Repeat procedure to the end of
the day. Then I take the footage home, import it into the hard drive with the
firewire, and put it all together with titles, music, graphics and transitions
in I-Movie. Then export the entire mixed-down project back onto a HI8 tape for
the show. They all actually applauded the video when they watched it this time.
Ben’s raft had flipped in Pillow Rock rapid. And I had been there with the
camera. A raft guide’s nightmare, but a video kayaker’s cash cow. After the
video, I gave THE TALK. “Some of you have been asking me whether these videos
and photos are going to be for sale. You know who you are. And I’ve said that
I’ll gather the group together and talk to you about that sometime around the
middle of the week. Well, this seems like a good time to talk about it, so here
we go. We’re offering these videos and photos for you to take home as a
package. In that package, you’ll go home with a cd of close to 300
high-quality digital images of your trip, and a VHS tape of all 5 days of video
in your hand. I’m sure your next question is price. The way I prefer to sell
this, is to offer one flat price for the whole group, and under that price,
everyone in the group will get the copies that they need, all first generation,
straight from the digital. There are 15 of you in this group. If you all get
together and pool an even $---- , then that will even out to less than $-- per
person, which is a more than fair price for a week’s worth of video and
photos. Talk it over amongst yourselves, think about it, and by Saturday, I’ll
need a yea or a nay. Sound good?” They nodded contemplatively. The die was
cast.
Day five. Same program as yesterday, but today, we were running
Inferno Canyon. This is a section high up on the Rio Futa. The river meanders
like a giant, blue, fast-moving but lazy anaconda in serpentine, peristaltic
waves through fields and meadows, overlooked by snow-capped peaks, until it
rounds a bend, and the walls close in, and it becomes Inferno. For the next 6k,
starting with Entrance rapid (also called Inferno rapid), the canyon walls are
sheer vertical granite monolithic structures that buttress and harness the
river, giving us a stretch of whitewater as powerful, fast, terrifying and
massive as it is beautiful; that transmogrify the anaconda into a medival feral
Dragon whose power and beauty can only be ridden and awed, never tamed or
harnessed, impervious to the presumed superiority of homo sapiens, and existing
in a dimensional reality overlapping, but not really part of, that which we so
presumptuously call “our world.” Half-assed poetic metaphor aside, this is a
bad-ass stretch of whitewater that pounds down through a canyon and doesn’t
stop for six kilometers. Mitch dumptrucked his raft in Entrance, and they went
for a brutal swim up against the wall at the bottom, and it was three rapids
later when the safety team was able to get them all back together. Made for some
fantastic video.
Day six. The clients, having spent all day yesterday running Inferno,
and then the Wild Mile down below, are taking a day of rest in the camp, staying
overnight in Chris’s riverside wonderland, spending the day hiking around,
reading, getting a massage, whatever. I spent my day putting together
yesterday’s video, then finding blank VHS tapes (a surprisingly easy task in
this tiny southern Patagonia town) in case these folks actually did want to buy
the video. Sebastian was getting restless. I kept telling him he was doing a
fantastic job, and he was. He kept asking me if they were going to buy our
package or not. He was worried about working his ass off all week for nothing. I
could relate. I told him that, man, this is part of the game. I’m not going to
pressure them to buy it or not. I believe that if a product is worth selling, it
will sell itself. But I told him that I truly did believe that our product was
worth selling, and that they’d probably buy it. Especially after yesterday’s
Inferno Canyon madness.
Day seven. Our final day of whitewater. We would run the Terminator
section, and then drop in and revisit Bridge to Bridge just below. The day went
smooth, everyone had clean lines (well, except for me…dropped into a giant
hole at the top of Himalaya rapid, trying to find a video spot…for future
information, the hole flushes left…note to self…), and got to shoot two
different rapids from two different angles that we missed on our first Bridge to
Bridge run. At 9:00 that night, the week’s video was complete, the photos were
organized, and the show was on.
After watching the final mixdown of Thursday’s Inferno run, and then
today’s Terminator descent, the closing credits of my video were greeted with
a standing ovation, and the clients were coming up and putting cash in my hand
before the credits were done rolling. They all wanted one. Moments like these
are why I love being a video kayaker.
I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning making copies of the video, and burning
cds with Sebastian. I showed up, red-eyed, at the hotel at 6:30 in the morning,
where the clients were about to leave, and placed the final products, along with
our business cards, in their hands. They couldn’t stop complimenting me on
what a fantastic job I’d done. These moments make the 18-hour work days
worthwhile. I organized all the cash, then gave John his percentage, Chris his
percentage, and Sebastian $100 more than our pre-agreed upon arrangement, and
everybody was happy. I ended up grossing enough cash to have financed my entire
Chile trip so far. Far out. I had pulled it off.
Time to go kayaking.
* * *
Life continues more or less as normal, such as it is (“normal” can be a
highly subjective concept), here in Futaleufu. Obviously I haven’t been as
prolific with my writing as I have in the past…I’m trying to remember where
I left off.
I believe I had just finished a large video project for a week-long trip for
ExChile. Since that trip, I’ve shot two more videos for much smaller groups
(and hence, smaller amounts of money, but still more than I would have made as a
guide), and in between, have been working as a safety kayaker for many of the
daily trips.
95% of the rafting business here these days is straight off the
streets…people traveling through town, and wanting to go rafting for a
day…and thus I usually don’t know if I’m working until that day, or
occasionally, the night before.
The safety team on most futa trips consists of the guide, driving the 18-foot
oar raft, one safety cata-raft, and at least one safety kayaker, depending on
which section we’re running. (Terminator and Inferno always have two.) My job
is to stay close to the rafts…positioning myself strategically in certain
eddies in the more complicated drops, paddling 10-20 meters in front of the
rafts for the rest. If the proverbial poop hits the fan and the raft flips or
dumptrucks, I herd the debris (customers who are swimming) either back to the
raft, or onto the safety cat. The idea is to go for the ones who end up furthest
away from the raft, or in the most immediate danger. I’m making this job sound
much more exciting and dangerous than it really is. In reality, it’s pretty
easy work, and on most days, when the guide takes clean lines, I don’t have to
work at all. But I’m happy to have the job.
***
Back in the local community of Futaleufu, the town has spent the past month
celebrating its 75th anniversary. The entire second week of the month
holds the town rodeo. The local rodeo venue is on the northeast corner of the
town…it is a round, fenced arena with attached corrals, made from sun-dried,
rough cut lumber, the steep hillsides on two sides creating a natural stadium,
all overlooking the Lago Espejo. There is rodeo activity every day, each day a
different contest. A P.A. system is set up from the announcer’s box, and the
M.C. commentates the events on his microphone, and plays cueca music from his
cache of cds. The people of the town line the banks of the hills and the set of
bleachers, or socialize over at the concession stands, where they sell beer and
empanadas.
This is the one week of the year when the rural cowboys from the surrounding
regions of Futaleufu get to come into town dressed in full cowboy regalia, and
do their thing. They are the rock stars of the town. Leather leggings, boots and
spurs, serapes, wide-brimmed hats, bruises, cuts, abrasions, goose-eggs,
red-eyed, limping, occasionally stumbling, carrying cheap beers and cheaper
boxes of wine, these guys are like The Rolling Stones on tour.
I went over on the day they were doing the bull-riding, and got to watch some
of this. Generally, I’m not a big fan of rodeos, and when for whatever reason
I end up watching one, I usually root for the bull. (As opposed to rooting for
the rednecked jerkoff who’s clinging to its back as it struggles in the throes
of terror, wondering why that leather strap got suddenly yanked so hard arounds
its nutsack by that other rednecked jerkoff over at the pen where it was
enjoying a few oats and having a good poop just a few minutes ago, as I silently
apologize to Vishnu on behalf of all homo sapiens everywhere , praying for a
nuclear holocaust.)
I was able to put aside my misanthropic hostilities for a little while and
enjoy the event. It was just a local competition, so the bulls weren’t that
big. They open the gate, and out comes the bull with its rider. The leather
strap is tightened around its chest, not its nutsack, and the rider whacks its
haunches with a riding crop until it starts to buck, and holds on until he’s
thrown off. Then the true entertainment begins, as the other local cowboys on
horseback try to rope it with their lariats, chasing it around the circle,
usually missing by miles. And then it’s up to Mario.
I met Mario here in town last year. A dude in his forties, he rides the local
garbage truck, picking up curbside trash from the bins and hurling it into the
rig. He usually wears a beret, something on his upper lip that isn’t quite a
mustache, and his gums are much larger than his teeth. The times I’ve talked
to him, he’s usually drunk as a skunk. Ever run into one of those guys who get
drunk and have a chronic need to express their friendship and affection to you?
It might just be me…I get that a lot. I have flashbacks to the town disco here
last summer…
Mario spots me across a crowded room. Makes a beeline through the crowd,
and finds his way to me. He remembers me from playing the guitar over in
Scorpions bar several weeks before. I offer up a handshake, we shake hands…
“Hola, Mario! Como estas?”
“AMIGO!!!”
“Si, amigo. Estas bien?”
“SI, AMIGO!!!”
He’s still shaking my hand.
“AMIGO!!!”
“Si, amigo. Como estas?”
“AMIGO!!!”
He’s moved in closer, in case I didn’t hear. He’s still got my hand,
and his arm is now draped around my neck.
“AMIGO!!!”
“Si, Mario…somos amigos. Que tal?”
“AMIGO!!!”
This is all he says, for the most part. He’s still shaking my hand, and
I think he’s forgotten to give it back. My friends are some distance away
laughing at this spectacle, and a few other locals are eyeing me knowingly,
perhaps thinking ah, it’s his turn now with Mario. Mario removes his arm from
around my neck long enough to point at me and ask,
“Tocaste la guitarra en Scorpio’s?”
“Si. Te gusta?”
“HAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa!!! AMIGO!!!!!”
He moves in for a hug. I give him a hug, which is hard to do because
he’s still shaking my hand. I’ve somehow touched his life in a meaningful
way. Well, it’s better than making enemies.
Mario hops the fence, and runs after the panicked bull. He eventually catches
it by the tail after a few tries, and hangs on with the tenacity of, oh, say, a
drunken handshake in a bar. The bull pulls, drags, and occasionally flops him
like a ragdoll around the arena until he gets some footing, then, still holding
the tail with one hand, locks his other arm around the bull’s neck and holds
it by the horns with the tenacity of, oh, say, a drunken hug in a bar, until he
and the other cowboys lead it over to the door of the corral, releasing it back
to its friends, to the cheers and laughter of the crowd.
***
Another big event this past week has been a visit from Ricardo Lagos, the
president of Chile. He came and spoke in the town plaza for an afternoon. I was
working on the river, so I didn’t get to see him, but Cornwell was here, and
saw him speak. He was lurking through the crowds toward the back, taking
pictures of the event. When the speech was over, Lagos wanted to meet with some
locals. He had also wanted to meet some foreign people who work on the river.
His press liason had spotted John right away, despite John’s best efforts of
inconspicuousness. They ushered him over toward the dias, and the secret service
took away his camera temporarily, and that was how Cornwell got to meet the
president. His meeting involved a handshake, some photos, and a few minutes of
conversation, during which John told him how much he liked the country and the
people, how much of a treasure this river is, and how there are fewer and fewer
places like this in the world every day. He also thanked him for voting against
Bush’s war in the U.N., at which point Lagos laughed and said gracias. He was
ushered away before he got the chance to ask him if there was anything he could
do to fix the paperwork on our van. I consider it a missed opportunity. Maybe
John will unintentionally meet the Minister of the Interior in a bar, and then
we’ll be getting somewhere.
Until then, there will be no more crossing the border into Argentina for us.
The latest development with our paperwork is as follows, and I’m not making
this up: On John’s R.U.T. (not sure what those letters stand for…it’s the
Chilean identification, which allows you to buy and own stuff), there is a space
where it requires your middle name, which in Chile, is automatically assumed is
the same as your mother’s maiden name. John’s middle name does not match
that of his mother’s maiden name, and therefore, has rendered the form
incorrect. We’re not really sure how the Chilean aduanas know John’s mom’s
maiden name…apparently they have ways. Nevertheless, this is the one piece of
information that keeps us still, after 15 months, unable to properly register
our vehicle. To fix this, we have to make the 170k drive to the coastal town of
Chaiten, which is the nearest location of an office of the Ministery of the
Interior. There, they will fix the names on his RUT, at which point he will be
able to send a notarized copy of this to a department in Santiago which will,
theoretically, put all the correct information in the right computers, and
eventually provide John with our long-awaited padron.
***
We have just a few more weeks here in Futa, and then we will begin the
journey back north. We’ll have some free time in the month of March, and plan
on making a quick visit through Pucon, and then hitting a beach on the coast
called Pichileymu which is supposed to have really good surf. After that, who
knows? …
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