Farewell to Conce

Sitting in the internet café off the central plaza of San Carlos you reflect on the first day of the viaje.

Christmas in Penco. Probably the place most like your native Hermosa Beach. Small town on the coast of a large city. The avocado eaten before Christmas mass is doing a number on the intestines. Going back to Jorge's place begins a night of discussing politics until 4:30 when you finally have to excuse yourself and crash on the couch.

So much for leaving at the crack of dawn. The pack has to wait for assembly until 11 after a few more winks of sleep. Alas it never ceases to amaze how much cluttler and crap has been accumulated over the year and how easy it is to pack-rat it all.

Mid-way through the process you take a stroll through the neighborhood you've come to know quite well over the last 10 months. Chacabuco is deserted but Parque Equador is in full swing with children running around the fountain and riding new bicycles on the path. You stop by the bakery where a good friend Fernanda works and she gives you two absolutely exquisite empanadas for the day's journey. A few days earlier she also gifted you a set of combat rations straight from the Chilean special forces unit for the southern journey ahead. Awesome.

The first go of the pack is deemed much too heavy, around 35 kilos, alas the shaver and water bottle must go. A gift for Chimbe and a beard for you.

One last pass of the apartment, home for the past 10 months, and a shot of pisco to calm the nerves. Nervious? Possibly. Anxious as hell to get started? Been that way for months now.

Damn this pack is heavy walking through the streets of Conce but you've got to pass by your favorite bar to snap a pic. Averno, you shall be missed.

Time to get on the micro to drop you off at the spot you've fished there before but there are already doubts before you start.

Walk a way up the highway, it's still not too late to back out and return to Penco for the night with Jorge, out with the thumb.

10 minutes and you try a sign, "quizás soy Jesús" perfect for the season.

30 minutes in and you've got a bite! You run over collecting your 3 bags of mostly junk, fumbling and dropping them, but ecstatic to have a ride.

"Ruta 5? San Carlos?"
"Te llevamos a Chillan, dale?"
Awesome!

The car starts out towards la Ruta de Itata. "Wanna beer?"
You can tell this ride is going to be good.

Politics,highways constructed by Mexican imperialist businesses, music, time signatures, the Gringo Nations' lack of rhythm...

"haha! Yea I've tried to dance cueca a few times" you mention, then admit "beer helps".
"I play cueca and other music at a bar every Tuesday..."
"Wait, you mean martes Chileno? At the Averno? Weon! You're the guitarist aren't you!"
"Sure am!"

If running into a musician from your favorite bar isn't a sign then you'll be damned.

"So you're from California right? You know there's a lot of links between that state and Chile. In fact one of the cuecas I sing is about the roto chileno working in California during the gold boom."
"What exactly is the roto chileno?"
"Basically a Chilean who works from day to day on odd jobs. He's good at drinking, a womanizer, and sleeps anywhere he can lay his head."

You arrive on the outskirts of Chillan, exchange numbers for a possible New Years' encounter in Valpo. Good man that Choro Boro and his girlfriend!

You walk under the overpass and relieve the beer, fish a bit longer but it's a bad spot. Maybe it's best to stay in Chillan for the night so you walk over to the toll booth entering the town.

Standing less than 5 minutes later a middle aged lady in very nice car takes you to the street ("Schlayer" says the woman, "German, heil Hitler"... hmmm maybe that was a bit innapropriate Señora) of your friend L, you practice English along the way.

A few calls yeild nothing, a short walk and you ring the bell.
"Hello, who is it?...Sarkis? Really?"
 L and T are going to Conce, but at least you manage to have some sort of farewell as you had missed a goodbye with them a few days prior.

So you're left to have delighful conversations over Christmas cake with the mother and you're certain this is what you've been looking for.

Manifesto

Reflecting on the past 10 months you realize it’s been a good while since your last trip back in July, and even longer since February. These didn’t exactly feel like real trips however, they were rushed and had an end date that was too soon. It was binge travel, one of your arch enemies.

The natural progression of travel has led you through the gamut of styles that has resulted in this dislike for binge traveling. In high school it was of the prepared and paid for variety that introduced you to Costa Rica. A bit more independence was tasted on the road trip of West US and led to a longer, yet still pre-paid, stay in Spain.

It wasn’t until the US perimeter voyage that travel began to become more than just a summer escape or weekend excursion, and it wasn’t until this point that the concept of the end date became such a formidable foe. It was still a short period of time to be sure, 3 weeks, and if it hadn’t been for finishing your degree, it would have lasted 3 years. Arriving back to the daily grind of study and work only left a bitter taste and a need to avenge yourself for the time slaved away.

The decision to teach English in Chile was meant to be a double-edged sword to both work and travel, you were ready to assimilate into the culture and open to be Chilean. Since February you’ve tried and succeeded in some respects. Your language is noticeably saturated with the Chilean dialect and vocabulary, something your Colombian neighbor with her near perfect Spanish loves to point out. You’ve also encountered many sides of Chilean society from the man who sells chocolates and cigarettes from his cooler to your boss who treats you to bottomless buffet lunches, and both are encountered daily. But there was one flaw in the plan, the job kept you pinned to a worker’s schedule. It was a morning to afternoon gig that many times demanded even more than that. Such hours made it nearly impossible to interact with your student housemate that followed the post-noon to post-midnight clock. You had the perfect set-up to create many friendships and stay in the university student atmosphere that you so adored, but once again, society (for lack of a better word) and tedious obligation kept you on the baby leash and didn’t let you roam off the 9-5 path. Once again you had been outsmarted. 10 months and the connection with your housemate is still little more than acquaintance. Many opportunities were planted, yet few flowered. Thankfully, those relationships that do exist and managed to survive are of the highest quality but to say you truly knew the student life of Concepción would be to tell a lie.

For this reason so much is riding on “El Viaje”. The whole year has been spent working with this one redeeming factor in mind: that in the end you’ll have the opportunity for real extended travel. Yet the particular idea or mission of El Viaje has only managed to truly take form in the last arduous months. All of your trips to date have been of a certain brand, that of security: security in lodging, security in finances, security in food, security in contact, and  security in knowing just where you’ll be the next day. You’ve convinced yourself that what will come when leaving Concepción must be different.  It needs to be like that one day you decided to leave it to the road gods and tried your hand (literally) at hitchhiking. While the mission had been to reach Ventura from San Luis Obispo and then merely take public transport to LA, the events that transpired gave you a much more real feeling of true…adventure that just hadn’t existed on your previous jaunts.

And so, for El Viaje, it is decided that the only money for transportation will be used to get you to the start (Tierra del Fuego) and to take you off the continent (Bogota) as well as a bit for emergencies. This leaves a good few thousand kilometers to burn through and every meteorological climate minus the Antarctic. Unfortunately there is still a time limit as the route must be completed before May 11^th, the day of your brother’s graduation, and you’re sure as hell not going to miss that. It wasn’t until a few days ago that you were planning to fly solo, but over a few beers and a few more serious conversations later, you’ve found a companion in one of your former students.  Not only will this make things much easier and safer on the road, but sharing experiences increases their values exponentially.

The date is set (December 25^th) and the pack armed, now it’s time to see where the thumb takes you.

EQ Report:

25/11 4.9

11/12 4.9

14/12 4.8

15/12 4.4

Chancho Blues

Wind’s a howlin’ but I got me a fire burnin’ bright

Wind’s a howlin’ boy and damn it be dark this night

I’ve got my shelter to the left and, this little piggy on the right

Well we got into Lebu at 10, looking to camp out on the beach

It was looking rather bleak, just where was that damned beach?

We asked the bus man and he said, “boys you’re out of luck, you got a 2 mile walk to reach”

A bit down, we didn’t have a place to stay in the dark

A bit down, we had really missed the mark

But a moment later, bus man said we could set up camp in the overnight bus park

Now we talked with the night man, he said it would be OK

We talked with the night man, said “you boys have a place to stay!”

“But just one word to you guys, in the mornin’ you better leave, before the pig sees his final day

Confused a bit, we took a look around

Sure enough, we saw little Chanchito sleeping there on the ground

Poor little guy sleeping, without any idea of what was about to go down

Well we camped that night, little Chanchito didn’t make a peep

Made a fire for cookin’ our grub, and right along side us he did sleep

We could count our blessings, for our lives we were going to keep

Sun came up the following morning, and we rose out of our sacks

Maxwell drove up with his friends, he carried a big old hammer gleaming black

There we were at that moment, ain’t no time for turning back.

So the buddies roused up Chanchito, I think that pig knew his fate.

Yea they got him all ready, there wasn’t a word of debate.

A combo with the sledge and blade, and ol Chanchi was ready for a plate.

EQ Update:

3/9/11: 5.8

13/9/11: 4.7

14/10/11: 4.8

4/11/11: 4.5

11/11/11: 5.2

17/11/11: 4.5

Get your rocks off

It’s all fun and games until someone blows a mind fuse. The thing is what trips it. In this case let’s call it the scenario.

In the second day of a national strike called upon for the purpose of protesting the administration’s education policy, the students are ready for the their favorite pastime, the juego con pacos. It is an inevitability that everyone knows. It would be surprising if it didn’t happen because after every march it happens. The encapuchados run to Plaza Peru and the University to give the call and send out the beacon, usually in the form of blocking traffic on all sides and then warming the asphalt with some sort of toxic assortment set aflame, they wait. Some yell insults, others amass armaments, but this young punk crowd knows it’s all for the game. Many may truly believe in the original intention of the day’s movements but once the greens appear, it’s all to shit.

Normally a few lookouts may come sprinting full tilt, arms a flappin to warn the masses it’s coming. De-glorified real-humanized Paul Reveres. And the hoard retreats to the U, because what can they do against a metal, chemical-laced-water spraying bull barreling down upon them motor roaring saying “I’ve got the cock n’ balls when it comes to the asphalt you little shits”.

Let the games begin!

The bull makes a pass, óle conchetumadre! Then BAM, CLAK, WHIK, CHANK, BONK the toreadores hurl their estoques of stone, concrete, and glass at the animal. This emboldens the masses and they storm out of the U, hooting and hollering like the stereotypical image of the Cheyenne tribe besting the forces of George Custer.

But please, a bit of water is not the only thing the evil green suppressors have at their disposal. A baritone thump is heard and soon shouts ring out of incoming objects leaving a trail of beige smoke in their wake. A retreat to the U is in order, but the damned smoke of the devil is everywhere! Disperse! Retreat further into the bowels of the fort! The nurses, bless their souls. Their beauty cannot be hidden by the scarves that cover their faces. An application of a lemon and salt underneath the eyes and nose mitigate the sting. The infantry are soon back on the front lines, for they too have some fiendish aces up their sleeves.

The bull makes another pass on the street, already filled with debris and puddles of acid-water. This time the natives are more resolute in their mission and a phalanx moves forward. Bursting out of the attack group is the hooded- kamikaze and in his right hand a burning wick with a bottle at the end. Thrown with all it’s might, the ex-Cabernet Sauvignon turned Octane 93 hits its mark, the eye of the beast, and explodes in a spectacular ball of flame. Another whoop comes from the banshees but it’s silenced quickly as another round of burning clouds descend upon them. But there is help on the way, for some tribesman has acquired a mask that is resistant to the sinister substance. He runs around feverously picking up the canister culprits and dousing them in his bucket. Onward comrades!

And so the game is played late into the night until it’s time for the parents to call the children to bed.

Tembloring:

4.7 12/7

4.6, 5.3 25/7

4.6 1/8

5.1, 4.8 6/8

4.7 20/8

Soy loco que corro

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8vDzHm4t44&feature=player_embedded

Click on the x in the top right corner a few times to see the video.


ESOS LOCOS QUE CORREN
Yo los conozco.
Los he visto muchas veces.
Son raros.
Algunos salen temprano a la mañana y se empeñan en ganarle al sol.
Otros se insolan al mediodía, se cansan a la tarde o intentan que no los atropelle un camión por la noche.
Están locos.
En verano corren, trotan, transpiran, se deshidratan y finalmente se cansan… sólo para disfrutar del descanso.
En invierno se tapan, se abrigan, se quejan, se enfrían, se resfrían y dejan que la lluvia les moje la cara.
Yo los he visto.
Pasan rápido por la rambla, despacio entre los árboles, serpentean caminos de tierra, trepan cuestas empedradas, trotan en la banquina de una carretera perdida, esquivan olas en la playa, cruzan puentes de madera, pisan hojas secas, suben cerros, saltan charcos, atraviesan parques, se molestan con los autos que no frenan, disparan de un perro y corren, corren y corren.
Escuchan música que acompaña el ritmo de sus piernas, escuchan a los horneros y a las gaviotas, escuchan sus latidos y su propia respiración, miran hacia delante, miran sus pies, huelen el viento que pasó por los eucaliptos, la brisa que salió de los naranjos, respiran el aire que llega de los pinos y entreparan cuando pasan frente a los jazmines.
Yo los he visto.
No están bien de la cabeza.
Usan championes con aire y zapatillas de marca, corren descalzos o gastan calzados. Traspiran camisetas, calzan gorras y miden una y otra vez su propio tiempo.
Están tratando de ganarle a alguien.
Trotan con el cuerpo flojo, pasan a la del perro blanco, pican después de la columna, buscan una canilla para refrescarse… y siguen.
Se inscriben en todas las carreras… pero no ganan ninguna.
Empiezan a correrla en la noche anterior, sueñan que trotan y a la mañana se levantan como niños en Día de Reyes.
Han preparado la ropa que descansa sobre una silla, como lo hacían en su infancia en víspera de vacaciones.
El día antes de la carrera comen pastas y no toman alcohol, pero se premian con descaro y con asado apenas termina la competencia.
Nunca pude calcularles la edad pero seguramente tienen entre 15 y 85 años.
Son hombres y mujeres.
No están bien.
Se anotan en carreras de ocho o diez kilómetros y antes de empezar saben que no podrán ganar aunque falten todos los demás.
Estrenan ansiedad en cada salida y unos minutos antes de la largada necesitan ir al baño.
Ajustan su cronómetro y tratan de ubicar a los cuatro o cinco a los que hay que ganarles.
Son sus referencias de carrera: “Cinco que corren parecido a mí”.
Ganarle a uno solo de ellos será suficiente para dormir a la noche con una sonrisa.
Disfrutan cuando pasan a otro corredor… pero lo alientan, le dicen que falta poco y le piden que no afloje.
Preguntan por el puesto de hidratación y se enojan porque no aparece.
Están locos, ellos saben que en sus casas tienen el agua que quieran, sin esperar que se la entregue un niño que levanta un vaso cuando pasan.
Se quejan del sol que los mata o de la lluvia que no los deja ver.
Están mal, ellos saben que allí cerca está la sombra de un sauce o el resguardo de un alero.
No las preparan… pero tienen todas las excusas para el momento en que llegan a la meta.
No las preparan…son parte de ellos.
El viento en contra, no corría una gota de aire, el calzado nuevo, el circuito mal medido, los que largan caminando adelante y no te dejan pasar, el cumpleaños que fuimos anoche, la llaga en el pie derecho de la costura de la media nueva, la rodilla que me volvió a traicionar, arranqué demasiado rápido, no dieron agua, al llegar iba a picar pero no quise.
Disfrutan al largar, disfrutan al correr y cuando llegan disfrutan de levantar los brazos porque dicen que lo han conseguido.
¡Qué ganaron una vez más!
No se dieron cuenta de que apenas si perdieron con un centenar o un millar de personas… pero insisten con que volvieron a ganar.
Son raros.
Se inventan una meta en cada carrera.
Se ganan a sí mismos, a los que insisten en mirarlos desde la vereda, a los que los miran por televisión y a los que ni siquiera saben que hay locos que corren.
Les tiemblan las manos cuando se pinchan la ropa al colocarse el número, simplemente por que no están bien.
Los he visto pasar.
Les duelen las piernas, se acalambran, les cuesta respirar, tienen puntadas en el costado… pero siguen.
A medida que avanzan en la carrera los músculos sufren más y más, la cara se les desfigura, la transpiración corre por sus caras, las puntadas empiezan a repetirse y dos kilómetros antes de la llegada comienzan a preguntarse que están haciendo allí.
¿Por qué no ser uno de los cuerdos que aplauden desde la vereda?
Están locos.
Yo los conozco bien.
Cuando llegan se abrazan de su mujer o de su esposo que disimulan a puro amor la transpiración en su cara y en su cuerpo.
Los esperan sus hijos y hasta algún nieto o algún abuelo les pega un grito solidario cuando atraviesan la meta.
Llevan un cartel en la frente que apaga y prende que dice “Llegué -Tarea Cumplida”.
Apenas llegan toman agua y se mojan la cabeza, se tiran en el pasto a reponerse pero se paran enseguida porque lo saludan los que llegaron antes.
Se vuelven a tirar y otra vez se paran porque van a saludar a los que llegan después que ellos.
Intentan tirar una pared con las dos manos, suben su pierna desde el tobillo, abrazan a otro loco que llega más transpirado que ellos.
Los he visto muchas veces.
Están mal de la cabeza.
Miran con cariño y sin lástima al que llega diez minutos después, respetan al último y al penúltimo porque dicen que son respetados por el primero y por el segundo.
Disfrutan de los aplausos aunque vengan cerrando la marcha ganándole solamente a la ambulancia o al tipo de la moto.
Se agrupan por equipos y viajan 200 kilómetros para correr 10.
Compran todas las fotos que les sacan y no advierten que son iguales a las de la carrera anterior.
Cuelgan sus medallas en lugares de la casa en que la visita pueda verlas y tengan que preguntar.
Están mal.
-Esta es del mes pasado- dicen tratando de usar su tono más humilde.
-Esta es la primera que gané- dicen omitiendo informar que esa se la entregaban a todos, incluyendo al que llegaba último y al inspector de tránsito.
Dos días después de la carrera ya están tempranito saltando charcos, subiendo cordones, braceando rítmicamente, saludando ciclistas, golpeando las palmas de las manos de los colegas que se cruzan.
Dicen que pocas personas por estos tiempos son capaces de estar solos -consigo mismo- una hora por día.
Dicen que los pescadores, los nadadores y algunos más.
Dicen que la gente no se banca tanto silencio.
Dicen que ellos lo disfrutan.
Dicen que proyectan y hacen balances, que se arrepienten y se congratulan, se cuestionan, preparan sus días mientras corren y conversan sin miedos con ellos mismos.
Dicen que el resto busca excusas para estar siempre acompañado.
Están mal de la cabeza.
Yo los he visto.
Algunos solo caminan… pero un día… cuando nadie los mira, se animan y trotan un poquito.
En unos meses empezarán a transformarse y quedarán tan locos como ellos.
Estiran, se miran, giran, respiran, suspiran y se tiran.
Pican, frenan y vuelven a picar.
Me parece que quieren ganarle a la muerte.
Ellos dicen que quieren ganarle a la vida.
Están completamente locos.

Running Riot

Woo, that was a tougher run than normal. I should probably give a little more priority to sleeping in the days to come. Hmm, some cops seemed to have set up shop on the street. AWWWW NAAAAWW! Really!?

“Disculpe señor, cuando empezó la wea?”

“Hace treinta minuto”

Agg CTM!

The battle line between the capucheros and the Pacos falls directly on the mark where the front door gives access to the street. So take a detour, in running shorts, shirt, and shoes, and arrive behind the mass on the student side of the battlefield. They’re all dressed in black cold autumn clothes which perfectly accents your pasty white ass like a shadow left on a wall after Hiroshima.

From this side you can see the looted furniture ablaze and smoke billowing from tear-gas canisters. Well, shit. You could wait about 2 hours until the end of their game and freeze your ass off as your body temperature cools down…or pass through the middle and grab your camera to snap some shots. Option 2. No contest.

Now, for the dismount into the fracas. Should I pass through running as if I didn’t notice the disturbio or… Oh crap! There’s your Pipón emerging from the apartment building. So, suavamente you pick your way through the ranks and walk up to him as if you’re just crossing the plaza.

“Sarkis culeado! Qué haces? Sabes que hoy es el 21 de mayo!”

“Ahora sí”

And snap, snap, snap.

EQ count:
1/6: 6.4
24/6: 4.6

Que zarpa CTM

One feels a bit lame leaving a simple youtube post such as this, but it means something when one has been able to understand all of the Chilean street speak.

La Mejicana

Kick out the dams

http://sarkelviajero.wordpress.com/2011/05/19/patagonia-sin-represas/

Temblores:
15/5: 4.5
12/5: 4.8

Dura Cobquecura

Given that it's a predominantly Catholic nation and you're actually working at a Universidad Catolica, it looks like pascua is going to give you an extra 2 days to the weekend. Sweet… Jesus.

The plan is set. Travel a few hundred kilometers north to a small beach town, stay the night in a cheap cabaña with three others, then head back the next day. Get a bit of the sabor, nothing more. The big pack is coming on this trip, loaded with 2.5 liters of tinto to add to the other 1.5 liters of Grenache and 750 of pisco carried by your compatriots. The inevitable beer will be purchased en camino. 

The only real rule is to keep it cheap. Time is a factor but with less priority to the aforementioned rule. Luck has it that the bus is too full when you arrive, the second option is to set out for a micro that will take you outside of town and then flag down a bus with standing room only to make it north to Cobquecura. The four of you take the micro without problem. After 45 minutes of waiting for a proper bus, and having one pass you by as if you were nothing but a cow chewing cud, the thumb is stuck out.

Now hitching in a group of 4 is downright impossible and necessitates the fissure of two and two. It is necessary to leap-frog to preset destinations to regroup and set off, making things even more of a hangover.

The first hike goes off without a hitch. Only 25 minutes of wait and a ride pulls off to the side. Your compañons soon follow suit and when all is said and done you're all at the pay station reunited.

Flush with an early victory, the pep in your step is clearly evident as you cross the highway... or perhaps it's just because you're crossing both lanes of highway traffic on foot.

The switch to the by-road looks as if thumbing a ride is going to be difficult, almost no traffic whatsoever. But luck is still riding your ass and a micro comes by in the direction you're hoping for. 1000 peso later and 100k down the road you reach your next stop.

"Shall we try saving 1200 more pesos and hitching the rest of the way?"

"Of course, why not güeon!"

And the walk to the fringes of the pueblo commences. The hunger you're feeling is assuaged a bit by the figs and grapes found along the way. A membrillo orchard also calls your name and J momentarily disappears to snatch one of these fruits from a low-hanging branch. It's still a little unripe but dulce nonetheless. The minutes have turned to hours by this point and you realized that this weekend probably wasn't the best for finding a free ride. Luckily you catch the last micro on the route and swallow your pride shelling out the pesos to the driver... after you get your foot caught in the door that is.

The weekend is passed in Cobquecura, a small town where last year's earthquake found its epicenter. There is some notable damage to a few older buildings but for the most part, unscathed. The coast looks as though it were taken directly from northern California. Forests ending in cliffs ending in ocean. The only difference is the nauseating symmetry of the forests as they are all raised for the purpose of clear cutting and wood-products production. They are still very trampable.

You and your compañons find yourself about 15k from where you started and without water. After emerging from the forest, once again, you find another perfect scenario for sticking out the thumb. The ride back to Cobquecura is taken in the back of a pickup with some long boarders. One of the guys has a friend in San Diego; he could look the part himself with a flex-deck held to his side.

The food stays simple throughout the entire 2 day sojourn; eating bread and beer and pisco and wine. Somehow, after finishing the dessert of this list, friends are made with neighbors in the cabañas next door. You slyly bring up the possibility of smuggling your travel party in the back of their flat-bed cargo truck and, to your surprise, they accept.

The following day your tailbone wishes it had progressed in evolution a bit more and ceased to exist. Not the case at all. But this is it! The first real, classic, traditional, epitome, embodiment of what travel in Latin America should be! Hiding away in the back of a truck with your other compadres to save a mere 1000 pesos, viewing the sky as sand gets caught in your eyes and forgetting you're lying on dog-piss soaked floor-boards even as Lukas the dachshund whimpers behind your head. The trip back to Conce comcludes by catching a proper bus ride by haggling the attendant and then sitting in the aisle, undoubtedly still smelling like piss.

On arrival home the clothes are cleaned in the tub (you cannot use the laundry machines downstairs because your roommate has failed to pay the building costs) and then set to dry for 2 long days as the humidity will not allow anything shorter.

Other quakes greater than 4.5 to this date:

14/4 4.9

20/4 4.5

22/4 5.2

25/4 4.6

P.S. If one's looking for a straight cut-and-dry try sarkelviajero.wordpress.com

...temblor update

sábado 4.7
domingo 5.2

Espirales 400g $220

The first paycheck won’t exist until the monthend. It’s necessary to stop withdrawing cash from the ATM, the bastard that charges incredibly annoying rates for exchange. In other words, you’ve got about 10 mil pesos and have to stretch that out to last about a week. You’re broke by your own standards governed by self-discipline. Rice and beans are not nearly as cheap as they are in the states. 10 pounds for 3 bucks? No, think 1 kilo for 1.25, about triple the price. Bread’s got a similar scenario, possibly a little more, and there ain’t any nutrition in a white loaf. What are you to do?

Espirales, 400g por $220. Ahhhhh yeaaaaa. That’s 45¢ a pound-ish. You’re not sure why the spaghetti is more expensive than the espirales but why question? Pasta is pasta and this stuff cooks in 3 minutes flat and we’re talking aldente people, that means “to the teeth” in Italian and I don’t even speak Italian. Espirales 400g por $220. ¡Ayyyye que wena! You got any sauce? Naww, fuck sauce! Maybe some cheese? Naww, fuck cheese! Butter? Naw! Oil? Naw! Oregano? Naw! Salt? Naw! We’re talkin’ espirales 400g por $220! You know the cashier lady is going to be looking at you funny when you bring up 15 bags (that’s 6 kilos!) to the conveyor belt. Whatever, that’s $3300 and it’s gonna last you at least until miércoles next week! A bit more than a bag a day to consume. Worry about malnutrition later.

Waiting for the (wo)man

(Match this song with lyrics)

Hey white boy

You gotta light?

Hey white boy

Whatcha doing tonight?

Just walking to the hostel, biding my time

Don’t have a light, go ask him, I’m sure he’d oblige

I’m just walkin’ to the hostel

Hey white boy

What are you doing?

Come on over here

Let’s get something brewing

Ma’am I know what you’re sayin’, I’m sure it’s legit

But I’m free of VD and don’t want none of that shit

I’m just walkin’ back to the hostel

Hey white boy

You know I’ll treat you right

Hey white boy

Can I make the price right?

Honestly lady, keep on driving your car

But it couldn’t hurt you to run and you best make it far

Just let me walk back to the hostel

The welcoming

Significant Earthquake Count: 1

Days lived in Concepción: 0.3

The state of things

Jorge: So it says on your profile that you live too much according to the Protestant Ethic, what are you too Protestant?

S*****: Haha, no it’s to say that I’ve been raised essentially to work, not live. For example, Latin America is much less concerned when it comes to work. You believe that with work should come the enjoyment of life…like this beer here.

Jorge: Yea but this beer is like the Budweiser of Chile.

S*****: No trust me, that’s not the truth.

Jorge: But you know the Protestant Ethic isn’t all that bad, to work hard and accomplish goals aren’t necessarily to be looked down upon.

S*****: Yea but when those goals are set to always put you in competition with your peers from the day you enter grade school it doesn’t help your self-confidence or stress.

Jorge: Ok, in Chile at the moment there are two major subject of debate right now: one is the issue of abortion; the other is what type of economic model we want to follow. Do we want to follow the path of the US and have a more free-market strategy, or take the welfare state model like Europe. I’m a socialist but I still believe that it’s good for people to work for what they will earn. Take my brother for example, he’s younger than I and doesn’t remember the days of the dictatorship. While I was very young when we voted on the referendum to make Chile democratic I remember it on the news and how important the concept of voting was. I vote today and my brother doesn’t. This then carries over to his working habits as he always asks my father for money but never has the intention of paying him back. It’s just that he doesn’t understand the importance of accomplishing things for himself and that’s a problem I see with the welfare state.

S*****: How interesting. So what about Chile’s educational system? Where is it going?

Jorge: Well you see there are kind of 3 types of upper education. State, private, and private but sponsored by the state. There aren’t too many full state schools so there are a lot of private schools. The private schools that are supported by the state are kind of interesting. The state supports them mainly because they bring prestige to a city or they have a heritage that the state wants to keep up. So the University of Chile in Santiago is actually a private institution and the state supports it because it wants this university to look good. Its kind of like Chile wouldn’t exist without this university. It would look bad if it ran out of money and didn’t exist. Hey let’s get some empanadas, that’s something we always do after drinking.

S*****: Sounds good to me.

South.

Holy shit. It actually spins clockwise.

North.

...your shit spins clockwise.

Waiting for the man

He’s been cleaning his room and running for the past month and, excluding the interruption of drunken hitchhiking, that’s been the entirety of his existence. He’s got the young man blues they say. In-between 17 years of school and…n-x number of days left to live where hopefully n is greater than x by a substantial quantity.

He’s realized where Forrest Gump attained the inspiration to just keep running. Sheer kiddie-my-first-butterknife-dull boredom. Run south one day, switch it up north the next. Attempt it without shoes and realize that calluses on the feet take longer to form than those on the mind. Chafing has become a major concern.

It’s as if he’s living the life that Bill O’Rielly speaks of…”the tides come in, the tides go out, never a miscommunication”. Runner goes in, runner goes out, then sits on his ass and has a beer, never a miscommunication because he has nobody to communicate with.

That’s ok though, give another 4 days and the shit will hit the fan like a rabbit dashing out in front of a stock car.

Choose your own adventure: How to shoot a Mickey's ad

You awake on the couch in your friend's living room (a place you had been renting a mere 3 weeks earlier) with the tinge of anxiety and uneasiness that accompanies all pre-adventure moments. After saying goodbye to Chris, and as nobody else is awake, you decide to strap on your pack and hit the road.

You know San Luis Obispo quite well, in fact you've lived, worked, and studied here for the majority of the past four years, and take the familiar route to the bus stop. Arriving with a half-hour to spare, you decide to check the train times. Your goal today is to make it to Union Station in Los Angeles but the self-imposed rules you've declared a few days earlier place your options within a specific game.

After speaking with a few inspiring souls who slept on that same couch from which you just awoke, you've often thought about following their example as hitchhikers and opportunity seekers embracing the uncertain roads and highways of the world. Yea, and you've just graduated, so what's to stop you now? Well, there's the entire suburban, yuppie mentality causing your comfort-zone gauge to ping and bounce to "sheltered and safe" rather than "freewheel n' jive". All that's ever been said about hitchhiking and the greasy-haired serial killer rapists (yea, they're that bad) is that these people won't hesitate to stick a screwdriver through your ear canal the first chance they get and throw your corpse in the nearest public bathroom….So you sit in front of the San Luis train station while the 2:00 p.m. ticket option blinks, waiting for you to slide your plastic, pay $31 and forget those romantic bohemian dreams of uncertainty. But not today, you hitch up your pack, walk outside, and catch the last SLO transit bus you'll be taking in a very long time.

20 minutes later you're standing in front of the place you've decided will be the best chance of getting picked up. You can stand on the sidewalk to take your ass out of legal culpability if some authority should see you soliciting on a roadway (see § 21957). Placing your pack down, you take a deep breath, this is your first step into vagabonditry, the universal expression, the thumb. Almost immediately you realize the effect it has upon motorists entering the 101 south on-ramp. You attempt to make eye contact and they avert their gaze, be it from awkwardness, guilt, or who knows what. Hell, not even your dread mullet garnered this much ostracization. The only ones who seem to look directly into your eyes, right into your retinas with the focused energy of a thousand suns, are the senior citizens of SLO. It's not long before you realize that holding out your arm in front of any Buick will simply be a waste of effort.

A half hour passes and it's 8:50 without so much as a bite on your hook, the intermittent flash of a peace sign has been the only sympathy. Then, as the next wave of cars float on by, a pickup with two guys about your age miraculously break off the assembly line and pull to a stop in front of your curb…HOLY SHIT! Did I just do…THAT?! The passenger opens the door and you ask, "Where are you headed?", "AG" they reply. Now you have a choice. Get 15 miles closer to your destination of Santa Barbara or Ventura, (you're not really sure which) or wait for a longer ride that may never materialize?

With a shake of the head, and doubting your decision simultaneously as you do, you thank them for such a generous offer but would like to wait for a longer ride. "Your choice dude. AG is still that much closer to Ventura!", and the truck returns to the sea of steel via osmosis. Another 20 minutes pass, but it's O.K. Somebody else is bound to show some compassion just as the first car had. Optimism is high and you care less about the way you perfectly mimic the same thumbing gesture seen in movies from the 1950s as cars head out west on the fabled 66, picking up Oakies as they went. Hell, you even give a weird but friendly sort of grin to the passerby and some amazingly smirk back in return! Your luck pulls through and a guy pulls over to your turf. After the standard exchange of questions he tells you his destination is also Arroyo Grande…Gadamnit. The same dilemma as before is served to you in the form of a Chevy HHR and a tile worker. Should you take the ride just to get moving and leave the comfort of this well-known area, or make yourself comfortable for another unknown number of minutes before a driver is willing to take you further down the road?

You place your stuff in the trunk, open the door, and buckle-up. The talk ranges from Tucson to Rush Limbaugh, and musical notation to smoking weed. Soon enough you're on Grand Avenue in Arroyo Grande sticking out your dedo gordo like it ain't no thang. It's about 9:20 and while you realize you won't beat the train to Ventura by 10, you dismiss that as a pretty far-fetched dream anyhow and feel good enough to even try a few dance moves as you stand in front of a mechanic's garage, the first guys in the pickup who offered you a ride passed by laughing and waved with a friendly smile… 2 hours later and you're starting to wonder why the FUCK so many goddamn old people live in this town! Where's the love?! As the situation begins to look futile and hardly anyone has acknowledged your presence, you toy with the idea of going north a bit just to change the scenery and hopefully a chance at catching a ride. This eventually becomes your plan of action.

20 minutes after changing to the north entrance, another guy about your age comes to the rescue in a red Nissan pickup, brand spankin' new. He says his name is Casey (yet for some reason in your mind your think K.C., perhaps it's the dehydration kicking in) and he mentions it's his mother's new truck he's just picked up and is driving home. Come again? This car hasn't even seen it's true owner and you get the luxury of polypropelene new-car-smell blasted into the nostrils as a scalawag hitchhiker? This must be the end of days… and your ride ends a mile later at the 4 cities bridge. You head down to the southbound entrance, which is looking much more promising already, but while your eyes wander at the crosswalk you see a sign pointing in the direction of the train station. Well, you knew eventually you'd have to take the train into Union Station because Mother would keel over and die 100 times over if she ever found out you were trying your luck on the road, and once again you're presented with the dilemma of heading toward the station at X number of minutes walking or attempting to get another ride.

You figure that you'll get to the station to see just how much time you have before the last train out of Grover Beach and you're forced to call reinforcements to get you out. Of. There. 40 minutes later the sun strikes noon and you've reached the Amtrak outpost, $33 to Union Station, a $2 increase from SLO, and you only have 2 hours minus 40 minutes to see if you can hit up any more rides. Your finger rests on the purchase button…

And you succumb to the forces of "cutting-it-close-and-playing-it-safe". Almost immediately after you've purchased the ticket it feels as though you've sold out and try to assuage your guilt by telling yourself that hitchhiking incognito to the parents' is like waiting for the impending law of Murphy to kick your ass to Everything That Can Go Wrong Will Go Wrong, a lovely place indeed… it only makes you feel a little better. Heading back to the 7eleven you decide to make things interesting anyhow and buy yourself a drink. You have 22s of Coors, Bud, Chelada, Blue Moon, Sierra Nevada and 40s of Pabst, Steel Reserve, and Mickey's to choose from. Deciding to go authentic you take the Mickey's and head toward the beach.

Before you are able to exit the parking lot a few transients and local degenerates call out to you and endearingly invite you to join them in a free lunch. At first you attempt to talk your way out of if but figure this is just a perfect opportunity to make your day that much more interesting…right? As you follow and chat with the newfound compatriots you realize your destination is behind a warehouse through a fence flanked by other untouchables and you finger the knife in your pocket. Things aren't really sketchy yet but by no means let your guard down…for this is bat country. A few more steps into the compound and you realize it's nothing more than a community lunch provided by some Christians, almost an exact carbon-copy of the volunteering you experienced back in SLO, but this time you're on the other side of the isle. You almost feel guilty taking some of this food and opt out of the shepherd's pie, sticking to the cheaper and much more plentiful salad, raisin bread, half a cupcake, and cup of strawberry milk.

Striking up a conversation with your table-mates they ask you where you're coming from. Spitting out "Big Sur" seems to feel more satisfying than San Luis Obispo as if you've actually completed some decent hitching mileage. "LA" is your destination and the guy you're talking to begins going off on the dangers of the city for a naive wayward soul packing it down the coast. "They'll kill ya dude. Cuz maaaaaan they don giva fuck….you should geta gun you know. Like they'll all come up t'you an say 'give me yo wallet' and thenya say 'sure' and pull out this pistol and shoot the assholes man… man thas wha'd I do." "Well, Ok man, but I've got family down there so things shouldn't be too bad…" "Yea but fuck, they don' care 'bout nothin' man". He then ignores you and turns to his other Latino friends and jokes with them "Oye, guey. Ella es tanta fea. Deja la pinchaaa."

Deciding to practice a bit of your Spanish before the trip to Chile you'll be taking in a few weeks time, you turn to the man who wears a "Yes on Q" hat, stained with sweat but it hasn't discolored the pride in which he wears it. You ask him what the hat refers to and are given the answer "Es para los rancheros", not necessarily the most enlightening but you roll with it. Commenting on the lunch you mention how nice it is to have a community so willing to give and what beautiful weather it is for mid-January to boot. He replies he feels very lucky in both regards, that the town has been very good… and that he is very lucky, just for double the emphasis you figure. You'd like to ask him his origins but fear that he may get nervous, no need to give stress or anxiety to those who don't deserve it and have enough of the real deal to fear daily. The lunch seems to be winding down so you bid farewell and ask directions to the beach, straight down the main avenue?, easy enough.

Remembering the Mickey's Fine Malt Liquor cozy in a brown paper bag in your pack you decide to reenact the theatre production of "That Young Roving Drunk Out on the Dunes of Grover Beach" starring yourself. This presentation is based on the true story of a recently graduated student that decided to have a 40 in the hour that was left before the train came through town. He races himself to the bottom of the green glass bottle… and wins! He analyzes the location of his perch: a dune valley with a group of multiple mothers and their daughters over the hill to the right and a continuous trickle of beach loafers walking with significant others, dogs, and beautiful weather in tow. It's at this moment that the setting is all too obvious for a commercial photo shoot.

After this success you decided to reward yourself for a job well done with another 40 of Mickey's and head back to the train station to read a copy of the local paper. It's at this moment that you realized you achieved a consumption rate of more than an ounce a minute and your empty stomach full of malt liquor has resulted in a fabulous drunk that has you using the station bathroom 3 times before the train approaches…this seems to amuse another waiting passenger quite a bit… and by amuse you mean scour disapprovingly at your probably very obvious drunkenness. The train magically appears as you burst out of the pissery for the final time. You rush to collect your bag and hop on the train which begins to depart even before you've managed to commandeer an entire 4 seats. After friendly ticket punching "Marge" has left, you realize the entire back half of the coach is yours and you proceed to open the next bottle.

After finishing another half it becomes readily apparent that you are much too drunk and resolve to hide the bottle in your 4500cc pack so that it will not be found again for the remainder of the trip. The bathrooms, once more, become a familiar recreation area and the sanitizing deep blue ammonia water is an absolute thrill to watch. Goleta, Santa Barbara, Ventura, Oxnard, Camarillo and the sun sets over the water. Not long after the (possibly) full moon rises you doze off and wake up in LA with a mini-hangover on the horizon. In a confused and drowsy state you must decide whether or not to spend the night at your brother's place downtown or take the metro out to the beach cities.

In the middle of talking to Brother the phone cuts out, probably due to the fact you are walking into the underground as you go and so the decision is settled, make it home. You purchase a ticket and try to figure out the metro gates but eventually just walk through without sliding it through a turnstile. A voice from behind you assures you that it's ok to keep going and you turn to the man. For some strange reason he believes you might be an Argentine and questions you in Spanish. Due to the fact that the drunken slumber has severely knocked out your witt-mechanism you fail to respond with "Por supuesto Che! Y quién eres vos?" Instead you're lame and just mumble you live in the beach cities, he's noticeably confused and does the smile and nod yet still believes you're some sort of Latino.

Red. Blue. Green. The route you follow takes you through the "real" LA. You sit next to a man suspended in mid slouch fast asleep from a heavy drinking binge and only awoken when the metro police shake him and demand to see his ticket. Transferring lines you pass by an arrest and a very riled-up woman is yelling at the arrestee at how incredibly "estupido" he is. Way to rub salt in the wound.

The parents meet you at the end of the line and 13 hours later you've made it home. Reflecting back on the day you're satisfied, maybe it's the plate of ribs you're currently devouring like some ravenous creature-human hybrid, all the same…you're pleased. So what if you didn't make it more than 15 miles from your point of origin by hitchhike, if you ended up paying more for the ticket from Grover Beach than it would have cost from SLO, if it took the entire day to travel something that normally takes 3 ½ hours by car and 5 ½ by train? It punctured the hymen of hitching and provided a window to the potential of just how interesting this method of travel can be.

Visa dream

-¿Consular de Chile, cómo podemos ayudarle?

-Ehm, hola. Buenos dias. Me gustaría saber que Uds. han recibido un paquete de documentos para un visa…¿puedo hablar con Sra. Romero?

-Es Sra. Romero. ¿Cómo se llama?

-S----- P---.

(pausa)

-Ah, sí. Se faltan unas cosas…

[Shit, of course papers are missing. The deadline is already closing in on the expected date the visa will arrive and the exact date the plane will leave.]

…una aplicación de tres partes que me envias por email. Las fotos que hemos recibidas son inválidas, y no puedes pagar con cheque, lo necesitamos en dinero efectivo.

-Emm, Ud. puede repitir otra vez?

-I can speak in English.

[Now the inconsiderate gabacho, who's inability to speak the country's tounge, feels the weight of shameful failure press upon the conscience like that of a thousand constrictors.]

-Oh, right… umm well…

-You need to send in three application forms sent back to me by email. A new set of photos in color and you must pay in cash at the consulate.

After a few back-to-back sojourns to the consulate seas are looking clear for this gabacho and luckily Sra Romero is a kind, understanding being. He hopes that his visa will be ready by the time of his departure, and faces a costly flight change (in dollars and a desire to get moving) if not. Given the altercations of '73, he wonders if Chile has any desire to admit any other vagabonds gifted from Tío Sam.