Chilean Couches

Now that I’ve been in Chile for two weeks, I feel at liberty to note some observations.

1) They don’t really speak Spanish here.

It sounds to my ears like another language at times. My first stop in Chile was Arica, pretty close to the Peruvian border, and because I’d been doing so well with the whole language acquirement thing, I was shocked and frustrated when I crossed the border and felt like I hadn’t learned a darn thing!

When I signed up for a tour of the national park near Arica, I hadn’t realized it would be led by a Spanish speaker. If I’d been in Peru or even Bolivia, I’m sure I would have something to tell you about Lauca Park, but to be conservative, I think I caught about every twelfth word out of the guide’s mouth. There was one other American besides myself in the tour group; the five others were Chilean. Neither Jessie, who’d been living with a Spanish family in Cuzco for the past three months, nor I could participate in the group’s conversation. I felt intimidated and didn’t even feel comfortable asking the obvious questions like “what part of Chile are you from?” or “for how long are you traveling?” I remained silent for most of that day, taking in the scenery of the Lauca National Park without absorbing the guide’s explanations, and only speaking my native language when Jessie and I chatted.

In La Serena, Chile, I went out for lunch after untangling myself following an overnight bus, and when pressed by the waitress as to my choice of entrees, I listened, looked blankly at her, felt confused and disoriented and then repeated the only word I could: pollo. Thus my decision was made.

What’s interesting to me is that the Chileans I’ve spoken with about their language (and my difficulty comprehendinging) know that they don’t speak their language particularly well. Quick to point out that the Spanish spoken in Peru is the best, they admit that they speak fast and drop their s’s. Fortunately, through my couchsurfing experiences, I have met many lovely Chileans who slow down when speaking to me and encourage me in my attempts. This brings me to my next point.

2) Chilean couchsurfing is fabulous.

In Iquique, I stayed with Roberto, a freelance photographer with numerous other worthy and admirable ambitions, and his family. Through Roberto, I met Amor, another sweet Chilean, who’d spent some time living and working in the States. It was through Amor that I set out to go paragliding, as the instructor was a friend of hers. I practiced my Spanish a bit with Roberto and Amor but had a greater opportunity to speak it when I arrived in La Serena, where I was invited to stay at an apartment on the beach.

The Garcia family, having no room at their main home, set me up at the apartment, and I enjoyed several relaxing days on the coast. When the weekend arrived, Antonieta, her husband, Julio–my Pisco Sour drinking companion, who also introduced me to some of the best wine in Chile, and their daughter took me to the Elqui Valley, a beautiful spot about an hour from La Serena. There we indulged in some of the best food I’ve eaten in three months, tasted various flavors of manjar, drank fresh Papaya juice, and visited the Gabriela Mistral museum. Gabriela Mistral, if I’m not mistaken, is one of two Chilean Pulitzer Prize winners. When I’d written to Antonieta requesting a couch, I’d offered some information about my past experiences couchsurfing and was thrilled to receive a thoughtful, reassuring reply in return, promising me a safe and comfortable stay with them. Aside from the missing hot water in the apartment (which wasn’t an issue so long as I worked up a sweat running by the beach before bracing myself for the cold shower), it was an excellent experience, and I enjoyed getting to spend time with such a sincere, kind-hearted family. Their generosity is the kind that goes above and beyond.

My first night in Santiago, I stayed in a hostel because I arrived a day early and did not wish to impose on my first set of couchsurfing hosts. While I enjoyed my night at the hostel and was grateful to have met a cool group of people, I was pleased to arrive at Pamela and Aaron’s in Providencia, an upmarket neighborhood in Santiago, the following evening. Not only is the space very cool–Aaron’s an architect and the young couple is very into modern art–but I feel a little spoiled to have my own room filled with bookshelves and DVDs.

I’m not speaking much Spanish with Pamela and Aaron, but mostly I’ve been on my own as they’ve been working fairly long days. It’s refreshing to be in a big city again. Although there is a good metro system here, I usually choose to walk to where I want to go, and I surprised both Pamela and Aaron when I told them that I walked from Providencia to another cool neighborhood, Barrio Brasil, sort of a bohemian enclave a few hours walk from where I am staying. I appreciate walking cities though and also like to stay longer than a few days to get properly acquainted.

Pamela and Aaron stressed that I can stay with them as long as I like, but I’ve made arrangements with Horacio, a Santiago native who last year quit his job to travel the world. I figure we have plenty in common right away based on that, and thus I’m willing to take the chance of surfing with a single guy and hope that he remains clothed while in my presence. If it goes well the first couple of days, I will travel with Horacio and his friends for El Dia de Indepencia on the 18th of September. Supposedly, it’s a really big celebration in Chile, and I’m excited to be a part of it, especially since I missed the 4th of July festivities in the States this year.

3) The Chilean bus system is overrated and overpriced.

Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring describes the bus system as being practically luxurious, citing it as punctual, comfortable, and reliable.

Reliable it is not, and as for comfort, well, I’ve taken more comfortable buses in Bolivia (minus that issue about there being no bathroom!). Twice now, I’ve had tickets for buses that just didn’t show up. The first time, when I inquired about the whereabouts of my bus for an 18 hour ride from Iquique to La Serena, I was told there was no bus that left at the time that my purchased ticket stated. First, they tried to tell me that the bus was going north first, so basically, I should never have been sold that ticket, but then when they saw that I was unhappy with what amounts to my getting schemed the previous day by the sneaky Pullman Bus employee, they said that there were mechanical issues.

Fortunately, I was able to get placed on a later bus, a bus that in the dead of night stopped at a control point, forced all of its passengers off for a bag check and then reloaded its weary and annoyed (me) passengers for the remainder of the journey. Why wouldn’t they check our bags before departing? There must be a more efficient way to do things, and if I had felt just a little bit more confident about my Spanish in Chile, I would have asked the kind gentleman sitting beside me why it was necessary to carry on the check in such an inefficient manner.

The second bus that failed to show up for my journey from La Serena to Santiago had broken down, or so I was told. I was able to get the Pullman Bus employee to understand that I wanted my money back, and once I had the fistful of bills, I promptly found another company to take me to Santiago but not without being forced to take the last available seat on the bus by the bathroom.

4) Chile is expensive.

I’ve said before that the point of couchsurfing is not to save money, and of course, I still maintain that this is true, but the truth is, I wouldn’t be able to afford Chile beyond a couple of days on the budget I’ve given myself if not for couchsurfing and the splendid (often unbelievable generosity) of people I’ve met from the couchsurfing community.

I paid $3 for a cafe the other day, for example. That’s how much a decent cup costs in New York, right?

Fortunately, Chile is known for its abundance of raw materials, and couchsurfing allows me to stock up on groceries and cook. I could almost live on pan con palta, but this morning, after asking Pamela if I could use some baking ingredients to make pancakes, I proceeded to whip up a fluffy batch of American pancakes that I spread with manjar, which is similar to dulce de leche but better, in my humble opinion.

4) Chile is expensive, except for the vino (and my $9. haircut).

Last night I purchased a bottle of Carmenere from Cocha y Toro, the biggest and most commercial winery in Chile, for less than $3.25, and it was outstanding. I think I could buy boxed wine here and find it pleasant.

I’m looking into visiting some vineyards around here, but those tours, like everything but the wine in Chile, are rather pricey. Argentina’s Mendoza and Cordoba regions produce excellent wine, so I may just wait until I cross the border in a week or so.

5) You can drink the tap water in Chile, but why would you want to when the wine is practically free ?

Minor scrapes and bruises

Although Marcelo had arranged for a car to take me to the bus station, where I was confident I could pick up my pre-purchased ticket and board the correct bus to Arraial do Cabo, a beach town a few hours from Rio de Janeiro, when the driver arrived, he expected to be told where to go.

“Omnibus…” I said.  Then, “Estacion?”  He seemed to understand omnibus (bus), but instead of driving along, he pointed to the right hand lane where the city buses were lining up and making stops.  Clearly, he hadn’t understood.  In a panic and not wanting to miss my bus–for how to explain in extremely limited Portuguese that I ought to be able to use my ticket for a later bus–I furiously whipped out the few pages on Portuguese phrases I’d torn from Lonely Planet and tried again to explain where I needed to go.  Smart driver, he stopped outside of a hotel and found someone who spoke English to assist us, and we were on our way.

My bus station experience was simple, and I boarded the correct bus at the right time.  I had a dorm bed booked in Arraial do Cabo, and I was anxious to find my way to the hostel from the station in Arraial do Cabo as I knew it was only about a ten minute walk.

Unfortunately, I stepped off the bus too soon, and because things are not clearly marked in Brazil, I didn’t see any signs indicating that I was actually in Cabo Frio and not Arraial do Cabo.

Several friendly cab drivers, despite their not speaking English, informed me of my mistake.  One man, Luiz, spoke English however, and when he started to tell me that I’d have to pay another R$26 to take a bus to my desired destination, I felt my eyes well up and my throat tighten.  I knew I was close to where I wanted to be and couldn’t justify spending the same money for a twenty minute ride as I’d just paid for nearly three hours on the bus.  And, besides, I’d asked the bus driver, “Arraial do Cabo?” when I’d gotten off the bus, and I could swear he’d nodded.  I should get the ride for free, I thought indignantly.

Indignation led to frustrated tears and Luiz asked me in clear English why I was crying.

Why was I crying?  I wasn’t scared.  I trusted the cab drivers.  People were trying to help me.  The first two men had found the only English speaking driver to talk to me, and now this kind man was offering to save me the trouble of purchasing another bus ticket or attempting to find my way on a local city bus.

But, I was displeased with myself.  All I’d wanted to do was make an independent move, find my way, get it done.  On my own.  If I couldn’t get to where I needed to be this time without any hassle or snags–a short trip compared to the ones in my future–how was I ever going to make it to around South America by myself?

Wiping my face, telling Luiz I was just tired, and inwardly blaming my (over)reaction on hormones, I talked Luiz into taking me directly to the hostel for R$15 instead of the R$25 he’d suggested.  He agreed, and twenty minutes later I was taking a hot shower and minding the not-so-small red ants who occupied the space with me.

In the end, I made it to where I wanted to be, and I also learned a valuable lesson (one of many more to come, I’m sure):  just because everyone else is getting off the bus, it doesn’t mean it’s the last stop or my stop!