RALPH GREEN
SOUTH AMERICA
Start of Page Three
13/3/96 Wed. Santiago, Chile
Santiago is a beautiful city. Modern, clean, well planned, yet chaotic enough to be interesting and with a sense of modernist optimism that suggests its inhabitants are embracing a hopeful future. Total contrast to Buenos Aires which like many older European capitals seems only to have eyes for the past. Santiagoís setting adds to its appeal at the base of the Andean Cordillera - a spectacular a backdrop it is. Nothing is perfect of course. I spend two hours and try 20 different public phones trying to contact the freight companies Chilean HQ office. The phones I can find which aren't vandalised give what sounds like an engaged signal. Finally in frustration I take a cab to the address and question the receptionist about not getting through. She is completely unfamiliar with the number I tell her I have been using, despite the fact that it has worked well for the last month! She gives me a new and different number to call on. Very strange. The person I wanted to speak with is not there. Later on that day I am told the Swinehuntís boat is due on weekend of 16/17 March but it is unlikely that I can get the crated bike off and through customs until mid week after. That will make it a MONTH late! Surely things can't get worse from here.
14/3/96 Thurs. Valparaiso, Chile
Or can they!!?? I am now at the port and have spoken with the customs agent that will be assisting the bike through customs. After making enquires he establishes that the freight company have been lying again! The crate went from Miami to Kingston, Jamaica but was then off loaded. He cannot yet determine where it is now but it seems to have left the docks in Kingston on another, at present unknown, vessel! I am to ring him tomorrow to see if the situation can be clarified but it is now likely that it will take another week to arrive if it is on the right boat!
The last two days have mercilessly driven me to a tormented crescendo of frustrated rage, fuelling a torrent of ugly vindictive retaliatory passions that threaten to leave a permanent, indelible scar on our South American experience. Wide dark chasm of despair is opening threatening, no tempting me to throw myself into its inviting darkness only to be dealt a crippling blow dashed on the rocks of resentment below.
To avoid imminent neurotic implosion I must search within for the strength and endurance that allows the beast, Homo Sapiens, to rise above this incredible incompetence, to resist preoccupation with the fragmentation of four years planning, thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours of bike modifications. This chasm (An only be bridged by casting the demons that threaten to overwhelm me into same.
*Sent certificado -- photos 16/3/96
18/3/96 Mon. Cartagena, Chile
Time allows contemplation. Contemplation introduces reason and perspective: the healing process begins. Forgiveness however remains unreachable. Valparaiso is Chile's 2nd largest city and the site of the nations parliament as well as being the major port. The deep water harbour assists shipping but this is an unlikely location for a major city: Beyond a very narrow coastal strip - in places only a few hundred metres wide is a vertical cliff. The city clings to this rock face and spreads upward beyond it to the crest of the coastal hills. In an extraordinary reversal of socioeconomics the poorest inhabitants live in Shanties toward the top affording panoramic views of the ocean and coastline. Anyone with money however crouches low behind the CBDís multi storey buildings.
Before the opening of the Panama Canal early this century (1915?) it was the major port for trade to and from South America. Since it has suffered a gradual decline in importance this faded grandeur can easily be appreciated in the grand dining rooms of restaurants. Peeling paint, veins of cracked masonry in the walls left unrepaired after the last few quakes, high ceilings sagging above long snaking bars with dusty bottles behind. An atmosphere of quaint delay but of sufficient warmth to tempt one to linger a little longer over lunch, perhaps order another Pisco Sour, sit back and absorb the history.
We are constantly being warned by cab drivers, Hotel proprietors etc of the danger of the streets. Snatching of bags and cameras. Violent assaults and robbery do apparently occur but we managed to escape these during our two days there, despite the attempts of a beverage spitting pick pocket.
These being no further word of the bikes location on Saturday 17th we have retired down the coast south of Valparaiso for a few days. Cartegina to be more exact - a popular beach with Santiagens in summer. Not that you should start picturing an Aussie Beach. The sand is grey, the shoreline is slightly stained by pollution at the high tide mark and the water is rather cold. Despite those unfavourable contrasts the place is not without merit. The low hills above the beach are covered in a St Kilda-ish mish mash of low rise uncoordinated architectural styles, music blares from seedy disco bars at distorted volume, waiters attempt to win your patronage on the footpath with extravagant promises of culinary delights within. You must memorise the menu prices and count your change carefully afterwards to avoid the Gringo Taxi - Rampant and excessive overcharging of foreigners who if rather new to the country often have difficulty dealing with numbers in their thousands rather than tens (400 Chilean Pasos = $1 US).
10/3/96 Tuesday Cartagena, Chile
The farce continues - today the customs agent, a man with the good Chilean name of Alan Smith, has at last given me an honest explanation of what is happening. The knowns and unknowns. The freight company has been lying again! The Swinehunt has missed another connecting voyage so will not be arriving at Valparaiso until the 28th at the earliest. He (The customs agent) will have a list of cargo carried four days before the ships E.T.A. I am to ring him on Monday 20th to ask if my name and cargo appears on this list. Then and only then is it certain that the bike will arrive.
Faced with over another week in limbo we contemplate our choices. We would like to return to the lake district again so make enquiries about flying to Baraloche on the Argentinean side of the border there. The only route a local travel agent can concoct is via Buenos Aires - far too expensive.
Unimpressed with Chilean beaches we decide to seek those features which are more impressive than back home in OZ - The mountains. South East of Santiago a road snakes up the Maipo valley following the Maipo River toward its Andean snowline source. Less than 100 km from Santiago the area is a popular summer and weekend retreat for the capitals people.
20/3/96 Wednesday San Alfonso, Chile
We arrive just after dark in a screaming halt at the residencial Espana. The drivers mood darkened continuously during the drive through the Southern suburbs of Santiago, fuelled by the chaotic traffic congestion associated with the construction of a new railway line suspended above the major road out of town. While his frustration is understandable one cannot excuse the suffering caused by same to his paying passengers - young school children toppling over each other in the isle as he swerves violently from lane to lane, elderly women's white knuckles as she grips the seal rails frantically while he slams through the gears or stands on the brakes. I throw on the shining armour and offer my seat to the nursing or infirm but stop short of telling the driver he is a turkey. If the locals won't do it themselves then surely it's not my place - I can't think of a suitable put down in Spanish anyway!
We are greeted at the door of the residencial by a fat Spaniard with a neatly pointed beard. He insists we speak English to him, a language that he has an adequate if not firm grip upon. Fatigued by spending a whole day on public transport to travel less than 200 km we agree to pay too much for a room then ask him to feed us. One mistake after another. Naturally the exaggerated room tariff is repeated in the menu prices but worse is to come. We are not allowed to choose white wine (Mary Ann is not so keen on red) with the meal, this being ruled an unsuitable choice Joe the Spaniard. Instead we must drink his choice of red. While we eat and drink he hovers about the table seeking complements about his cooking then going on to massage his ego into a heightened frenzy as he brags about being in the Guiness book of records for having cooked the worlds largest Paella. The statistics follow regarding diameter of pan, kgs of rice and other ingredients used etc. As he withdraws with the plates we sigh believing the ordeal to be over - wishful thinking. He returns sporting a five litre flagon of dark liquid in which walnuts are floating. His finale Special treat being a glass each, gratis, of his home made liqueur after which we are invited to complement his wine making skills. Mary Ann finds it almost undrinkable so I scoff down her glass while he has his back to us. At last the bill arrives. Rather expensive even though he has absent-mindedly forgotten to add the wine to it. We pay up hurriedly and double time it to the room vowing to find alternative accommodation mAnanaî.
21/3/96 Thursday San Alfonso, Chile
A search through the town streets fails to avail us of any cheaper accommodation. This is the Santiagan upper middle classes retreat. Inquiring at a shop we are dispatched to Senora Mariaís home down the road. Severely visually impaired she leads us by feeling her way along the wall of an adjoining old stable which has been converted to room. More like dark foreboding pits, floors covered in several cm of dried mud, sagging metal beds pushed into the corners. The bathroom is similarly grotty and stark with a twisted cold water rose hanging mournfully in the gloom. She becomes a little confused when we say thank you and adios without even asking the price. We feign Gringo incomprehension to avoid having to answer whether we like it or not, then scuttle out the front door.
The search we resign ourselves to another night of Spanish ego masturbation then bump into a couple of tourists - Paul a Pom who has been living with Dutch Anka in Holland for the last seven years. They both work in the tulip industry, her in admin, he as a carpenter in packaging. We go for coffee, all anticipating the pleasure of easier conversation in English for a change. Coffee leads to drinks, drinks become lunch, then more drinks as the afternoon is consumed greedily. This is their third 3 month trip to South America but they confess to there still being much more too see. The conversation strayed from euro-politics, to the proficiency of Peruvian thieves through work vs leisure finally culminating at 11.00 pm at their campsite in an ethanol assisted monosyllablistic verbal regression. We staggered back to the residencial, late enough for the pompous Spaniard to have gone to bed. A great day's non-productivity!
25/3/96 Monday Baos Morales, Chile
Several hours after sunrise the sun finally appears above the peak illuminating the tiny village of Banos Morales clustered around the thermal baths from which it takes its name. At an altitude of almost 2,000 m - about the same as Kosciusko - the air is clear and slightly thin giving a finer edge to every detail. On each side of the Maipo River towering walls of rock reach high reducing the sky to a broad blue ribbon. High up the valley at the revers source lies volcan San Jose just over the border in Argentina. Smoke drifts up from the broad cone, the lower reaches streaked by late summer glaciers where the lesser volcanic heat and incline allow snow to keep a toe hold.
Megatons of sedimentary rock have been broken and twisted at angles approximating vertical then thrust kilometres upward reaching for the stratosphere. A breathtaking demonstration of the immense geographical warfare between continental plates that gave birth to both the Andes and the Chile - Peru trench The latter lies less than 100 km off shore in the pacific reaching depths of 12 km.
Each day a kaleidoscope of colours and textures enfolds as light and shadow chase each other from crest to valley to escarpment, softening then sharpening the multiple faces and outcrops of this harsh brown land. Like the majority of the West Coast of Australia, little or no rain falls during the 7-8 months of a long dry summer. In winter everything is smothered in snow. The result is arid semi-dessert. Small clumps of vegetation cling where they can find a grip, the occasional flatter slope shows some patchy ground cover. Not beautiful in the classic sense but one cannot fail to be touched, no struck , by the towering immensity of it all. Every valley leads to another string of mountains forming a natural barrier to all but the doggedly determined and well equipped adventurer.
We have had a few (Modest) adventures of our own in the last few days.
The first in the National Park that abuts the town. After paying the equivalent AUS $1.50 each to the ranger a walking trail claws its way up a valley following a mountain stream. The initial 2 km winds up at around 30 degrees incline taxingly taking about an hour. The next 4 km is flatter and leads to a lake at around 2,300 m. This is situated at the base of ìEl Moradoi a sharply crowned peak with several glaciers tracing broad white contours across its flanks. It was a further 3 km trek to the bottom of the nearest glacier. We contemplated this but the rarefied atmosphere, depletion of our water supply and the steepening rock faces conspired to extinguish the possibility. A twinge of slightly better defeat brought minor insight, as we rested by the stream, into the powerful emotions that drove Hilary and others to and often beyond the limits of human endurance in the quests for the sweet taste of virgin discovery. As we squatted on rocks, the gushing sound of the stream surrounding us, it occurred to me that such ambitions were not vastly different from seeking a 500 ìGP championship or even bettering your own best lap time at a Phillip Island Funday. Thus we can all taste the heady sense of satisfaction of extending both our own physical limits and triumphing over natural boundaries - unless you drive a Volvo or work for Vic Roads/F.O.R.S. that is!
The intensive cold was like having an ice axe driven simultaneously into both feet, whipping away the thoughts, replacing them with the harsh reality of freezing flesh as I placed my bare feet into the stream, less than 3 km downstream from it's slowly melting glacial source.
24/3/96 Sunday Banos Morales and Banos Colinas, Chile
The day we hitched to the edge of the world and back.
Superstition has and continues to be a powerful cultural force. Every weekend in summer hundreds of Chileans mostly Santiageans make a pilgrimage to several thermal springs in the Andes east of the capital. The distances involved are not great - not much more than 100 km from the CBD - yet due to the challenging terrain infrastructure that is taken for granted in the city ie. Roads, reticulated water, electricity, telecommunications etc is different and expensive to establish. To reach the Esidencial Los Malos Chicosî (The bad boys!) At Banos Morales (Moral Bathes!) only 100 km east of Santiago, the last 30 km were on rough unsealed roads, the last 20 km we had to hitch being beyond the limits of the (Very good and extensive by world standards) bus system. The village itself has no telephones, power is generator driven and water taken from a nearby cool, crystal clear mountain spring. Although the country is harsh, rocky and dry, water is abundant as it seeps and springs from the ground, finding its way sub-terrainally from the Andean snowfields. Not all these natural fountains produce drinkable or even semi-transport offerings. This is where the superstition takes hold. At Banos Morales the spring water in one particular place close to the river is said to have special properties. By bathing in any of the three pools of differing temperature one (may) avail oneself of improved health and vigour and/or healing of various ailments. These claims could be subjected to scientific scrutiny but who would be prepared to fund same? The Chilean Skeptics group perhaps?
The water is a strange colour, somewhere between that of diarrhoea and tomato soup! It cascades from the level of one concrete pool to another before exiting into the river. We have not been tempted to try it ourselves due to concerns about hygenics and microbiology. South America has a lot of seriousî microbes - gastroenteritis and a bladder infection so far have reminded me of this - and where better to breed than warm soupy pools full of bodies?
Beyond Banos Morales the road on the southern side of the Maipo Valley (reached by road) bridge or a shorter life-threatening footbridge) climbs steeply past the occasional mineral mine for a distance of 12 km to Banos Colinas at close to 3,000 M for reasons unknown to a Gringoílike myself the springs there are afforded greater beneficial powers. (Perhaps greater remoteness and higher altitude play a part?)
Getting there was a battle up a steep dusty road. We began enthusiastically mildly intoxicated by the dramatic scenery. Soon however the slope and rarefied atmosphere began to toll. Hitching was unsuccessful - little traffic and what there was already filled with people. Several hours and 10 km later we reached a shallow valley with a wide glacial floor (free of snow in summer). The incline was now relatively gentle but my legs felt full of lead. At last a lift in the back of utility for the last few km shared with a couple of grinning brown faced schoolboys and their pushbikes