Puerto Montt, Panitao, and Lentils

Lentils are like tiny green potatoes

This is the first time I've ever made lentils. They were good, but needed additional reinforcements. Sometimes the best meals are the odd, personalized combinations that satisfy immediate cravings. For a couple months during my junior year in college I devoured a bowl of cottage cheese doused in Tabasco sauce every day, sometimes for every meal. On this cold day in the Lakes Region of southern Chile, I wanted fried eggs, toast, and guacamole with my lentils dammit. And it hit every spot.

lentils
onion
garlic
tomato
avocado
lemon
eggs
bread
salt and pep

~soak lentils in water overnight (yes this part sucks and defeats the purpose of craving-satiation), chop tomato, garlic, onion, cook lentils in water on med-heat, toss chopped tomato, garlic onion, add sald and pep, mash up avocado with lemon juice and salt, toast bread, fry eggs in butter, occasionally stir lentils until done (about 25 min) and serve with wooden spoon (must be wooden!), butter up toast, wash down campesino feast with mate and processed orange "juice"~

Panitao, Chile

An afternoon on Steve's parcela as recounted in an email to a friend:

"...Today I had nothing to do so I walked to Silvia's house. A small, yellow, makeshift slumshack affair with low ceilings (a foot above MY head) and uneven floors. Her husband works for Steve a couple days a week- but that's an erratic schedule determined by rain patterns. I walked there (about a mile from Steve's house) under the pretense of buying bread, which Silvia bakes everyday, but really I was just bored. They're a typical rustic Chilean family, her 21 year old daughter lives next door with her two year old and her husband. Silvia and Lalo (her husband) also live with Silvia's mother and sister, with the rest of the family close by. I sat at the table and watched dubbed American movies while helping knead, waiting for the dough to rise and bake, and afterwards walking to another neighbor's house where they make empanadas from scratch and sell them by the road. Carrying a warm loaf wrapped in a dishtowel that I'll have to remember to return to Silvia tomorrow, I watched the Frog (I forget his real name but everyone calls him frog because of his toad-ish countenance) fold meat into dough. He took interest in my history studies, sat me down in their living room for a friendly chat, told me how contemporary society is killing the world and how he used to be a world-class diver..."

Panitao isn't really a town so much as it is a pit stop on the main road to a bigger town a few miles further south of Puerto Montt but far enough and remote enough to require a separate name. Steve owns about 140 acres of waterfront property here, which I'm pretty sure makes up half the municipality of Panitao. His house overlooks the bay, and on the horizon are eyelands and the Andes. Damn that mountain chain gets around.

Another parcela, another project. Here's the greenhouse (twice the size of the one in Caleu) I've been asked to work on.

Bummer I don't have a "before" photo, but I took out all the weeds and turned over the soil so now it's fertile and ready for me to plant my seeds if you know what I mean (and what I mean is plant my seeds).

More plant markers, planted some basil and arugula brought all the way from the Caleu farm

Baby Alerce trees, the second oldest tree species in the world and prized for their durable wood that never rots. A lot of houses in the area or built entirely out of Alerce wood shingles. Apparently there's a scandoulous black market for precious Alerce wood since the tree population is dwindling. Even Chile's politicians might be banking on it's near-extinction.

Continuing the mobile habit, I made one of whales for my little cabin

Steve paid me a little over Chilean wages ($20 for a full day's work) to help stain his house. Plus the hour it took to scrub this shit off my hands, arms, legs, and face. The stains left from low-grade watery paint didn't bother me at first. I was going to wait until it wore off on its own, but then I realized walking around town, from afar I probably looked like a coal miner (too cool) or an ax murderer (unapproachable).

Puerto Montt, Chile

Puerto Montt is a medium-sized fishing port, a cold and windy wool sweater yellow raincoat pipe tobacco town with consistently friendly waiters and baristas and ticket counter agents. I always assumed cold climates meant cold people but Puerto shattered my silly prejudices when a leather artist at the market offered to inscribe my name on the inside of my leather bag for free because "eres la dama mas linda que ha pasado por aca hoy dia." Now in all modesty, I'm aware of the tendency for some to fawn over my Asianness (coupled with my relative youth and petite frame). I see my reflection in their eyes transforming me into some pretty piece of Far East novelty. A talking porcelain doll. I'm not going to deny I've occasionally abused the lucky charm to my advantage, capitalized off self-exotification if it means discounts or free stuff or amusing conversation. I think I'm entitled to the perks if I have to deal with off-handed racism once in a while. It's especially during my travels through Latin America where general lack of exposure to peeps who look like me or unawareness of how polyglot much of the world really is, affords them a forgiveness I would not whip out in say San Francisco. But when I'm told I'm the "prettiest lady I've seen today," even by a capitalizing craftsman, I can't help but feel genuinely flattered. Especially since I left my eye-lash curler in Santiago.Unbeknownst to me, my bag, bought at an antique fair in Santiago, is one of the countless industry-grade schoolbags given to children by the government in the 70s. I encountered quite a few nostalgic oldies who fondly saw in my satchel, (for me a mere practicality plus vintage charm), their distant childhoods. This knowledge, and the pretty calligraphy burned onto the inside flap with the fond memory attached, have amplified the bag's already inherent sentimental value.

From the balcony of my hostal

One of many sidewalk vendors selling icy fillets, garlands of smoked oysters, sea snails, fresh oysters, seaweed, and other unnamed fishiness.

I'm writing this in the restaurant of a luxury hotel and I think they're starting to catch on that I'm just here to use their wi-fi and generous central heating. I've been nursing the same glass of orange juice, the only thing I've ordered, for about 3 hours and am the only one in the restaurant...the breakfast buffet ended a couple hours ago. And I don't plan on eating anything. And they know I don't have a room. The waitress is giving me suspicious looks. I think. Lunch will start soon and business associates will start taking their breaks and I'll be that weird little Asian girl again, out of place why is she here what is her story where is her guardian oh shit tsunami alert everyone has to evacuate to the hills, TO BE CONTINUED...