Tsunami Alert

waiting for an apocalypse is kind of boring

"god living in Chile right now is like living in an overzealous apocalypse movie script in a cheezy Hollywood producer's rejects pile"

While writing my last post, a hotel admin rep hurried over to where I was sitting in their restaurant (the only one), and at first I thought "Oh shit they've caught me, the jig is up, they've figured out what an opportunistic leech I am. I'm gonna be kicked out of the hotel and I'll have to walk out completely shamed" but no, he was telling me they were evacuating the building because of a national tsunami threat alert. So that was the sense of urgency I felt in the restaurant- it had nothing to do with me overstaying the short welcome my single orange juice order afforded me, but rather the staff thought I didn't speak Spanish and didn't know how to warn me of the impending natural disaster. Looking out the window, they were serious. Swarms of people were hurrying uphill, many worry-stricken on their cellphones trying to get a hold of family members. Just 15 minutes ago Chile's government issued a national tsunami alert after three earthquakes hit Rancagua near Santiago. Since the February 27th earthquake, aftershocks have been a frequent occurrence in and around Santiago. Being further south, well away from the continuing tremors, it was easy to distance myself from that chaos until now.

climbing to safety or to salvation

Like any curious quasi-journalist I followed the mob. They ascended the hills as recommended by the public announcements. Noticing a muddy steep trail that seemed a shortcut, I followed a few others frantically climbing through thorny brush, helping up strangers with trembling hands, being hoisted by a few construction workers with rope pulleys up a slope definitely not intended as an effective tsunami escape route. As we emerged from the foliage, we came upon crowds of schoolchildren, working professionals, construction workers, much of the city, facing the bay partly worried, partly annoyed at the abrupt inconvenience (well, not the school kids). Some groups were huddled around radios, sharing earphones. After a while, the crowd sort of looked like a restless audience waiting for the next band to play on the mainstage, casually chatting with their respecting social circles, waving down old friends, others alone blankly staring ahead with arms folded.

The tsunami was estimated to arrive around 1pm. It was already 1:30 and now that I was at a safe vantage point, with cold, wet feed, muddied shoes, and scratches I was kind of pissed the massive wave didn't come so I could face it with my point-and-shoot. Though many had already returned to their interrupted routines down the hill after the initial panic died down, officials recommended staying uphill until further notice. Since Puerto Montt sits within a bay, with the additional protection of bay islands, the talk is that the risk is low to non-existent.

So I found another hotel uphill, out of harm's way, drinking a coffee, once again a lone customer in an opulent restaurant, enjoying a BeeGees [reunion?] concert on the hanging plasma. Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive.

I hope buses are still leaving Puerto Montt so I can make it to Santiago in time for the Franz Ferdinand concert I've got to cover. How irrelevant press pass freebees (to see a band I don't even like) seem when the whole country is sliding over a submerging geoplate.

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...

Bariloche-El Bolson-Bariloche

Hitchhiking back up to Bariloche from the El Bolson Ruta 40 on-ramp. Check out that sign craftsmanship. I found a piece of cardboard in a ditch and and scribbled desired destination with a piece of charcoal from the previous night's bonfire. As always, I overestimated writing space but the scrunched up result gives it character, no?

I am lazy and tired and will provide a hasty, brief description, copy and pasted from another email, that does little justice to the greatness that was the trip from Bariloche to El Bolson and back to Bariloche to catch a bus to Puerto Montt, Chile. It will have to do. I got up at 6:30 am this morning so I could catch a ride with Steve into town so I could use the internet and update this blog and now I'm a tad cranky and will have to remind you that some of the greatest memories are better kept in one's memory. Also there's some guy waiting for his friend to finish on the computer next to me and he's standing right behind me, hovering over my shoulder and he smells like a yeast infection. I'm pretty sure he's reading what I'm writing and I want to stab him in the eye.

"... While on a hike in southern Argentina, I met a girl from Manhattan, a self-described sound artist visiting community radio stations on grant money awarded to her by IBM, who stopped mid-conversation, then giggled an apology and said she just had a “happy-to-be-alive” moment, and I totally understood. I feel like I've had an overdose of those moments in these nearly 8 months abroad. More than in my time spent at Western. Maybe more than all my years in the States. I'm glutinous with them, almost to the point of vomiting from feeling unworthy of this self-contentment binge (metaphorically). Am I abstractly rambling again? I think so. I'm reading Love in the Time of Cholera by Garcia Marquez and his writing is really that way so I think it's influencing my descriptions. While on the road and now living near Puerto Montt, virtually untouched by the quake, in a pretty isolated area I haven't been able to update my blog. I feel obligated just because there was so much greatness and madness in the trip, but I feel like I can't for the same reason. So much greatness, the task is too daunting. I met so many interesting characters, all wonderfully friendly and open to sharing their lives and views and open to hearing mine and affirming them. I stayed with CS hosts the whole way. There's Jorge the gay school teacher looking for love in places he knows he'll have his heart broken but like me he's victim to his lusty whims, Phillip the red-faced,outspoken, crass English successful I don't remember what who's taking 2 years to travel the world, Renato the Brazilian magnetics engineer still living with the girl who dumped him but keeps renting out of friendship and the hope that his lingering affections will burn out over time, an Australian-Irish couple who fell in love because she could drink more than he, Aliza the ukele-playing Manhattan sound artist recording stories for a hyphenated identity project, Tim the post-grad quarter life crisis fellow-leo who escaped Queens for Buenos Aires, Alejandro the rock n' roll patron and PR man who picked me and my friend up at the turnpike and floored it to the bus station so I could catch my bus to Puerto Montt which I did even though I was 15 minutes late, Daniel the Berkeley physicist, Fede the old taxi driver who lives with his mother and daughter in a one bedroom house that has seen over 300 couchsurfers from all over the world, the list goes on.
Highlights? Before hopping the bus to Bariloche, my wallet was stolen. Luckily my passport and a spare credit card were in my backpack. Canceled stolen card, only $10 in cash in the wallet, saved concerns for annoying DMV procedures for later. The earthquake in Chile hit while I was at a bar well into the night and well into countless beers while I danced with my CS host and his friends. I hitched I ride further southward from the friend of my Bariloche host and we took a detour to a hidden lake that was so peaceful and secluded it could have been our discovery had it not been for the few families camping nearby. In El Bolson I met various other travelers, played in waterfalls, drank homemade beer, hiked mountains that curved with the river as blue as the Caribbean islands but cold because of it's Andean glacier source. Hitchhiked with a friend back up to Bariloche with a cardboard sign I'd found in a ditched and scribbled on with a piece of charcoal from the hippied-out bonfire the night before- itself a festive occasion replete with joints, guitar sing-alongs, and conversations well into the night. Those are just a few happy-to-be-alive moments. A small small fraction of that one week and a half..."

Bariloche

Hiked up a big hill and voila the view. Looks a bit like home.

Bariloche sits beside a giant lake and it is pretty and you can sit on the rocks and think and not be bothered. Rad.

Driving to El Bolson

I was able to catch a ride from Bariloche to El Bolson (2 hours south) with my Bariloche CS host and his friend Leo. It was a perfect little trip with clear skies, bongos, crystal clear lake detour, and a joint.

Alright road trippin'!

Lago Steffen, a road trip detour

Renato, me, and Leo finally got to El Bolson

El Bolson and the best hike of my life

My El Bolson CS host Fede lives in this humble abode with his mother, daughter, and however many travelers happen to be passing through

Fede's attic where I crashed. Fede sleeps in a tent in the attic. His daughter, in the closet.

Fede and a couple French girls walking into town

My new friend Tim, enjoying the bumpy ride we hitched downhill

The 11km hike that kicked my ass and spat me into a diamond

Will you look at that water. Will you look at that fucking crystal blue water.

After that all day up and down hike we finally made it to this refuge in the middle of the forest where Tim and I split a pizza and some homemade beer. Exactly what one wants after 5 hours of ass and thigh toning.

Aw nature and new friends.

Boludo and the beso (Mendoza, Argentina)

Cycling is the only way to see, taste, and smell a vineyard

Crossing the Andes to get to Argentina

Harvested Syrah grapes

A legit wine tasting. After hours of biking under the sun before finally arriving to this small family-owned winery I was already working up a sweat. After the cheek-warming qualities of red wine and feeling totally incompetant during the tasting (carefully trying not to "swirl" the glass to hard, and hold the wine in my mouth for long enough but not too long, and getting away with arbitrarily applying ambigious wine terms to wines when they all tasted the same to me), I constantly had to wipe the perspiration from my forehead.

After taking an impromptu winery tour and tasting, just me and the guide since I arrived alone, I learned a bit about their particular process and was caught off guard (sort of) by a very friendly farewell advance. Here's the story I regaled to a friend in an email:

"...After a few glasses, a piece of steak, intense stares from the tour guide while I was dripping in sweat from the wine, strenuous bike ride, desert heat, and wine idiocy self-consciousness, buying a bottle beyond my normal price range for my CS host, suppressed sexual tension throughout, my winery tour guide kissed me. I think he was married but as I said goodbye and thanks for everything he kissed me on the fucking lips and that shit was prolonged. The booze dulled my reflexes and even though I half-wanted it I turned my head after a few seconds of delayed realization and disgust and flattery so his lips slid onto a cold cheek. So drunk with stars in my eyes, pedaling back to the rental shop alone I laughed hysterically like a madwoman about the whole silly, housewife fantasy, movie-like encounter..."

A Trapiche vineyard, one of Argentina's biggest wine producers, and just about anyone can pedal or walk through and try their grapes.

Another nameless vineyard I stumbled upon en route to a winery. I stopped here for a chocolate break.

Jorge, my loveable Mendoza Couchsurfing host making tomato and cheese tartlets

At the bus station about to take off for Bariloche, moments before realizing my wallet was stolen. Luckily I had my passport and a backup credit card in my backpack. One of the smartest travel tricks I've learned.