Food, Poetry, Wool, and Tragedy: 8 hours in 1000 words

By the time we made it to the Mercado Central, we were later into the afternoon, about 4 o’clock. Immediately, the perfect empanada became our quest. Not only did we find that, but so much more. Inside the market, there’s a lot of annoying touristy restaurants vying for your gringa attention, and stanky water with iced raw fish. Lots of glassy fisheyes and yucky fishermen staring at us, me worrying about fishgunk getting on my favorite flats, me searching for an escape route from the pits of tourist hell – all the usual problems. 

With raw meat shops on the outside, no major improvement was made upon escape, but fresh air did help. We crossed the street to some fruit stands. Noting we were foreign, a lady tried to way overprice 2 apples. Pissed off, I coolly reasoned with her that 2 apples should not cost three-fifths of 2 kilos if 2 kilos is 12 apples. Nice try. Sometimes, getting a fair price is a huge win for a tourist. And 12 Pink Ladies for $1.25 is a deal. Next, we found chocolate eggs filled with dulce de leche wafers, and then, an empanada. Not just any empanada, this one was like a warm, buttery croissant filled with melty, gooey cheese. And, it really paired well with the apple and the chocolate and the feeling of success.

Next, we walked two kilometers before finding a McDonald’s, our sixth attempt to get the widely-advertised and totally-unavailable Toblerone McFlurry. It had become somewhat of a challenge for us to find it. While we were not hungry, we could not miss the chance to get this ice cream, which costs roughly as much as 12 apples, an empanada, and 2 chocolate eggs. Maybe not the healthiest day, but a delicious one.  We enjoyed our McFlurry and wifi access before heading to La Chascona, Neruda’s Santiago house.

When we arrived, La Chascona was closing in a half-hour and we were informed that student discounts would only be given with Spanish tours. Since we’d already visited another Neruda house, we figured we would be able to decipher whatever the tour guide said. We lucked out on a 4-person tour with a bilingual guide, a nice guy with handlebar moustache and wicked sideburns who had grown up in Hell’s Kitchen.

We saw where Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca had coffee and viewed a painting of Neruda’s wife, a gift to the poet from Picasso. I took another prohibited picture and looked at some old photographs of the Nobel Laureate with his friends, including a collaged birthday card with all of their faces together. Neruda was a jolly man, a party animal – his house had more bars than bedrooms. An eccentric fellow, too, one of his most famous poems is an Ode to a Bicycle and another, to a tomato. His house is modeled after a ship – obsessed with the sea, he was afraid to swim, and declared himself a captain of land.    

When the tour ended, we were escorted out the backdoor because the museum was closed and they wanted to go home. Kate was dismayed that she could not buy the postcard with the bicycle poem. On the way home, we saw a garbage truck hit a parked car. Then, we went to a lot of craftsmen shops and tried to find sibling gifts. Boys are so hard to buy gifts for – if they already have a wallet, a belt, and a foreign shot glass, do you just buy them another one?  We ended up lucking out at a wool stand, purchasing sweaters, mittens, and hats for assorted friends and relatives. If you have gift requests for me, please submit them ASAP – I’ve got 10 more days here!

Because Santiago is suddenly freezing, Kate and I each wore a wool set home. We walked into the house and a group of Hannah’s friends laughed at how ridiculously trendy we looked in our mishmash knits. We were warm, so we didn’t care – we’re just those silly gringas no matter what we do.

Starving, we were graciously taken out by my Chilean friend Max in Vitacura, the upscale 20somethings hangout neighborhood. Kate and I each did our weird gringa thing by eating veggie quesadillas with Irish coffees – we needed something filling and a drink pick-me-up after a long and draining day. We talked about Chilean politics, our quirky experiences here, Max’s business trip to San Pedro de Atacama, our trip there this Thursday, Hari Krishna music and dance, and the evils of the mining industry.  

Our late-night outing was really fun until something horrible happened. Across the street from the restaurant, a hit-and-run occurred and someone died. And when we left the restaurant, we saw the black-sheeted form on the road and we all fell solemn and somewhat defeated. Small talk made, hearts heavy, we got in the car to go home. Crossing the street seemed daunting – just continuing on was like breathing in foggy, thick air – a pervasive overwhelming pressure of the abruptness of what happened choked me. We could’ve had the best day ever or the worst day ever or just an average day kind of day, but seeing that black shrouded form on the ground was harrowing and heart-stopping – a heavy reminder of how lucky we are every moment to be living, and that we should be living each one to the most that we can. 

Even on the days that start with allergic reactions, lead to museums about torture and end with a hit-and-run, I’m maybe more grateful than ever to have the opportunity to do what I’m doing, including the physical and emotional challenges that these experiences present.

I wish I could just skip this part, but it happened, and I don’t want to forget it or that innocent man. Even at 1000 words, I’m already missing so many things – like the fact I slept through the shakes of a Richter-Scale 5 tremor somehow, or that Kate and I made cupcakes this morning for Debi’s boyfriend for their anniversary. So much can happen in a day, and every single one is the start to one hundred adventures.

Here’s to one hundred more tomorrow.

A Museum Morning

After suffering a violent allergic reaction to Hari Krishna, traveling, berries picked off a bush, and the McDonald’s restrooms, my body was quite defeated. Puffy eyed and sore all over, I was the epitome of both beauty and grace. Kate took the morning to go for a run, and in sweaty glory, got whistled at countless times on her route around the block. I stayed in, curled in bed in fetal position, attempting to gain enough strength to make toast and get on with life. 

As usual, we had a lot to accomplish: places to go, people to see. By 12:30 p.m., we had made cupcakes and were relatively ready to rock. I whimpered my way to the bus, metro, transferred metros, and hobbled across the street at Quinto Normal to the impressive Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos. 

This museomonument to the pain caused by the relatively-recent Chilean dictatorship will stun and silence all who enter. On September 11, 1973, Chile fell to a military dictatorship. Our parents were alive. This wasn’t so long ago. It lasted until 1990. The two-story museum take you through the torture of ‘forced disappearances’ with video testimonies and encased blindfolds that bound the thousands of prisoners in hundreds of secret camps across the country for 17 years. I wrote two papers on artistic resistance and coping among women under Pinochet’s brutal regime, but the museum made me feel like I never knew anything at all. 

It’s shocking and harrowing – and worst of all, you can be assured the U.S. sponsored some of this. In our government 1970s meddling, terroristic dictatorships were better than communism. I’d beg to differ, but I’m not a McCarthy-era congressman. 

The front of the museum has a photo display of close-pinned pictures in the shape of a world map. Underneath, information about truth commissions around the world is displayed. It’s both disheartening and enlightening to see all of these councils trying to shed light upon or reconcile mass killings and random torturings over decades, all over the world. Usually, their reports result in no actions – how do you explain to a child that the government made his mother ‘disappear’? How do you apologize to a mother for torturing her son with electric voltages that kill? In our world, you can’t, so you don’t. A monument here and a research report there doesn’t ‘fix’ these massive and wide-spread crimes against humanity, perpetrated by humans.

We have to evolve as a world and a species, Kate and I decided on the way to the metro.

It seems awkward to now discuss fish markets and empanadas, so I’ll start a new post.

Farm Fab Photos from Catemu to Santiago

My newest Chilean friend. Not much of a
mover nor a shaker.

Two days in a picture montage! Enjoy!

In the morning, we had time for a quick hike up Cerro San Cristobal.

A Sunday in the Park with Kate

Then, we took a bus to Catemu!

Eka Chakra: Hari Krishna paradise.

Welcome to the Hari Krishna yoga farm. We run this organic garden.

Stef working a watering can. And a straw hat.

The time passes away with a view.

Kate and a hoe.

Lettuce! Our main activity of the day.

Two lovely farmers on a lovely farm.

Fat cow.

Tall trees, new friends.

Thanks for the melon, NHK!

Our home.

The closest I've ever been to a pony. Not a nice pony.

Sweet potato soup for breakfast!

Even taller than he looks, eating lunch.
Our tour guide and English-speaking friend.

Peacocks!

Shiva Shrine!

Oh, it's real.

Buddy - the "Hombre Bomba", who gave us a mango
that really was meant for Shiva.

Our Peruvian friend did not want to be pictured.
Oh well.

Cheese, fresh off the cow, sponsored by HB.

25 cent sugar juice pouches!

Bustling Catemu, and wondering Kate.

Meanwhile, back in Santiago, one day later....

Sororitastic moments from afar.

Sneaky illegal living room picture of
Neruda's Santiago house

The perfect souvenir -
happy new year on a  hamsa from Chile!

Kate, eating an alfajor, waiting for the low-fare time to start
so we can save about 5 cents, we realized.

So much nutella, so much burglary contemplated.

Wearing all of our layers on the way home.

Garden Girls' Divine Secrets of the Llay Llay Sisterhood

At 8:30 a.m., Kate and I awoke to Belltower and an actual bell to find that as promised, the Hari Krishna farm was freezing bitter ice bone numbing cold. Even under four wool blankets, I could feel every hair on my body stand up, unhappy to know that I’d soon be pulling them from my bed. We each put on two pairs of pants and three layers of shirts to get to breakfast.

Sweet potato soup, homemade bread, toasted oats and almonds, and avocado were among the breakfast of champions offered to us by our priestly Hari Krishna friends on this fine frigid morning. It’s a little weird to have soup in the morning, but warm is warm, so I choked half of it down like a Hari Krishna farmer would. At breakfast, we met some more farm folk, including the crew of ‘Mothers’ – women of Hari Krishna faith. All of the practicing folks had been anointed with some sort of chalky yellow-y paste on their foreheads. The Mothers sat on one side, the devotees (men) on the other. The four women chatted merrily while mixing various Ayurvedic powders into their food and rubbing some potions onto their skin. Normal morning rituals: freeze, brush teeth, drink soup, thumbprint paste on forehead, dust your tea with magic powder…

We got assigned to the garden. Too bad no textbook chapter ever prepared us for words like hoe, spade, and watering can. With charades and descriptive-word guesswork, we got tools into our hands and headed for the fields with a guy whose name we can’t remember. He spent the day calling Kate Stefanie and me… nothing because he couldn’t remember Kate’s name – for this blog, I will call him NHK – Non-Hari Krishna. Twenty-four, Argentine, vegetarian and not intending to become a devotee, he’d been living there for a month already and had his eyes set on Peru and Bolivia before starting university, where he planned to study music. In four hours in a garden, you can learn a lot about a person. I started watering and Kate started weeding. The eight-bed huerta grew lettuce, cabbage, squash, herbs, tomatoes, and who knows what else. Watering was the most relaxing thing ever. I just had to hold a hose while walking slowly up and down the beds, staring off into the looming mountains.

Over the course of the morning, NHK brought us orange slices, water, and fresh apple juice (there were bits of peel in the cup. Kate didn’t like it.). When we finished our watering and weeding, we planted baby lettuce sprouts. With a halfhour to kill before the work hours were over, NHK led us to meet the farm’s vaquita, which translates to “little cow.” This is a misnomer – this was the hugest bull I have ever seen. Laying down, it’s butt was the width of my height. I was fairly terrified of this creature, who the HK crew would consider ‘friend-not-food’ and I would just call ‘massive scary bull’ – not ‘vaquita.’ After killing more time taking pictures in our awesome farm hats – mine, straw, Kate’s, bucket, it was finally time for lunch. After visiting an angry horse and trying to take pictures of peacocks on the run, we went to eat outside.

This meal could be eaten in mixed company, and we were glad to sit with our 7-foot Netherlands multilingual friend David. We chowed down hard on some lentil-sweet potato stew with brown rice, basil tomatoes, green salad with lemon juice served with fresh mint tea. I asked David about the food serving system because there was something weird about who served who what when. Turns out, food cooking and serving can’t be conflated with eating because the mouth transmits karma and you have to rinse yours out if you cook or serve; and, before you eat, you have to offer the food to the God Krishna, but sometimes David sees people taste it while they’re cooking, and sometimes he sees priestly leaders serve themselves, which makes the tiny Peruvian lady angry.

In the afternoon, we chose to wander the farm property and head toward an oft-mentioned stream. On the way, we stopped in the Silent Shrine of Shiva and ran into our NHK friend and another man, known as the Hombre Bomba. The Hombre Bomba was very excited to be in the company of such lovely gringas. Kate’s blue eyes offered him particular fascination. He plucked blackberries off of a bush, and gave us a mango that had been offered to Shiva, and chatted loudly in the silent shrine, which felt irreverent. We continued on through the stream, ambled across the river, and walked down a road to a local farm. On the way, we took pictures with them and promised to send them on Facebook. That will be difficult since we don’t know their names. They got mad we didn’t share the mango, but it was so sweet, so delicious, like the plums in the William Carlos Williams poem.  On the dirt road, we stopped for some queso fresco – so fresco, like the rounded wheel had just come from a cow. We sat on log and ate our cheese bare-handed, and the Hombre Bomba asked us questions about our government and racism and sexual education in schools. Then, this radical vegetarianist, anti-mining, ecoprotesting, democracy-hailing liberal told us he was anti-gay marriage because he doesn’t think kids should grow up confused about having two moms. I amiably countered his argument by saying, isn’t it just as confusing to grow up without a dad? Our world’s full of single mom families, some successful, many not. But, I wasn’t really interested in trying to logically evolve this whole argument in Spanish with a crazy man in a jumpsuit who had just fed me good fruit and cheese. 

Soon after, we bid adieu to all of our buddies on the farm, all who had been really kind and interesting. We walked down the dirt path and saw a bus in the distance. Kate and I then discussed how willing we would be to hitchhike, in that moment, and in general, and decided we wouldn’t because our parents would be so so mad. In that very moment, the bus pulled up and stopped next to us, and the driver offered us a ride to the distant corner. Since it was a school bus full of children, and it was just too coincidental to say no, we decided that this was a great idea. 

Once back in Catemu’s downtown strip, we realized we had just 780 pesos left to buy bus snacks – less than $2. In the supermarket, we came out with two juice boxes, and from around the corner, two Premium alfajores (caramel, graham cracker chocolate-covered yummies). After 24 hours of eco-farming vegetarianism, the rush of sugar gave me an instant headache. Kate convinced me to go use the public elliptical, and we were ridiculed by a group of men across the street. Those crazy gringas at it again. We had to work off the sugar and kill 20 minutes somehow.  

When the bus finally arrived, we hopped on and conked out after passing through Llay Llay (where we watched the sun sink over the Andes, in awe, leading to the second half of this blog title). We woke up back in Santiago four hours later.

While I got incredibly sick that evening, in ways that I will refrain from describing, I would definitely recommend anyone spend 24 hours with Hari Krishna. I don’t know that it will change your life (we had hamburgers when we got home), but it’ll definitely make a memorable story.

A One Night Stand with Hari Krishna

After visiting Los Dominicos, a Spanish pueblo turned artesian craft fair, we headed to the bus station. Trucked it is more like it. Karen sped through downtown Santiago, swiftly swerved through cars, so that we could catch our 5:15 bus for which we had not yet purchased tickets. Sprinting through the station, buying tickets, then finally boarded a bus towards Catemu.

Ever heard of Catemu? Neither had we. Two hours on a bus and we pulled up to the main drag of this small town. Two cafes, a candy store, and an arcade, Catemu is your envisioned colorfully run-down Latin American true pueblo. But we weren't there for an empanada - we came for the farm. After seeing a poster a few weeks back for EkaChakra EcoYoga Farm, I became enamored with the idea that we could go here for this unique sense of a nature adventure in tranquility. So, we went.

A questionable taxi (read: yellow car with empty wire frame on top) with a nice driver (read: not creepy woman) dodged potholes in the dark, pulled up on the dirt road and let us out, as one of the ever-present dogs came to greet us. It became immediately clear that the farm is more of an ecofriendly commune for followers of the Hari Krishna religion, usually known for funky ponytails, loud chanting, and orange clothes. We met a devotee and his wife and two children on their way home, and walked into a camp-like mess hall, only everything is made from exquisite woodwork, courtesy of the man in the cowboy hat, we were informed. Woven lanterns, carved bed frames, and tree trunk tables and benches dot the open fields of this tiny farm. A man named Tirtha swathed in signature pale orange sarang met us and gave us hello kisses and said he'd been waiting for us, expecting us midday. Well, we were late and no one seemed to really mind. Our first friends were:
1. A tiny Peruvian woman with metal-capped teeth who closely resembled Mulan's grandmother's spirit.
2. Supergiant David, a stringbean of a man in his 40s, with a greyish-blonde ponytail.

We made some smalltalk before our two friends decided to stand up. The height discrepancy between them may have been the length of my entire being. Stifling laughter, Kate and I accepted metal six-compartment trays and metal cups. We were served a stewed apple cinnamon tea, two rices, basil tomatoes, pepper sauce, two types of bread, three salads including two vegetables I have never seen or eaten before.


As we sat down on our wobbly treetrunk table, and passed through the dull customary Where are you going, where have you been traveler exchanges, I dared to ask the big question: so, what is Hari Krishna? This is definitely the first step someone unbeknownst to them takes before joining a cult. For my question, I got philosophized in Hari Krishna in 10 minutes, in a rapidfire Spanish by a younger devotee who did not enunciate and spoke so speedily, swallowing his words with his food. Nearly comical, how excited he was, and seemingly decided that we were totally fluent in Spanish, this guy explained how we are all our souls and everything in this world has a soul. Agreed. And that unifying soul is a part of an all-powerful entity they call Krishna. And every soul can acknowledge and respect its relation to all other souls, from Krishna to street dogs to wood tables to rice and beans to this guy sitting across from me yapping away about Karma and vegetarianism and me fixating on the slight chip in his front two teeth. Cool.

After dinner, we were led to wash our dishes in a bathtub-turned sink out back. Supergiant David came and looked at stars with us and made sure we had no more questions. Journalism students always have questions, but I refrained. Instead, we talked about the meaning of life and funny words like phlebotomy.
While I could've stared at those bright skylights for seemingly ever, it was cold and we were wiped out. Kate and I went back to our private four-bed hut, complete with four-star accoutrements like a sawdust pail toilet. In all seriousness, the place was charming, the mattresses and pillows were comfortable, and the decorations were quite tasteful. We had outlets and running water. No complaints.

While I am not planning to stay here forever, I am vaguely considering become a vegetarian. But don't hold me to it. This is a judgment-free zone with a lot of happy people, good food, and remarkable views - you can't ask for a better  vacation destination. 

For me, it's the kind of commitment where I'll give it my all, but only for a night.

Lost in Valparaiso, Paradise Found in Concon (photoblog)

La Moneda, a signature flag and plaza pic.

Kate, Bad Pineapple Soda,
and Neruda's house

The AmerAppar zip-up hoodies take on Valpo!
Two gringas too gringa.

Buses are exciting?

The most romantic duo, dressed for fancy dinner..

The moon rising over Valparaiso at our dinner table.

This would be a wonder of the world, but it's thankfully mostly untouched by tourists. Welcome to Paradise, sometimes called Concon. Note Kate's mouth slightly ajar in awe.

I can pick up tiny Kate and move her anywhere!

Not much to do on a sand dune....

But have a photo shoot.

We were not alone, so we finally didn't have to take a loner pic
nor a selfie.

Nothing like running down a sand dune barefoot.
This is the ultimate 'that time I was young and free' picture. 

Say hello to my Pelican friends.

Water stuff.

How does the driver watch the road when
he could be looking out the window?

Kate loves bus selfies with friends.

Sand Queens of Concon

Since our bus ticket return to Santiago was open-ended, we decided to maximize our town-count and get out to Concon. Three towns north of Valparaiso, Concon is going through a phase of intense condo development because some developers picked up on the view. You'd have to be blind not to. 

After making some stray-puppy friends at the dock, we were misdirected to a microbus to Concon that did not take us to our destination. Instead, the driver dropped us on the side of a road, between a cliff and a mountain. We chose mountain and hiked straight up, yet again, hoping to find our destination, this time without a map or pole-markers.

Fortunately, sand dunes are hard to miss. We conquered our way climbing to the top, wardrobe changing as we ascended through this Chilean Arabian Nights landscape. We felt the burn as we dragged our feet up the endless sand-wall until we made it to the peak. 

There, we sat. We made sand angels. We gazed at the ocean and the city and the waves and the mountains. We posed. We probably made the foreign couple on the dune next to us uncomfortable.

No matter. After frolicking our way down, we crossed the street to Chilean Walmart to stock up on some snacks. Foreign grocery stores rock. It's half the same stuff and half bizarre things you'd never find at home. We left with a cookie, diet coke, two kiwis, and a chocolate bar. The kiwis cost about a dime each. Next came guacamole-flavored Doritos purchased in exchange for a wifi password from Subway. That investment was absolutely worthwhile on all accounts. 

Walking another half hour and being honked at by truck drivers all the way (We were wearing gym shorts and hoodies. This was not a good look. Machismo culture knows no bounds.), we checked out four restaurants before choosing the one with the best view and largest crowd (6 people).

The waitress could not have been less interested in serving us - she refused us water without bubbles, never brought bread, and forgot an order and didn't apologize at all. Our grilled salmon was demolished quickly - a melt in your mouth, straight from the ocean slab of goodness.

We successfully wasted two more hours over this salmon, waiting for the sun to get a little lower. We flagged down a cliffside bus back to Vina del Mar, and eventually made it mid-rush-hour and sunset back to the Valparaiso bus station. After waiting an hour for our ride to arrive, I was delighted to watch The Spy Next Door again on board. Kate napped but I couldn't get over the shrill beeping noises the bus made every time the driver hit 100 km. Which was every other second.

Back in Santiago, we were supersleepy and continued to laze around all Saturday, except for a 15-person lunch at home, which Kate will guest-blog about soon.