Pichilemu

Finally, a sleepy beach town…this is what I’ve been looking for since The Sister and I left Mancora oh so many months ago.  Pichilemu (~14,000 people, sea level)  is on the coast of central Chile a couple hundred kilometers south of Valparaiso.  Upside is a fat, black, and empty beach (insert your preferred sexual euphemism here) and a complete void of gringos.  I love being off the tourist track.  Downside is that the water is absolutely freezing and The Foot is, annoyingly, still not healed and does not take kindly to salt or sand. 

We had a beautiful bus ride over from Santa Cruz (1500CLP, US$3) highlighted by miles and miles of grapescape and cornscape and even transitioning to pine forest before dropping down into town.

First on the list:  A walk-around and a run through the local markets.  Today’s shopping list:  3 bottles of wine, bread, cheese, and some fresh local cherries (US$10 in total).  But there is trouble in paradise:  the raspberries I saw along the way haven’t been harvested yet.  Screw job!!

Later that night, I made arrangements to watch the BCS title game at a local bar (sorry, Duck).  There were three drunk dudes on one side of us alternatively passing out, arguing incomprehensibly and knocking over chairs trying to get to the bathroom.  There is a couple on the other side alternatively laughing at my “passion” (“Somebody fucking tackle!!”  “Bullshit!”  “Punch him in the face!!!”) and then reverting to their own “passion” (i.e. making out and groping each other at the table…pretty sure I saw him run his hand up her skirt and go for third base, but I was desperately trying not to watch).  The amorous couple left at halftime, but mysteriously re-appeared at the end of the third quarter and started talking to us.  From what I could gather with my excellent Españolish, they wanted to join us and have a beer from my pitcher?  No worries, I probably didn’t need to drink two entire pitchers myself.  Two more pitchers of beer appear as well as two glasses of wine for The Becca.  Hmmm…must have lost something in the translation.  (The Becca says, “I’m pretty sure this is all going on our tab too.”  Cusco has poisoned her poor brain…I, however, have regained some faith in humanity at this point and am still thinking positively.)

Much (poor) conversation, giggling, and drinking ensue with an inordinate amount of whispering between Becca and our new friend Denise.  I tell Becca, “I’m pretty sure this is going to end up in a foursome.  You okay with that?”  After finishing her two glasses of wine (following the two we had previously bought…and the one with dinner…and the one we drank at the hostel waiting for the game to start), The Becca is done.  Kisses all around and she stumbles home, much to the dismay of Denise.  (Becca: “Hasta luego!”  Denise” “A mi casa!!!”)  I had been paying way more attention to the game up to this point, but now that The Becca is gone, I have to be a little more attentive to our new friends. (And drink faster…is this another fucking pitcher on the table?  Or was that there before?  Am I getting rolled tonight?  Or just forced into an awkward sexual situation?)

So now that I’m actually paying attention, the motives become crystal clear:  Denise wanted to take Becca home and was supremely disappointed that the message was not received.  I said, “No worries, we’re here until Friday and she’s totally into it.”  They paid their tab and went home.

Day 3: We finally see another gringo!  (Seriously, we had not seen a single gringo face for 72 hours.  Amazing.)

Day 4 Shopping List: 1 kilo local strawberries, 3 bananas, handful of fresh bread, 2 bottles carménère, 1 bottle chardonnay.  (Total: US$11)

Day 5 Shopping List: 1 kilo ripe cherries, 3 bottles carménère (this is the Chilean specialty and seems to be going down way too smoothly), 1 bottle sav blanc, 1 onion, 2 tomatoes, 1 red pepper, basil, oregano, black pepper, orzo…time for red sauce…mmmmm…………

After 4 bottles of wine and some delicious pasta, we (wisely) decided on a midnight karaoke run.  I can’t possibly tell you how that ended.  (Seriously, not because I don’t want to tell you, but because I have no fucking idea.)

But I think our favorite part of this stop was the sunset over the Pacific and fresh sushi at a cute little beach lounge called Secreto.  I had forgotten how delicious those Pacific sunsets can be.

Another admission:  I now spend two hours every morning drinking yerba mate.  The upside is that I normally spend this time writing and corresponding with friends, which I have struggled to make consistent time for in the past.  The downside is that I am an instant addict.  To both the drug itself and the ritual that goes along with it.  Just what I needed…  Fucking Andrew.  That goddamn trip to Bariloche is the gift that just won’t stop giving.

Overall, this was a really great stop.  Much like Mancora, I would spend much more time here if we weren’t supposed to be meeting other friends elsewhere.  Pichilemu features the World’s Largest Bougainvillea, fuchsia bushes the size of a small house, wildly varied and interesting architecture, black beaches for miles, beautiful break.  And one police for every 2.5 people.  (Seriously, I have never seen more cops anywhere in my life.)

Even though our hosts were quite gracious, we never really felt  like they were down with us using the kitchen.  Each day we were given “The Dinner Window” (usually 4pm…who the fuck eats dinner at 4 pm?) where we were allowed one hour of kitchen time.  But the good news is that I’m cooking again almost daily, which is better on the cash situation and means I’m possibly fully recovered from The Cusco Syndrome.  The Becca is still not quite over it, but another week on the beach and she should get there.  We’re on the way to Valparaiso to meet up with Reverend Dave 

(it’s always better to travel with a Reverend…evidence here:)  http://santalovesyou.blogspot.com/2008/02/day-one.html  and hopefully a couple friends from Cusco.

Santa Cruz

After picking up my friend Becca in Santiago after a 6-month teaching stint in Cusco, it’s time to drink some wine and chill out.  We head first for Santa Cruz (~35,000 people, ~550 feet), the central city in the largest wine-producing region of Chile.  It seems like Becca is the first of several who are bailing out on The Cusco Syndrome in the next few weeks and will be joining me on the road.  The more the merrier!

It is immediately clear that Santa Cruz is not the tourist destination we were expecting.  Good little capitalist that I am, my first thought is, “Why aren’t these idiots exploiting their wine country for profit?”  Maybe this is the place to buy some property and open a gringo-oriented B&B/winery?  If this is not Napa/Tuscany/Mendoza yet, it certainly will be.  The Capitalismo will come for you, Santa Cruz, whether you want it or not.

Our hostel seemed a bit “new agey,” but it was the only one I could find on The Internets.  I did dig the fresh juice made from on-property organic fruit three times a day and the wood-fired hot tub, but I passed on the tarot reading and aura analysis session.

Since there were no wine tours to be had, we settled for buying 3 bottles along with some fresh fruit and cheese and just getting drunk at the hostel.  Not a bad way to spend the afternoon.  After Becca crashed, I went out back and jumped in the hot tub with the owner’s son Gabriel and his two buddies and we had a few hours of rum, sweet Españolish, and a lot of laughs.  And a midnight run to the convenience store for more rum, wine, and smokes, of course.

We spent 24 hours here and never saw another gringo face.  Not one.  Which was actually pretty damn cool.  The locals were genuinely happy to see us there.  If not for the lack of anything to actually “do” in Santa Cruz, it would be a place worth sticking around for a few days.  It’s a very “cute,” if sleepy, town with lots of palm trees, fruit trees and quaint residential areas.  Very “nice,” so to speak…good place to raise kids, if you’re into that sort of thing.

(Someone is currently playing “You Give Love a Bad Name” on their cell phone while we are bussing to Pichilemu.  Bad fucking ass!!!  They do dig The Bon Jovi on this continent…)

The Becca is two days removed from The Cusco Syndrome and is very much on the mend.  Time for the sleepy beach town I’ve been meaning to find for several weeks now and get in some serious laziness. (Mom says I need to quit hiking around the mountains and let The Foot heal.  I will obey…for once.)

Pucòn

As the bus pulls into Pucòn (~24,000 people, ~750 feet), the volcano beyond the lake at the edge of town…fuck…words escape.  There have been many towns where I’ve wondered why I’m supposed to be visiting here.  This one leaves no question.

As I jump off the bus, I can see my hostel just down the street.  Sweet.  The Foot appreciates this level of efficiency.  As I come in, they are turning a group of young Israelis away and try to usher me out as well until I let them know that I am “The Casey.”  “Oh!!!!!  The Casey!!!  We waiting for you!!”

The two middle-aged (fuck, am I middle-aged now?  I don’t really feel that way, but how else would you define me???) ladies running the hostel are both speaking to me at once, rapidly (goddamn Chilean Spanish -forgot for a week how difficult it is to understand) explaining where I am sleeping, how things are set up, who my roomies are, how the volcano tours work, where the forks are…  I need a nap after running the Españolish gerbils in my brain through the wringer.  I inquire about getting some food to make some dinner and one of the hosts (literally) grabs me by the hand and walks me two blocks down the street and begs the store to stay open for me.  (They do.)  After I explain the situation with The Foot, the other host runs a few blocks to her mother’s house to grab “The Magic Cream” that will surely heal me enough to carry me up the volcano.  Fuck it, I’ll try anything at this point.

I’ve been in some cool hostel situations before, but the mix of people and the size of the crowd feels absolutely perfect.  I’m in a room with three Germans and two Norwegians.  I had dinner and drinks in the kitchen with another Gringo, two Chileans, a hot dude from Costa Rica, an older Israeli couple and two Spaniards.  I made way more pasta than necessary, but made friends for life.  Good shit.

I decided to “be good” and not take The Foot out to the hot springs, so I wandered around the town for a bit.  Forty eight hours ago, I remember thinking, “Holy shit, I think San Martin de Los Andes may be the most beautiful town I’ve ever seen!”  As soon as I got to the lake today in Pucòn, I said, “Fuck me!  Pucòn is the most beautiful town I’ve ever seen!!”  Not a bad stretch of travel, I do say.

Up way too early (well, I’m still on The Lost City Time, for god’s sake) at 6 am to suit up and catch the bus up to the volcano, I am still a bit nervous about how The Foot will handle the climb, but could you even consider not climbing after seeing this??:

We make the 30 minute drive to the base of the mountain…and are completely fucked.  100 kph+ winds are literally blowing us off the volcano and they are coming straight down from the top.  Normally, the ski lifts are running and can take you up ¼ of the way, but the winds are absolutely ridiculous and Ski Lift Dudes never made it out of bed.  That makes a difficult 4 hour climb uphill into a 5+ hour climb straight into the wind.  With one foot.  And, even if we reach the summit, the swirling winds may push the toxic volcano vomit into our faces, which means we can’t look into the crater…which is the whole fucking point of this journey.  I have climbed plenty in the past 5 weeks, but if I’m climbing this goddamn volcano, I want to look down and see some motherfucking lava, not be told it’s too dangerous to get that close.  Fuck this. As much as I wanted to do this, I lobby on the side of bailing out.

In the end, 3 tour groups of 22 actually made an attempt to summit that day and only about 10% of the people in those groups got a look at the crater.  I made the right decision.  I think.

After returning to the hostel with our tails between our legs, I drank a vat of Yerba Mate and then decided I had to get out and at least get some form of activity for the day.   The Norwegians in my room wanted to rent bikes…I’m assuming to ride around town and have a chill day…I am quite wrong.  We head to the bike shop and, after not riding a bike for about 2 years, I end up on a grueling 50 km trek upwind (both ways…what the fuck!) down the highway and over ugly and bumpy gravel roads.  I hate you, bicycle.  But, I did really enjoy my time with Gøril and Susanne and hope to get a chance to visit Norway later this year.

I also got a chance in Pucòn to catch up with Miha and Jerneja again and relive our travels since the big trek and The Foot Incident.  We consumed mucho vino, a big pile of meat, and they dumped me at the bus station drunk as a skunk.  Got to put Slovenia on the 2011 itinerary as well.

Time has run out in Patagonia and the Lakes District, but I’m determined to return when I can spend much more time.  Some of the most amazing vistas I have ever seen.  And I still have a score to settle with that damn volcano.