Chile Forum

I would really love to have you record this story, I personally think it would make great radio

Yes, Charles, while Greg's Spanish entails "grassy ass" for "thank-you, he does now comprehend "No molesta". So I don't get anything over him on that point. As far as a radio program, well, this twisted tale goes from a dog who rips up the backseat of a brand new pickup truck, to an endless night searching the streets of Temuco for a safe haven, to crapping in the woods, on an almost vertical incline...watching precious toilet paper dance and spin down the hill out of reach. Probably not a good radio subject. But I will continue to post here....admin willing, and you can be the judge.

great story vicky!.. looking forward to part 2 already!..

In October, it is spring in Chile, and the morning was chilly. I wrote a few post cards, then window-shopped around the square before having some scrambled eggs and MORE coffee at a restaurant while waiting for the post office to open. Dandy elderly men strolled by in Fedoras and fine wool suits, women who looked as if they walked off the pages of Vogue dangled hand bags costing more than a one-way flight to Santiago. College students, young goths and harried mothers with strollers filled the square. People sat reading books and newspapers, flower vendors were busy wrapping bouquets for customers, and pastries were set out on curbsides shelves. I sat with my coffee, writing postcards to people who wouldn't really give a shit, about places I hadn't been yet. And watched Santiago in full-swing.

The Spanish was almost unintelligible to me. In fact, when we got off the plane earlier that morning, I looked at my husband in shock when the immigration person spoke to me in a language I'd never heard. I couldn't understand him at all. Nothing registered with me. I had prided myself in the fact that although I am not totally fluent, I can speak and understand Spanish enough to get around, live, have friends and not seem totally ignorant, here, I was apparently in a country that spoke some other language. At the little cafe where I was sitting having coffee and eggs, I had asked for a menu. This provoked a look of utter blankness from my waiter. Only after using sign language, fanning my open hands like a book, opening and closing, did he say, "Aha! Carta!" And I might have just as well drawn pictures for what I wanted, nothing on the "carta" was intelligible to me. None of the entries were anything I had heard of, except of course, eggs. One might be wise to pick up a Chilean Spanish book before traveling there. I, of course, did not make any advance plans for the trip, as usual, so I found myself flung into this non-Latin, very European, non-Spanish speaking country. And it was lovely!

Around 11 a.m., I headed back to the hostel to see if Greg was recovered and ready to see the sites with me. I quickly realized I was totally lost, and had to fish the hostel business card from my backpack and ask my way back, block by block. Our room at the hostel was even smaller than it seemed earlier, and the communal bathroom was steamed and cluttered. Just like home.

We are the only people in the hostel over the age of 20 it seems. We are often referred to on our travels as, "The old dudes" by happy, broke, disheveled youngsters who think they have the market cornered on cheap, adventurous travel. Try traveling with all your medicines, a weak bladder, with the inability to bounce back after 20-hour bus rides, survive on bus-stop food and bad mattresses. That's adventure my friends. And we are still married despite ourselves!

Greg is a retired attorney whose idea of roughing it was a Motel 6 in any town under 50,000 people. I am a former secretary, jack-of-all trades, retired by proxy. He is calm, and thoughtful and methodical. I am impulsive and think better of things after it's too late. He is organized, I am a slob. I like spontaneity, he likes routine. How we travel together and still speak to each other is beyond me. I've often whispered under my breath, "I'm gonna kill him," as he insists on his religiously slow morning routine when we have only minutes to spare for a bus. And, I have on exasperated times, threatened to "next time..." travel separately to our destination. This always passes, and we always find ourselves exactly where we are supposed to be. Each time, we move closer to the center of each others comfort zones. I plan a little better, he forgoes a careful shave. This is how we finally found ourselves, after two long bus rides, a five-hour boat trip, standing on the shores of Patagonia, in southern Chile.

Chaiten, Patagonia, Region X. I like the Region X thing. Even the sound of it is rakish and exotic, in a southern Chile kind of way. "Where did you visit in Chile? I ask. "Santiago," they reply. "Oh, Region II", I say, "We were in Region X!" See, more exotic, more mysterious, Region X. But, I digress....

The night bus to Osorno was cramped and cold. Take the Salon Cama - it has fully reclining seats, pillows, blankets and serves a snack and coffee, albeit instant. The early morning sun finds us rumbling down the highway, an hour or so away from Osorno. Frosted fields of hearty cows and wooden farm houses with steaming smoke stacks dot the Wisconsin-like countryside. It is crisp and clear, but void of Andes vistas. We roll into Osorno on a slightly worn, dilapidated side of the city. At the bus station we grab a cab to take us to Hospadaje Shultz, equally worn and dilapidated, but friendly and comfortable. Up three, narrow flights of steps to our room and doffing our overweight backpacks we collapse onto our low, single beds. And get some of the sleep we were deprived of during the 10-hour bus ride.

Around noon I struggle up, still dressed in my traveling clothes and find the shared bathroom. Back in the room, Greg looks like a little sleeping bird in his sagging bed, covered with four heavy blankets. Once I make sure he is still breathing, I navigate the stairs and go out into Osorno. What a surprise, this town of 80,000 people is. I walk down a street of cobblestone, bordered by benches and wrought-iron gas lights (now converted to electric) towards the central square. To find the post office of course, as well as a coffee shop. I pass very tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed blond-haired people, tugging rosey-cheeked, blond-haired, blue-eyed children. Lots of them. I find out later that Osorno was founded in large part by Germans in the mid-1800's. In fact, they built the first schools here. The area around Osorno is very Bavarian, and in town, the pastries, and meat markets produce some of the same products I remembered from my time in Zirndorf and Erlangen, Germany. I find a coffee shop, and write some more postcards about places I haven't visited yet, to people who could care less. It costs me more than ten bucks in pesos to mail the damned things.

The tourist shop in the central square, "Plaza del Armas" is unmanned, but I find some good maps and tourist brochures for hot springs, fly fishing, a trip to the coast only an hour away, and even a canopy tour (where do they have a canopy?). By now the blisters on my heels are almost crippling. My new hiking boots are horrible, and so far unnecessary. I'm sure it's the first rule of traveling not to buy new shoes or boots for the trip, but I failed to read that book. By the time I hobble back to the hostel with coffee and a pastry for Greg, I can hardly crawl up the steps to the room. Later we buy neosporin, large band-aids, and a pair of Spaulding tennis shoes a couple of sizes too big for me, to accommodate the swelling and a pair of hand-knit wool socks to cushion my feet. Once the swelling went down, I added another pair of socks and went about Chile looking like a big-footed boob.

Once in Osorno, there are three ways to get to southern Chile. The first one, is flying, but this traveler does not get on a commuter flight, or prop-plane to fly over sloping banana fields in Panama, let alone wafting over the spires of mountains and volcanos in Chile. The option is there, it is quicker, and I'm sure beautifully scenic, but no thanks. Way two is to take a bus (about seven hours) down to Puerto Montt, then onto Isla Chiloe, to the southern part of the island to Quellon, a rainswept port town only for the hearty and adventurous. From there you take a five-hour ferry to Chaiten. Way three is a bus into Argentina, south through Barriloche, continuing on finally back into Chile at the Futaleufu area. This is an 8-10 tour. I cannot recommend one over the other. In fact, you really should do one way going, and the other way coming back. Way two takes you through Chiloe, a century unto itself. A bit like Ireland, many great stopping off places including a side-trip to see penguins, slews of century old churches, great seafood, interesting people and lore. The ferry ride is a blast. We saw porpoises, and sea lions and volcanos and just the feeling of being on the sea...fabulous! Way three takes you through a stunning pass in the Andes, through the vivacious ski town of Barriloche with a large lake dotted with sail boats and streets of eclectic shops and restaurants, down across the pampas, and back into Chile. Do both. But also be aware and do your research; travel through the Andes, and across by water is periodically impossible during the winter months (July through September) depending on the weather. Snow can make the Osorno-Argentina pass impassible at times, and bad weather interrupts the ferry schedule. Which, I should say runs on a whenever basis as well anyway. It's quite possible to get to Quellon on a Wednesday, miss the last ferry out, and have to wait until Sunday for the next one.

I never once had bad food in Chile, although I often wasn't sure what I was eating. Most places, when offering a steak-type meal, it means just that, the steak (or other meat or fish). Sides such as potatoes or salads come al la carte. Portions were always large in non-descript establishments outside of Santiago, and in higher-class restaurants they mirrored Manhattan bistro-size bites. Greg and I ordered Salmon al la plancha in a busy market close to the bus station in Osorno, as well as sides of salad and fries. The salmon serving was so huge, one would have been enough for three people. In contrast, at dinner in Santiago, the side salad consisted of five arrugala leaves and a shaving of onion. Never though was anything not delicious. At a rodeo in Futaleufu I had a plate of roast sheep and German-style potato salad that must have weighed five pounds...for about $3.

While Chaiten is a gateway to Patagonia, Futaleufu, arriving from Argentina, is Patagonia. While Chaiten is a hub for Pumalin Park, Futaleufu is a time-warp, an outpost, Mayberry meets Twilight Zone. Chaiten has pharmacies, a gas station, Glacier-trekking and hot-spring tours. It is a expansive, sparsely populated port, and fishing town. Clean, with wide streets, no stop lights, little traffic. Futaleufu is a quiet, flowery town, streets and avenues numbering less than my fingers and toes. Trim lawns, roses, small wooden houses, handsome people, all enveloped in a valley surrounded by fairy mountains, bordered by electric blue rivers and mirrored lakes. In Chaiten you can buy fuel for your vehicle, in Futaleufu, you cannot. In Chaiten you can buy antibiotics, and other medicines, in Futaleufu you cannot. So why go to Futaleufu? Well, in a way I hope not allot of people travel there. Because it is a place where time is preserved. where lives have changed little since the turn of the century and they celebrate that isolation with hearty spirit. And where the infection that is Patagonia can incubate, as ours did.

And so it goes...

Garrison Keillor, now there's a classic Minnesotan. I've lived in Minnesota for about 9 years; five in the Minneapolis suburbs for high school and now 4 years in St Joseph while attending Saint Johns. Good to see a Minnesotan in Chile... after the reactions I got when I told people I was moving to Chile I figured I was the only one in this whole state that thought it was a good idea.

Keillor might find Futa a slightly mirrored image of his Wobegon Days, however, as to our adventures to get here, he'd be thoroughly disgusted. While my last post leaves off in an introduction to Futa ( the post about the three months here is on allsouthernchile.com) I wrote a snippet about Futa and our three months here (that included a mixed up review of the first time, and our second trip in 2006) that is on http://www.allsouthernchile.com. I pick up here on our third trip, after one month in Santiago, November of 2007. Garrison could not make up the distresses, and anxieties we created for ourselves on the trip, back to Futa. As I remember....


ADMIN NOTE: Edited that address from .net to .com

There is a reason why road trips are better left to the young. Because when the young grow old, they forget the horror of the venture. No? Okay, well, maybe it's left to the young because they have the energy and soul to drink and drug and sex their way - therein making the actual horror of the trip a faint acid-trip-dream-sequence. Later on, they will romanticize it for their children, and with their friends, or write about it in some smarmy travelog that no one will ever read. But, it was, after all...a Road Trip.

Now, a road trip when you are in your fifties, take multiple medications, are dragging along all your earthly belongings, a psycho dog, and a weak bladder, is entirely different. As a seventeen year old, you drive until you have no more gas, you hitch a ride the rest of the way. Cool. In your fifties, you religiously count the mile markers to the next rest stop, argue about what your spouse did or did not pack that is appropriate for the weather you may or may not encounter. As a seventeen year old, you scream with glee as you rocket down the highway at 100 miles an hour. At fifty, you scream in horror as your driver inches just 5 miles over the speed limit. It's entirely different these many years later. And while it also can be romanticized later on, it really isn't the same. Yes, traveling with Greg and psycho Max like being tied inside a burlap bag with a couple of cats, on morphine.

Santiago disappeared in the rear view mirror around 1:30 pm on Tuesday, November 6, 2007. We left city center around noon, and due to various street construction projects, and several misinterpretations of street signs, and general bickering,and amid much angst to find out that the air-conditioner in our brand new vehicle does not work, we spent an unintended hour and a half, touring the city before accidentally being jettisoned off onto Ruta Cinco, south. People are incredibly courteous to us as we crawl down the highway, tires bulging under the burden of our "stuff". We discover they are not waving to be friendly, they are waving because we are causing havoc. The tarp has come loose, is flapping wildly, and...........there goes one of our spare gas containers, thankfully empty. It will take us several attempts to secure everything, one final stop at a hardware store to completely re-do the entire mess, and we finally settle in for a long, scenic ride south.


Wine country quickly appears, rows of pristine grape vines sprouting new green leaves, hectare, after hectare line Ruta Cinco. The Andes, still sprinkled with snow even in November, stretch out to the left, and are our constant companion. Smaller, drier mountain ridges parallel the right side of the horizon. Willow trees huddled on small streams, terra cotta tile roofs at impossible slopes and angles top fragile-looking gingerbread houses. An elderly man farrowing his field with a sway-backed horse. It is dusty and dry already? Lavender fields undulate, other fields of brilliant yellow cover hillsides, more vineyards.

We are still speaking to each other, yet so many miles to go.

A few folks have emailed me, concerned that the photos of the cabin in my photo gallery on this site, is the home I will live in. While I COULD live there, this is not my "year-round" home. This is a little, what I call, Fish-Camp Cabin, down by the river, and in which we have stayed for weeks, and weeks, in between, coming to town to shower and wash clothes, and have internet frenzies! So, let me be clear, no, this is not where we will live YEAR ROUND. We will live about 100 yards up the hill, in a home that has insulation, and flush toilets. But thanks for your concern!

From Santiago, to Temuco and on south to Puerto Montt, there were at least 30 toll stops ranging from CLP 400 to CLP 1600. We dine on gas station hotdogs, instant coffee and potato chips and roll into Temuco way after dark. A stop-over to see friends and get the air-conditioning fixed.

We pass through places called Santa Gregorio, and Nicanour. The air grows colder. The tarp and tie-down on the truck hold as we hurdle down the highway at 110 kilometers an hour. At this point, we have agreed on a plan for me to reinforce the turn signal idea. Here in Chile, they actually observe traffic rules and signs, at least as much as in the US, unlike in Central America where it is a free-for-all. So, Greg has agreed that it is a good idea for me to remind him to signal lane changes, and I do. With a vengeance. Signal over, signal back. Not while he is changing lanes, but before, both ways. Some habits can be good.

Temuco. A great town, tons of things to do, shopping areas, college town restaurants and bars, art galleries, and a Nissan dealership for our air-conditioning problem. Not that it's much needed in southern Chile, but it's a brand new vehicle. Everything should work! Our friends help us locate the dealership and offer to go with Greg to help with interpreting. Turns out the problem was very simple. We don't have an air-conditioner. See how easy that was? I'm glad I stayed home for that little "oops"!

After a couple of days, great company and food, we set out for the last part of the trip, Temuco down onto Isla Chiloe.
I'm sure my first impressions of Isla Chiloe were unfair, tainted by the rainy arrival, late at night, the painful financial gouging by a hostel owner, and the prevalence of passed out sailors and large menacing street dogs on every street corner in Quellon. Quellon was my first stop on the isla that time, having come the Argentina route to Futa, and somehow set the tone for the trip up. This time we arrived in the north of Chiloe, crossing on a ferry from the mainland onto the island. Several kilometers onto the island we saw a sign for cabanas and decided to check it out for a respite for the night. Expensive, but lovely, we took a cabin for one night. Situated on a inlet bay on the edge of a private preserve, the little two-bedroom place was completely furnished and the caretaker started the wood-burning stove and loaded the wood box. Outside, Oxen pulled carts on the low-tide beach in the afternoon sun, loaded with some sort of seaweed destined for Japan and China. Close by, snail slime is harvested for cosmetic creams. I probably should have gotten some. From August to March, pink flamingos roost in the bay and surrounding marshlands. But for $60 a night, it was slightly out of our budget, except for this one-night fling. Dinner at the restaurant in front of a stone oven was wonderful. Oysters, salmon, a bottle of nice wine.

We spent the next day exploring the hilly north end of Chiloe, the icy windswept cliffs of Mar Bravo, and the secluded coves that spring up around every turn. Bought two loaves of some soft, stinky cheese from a farm house, and later loaded up for the trip to Quellon, the last real town on Chiloe. From there, on Sunday, a five-hour ferry ride to Chaiten, then back onto the mainland for the final leg of the journey. Greg is almost religious with the turn signals now, and I have stopped clutching the dash, and pressing on my imaginary brake on the passengers side of the non-air-conditioned vehicle. We've managed to not argue for two-whole days.

The ferry arrived in Chaiten around five in the afternoon. About an hour before landing, the islets appear. Frigate birds in the air, and seals in the choppy waves. Volcan Corcovado looms still snow covered and surreal. We decide to stay for the night, secure some supplies before heading to Futa but Max attacks the hotel owners dog and we feel it's best to head out.

The drive from Chaiten to Futa has to be one of the most spectacular in the world. The mountains jut up on all sides, waterfalls, glaciers, deciduous trees, fairy ferns everywhere. Skeletal monster trees evidence of a forest fire years ago. It is other-worldly. Unless time is an issue, no one should miss this drive by flying to Futaleufu.

In Futa we find lodging for the night, and the next day locate a little cabin to rent for a few months while starting our own home on the edge of the Rio's Azul and Desauge. The landlord has a family member make a table for the gas stove top, and brings his own kitchen table and two chairs in for us. The cabin is cute, but not well insulated, and we will have to wait for him to bring in a wood stove the next day. I make up the kitchen as best I can, then the bedroom upstairs, and by up stairs, I mean UP. Ships ladder is more like it. We figure out the drizzle shower, and order a meter cord of wood for the anticipated stove. Like most people, el landlord is not thrilled about Max. Right now, neither am I. While he is likes people, his behavior when encountering other dogs is abhorrent. The only reason our landlord has agreed to rent to us with Max is because we have assured him Max will never be free about the property, and when we are gone from the cabin, Max will be in his crate. Frankly, Max is lucky he's not six feet under right now.

Getting our wits about us, what little we have, Greg goes back to Chaiten for his national ID card, and I stay in Futa to try to get an internet account at the cabin and end up buying a washer in the process. So far we have managed to set up the TV and DVD, get an internet account (not yet installed in the house), melted the hair dryer we used as a bellows to get a fire going in the wood stove, smoke ourselves out of the house in a nasty wet wood flue-mishap, and get the new washer going. I'm not keeping score, but we pretty much have evened out our mishaps...so far. Next week we will meet with someone to engineer the road down onto our property to the building site, and start working out the details for a house.

Our first trip out to our property might be the only thing that has saved Max from lethal injection. It is his world. He bounds down the logging road, over downed trees, racing from hillock to ravine, through bushes and over rocks. He is ecstatic. He is a joy out in el camp.

It is as beautiful and wild as we remembered, even more. The rivers are running icy and clear. Fuschia bushes are starting to bloom. Greg takes a walk on a ridge above the Rio Desauge while I crack open a beer and sit on a log to survey the house site and dream. I look back the path just in time to see Greg's feet disappear off the edge. It takes a split second for it to register. He's fallen of the ridge. Down into the rocky edge of the river. In slow-motion I turn and try to run to the spot where I saw him disappear. A thousand things run through my mind at once as I come to the place and peer down, not really wanting to see what I fear I might see. And there he is. Muddy, bloody mouth, looking up. Laughing! I scream at him, "Don't move! Stay where you are!" He is laughing. "How do your legs feel," I scream. Laughing. "What were you THINKING!" I continue to scream at him. He stops laughing long enough to say he doesn't think anything is broken, and is oblivious to the blood dripping down his mouth. But, he assures me he is okay. Max is barking and running in circles, I start to cry. Greg has fallen head first down a 10-foot ridge, onto boulders surrounded by a raging river. My mind is running through the scenarios...he could have broken his neck, or arms, or legs, or bashed in his head. By the time I realize he really is alright, I am furious with him. Scraped and bruised, but relatively intact, he climbs back up the ridge gingerly and once he is on safe ground I punch him in the arm! "DON'T EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!" We've come too far, worked too hard, dreamed so deeply of this place for us to live the rest of OUR lives, that I cannot stand to think of doing this without him. We limp back to Futa, grateful, and a little shaken.

Friday, November 16, 2007, cold rain and clouds greet an encapsulated Futa day. Neighbors chop wood in back yards, chickens cackle, smoke stacks puff. Our tiny cabin smokes as we attempt to build a warm, roaring fire. We end up opening the windows and retreating outside for air until finally, the fire takes and it warms. Yesterday I picked some lilacs and lavender. Along with some mint plants I've started, they brighten up the clacky kitchen and I put a pot of beans on the cook top. Greg climbs up to the attic bedroom while I do a load of wash. The rain is peaceful, the laundry drying, the dishes done, and the beans bubbling with a smoky ham hock bobbing in the mix. Laundry is hanging from a square wooden rack suspended over the wood stove, almost dry. I have some old Neil Young going on the computer, there is really nothing to do but feed the stove. Neil croaks, "Four strong winds that blow lonely, seven seas that run high, all these things that don't change, come what may..." and then on the next song, "We've been through some things together, with chunks of memories still to come. We've found things to do in stormy weather. Long may you run...although these changes have come...."

I miss Panama, only because it was familiar finally, and I knew how to live there. This is not easy, at all, but it is so rich, and stunningly beautiful, that I know we could not live our lives fully without doing this...here. Just need to keep Greg from harm... This earth would be barren, despite the flora, without him in it. The sun would not be so warm, the days not so richly fun and wildly wild, without him here.

The question is, which one of the many unflattering photos of Greg should I post? Most importantly, I don't know how to resize my photos to fit.