Santiago: Franz Kafka Would Love It Here ...

I once worked for a fellow named Jerry Wilson in Bellevue, WA.  The singular thing that stood out about him was his admonition to “Ask for help.  People are wired, to want to assist others.  But they often have to be asked.  Don’t be afraid to ask.”  Given that I have not been afraid to make a fool of myself for many years now, I did so again today.  The Sud Americanos specialize in conflicting airport procedures.  Once again, am struck by the number of modern South Americans, who are not minimally conversant in English (only because I was told the opposite, not due to any fault of their own, mind you).  But the ones who do speak English are Saints.  Today, Sunday, two law students attending school in Santiago basically adopted me, instead, at the airport in Punta Arenas.  They got money returned to me from a reluctant attendant for an empty Coca-Cola machine.  They draw a map of Santiago, from memory.  They create a list of places to frequent, and those to avoid.  They tell me what underground stop to utilize to get to my hostel.  They confirm rumors I’ve heard for three weeks now, about “Don’t trust the taxis in Chile and Bolivia.”  Advice is given for example, not to get in a taxi without observing the presence of a phone number, getting a good look at the driver, writing down identifying names and logos, etc.  Then once we arrive in Santiago, they shepherd me through the baggage retrieval process and direct me away from the Taxis to the Transfer vans.  At about one-third the price.  They negotiate terms for me with the driver, give him my hostel address, make sure I do not overpay, make sure all my bags are aboard when he is giving the “hurry up” sign, and send me safely on my way.  Diego Ibarrola and Natalia Acevedo Alvear, wherever you are tonight, may the return generosity of 1000 angels descend on your well extended hearts.  I will never forget you…

Santiago is a welcome change.  It is warm.  It is sunny.  There is no screaming wind as in Punta Arenas.  The wine country beckons nearby.  They have a very efficient underground system, to serve the population of about six million (nearly equal to the entire population of Washington State).  And I can take care of getting my yet to be obtained visas for Brazil, Suriname, and Bolivia.  Even more welcome, when I get to my room ($16 nightly) it has its own desk, privacy, a place to hang things, shelves, issued towels, a nice bathroom just down the hall, and it is lockable !  Feels great to be able to “set up shop” with the laptop and my still excess baggage from the Antarctic (at this point anyway), lock the door, and be done with it.  That is the theory anyway.

On the other hand, as I step out today (Monday, the 31st) things are strange.  I go to the Brazilian Embassy to get an entry visa.  They close at 1:30 PM.  And you can’t get one there.  Have to go to their consulate, in a different section of town … a hard to find place.  Okay.  Manana.   Fair enough.  Tried to get a "wine tour".  Turns out, they make only one stop.  You can’t really compare vintners.  And you pay extra to sample the wine.  Not at all like winery tours in my three favorite states --  California, Oregon and Washington.  Tried to make a phone call to Bank of America to get my credit card straightened out.   Can’t make the call from the hostel, no operator access via the phone.  Nearby phone store, can’t do it.  No connection to international operators.  I try at the Entral and Claro Cell phone stores.  Nobody knows how.  But they direct me to an international calling place,and draw a map.  Turns out it is the seat of government, with heavy security and guards incredulous I would want inside just to make a phone call.  We have a complete misunderstanding here (they are thinking international relations, apparently).  Finally get to an international phone call station in the city Metro or subway.  After half an hour of looking up terms and negotiating, they show me how to use their particular phone sequence.  I try fifteen combinations of calling, after they can not make it happen themselves.  Suddenly, there is no announcement in the earpiece in Spanish only telling me I have screwed the pooch once again.  Long wait.  Ten minutes later, the bank comes on.  I threaten them, that if they drop this call, I will personally garrote the customer service rep and everybody in the building at the time both uphill and downhill from them on the depth chart.  They take another half an hour to solve the problem.  Big bill for the phone call, but at least I have a cash reserve now, since that is the only credit card I have among the five with me (because it has a known PIN #).  Oh, please don’t get me started on South American banking and credit card practices and their outrageous fees and their banking hours.  Please …  Yes, Franz Kafka, the surreal German writer, would have loved it here.  He was probably a banker here before he took up novels.

Then off on a good wander.  Nothing better for a peeved mind.  No map.  Just followed busy crowds, curious about what was drawing them in.  And I have to focus, as I have forgotten my camera this day, given some of my admin chores that were so frustrating.  This city is huge.  There are massive streams of humanity everywhere, especially in the cooler evening hours, when the families emerge en masse. I don't know how anybody finds their destination, unless it is along a major avenue.  So many vendor shops plus stalls !  It reminds me of the Casbahs in Morocco.  They are innumerable, and of every size and description.  The food courts alone number in the hundreds.  How can all of them possibly survive?  I fancy the street barkers best.  Like imans chanting from a tower minaret, they call out to the throng (but their pitch is about the availability of wares, not martyrdom).  They almost make a chorus, at times, over the buzz of humanity all around them.  There is the usual collection of beggars and blind folk with outstretched arms tapping canes, cups in hand.  They are much more well behaved however than their Italian brethren, who go to great lengths to embarrass you into making a contribution, including the demonstration of open sores and scars and deformities and such.  Or gypsies.  They just assault you, jab a hand into your sternum and hover in your intimate zone demanding money.  If not satiated, they linger near your car just a little too long …

A couple of gals corner me in one of the major public squares, La Plaza de Armas.  Very friendly and engaging.  They want me to read their poetry.  They speak decent English.  How refereshing!  Of course, I am distracted, and have forgotten the cardinal rule about keeping my back to a wall while stopped, or putting my backpack in front of me.  Could this be their mission?  I have taken previous precautions.  My daypack has locks, locksnaps, decoys, cross ties, a bell, and interwoven carabiners that tie all the zippers and security devices together.  Easy for me to open, hard for a thief to figure out.  Especially if I am moving at all.  Turns out they are students, on break, and want a contribution for their poetry and their expenses.  I say no.  I indicate I’d be happy to have a beer, as they want to “practice their English.”  Classic line for a setup … many hookers use this as an entrée into stopping obvious visitors on the street.  Turns out I get the better end of the deal.  They won’t let me speak English much.  We stumble through countless words and short phrases.  We have a few beers.  I learn a lot about Santiago, that wandering doesn’t convey.  Some of my old Spanish comes back, and some has to be learned.  I pick up a lot of new context.  Ana and Alicia start calling themselves “Tu Dos Profesoras.”  I relax and decide I am not being wheeled and we make a great afternoon of it.  Goodbye, Franz !  The walking tour resumes after a couple hours, and with the lack of sleep lately and the need to catch up with these Bankers’ Hours Diplomats a la manana, call it a night much earlier than normal.