The ferry was fairly empty and I was able to fall into a half-sleep, stretched across the seats, ever mindful of the whereabouts of my messenger which contained all my most precious belongings. Around 3:30am I was awoken from a sleep that was much deeper than I realized by men walking the aisles announcing my destination. I shook off my sleep while climbing a ladder-like stairway down into the belly of the ferry where I waited with about 6 other passengers. We were all handed lifejackets while handles were slowly turned and twisted to open a large heavy door, revealing the Pacific Ocean on the other side. Moments later a small boat came bobbing up to the door and we carefully loaded ourselves and our belongings aboard. We traveled a short distance to the shore lit by an enormous spotlight.
After climbing a slippery ladder up to the dock the small boat pulled away into the night. And there we were, in absolute darkness. This is about the moment when I realized that I had no idea where I was going. There was supposed to be someone to meet me at the dock, but by this point it was 4am and the chances of a pick-up were looking slim. I looked around and I saw only darkness around me. There were no street lights, no lights shining out of the windows of houses, and it was safe to assume no street signs. I quickly began asking the few passengers who arrived with me about the location of the hospedaje I was supposed to stay the night. Luckily, the first person I asked guided me by flashlight to the doorstep of the hospedaje where at little old woman welcomed me into her home by candlelight.
In the morning I walked downstairs and sat at a table just outside the kitchen where I was served my breakfast. As I ate alone, children came lumbering out of their bedrooms one by one, bedheaded and sleepy eyed. Soon the house was filled with chattering voices, clattering pots and pans, and a flurry of activity in the kitchen surrounding the woodburning stove upon which water was being heated and lunch preparations were already starting to simmer. Though the language was not my own, the sights and sounds drifting out of the kitchen were distinct and evoked memories of my childhood. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon people came and went, sending a comforting soundwave to my ears interrupted only by the low hum of a chainsaw in the distance. No one left for school, no one left for work, everyone stayed in the house together. But I was not a part of their laughter. I sat alone in the next room experiencing from a distance this familar family scene. I was a foreigner who unlike them was warmed not by the heat of the woodstove, but by the memories that drifted happily back to my mind.
I spent most of the afternoon reading, though I did take a short walk around the town, which didn´t consist of much. Just a few houses here and there along a sandy path with a dense forest on one side. There is a population of about 500 here but it felt like much less. At around 4pm I was picked up at the hospedaje and driven to the other side of the town to the start of a trailhead which we walked down for about 20 minutes. The trail opened up onto a small beach and within a few minutes a boat picked me up. About 10 minutes later we had crossed a small river and were climbing off the boat at Toninas, the first point of entry into Reserva Añihue.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Boots and beach front property.
I spent the night in Puerto Varas doing something much more American than I probably ever would, had I been at home. That`s right, I watched the Super Bowl. I`m not a football fan in the least but ended up watching more of this game then any other Super Bowl I can remember. The hostel had a disproportionate amount of American`s in it and they were having the ultimate American experience. They had chips and salsa. They had wives who brought them beer while they sat fixated on the game. Even though I thought that last nights game was hands down the most exciting football game I have ever seen (that`s really not saying much) I still found it hard to stay focused on the plays. Even worse, the highly anticipated Super Bowl commercials do not transmit to South America.
I had breakfast before I left the hostel this morning and began talking to a couple from Iowa. We got on the subject of farming and they were trying to explain to me that there is no alternative to an argibusiness system that supports mono-culture over-fertilized and over-pesticized crops. Though I disagreed, I felt it was unwise to take up this discussion with someone who had 45 years experience working the fields of Iowa. I left Puerto Varas by collectivo (mini-van bus) back to Puerto Montt, a town that I discovered through conversations at the hostel the previous night, puts everyone in a foul mood. It`s the stares mostly. They transcend the usual `stranger in a foreign land´ stare to something much more menacing.
I bought a ticket right away to Chonchi on the island of Chiloé where I would spend the night. The bus crossed the island by a short ferry and I was grateful that it did not make me sick. Perhaps I won`t be vomiting into the Pacific after all. Chonchi is a charming place. It doesn`t cater to tourists in the way that most other places in Chile seem to. It still seems to retain it`s sense of self and a unique identity in a country that has seemed consistently bland. Perhaps their distance from the mainland leaves them untouched by the development and progress of the rest of the country. It`s a sleepy fishing village that reminds me of small towns in Maine. The people even look a little like Mainers, leathery skin that has seen its share of wind and rain. Walking around the town I breathed in the most comforting smell of wood burning and saw smoke curling out of tin chimeny`s. The air smelled fresh and wet almost like before it snows.
I came across a ferreteria, which unlike its name implies, sells hardware goods not ferrets. I needed to get a new pair of rubber boots for the farm. Buying the boots at the ferreteria was a more more tranquilo experience than buying them from the Mamacita at the market in Ecuador. I only needed to try on 3 pairs before finding my size. If I had known how much a pair of boots would cost in Chile, I might have thought twice about donating my last pair to Sacred Sueños. But for $9,500 pesos (15USD) I am once again the proud owner of rubber boots.
I`m spending the night in a rustic/run down hostel. It feels like a summer home at the start of the season and everything just needs to be aired out and spruced up a bit. I like it though. I have a private room facing the ocean for the rock bottom price of $7,000 pesos ($11). It`s the best deal I have found in a while. The owner explained that my room is called Penguina because often in the mornings you can see penguins frolicking in the water outside the window, but for some reason they penguins never came this year.
Tomorrow I head to Quellon at the southern tip of Chiloè to board my ferry. I have no idea how long I will be on the ferry. According to the company who sold me the ticket, only 6-8 hours. According to the materials sent to me from the farm the ferry is 12 hours in good weather, but they advise bringing food because you could spend `more than a day´ on the boat in bad weather. I am more inclined to believe the farm than the ferry company and will stock up on supplies in Quellon tomorrow.
Whenever I happen to arrive, there will be a reservation for me by the farm at a hospedaje for one night and then I will meet someone, though I am not entirely certain how, who will transport me to the farm. Wish me luck and wish luck to my Dad who is having knee surgery tomorrow!
I had breakfast before I left the hostel this morning and began talking to a couple from Iowa. We got on the subject of farming and they were trying to explain to me that there is no alternative to an argibusiness system that supports mono-culture over-fertilized and over-pesticized crops. Though I disagreed, I felt it was unwise to take up this discussion with someone who had 45 years experience working the fields of Iowa. I left Puerto Varas by collectivo (mini-van bus) back to Puerto Montt, a town that I discovered through conversations at the hostel the previous night, puts everyone in a foul mood. It`s the stares mostly. They transcend the usual `stranger in a foreign land´ stare to something much more menacing.
I bought a ticket right away to Chonchi on the island of Chiloé where I would spend the night. The bus crossed the island by a short ferry and I was grateful that it did not make me sick. Perhaps I won`t be vomiting into the Pacific after all. Chonchi is a charming place. It doesn`t cater to tourists in the way that most other places in Chile seem to. It still seems to retain it`s sense of self and a unique identity in a country that has seemed consistently bland. Perhaps their distance from the mainland leaves them untouched by the development and progress of the rest of the country. It`s a sleepy fishing village that reminds me of small towns in Maine. The people even look a little like Mainers, leathery skin that has seen its share of wind and rain. Walking around the town I breathed in the most comforting smell of wood burning and saw smoke curling out of tin chimeny`s. The air smelled fresh and wet almost like before it snows.
I came across a ferreteria, which unlike its name implies, sells hardware goods not ferrets. I needed to get a new pair of rubber boots for the farm. Buying the boots at the ferreteria was a more more tranquilo experience than buying them from the Mamacita at the market in Ecuador. I only needed to try on 3 pairs before finding my size. If I had known how much a pair of boots would cost in Chile, I might have thought twice about donating my last pair to Sacred Sueños. But for $9,500 pesos (15USD) I am once again the proud owner of rubber boots.
I`m spending the night in a rustic/run down hostel. It feels like a summer home at the start of the season and everything just needs to be aired out and spruced up a bit. I like it though. I have a private room facing the ocean for the rock bottom price of $7,000 pesos ($11). It`s the best deal I have found in a while. The owner explained that my room is called Penguina because often in the mornings you can see penguins frolicking in the water outside the window, but for some reason they penguins never came this year.
Tomorrow I head to Quellon at the southern tip of Chiloè to board my ferry. I have no idea how long I will be on the ferry. According to the company who sold me the ticket, only 6-8 hours. According to the materials sent to me from the farm the ferry is 12 hours in good weather, but they advise bringing food because you could spend `more than a day´ on the boat in bad weather. I am more inclined to believe the farm than the ferry company and will stock up on supplies in Quellon tomorrow.
Whenever I happen to arrive, there will be a reservation for me by the farm at a hospedaje for one night and then I will meet someone, though I am not entirely certain how, who will transport me to the farm. Wish me luck and wish luck to my Dad who is having knee surgery tomorrow!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Change of scenery does a body good...
The ferry office was open today and I got my ticket! Maybe all I needed was some good luck, a change of scenery, and a little self-reflection. I took the bus just 20km from where I was in Puerto Montt to Puerto Varas and what a world of difference it made. This town has a much smaller, slower, quieter feel to it. It definitely reminds me of Cape Cod in Autumn with quaint wooden houses that wear a coat of bright paint to appear a little less battered. It gave me just the familiarity I needed and I had a slight spring in my step again as I walked around the town, just peacefully wandering.
Kasey, thank you for your kind words, they keep me afloat. And Michael, it`s all your fault, and though it sucks sometimes I am really glad for what it`s teaching me. In the end I really should just stop bitching. I am extremely grateful for the opportunity to take this time for myself to explore new places and learn new things. But sometimes it just gets lonely.
I`ve been entertaining the idea of going to Torres de Paine, or the End of the Earth as it is often called. This would require taking a 4 day ferry or flying. Once there I would take a 4-10 day trek through ice fields, fjords, and battle winds that are frequently blowing at over 100mph. I would need to rent gear as I am grossly unprepared (tent, a real sleeping bag, camping stove, etc), not to mention probably needing to buy some essentials like socks, gloves, a fleece and other warm weather things. Everything about this endeavor would put me way way way over budget. It would be a great feat for sure, especially if I completed it solo. I might never be this close to the end of the earth again. But even though I would be proud beyond words after completing this type of journey, I think I would enjoy it much more if I had someone with me to share the amazing views, keep my sleeping bag warm at night, and to pick me up when the wind sends me toppling. Deep down I know I probably won`t take this trip alone, and I kind of hate that about myself. Maybe I will get another chance to do it someday.
Kasey, thank you for your kind words, they keep me afloat. And Michael, it`s all your fault, and though it sucks sometimes I am really glad for what it`s teaching me. In the end I really should just stop bitching. I am extremely grateful for the opportunity to take this time for myself to explore new places and learn new things. But sometimes it just gets lonely.
I`ve been entertaining the idea of going to Torres de Paine, or the End of the Earth as it is often called. This would require taking a 4 day ferry or flying. Once there I would take a 4-10 day trek through ice fields, fjords, and battle winds that are frequently blowing at over 100mph. I would need to rent gear as I am grossly unprepared (tent, a real sleeping bag, camping stove, etc), not to mention probably needing to buy some essentials like socks, gloves, a fleece and other warm weather things. Everything about this endeavor would put me way way way over budget. It would be a great feat for sure, especially if I completed it solo. I might never be this close to the end of the earth again. But even though I would be proud beyond words after completing this type of journey, I think I would enjoy it much more if I had someone with me to share the amazing views, keep my sleeping bag warm at night, and to pick me up when the wind sends me toppling. Deep down I know I probably won`t take this trip alone, and I kind of hate that about myself. Maybe I will get another chance to do it someday.
The Traveling Spirit
I know I am supposed to be off on this great adventure and that I am supposed to be having fun but it hasn`t felt like that so much lately. I feel like the traveling spirit has left my bones, at least for now. I keep finding myself in a new place with absolutely no inclination to explore it. Just struggling to arrive at my hostel is all I can muster. Once there, I just want to sit, and do nothing. I don`t want to see the sights, I don`t want to explore the market, I don`t want to walk through shady parks. I just want to sit in the hostel, surrounded by people who speak at least some level of the same language I do.
Sometimes, having every day be unexpectedly different than the next is just tiring instead of exhilerating. Almost every day I pack up my things and then wrestle through a web of confusing transportation systems with no regularity between them. Then I lug my things through some unknown place and get stared at where ever I go. I`m sick of using guide books that provide mis-information or don`t give the information I need. I`m frustrated with my ability or inability to speak the language. I`m oscillating between wanting to learn Spanish and wanting to give up completely and just speak English and pretend I know nothing. But greatest of all I am disenchanted by not being able to express myself and being continuously misunderstood. It is endlessly frustrating and has stifled my desire to go on many occasions. Discovering the web of obscure buses to take to reach some pristine natural park or town at times just seems like too much work.
Yesterday I arrived in Puerto Montt. I needed to come to this port town in order to buy my ticket for the ferry to the farm. Afterwards I planned to go to a more pleasant town with hiking opportunities located nearby called Puerto Varas. I asked for directions to the ferry from the bus terminal (because my guidebook didn`t provide this information) and luckily it was a straight shot down the road along the water. When I got there, the office was closed. This really pissed me off. I`ve spent so many of the last few days with this damn ferry ticket consuming my mind and I just wanted it taken care of. Tomorrow is Sunday and though the security guard maintained that they will be open, the chances of it being true are slim to none.
But just in case the security guard was right I figured I better stay in Puerto Montt for the night so I could get up in the morning and hopefully get this ticket business settled once and for all. The listings for hostels or hospedajes (usually local people who rent out space in their houses for a low cost) in my price range was limited to only two. Both is the same price bracket I chose the one that was closer to the ferry terminal. Too bad it was located out of the range of the map provided to me in the guide book. After asking about 7 different people for directions to Calle Pudeto I finally arrived. The `recommended, renovated` hospedaje was a strange place that didn`t look like much. The woman answered the door and provided me with a set of house slippers. I asked the price and she told me $12,000 pesos. That`s like $19USD! For a dorm room with a total of 4 beds in it!
I inquired about what was included with the outrageous price and was told that an `American´ breakfast, a towel, hot showers, use of the kitchen, and internet was provided. I wanted to know what this American breakfast was exactly. She laughed at me and asked where I was from. When I answered, `Estados Unidos´ she scoffed, `and you don`t know American breakfast?´ I wanted to tell her that an American breakfast is a granola bar eaten as you run out the door and that was hardly worth $20/night, but of course, I was limited by my language once again. I tried to talk her down about the price, explaining that I am a poor volunteer and tried in the worst Spanish imaginable to tell her my sob story about arriving only to buy my ferry ticket and then finding the office closed. She didn`t budge and laughed when I told her what the Security Guard told opening on Sunday. Usually, on principle, I would turn around an leave and not even dream of paying $19 for a dorm room, but I already felt like I was having a foul day and didn`t have anymore fight in me...so I shelled out my precious pesos and then went to the room. My book didn`t mention that for $19 the hospedaje come equipped with two little poodles wearing adorable homemade dresses that made them look like housewives from the 50`s. Nor did it mention that these dogs yapped at the slightest sound.
I gathered the energy to walk along the waterfront for a while and noticed mountains topped with snow on the other side. I couldn`t figure out why in such a lovely setting, I was still in a foul mood. Maybe it was the headache that chased me for 5 days. Maybe I am just worn out. I located a small vegetable market and picked up some things for dinner. I am still amazed at how expensive Chile is. Argentina doesn`t promise to be much less expensive either and most of the farms I have contacted there are expecting $10/day during my stay, which will be difficult to afford. I may freeze at the farm I am going to next. The highs are around 68 and the lows are around 40. My sleeping bag is only good until about 55 degrees. Hopefully there will be an extra blanket or three. But I won`t know unless I try to get that ferry ticket, which I am about to do right now.
Sometimes, having every day be unexpectedly different than the next is just tiring instead of exhilerating. Almost every day I pack up my things and then wrestle through a web of confusing transportation systems with no regularity between them. Then I lug my things through some unknown place and get stared at where ever I go. I`m sick of using guide books that provide mis-information or don`t give the information I need. I`m frustrated with my ability or inability to speak the language. I`m oscillating between wanting to learn Spanish and wanting to give up completely and just speak English and pretend I know nothing. But greatest of all I am disenchanted by not being able to express myself and being continuously misunderstood. It is endlessly frustrating and has stifled my desire to go on many occasions. Discovering the web of obscure buses to take to reach some pristine natural park or town at times just seems like too much work.
Yesterday I arrived in Puerto Montt. I needed to come to this port town in order to buy my ticket for the ferry to the farm. Afterwards I planned to go to a more pleasant town with hiking opportunities located nearby called Puerto Varas. I asked for directions to the ferry from the bus terminal (because my guidebook didn`t provide this information) and luckily it was a straight shot down the road along the water. When I got there, the office was closed. This really pissed me off. I`ve spent so many of the last few days with this damn ferry ticket consuming my mind and I just wanted it taken care of. Tomorrow is Sunday and though the security guard maintained that they will be open, the chances of it being true are slim to none.
But just in case the security guard was right I figured I better stay in Puerto Montt for the night so I could get up in the morning and hopefully get this ticket business settled once and for all. The listings for hostels or hospedajes (usually local people who rent out space in their houses for a low cost) in my price range was limited to only two. Both is the same price bracket I chose the one that was closer to the ferry terminal. Too bad it was located out of the range of the map provided to me in the guide book. After asking about 7 different people for directions to Calle Pudeto I finally arrived. The `recommended, renovated` hospedaje was a strange place that didn`t look like much. The woman answered the door and provided me with a set of house slippers. I asked the price and she told me $12,000 pesos. That`s like $19USD! For a dorm room with a total of 4 beds in it!
I inquired about what was included with the outrageous price and was told that an `American´ breakfast, a towel, hot showers, use of the kitchen, and internet was provided. I wanted to know what this American breakfast was exactly. She laughed at me and asked where I was from. When I answered, `Estados Unidos´ she scoffed, `and you don`t know American breakfast?´ I wanted to tell her that an American breakfast is a granola bar eaten as you run out the door and that was hardly worth $20/night, but of course, I was limited by my language once again. I tried to talk her down about the price, explaining that I am a poor volunteer and tried in the worst Spanish imaginable to tell her my sob story about arriving only to buy my ferry ticket and then finding the office closed. She didn`t budge and laughed when I told her what the Security Guard told opening on Sunday. Usually, on principle, I would turn around an leave and not even dream of paying $19 for a dorm room, but I already felt like I was having a foul day and didn`t have anymore fight in me...so I shelled out my precious pesos and then went to the room. My book didn`t mention that for $19 the hospedaje come equipped with two little poodles wearing adorable homemade dresses that made them look like housewives from the 50`s. Nor did it mention that these dogs yapped at the slightest sound.
I gathered the energy to walk along the waterfront for a while and noticed mountains topped with snow on the other side. I couldn`t figure out why in such a lovely setting, I was still in a foul mood. Maybe it was the headache that chased me for 5 days. Maybe I am just worn out. I located a small vegetable market and picked up some things for dinner. I am still amazed at how expensive Chile is. Argentina doesn`t promise to be much less expensive either and most of the farms I have contacted there are expecting $10/day during my stay, which will be difficult to afford. I may freeze at the farm I am going to next. The highs are around 68 and the lows are around 40. My sleeping bag is only good until about 55 degrees. Hopefully there will be an extra blanket or three. But I won`t know unless I try to get that ferry ticket, which I am about to do right now.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Cheese, blueberries, and beer.
I took an overnight bus from Santiago to Valdivia. They only had seats left in the Classico (economy) price level and it was less comfortable than the other bus rides I have had recently, but somehow, I managed to dream for the first time on a bus! Tommy Lee was there and so was Francesca Fenner. We were hanging out. It was awesome. I woke up feeling less tired than I expected and was happy to see mist rising off the rivers and lakes we passed by in the early morning light. I was thrilled at the sight of trees and bodies of water...I had finally beat the desert.
I set off to find my hostel in Valdivia, a town largely influenced by its history of German settlement. So influenced I would learn after finding my hostel, that I had arrived on the first night of the Chilean interpretation of Germany`s Octoberfest. Kunstmann Bierfest. Philly Beer Week, take that!
The hostel I am staying at is really homey feeling and the people who are running it are really friendly, helpful, and welcoming, qualities that are surprisingly hard to come by at many hostels I have stayed at.
I wandered around yesterday though the laid back town, got lost (purposefully and happily) and then found my way eventually to the main square and to the local market along the river side. There I found men and women selling all kinds of fresh, local goods. I stopped for quite a while next to a man cutting fish that was probably scooped out of the river that morning. A shopper picked out their chosen fish and then this man cleaned it, chopped it, and did whatever else it is that you do to a fish before wrapping it in newspaper and passing it to a woman who completed the transaction. At the end of all this, the man lifted a handful of fish `waste` and tossed it over his shoulder to the birds and sealions patiently waiting.
I wandered down through the market which sold all kinds of seafood on one side and fresh fruits and veggies on the other. I bought some nectarines, chard, onions, and a lot of carrots since the woman would only sell me one kilo and no less. Then I spotted the cheese. Real cheese, made by real hands. I was so happy. I asked the man selling it to taste a piece and he happily obliged. Though the cheese was nothing spectacular I still bought it because it was better than the shit I had been eating from the grocery stores. I was pretty happy with my purchases and then I saw the blueberry lady. Perfect plump blueberries. They were expensive but looked too good to resist. After passing over my 500 pesos for no more than a handful I began walking back toward my hostel, sampling a blueberry along the way. My goodness, it was the juiciest, sweetest, most delicious blueberry I think I have ever had it my life. Kim Wing, you would have pissed your pants in pleasure. It tasted like the muffin was in the blueberry. Wow.
I returned to the hostel and made some carrot/chard curry with the veggies I bought and added in some crushed peanuts (peanut butter is outragously priced), cilantro, and dried coconut since I couldn`t find coconut milk. I ladled this over some rice seasoned with garlic and clove and had myself a dinner envied by all.
After my breakfast of whole wheat toast and blueberries tossed with nectarines and cereal I began dealing with some current stress in my life. To get to my next farm I have to take a ferry that only runs every once in a while from the town of Quellon (located on an island that also requires taking a ferry to reach) to Raul Marin Balmaceda which is a 12-18 hour ride depending on weather. My contact at the farm contacted me and let me know that there was a ferry running on February 3rd or February 5th and that it would not be possible to arrive any earlier because they were completely full with a group of whale researchers. She said I must get a ticket on that ferry soon because they frequently sell out and provided me with the phone numbers.
I went to an internet cafe and used Skype to make a call to the ferry company to try to buy my ticket. My Spanish is pretty good as far as completing daily tasks but communicating in Spanish by phone is a completely different story. I asked for my ticket and the quick speaking man on the other end of the line told me something I did not understand. Eventually I gathered that he wanted me to purchase my ticket online since I was in a town where they did not have an office. Great, I thought. I can read Spanish better than I can speak it, this will be easy. Too bad the website said that they didn`t have any tickets available for the 3rd and the next ferry wasn`t until the 10th!
Frustrated I returned to the hostel. As I mentioned earlier there was a beer festival going on. I decided to drown my troubles away instead. I had met several friendly travelers the night before and starting talking to a few of them again today, making plans to go to the beer fest, but also relaying my frustrating experience with the ferry company. One of the people I was talking to, Jocelyn had been living in Peru for 3 years as a Peace Corps volunteer, the other was a guy from Quebec who spent his winters leading dog sled wilderness expeditions. I recruited Jocelyn to help me contact these ferry people as she was fluent in Spanish. On our way to the beer fest we stopped to make the call but there was no answer, we figured they were on lunch break and continued on.
The beer fest was taking place across the bridge in another part of town and took a decent 30 minute walk to reach. Upon arrival we were told that the festival didn`t actually start until 8pm. It was only 3pm. We decided to walk to the brewery instead. We had beer on our brains and nothing was going to stop us. We crossed another bridge (Valdivia is located at the crossing of three rivers) and walked another 45 minutes or so, picking fresh blackberries from the side of the road until we reached the brewery. We walked through a small beer museum where they had old beer bottles from different brewing regions around the world. The examples from the US were embarrasing, Bud, Coors, Miller.... After the museum we ordered a Columna of Torobayo Ale, which amounted to 2.5 liters of beer served out of a large tube with it`s own tap attached. The taste of real beer, compared to the carbonated piss they have in the rest of South America was long overdue.
We took a bus back from the brewery and stopped once again at a call center to try to reach the ferry company. This time they actually answered but were diconnected twice before we got any information. Finally, we were told that we should buy our ticket online! We explained that online showed no availability and asked if there were many seats left. He said that there were, which was good enough for me, so, we returned to the hostel to wait until 8pm for the beer to begin.
Tomorrow I will take a bus and head straight to the town with the ferry office and get my ticket. Hopefully. Tonight I will drink beer and hope to quelch this headache that has now been chasing me for days.
I set off to find my hostel in Valdivia, a town largely influenced by its history of German settlement. So influenced I would learn after finding my hostel, that I had arrived on the first night of the Chilean interpretation of Germany`s Octoberfest. Kunstmann Bierfest. Philly Beer Week, take that!
The hostel I am staying at is really homey feeling and the people who are running it are really friendly, helpful, and welcoming, qualities that are surprisingly hard to come by at many hostels I have stayed at.
I wandered around yesterday though the laid back town, got lost (purposefully and happily) and then found my way eventually to the main square and to the local market along the river side. There I found men and women selling all kinds of fresh, local goods. I stopped for quite a while next to a man cutting fish that was probably scooped out of the river that morning. A shopper picked out their chosen fish and then this man cleaned it, chopped it, and did whatever else it is that you do to a fish before wrapping it in newspaper and passing it to a woman who completed the transaction. At the end of all this, the man lifted a handful of fish `waste` and tossed it over his shoulder to the birds and sealions patiently waiting.
I wandered down through the market which sold all kinds of seafood on one side and fresh fruits and veggies on the other. I bought some nectarines, chard, onions, and a lot of carrots since the woman would only sell me one kilo and no less. Then I spotted the cheese. Real cheese, made by real hands. I was so happy. I asked the man selling it to taste a piece and he happily obliged. Though the cheese was nothing spectacular I still bought it because it was better than the shit I had been eating from the grocery stores. I was pretty happy with my purchases and then I saw the blueberry lady. Perfect plump blueberries. They were expensive but looked too good to resist. After passing over my 500 pesos for no more than a handful I began walking back toward my hostel, sampling a blueberry along the way. My goodness, it was the juiciest, sweetest, most delicious blueberry I think I have ever had it my life. Kim Wing, you would have pissed your pants in pleasure. It tasted like the muffin was in the blueberry. Wow.
I returned to the hostel and made some carrot/chard curry with the veggies I bought and added in some crushed peanuts (peanut butter is outragously priced), cilantro, and dried coconut since I couldn`t find coconut milk. I ladled this over some rice seasoned with garlic and clove and had myself a dinner envied by all.
After my breakfast of whole wheat toast and blueberries tossed with nectarines and cereal I began dealing with some current stress in my life. To get to my next farm I have to take a ferry that only runs every once in a while from the town of Quellon (located on an island that also requires taking a ferry to reach) to Raul Marin Balmaceda which is a 12-18 hour ride depending on weather. My contact at the farm contacted me and let me know that there was a ferry running on February 3rd or February 5th and that it would not be possible to arrive any earlier because they were completely full with a group of whale researchers. She said I must get a ticket on that ferry soon because they frequently sell out and provided me with the phone numbers.
I went to an internet cafe and used Skype to make a call to the ferry company to try to buy my ticket. My Spanish is pretty good as far as completing daily tasks but communicating in Spanish by phone is a completely different story. I asked for my ticket and the quick speaking man on the other end of the line told me something I did not understand. Eventually I gathered that he wanted me to purchase my ticket online since I was in a town where they did not have an office. Great, I thought. I can read Spanish better than I can speak it, this will be easy. Too bad the website said that they didn`t have any tickets available for the 3rd and the next ferry wasn`t until the 10th!
Frustrated I returned to the hostel. As I mentioned earlier there was a beer festival going on. I decided to drown my troubles away instead. I had met several friendly travelers the night before and starting talking to a few of them again today, making plans to go to the beer fest, but also relaying my frustrating experience with the ferry company. One of the people I was talking to, Jocelyn had been living in Peru for 3 years as a Peace Corps volunteer, the other was a guy from Quebec who spent his winters leading dog sled wilderness expeditions. I recruited Jocelyn to help me contact these ferry people as she was fluent in Spanish. On our way to the beer fest we stopped to make the call but there was no answer, we figured they were on lunch break and continued on.
The beer fest was taking place across the bridge in another part of town and took a decent 30 minute walk to reach. Upon arrival we were told that the festival didn`t actually start until 8pm. It was only 3pm. We decided to walk to the brewery instead. We had beer on our brains and nothing was going to stop us. We crossed another bridge (Valdivia is located at the crossing of three rivers) and walked another 45 minutes or so, picking fresh blackberries from the side of the road until we reached the brewery. We walked through a small beer museum where they had old beer bottles from different brewing regions around the world. The examples from the US were embarrasing, Bud, Coors, Miller.... After the museum we ordered a Columna of Torobayo Ale, which amounted to 2.5 liters of beer served out of a large tube with it`s own tap attached. The taste of real beer, compared to the carbonated piss they have in the rest of South America was long overdue.
We took a bus back from the brewery and stopped once again at a call center to try to reach the ferry company. This time they actually answered but were diconnected twice before we got any information. Finally, we were told that we should buy our ticket online! We explained that online showed no availability and asked if there were many seats left. He said that there were, which was good enough for me, so, we returned to the hostel to wait until 8pm for the beer to begin.
Tomorrow I will take a bus and head straight to the town with the ferry office and get my ticket. Hopefully. Tonight I will drink beer and hope to quelch this headache that has now been chasing me for days.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Headaches and Wine.
It`s back again. I think it`s definitely from the hostel. It is too clean, too chemically. It`s the kind of headache that doesn`t so much make your head ache but messes with your senses and equilibrium. I could feel it in my sinuses and forehead and ears and it made me want to puke a little at times. I had a boyfriend in high school whose father claimed that he couldn`t work because he was too sensitive to smells from candles and deodorant and fabric softener. He stayed at home and collected disability. My family and I thought he was full of shit or just crazy, but now I am starting to think he`s on to something. Maybe I can get the government on board and that is how I will financially supplement myself as I pursue my dreams of farming.and opting out of the system.
This afternoon I was picked up at the hostel by Sergio Reyes, Managing Director of Geo Wines. (http://www.geowines.cl/ ) He had a friendly face and looked very presentable though he was only dressed in jeans, polo shirt, and sneakers. We got into his white pickup and drove about 40 minutes out of Santiago to Isla de Maipo where they source some of the grapes. As we drove Sergio explained that I in fact visited Santiago at just the right time. I came during a window of about 2 weeks when most of the residents here go on holiday, leaving behind a quiet, low-traffic, low pollution city. I also got a geography lesson.
The Central Valley of Chile is bordered by two mountain ranges, thus creating said Valley. To the west is the Nahuelbuta Range and to the East are the Andes. These two ranges provide two distinct and very different climates and soils. The Nahuelbuta Range range has rich granitic soil which is very fertile and a cool ocean breeze as a result of the Humbolt Current. Anything can be grown here without limitation (anything except tropical fruits because it will frost here, though no snow). The soil at the foot of the Andes is clay and sand and rocks and is horrible for growing almost everything, except wine. Poor soil is a benefit to wine growers who want a low yield because if the soil is too rich, the grapes would grow too big and have too much juice. With the poor soil the grapes remain fairly small (because they are basically malnurished), thus concentrating the sugars and the essence of the grape which will then get fermented out and into alcohol.
The grapes used for Geo wines are all grown organically, which is interesting as Sergio spent over 10 years working for chemical companies who manufacture fertilizers. Now he believes that good wine comes from a good relationship from to the land, mutual respect, and symbiosis.. There is very little rainfall, especially in the summer, and so wells are drilled and the vines are watered with a drip irrigation system once every 15 days. They are fertilized with compost as well as the by-products from the wine making process (the spent grapes are returned to the soil after crushing), and the vines are planted between fruit trees and things like lavender to support a poly-culture system while encouraging bio-diversity. It also acts as a natural deterrent against bugs and other pests who eat the fruits and other things planted for them but leave the vines alone.
Geo Wines is comprised of several different lines and we tasted wines from three of them, the Rayun (their single varietal classic entry level line, all screw cap, no oak), Chono (the Reserva wines produced in small quantities of between 1,000 and 5,000 cases annually), and Ventolera. As Sergio opened the bottles and prepared for our tasting I realized I hadn`t drunk wine in quite some time, let alone wine that should be savored and lingered over. I was out of practice. I found myself in a slight panic searching the depths of my mind to recall the words used to describe the color, body, and taste. Zippy, soft, acidic, rose, berry, clean, fine tannin, smooth, earth, bold, leather, finish, mouth feel, delicate, spicy, creamy, complex, elegant, structure. I didn`t want Sergio to think I was an amateur. I concentrated on making just the right slurpy sound as I sucked in the air and mingled it with the wine. I made sure to use the spittoons (at least a little) as to not appear a lush. But in the end I just focused on the experience of having the Managing Director of some of the best Chilean wines give me a one on one personal tour through his portfolio and vineyard. The wines we tried really were all those adjectives that I had stored in the back of my mind somewhere, and upon putting the glass to my nose and the wine to my lips the words to describe them came back to me with ease.
This afternoon I was picked up at the hostel by Sergio Reyes, Managing Director of Geo Wines. (http://www.geowines.cl/ ) He had a friendly face and looked very presentable though he was only dressed in jeans, polo shirt, and sneakers. We got into his white pickup and drove about 40 minutes out of Santiago to Isla de Maipo where they source some of the grapes. As we drove Sergio explained that I in fact visited Santiago at just the right time. I came during a window of about 2 weeks when most of the residents here go on holiday, leaving behind a quiet, low-traffic, low pollution city. I also got a geography lesson.
The Central Valley of Chile is bordered by two mountain ranges, thus creating said Valley. To the west is the Nahuelbuta Range and to the East are the Andes. These two ranges provide two distinct and very different climates and soils. The Nahuelbuta Range range has rich granitic soil which is very fertile and a cool ocean breeze as a result of the Humbolt Current. Anything can be grown here without limitation (anything except tropical fruits because it will frost here, though no snow). The soil at the foot of the Andes is clay and sand and rocks and is horrible for growing almost everything, except wine. Poor soil is a benefit to wine growers who want a low yield because if the soil is too rich, the grapes would grow too big and have too much juice. With the poor soil the grapes remain fairly small (because they are basically malnurished), thus concentrating the sugars and the essence of the grape which will then get fermented out and into alcohol.
The grapes used for Geo wines are all grown organically, which is interesting as Sergio spent over 10 years working for chemical companies who manufacture fertilizers. Now he believes that good wine comes from a good relationship from to the land, mutual respect, and symbiosis.. There is very little rainfall, especially in the summer, and so wells are drilled and the vines are watered with a drip irrigation system once every 15 days. They are fertilized with compost as well as the by-products from the wine making process (the spent grapes are returned to the soil after crushing), and the vines are planted between fruit trees and things like lavender to support a poly-culture system while encouraging bio-diversity. It also acts as a natural deterrent against bugs and other pests who eat the fruits and other things planted for them but leave the vines alone.
Geo Wines is comprised of several different lines and we tasted wines from three of them, the Rayun (their single varietal classic entry level line, all screw cap, no oak), Chono (the Reserva wines produced in small quantities of between 1,000 and 5,000 cases annually), and Ventolera. As Sergio opened the bottles and prepared for our tasting I realized I hadn`t drunk wine in quite some time, let alone wine that should be savored and lingered over. I was out of practice. I found myself in a slight panic searching the depths of my mind to recall the words used to describe the color, body, and taste. Zippy, soft, acidic, rose, berry, clean, fine tannin, smooth, earth, bold, leather, finish, mouth feel, delicate, spicy, creamy, complex, elegant, structure. I didn`t want Sergio to think I was an amateur. I concentrated on making just the right slurpy sound as I sucked in the air and mingled it with the wine. I made sure to use the spittoons (at least a little) as to not appear a lush. But in the end I just focused on the experience of having the Managing Director of some of the best Chilean wines give me a one on one personal tour through his portfolio and vineyard. The wines we tried really were all those adjectives that I had stored in the back of my mind somewhere, and upon putting the glass to my nose and the wine to my lips the words to describe them came back to me with ease.
Santiago and Headaches
I arrived to Santiago yesterday from Valparaiso. It was a quick little jaunt of just about 2 hours. Public transportation is not as fun and doesn´t feel as friendly when there is only you and one other person on the bus. I might as well have been in a personal car which would likely spit out less toxic exhaust fumes and consume less fuel. I was advised to not visit Santiago this time of year because the climate in the summer made the city oppresively hot and humid and created a cloud cover of smog so thick that the city would all but disappear when viewed from above. I was not looking forward to this and my body was not thrilled about sucking in enough pollution to thicken my lungs. However, due to my revised travel plans, I figured I should go to Santiago now in order to meet with Sergio Reyes from Geo Wines.
When I got off the bus at Pajaritos station I was within city limits but did not immediately feel the shock of being in the country`s capital. It was relatively quiet, lacking the symphony of horns of Lima. I could see greenery and parks. I must be in some sort of suburb I thought. I continued on toward my hostel by boarding the Metro - Line 1, running East to West through the city. It was the cleanest subway system I have been on anywhere in my life. The platform was spotless, no trash or newpapers flew through the air as the train approached. Inside the train I continued to be amazed. The floors nearly glistened. There were maps and recorded voices clearly announcing my whereabouts as I progressed toward my destination.
Salvador was my stop and upon arriving I checked a map (because there was one) and headed up the steps for my first glimpse of the heart of Santiago where nearly half the population of the entire country lives. I saw more green. And fountains. Traffic was light, there were people riding bikes. I was confused. This was supposed to be a horrible place like the rest of the capital cities in Latin America (with the exception of D.F, Mex), but it wasn´t. It was a perfect example of the European influence in Chile, which at that moment, felt more like Spain.
My hostel was only around the corner. After checking in and relaxing for a bit with my book, I took off on a walk down the pedestrian parkway that ran down the middle of one of the main streets. I poked around in another park along the way where I saw couples relaxing as they laid comfortably in some shady grass, a rarity in this part of the world where no one lays on grass. Then I explored Santa Lucia, a large uninteresting handicraft market. I stopped for a bit to use the internet to try to Skype Esteban on his birthday but ended up video chatting with my parents instead. At some point during our conversation I realized what a bad headache I had. The pollution and exhaust fumes didn´t seem to be very bad, so I couldn´t place the blame on them. Instead, I decided it was due to lack of food since I hadn´t eaten since breakfast in Valparaiso that morning. I said goodbye to my parents and found a super mercado on my walk home.
As I mentioned, Chile is one of the least environmentally sustainable places in South America. An easy place to see that is in the produce aisle of the grocery store. Everything comes in packages. The broccoli florets sit in a styrofoam tray, suffocated under plastic wrap. The garlic can only be purchased in packages, as can the avocados, the carrots, the mushrooms. Finding vegetables that were sold individually was a difficult task (a task made very easy at the small neighborhood markets), but since I was just one person I had no need for 12 avocados bundled together. I found a grapefruit, a couple of tomatoes, a zuchhini, and an onion. Everything must then be placed in its own plastic bag and weighed. I have tried on several different occasions various methods to try to avoid this step of individually bagging every vegetable. I have tried asking them to weigh my single banana and place the sticker on the banana peel. They shake their head no and look at me like I have just spontaneously combusted before their eyes. They tell me that it is not possible.
Upon entering the hostel I became aware of what a smelly place it was. Maybe it was because I already had a headache. I was very conscious of the artificial smell of citrus from the woman cleaning, the Axe body spray wafting out of the dorm rooms of European kids on gap year trips, and the smell of the linens on the beds. It all served to intensify my headache. I prepared my dinner (pasta and sauce made out of my veggies and some garlic I stole from the cupboards at the hostel with some garlic bread on the side) and scarfed it down hoping to alleviate my head. Sadly, food did not help so I called upon a chemical remedy, this too failed. Eventually I decided to just sleep it off. I climbed up onto the rickety top bunk that creaked and groaned every time I tossed and turned under the smelly sheets in the heat of the Santiago night.
When I got off the bus at Pajaritos station I was within city limits but did not immediately feel the shock of being in the country`s capital. It was relatively quiet, lacking the symphony of horns of Lima. I could see greenery and parks. I must be in some sort of suburb I thought. I continued on toward my hostel by boarding the Metro - Line 1, running East to West through the city. It was the cleanest subway system I have been on anywhere in my life. The platform was spotless, no trash or newpapers flew through the air as the train approached. Inside the train I continued to be amazed. The floors nearly glistened. There were maps and recorded voices clearly announcing my whereabouts as I progressed toward my destination.
Salvador was my stop and upon arriving I checked a map (because there was one) and headed up the steps for my first glimpse of the heart of Santiago where nearly half the population of the entire country lives. I saw more green. And fountains. Traffic was light, there were people riding bikes. I was confused. This was supposed to be a horrible place like the rest of the capital cities in Latin America (with the exception of D.F, Mex), but it wasn´t. It was a perfect example of the European influence in Chile, which at that moment, felt more like Spain.
My hostel was only around the corner. After checking in and relaxing for a bit with my book, I took off on a walk down the pedestrian parkway that ran down the middle of one of the main streets. I poked around in another park along the way where I saw couples relaxing as they laid comfortably in some shady grass, a rarity in this part of the world where no one lays on grass. Then I explored Santa Lucia, a large uninteresting handicraft market. I stopped for a bit to use the internet to try to Skype Esteban on his birthday but ended up video chatting with my parents instead. At some point during our conversation I realized what a bad headache I had. The pollution and exhaust fumes didn´t seem to be very bad, so I couldn´t place the blame on them. Instead, I decided it was due to lack of food since I hadn´t eaten since breakfast in Valparaiso that morning. I said goodbye to my parents and found a super mercado on my walk home.
As I mentioned, Chile is one of the least environmentally sustainable places in South America. An easy place to see that is in the produce aisle of the grocery store. Everything comes in packages. The broccoli florets sit in a styrofoam tray, suffocated under plastic wrap. The garlic can only be purchased in packages, as can the avocados, the carrots, the mushrooms. Finding vegetables that were sold individually was a difficult task (a task made very easy at the small neighborhood markets), but since I was just one person I had no need for 12 avocados bundled together. I found a grapefruit, a couple of tomatoes, a zuchhini, and an onion. Everything must then be placed in its own plastic bag and weighed. I have tried on several different occasions various methods to try to avoid this step of individually bagging every vegetable. I have tried asking them to weigh my single banana and place the sticker on the banana peel. They shake their head no and look at me like I have just spontaneously combusted before their eyes. They tell me that it is not possible.
Upon entering the hostel I became aware of what a smelly place it was. Maybe it was because I already had a headache. I was very conscious of the artificial smell of citrus from the woman cleaning, the Axe body spray wafting out of the dorm rooms of European kids on gap year trips, and the smell of the linens on the beds. It all served to intensify my headache. I prepared my dinner (pasta and sauce made out of my veggies and some garlic I stole from the cupboards at the hostel with some garlic bread on the side) and scarfed it down hoping to alleviate my head. Sadly, food did not help so I called upon a chemical remedy, this too failed. Eventually I decided to just sleep it off. I climbed up onto the rickety top bunk that creaked and groaned every time I tossed and turned under the smelly sheets in the heat of the Santiago night.
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