Retrospective Post: Pucón

As part of the program, meaning it was paid for, all 17 of us travelled south to Pucón, a tiny little tourist town situated between Lago Villarrica and Volcán Villarica. We spent three days there, the first of which was reserved for an organized “tur de la zona,” which included waterfalls, waterfalls, and waterfalls of the bluest water I’ve ever seen in my life:

 

 

The tour ended at a natural hot springs resort, where we were free to bathe in the glacier water of the river, or lounge in the hot springs. The river-bathing turned unexpectedly into a bizarre sort of baptism ritual. A few of the guys, doing what we’ve come to label a “mantivity*,” started building a dam with river rocks to create a small pool deep enough to sit in. People were quickly lining up to sit in our pool and dunk their heads in the bone-chillingly cold glacier water, at which point everyone else would clap and cheer:

 

 

It was weird.

 

The next two days, Saturday and Sunday, were left open for us to explore the region on our own. A group of us had signed up and paid 40,000 pesos (about 80 US dollars) to hike the volcano. We’re talking helmet-, ice axe-, goggle-, crampon-, matching jumsuit-wearing, glacier-climbing, lava-seeing, ice-in-the-beard fun here. But no, when we got to the base of the volcano our guides informed us that with rain in the forecast and the clouds as they were (awesome), it would be foolish to try the ascent.

 

It was nice of them, really. They could have taken us up for twenty minutes before telling us we had to turn back and, Oh sorry, once we’ve started the hike your money is non-refundable. They even left the decision up to us. If we had really wanted to try it, they would have taken us as far as they could. So we stood around and kicked at the rocks and took some pictures—

 

 

 

—and sighed and swore, then climbed back into the bus for a shaky, twisty ride back down into Pucón.

 

We filled the morning with canopy-ing, that is, zip-lining through the forest, and then went rafting in the afternoon (note: both “rafting” and “canopy” are untranslated in spanish. Vamos a hacer rafting = we are going rafting).

 

By the time we got into our wet suits and life-jackets for rafting, it was pouring. Our guide made several sexual comments while straddling his kayak and we were off into the rain and the river. These were class four rapids, and the people in our group that had rafting experience said it was some of the best they had done. The wind blew, the rain blinded, the guide shouted, people fell out, jumped out, were pushed out, pulled back in again. At least three instances of pirating occurred. When Theresa asked, jokingly, if we could go swimming, the guide said “Sure,” and sent us up onto some rocks where we could hop into the river and ride some mild rapids sans raft.

 

At one point we had to hike along the river while the rafts were sent over impossible rapids to meet us on the other side. Our guide brings us to the spot where we have to get back into the river: a thirty foot cliff with swirling water below. The great thing about the situation was the complete lack of option or deliberation. They brought us there and told us to jump. No easy way around. And so we didn’t think much more of it.

 

I stood on the edge of the cliff while Dave made helicopter noises behind me (at my request), then jumped. A funny things happens in this situation that I had never really experienced before: your brain says it’s safe and everything is okay, but as soon as you’ve got thirty feet of air below you, your body starts screaming Oh shit. Hitting the water was surprisingly unpleasant, and climbing back onto shore surprisingly hard. Seeing that it was hard, I lent a hand to the people behind me trying to climb out. While doing this, a bee stung me on the thumb. So much for karma.

 

At the end of the river, when we had changed out of our wetsuits and into dryer clothing, we were served Pisco sours and packed back into the van for the ride back to the cabins in Pucón, to begin a long and weird night that ended with five guys in a tepid hot-tub drinking Coke.

 

And then we left Pucón.

 

 

^*Mantivity: those activities which men do/enjoy unreasonably, are unable to explain, and women find confusing (in the interest of avoiding any plagiarism, the word seems to have come from here). For instance: a few women come upon men standing in an icy river throwing large rocks. “What the hell?” the women might justifiably ask. “Building!” the men might respond. “What? Why?” The women may pry. To which the men might pause a moment and then respond, “Because…rocks!”

 

Selected other mantivities (that may or may not have been undertaken on this trip):

 

-Collecting firewood (understandable to the womankind until the men come back with what can only be called “trees,” with no reasonable plan of how to cut or burn them).

 

-Hitting one large tree with another smaller tree (attempted solution to above).

 

-Setting up tents (may also include: using duct tape; fighting with poles/sticks; excessive use of the phrase, “that’s what she said.”).

 

-Making things out of other things.

 

-Starting fires (may also include: wearing flannel.)

 

-Cooking meat on fires.

 

-Making fires unreasonably large (may also include: stomping out brush fires; running away).

To The End of the World (Or Close Enough)

We didn’t actually make it to the End of the World. We made it to Punto Arenas. The official southernmost city in the world is either Ushuaia or Puerto Williams, depending on how you want to define “city.” But being generous, and saying Puerto Williams is the most southern, and Ushuaia is number two, Punto Arenas still comes in at number three. And that’s not too bad in my books.

 

We arrived in Punto Arenas with a rough itinerary, some phone numbers, and  backpacks full of warm clothes. We had nine days in southern Patagonia before our return flight to Santiago. So we wasted little time in Punta Arenas before catching a bus that evening to Puerto Natales, the entrance city to Torres del Paine National Park, Chile’s “crown jewel.” I’m not even going to mess around with words like breathtaking, stunning, or it’s so pretty I just peed a little. I’ll just go straight to the pictures (click to enlarge):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Puerto Natales we stayed in Casa Teresa for about 8 dollars a night, where we only broke one window and a poster. Teresa also happened to own a tourism agency, which saved us a lot of time and hassle. We spent the first day being driven around Torres del Paine National Park in a very photogenic van—

 

 

 —stopping to take pictures and goof around, mostly on beaches as has become our hallmark. No one, however, did cartwheels.

 

Things we saw on the tour:

 

 A Mineral Lake whose name I have forgotten.

 

Lago Grey.

 

A waterfall I was sure people were going to die at.

 

 

 

 Lago Pehoe.

 

And then: and then we hiked. The next day we woke up early (the sun was rarely up before us on this trip) and loaded back into a bus that drove us to the beginning of the trail to el Base de los Torres. It was supposed to be an 8-hour hike, but do to the fact that it was us, it took about 9ish. It is not a solid ascent to a summit, because summiting Los Torres requires at least a week and the ability to scale sheer granite. The trail instead winds up and down a few times, sufficiently exhausting the inactive person before shooting up at the end in an AgroCrag-like rock-scramble to a lake at the base of the Torres. But that just wasn’t enough for us. “This is great,” we said, looking at the splendor around us, “but… that treacherous ridge of loose, jagged rock over there—let’s climb that.” And so we did:

 

 

 

 

(And I can only image that at some point back there in history, when everything was grainy black and white and men had beards and those beards had ice in them, a group of icy-bearded explorers forged their way through rocks and snow and oceans to come to the base of these towers and stood with ice in beards, breath crystallizing in front of their faces, looking at these jagged granite cliffs disappearing into the swirling clouds. And one of these men said, through a beard full of ice, “Let’s climb it.”)

 

So we returned to the van, late as usual, and were driven back to Puerto Natales, where we had dinner. And then we slept.

 

The next day we tried to go kayaking in the fjord near Puerto Natales. We hired our guides and took off in the van and suited up at the edge of the water, in the biting wind. Now I could claim exactly 4 hours of previous kayaking experience in my life, and that in very calm lake waters. The others were George, Nubia, Theresa, and Alexis. George and Nubia teamed up in a kayak, Theresa and I in another, and Alexis settled in with Daniel, the soon to be love of her life.

 

30 minutes later: we have gone 10 feet. Theresa has already nearly forced us to turn around because her hands are painfully cold (Gloves? This is Latin America!) and I’m trying desperately to keep us pointed into the wind and the waves. I ask sternly that she keep paddling so we don’t flip, at which point she decides to demonstrate how hard a kayak is to flip by rocking the kayak. At which point I yell at her, and she responds: “Have you ever seen a kayak flip?”

 

“Well, no I haven’t actually seen it but…(looking back over my shoulder)…oh crap, Nubia and George flipped.”

 

Yes, Nubia and George got themselves sideways and blew right over. I’m not going to try to recap the story, because I can’t capture the hilarious terror of George’s telling. But Theresa and I turned around when the wind settled a bit and headed back. And that was that. We changed out of our wetsuits and played around on a windy hill for a while, which was again very scenic and very epic.

 

The next day was Perito Moreno day. Perito Moreno is a “temperate glacier,” according to the more or less useless Argentinian guide that shouted at us in the van for an hour or so. I would recommend it to anyone, regardless of fondness for ice. It’s an impressive sight, and if you can be there in late afternoon/sunset, you will probably get to see some chunks fall off—

 

 

 

 

 

 

—which was apparently lethal in the past, before the times of signs, railings, and common sense:

 

 

The tour left us in el Calafate, Argentina. And when I say “left us” I mean it in the most abandony way possible: kicked out of the van to stand on the side of the road with a pile of backpacks:

 

Apparently I don’t have a picture of this.

 

So we stood there and looked around a bit and sighed and put our hands on our hips. Then we found a cabin to stay at. The next day, I believe (my memory is blurring a bit, so forgive my dates if they’re wrong), we bussed up to El Chaltén, Argentina. But this was no ordinary bus. I woke up when the bussed stopped, assuming we were at a gas station. But when I looked out the window, I saw that we were at a small restaurant road-stop and Alexis was fighting a guanaco. This is a guanaco:

 

 

 

The guanaco she was fighting was trying to get into the restaurant, and she was trying to stop it. Turns out the guanaco was a pet of the owner and eventually did enter the restaurant to wander around the tables and let tourists feed it from a bottle, which was adorable. Unfortunately, I left my camera on the bus, so I don’t have pictures of this. But there was also a pet cow that stood pathetically at the door watching the guanaco being bottle-fed and fawned over. I pet the cow for good measure.

 

Okay: El Chaltén. This is El Chaltén:

 

 

 

 

It was founded in 1982 and is almost halfway constructed by now. You’ll notice most of the buildings are missing some walls or windows and there is no real grass and very few trees. The town has no bank or ATM, and at this time of year, very few people. The man who worked at the bus station, however, was very helpful:

 

 

But El Chaltén is the site of the trailheads to Mount Fitz Roy and its torres. There are a lot of options for hiking here, ranging from 1 hour to about 12 hours, with options for camping. As we went in winter and were poorly equipped, we did not camp. The first day we spent the afternoon on a 3-4 hour hike to el Mirador de los Torres, which was an incredible pay off for such an easy hike:

 

 

 

 

 

The next day we were up early again for our last major expedition: the 8-hour hike to Mirador Tres Lagos at the base of Mount Fitz Roy. This hike was more challenging, but not beyond the capabilities of anyone in decent shape. It’s really all flat until the last 500 meters, which start like this:

 

(Dear Visitor: The last 500 meters of this hike are of high difficulty and contain exposed faces. Do not climb if you do not have hiking boots and experience in mountain climbing. Avoid accidents.) This was also the only sign along that way that was not in English as well as Spanish.

 

And end like this:

 

 

But the entire hike is one big Ansel Adams print, as were most of the excursions in Patagonia. There is nowhere to look that doesn’t take your breath away.

 

 

Almost.

 

And then it was three wine-fueled days of working our way back to Punta Arenas from El Chaltén. Buses were sometimes tough to come by, and half of us ran broke to the point of considering street-performing as a viable means of income. But we made it back all right, on time, and with most of our possessions.

 

And that’s about all I have to say about that.

The Leftovers

Here I present some left-over and de-contextualized quotes from my interviews for the Daily Orange article “Way Down South,” about the first year of this program:

 

“I needed to get the fuck outta Syracuse.” – Kylee DeCoste

 

“I think that’s why we loved Cuenca so much—cause it was so different from anything you find in the States.” – George “Jorge” Williams

 

“The best part about Ecuador? Fuckin cheap drinks. A beer cost a dollar.” – Lucho Wheelwright

 

“It’s not like they’re ninja nuns who are gonna save you if you’re attacked.” – Alejandra Arenas

 

“He was a musician teaching a spanish class… I blame Syracuse for that.” – Jorge

 

“I do sometimes have nightmares about the Chupacabra.” – Alejandra

 

“Yo remember when we saw those cops beating up that homeless woman?” – Alejandra

 

“I feel like the more cultural stuff is outside of the cities.” – Nubia Mendoza

 

“I wanna feel Latin America. I wanna be in it.” – Jorge (note: the

interviewer took full advantage of this opportunity to make sexual jokes.)

 

“Oh fuck you’re on my foot, you’re on my foot!” – Kylee

 

“I mean, what is reggaeton? The music in Chile sucks.” – Jorge

 

“My parents used to call me the chupacabra. I heard they only exist in Mexico though.” – Nubia

 

“Nick O’Rourke declined to comment to a gringo newspaper.” – Nick O’Rourke

 

“You get the description that it’s third-world—peligroso.” – Jorge (followed by a lengthy discussion of what exactly the “second world” is, and whether or not the “fourth world” even exists, which ended with Nubia asserting that the fourth world has something to do with immigrants, and the interviewer asserting that it is Atlantis.)

 

“The last thing my friend said before I left was ‘Don’t get kidnapped.’” – Alejandra

 

“We have these Latin American traditions, like with the noise bombs—did you get that e-mail?… Bueno—but we know that no one is going to die.” – Mauricio Paredes

 

“I was a political prisoner in this country. I was tortured. And here, nobody likes to talk about that.” – Mauricio

 

“Mauricio’s like an uncle.” – Lucho

 

“Mauricio is the shit.” – Marguerite Schumm

 

“I think Mauricio is a fantastic director. He’s doing his best to get the most out of this program and to continually make it better for the future.” – Lucho

 

“I’m proud of this group.” – Mauricio

 

“El Chupa-what? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin bout.” –Kylee

 

 

 

Zhumir and Coke

Here’s an entry taken straight from the Ecuador diaries. Actually, it’s the only entry, so it just is the Ecuador diary. It was written quickly by hand on a rainy morning in a little notebook, and I just re-discovered it the other day. I left it largely as-was:

It’s raining now en el campo. No one seems to be awake or here but me and—I believe her name is Lola. She is probably five or six and adorable, with big black eyes and a thousand questions. My thumb is bruised from some after-dinner volibol with the familia. Two days ago rode back to Cuenca with the padre to visit cousin Marco, who was celebrating Carnaval in style at his American-paid house in the city. He and some of the other men there spoke passable english, having lived in the States for twenty-odd years. Some legal, some illegal. They assured me that my país was, in fact, a land of opportunity. Marco raved about the American justice system—had taken his landlady to court by himself, she with a prominent lawyer, and won. “Because I was innocent,” he declared with a dusting of the hands. “If you are innocent,” he said, “they can’t touch you.” I told him usually yes, but sometimes los inocentes do go to the carcel. The police tried to arrest him in the subway because someone had been stealing jewelry there and he apparently looked foreign enough to be the culprit. “But look,” he told them showing his oil-stained hands, “I am a mechanic. I have a job.” So they apologized and let him go. Another man, bundled tightly in a jacket because of the flu so that only his face showed through a circle of green hood, waited patiently to talk with me in broken English and Spanish. He was very happy to see me here in Ecuador, drinking Zhumir, eating salchichas, and talking Spanish. For my career, he told me, this will be important. He prefers socialism to capitalism, he said, but no matter, no matter, because—and here’s where he makes his point—that doesn’t define us. “What is your name?” he asked. Kyle. “Okay, you are Kyle, see. You are not American or Ecuadorian or capitalist or democratic. You are Kyle. Wherever yo go. You are not nacional, you are mundial. See?”

              

And then the party moved inside where the Zhumir and Coke continued circulating and the dancing began: Bachata mostly, which only Marcos really knew how to dance. But the padre convinced me to get on my feet anyway (with a lot of help from the Zhumir), and I danced what I knew of salsa, mostly with the older women, while the padre just kind of bobbed around with a big smile. We did that until 3 or so in the morning until I was falling asleep on my feet.

 

Postscript: Notable things I ate during Carnaval in Ecuador:

 

The head of a chicken, located in the bottom of my soup. Said the padre, “Que sabrosa, la cabesita..” (how flavorful, the little head…) We’re talking skin, brains, eyes, and that gross wobbly-glove thing on top of the head. Promptly threw up.

 

Cuye, a.k.a. Guinea Pig. See horrifying picture below:

 

 

 

 

Let This Serve As an Introduction

I had two fears about coming to South America:

 

1.) El Chupacabra

2.) Being abducted by rebels, slowly adopting their values, leading a coup; my parents learning of this on CNN.

 

For those who don’t know, el Chupacabra, or “Goat Sucker,” as it translates, is a small human/bat-like animal that preys on the livestock of poor farmers in places like Mexico, the southern United States, and here in Chile. If being a mix of a human and a bat isn’t horrifying enough, el Chupacabra reportedly has glowing red eyes, long sharp teeth, and kills by sucking all the blood out of its victims. Now, there are people who say that el Chupacabra “doesn’t exist” in the “real world.” This may be. It may also be that el Chupacabra, like Big Foot and the Loch Ness monster, is just too horrifyingly clever to be caught.

 

But little did I know, before coming here, that if I were to encounter the Chupacabra in Chile, my biggest concern would be trying to understand what it was saying (presumably it speaks Spanish). Likewise, it would be hard to lead any rebel coups if I can’t talk to my minions.

 

That is to say, I don’t speak Spanish very well. And it’s not just the famously difficult Chilean Spanish either. When travelling through Argentina and Uruguay, whenever I thought my Spanish may have been improving, something came along to kick me in the face. An example from what should have been an easy transaction in an Uruguayan McDonald’s:

 

(Translated from Spanish)

 

Me: I’d like two hamburgers please—

Guy: What?

Me: Two hamburgers.

Guy: Which?

Me: Hamburgers.

Guy: Yes. Which hamburger?

Me: Plain hamburger.

Guy: (Blank stare)

Me: (Pointing to the menu) Hamburguesa, simple. Hamburguesa.

Guy: Which?

Me: (Still pointing) The one that costs 30 pesos… Hamburguesa. Right there.

Guy: (Face contorted in confusion, twisting more and more by the second; exploring whole new levels of bewilderment.)

Other worker: Something something something (in Spanish)

Guy: Oh, hamburguesa. Sure. Anything else?

Me: I want to kill you.

 

Maybe my accent is worse than I think. Or maybe, and this is really the issue, I’m just not trying hard enough. Before coming here (future students read closely) I was assured by all manner of people that being immersed in the culture and language would have me learning at warp speed. Not so much the case. Turns out, you have to make a real effort to put yourself out there everyday and actually speak Spanish, no matter how many mistakes you make. And if you’re going to hang out with your American (get used to the word gringo) friends all the time, at least try to speak Spanish amongst yourselves. Also don’t be afraid to give advice that you don’t follow yourself.