Traveling Wiseman

Written November 10
The airbrakes gave a sigh of relief, whoooossshhhh, as the 25-passenger bus barreled down the hill and around the curve, snow flying off the tires as we went. I looked every few minutes at the driver’s face in the reflection of his mirror just to make sure he was concentrating, awake. He drove as if there weren’t 30 centimeters of snow on the ground, as if it weren’t still snowing. The traveler next to me, a gentleman who’d lived about forty or fifty years (it’s hard to tell with locals, they often age more quickly than city folk), must have noted my concern. “He’s a good one,” he told me as I strained to see out the windshield. “You can tell.” I smiled and replied that I hoped so.
We had left Coyhaique at 9:30 a.m. amidst heavy rain. By the time we reached Balmaceda, the next town about forty minutes south, the rain had turned to snow and the forested landscape was a winter wonderland. The date was November 7, late spring in Chile. Our destination was Cochrane, the second-to-last city on the Careterra Austral, the southern highway. On a normal day, the trip takes approximately 8 hours. I’d never been that far south before and was happy to be “traveling” in Chile again, to be seeing things for the first time.
From Balmaceda the bus continued south and climbed slowly through the hills of Reserva Nacional Cerro Castillo. The prominent rock formation that gives the park its name was invisible, completely shrouded in a cloud of whiteness. Romantic Latino music poured from the bus speakers and wooed passengers. I caught myself mouthing the words:

El frio de mi cuerpo pregunta por ti
Y no sé donde estás

My body’s coldness asks for you
And I don’t know where you are

It’s like a cheesy Richard Marx song: one can’t help but learn the lyrics as the song proves to be everywhere. And besides, Chileans love this stuff: the more pining, passionate, and powerful the better.
I rubbed the back of my palm on the window to clear the condensation but my attempt is in vain. As I squinted to make shapes out of the whiteness, the male singer concluded:

Si no te hubieras ido sería tan feliz

If you hadn´t gone, I would be so happy

With no view to enjoy, I decided to make small talk with my neighbor. I commented on the unexpected snowfall. “This is Patagonia,” he said to me smiling, and for the first time I noticed the the softness of his voice. Maybe he is only forty. “But you like this, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically.
Although he used the singular form of “you” in Spanish –tú– I knew he was referring to “you gringos.” One doesn’t make such an assumption after speaking with someone for 30 seconds unless associating them with a larger group. After all, most gringos do come to Patagonia because of a passion for the outdoors, it’s true. I replied that yes, I like this. I showed him a few mountain photographs from the book I was reading, Yvon Choinard’s Let My People Go Surfing, and we talked a bit about Futaleufu and Chaiten. He told me his name is Ruben and he works on road construction when he’s not working on his farm.

About five hours into the journey, we entered another section of “highway” (it’s nearly all gravel) that has especially high elevation and substantial snowfall. “El paso Cofre,” Ruben told me. “Cars always get stuck here.” Soon enough we came to a complete standstill behind a line of 5 vehicles: trucks, vans, and buses. Most of the men got out to see the situation and have a smoke. The three female passengers, myself not included, stayed put, looking fretful. I got out, camera at the ready.
Hoping to get some nice pictures of the lenga forest coated in fluffy snow, I broke through the deep snow and bounded contentedly toward the back of the bus. I didn’t expect to find two men with their pants unzipped taking advantage of the bathroom break and judging from the looks on their faces, they didn’t expect to see me either. Head lowered, I mumbled an apology and just as quickly returned to the front of the bus. Small talk, cigarettes, and picture-taking occupied the better part of half an hour while we waited for things to move along. It appeared that opposing traffic was the problem and upon pulling over (there was only one set of tire tracks in the snow) a bus became stuck.

Finally the line of vehicles moved on and the driver motioned for us to get back on the bus. We waited while opposite traffic slowly passed, occupying one of the tire tracks and making a new one as they went. Now our turn: wheel to the left, gear set to first, light pressure to the gas pedal… and the bus slid slightly to the right. Reverse. Nothing. First gear again. Slide to the right more. Shit. I looked to the driver’s face in the mirror as had been my custom. He was chewing his gum nervously now, his actions a bit hurried. After a few more attempts, several men got down and cleared the tires, pushed from the right… and then help arrived from ahead, several men trotting, some with cigarettes hanging from their lips, most with voinas on their head, the traditional gaucho hat.
I was impressed with their efficiency and teamwork; the bus rocked forward, slid back, rocked forward, slid back, rocked forward… and slowly advanced over the rough spot and inched to the left, back onto the tracks. As the men got back on the bus I applauded them, not caring if my cheerleader antics were culturally out of place. They of course seemed to appreciate the stroking of their machista egos.

A few hours later (now in the eighth hour of the journey and with still a few hours to go, I have by this time read over 120 pages in Chouinard’s fascinating book) Ruben asked where I’m from in the United States. In his soft voice he continued to inquire about my family. He was curious to know if I have frequent contact with them and if they’ve come to visit me in Chile. I explained to Ruben that I talk on the phone with my family at least once every few weeks and that my mom came to visit in January. I told him that I spent a few meaningful months with them in June and July. He seemed all too relieved by this information.
“One can have many friends in this life, but they can’t replace your family,” he assured me. “Your family forms your roots; they know you and they care about you like no one else can.” He paused, adjusted his hat, thought for a minute. “And it’s important that you keep in touch in with them because many young people these days, they leave their homes… and they don’t look back.” Ruben presented this information not as a chiding lecture but as a sad fact of life.

“Claro,” I replied, and I looked out the window at the cold whiteness beyond.

Scenes From Melimoyu

Scene 1:
A gravel road. Thick green foliage to each side. Three children walk ahead of me, ages 6, 11, and 12. Each wields an article from the church. The youngest, Michaeala, is carrying a porcelain statue of the Mother Mary. “La virgin va primero!” she yells as she sprints ahead. I suppress my desire to tell her to be careful, she may drop the virgin. One has to choose their battles with Michaela; she’s a strong-willed spunkster whose creativity is endless and whose attention span is not.
Gonzalo, average in age and personality, cedes his place as leader to his younger classmate. He is holding a cutting-board sized crucifix in both arms, cradling the adult Jesus like the babe that he once was. He turns around and looks at me to see if I have noticed his funny gesture and I assure him that yes, Gonzalo, you are quite comic.

Behind Gonazalo is Javiera, a girl who appears and acts older than her years. She carries two “flowerpots,” instant coffee tins wrapped in tin foil. Each foil flowerpot is the home of a bouquet of lovely pink carnations. Pink paper petals, stems of plastic.
I bring up the rear, me and my two candles. I find myself wishing they were lit, a nice touch to the impromptu daytime ceremony. In this way we proceed, single file, heading from the school to the church to return the borrowed artifacts.
I have been teaching these children English for four days now. They constitute the elementary school of Melimoyu. Michaela, Gonzalo, and Javiera: the entire school. The roll call in the morning takes no time. Grading papers is a cinch. The children have no choice in the matter; the closest school is three hours away by boat.
“Thee Itsty Bisty Spider…” begins Javiera, and I join in. The other two forget their godly ornaments and try to keep up. “OUT duh duh SUN end duh duh do duh RAIN.” In fact the rain has recently stopped, the emerald forest that surrounds us is wetly glowing, and our march is bathed in its glory.

Scene 2:
Same gravel road. Same thick green foliage. I’m walking toward the teacher’s house where I’m staying for the week. Before it appears from behind the trees I catch a whiff of something distinctly unnatural and unpleasant. Something chemically. A few more steps and I see dark smoke, alive, rising over the trees. Three more steps and the house is visible along with the pile of burning trash directly in front of it. They had told me that there is no waste collection here, that the town’s 38 inhabitants have no way to dispose of their non-organic trash. But still this comes as a shock. The smell of burnt plastic lingers in the air until the following day.

Scene 3:
Same gravel road (it’s the artery of Melimoyu, the only road that exists), I’m with Cecilia, the teacher, and another community member, heading to visit Gonzalo’s mother, Margot. She greets us at the door holding a tiny baby. Through conversation I learn that Sofía, the baby, is the first child to be born in Melimoyu since Michaela, six years ago. I also learn that Margot, a tremendous woman with light skin and dark hair, was beginning to feel lonely since Gonzalo is getting older and her oldest son has moved out. Her husband works for a salmon company and is away all day on the water. But now she has Sofía, she explains, to keep her company so she doesn’t feel so lonely. I nod as if I understand this line of thinking, this rationalization for procreation.
Margot sets the table for onces, the Chilean “meal” typically consisting of bread and cheese that is conveniently inserted between lunch and dinner. As I sink my teeth into the fluffy homemade bread, Cecilia asks Margot if she’s “gotten out lately.” I take this to mean “out of Melimoyu,” since it’s complicated and time-consuming to leave this isolated town. I am therefore surprised when Margot replies, “Yeah… I guess the last time I got out was when I went to the school for the Independence Day festivities.” I nonchalantly look at my watch to check the date. It’s October 1st. Chile celebrates its independence on September 18.

Scene 4:
Cecilia’s house, upstairs. It’s a spacious area surrounded by four plywood walls. Heat rises from the wood burning stove downstairs, keeping the space relatively warm. There’s one large window with a spectacular view of Volcano Melimoyu, detectable less than half the time due to the thick clouds incessant in the area. Now it’s dark outside and the only thing visible through the glass is the reflection of the single naked light bulb protruding from the opposite wall like an angry tumor. For furniture there’s a couch, a van bench, and a TV.
This is our meeting place for the first session of adult English classes. We started at the medical clinic but it was too cold there. Two of the four people present I haven’t met before today. They are Héctor, the twenty-two year old paramedic, and Marcelo, a middle-aged self-proclaimed entrepreneur.
After the class Marcelo asks me about Patagonia Sur’s tourism intentions. I start on my spiel about the company’s plan to foment local economic development through tourism while promoting conservation of the region’s vast ecological resources.
“I’m really interested in tourism myself,” he explains. He looks around to make sure the others who have gone downstairs are out of earshot. He lowers his voice. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that to speak poorly of the salmon industry is considered a crime in this town.” Another paranoid behind him. “But if I had to choose between conservation and the salmon companies, I’d choose conservation. An industry that exhausts and contaminates natural resources a mi no me sirve. It doesn’t work for me.” We hear someone coming up the stairs. In a normal volume Marcelo proceeds, “Would you like to come over tomorrow to have a coffee and we can talk some more?”
“Sure,” I tell him, utterly intrigued.

Scene 5:
The beach of Melimoyu. The kids from the school are participating in a clean-up with the salmon company, a clean-up that I suspect has coincided with my visit not by accident. Several male workers from AguaChile have already formed piles on the beach of trash: plastic feed bags, remnants from nets, nylon ropes, a shoe, plastic bottles, etc. The amount is staggering. A hundred feet from the shore, bushes lining the beach resemble Christmas trees, decorated by the wind with tinsel of plastic bags and strings. Red strings, yellow strings, blue strings, a plethora of colors represented in this one bush before me. For a second I consider it a great teachable moment; we could have an entire class on colors in English. I disentangle them, one at a time, and shove them into the large plastic feed bag.
But the job at hand is endless. Here the ocean’s tide is continually bestowing gifts of garbage to Melimoyu. Gifts associated not with Yuletide but with trashtide. One might argue politically incorrectly that the ocean is an “Indian giver,” that she is ungraciously “re-gifting.”
But from whom did she receive the waste?
That much is clear to even eleven and twelve year olds Gonzalo and Javiera. Both children’s parents work in the salmon industry. When asked who produces all the trash we were picking up they didn’t hesitate to respond, “Las salmoneras.”
Then why did Cecilia tell me that “the last thing the salmon farms do is empty garbage into the ocean”? Because her family and many others rely on the industry for income. Their houses are built with money earned from the industry. Their children’s mouths are fed with money earned from the industry. Their cars and plates and toothpaste and lamps and socks and satellite dishes and firewood are purchased with money from the industry. In fact, I was told that when the industry arrived in 2000 to Melimoyu, locals referred to it as San Salmonera: “Saint Salmon Company.” It saved them. And now they fear that a conservation-oriented NGO may wreck that salvation.

Today I got Waxed

written on September 3, 2008

Today I got waxed. It’s a quasi-masochistic ritual that I find quite enjoyable. It’s not available in small towns in Chile and it’s not affordable in the U.S. so it’s a special treat anytime I’m in the big city in Chile.

When I lived in Santiago, Marisol, my host mom, gave me my first ever waxing. I watched, intrigued, as she slathered the hot, caramal-esque substance on my legs. I flinched as she ripped off one long strip of it, unconsciously clenching my teeth and wincing. She insisted that the tenser I was the more difficult it was for the hairs to release. As if my forced relaxation would convince the hairs to just raise their arms in a state of zen and be lifted right out of the follicles willingly. I found it hard to believe and even harder to practice.

She told me my legs were “feas,” ugly, from using a razor and that if made the switch to waxing I wouldn’t get those red bumps. I tried not to pout. I also tried not to point out that my legs were much more muscular and shapely than hers, thank you very much. I silently concluded that waxing wasn’t for me.

A few months later, I got out of the shower of my Santiago home and realized that the combination of a chilly Chilean winter and my lack of interest in Chilean men had resulted in legs that resembled a wooly mammoth hide. I had quite a bit of time on my hands that particular day and decided to give this waxing gig a second chance. I chose to put myself at the mercy of a stranger rather than let Marisol touch my "ugly" legs again.

My clearest memory of that, my second waxing experience, was the way the woman rubbed baby powder on my legs when she was finished. I found her human touch to be divine. Not to mention the way my jeans felt against my hairless shins as I practically skipped home. I was hooked, and continued visiting this charming old woman roughly once a month during my remaining five months in Santiago. I even graduated to waxing above the thighs, a daring move for me.

Now, two years later, I’ve just returned to Chile after a summer visit to the U.S. The hair on my legs have again reached wooly mammoth proportions and this time I blame its unruliness on the 31-day mountaineering course in which I had participated in the states. I only have a short time in Santiago and, although my schedule is tight, I knew that it´s now or never. I have to make time.

I enter the “caracol,” a large gallery whose principal hallway winds around like a snail shell (hence it´s Spanish name), gradually forming several floors, each with a slight incline. There are salons on every side, including above and below. I walk with purpose, with a forged sense of confidence. It´s 9:30 a.m. and despite its location in downtown Santiago, the caracol is quite empty, the majority of the salons closed. I spot one on the third floor that declares in large blue letters on the glass fachade, “Centro de Depilación.” This will be my place. Besides, they probably get very little business located all the way on the third floor, it will be nice to give them mine, I reason.

I make three circles around the caracol before finally reaching the Centro. I knock. I am ushered in. “We have a special,” the only woman working tells me as she wipes her hands on her apron. “Half-leg and armpits for three thousand pesos.” That´s a little over six dollars. I look at my watch: 35 minutes until a meeting down the street. “Let’s do it,” I tell her.

She pulls back a curtain to reveal a bed not unlike that of a doctor’s examination room. It´s even covered with a strip of roll-out paper. She indicates a hanger and tells me to undress before she slips out.

It actually is like visiting a doctor, this process of getting practically naked (down to my bra and underwear) with a complete stranger. I gingerly remove my shoes, my socks, my pants. I sat on the crinkly paper and patiently waited.

I told myself, I’m never going to see this woman again so I shouldn’t really care what she thinks about how absurdly hairy my legs and underarms are. But then I couldn’t help but feel bad about the rap I was giving all gringos out there. I’m constantly aware of my position as an informal non-appointed ambassador for the United States. I’m always representing my country whether I like it or not. For some people, I’m the only American they may ever know. Usually I like to think I make a decent impression. This time however, I couldn’t help but imagine the stories this woman would share with her co-workers while they smoked cigarette and painted their nails. “I waxed this gringa the other day and she was out-of-control hairy. I mean, they must not ever shave or wax!” Puff. Exhale. Wave of cigarette. "You should´ve seen her. It was bad." I have to admit I feel a bit guilty about this and so try to explain about the mountaineering course, that it’s not usually this “bad” (although those who know me may offer contention).

The thing I’ve grown to enjoy about waxing is the challenge it presents to remain relaxed in an uncomfortable situation. I’m not referring to the social discomfort and awkwardness (I´ve been dealing with that ever since I first arrived to Chile on near daily basis) but rather the physical discomfort the process entails. That first time I thought Marisol was certifiably insane for insisting that I just RELAX. And since then that is just what I’ve trained myself to do. I repeast, quasi-masochistic. It´s striving for a state of zen, of controlling one´s breath in order to calm the nerves. And trust me, it´s not easy to not hold your breath when you see that someone is about to rip the hairs from your groin by the root. But it´s what I challenge myself to do. And lord knows I enjoy a good challenge.