Welcome to Chile

After a long and cramped flight on an packed American Airlines plane, I was welcomed into Chile by Immigration with a us$132 ¨arrival tax¨and a 1.5 hour wait to clear customs. Then the bastards checked my luggage, found all the backpacking food I´d carefully packed into ziploc bags, and confiscated the sunflower seeds. ¨If these were toasted and salted, you could bring them in, but since they are raw, we have to take them,¨ said the perkily annoying customs official. By this time I was so fed up with this Chilean airport, and I could see Frank waving at me from the arrival lounge, that I just said ¨ya, whatever,¨ and got the hell out of there.

We spent a night in Valparaiso, a lovely seaside town, where we kept encountering distressed Chileans on their front porches wailing and reciting ¨Pinochet…. Pinochet…,¨ at hearing the news of the former dictator´s death that same day. Keen to move on to friendlier parts, we took off for Argentina where the cost of travelling is half that of Chile, and the wine flows like water from a tap – to Mendoza, the heart of Argenina´s wine country.

We´ll be making quick forays back to Chile (for specific trips) from Argentina, but the plan is to spend as much time as possible in the Argentine Lakes District – hiking, kayaking and I´ll be learning some mountaineering skills so we can cross some glaciers and such.

Now we are off to a couple of boutique wineries to sip. Look for some photos soon!

Isabel Allende On Chile

I just finshed reading Islabel Allende’s “My Invented Country“, Allende’s memoir about her childhood in Chile, life in exile during the Pinochet years, as an immigrant in the U.S., and how “being a stranger” has fueled her memory and imagination …. Here’s an excerpt from a rather poignant chapter titled The Discreet Charm of The Burgeoisie

“When I was a recently divorced forty-five, I immigrated to the United States, obeying the call of my impulsive heart. The first thing that surprised me was the infallible optimism of North Americans, so different from people of the southern tip of South America, who always expect the worst to happen. Which it does, of course. The U.S. constitution guarantees the right to the pursuit of happiness, which anywhere else would be an embarrassing presumption. North Americans also believe they have the eternal right to be entertained, and if any of their rights are denied, they feel frustrated. The rest of the world, in contrast, expects that on the whole, life is hard, and boring, so they celebrate sparks of joy and diversion, however modest, when they occur.

In my family, happiness was irrevelant. My grandparents, like the majority of Chileans, would have stood with their mouths agape if they’d known that there are people who spend good money on therapy to overcome their unhappiness. For them, life was just difficult, any other view was foolishness. You found satisfaction in doing the right thing, in family, honor, the spirit of service, study, and your own fortitude. Joy was in our lives in many ways, and I suppose that love was not the least important, but we didn’t talk about it, we would have died of shame before saying the word. Emotions flowed silently. In contrast to most Chileans, in our family we didn’t touch much and babies were never coddled. The modern custom of extolling a child’s every move as if it were witty and charming was not in vogue, nor was there anxiety about bringing up offspring who were free of traumas. Just as well, because if I’d been brought up protected and happy, what the devil would I write about now? With this in mind, I’ve tried to make my grandchildren’s childhood as difficult as possible so they will grow up to be creative adults. Their parents are not at all appreciative of my efforts.”