Homeward bound

I caught bus 86 to the airport and spent the rest of my pesos on a sandwich and a drink. We were a little late departing. A few hours into the flight, in the small hours of the morning, we had a refueling stop at Rio Gallegos, Patagonia. It was a small airport with only 2 gates. There was a plaque there commemorating the 50th anniversary of the first commercial flight between Rio Gallegos and Buenos Aires on 2/4/1930. The French aviator and writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was one of the pioneers in the opening up of routes to Patagonia, and his experiences formed the basis of his novel Night Flight. This was part of the mystique that had formed my impression of Patagonia before I visited.

It was cold in the airport, and even colder on the tarmac; the temperature was single digit and there was a wind chill. A short blackout occurred while we were waiting. But we finally entered the warmth of the plane and took off. And then it was really goodbye to South America. I was not to return for another 12 years.

I had been on the road for over two months. While writing this blog, 15 years after, it was amazing how a mere few words in the diary could evoke an entire incident. I learnt things that I didn't know then in the process of reconstructing my story. And it was amazing how many of the establishments I patronised are still running. Even the mundane expenditure log, which I used to keep myself to budget, gave crucial clues to what I did on a particular day.

I had seen unforgettable landscapes and marvellous sights. But most of all I remember the wonderful people I met. I sometimes wonder what became of them. Some would have gone on to have a career and a family. Some might have retired from work. Some sadly may not be with us anymore. I can only wish that they were happy, not all the time, that's too much to ask, but some of the time.

As it was a trans-polar flight, I was curious what they would do about the on-screen display of the flight path since the Mercator projection cannot represent the poles. As expected they switched to polar projection. The flight reached the 70S lattitude, within 2500 km of the south pole. There was no turbulence. The flight was all in sunshine because it was the southern spring. As I was crossing the International Date Line going west, November 15th 1997 was lost to me. We had a change of planes at Auckland and a few hours after that I was home.

Buenos Aires 6

It was my last day in Buenos Aires and South America. The flight was in the evening so I had the day to visit parts of Baires I had left out over a month ago. I discarded clothes I didn't want to take home and checked out, carrying only a daypack. I got breakfast at the supermarket.

I caught the subte (what porteños call their subway) to LN Alem station for Puerto Madero. These were former dockyards turned into an upmarket district with dwellings, offices, shops and restaurants. (I believe that more edifices and landmarks have been added in the years since my visit.)

The Catholic University of Argentina was situated there as was the museum ship ARA Presidente Sarimento. Students were out enjoying the sunshine.

I didn't note the history of this large propeller unfortunately.

This is the old customs house, if I read the name on the building correctly.

I walked back to the city and encountered Galerías Pacífico again. I couldn't resist taking more pictures of the beautiful interiors. This is the central fountain you saw before, from above. There were many smartly dressed people shopping. I spent some of my remaining money on CDs.

I went to Guerin and had some pascualina and anchoa pizza for lunch. Italian immigration has had a lot of influence on Argentinian cuisine.

At Plaza San Martin there was a memorial to the Malvinas war (the Argentinan name for the Falklands). Similar to Chile, it took a crisis, in this case a military misadventure, to put cracks in a dictatorial regime.

This is how I like to remember Buenos Aires, sitting in a park in the porteño spring at a perfect 24C with cool breezes. It was a day on which one really feels happy to be alive. I couldn't have asked for a better send-off from the Queen of the Plata.

Buenos Aires 5

Santiago's airport was smaller than I expected, there were only 8 gates. Fortunately I spent the last pesos before passing immigration because the duty free was small. A Chilean girl of 9 and her mother had the adjacent seats. It was the first time for the girl. They were going to the Canary Islands. We experienced turbulence crossing the Andes.

It was 20C and cloudy in Buenos Aires when we landed. The passport officer thought it strange that my visa specified F for sex, then understood it was a mistake made by the consulate in Sydney. She apologised for the f**king consulate (her words). I thought it amusing that she felt the need to use that kind of language to apologise.

I took public bus 86 instead of the shuttle to save money. It stopped everywhere and took 1¼ hours to get to Congreso but I was in no hurry. I was glad that I had left my backpack in storage at the airport, less to carry. Back at the Hotel Americano I got a good room, though weird because the window was partly blocked by the closet. There was a gas range but no outlet for exhaust. I wouldn't be using it anyway.

For lunch I had some fugazza pizza at Guerin. I decided that I must try their anchoa (anchovy) the next day. At an English language bookstore I bought presents of a coffee table book on Australia for G to pick up next time she visited Baires, and a CD of the soundtrack of The Piano for L and his family. I went over to L's place in the evening. His wife was away working in La Rioja. L commented that it was odd that his youngest son, who seldom spoke with strangers, was moderately chatty with me. We shared a dinner of milanesa and conversed until close to midnight, then L took me back to my hotel.

Santiago 6

Café Caribe, short skirts but ugly women, so read the entry in my diary for this day. Intrigued, I looked it up on the Internet and it came back to me. It seems that in the 80s coffee wasn't good in Chile, so cafes, including the aforementioned Café Caribe, offered "Café con Piernas" (coffee with legs), waitresses dressed in micro-skirts to entice customers. I hope they have improved since. The coffees, that is.

This time I caught the metro to Tobalaba station, looking for an English language bookstore for a present. But they were few and the selection was poor. Shopping arcades had a mix of professional suites and shops. Many units were empty. The retail centre of gravity seemed to be moving towards Providencia. I found a late lunch of escalope a lo pobre (a variation on lomo a lo pobre) near Plaza de Armas. Had too much beer with it though.

In the evening I repacked my backpack for storage in Buenos Aires airport, as I intended to carry just a daypack for the last couple of days. I tried to look for more CDs and even took the metro to Los Leones station but the mall was closed by 2100. I gave in and had a burger as a late dinner. It tasted like fast food everywhere else in the world.

It was now evening and it looked like in darker corners men and women were having secret trysts. Was Chilean society a bit repressed?

I thought of getting an ice cream to round off the evening, but raindrops put paid to the idea. This was my last picture taken in Chile, of La Moneda by lamplight, before calling it a night.

Santiago 5

Unfortunately I had two more days in Santiago. This was because I had skipped Temuco so had a day in hand, and I was conservative with Santiago, leaving some safety margin before flying back to Buenos Aires. In retrospect I should have taken a day trip out of Santiago or something; I should have improvised. Also I was getting homesick. But that was partly in the mind. As the return date approached, I began to live in the future, a bad habit.

I took a metro to Escuela Militar station and walked back along Apoquindo and Providencia. These avenues are lined by shopping centres. I found a Feria Disco shop for CDs. I also bought a copy of Patagonia Express (1995) in the original Spanish, by Luis Sepúlveda, a Chilean writer who had lived through the Pinochet years, partly in exile. The original title is a reshuffling of lines from Antonio Machado: Al andar se hace el camino se hace el camino al andar (By walking we make the road, the road is made by walking). I had read this in translation before the trip and enjoyed the account of his perambulations in the south of the continent during those years. That evening though, G looked at my copy and said: es una copia. Book piracy was rife in South America then and still is in many countries.

I found a late lunch (to pre-adapt to jet lag) of cazuela. I bought chocolates for my visit. I also tried some mani confitado (caramelised peanuts). They were exactly as the name denoted, no surprises.

That evening I caught a taxi to G's place, but the driver wasn't knowledgeable enough to locate the correct block of apartments. I rang G and got walking directions from where the driver left me. G worked as a research sociologist for UNESCO promoting adult education. She also taught short courses, but mostly did research. Her apartment was tastefully decorated. She was a great conversationalist. The topics ranged through travel, films, books, and society. She liked hot Indian curries and sometimes cooked with a wok. At one point when she served the light supper of bread and canapes, she said: It looks like there is more equality in your country. She explained: You volunteered to carry the tray. A Chilean man would have let me do all the work, i.e. Chilean society was more machismo and conservative. There was no divorce, for example. She thought Argentina was more open.

She visited L and his wife in Buenos Aires periodically. I resolved to get her a present and leave it with L for her next visit.

Santiago 4

After breakfast I walked over to the hostel to meet up with D. He came down late and gave me the denouement of the saga of M. It seems that J told her there was no boat but there was a chalet available and guess what, he would come along. It was one of those I told you so moments. She got pissed and got in about 0300 in the morning, according to another hosteller. Ah well, it takes all sorts to make a world.

I accompanied D to Alameda and we said goodbye. So now I had to explore the city on my own. Santa Lucia is a small hill, the remnant of an ancient volcano, in the centre of the city, not as high as Cerro San Cristóbal. There is a park with statutary and fountains.

I remembered something amusing the girls had said the night before: When they put on a salsa Chileans dance, when they put on a cueca (their national dance) Chileans sit down. Chile is relatively unknown in the world. One reason is there are few of them, around 15 million at the time of my visit. Then too when you mention Brazil to most people, what comes to mind? Beaches, samba, carnival, Amazon, perhaps. Argentina? Tango, Evita, Buenos Aires. Chile? Blank.

At this point I had used up all my slide film so the remaining pictures are on print film. L in Buenos Aires had given me the phone number of G, one of his contemporaries, to contact and enjoy a conversation with. I called and she was finally at home. I arranged to drop by the evening after.

For dinner I found a place serving pastel de choclo, a thick maize stew with meat and hard boiled egg. I couldn't say that it was something I would look for again. Then a dessert of ice cream before heading back to hotel to read and listen to a jazz station, trying to stretch the hours in advance of the jet lag. The music selection was quite good actually, mostly oldies, but also new stuff from Pat Metheny and Quincy Jones.

Santiago 3

Time to head back to Santiago. J stuck like a leech to M in Viña and at the last moment jumped onto the Santiago bus, saying that he was going to visit friends in Santiago. M divulged the story: she had met J in Peru, he had pursued her everywhere, and eventually she had sneaked away. But in Viña she felt guilty about dumping him and had phoned him in La Serena. He came down south and the rest we knew.

In Santiago J went his way at a metro station after getting M to promise to meet up later. D and M went back to the hostel and I checked into a hotel. (I had decided to luxuriate a little.) A colleague of mine back home had given me an introduction to Chilean girls she had met in Tierra del Fuego. We were asked to meet at Irarrázaval metro station. There are a few Basque and Galician place names in Santiago, reflecting immigration from there. M decided to keep her appointment with J inspite of attempts to talk her out of it. She thought J could help her get passage on a boat to Tierra del Fuego.

D and I arrived at the station 20 minutes late and were met by a young Chilean man. He asked where our backpacks were. It turned out that that they had thought we needed accommodation. We went to his flat, shared with a friend of the girls. D was a good ice-breaker; I was glad of his company. The other 4 girls turned up, two were sisters. I gave them photos from my colleague as well as some souvenirs from Sydney. At this point D took his leave.

They took me to a shopping centre and shouted me ice cream. The girls and the sisters in particular were delightfully idiosyncratic, they made noises to match the engine, and told me that they had un coche pessimo (opposite of optimo, i.e. a terrible car).  They took me back to their apartment where they made pisco sour to accompany cheese. I was introduced to their parents. Remembering the etiquette tips in my guide, I kissed the mother on the cheek and shook hands with the father (only men-men encounters do the handshake). The father, who was an engineer, said that the pollution of Santiago didn't agree with him. (Santiago is backed by mountains and this traps the pollution.) One of the girls was studying engineering and hoped to get a job up north; more opportunities and cleaner air, she said. The boyfriends who were supposed to join them didn't, so they gave me a quick car tour of the upper middle class suburb of Providencia before taking me back to my hotel around midnight.