Inspired by the book I read on the plane, here's my Kerouac impression:
I arrive in Chile on Friday morning. I use my Swedish passport and avoid a US$130 tourist visa fee that only Americans, Canadians and Australians are required to pay. It's too early to check into my hostel so I put my stuff in a storage locker and set off to see the sights, filled with the giddy delight that comes with finding yourself at large in a new and unknown country. I immediately love this place, really for no other reason than the fact that it's in South America (woohoo!). It's got a nice vibe, feels very First World and seems much safer than, say, Lima. But there aren't many noteworthy sites.
As if I needed cheering up, a truck drives past me with five girls in matching Hooters-like outfits dancing in the flatbed while music blares from speakers. It's not even 10:00am. I have a look around the bustling Mercado Central where all kinds of fresh fish, octopus, and squid are sold. I stroll into the Plaza des Armas and peek inside the gorgeous Cathedral de Santiago. When I come back outside they've set up a stage and a group of women in traditional outfits are dancing to Flamenco music. I hike up the Cerro Santa Lucía, a park/hill in the middle of the city. There's a little castle perched at the top that looks like it belongs in a Tim Burton movie. Nearly all the park benches are occupied by canoodling couples.
I check into my happy hostel and read for a few hours. A group is watching Mission: Impossible 3 on a TV in the common room. I'm happy to see there are plenty of people my age or older. At one point a Chinese-looking fellow enters the dorm room. I say 'hello' but he doesn't respond. Either his knowledge of English doesn't stretch as far as 'hello', or he is just a prick.
On the recommendation of the front desk clerk (a kid in his early 20s from Boston who moved down here a year ago), I head towards a nearby sports bar. I'm staying in a neighborhood called Bellavista: the Bohemian part of town with the most lively nightlife. The main drag (Pio Nono) is packed with people eating and drinking at sidewalk cafes. All the laughter and chatter and live music gets me excited. I find the bar and it's a rowdy scene. A Spanish pop song comes on and the whole place starts singing it in unison at the top of their lungs. And there I stand for a good few minutes doing nothing at all, just savoring the pleasure of finding myself in a far country with a tall glass of beer and soccer highlights on the TV and a roomful of people enjoying the fruits of a prosperous age. I could not have been happier.
I get into a conversation with four friendly Chilean fellows. Well, "conversation" is a bit of a stretch: three of them speak no English, one speaks broken English, my Spanish is very rusty, and the music is so loud everyone has to shout. They start buying me Escudo beers and giving me high fives. We drink many toasts to incomprehensible phrases and people we don't know. From the few words I can make out, I gather that Hector (the one who speaks a few words of English) loves the Worldwide Wrestling Federation and his buddy Jose (a.k.a. Fat Joe) loves American dancehall music. They want to make sure I understand that while Brazil and Argentina may be better than Chile at soccer, Chile's economy is the best in Latin America.
Well, I can't pretend I remember a great deal of what followed. We drank huge amounts of beer--huge amounts. The shouting with my new friends continues for about an hour and a half, during which time two separate barfights break out, one involving a bouncer repeatedly bashing a guy in the head before shoving him out the front door. Every once in a while a fuse blows, the music stops, and the lights go out. Every time this happens the whole bar cheers, and a girl sitting at a particular table in the corner has to flick a wall switch to get the power working again. I am loving every minute of this. By this time Hector and Fat Joe are calling me their blood brother ("hermano de sangre!") and giving me sloppy hugs. As the evening wears on the bar grows almost impossibly crowded and lively. I giggle at any story--even if I can't really understand it--and I radiate uncritical affection in all directions. I will happily go anywhere with anyone.
I'm approached by the only other gringo in the joint (this reminds me of a story Paul Shirley tells about his experience in the NBA) who, it just so happens, was the co-pilot on my flight from Dallas to Santiago. He's 36, his name is Jack, he's been a pilot for nine years and the last time he was in Santiago was five years ago. I ask him about the airline business. He says pilots are required to fly cargo planes for five years before they move on to be co-pilots on commercial flights. From there it's not a matter of merit or hours logged, it's a matter of waiting your turn until a full-fledged pilot retires so a slot becomes available (sort of like a bar's one-in-one-out policy). Seniority also means a pilot gets to choose the routes he flies, so the older guys are always flying to the "good places" in Europe. Jack is now married with two kids but says not a day goes by when he doesn't wonder whether he should have married the Peruvian girl he dated in Miami in his late 20s. His family and friends talked him out of it, warning him that marrying her also meant marrying her family and practically her whole community. Hmm.
We go over to a popular (and hilarious) dance club called Jammin' that plays exclusively reggaeton and reggaedancehall. The majority of the guys in the club have dreadlocks and joints are being passed around out in the open. I'm pretty sure Jack and I are mocked a couple of times; we definitely stick out in this crowd. He wanders off at some point and I lose him. My last stop of the night is another trendy bar that is full of gringos, where I meet Shane, a 22-year-old, loudmouthed Aussie sports journalist. At this precise moment, he is the most drunk man in all of Chile, and the lead he held over his rivals is a substantial one. He's wearing florescent board shorts and a shiny grey blazer and yelling unintelligibly at pretty much anyone that enters his general vicinity. The kid has moxie; I like him right away. We circulate as if at a cocktail party, meeting fellow travelers from around the world. I talk for some time to the Dutch proprietor, who told me the complicated story of how he had come to own a bar in this far-flung spot, of which confidence I have not the tiniest recollection. After a while, Shane suggests we go to yet another late night club, a Thai bar he'd heard about called Monsoon Poon. "No, I really must go now," I said, sensing that Monsoon Poon wasn't going to offer a sophisticated finale to the night's proceedings. We make loud and clumsy goodbyes, reiterate promises which we won't remember, let alone keep, and stumble off into the night. I think I manage to slip into my bunk bed without waking the two other guys in the room.
On Saturday I think about taking a bus to the coastal towns of Valparaiso and Vina del Mar but the weather is crappy. So I do a little more exploring and take it easy for most of the day, trying to prepare myself to avoid altitude sickness in La Paz tomorrow.
Reading: Who Hates Whom by Bob Harris
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