Road Trip from Volcano to Temblor

Update:  12-19-15

Richard loves shopping at the Mercado Municipal Presidente Ibanez.  Here's our haul from Saturday.  $14 US: 

Above the eggs, a bag of Christmas cookies.  Below the parsley a bag of Haba beans.  The little twist of pate in the center was a gift from the butcher who sold us a beef roast.  And that chunk of squash is for the "pumpkin" pie we'll make as a contribution to Christmas dinner at Tere's house. 

I took this next pic a couple weeks ago while walking up the steep hill from Centro to the Jumbo grocery store.  It's a pretty good image of Chile, I think: Flowering gardens, nicely trimmed, with walls of graffiti in the back ground.  On this particular day, I walked past a team of seven men in orange vests hunkered in the shade a hundred meters below this garden.  They had probably just finished trimming this garden patch. Two of them had weed-eaters lying on the grass, still idling, while the men smoked cigs and rested in the shade. 

 

Road Trip, continued: 

Sunday, December 6th, well-rested from the Chiloe leg of the trip, we headed north to Villarica.  By noonish, I was driving, with Larry in the front seat, when we came round a beautifully wooded bend and caught the first glimpse of Volcan Villarica commanding more than half the sky. 

Photo from internet, thank you!

Our goal:  to check in to our cheap hotel in the town of Villarica, go for lunch in Pucón, and prepare for a trip tomorrow to the hot springs just below the volcano's snow line. 

We found the Hotel Valentino, where we were buzzed in - to climb a very steep and narrow stairway to reception.  But the five-year-old boy who had buzzed us in was unable to get us registered, or give us room keys, or produce an adult of any gender, although he had a lot to say on several other topics, and finally set himself up at the desktop computer and asked us for our contraseñas.  We decided to go get some lunch and try again later. 

Villarica is on Lago Villarica, with spectacular views of the volcano and some tourist traffic, but
Pucón, a half-hour drive further along the lake shore, is the real tourist center of this area.  Richard had told Larry about eating wild boar at a restaurant here some ten years ago when we made our first trip to Chile.  With Larry enthusiastic about this dish, we searched for that restaurant.  But the town has grown ferociously in those ten years, and tho we recognized a few places, the wild boar place did not jump out at us. 
Thirsty and boggled (or should I say:  Any excuse for a Pisco Sour?) we sat down in a colorful, shady bar advertising Peruvian Piscos, which they made deliciously.  After sharing a plate of empanaditas, some stuffed with shrimp and some with cheese, we dared to ask the waitress if she knew a place that served jabalí, which you better pronounce correctly if you expect to be understood.  It wasn't till Larry showed the waitress the word on his IPhone that she got what we were trying to say.  Gotta get that kkhh-hawking sound to the j ... and don't let the b slip into a v sound, which is the way it's usually written.  The waitress did not know the restaurant herself, but she came back in two minutes with directions from the chef, and wished us well as we paid our cuenta and moved on around the block to the next street over.  Ana  Maria  Restaurant. It might be the same place as ten years ago, re-made somewhat.  Can't be sure. 
The guys were very happy with their jabalí.  I think I had the ensalada mixta con palta.  Later, we called ahead to the hotel to make sure someone could check us in.  Papa Claudio, obviously proud of young Sebastian, put us in the view rooms at the back of the hotel where we had a porch ... at the cost of another flight of even narrower, steeper stairs, very few of which were the same size.  We had two nights in that place, and I'm very grateful that nobody made a wrong step on those stairs. 

Monday, December 7: Ten years ago Richard and I booked a tour from Pucón up to the hot springs at Geometrica.  We got a hell of a deal on what turned out to be a three-hour ride (six, round trip) in a diesel-powered stinky mini-van over some hellacious mountain roads to the ultimate paradise of those seventeen pools artistically built into a cascading river under a canopy of trees, ferns and flowers with the hot spring water plumbed into each pool.  We paid 40 mil CLP (about $80 US back then) for the two of us that full day, and had the Termas practically all to ourselves. 

This time, we drove our rented car, and paid 20 mil CLP each (about $28 US - at current exchange rate) to enter the termas.  The last 45 minutes of that road, definitely improved, is still gravel and dirt, climbing thru goat pastures past farm shacks and sheep pens, with the occasional bus stop shed along the way.  But now, up in the higher reaches anyway, there are two or three quinchos advertising lunch available, and there are other termas developed for tourist use.  Termas Vergara, for instance, is new Vergara website and appears to have cabanas available, so you could stay overnight and bathe for days if you wanted to.  We drove on to our destination, Termas Geometricas.  Visit their beautiful website:   Geometricas   and immerse yourself in the stone-lined pools.  We arrived just before 11 a.m. and had to wait for the staff to get there in a yellow school bus.  Another couple with a youngster waited with us, but by the time the staff had opened the place, there were four other cars.  And when we left, around 2 pm. the parking lot was filled to overflowing with cars, trucks and buses!  The popularity of this place has grown immensely, no doubt in symbiotic relationship with the improvements to the road to get here.  (photos from internet)

Entrance to Paradise. the grass-topped sheds are changing rooms with lockers.



Hot water runs in a wooden channel beneath the walkways to help keep the walkways dry in winter snows. 

The air is cool at the top, where the waterfall marks the top of this canyon.

 

Every pool was filled with people, old and young, couples and singles, teens and toddlers, by the time we had cooked ourselves to the wet noodle stage and were ready to leave.  It wasn't until the next day, Tuesday the 8th of December, when we noticed how many restaurants and stores were closed, that we realized this was a 4-day holiday weekend.  December 8 is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and a national holiday in this country. 

 

Tuesday, 12-8:  We drove out of Villarica, headed northwest to Ruta Cinco and then north thru Temuco to the town of Victoria where we got off the Panamericana to drive west thru the wheat fields to Capitan Pastene, our all-time favorite place in Chile.  Founded by Italian colonists in 1904, this village has decided in the last 15 years or so to earn a place in the hearts of Chileans and tourists alike.  Prosciuto and pasta, both made the old-fashioned way, are their claim to fame.  And who could ask for anything more?     

 

Don Primo's prosciutto factory warehouse was our first destination, to show Larry the hanging hams.  In past visits, Richard and I have meandered into this dark but open building to marvel at the rows and rows of moldy-looking meat suspended from the ceiling ... but this time, an elegant Señora, dressed in colorful silks, joined us inside to offer guidance.  She was also guiding a couple from Santiago, and somehow, we did not get her real name ... but let's call her Sra. Primo, as she told us she did everything here, from salting the hams and hanging them to serving at the restaurant across the street.  She showed us the kitchen at the back of the building, which Richard and I had not seen before.  We did recognize the newly constructed back wing of this building, as we'd seen it under construction when we were here a year ago.  Don Primo's is expanding.

Our guide took us upstairs to the special area where the prosciutto hang in mesh bags that keep the insects away.  This upper area has the humidity the prosciutto need to cure properly.  At least, that is my interpretation of the Spanish with which Sra Primo regaled us! 

 

Maybe I was thinking we would take Larry to lunch at one of the other fabulous Capitan Pastene restaurants, but the silk-garbed Señora was so compelling, we simply followed her across the street to her restaurant.  http://www.donprimo.cl/

Our cabaña at L'Emiliano   http://pastenegourmet.com/Lemiliano/   was ready for us, but due to the holiday, the restaurant there was NOT serving dinner.  What a shock.  Let me just admit right here that there is practically nothing else to do in Capitan Pastene except eat and drink, and I had decided that L'Emiliano had the best pasta. 
We walked to the plaza and read the monuments about the original man, Capitan Pastene, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juan_Bautista_Pastene who served the Spanish in the 1500's.  We would have taken Larry to visit the flour mill and the old-fashioned carbon-arc movie theater ... but neither were open due to the holiday.  So, due to the holiday, we ate at a couple other places ... St Peter's Hotel for dinner, and Anita Covili's for lunch the next day.  Both very special treats.  Especially the plum and pork ravioli at Anita Covili.  Are you hungry yet?  Somehow we ate at Montecorone, too, where the proprietress, Mabel, is Richard's favorite Italian in all of Chile.  Was that two lunches in one day?  Good thing we only get there once a year. 


Wednesday, 12-9:  Thoroughly stuffed, we left for Concepcion, driving the first 25 km on potholed, eroded roads beaten by logging trucks.  Through Angol, Renaico and Nacimiento the traveling was smoother, and the last half hour or so we followed the Biobio River into San Pedro de la Paz and over the new bridge into Concepcion.  The old bridge was destroyed by that 8.8 earthquake Feb 27, 2010.   Do you remember?  When Richard got shaken out of bed at 3 am in his 14th floor apartment in the Centro Mayor Building in downtown Concepcion?  Yes.  Here we were, back at the scene.  We checked into the Hotel Araucana, where they've replaced all the windows that broke in the earthquake.  We walked Larry out to the site of the Centro Mayor, which has been razed and not yet rebuilt.  Then we went to a restaurant we knew from the past, Fina Estampa, and while we sat there drinking our pisco sours and talking about the earthquake time, didn't the whole building take to shaking for about 8 seconds?  Ai yi yi.  A woman a few tables away from us covered her eyes and cried.  Larry said a few of the kitchen staff ran downstairs.  But no dishes fell, no piscos were knocked over, and when the shaking stopped we asked the waiter, "How often does this happen here?"  Twice a month, he said with an uncertain grin. 

Onward!  Into the Valley of Uncertainty, as my brother Mark used to say.  More in the next post.  May your Holidaze be filled with warmth and loving kindness, and que les vayan super bien.

Awaiting Solstice in the Southern Hemisphere

Speaking of summer time (December 21 is the Summer Solstice here), let me admit right up front that I was wrong about Chile abandoning Daylight Time.  In fact, Chile decided to STAY ON Daylight Time year round.  Wikipedia: Time in Chile  What a good idea, right?  Some of you have already heard Richard quote one of his native American heroes:  "Why would you think you can cut the bottom off a blanket, sew it to the top, and get a longer blanket?" 

Okay, so much for corrections.  What a good time we have had these last weeks with our visiting buddy from Detroit, Larry Zilioli.  He sailed with Richard for a week.  A lot of rain ... but Larry says he prefers that to the heat of the sun.  See AbrazobyBaila.BlogSpot.com for a glimpse of their voyage.  The night before arriving home, they picked up a mooring buoy off the beach at Huelmo on Thursday, November 19, revisiting an ECO-farm

run by a young attorney Richard had met at the marina recently.  Mario, who wants to sail his own boat around Cape Horn, gave the sailors a ride to the wine store and hosted them for dinner.  He posts on a website called WorkAway, where you can sign up to work on his farm in exchange for room and board.  Hey, maybe when we get back to our own little farmette in Bellingham, we'll recruit some Workaway help for the summer.  WorkAway Website 

After the sailors made Abrazo fast to the dock again at the marina on Friday, they took the bus and colectivo up to Valle de Volcanes to our apartment.  But the captain had left his keys on the boat ... and I was in Puerto Varas for my book club meeting.  The grocery store near our apartment has a warm café where the guys patiently awaited my return.  I do love my Book Club here.  We share book talk, good food, and amiable conversation, mostly in English.  Sonia P., a muy amable Chilena
who lived in California and Texas for many years while her US husband was alive, dropped me off at the Santa Isabella.  Larry had just purchased a bag full of lemons there, plus confectioners' sugar so he could make Pisco Sours.  I remember when we encountered Pisco sours on our first trip to Chile.  We, too, searched for the recipe and ran many a liter of the mix through our blender.  Larry had to make do without proper measuring devices in our kitchen, but his first batch was delicious.  He's made steady improvements ever since.  If you are a Detroiter, you're maybe going to be invited to a Pisco party soon.

A day trip to Frutillar by bus ... a pizza feast at D'Allesandro's there ... and by Monday we waved goodbye as Larry marched off to get the plane to Puntas Arenas in the far south of Chile.  He'd booked himself a trekking expedition to the Torres del Paine National Park.  What an ordeal!  Hike for 8 to 10 hours a day on "The W Trail", where you stop for dinner and a tent at hostal-like stations along the way.  Larry is a trooper.  Torres del Paine is a place I am happy to visit virtually.  Wikipedia: Torres del Paine   


By the time he returned to Puerto Montt late at night on December 2, Richard and I had planned the Grand Tour that would eventually get Larry close to Santiago for his departure on December 14.  We started with Angelmo, right here in Pto Montt.  Shop-hopping from the woolen goods and alpaca products to the wooden wares and silver jewelry, we stopped in the caballero store to see silver spurs and wide-brimmed
huaso hats.  Giggling Chilena merchants demonstrated a wooden toy that pops an over-sized penis out at you when you pull on a clownish head. Yikes!

Our friend, Tere, took the afternoon off from her work at the Corte de Apelacion, to join us for lunch at the restaurant Pa' Mar Adentro, where they really know how to cook fish.  Pa' Mar Adentro


Friday, December 4, in our rented car, we drove south on Ruta 5- the Pan-American Highway - to Pargua, where the ferry carried us across Canal Chacao to the Island of Chiloe and the town of Ancud. 

Maybe this bridge will be built someday, and put the ferries out of business.  We saw some evidence that the pile-drivers had begun their work. 

Richard and I had never been to the Pacific side of the island of Chiloe, so we wandered on beautiful country roads to Pañihuil where the Magellan penguins hang out.  I drove that portion, and when the road ended abruptly on a wet beach with a wide stream of water running across to the sea, I didn't know what to do.  Pretty soon a man with a radio phone at his ear came over to wave me on across the stream.  If I was going to board one of the pongas for a half-hour cruise around the penguin islands, he was my reservation expert.  We opted to dine at one of the seaside restaurants, so he directed me to drive over the sand to the orange cones that marked the parking area. 

The penguins are on those small islets.  Restaurants, to the left, let you wonder, while you're eating, how fast the tide is coming in.  The pongas take people out around the islets every half hour or so. 

Back on the road, we drove to Castro, checked in to The Hotel Alerce Nativo, built long ago by the Jesuits, I believe.  While wandering the streets beyond the fish and vegetable market, Larry spotted a colorful restaurant on the waterside, with abundant rose and lily gardens on its street side.  "Travesia" ... gets great reviews on Trip Advisor, and we can highly recommend the ceviche mixta ... which included salmon, abalone, and merluza ... so fresh, we wondered if the limey-lemoney ceviche bath had just been applied to the fish when we put in our order!  The pisco sours here are really special, too.  No fluffy burden of egg white ... no diluting freight of shaved ice.  Just the beautiful marriage of chilled pisco and sugared limone in a pottery cup. 

Saturday, we drove south from Castro, still on Ruta Cinco.  There was a terrible moment when a stone from a passing truck whacked our windshield, leaving a thousand pointed star by the rearview mirror, and a crack that travelled all the way to the dashboard.  Richard and Larry both seemed secure that the windshield would hold, so we drove on.  R wanted to stop at the marina in Quinched, where we left flyers announcing our boat for sale.  You Tube re: Chiloe & Marina Quinched As you can see from the video, this is a place we might have to return to after the boat sells.  There's a lodge to stay in, a charter boat to take us out on the water, and a boatyard where Richard could probably get work with his corking mallet. 

Map shows the official southern terminus of Ruta Cinco, in Quellon.  The views of the volcanos and icefields of the mainland are spectacular from here. 

On the way back north, just before we boarded the ferry, we found the enchanting Parque Ecologico Mitological de Chiloe ... a place Richard and I had visited 10 years ago on our first trip to Chile.  La Señora who greeted us, screened us carefully.  It was important, she told us, that we enter the path thru the park with the hearts and eyes of children, and she needed our assurance that each of us could do so.  Otherwise, there was a prison cell made of tree branches standing at the ready.  She was very skeptical of Larry until he removed his dark glasses to show her his honest face.  Then we could proceed. 

The following text is from The Rough Guide's description of Chilote Mythology, special to this island.  Many of these mythological characters are portrayed in artistic depictions created by the old man who led us thru the Parque after La Señora had taken us past the displays of native vegetation.  The Basilisco, for instance, is a curvy tree branch painted with snakeskin, with its knobby "head" painted to resemble a rooster.  Beside him is a small house in which crude dolls represent the dead people in various stages of decay.  On a sign board nearby, the story of this creature is hand-printed in Spanish, which the old man reads to us out loud.  He guides us onward from one station to another to meet the mythological creatures.  In between stations there are treacherous bridges over crocodile-filled marshes, while spiders and other scary things swing from the closest bushes. 

We drove on back to Puerto Montt for the night, before continuing our journey the next day.  More in the next post.  Meanwhile, I'll leave you to read about these monsters.  What a good idea it is to project all the foul and wicked aspects of humanity into these characters, don't you think?  That way we can enjoy our families and friends with peace and humor and child-like pleasure.

Basilisco A snake with the head of a cockerel, the Basilisco turns people to stone with its gaze. At night, the Basilisco enters houses and sucks the breath from sleeping inhabitants, so that they waste away into shrivelled skeletons. The only way to be rid of it is to burn the house down.

Brujo This is the general term for a witch; in Chiloé, there are only male witches and their legendary cave is rumoured to be near the village of Quicaví. To become a witch, an individual must wash away baptism in a waterfall for forty days, assassinate a loved one, make a purse out of their skin in which to carry their book of spells and sign a pact with the devil in their own blood, stating when the evil one can claim their soul. Witches are capable of great mischief and can cause illness and death, even from afar.

Caleuche This ghostly ship glows in the fog, travels at great speeds both above and below the water, emitting beautiful music, carrying the witches to their next stop. Journeying through the archipelago, it’s crewed by shipwrecked sailors and fishermen who have perished at sea.

Fiura An ugly, squat woman with halitosis, she lives in the woods, clothed in moss. The coquettish Fiura bathes in waterfalls, where she seduces young men before driving them insane.

Invunche Stolen at birth by witches, and raised on the flesh of the dead and cats’ milk, the Invunche was transformed into a deformed monster with one leg crooked behind his back. He feeds on goats’ flesh and stands guard at the entrance to the legendary witches’ cave, the Cueva de Quicaví, grunting or emitting bloodcurdling screams. If you’re unlucky enough to spot him, you’ll be frozen to that spot forever.

Pincoya A fertility goddess of extraordinary beauty, Pincoya personifies the spirit of the ocean and is responsible for the abundance or scarcity of fish in the sea. She dances half-naked, draped in kelp, on the beaches or tops of waves. If she’s spotted facing the sea, the village will enjoy an ample supply of seafood. If she’s looking towards the land, there will be a shortage.

Trauco A deformed and ugly troll who dwells in the forest, Trauco dresses in ragged clothes and a conical cap and carries a stone axe or wooden club, a pahueldœn. His breath makes him irresistible to women, and he is blamed for all unexplained pregnancies on the island.

Voladora The witches’ messenger, the Voladora is a woman who transforms into a black bird by vomiting up her internal organs. The Voladora travels under the cover of night and can only be detected by her terrible cries, which bring bad luck. If the Voladora is unable to recover her innards at the end of the night, she is stuck in bird shape forever.

Read more: http://www.roughguides.com/destinations/south-america/chile/chiloe/chilote-mythology/#ixzz3ubWaRVN0

November: Still Early Spring

Not all that warm here, yet.  But the days are getting longer - daylight lasts till after 8 pm.  I like that part. 

 We left the USA on October 27th, after a delicious dinner at UmaiZushi in the Atlanta airport.  The Delta flight left at 11pm. EST, maybe 30 empty seats, mini-video screens for every seat with lots of games and movies.  I watched the one about David Foster Wallace ... "The End of the Tour."  And an intriguing Italian story of two brothers whose latent Cain and Abel complex rears up ugly between them.  Richard watched different movies; I bet he can't remember either one.  We donned blinders, dozed a bit, and pretty soon there were the snowy peaks of the Andes beneath us while the flight attendants served croissants and coffee.  Landed in Santiago at 9:30 am, Atlantic Standard Time.  Yes: Chile is in the same time zone as Halifax, Nova Scotia.  However, as of this year, 2015, Chile has decided not to bother with all that Spring-Forward/Fall-Back business.  Stick to Standard.

One more flight, and devoted friend Tere met us at the Puerto Montt airport with her car.  She delivered us to Hostal de Los Navegantes, across the road from the marina.  We were really happy to get horizontal, at last, for a little nap. 

 



A windy view from Hostal room - can't quite see Abrazo.

By Thursday, Richard had checked the boat and arranged for Abrazo to be hauled out for bottom-painting.  Liliana, new owner of the Hostal, drove us up to the Valle de Volcanes to show the apartment she had for rent, which we quickly decided was about right for us.  Liliana needed a few days to get it rental-ready, so we enjoyed Hostal life till the next Tuesday.  My Book Club friend, Sonia, took us on a tour of apartments and cabañas near the marina, but the only one that looked better than Liliana's was priced at $80 per night US ... a bit too steep for these retirees!  L's deal is $500/mo including lights, gas, water, internet AND tv.  It costs us each about $2.50/day to make the round trip between apartment and marina via bus and colectivo.  But I assure you, I don't have to go to the boat every day, and right now Richard is out sailing for a week to 10 days, so no bus fare to worry about there. 


Here's the view from my bedroom window today, looking to the west.  So far there are four clusters of these four-story condominiums, but behind me, acres are already cleared for more.   West is the direction to the Santa Isabel supermercado, about 5 blocks away, and to the bus stop, about 7 blocks.  Anywhere along that walk we might flag a colectivo for a ride down to the Jumbo, or to Centro, where the buses run the Costanera from Pelluco, where we lived last winter, to the marina in Chinquihue where Abrazo is moored when she's in town. 
Here's the view from my living room window, looking north.  The voices of school kids decorate the air waves three or four times a day.  And there might be a good walking trail in the park beyond the elementary school.  So far I've gotten plenty of exercise walking for groceries, and doing the 3 flights of stairs up to the apartment a few times a day.

Soon it will be warm enough around here to look for a park.

Our friend Larry Z. from Michigan, is here for a month of Chilean adventuring.  He's a Great Lakes sailor who navigated the Canadian Gulf Islands with Richard, aboard Abrazo, in the past ... and who circumnavigated Vancouver Island with Richard and his brother Bob back in 2008. 

We had a few days of visiting here while Larry helped Richard get the boat ready to go: inflating the Avon skiff, hanking the Genoa onto the forestay, provisioning for the 7-to-10-day sail they planned.  Richard had already painted the boat's bottom, replaced the zincs, re-attached the main sail to the mast, put in a new battery and restarted the Fridge-Freez. I'd helped by packing half the 20 kgs of briquetas nativo (Chilean presto logs) down from the Jumbo market, onto the Costanera bus, and out to the boat for the wood stove.

Saturday morning we all went to the Farmer's Market on Presidente Ibañez for the final load of food, including eggs.  The senora at R's favorite market stand picked out the biggest eggs for him.  She's glad to see this gringo back in town.  However, on the bus back to the boat he had to point out that the problem with those big eggs is they don't fit into his secure plastic egg crates.  Last time he had big eggs stored in cardboard egg crates they ended up broken all over the foc'sle.  Such is the sailor's life.  

Hi, Larry.

Put the Avon on the foredeck, and then strip off the Mainsail cover.

 

 

 

Pull the genoa out of its bag, lead the sheets to the cockpit.






 

All aboard.

 

No email on this trip, and they probably won't be in phone range much, so you'll have to wait till they get back for a voyage report.  There's been a lot of cold rain and brisk wind here in Puerto Montt since they left Saturday afternoon.  I hope the wood supply holds out. 

 

 



Dog Theory

2-27  Friday:  This is the last weekend of summer for many of our neighbors here, and the night time partying is active. 
I don't think dogs care what the people are doing, really; they simply take advantage of the "cover" of abundant human activity, to freely pursue their own interests. SHOUTING across the fence that divides them from the dogs next door, who always answer with their own shouts, seems to be the chief interest of Mao and Jaing here at my casita, especially during the hours of midnight thru 4 a.m. 

The problem, for me, is that the piece of fence through which the dogs communicate is only 10 feet from my bedroom window. 

Richard's inspiration for dealing with this problem is imaginative.  He wants to invent a voice-activated sprinkler system that would douse the dogs with water every time they barked through the fence.  The man who does the gardening and maintenance here, Hugo, has strung barbed wire along our side of the fence, but the dogs don't care about that.  A nice sharp, cold, high pressure squirt of water in the face - delivered every time they barked at the fence - might get to them in a Pavlovian way, though.  I think R's idea has possibilities.  How can we get the idea out there to the genius who might actually put it into production? 

In the meantime, I'm reading my depth psychology books about the emergent psyche, and especially about how your psyche will use any tool it can to get a message across to you.  Are the barking dogs a tool my psyche uses to try to tell me something? 
When fury threatens to choke me in the night, each time that volcanic eruption of BARK - SQUEAL - GROWL - HOWL - BARK - GROWL goes off outside my window, I use the psychic question to divert my rage.  What is this disturbance suggesting to me?  How does this outside event fit into my personal perception of reality?  What does it mean? 

So far, no brilliance illuminates the murk.  The idea that has surfaced is that these dogs need to have a social life.  They need to cavort and connect with each other, to sniff each other's asses and pee on each other's markings.  If they had some opportunity to run and play together in the daytime, might they sleep at night?  Unless, of course, disturbed by an actual intruder.  I mean ... aren't they disturbed by each other, on either side of that fence, partly because they're so hungry to have relations with each other?  Just an idea.  Richard and I could hire one or two of the local beach bums to take these dogs out on the beach every day and let them work out their social snarls in the surf.  How long would it take before we saw any difference in the night-time behavior of the dogs? 

All right.  Never mind.  Speaking of the beach, I took some photos today.  There are big fires in the uplands ... where forests and methane-laden boglands are burning.  Smoke has been dense; in fact, traffic-stopping in places.  These photos were taken in the mid-afternoon when the sun began to win out over the smoke.  This view is from the bottom of my street, where I catch the bus to town.  Note the pink roses blooming at left.  I wish I'd had the camera with me earlier this day, when my view of that beach was of a Shelf on the Edge of NOTHINGNESS.  No horizon in sight, due to the thick press of smoke-fog.

The horse doesn't care how close he comes to The Void. 

Just to the right of the above scene is the small bridge across the stream you see flowing out across the beach to the bay.  Here's a shot from inland, looking toward the bay from behind the bridge:

And then, below:  Looking back upstream, away from the beach - the buildings up there are connected with one of the university projects.  I think there must be an agrarian slant to their studies, as we regularly see men wearing huaso hats riding their horses on the beach, doing maneuvers that look like dressage.  Also, we occasionally see a lively parade of llama, sheep and goats following the creek out to the grasslands along the beach.  Sorry, I did not catch them with the camera.

 

 

Below:  That horse is standing now ... must be time to eat again, despite the haze of smoke. 

The Garden of The Forking Paths

Yes, the title is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges, written in 1941.  My new friend, Madame Bories, recommended the story one night recently when I was talking about my conundrum ... whether to move to Chile or not.  The Garden of the Forking Paths ... The title is an elaboration of a familiar icon in my life:  The Big Y.  Which way will you go?  Which fork will you choose?  There is The Road, and there is The Road Not Taken.  The Borges story itself is something more than that.  I have to read it again. 

Meanwhile, this little slice of paradise above the beach in Pelluco is too close to the jungle life for me.  The dogs who live here are constantly barking at the dogs who live next door.  And on weekends, starting usually on Thursday nights, the beachside discos pound and howl until 4 am, when the muffler-less motorcycles announce to all around they're roaring home. 

Mao is the Doberman, Jaing is the German shepherd.  When they get to barking, I can holler out my window, "Callate!" and / or "Andate a su casa!" ... and they will be quiet for a time. 

I really like a night of uninterrupted sleep.  Excuse me for that; but I need my peace and quiet!  My friend Vanessa, who lives a few blocks above me here, gave me a water pistol to help deal with the dogs.  She's using one to train her neighbor's dog to keep quiet.  But you know, the idea of getting out of bed at midnight to shoot a stream of water at those dogs is just not fitting in with my perception of the FORK in the GARDEN PATH that I want to take! 

Okay.  So that means I want a more serene place to live if I'm going to live in Chile.  Let me say, too, I want a somewhat more spacious place than this, so that I can invite you to come and visit.  Our friend Larry, from Michigan, was planning to visit us here in Pelluco in February until a medical emergency at home prevented him.  We'd prepared the small bedroom upstairs with sheets and blankets ... but the truth is, it is a very small space for a couple to share with a friend.  Maybe next year we'll rent something more amenable to hosting guests. 

Next year? ... that's one fork in the path. 

"Madame Bories" is Cristina of the Casa de Los Gansos, a woman I met thru the Puerto Varas English-Speaking Book Club.  She and her gringo husband live in Maryland for half the year ... and maybe I'll see her there this summer, who knows.  Maybe she and Will will travel to Bellingham?  We are both enjoying the current reading project:  Barbara Kingsolver's novel, Flight Behavior. 

The weather is turning ... summer here was quite short - everyone seems to agree to that.  This last week we've had cold mornings, with the sun not making any kind of thermal dent till after one pm.  Even then, the breezes are cool enough to make you want your jacket.  The little oak outside my bedroom window is turning colors ...  

So, we'll be flying home ... that is, to Bellingham ... soon. 

Home? 

Which fork of the garden path will we choose? 

Our new home in Pelluco

We moved on Christmas Eve when Tere called to let us know her current renters, students, had left early for their summer vacation.  She even sent her gardener in his truck to collect us!  We are a block above Pelluco's beach, and so far the noise of the late night discos is only troublesome once in a while.  Here, I have walked up from the bus stop on the beach road, the costanera:

(Some days there's a horse tethered on the grassy area at the edge of the beach. )
Now, looking up the street, there's a beautiful living fence, una cerca viva, of pittisporum that's just below Tere's gate.

    

I have a key that unlocks the small door beside the gate, and there is our casita, surrounded by flowers and trees.  The air is so good here ... no diesel fumes from the street.

The lower window is our bedroom; the upper is one of two small bedrooms on the second floor.  I've adopted this one for my oficina.  Life is good!

Mordeduro de perro

We walk a lot in this city of Puerto Montt, despite the convenience of the buses and collectivos.  From our place on Ramon Munita, there are many routes to explore; the ones that flow downhill on escaleras and stay away from big roads full of smelly cars and trucks have been popular with me.  Richard spotted this stairway when he was coming home on a collectivo one day.  These stairs connect the Mirador (overlook) on our Ramon Munita terrace, with the next terrace down.

I take the stairs down to the next terrace, and walk the residential street out towards those dark green trees that mark the Mirador on that level.  That far Mirador is on Avenida President Ibanez, the street we walk every Saturday to go to the market.  I started using this route when I walked to the Jumbo grocery store, or all the way downtown to the Costanera.  There are lots of beautiful viewpoints along the way.

I'd probably walked this route 6 or 7 times before the morning of Thursday, December 18, when I was on my way down to the Costanera to catch a bus out to the marina.  My plan was to take photos of the mast being pulled from Abrazo. But a vicious dog came snarling out of his hole and bit my leg.

What a shock!  I was one block into the traverse of the terrace, walking the left side of the street.  A panel truck was parked on the sidewalk ... making a narrow tunnel between the fenced yard on my left and the truck on my right.  At other times, in such a situation, I've simply veered for the street to avoid the narrow passage ... but this one seemed not so narrow, and I didn't think of avoiding it.  As soon as I entered that tunnel, a dog behind the fence went off, barking hard ... which did scare me, I admit.  So already my pheromones of fear were no doubt swarming all around me.  But that dog was behind his fence.  The next house, also fenced, had a small poodle-type dog who sticks his little head thru the rails of his fence and barks every bit as fiercely as his big neighbor.   This little one was familiar to me.  Richard and I had noticed him before and admired his ferocity, wondering if he really could slip thru those bars like he was threatening to do. 

Anyway, walking along I was chanting my dog mantra:  "Bueno perro, no estoy un problema para ti.   Solo voy por la calle.  Por favor, disculpa me."  Sweet calm voice ... insistent on my right to pass ... and WHAMMO:  two dogs I had not seen before came charging out of their garage, shouting and hollering at me in the most outraged of tones.  Shaggy, golden-colored, ferocious creatures.  I'm sure their pheromones had been set off by the barking of the first two dogs ...

So why didn't I peel the pack from my back and WHALLOP one of them to let them know I WAS NOT TO BE STOPPED?

Well, you know.  That's not my style.  Or at least it has not been my style before this. 

The two golden dogs barked hard, outraged at my presence in their street.  I mumbled my mantra, sounding like a total wuss, I'm sure.  I kept walking, passing them both, and thought for a moment that I'd made it through, when all of a sudden the larger of those bad boys chomped into the back of my left calf.  I guess he had to make his statement. 

Shit!  Now I'm walking away fast; I can feel the blood oozing down my leg.  I get across the street to the next block and pull the packet of sanitary Wet Ones from my back pack.  Swab, swab, press.  Please make it stop!  A woman in the street sees me, comes over, saying "Se mordio?"  She advised me to put pressure on the wound ... and then she pointed out that the larger wound was at the back of my calf ... when I was still focused on the smaller one in front.  Ai yi yi. 

So, I'm swabbing away with my Wet Ones there on the corner, and my friendly advisor has gone back over to her corner of the street when a big German Shepherd-type dog starts coming towards me.  Oh, Goddess Mia, I'm thinking.  The smell of blood has attracted another predator. Meanwhile another mujer is walking down the street toward me.  She saw that German Shepherd and immediately took a rock out of her pocket to throw at him. 

Ah So!  Keep rocks in your pocket on this street.  Okay, noted. 

This lovely woman invited me to come back to her house for clean up.  She took my arm and led me back the way I'd come.  The two golden-haired monsters hunkered in their open garage, licking themselves quietly as we walked the opposite side of the street.  While we walked, she told me that that same dog had bitten a man here in the street the day before.  She said she's always worried when her grandchildren visit - because the owners of that dog just don't care.

In her home, she directed me to sit on the couch.  I had my wad of bloody Wet Ones in one hand, while I swabbed my leg with a new Wet One, hoping not to stain the rug or the couch.  My patroness brought a small bottle of dark liquid, with a couple of cotton balls.  More than Mercurochrome, I think, this stuff seemed to stop the bleeding at last.  She took my handful of used swabs and directed me to use the bathroom to wash my hands.  I told her I would walk to the main street and catch a collectivo for home.

"Estas un angel," I said, "Muchas gracias."  She seemed quite pleased with my words, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek, which I returned.

Onward.  By the time I reached the main street, I'd decided it would be sensible to go for some professional medical attention.  Richard would be disappointed that I was not there with the camera to capture the pulling of the mast ... but maybe a proper cleaning and dressing was more important?  I knew the Clinica Puerto Montt was over yonder near the big Wallmart grocery store, so I caught a bus headed that way.

The women in the street had given me the vocabulary I needed:  se murdio ... un mordedura de perro ... so I could make my needs known simply enough at the Clinica, where a security guard led me through interior doors and hallways to the Urgencia department.  You have to put up some money right at first, and I had just enough cash to do it:  30.000 CLP or $50 dollars US.  I would have preferred to use my credit card, but the machine at the cashier's desk just wouldn't work.  No importa.  The cashier assured me that we would simply go to the main cashier when we knew what the whole cost would be, and use the credit card there.  OKay!

The young woman who called me in to the medical office made a funny little smirk to her co-workers before showing me in to an examination room:  She knew some English, and she would probably have to use it with this white-haired extranjera!  Her first question to me was whether I could speak Spanish, and when I answered that I could, a little, she seemed much more comfortable.  I had a hard time making out her efforts at English, but we got along.

And then came an assortment of people, one by one, to look at my punctured calf and deliver their judgments about what should be done.  At least four people looked at my leg  ... I don't know if any of them were doctors ... but finally a very young woman in a white jacket and a man of maybe thirty years in blue scrubs seemed to come to agreement about my treatment:  the wounds were very deep, so they did not want to close them, because of the danger of abscess.  Better to clean them, cover them, and re-dress them every 48 hours, so the wounds could heal from within.  The man in blue delivered this in perfect English after his Spanish provoked a very puzzled look from me.  Then the young woman in white told me, in Spanish, what would happen next:  a nurse will come in to clean, anesthetize, and dress the wounds.  She will give the first of five rabies shots.  She will give me a prescription for antibiotics. Okay.  And so it went.  The nurse was perfectly competent and thorough.  She made sure I understood not to get the dressing wet, and to come back in two days for another dressing.

Additional charges brought the total to 58.000 CLP for today's treatment.  Then another 19.000 CLP for the antibiotics.  Redressings are running about 8.000 CLP each.  I am certain that the people in the original emergency room experience told me that I could go anywhere to get the next dressings, and rabies shots.  However, each time I've tried to go to General Medical at different clinics, I've been sent along to the Emergency area.

Now, December 28, I've had a couple of redressings and the second rabies shot.  The last nurse, on Friday, removed the bandages and said, "Es fea, pero no es infectada."   Ugly, but not infected.  She told me to wait till Tuesday for the next re-dressing ... so we'll see how that goes.  I had to buy a roll of tape because the various nurses who do these dressings have very economical ideas about how little tape is necessary to keep a bandage secured to a round calf muscle!  Rabies shots on the next three Mondays will complete that part of the treatment.  And maybe by the end of January I'll be cleared to enjoy a hot tub soak.

Meanwhile, Richard fantasizes about going back down those stairs to the street where the vicious dogs live, with vengeance in his heart. ... What good might that do?  He could possibly eliminate the dog that bit me, I suppose.  Maybe that would save the grandchildren of the woman who helped me.  Maybe not.  It's something to ponder.  

Richard suggests that my tendency to walk forth "wearing rose-colored glasses" is being challenged by the Cosmos. My Chilean friend, Viviana, agrees.  She says I must always think of myself as a target. Sheesh!  No me gusta, esa.  But I will be more particular about where I walk.

Que les vayan bien, amigos y familia.  Y espero que los perros de su vecindario no necesitan que morder.