Arriving late afternoon on the Sunday after Christmas, in Tirúa, Chile, was not the wisest idea. Any signs of life in this small town were far and few. The strolling stray dogs were of course the exception. They were never far nor few. I had arrived with an appetite and although it seemed that everything was closed, I noticed a small restaurant and ventured inside. A thin weathered man, wearing jeans, silver belt, and cowboy boots sat stoically at a table and barely acknowledged me. My inquiry about lunch elicited an inaudible response. A woman then came out and perfunctorily took my order. I had previously been met with considerable friendliness in Chile and was surprised by their reticence. But, I had planned on staying in this town, at least a night, and was hoping they might have a few ideas.
When I finished my meal, I forged ahead and introduced myself. Their names were Rosita and Miguel. I presumed them to be husband and wife. After explaining my situation, Rosita’s manner changed. She warmed up and carefully considered all the lodging options. Miguel, showing markedly more signs of life, without being asked, stepped out to accompany me. But all the places she had suggested were closed for the holiday weekend. He took me to one more spot, apparently the last resort. The owner brought me to the back of his large store where he lived and had a spare room. The room was disheveled and the overall atmosphere gloomy. The man may have noticed my lack of enthusiasm and added that the sheets on the unmade bed would be changed. This windowless chamber was off the living room where his elderly mother, wrapped in a shawl, sat in a rocking chair watching TV. It was difficult to keep thoughts of the Bates Motel at bay. I graciously declined the offer. Miguel didn’t seem surprised.
I decided it was best if I continued on to the next town, only 10 kms away where there was certainly a greater number of accommodations. Miguel wasn’t sure if the buses were running so I thought I’d catch a ride, a common practice in Chile. With my bag at his side, he stopped the few cars driving by, not only to assess their destination but the occupants’ demeanor as well. For various reasons none were suitable. Miguel gestured that I stand and wait on the curb as he continued seeking my safe passage. To me, he barely uttered a word. Despite my assurances that I would be fine on my own, he stayed during an inevitable wait. Finally a bus did come and Miguel handled the loading of my bag. I thanked him profusely. He nodded, turned, and walked away.

While hiking up to an overnight “refugio”(hiker’s lodge) in Torres del Paine, Chile, anyone I encountered was equipped with trekking poles. (On at least one occasion, in a crowded boat, my proximity to these devices, irresponsibly packed-pointy end up and threatening the well being of my eyes, prompted me to suggest to the offending owner a safer way of stowing them in her pack-pointy end down. My suggestion was met with an icy glare.) I rued leaving my set at home.
Within a short time a man came striding toward me, a beautiful, natural, wooden walking stick in hand. Suddenly, I recalled the days before the metallic poles were ubiquitous. One would arrive at a trail, look for a suitable fallen branch to use as a walking stick, and if the stick had been of particular merit, perhaps leave it at the trailhead for another. Somehow all this had slipped my mind, but I immediately set out in hopes of finding one of my own. After a few trials I found it. The height, width and weight were perfect. The stick helped me navigate across streams, manage steep inclines, and maneuver on rocky paths. When I arrived at the lodge that evening I brought it in as a trusted friend. The following day it proved equally invaluable, giving me leverage against gale force winds.
Returning to base I left it for another, hoping it’s fine use would carry on.

While traveling in Chile, I was told of anti-American sentiments. I do not doubt that such feelings exist, but I never experienced it first-hand. When I was asked (this usually occurred immediately), where do I come from? I never lied.
I had been told that those who smile at me, are just pretending to be nice. Perhaps this is so. But with the endless kindnesses I have been shown, including people going out of their way to assist me and befriend me, I have faith in their sincerity. Any prejudice that may have been, during these one to one encounters, seemingly dissolved.