Dec 22-25  DAYS 34-37
While waiting for the bus in Temuco for the seaside town of Puerto Saavedra, a woman, Judith, and I began speaking. Learning I was from New York, she told me her brother had just returned from Harvard. They lived in Nuevo Imperial. It was en route to my destination, she invited me to her home, and I couldn’t refuse. Thus I met Diego, who spoke English flawlessly, an autodidact. Seven months prior he had written letters seeking an opportunity to study dentistry for a semester at the school of his dreams. His tenacity and gumption paid off. He had just passed his final exams, and was now a dentist-quite an accomplishment for someone only twenty-three. Judith failed to mention our encounter and my showing up in his living room was a surprise.

I spent the afternoon meeting the other family members and Diego gave me a guided walking tour of the town. Edith, the mother, demonstrated how to properly prepare my new gourd with mate tea and before I left, filled a jar with the leaves to take with me. They invited me to spend Christmas with them. It was a hard offer to decline.

I arrived in Puerto Saavedra at the pink hued hour before sunset.

The sleepy beach town with a few shops offering provisions, cabanas and a restaurant was all I needed for a memorable and delightful stay. I met Devora that first evening who ran the only dining option in the immediate area. When I inquired when it was open, she replied,”When I’m here.” Her’s was not the only business adhering to similar guidelines.

Days were spent reading, writing, strolling along the shore, and getting to know the residents. This included an extremely persistent cat seeking and finding affection.

Dec 21-22 DAYS 33-34

Temuco is known as a working class city with a somewhat gritty feel, but I enjoyed its thriving pulse and lack of tourists. The boisterous central market was a place to finally find a gourd for drinking mate tea with the requisite bombilla(drinking straw). The tea has a bitter, acquired taste, but there are those who find it pleasant-even addictive-to drink.  And many swear by the healthful properties the tea allegedly possesses. It is unlikely I will use the gourd often, it requires a seemingly endless supply of hot water for refilling, but I couldn’t resist.

Pastel de choclo(my lunch for the day), a baked dish of sweet corn meal chicken, meat and olives, seafood stew and other regional specialities were offered in the small market restaurants. I ate well.
As I strolled along, the streets were busy with holiday shoppers, and gift wrappers, vendors of cherries, strawberries and other local produce, lottery tickets, and a multitude of wares.

Stray dogs are a part of Chilean life and to see them strolling or more likely sleeping in the streets while often resting their heads on the curb was no different here. A Chilean friend told me,” Argentina has the tango, we have our dogs.”

I inquired about buses to Puerto Saavedra and was met with strange looks. It was in the opinion of at least one ticket seller, an ugly place with nothing to do, but I wasn’t convinced he had been there.

Dec 21 DAY 33 Pucón

Chile has extraordinary geographic diversity and those who come to this land for adrenaline producing excitement can find it in Pucón. It’s a pretty town on Lake Villarrica, boasting black sand beaches and a snow capped volcano sharing the same name. Flocks come to climb the volcano with ice gear,engage in white water rafting, kayaking, trekking; many other activities are available too. Shops offering such excursions and brand-name gear line the streets. Restaurants are varied and a few offer fine cuisine.

After saying goodbye to the family from Idaho, I found a wonderful small inn, Sophia Hostal and settled in. It’s run by a very kind older couple who immediately made me feel at home. The next day, while walking around town, I met Gina, a Mapuche woman, one of Chile’s indigenous tribes. She works in an information agency and offered me extensive travel ideas. Gina had two dreams in her life: one to visit Israel, the other to visit Venice. Her time in Israel left her fluent in Hebrew and has since converted to Judaism. I noted her speaking to Israeli tourists with ease, but left forgetting to ask if she’s made it yet to Venice.

Pucón is a place many people love, but the touristy feel was not what I came to Chile for. No doubt, with more time and effort I might have found something closer to what I was looking for, but after considering my options and a long stroll, I decided to head on.

To get off the well trodden circuit I took a bus to Temuco.

Dec 20 DAY 32 Bariloche to San Martin de los Andes to Pucón

When all decisions lie on one’s own shoulders and the options are many, choosing the next destination can be challenging. For everything that one opts to do and see, there is all the rest that remains. It can be particularly difficult when you speak with others and listen to their enthusiasm, unknowing if your tastes and opinions will be the same.
But ultimately a choice needs to be made.

And so, I went to the bus station in Bariloche around 10am, prepared to face numerous companies having their own schedules, prices, availability and quality with no central information post to guide one through the array. Thus, going from booth to booth and booth to booth, I learned that all buses to Chile had already left that morning with departures as early as 7am. The only bus available that day was leaving for San Martin de los Andes in an hour. I bought a ticket. Unknowingly, I purchased the scenic route that passes through seven lakes. The ride provided beautiful vistas along winding roads and the German woman, seated next to me, and I were happy to speak together in Spanish. We passed a peaceful, pleasant trip except for the driver and his relief driver who spoke at high volumes, virtually non-stop. Sitting in the front row of the bus was not wise, particularly when a bald pate was at times my only view.

I arrived in San Martin about 3pm and went directly to the bus companies only to learn that all buses toward Chile were sold out for the next two days.

The region has a long standing history of thumbing rides and it is not uncommon to see people standing by the side of the roads. I thought I would give it a try.

Dorys picked me up after a mere five minutes, on the way to her mom’s for the holidays. She was hoping to retire soon and travel with her free time. Her dream was to see New York, but nervous about not speaking English, was relieved to hear that many speak her tongue. We exchanged contacts and where the road forked we hugged and said goodbye.

My wait again was short. I pickup truck pulled over and invited me to ride in the back. I couldn’t resist. The plains offered a beautiful view while volcanoes loomed in the distance. But with the chance of rain, the passengers kindly found room for me inside the cab. Thus, I met a delightful family of five, from Idaho, who own a kayak school in Pucón, and were heading to their home. The parents and I spoke of solid values and the importance of good educational systems. It was clear they were succeeding in raising their three young children well. We all, including a young woman who works for them, passed through customs quickly and drove back into Chile toward the town of Pucón.

It was a most pleasurable day.

Dec 18-19 DAYS 30-31 El Boson and Bariloche
My host, Jeff, prepared an unexpectedly good pizza and kindly packed some up for me to take on the road. I said my farewells with plans to contact Carlos’ daughter who lives a few miles from my home. Leaving the estancia with one of the caretakers to Esquel, a town where I could catch a bus to Bariloche, I began wondering if heading into Argentina had in fact been wise. Despite the beauty of the open landscape of Argentina I was missing the verdant lush terrain I had left behind. My indecision as to whether it was better to return to Chile directly or continue on, gnawed at me the next few days.

El Bolson is a town known for its, “hippie population” and alternative way of life, I saw it as a layover before heading into the lake region and Bariloche. I arrived in the evening at the Hostel Barda Negra, a beautifully crafted wood building constructed by the owners,two brothers. It stands a few kilometers from town up a steep dirt road and I discovered upon arrival that any provisions I had hoped to buy were back down at the bottom. And so off I went.
Many people are drawn to the area for rock climbing or hiking and a delightful young Swiss couple, staying at the hostel, were there to do both. We listened that evening to another couple, coming from a land I hold dear, describe the pervasive dishonesty of their countrymen. They were traveling around the world, and instead of putting their home in a good light, they preferred to exaggerate its ills.
Tremendous winds that night awoke each of us, but I felt rested in the morning. Before departing I spoke to my host about Paul Auster and Rock and Roll. I then took a bus to Bariloche, a gateway for tourists and travelers who pass between Argentina and Chile, with a charm of its own. Strolling around was pleasant, if one didn’t mind combating the wind. Nonetheless, many residents were in the throes of their holiday shopping. I spent a few hours chatting with a resident in a cafe about life in our respective countries, discovering the many similarities, while indulging in a decadent multi-tiered creation of pastry, dulce de leche and whipped cream.

My options as to where to go next were virtually endless and it was tough to choose, but I decided to get back to Chile.

Dec 17 DAY 29 Estancia el Palenque,
By chance, the American owner of Fundo los Leones, Jeff, was there for a visit and leaving the next day toward a route I had planned to take. He was traveling with his friend/associate Carlos, from Buenos Aires and they graciously offered me to join them.

We left Fondo los Leones on a dirt and gravel road, took a ferry that took us alone across a short waterway, and drove to the Carretera Austral that was in the process of being paved, undoubtedly bringing considerable change to the region. We passed turquoise rivers, waterfalls, lush vegetation, abundant wildflowers of yellow, violet, pink and white,and simple wooden homes where farmers lived and cows and horses grazed nearby. My original intention of being let off in a speck of a town, to take a sparsely traveled road, in hopes of securing a ride was becoming less appealing. Traveling with certainty to an area that assured an easier passage to the lake region, my next destination, seemed to be the more prudent option. However, this change of plans would entail leaving Chile and entering Argentina, which turned out to be more problematic and expensive than I had imagined. Jeff and Carlos patiently assisted me in getting the proper papers and after a few hours delay we were heading towards Jeff’s expansive ranch. It was originally a homestead for Argentinian pioneers in the 1930’s, where he has since built a lodge catering to fisherman and where I would spend the night. The Andes are near and the land is shared with meandering rivers.

Before he and Jeff set off to their respective cabins, Carlos built a blazing fire to combat the chill of the lodge I was staying in. The winds howled outside. I read a short while, met a sweet black and white dog, one of the caretakers nine, before heading to bed.

Dec 14-16 DAYS 26-28 Raul Marin Balmaceda
I boarded the ferry that left from Quellon around midnight. The ticket reserves you a seat in a comfortable but non-reclining arm chair for a voyage of 13 hours which travels through the night. Fortunately, there was a small area, separated by a railing and overlooking the bow, where people could lay out sleeping bags. Few voyagers used it so there was ample room for me; I settled in. A few times I woke up to feel the ship rock strongly back and forth, but overall I had a long and comfortable sleep.
By 1pm we pulled up to a ramp at a small beach where the ferry unloaded its passengers, goods and vehicles before continuing further south. My animated and gregarious hosts Mauricio and Mery, from Fundo los Leones, were there to pick me up. This tiny town is just beginning to be accessible by land but for years it was an isolated idyll of few inhabitants except for the abundant wildlife. The cabins at the lodge overlook a picturesque bay and guests are treated to delicious and homemade meals prepared by my hosts, most of which comes from local sources including their garden.
It was a time for me to relax, enjoy a leisurely horseback ride by the waters edge with their son Felipe, nervous about his college entrance exams, see an array of different birds including hummingbirds which darted about, and take a walk on a marked path through a dense wood with multiple stunning overlooks of the waters along the way.

The other guests included a woman from Belgium and her adopted adult son from Chile who competes professionally in cycling events. They had only met five years prior and were taking time to travel south along the rugged and scenic Carretera Austral. Their meeting and decision to become a family was clearly enriching both of their lives. Despite our brief time together it was a memorable encounter.

After three days and nights at this peaceful lodge, it was time to say goodbye.

Dec 13 DAY 25 QUELLON
My destination for that evening was Quellon to catch a boat for Raul Marin Balmaceda at 2am. I said good-bye to Bettina and Matthias and wished them well. I still had time to enjoy some time in Cucao and headed to the Parque Nacional Chiloé for an easy stroll along a path naming the impossibly diverse flora. En route, I met a couple, he from Chile, she from Lithuania who when they met did not have a common language and communicated by drawing pictures. Ten years later they were chatting freely in Spanish and celebrating her birthday that day. Their love for each other was palpable. We continued together to an Artesanal hut where handmade baskets and wooden spoons were made and sold by a ninety-seven year old man and his daughter of an uncertain age.
Leaving the park I caught a bus to Chonchi for a transfer point to Quellon. A few kilometers before Chonchi I passed what looked like a rodeo. My curiosity was piqued. I made some inquiries in town, secured a seat on the 9:10pm to Quellon, dropped off my bags at the bus station and took a taxi back to the event I had seen. It was 6pm. The participants outnumbered the spectators by roughly five to one. Not having had lunch I headed to a huge, nearly empty canteen where a few locals were drinking beer while musicians and crew prepared for that evening’s fiesta. Sitting, enjoying my meal, men would walk by wearing riding attire of knee high boots, wide rimmed hats, black pants and ponchos; their large circular spurs upon contact with the wooden floor would sing. I walked a short distance to the arena and passed the participants practicing fancy side steps, tight turns, short stops, and quick starts with their gorgeous, gleaming mounts.
There was a short introductory ceremony. The riders, all men, were paired and often wearing the same patterned poncho. A cow, poked to be properly agitated, was prodded into the ring. The event required the two riders to guide the cow around the outskirts of the enclosed area, make it turn, stop, then continue to the point where the task began. It wasn’t particularly brutal, but I’m not sure it was entirely humane. To stop the cow a horse was driven hard into its body sometimes having one or both drop to their knees. Some riders made it look remarkably easy; some kept a calm composure, others shouted and until others failed I hadn’t fully appreciated the coordinated efforts necessary to accomplish the task well.
The event had about twenty different teams, of which I saw about fifteen, and by 8:30, I thought it best to leave.

There was no public transportation in sight but I saw a man standing by the side of the road. Someone he knew stopped and soon I was getting a ride to the bus station with time to spare.

Dec 12 DAY 24 CUCAO

We headed south west to the Pacific coastal town of Cucao and found some charming cabanas for rent in the woods. Soon after, Bettina and I were arranging to take some horses out with a guide. In the past, I have found it wiser not to mention I have experience riding because the expertise one claims to have seems to be directly proportional to the difficulty or orneriness of the horse one is given. Thus, I mentioned my experience was limited and was directed to a docile looking bay colored horse.

The landscape was breathtaking. Our ride took us across dunes aglow with brilliant yellow flowers, the ubiquitous nalcas (a relative to the rhubarb plant with enormous elephant ear shaped leaves on long stems), a wide dark blue river to our left and the turquoise Pacific ocean before us. Sheep and horses grazed or passed by. It was a moment of serene and overwhelming beauty. However, as we arrived on the long, flat beach the demeanor of my horse changed. I was content to do some galloping on this pristine strip of sand between land and sea but I could feel his strength and excitement mounting; soon we were in a flat out run and he didn’t indicate any desire to slow down. It took consistent determination on my side, steering him to some deeper sand, and considerable effort to bring him to a halt. When I expressed my concern to the guide, he said that this horse wasn’t usually ridden by the tourists. At this point I was happy to switch horses and my return back along the beach required markedly less effort. So much for feigning ignorance in hopes of having an easy ride.

The evening was spent walking toward the legend filled “muelle de las almas” or “pier of the souls” (an aptly named wooden structure built at the edge of a hill overlooking the sea) on a rocky undulating path with a gate, which requires a key. A farmer obliges by giving it to you for a small fee. The path follows verdant steep hills dotted with sheep offering spectacular views. At one point it seemed reaching the destination before nightfall was not feasible. But, stopping a few kilometers before the end prompted a local on horseback to ride up to Matthias and me (Bettina was resting a swollen ankle back in the car) urging us with confidence to continue on. His assessment was correct. We made it to the pier before sunset; the sight before us of sky, land and sea with streaks of sunlight emanating from the clouds took our breaths away.

Driving back in the dark we spotted a white owl perched on a road post awaiting our approach. As we neared, it flew off to another post further down the road, again to await us, then flew off into the night.

Dec 11 DAY 23 Isla Mechuque

With plans thwarted for a visit to Isla Mechuque the two previous days, Mirella organized a boat trip for Bettina, Matthias (my new traveling companions) and me, and an American family, the daughter just finishing up her studies in Chile, who came the night before.

We were to set off around 9am, travel to the island(about 45 minutes away) and return after a short visit of around an hour and one-half. What we had not yet fully understood is that our passage was an arrangement of a slightly dubious nature. Three boats had been hired to take food and everything necessary to entertain fifty people for a corporate party on the isla. And our small group was an under the table arrangement between Mirella and the captain.

We set off to discover what we could in a short time and I wandered off to find an unattended museum with artifacts from life on the isla including the first TV. A photo on the wall resembled a man I had seen outside, taken perhaps thirty years prior. This collection was his labor of love.

I met up with the American family, in a woman’s home and one of the isla’s few restaurants. We had tea not far from an assortment of leaves being prepared for skin balms that were to be prepared and sold. The certificate on the wall clearly legitimatized all transactions. Heading back to the dock for the scheduled departure, I learned of the first delay.

Not far from the dock, a woman was tending to her garden and I stopped to admire it. We chatted briefly before she invited me in for some coffee. Iris had come to this island about sixty years before to teach at the school, met her husband and stayed. The life never suited her but crossword puzzles and tending to her flowers brought joy to her days. I saw Bettina and Matthias passing by and soon we were all sitting at a table with bread and honey and Iris’s husband Luis, speaking of the delinquency and danger present in the cities and clearly nostalgic for life under Pinochet. Iris’s place had changed with her husband’s arrival, she did not sit with us at the table, but a short distance away. But the harshness of their outlook did not mar a softer inner core. Upon our departure we were presented with gifts from the garden, fresh herbs, potatoes and a peony which I previously confessed to Iris to be my favorite.

It soon became clear that our leaving the island was inextricably entwined with the corporate party which would be going on until 4pm or so.

With now more time, my friends and I set off in search for lunch.

We were directed to a new wooden structure that sat high on a small hill. It was virtually bare but a woman soon presented herself and offered her only fare, a “centolla.” I wasn’t sure what we would be eating but soon she was sitting with us cutting up into manageable morsels, what resembled a spiny king crab. The meat was sweet and delectable. Our delayed departure ultimately yielded a fine affair.

With some logistics to take care of my friends and I returned to Castro for the night.