Deeper into Chile

Alexis was an enigma to me at first. He was 44 and from Southern Chile and not quite on vacation. He was in Vina del Mar for an indefinite period of time. Over three days we talked much about the beauty of Southern Chile. At night we would invite him to go out with us but he was busy doing other things and would roll in around 5 or 6 in the morning, sober. On my last night in Vina he told me he wanted to take me out for a beer. At around 1 in the morning he invited me to go out with a Mexican and an American guy who were both students in Santiago. We walked into one bar but it was too expensive. Then Alexis suggested we go to the casino. I have never been to a casino but it was like what I imagined it to be. Men in suits and beautiful women in cocktail dresses looking for a papi. Alexis went to the black jack table and that was the last we would see of him for the night. At 2, the three of us went back to the hostel and drank a few beers. Alexis came in at 7 that morning. He said he did better than the night before.

That day I rode down Ruta 5 and passed thousands of people making pilgrimage to the church at Casblanca, the most famous church in Chile for the Day of the Virgin on December 8^th. Vendors had already set up camp for the night and the pilgrims would come by the thousands from all of Chile to camp for the night and then celebrate on Saturday. I bought peaches and tomatoes from a local stand and spoke with the man about the holiday and about the ocean nearby. I rode for another 40km and camped in a opening along a farm.

That next day I rode to the ocean in Algarrobo and it was beautiful and the homes were grand. I ate a sandwich on the beach and then briefly visted Paublo Neruda’s home. Even though he was a communist, they asked me for money and I apologized for trespassing and left quickly. I rode past some large industrial towns and looked for a place to camp among some mansions in Rocas de Santo Domingo. Nothing, although there was a hotel for $130. I continued on and thought I could camp on the ocean at Las Brisas. Armed guards turned me back and said the entrance to the ocean was private. I found an opening in a fence to an abandoned dirt road, now covered in meadow, and camped for the night.

The next morning I bought strawberries from a woman on the road in San Pedro, the frutilla capital of Chile, and ate the kilo in a matter of minutes. Climbing began soon after and so did attacks from large horseflies. I rode on to Cruce Las Aranas and ate a grilled meat, egg, and garlic sandwich with tea and the man wore a white mask as he cooked and never took it down and I never saw his face. He told me there was good camping on a lake in Punta Verde so I rode there and on my way drank beer with a family as they ate dinner on the porch of their small tienda. The man had left Santiago for a more simple life and offered me his yard to camp. I decided to ride on and found a campground on the lake.

The next morning I rode in hills to San Fernando and explored the town by bicycle and stopped by a local tourist information office where Sole, a very intelligent woman with an immense knowledge of the culture and geography and history of Chile, told me I should camp at her friend’s home in Puente Negro, and I rode to Puente Negro as the sun set on the cherries and vineyards. It was Tania’s husband’s 70^th birthday and we ate cake and torts and drank wine and a mixture of red wine an cola and I was given a large plate of blueberries and cherries for my tent. A man who was there to repair the swimming pool joined us for cake and then in the morning for tea and more cake for breakfast. The stars during the night glowed as if proximate and the air was cool yet warmed early in the morning. Tania’s husband had survived Santiago and the twenty to thirty coffees he drank per day and the heart attack it gave him. It was his second matrimony and he had three daughters and one son with Tania. Tania had built the log home herself with the help of friends. She too had experienced the city but could not take it. She and her husband had been in the home for 5 years. Diego, their son, was a promising rock star but he, too, preferred the town to the city. No one could return to the big city. I picked some cherries from the family’s tree and rode 18km of tough, steep rippio before pavement began. I did exercises in a local playground and then hit Ruta 5 where I rode to Curico and wandered its packed streets. It was as wealthy as Vina Del Mar but there were no tourists. It was Latin and relaxed and in want of nothing.