Kindness of Strangers

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Let me begin by saying that, in general, we’ve had really good luck with accommodations on this trip. Some of these places were discovered through concerted effort, others through dumb luck. The Fairy Chimney, our cave hotel in Cappadocia, was probably the coolest place we’ve ever stayed, and we never would have never found it without hours of complicated cross-checking between Trip Advisor and Lonely Planet. Ubud Bungalows made our time in Bali truly memorable, and we ended up there because they were the only ones who responded to seven email inquiries I made just hours before we arrived in town. We were treated like family at the Jaipur Inn, which was a shot in the dark. Admittedly, we often spend entirely too much time selecting accommodations, but the end result has been that we haven’t stayed anywhere truly terrible, which I consider to be a minor miracle after six months of traveling.

But ever since we arrived in South America, our luck has hit a rough patch. Our unintended “homestay” in Easter Island was a rip-off; our reservation was mixed-up in Santiago; and things ended poorly in Mendoza. Our situation seemed to be looking up when we booked a room at Casa de los Angelitos in Buenos Aires, a graceful mansion in a residential neighborhood geared towards long-term travelers. We had air conditioning and excellent cable TV (read: I watched old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 at noon and 5 pm most days) in a quiet gable room. Our hosts were a kind, elderly couple, and we immediately formed relationships with the handful of other interesting guests, most of whom were also on extended travel and staying at the house more than a month, lending to an unhurried pace of life. It was the closest I’ve come to feeling like I was at Ubud Bungalows again, except Think Tank sessions in the pool were swapped for lazy afternoons of Argentine wine drinking on the patio. Life was sweet.

We were so happy with our situation, in fact, that within days of our arrival we decided we wanted to extend our stay from nine days to three weeks. Our room was booked by another guest for a seven-day period in the middle of that time, but we were invited to return afterwards for a second stay. We immediately snatched up the room and began planning a trip to Uruguay to fill the week, which lies only an hour from Buenos Aires by ferry. We purchased our expensive (and nonrefundable) tickets to Colonia on the Buquebus. Plans were made with our newfound friends for our jubilant return. It was the perfect idea.

As our last night approached, we were informed that a “clerical error” had been made, and that we would be shuffled out of our room a day early to another that lacked air conditioning. “No problem,” we said, “we can roll with the punches.” When the new guests arrived who were taking over “our” room, a young couple from Santa Barbara who were embarking on a three-month trip around South America, they expressed excitement at staying in Buenos Aires for the next two weeks. Maikael and I exchanged a nervous glance. We were returning to that same room in a week. Perhaps they were moving to another room? Maikael immediately approached the owner, who assured us that they were only confirmed for a week and that the room was definitely ours.

We relaxed, deciding we’d spend our last evening hanging out with our friends and finalizing our plans for Uruguay. For days we had been trying to make reservations, but no one was answering their phone. (Seriously: no one in the entire country answered their phone for two full days. Countless phone numbers also didn’t function, and most emails were returned as undeliverable.) At 8 pm the owner strolled by the table, leaned over to Maikael, and whispered, “There’s been a ‘modification’ to your reservation.” Maikael slinked off unnoticed, returning a few minutes later to pull me to our room. We had just been informed that, due to another “clerical error,” the couple had, indeed, confirmed their booking for two weeks back in August, having paid a deposit by Western Union, and therefore we were tough out of luck. Not only did we have no plans for Uruguay, a plan that had been sculpted out of necessity, but we had no idea where we’d stay when we returned to Buenos Aires. And our return to Buenos Aires was largely predicated on the fact that we wanted to keep the same pace of life we had grown to love at the Casa de los Angelitos. In short, we were screwed.

After scraping our jaws off the floor, shock turned to anger. We both love Latin America, but it was one of those moments where we looked at each other and said, “This would never happen in the US.” There tends to be a general lack of culpability in this culture, which is often a wonderful thing (frivolous law suits are nonexistent), but after something as simple as making a hotel reservation turned into a multi-day affair, we found ourselves at the end of our tether. In fact, our accommodation experiences were beginning to seem eerily reminiscent of fellow RTW traveler Jodi, who also experienced similar frustrations during her three-month stay in South America. Were we just victims of the craziness that we call Latin America? Were we being rigid North Americans, trying desperately to control our environment? Was there a lesson about enjoying an experience for what it is and letting it go when its time has expired? Was the universe conspiring against us? Or had we finally crashed and burned after so many months of endless planning?

Whatever the reason, we had just spent $300 in leather goods that day, having planned on leaving them at the Casa until our return a week later, and two heaping bags sat slumped in a corner of our room, staring at us. Panicked, we called Rene, Maikael’s mom’s friend who lives in the city and had offered his assistance if we needed it. We needed it. Not only did he volunteer to store our items for us, he insisted on helping us ship the items through the embassy mail. We hopped on the metro and made our way to Palermo, one of Buenos Aires’ swankiest neighborhoods, to Rene’s high-rise apartment. He was currently hosting friends of a friend from California and, despite the full house, offered us a place to stay for five days when we return from Uruguay on the 13th!

That night – the one night without air conditioning – was the end of the hottest day we had experienced in Buenos Aires. It was 1 am by the time we ate dinner and made it back to the Casa de los Angelitos, and the streets were still steamy. We were exhausted, but our room’s temperature soared towards 90 degrees. We tossed and turned, sweating through the sheets, still stewing about everything that had transpired. But we really couldn’t complain. We weren’t victims but recipients, once again, of the kindness of strangers.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

With its big city party culture, Buenos Aires promised to be the perfect place to ring in the new year, but our plans for an exciting, action-packed New Year’s Eve fell through at the last minute. “What do people do for New Year’s here?” we asked Betty, our hostess at the Casa de los Angelitos. As it turns out, not much. Most people spend the evening with family or friends at home, which seemed strange to me. Don’t Argentines party at any given opportunity? But that’s just the problem. They are so accustomed to late night revelry – remember, this is a country where the clubs don’t open until 2:30 am – that the idea of staying up until midnight seems a little pedestrian. Without a home to go to for New Year’s, we decided to make our own party. We considered seeing a tango show, but soon discovered that most of them were closed for the holiday, and most restaurants proved to be the same case, too. Finding ourselves still without plans at 5 pm, we decided to celebrate how we normally do: by spending a quiet evening at home over take-out and a bottle of wine.

We made a pilgrimage to the grocery store for wine and little bottle of champagne, then marched around the corner to El Espanol, which has quickly become our neighborhood joint. It’s the kind of place where you see the same people every day at lunch, and where the waiters are quickly beginning to recognize our faces. We’re usually the only foreigners there, a feat at the height of tourist season. All of their pastas, pizzas, and breads are made in-house, behind an expansive window where you can watch the bakers in little red vests feed dough into a complex series of machines like yeasty mad scientists. This was my home away from home in Buenos Aires, so I could think of no better place to order my New Year’s Eve dinner.

I needed some comfort food. I was feeling down, this holiday season having been a big disappointment from beginning to end. I placed a few New Year’s Eve phone calls to friends, which made me feel better. By the time I finished my calls it was 11:30 pm, and we made our way down to the lovely patio, which was emptied of guests who were out at parties of different varieties of crazy. We heated up our pizza and pasta (it would have felt less pathetic if we could have brought it straight home, piping hot, but the restaurant closed at 9 pm, and nobody eats dinner that early in Buenos Aires) and began to discuss the New Year. Usually we hash out some New Year’s resolutions, reflecting on how we’d like our life to be different in the coming months, but this year has been one big resolution, where a conversation like this takes place at least once a day. Instead, we discussed the things were were grateful to be throwing out from 2008, and the things we were looking forward to welcoming in 2009.

Goodbye, 2008. We’re glad that we’re done spending all of our time and money planning an epic journey. We’re glad to be rid of fear and old patterns. Hello, 2009. We’re looking forward to new dreams, new gardens, new challenges, and a new way of being in the world.  We’re looking forward to getting back to our everyday lives.

As we were talking quietly amongst ourselves, a girl from a neighboring building dashed out onto her balcony. “Woo, woo!” she yelled. Then, the crash of fireworks began. “It must be New Year’s,” Maikael said. Although my watch said 11:57, it was midnight according to the portenos. What began as a solo performance soon developed into a full-blown symphony of noise. There is no official fireworks show in Buenos Aires, but you’d never know otherwise if you craned your neck skyward. Lights showered from above, as booms and crackles roared through the city. The cacophony was doubled by the portenos throwing open their doors and blasting music from anemic stereos. The show continued until past one, a heavy cloud of spent fireworks having settled over the city. With lax controls, the New Year was ushered in by the loudest firecrackers I’ve ever heard. “Those have to be bigger than M-80s,” Maikael said at one point. The next morning, our hosts assured us this was an unusual year. “Usually the fireworks go until five. But with the economic crisis, I guess people aren’t buying as many.”

We flopped into bed as the last fireworks fizzled out, forgetting to even crack open our bottle of champagne. The next morning we discovered that someone had polished it off, which somehow seemed like a fitting end to this dismal holiday season. Who knows where we’ll ring in 2010, or how the circumstances of our lives will have changed yet again. But I hope I’m surrounded by the people I care about – and I’m banking on the fact that the fireworks won’t be nearly as loud.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Latin Americans love their religious pilgrimage sites, and while I’m not Catholic, I enjoy these shrines as much as the next person. I’ve been to some pretty important ones, including a famous one in Mexico where La Virgen de Guadalupe was said to have appeared. Pam claimed the motherload was just a few hours north of Mendoza in Vallecito, a sprawling shrine to the Difunta Correa. The legend goes that Deolinda Correa trailed her military husband through the desert during the civil wars of the 1800s. She eventually died of thirst, and her body was discovered by a band of men passing through the desert: her infant son was found alive, suckling at her breast. Vallecito is believed to be the site of her death, and the town has evolved into a place where people come to worship and seek hope from La Difunta, a term used to denote a saint-like figure. Argentines pray to La Difunta Correa for all manner of things, from new cars to completed construction projects to medical miracles, and if their prayers are answered they bring offerings and thanks to the shrine at Vallecitos. Even major soccer players have been known to ask for successful outcomes to games, leaving their jerseys behind. “It’s a freak show,” Pam promised.

Always up for a good freak show, we crowded into the car and made our way north, where emerald vineyards eventually gave way to dry, barren tracts of land. We followed signs to “D. Correa,” stopping to ask for directions a few times. Everyone knew where La Difunta was. Eventually, a series of dusty, open-air shops sprang out of the desert like an oasis, selling all manner of Difunta paraphernalia. There were candles and incense, stickers and statues, and the all-important red ribbons emblazoned with messages to La Difunta in sunny yellow script. People tie the red ribbons to their cars, and once you start observing, most cars in this area of the country bear a faded red strip flapping in the breeze. Truck drivers are especially devotees. One ribbon read, “Protect my Peugot.”

At first the site looked relatively modest, the ubiquitous shrine perched high on a dessicated hill, the mid-afternoon sun beating through the ocean sky. We passed through a gauntlet of battered license plates, some inscribed with hand-lettered messages of thanks. Stretching out on either side were the houses, miniature architectural models of the homes that had been successfully completed or procured thanks to La Difunta. Some were crude, a few floor tiles slapped together to make an A-line roof, whereas others were beautifully ornate and scarily accurate.

And the shrine just kept going as far as the eye could see.

There were towering walls of plaques, some chiseled in marble, thanking La Difunta for prayers answered. There were school photographs and holy communion invitations crammed into every available space imaginable. There were hundreds of empty water bottles contained in a barricade, something to quench the thirst that killed La Difunta Correa. The model houses tumbled town the hillside towards even more buildings. One contained only wedding dresses, some looking antique and faded. One building held only model trucks. Another sports trophies. One building was dedicated entirely to the good fortune of horse jockeys. One building contained “las cosas mas antiguas,” the oldest things. A 1950s luxury car had been donated. One wall was blanketed in sports jerseys. There were photographs of birthday parties, ponchos, guns, plastic trinkets, and stuffed animals (both the cute, cuddly kind and the taxidermied ones). It was a virtual antique store, packed to the gills with stuff.

I had never seen anything like it.

There were few people visiting the shrine midweek, but weekends can see hoards of visitors. Most people seemed to be curiosity-seekers like us, snapping photos left and right. A few people quietly made offerings. Three men with a large, white dog on a leash strolled by. “That’s the guy who uses his dog to kill wild boars,” Pam whispered. “I remember him from the photos I saw in one of the rooms.” We couldn’t believe she recalled this artifact out of everything we had seen that day, but then again photos of a wild boar kill are hard to forget. On our way out we bought a clutch of red ribbons. Maikael bought “Protege mi Nissan.” I bought “Protect my journey,” which could come in handy before I even have a chance to tie it to my car’s antennae.

As we returned to town, the streets of Mendoza were flooded, the acequias gushing brown water. Clumps of hail littered the roadside, as cars sputtered and stalled in the streets that had turned to rivers. Everyone wore a look of sheer confusion on their faces. We had narrowly missed what Pam said was the worst storm she had ever seen hit town. “The Difunta protected us!” we joked. Or had she?

Friday, December 20, 2008

We woke at the crack of dawn on Wednesday morning to catch our bus to Mendoza, Argentina, picking our way through the gritty, deserted streets of Valparaiso, Chile.  After stopping for empanadas at the panaderia, the only shop open so early in the morning, we boarded our first South American long-haul bus, outfitted with cushy seats, TV screens, restrooms, and coffee machines.  It was more comfortable than flying on a plane.  I dozed as we crossed the Andes Mountains, barren masses of rock capped with whipped cream peaks.  After passing through the relatively hassle-free border crossing at the summit, the landscape changed, giving way to crimson rock, parched vistas, and rising temperatures.  It felt like being home.

Pam, a high school friend of Maikael’s from Costa Rica, was there to greet us at the bus station in Mendoza.  She moved here two years ago when her parents purchased two vineyards in the heart of Argentina’s burgeoning wine country, with the hopes of one day starting their own label.  A maniac driver who’s a dead ringer for a Latina Renee Zellweger, she talked excitedly as we drove through the town’s lush, tree-lined avenues:  although Mendoza is situated in desert terrain, the city planners built acequias, a series of irrigation ditches, to feed the city’s greenery, creating an oasis in the midst of a harsh landscape.  Even though I was starving, having only snacked on what were possibly the worst empanadas that have ever seen the light of day, it was still too early for dinner.  “Restaurants don’t even open until nine for dinner,” Pam said.  It was barely five o’clock.  Instead, we took a seat at a sidewalk cafe, which was just opening its shuttered doors.  Pam explained that everything closes in the middle of the day.  Lunch is served beginning at noon, which is one o’clock, and everyone goes for a big meal in the middle of the afternoon.  This sounded a lot like the Spain of the southern hemisphere.  “Are there tapas before dinner?” I asked hopefully.  Not really.

Pam ordered us a round of gancia batido, the national liquor of Argentina shaken with lemon juice.  It was a South American lemon drop in a tall, cool glass.  After another round I was desperately in need of food, so we headed towards the backyard setting of Anna Bistro, where chairs and tables were sprinkled amongst a shady garden.  “Service in Argentina is terrible,” Pam explained, and indeed it was.  I was elated when we were finally handed food menus, and disappointed when I learned that half the items weren’t available until 8:30, when dinner service began.

After running into some ex-pat friends of Pam’s, we settled the bill and moved onto Cafe Flora for more drinks and dessert.  It was nearly nine by now; traffic was suddenly heavy and the restaurants were just beginning to fill.  Pam confirmed that it really is true what they say about Argentines:  they eat a lot of beef.  Most people eat a slab of steak with a petite green salad and not much else for dinner.  Rice and beans, a staple in most of Latin America, is unheard of here:  as the world’s number one producer of beef, it’s cheaper than vegetables.  Pasta is also popular here, as Argentina is home to huge numbers of Italian immigrants, so if it’s not heavy meat it’s carbs for dinner.  And if you’re eating heavy meals at 11 pm you’re probably not very hungry for breakfast, when most Argentines eat a sweet roll and a cup of coffee.  What a diet, huh?  And yet, most people appear to be trim and fit, leaving me to wonder if the Argentines swim in the same gene pool as the French.

“Don’t call an Argentine before 9 am and expect them to be awake,” Pam warned.  “But it’s totally fine to call someone until 11 o’clock at night,” she continued.  The clubs don’t open until 2:30 am, and with those late dinners, most nights are late nights by US standards.  “The afternoon officially goes to 9 pm,” Pam explained, “and it’s common to have business meetings and appointments until that time.”  Later that evening, Pam got a text message confirming a pedicure appointment for eight o’clock in the afternoon.

So as far as I can tell, here’s how a typical Argentine day goes:  stumble out of bed for work around 9 am; eat a light, quick breakfast; work until 1 pm; go for a big, leisurely lunch or take a nap; work through the early evening; have a late, heavy dinner; go out for drinks; then hit the hay.  Rinse and repeat.  If the Australians can drink anyone under the table, then the Argentines win the award for the least amount of sleep required to still call yourself a functioning human being.

Of all the places we’ve visited in the world, Argentina seems to have the most complex and structured rules about schedules.  I had never thought about schedules as being such a salient part of culture, but it most certainly tells you something about a national psyche.  This is a place that values having fun and taking one’s time with eating.  And while this appeals to me, I am beginning to see how deeply ingrained our schedules are with respect to our culture.  I have always been an early riser, reinforced through my culture’s industrial, Puritanical roots, and the thought of waiting to eat a proper meal until halfway through the afternoon makes me a little uneasy.  I’m slowly trying to get on the Argentine schedule – I even slept in until 11 am today in the hopes that I will be able to stay up late tonight without feeling like death warmed over — but it leaves me feeling out of sorts.

Maikael the Nightowl, on the other hand, has found Mecca.

Monday, December 8, 2008

“Three days – five days, tops.” This was Paul, telling us months ago in Bali that 12 days was way too long to spend on Easter Island. But of all the places we’re visiting on this trip it’s the one we’re most unlikely to ever return to, given the cost and complication of traveling here. We figured if we were going to do it, we’d do it justice. Years ago we read a New York Times article on Easter Island written by playwright Edward Albee, who assured us that “two weeks could be profitably spent” here. For us, it turns out, the ideal amount of time lies somewhere between Paul and Mr. Albee’s estimation, about seven days, which is always one of the difficulties in estimating how long to spend in a given place: you never know until you get there.

So while we are growing tired of underwhelming cuisine and our bizarre accommodations, the subject of another post altogether, there is an amazing amount packed into such a small space. Easter Island is considered the world’s largest open air museum. In my mind, I imagined we’d see a few stone heads propped up on two or three altars. In fact, there are more than 900 moai that dot the island in various states of being – from barely chiseled, to proudly erected, to face down in the volcanic rock from whence it came. Most people think the moai were created to represent gods – I know I did before coming here – when, in reality, they were formed in the likeness of their ancestors, placed in such a way to keep a protective eye over the village. And just like the humans they were created to represented, each moai is different. At first each one resembles one another, but after you’ve seen a few hundred, the different personalities easily emerge. Some have thick, blocky heads with Polynesian features; others have thin faces with delicate lines. Some have unnaturally long fingers that wrap around their middles. Some are very tall; others are quite small. Some wear red topknots known as pukao, thought to represent a typical Polynesian hairstyle. They were all originally inlaid with eyes of coral, but now only one remains, the rest having been the victims of time. Although most are in the standing position, some kneel, and while most are male, there are a few female moai in the mix. The variety is dizzying.

There are many places on the island to see the moai; in fact, much like Turkey’s Cappadocia region, one can literally stumble upon these amazing antiquities by taking a short walk away from the city. Of all the ancient sites we’ve visited during this trip, Easter Island feels the most like stepping back in time. I keep asking myself why this is. Part of it, I think, is due to the lack of volume. It is possible to go to a site at midday and experience no cars, no vendors peddling moai-shaped beer mugs, nor other tourists. It is often dead quiet, and I hope it stays this way for years to come, although I fear it won’t. The other factor is the sheer wildness of the landscape, which supports the feeling that you have walked into a scene a thousand years old. Everything is untamed, from the yellow scrub that fights its way through the volcanic soil to the wild horses that roam the island – even the dogs that maraud through the streets of Hanga Roa are wild, belonging to no one.

Although the island is famous for its moai, there are natural wonders to be savored. One day we hiked up Rano Kau, a volcano whose bashed in cone harbors a freshwater lake. We picked our way through dry, wheat-colored grass, led by one of Hanga Roa’s community dogs who I nicknamed Pepe. When the grass ran out at the end of the soft incline, we peered into the crater. Here, a bog supported a wide expanse of reeds, alternating between patches of clear water and grassy vegetation that seemed to float on the lake’s surface. It looked like the great primordial ooze that humanity crawled out of. The sides of the crater harbored bright green vegetation, including tropical fruit trees, where islanders scramble down the slopes to pick the bounty. The far side of the crater was caved in, providing an expansive view to the electric blue ocean 3,000 feet below, heightening the sense that we were at the very edge of the world.

Most of Easter Island’s coastline is rocky, comprised of heaping masses of jet black volcanic rock. On the northern edge lie the island’s only two sandy sweeps of beach, the location where the island’s first inhabitants landed when they made their way from other Polynesian islands (modern theories state they probably originated in the Pitcairn Islands). Anakena Beach is postcard perfect: grassy hills fall to meet the sandy beach, where crystal-clear, impossibly blue water laps on the crescent shore. A platform of moai peek through a stand of palm trees, one of the island’s only signs of vegetation. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect beach scene until we visited the neighboring Ovahe Beach, a secluded alcove that offered a jaw-dropping view of the massive, grassy slopes of an extinct volcano on the Poike Peninsula. As I floated in the aquamarine waters, I couldn’t believe this place existed in the here and now.

This is what makes Easter Island special: everyday life seems to coexist with this primeval world. The modern world is not cordoned off from the ancient one, but breathes right alongside it.

Nowhere have I felt this more than at Rano Raraku, often referred to as “the nursery.” This is where many of the island’s moai were quarried and chiseled before being moved to their locations at other sites on the island. There are hundreds of moai here in various states of repose. Some have just begun to be carved, but are still lodged into the rocky hillside; miraculously, the moai were fully formed before being dislodged and moved to their respective locations on the island. Others are fully completed, having been abandoned as they made their way down the hill, great chunks of stone doing cartweels down the grassy slopes (no one knows why). We first visited at dusk, as the waning sun cast a pale yellow light over the stone, the moai throwing long shadows in their wake. Except for two wild horses innocently munching grass along the base of these huge statues – ignorant to the fact that they were munching grass so close to the famous Easter Island moai – we were the only ones there.

I feel bad that I didn’t do the proper research before visiting so that I could more fully understand what I’m experiencing. Edward Albee warned me to read The Complete Guide to Easter Island before coming: “it’s the only guide you’ll need.” I meant to, but just never got around to it; I even tried in vain to buy it when I arrived on the island. Now it’s become a sort of joke. “Oh, if only I had The Complete Guide to Easter Island!”, I lament, as I wonder what this or that could possibly mean. I’ve tried to do what Mr. Albee guided me to do. “Take your time. Absorb. Don’t be rushed.” I’ve tried, Mr. Albee, I’ve tried. While I admire and appreciate the monumental effort that went into the construction of the moai, at the end of the day I fear they are just big stone heads. No, what captures me more is seeing how this little speck of land, supporting the weight of so much culture, has managed to thrive as the old and the new constantly collide. This is the magic of Easter Island.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Our downtime on Easter Island has been spent in our casita, named for the French-Rapa Nui couple who own it. We have scarcely seen the wife since our airport pickup, and we’ve only spotted the enigmatic French husband in profile – a long, slender, Aqualine nose and wavy dirty-blond hair always pulled into a ponytail – as he passes our patio daily in his SUV. Instead, our care has been entrusted to the wife’s extended family, who seem to live out their lives in our backyard engaged in all manner of activity including: child care, barbecuing, impromptu construction on our casita, car repair, and, of course, drinking. Add to this scene the constant visits of friends and relatives, blasting music, barking dogs, and squabbling chickens, and you have damning evidence that the long tentacles of Latin American culture have reached even here.

But don’t get me wrong; our hosts are quite friendly. On my first night I met several of the male members of the family, and was promptly invited to go fishing with them the following night. I thought it a strange time to go, but it seemed a great chance to get off the beaten path and gain a window into the culture. I warned them that I’m prone to motion sickness, but was assured that all fishing would take place on the seaside. When I showed up at the designated time the next evening, no one seemed hurried to go. One of the men, named Mateo, was watching Scarface with Al Pacino, apparently to improve his English; he explained to me that fishing had to wait until the moon dropped below the horizon, lest the fish see the awaiting net. He produced a harpoon and told me that it’s sometimes used as a more sporting way to fish. As we waited, more and more people showed up, including an uncle of Mateo, an older bronzed bald man, who was incomprehensibly drunk, but somehow still walking.

Around midnight, six of us loaded in to a mint green 28 year-old VW bus named Claudia. Claudia could not be started by traditional means, but had to be jumped by popping the clutch while rolling, meaning that I would be pushing the bus many times over the course of the night. A beer was produced, seemingly from thin air, and we were off as Claudia roared to life, copiously backfiring.

Our first stop was a volcanic moon rockscape on the edge of town, jetting into the ocean. Mateo handed me an underwater flashlight, which I casually turned on. The beam hit the water and Mateo exclaimed, “No, no! Be careful to never point the light at the water because the fish are intelligent. They associate light with danger and will swim away.” Two of the men had donned wetsuits and snorkel equipment, two pairs of white cotton socks on their feet. Waves were crashing furiously into the rocks, splashing frighteningly high into the air. “They’re actually getting in the water?” I asked, surprised. “Si.”

Mateo explained that they study the waves to learn their cycle to understand the currents, then get in the water with a long net with floaters and weights, and direct the fish into the nets. The fish are scared into the nets by the powerful flashlights, as one man on each end of the net directs them inward. It is one thing to hear this and quite another to witness it. The men slowly lowered themselves into the black water from our elevated perch, somehow impervious to the pounding waves. I could barely see them from even a short distance away. Soon, they were far out, flashlights waving wildly. “Did you see that fish!?”, Mateo asked excitedly, catching details that I could not see with my untrained eyes.

Mateo was not participating that night, but was critical of their technique. “We all have a different tecnica,” he said, “but you can clearly see that they have left an escape route for the fish on one side.” I asked him about the lucrativeness of fishing. A certain base amount is used to feed the family, but the surplus is sold at market the next day. A typical catch brings $400 US dollars, but their best night netted them – no pun intended – a whopping $1,200 US dollars. Two of his uncles have died in fishing-related accidents. One of them devised a method of weights to sink himself to a depth of over 60 meters – no oxygen tank, of course. Once the desired depth was reached, he cut his weights and harpooned a fish and started to ascend. He had miscalculated the amount of time it would take to reach the top, and drowned.

Scarcely 15 minutes had passed and it was all over. The net was tightly wrapped around a wooden stick and thrown into the bus. After a small push, Claudia awoke from her deep slumber, and a fresh beer was produced. We drove to a patch of flat land with yellowed grass, where the net was slowly unrolled and trapped fish started to magically appear, which were removed and placed in a bin. As if by magic, the drunk uncle roused to life, and slowly approached me. It seemed he wanted to impart a few pearls of wisdom to me. He exclaimed, “Las mujeres…” His index finger jetted fiercely into the air to accentuate his point. I was eager to hear what he had to say, certain he would solve a life mystery about women for me. What followed was a series of slurs in Spanish and Rapa Nui, backslaps, and maniacal laughter, apparently pleased with what he had just conveyed. He jetted his hand out, miscalculating in both height and distance, and it ended up somewhere around my clavicle. I took his hand and shook it, and felt a surprising amount of power, given his age and current state.

The two men in wetsuits asked me how to say bebe in English. “Baby,” I said. They were referring to the 17 year-old apprenticing with them. He appeared resentful, in the way teenagers do. I had the opportunity to talk with the 17 year old while the men went out for a second round of fishing. He was born on Easter Island, but had lived much of his life in Tahiti, and thus spoke French. I asked why he wasn’t going to school, and he told me he had been expelled for smoking marijuana, but could return next year if he wished. But that was not in his plans, he said. He would fish for a year, and then go to France to join the Foreign Legion. “Like the movie with Van Damme, you know?” I nodded. The fishermen submerged from the water. “Baby! Come and help us!” Defeated, he went over.

We went for a third, and, as it turns out, ill-fated round of fishing. Just as they were about to enter the water, a boat came by with a powerful floodlight. There would be no more fish to be had, and everyone promptly called it a night. It was not the most bountiful catch, but it would be enough to feed the family for a few days. We drove the 17 year-old to his house, and Mateo told me that Claudia is notorious for waking neighborhoods of people up. Claudia promptly backfired, as if showing her appreciation.

It was four in the morning when we arrived home. Mateo invited Liz and I to a traditional fish BBQ the next day. “You came out with us, so you get to share in the fish.” The drunk uncle, awake once again, delivered another slurred sermon, let out a large belly laugh, grabbed the back of my head, and gave me a hard head-butt. A fitting end to the night.

* * *

The next day we smelled something good coming from the backyard, and wandered outside to find a dozen whole fish crackling over a rustic parrilla fashioned from half of an oil drum. We joined the family circle that had already assembled, and were promptly offered “lay-mon ston-ays.” After agreeing to god-only-knows-what, we were passed a citrus-colored can of Lemon Stones, a curious mix of bad beer and lemon juice, and were relieved when a bottle of Chilean red wine was introduced minutes later. We discussed the events of last night, and I asked more about the drunk uncle. Apparently, he has been known to drink for up to three days straight, and had refused to go to bed the previous night.

When the fish was done, we were served first. A huge pua was placed on each of our plates, alongside fresh greens (where were they getting these vegetables?); roasted kumara, a South Pacific sweet potato; and a mound of yellow arroz fashioned after a volcano, with a plume of mayonnaise on top. We pried away the silvery paper-thin skin and dug into the white flesh. It was one of the best fish I had ever eaten. Even Liz, who hates seafood, nodded enthusiastically and exclaimed, “Que rico!” The rest of the family ate their fish hunched over the grill, which had been transformed to a kind of communal table. “It keeps the flies away.” When we were done, the remains of the fish were thrown back onto the grill. “An offering, so that next time we’ll have good fishing.”

***

Admittedly, when we first arrived, we were a little disappointed with our accommodation. The rooms weren’t as quaint and the view not as spectacular as our usually-trusty Lonely Planet had led us to believe. We briefly considered switching places, but the fishing expedition made us a part of this cozy little family. It’s a little like being in the mafia: once you’re in, you can never leave. And much like real families, for better or worse, they’re your family. And these folks have made us honorary members of their families – at least for the next week.