Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The one thing we really wanted to do in Uruguay was visit an estancia, essentially a large tract of open farmland where livestock roam and gauchos rule the roost. In recent years a number of tourist-oriented estancias have opened their doors, in the hopes of giving visitors an intimate understanding of rural life. Uruguay boasts over 200 government-designated estancias turisticas (Argentina offers even more), but many of them offer subpar experiences, pushing hundreds of tourists through 20-minute pony rides and bad parrilla buffets.

We were looking for the real deal. We wanted to ride alongside real gauchos, the ones with floppy berets and baggy jodhpur pants whose job was wrangling cattles, not posing for photos for Linda from Pismo Beach. We wanted to sing folk songs from the campo, cook tender cuts of meal over a roaring campfire, and recline on a nappy wool poncho while sipping mate under a canopy of stars. While we’re not plucking hay out of our hair, we found the next best thing at Estancia La Sirena, which we soon discovered was one of the three oldest estancias turisticas in the country, having shown farm life to city folk like us for nearly 20 years.

After a four-hour bus ride from Montevideo to Mercedes, a rural hamlet on Uruguay’s western border, we were collected by Juan, sporting blond curls and piercing ice-blue eyes. Much like Argentina, Uruguay was largely populated with Europeans in the 1800s, leading to people looking more Anglo than their indigenous neighbors to the north. On the bumpy ride in the pick-up truck to the estancia, another 20 kilometers down dusty lanes, Juan told us that the bus station had burned down. What he didn’t tell us was that the bus station had burned down the day before, and that trying to buy an outbound ticket would become a difficult task in the coming days.

When we finally pulled up to La Sirena in a plume of dust, we were greeted with a gorgeous sand-colored manor house that looked like something straight out of New Mexico with its Spanish colonial architecture, a jumble of adobe, wrought iron, tile, wood, sweeping portals, and chunky vigas. The guestrooms abutted the main house: there were only six rooms, and only one other guest staying the first night. A lazy windmill sat in the center of the yard, surrounded by a battalion of rustic lounge furniture. At the edge of the yard sat a crumbling stone shed, which had been converted to an outdoor parrilla. Wheat-colored farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, the only sound for miles a cacophony of birdsong.

A delicious homemade lunch was served: wedges of vegetable empanadas; rolls of tender pork stuffed with red peppers; delicately roasted baby potatoes and carrots, dotted with the ubiquitous Uruguayan mayonnaise; a fresh chopped salad of soft lettuce and ruby red tomatoes; and fruit for dessert. Always fruit for dessert. Full and happy, we took an afternoon siesta, then enjoyed afternoon tea with fluffy, fresh-baked butter cake.

As we munched, we were greeted by Lucia Bruce, the matriarch, who runs the estancia with the help of her husband, Rodney Bruce; between the two of them, speak excellent English, French, and, of course, Spanish. Lean, lithe, and tan, we weren’t surprised to learn that Lucia had been a tennis champion in a former life; in fact, the whole family seemed to be accomplished sportsmen. The evidence lain in the den, whose shelves were crammed with tarnished metal cups and fading photographs extolling countless victories.

After getting to know one another, Lucia provided us a tour of the property. The house, which once belonged to Rivadavia, the first president of Argentina, was purchased and carefully restored nearly 12 years ago. She pointed out hidden nooks and crannies, magical spiral staircases, trap doors, and decorative details, all with a history. Lucia shared information about the country’s history, too; the Rio Plata, which translates as the Silver River and connects Uruguay and Argentina, was believed to be the passageway to Inca gold in Peru and beyond.

It was time to set out for our first horseback ride, personally guided by Lucia. After hoisting ourselves onto the animals – it had been quite some time since either of us had ridden, and our legs would pay the price the next day – we began to meander through the fields. Our horses ambled up beautifully parched hills, the cotton clouds floating overhead through an impossibly blue sky. Lucia stopped frequently to identify local flora and fauna, relay anecdotes about local history, and share some of her own personal history. We eventually made our way down to the cobalt river, where lazy burnt sienna cows grazed and glanced sideways at us. After a long, hot day, the water was inviting, and after changing behind a stand of trees we plunged into the cool water and floated dreamily in the late afternoon sun.

The sun dipped low in the sky, and we began our homeward journey, the horses trotting a little faster. “They know they’re going home,” Lucia said. As we mounted that same grassy hill, the sky was perfectly clear, pale blues bleeding into soft tangerine. I have heard people talk about big sky county, hinterlands where that great canopy seems to stretch like a canvas to the ends of the earth. Until then, I never understood what a big sky felt like. I found myself memorizing this moment, something I don’t often do, but it was one of the most exquisite sunsets I’ve ever witnessed. We enjoyed a crisp beer as the sun made its final descent, nibbling on local sausage and cheese as fireflies danced through the yard. After handcut pasta and a bottle of Uruguayan wine, I went to bed with a single thought planted firmly in my mind, one that I haven’t had much these days: I can’t believe this is my life.

The next day brought more beauty. It was a scorching day, so Lucia arranged to take us to the river. She drove her battered, ancient Mercedes to the water’s edge (I completely delighted in the fact that she drove a Mercedes in the town of Mercedes), and we edged ourselves into the bracing water, fighting our way through the current to the pebble-strewn sandbar in the middle of the river. Here we began a simple but surprisingly fun routine: walk to the edge of the sandbar, let the river carry you downstream to the other end of the sandbar, and repeat until sunburned. After lunch and a siesta, we headed out on horseback back to the river, where Rodney met us with his boat. We motored to another section of the placid river, breezing past deserted beaches and reedy shores. Frolicking in the sand of a tiny strip of beach had never been such fun: these were truly life’s simple pleasures. As we trotted back towards the house at twilight, I found myself singing, “Home on the Range.” Even Lucia joined in.

Back at the ranch, we had requested a traditional Uruguayan parrilla, which our hosts happily arranged. A fire roared in the massive outdoor oven over a system of steel ramps, where slabs of meat sputtered under a tent of corrugated tin. Angel, La Sirena’s talented cook, explained the unique Uruguayan style of grilling as he flipped the meat and shoveled glowing orange embers from under the oven’s elevated fire and transferred them to just below the meat. The meat is grilled on an incline, wherein the fat runs down a plank and not on top of the simmering coals, which would create a direct flame. “This is nothing like an Argentine parrilla,” Angel assured us. “They use charcoal. It’s a totally different taste.” By 11 o’clock the extended family was assembled and we were ready to start dinner. First, grilled salchichas, fat medallions of country sausage, were presented on a wooden trencher. When those were polished off, multiple courses of meat were served, from beef tenderloin to rack of lamb. Great spoonfuls of chimichurri were dabbed on the meat, an especially popular Uruguayan condiment of chopped parsley, coarse garlic, and oil and vinegar: potent but delicious. Potato salad and green salad rounded out the meal. “A very typical Uruguayan parrilla,” confirmed Rodney. Over dinner we talked about politics and the US’s relations with Latin America. We talked about our trip. We talked about how we met 11 years ago. It was a real family meal.

People often ask us what have been our favorite countries that we’ve visited on this trip. It’s an impossible question to answer. Rather, there are certain experiences that we’ll never forget: this is one of them. As we sat waiting for our bus that would take us from Mercedes to Buenos Aires, the burnt shell of the station to our backs, we were grateful that Lucia had spent hours the day before procuring tickets on our behalf, as a ticket counter no longer existed. Sure, we didn’t see any gauchos at La Sirena, but as we waited a man in flannel shirt tucked into baggy forest green pants, an alpine-looking hat perched on his salt and pepper head, hopped onto a bus. “Look!” I cried to Maikael. “A real live gaucho!” It wasn’t what I expected. It never is. But it was good enough for me.

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.

Monday, December 29, 2008

You’ve heard it before: Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America. Generally I’m leery of these descriptions, the ones that overlay one culturally distinct place upon another as a way to characterize it. I once read an article that described Portugal as “the poor man’s Italy.” While I’ve never been to Italy, Portugal seemed to have an identity unto itself, and I found it difficult to imagine that I was anywhere but Portgual. But as we rolled into Buenos Aires early yesterday morning, the streets still emptied of people, I couldn’t help but think, “I feel like I’m in Europe.” We made our way to where we’ll be staying for the next week and a half, an old mansion from Buenos Aires’ golden age that’s been converted to a guesthouse. A narrow marble staircase greeted us, as stained glass windows looked down from their high perch. A small salon with exposed brick rested at the top of the stairs, which opened onto a lovely patio. I felt like I was in Paris.

During Argentina’s wave of immigration in the 1800s, nearly two thirds of Buenos Aires’ population was European, primarily of German, Russian, Polish, and Italian descent. Wealthy portenos wished desperately to be European; they emulated popular French architecture of the period, even going so far as to import building materials from France. South America’s oldest subway system lives in Buenos Aires, its original wooden cars from the early 1900s still in operation, looking like something that should be rocketing under the streets of Paris. This European influence is felt everywhere throughout the city, from grand edifices to fashion and especially food.

Argentina is known internationally for its steak, but what gets less notice is its Italian cuisine. Due to the huge influx of Italians during the last 200 years, their food has become a mainstay of the Argentine diet. A stroll through the grocery store at Christmas revealed thirty different kinds of panettone, an Italian holiday dessert bread, and well as an entire wall of fresh pasta in the refrigerated aisle. Menus scream milanesa, the tender steak pounded within an inch of its life and dredged in breadcrumbs, while daily specials often include pizza, ravioli, fideos, and pasta shapes I’ve never even heard of, like sorrentinos. Buenos Aires is a city where you can walk into a modest cafe and expect a heaping plate of homemade pasta and sauce for a few dollars. God bless Argentina!

The 29^th of each month is known as the Day of the Gnocchi when, throughout Argentina, every restaurant serves gnocchi. The story goes that, when money was tight at the end of the month, people sought out gnocchi, a potato dumpling that is both filling and quite cheap. While Argentina is now one of the wealthiest countries in Latin America, the tradition remains. Realizing it was the 29th, we marched into a restaurant today and, while it wasn’t listed on the menu, asked if they were serving gnocchi. “Of course,” responded the waiter, “it’s the 29th.” Minutes later a deep bowl of perfectly steamed dumplings were placed before us, dressed in a lovely fresh tomato and cream sauce. It was a perfect slice of Italy right here in the Southern Hemisphere. Amen!

Sunday, December 28, 2008

We had a really rough Christmas. I don’t wish to delve into details in such a public forum, but suffice it to say that the holidays ended with us leaving our arranged accommodations prematurely and feeling like a train had flattened us. As we scrambled to figure out how we would spend our last night in Mendoza before departing for Buenos Aires the next day, Maikael’s genius struck. “Let’s stay in the best hotel in town for a night,” he suggested. We quickly called the Park Hyatt Mendoza, determined it was too expensive, and booked a room anyway. Our peace of mind was on the line.

As it turned out, it was the best decision we had made in days. We trudged through the air conditioned lobby, sweating profusely as we maneuvered our massive backpacks through the throngs of chic clientele. The incongruity was not lost on us. “Are you hiking Aconcagua?” asked the bellman, referring to the snow-studded mountain peak outside of Mendoza and looking for a way to explain why two grungy backpacks slumped on his pristine luggage trolley. “No,” we said, simply. “We’re just checking in for a night.” A glittering Christmas tree dripping with twinkling stars stretched towards the soaring ceiling. My dusty sandals slapped against the cool marble tile as strains of Christmas music drifted overhead. I gazed longingly at the cerulean pool as our tired Mastercard was swiped. I was in heaven.

Our room didn’t disappoint. A quarry full of marble lined the bathroom, which boasted a trench-like bathtub and a rainforest shower. There was house-made grape-scented bath products, created to reflect the area’s viticultural heritage. A flat panel monitor aired a constant stream of American movie channels, a real treat after watching Los Simpsons in Spanish (let me assure you that Nelson doesn’t translate). There were plush robes and slippers and a petite card with a personalized weather forecast for the following day (in Celsius and Fahrenheit, no conversion calculation required!). There was real, functioning air conditioning. Even the drapes fastened together with Velcro so as to let nary an errant shaft of light invade on our perfect little oasis. It was the ideal place to recuperate.

After slipping under the downy sheets and cradling my head on a perfect pile of feathers, I enjoyed one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had on this trip. I was finally starting to feel better by the time I slunk into breakfast at 10:45 am. We took a seat under a clear blue sky on the veranda overlooking the picturesque Plaza de la Independencia; a shady umbrella dipped low overhead against the backdrop of the hotel’s perfect white facade. After being served cafe con leche by a Jonathan Rhys-Meyers look-alike, we were ushered into the breakfast buffet. As a matter of course I hate buffets, as they are usually an excuse to serve large quantities of low-quality food. But the buffet at the Park Hyatt Mendoza brought tears to my eyes. Delicate plates of pastries were arranged architecturally along a well-lit granite counter. My plate was transformed to a pile of golden medialunas, a distinctly Argentine croissant; brioche; hand-crafted chocolate muffins; and pain au chocolat. Large decanters of fresh-squeezed juice beckoned, including carrot and grapefruit. Sauteed pear tomatoes and perfect wedges of potatoes, kissed with a dollop of crème fraiche, sidled up to omlettes of perfection. Chards of cinnamon swam in an apple compote, as sweet chunks of fresh fruit teased me. I had died and gone to breakfast heaven.

We listened to an entire CD full of Christmas music, and happily listened again as it repeated itself after an hour. I heard more Christmas music in 90 minutes than I had in the past month, and rather than finding the whole thing cloying, I was completely charmed. After breakfast we sought refuge in the well-appointed spa and lounged by the leafy pool. Later in the afternoon we ordered a chicken sandwich, whose simple perfection nearly made me weep.

Our trip to Mendoza was nothing like we imagined. We must be the only people on the planet who somehow managed to spend 10 days in this famous wine growing region without visiting a single winery. The closest we got was an afternoon at The Vines, “South America’s first and only tasting room,” where we enjoyed a Malbec wine flight. I enjoyed the obvious creative writing at the hands of a clever marketer, who described the wines using the most colorful language I’ve ever witnessed at a tasting:

This wine sparkles in the glass with the color of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.

The aromas will take you strolling through a rose garden.

The deep color of red bricks after a rainfall.

And my personal favorite: This wine is cherry cheesecake on fire.

As we boarded our luxury bus to Buenos Aires, where we would soon be treated to full meals, on-board movies, red wine which would taste nothing like cherry cheesecake on fire, fizzy champagne, and fully-reclining seats, I couldn’t help but feel mixed emotions. Those 24 hours at the Park Hyatt Mendoza had revived me; it was money well spent, the perfect — and only — Christmas gift to ourselves. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad that Mendoza had turned out so different than I had expected, that I had turned my back on the place and sought comfort in the arms of a swanky hotel. As the city faded into the distance, I turned my gaze towards Buenos Aires, a new chapter.

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.

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.