The first two days in Santiago were informative, chill, and the great beds (minus the drunk Oregon guy who kept falling out) allowed for exceptional recuperation and deep sleep. Thank god for ear plugs and an eye mask...again, so far the two most essential items in my pack! Despite the beautiful weather (picture me walking around the city in flip flops and a tank), I had to get to the beach. Ohhhh the sunny, warm, shirtless laden beaches of Chile were calling my name. Ha! You´ll understand the "Ha" shortly...
"Listen bro, I have a friend there, actually in Punta de Lobos (he had to repeat this place 4 times, heavy accent), who owns a hostel...let me call him for you and see what the options are"...I thought to myself "ok, Seba is an extremely nice guy or I´m about to get myself into some shi%...sounds perfect, you´re traveling Jay, don´t be a turd" According to Sebastian the best waves are at "Punta-whatever" and I won´t find a cheaper place to stay in Pichilemu. That being said, he proceeded to tell me that I have to pay for my first nights stay in "Punta..." here at this Hostel.
Ok...starting to really wonder about the intentions of my possible amigo Sebastian. But solely to amuse my imagination, knowing the worst that could happen is I loose $15 and have an amazing story, I oblige.
40 lb pack on my back, day sack in front, tank and flip flops in full force...I head down the busy Providencia area of Santiago, looking for the Metro at this point. I couldn´t have been more "Gringo." Right about now, as I enter the underground station, I´m trying to recall the stop to take that would drop me off directly under the "terminal sur" bus station..."Universidad something...damn! Should have wrote this down...yeah but you are good with directions remember?" Still bantering in my head, unravelling my confidence by the second, I purchase a one way ticket for $1.
"Wow, it´s quite hot in here" I say. With the locals now starring but averting their eyes as I look back. I wipe my brow with my vein pulsing forearm (tingly hand...no circulation...hot...crowded..."am I dehydrated?" thinking to myself)...The door opens behind my at the first stop, I turn smacking into a million Chileans as they hustle in and out of the sardine cans. Ok get your corner like you do in NYC...check...find a reputable looking source for information..."excuse me sir...do you know where the University something stop is...I´m trying to get to terminal sur"...in amazingly Gringo Spanish. The suit responds quickly (whats with the slurring in Santiago¿) with "este es Universidad de Chile"..."perfecto" I say and exit the terminal bouncing off walls and people like a fat man in the aisle of an airplane...
"Alright, where am I You are two stops away from where you started...yeah but Sebastian said you can´t walk to the south terminal...I fully could have walked this. that guy is something else...I´m just bleeding money to this country...where´s the buses? Go ask someone dude" thinking to myself.
***Literally these are the conversations you have with yourself when solo-traveling and everyone else is speaking a different language. You are quite conscious of your thoughts because they are the only noises in English and you can fully understand them...quite the dichotomy of struggling communications.***
"Falta! Falta alto...este es Universidad de Chile...tu necesitas Universidad de Santiago...ochos mas paradas" said the patient business women looking to purchase eyeglasses at this outside section of the mall.
"So I can´t walk 10 stops, and Sebastian was correct...University something was correct just not this University stop...you´re blowing it bro...now go pay another 600$pesos and get on with it!!!!"
Now in the green Nilahue bus ripping down the highway after leaving the south terminal which I eventually found...
This was going to be a nice and moderate bus ride of about four and half hours, according to the ticket booth operator. The rolling hills, infinite nectarine orchards, and vast rows of wine grapes overwhelmed my view. "This is exactly like California, well the valley." Agriculturally based communities, modern farming impliments, and strawberry reminiscent roadside fruit stands were only a few similarities.
"I want some ice cream and Oreos...maybe a bag of chips too...but which would I lead off with...sweet or savory... I think half the chips then all the sweets and finish with the chips again...ohhh whaaaat!"
Finally appreciative of the frequent stops these massive buses make. I brush the crumbs off my tank top. Satisfied with my realization that Chile and Cali are quite comparable in terroir, I start flipping through my South East Asia virtual guide book and get stuck in detailed fantasies of white Indonesian beaches, fried rice, and Morgan.
Wait!
I have to stop now and make a tea...reverting back to my fantasy island...back in 10...
Ok, wow, that was great. Back to Pichilemu, the Colombians, and my new found addiction to tea (which I´ll explain shortly).
Not knowing where to go, I flagged a bran new taxi down and left the quaint town of Pichilemu for an even more remote pueblo 6 km up the road...The cabby had heard of the street name I gave him. Actually it was a dirt road and I knew to stay left at the fork and that I should look for a moon...that was all the info I had.
Soooo, this Chilean cab driver, who I've come to find out was born in Pichilemu with a wife and two kids, and I were looking for a moon...This was right about when I calmly said "cuidado"... then loudly again..."CUIDADO!" a third time...SMASH/SCRAPE/CRUNCH...car stalls...cabby says "mierda"
Nothing makes an American traveler more uncomfortable than his taxi crashing into a handmade wooden barbwire fence, on a dirt road, while lost in the middle of nowhere. Before he could wink, I set the money on the center consul, had the trunk open, and was walking up the dirt road with my packs. My thoughts were "get your shi$ and go before he can assess the damage and charge you more than the agreed upon 2$ fare"..."Gracias, chao!"
Walking up the dirt path in sandals, in a tank top, and oh yeah...it´s now 50 degrees and misty..."not to worry though, probably typical evening weather...I´m sure the mornings and day time are hot and sunny...its the beach..." Ha!
Possible disaster averted, good work! What´s this...a pack of 6 dogs are charging my way...aggressive and half snarling while barking...sniffing and moving erratically...not sure whether to attack or seek affection...these dogs were...."wait"..."Sebastian, back in Santiago, mentioned something about a veterinarian...hmmm...lots of dogs...ok I´m close..."
The mob of dogs lead me too a crescent moon banner made of stone, "I´m here!"
Before I could link up to the internet and check my fbook and text messages, Coké, the long-hair yet bald 40 year old, came in and greeted me. Showed me the place, my room upstairs (I had my choice of either 8 beds in four rooms) and he told me the price...I explained that Sebastian had me pay him in Santiago, here's a receipt...he looked confused..."Oh ok, yes, now I remember speaking with him" as if the phone call happened weeks ago. "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and I can take you into town tomorrow and you can get groceries and or atm or whatever you need." Smiling, content, alone, I'm happy!
Free internet that works, check. A kitchen with nothing but a cupboard filled with rice and pasta, check. A front yard with two Colombians walking towards the house, check. "WAIT! C´mon, really, not alone?"
"Hola, como estas"...blah, blah, blah..."Papi...yada yada yada" Why can´t I understand anyone in Chile? These guys are from Colombia too, what gives?
Alright, let me explain what´s going on with the languages here in Chile. These two guys from Colombia, actually the north on the Caribbean, speak a distinct dialect. Amador, which means lover in Spanish, was a stout rugby player who spoke loudly, extremely fast, and with a high pitch yet deep tone. Juan Jose, a typical looking Latin with some facial hair spoke normally but really fast and spoke quite a bit of English. I couldn´t understand them because I was used to Peruvian and Bolivian Spanish by this point...Colombia, I have been to...but my Spanish was so broken and unused for so long at that point, I really didn´t interact with the locals as much as I should have. So what about the Chileans??? Juan Jose explained to me the different words used here in Chile...adding little sounds to the end of words too. Instead of si (yes) they say si-po or no-po...like Californians say dude and bro the Chileans say "huevon" (pronounced way-own) and "cachai" (pronounced ka-chi) which means literally "catch that?" And both the Carribeans and Chileans speak incredibly fast. Hence my problems understanding all of these people. They weren´t slurring, I just couldn´t hear the language yet. I got better, much better. The two Colombian boys and myself became quick friends. They were at the hostel working for free accommodations. They made the beds, cleaned the sheets, swept the floors, took out the trash, fed the dogs, and ran the tiny little coffee shop down at the beach. That seemed cool, a beach bound cafe! This is where they were coming from as I first saw them walking through the back yard. They explained to me that the quickest way to the beach and famous surf spot was through this back field. Just keep the lake to your left and hop these two fences and then you make it to the street...only a 2 km walk...Not really a beach hostel right? Whatever, it's chill!
As I was saying earlier, it was cold! I had my white pants on that I got from Colombia (funny coincidence), a long sleeve and my wind breaker...cold and misty fog! Hence the cup of hot tea in my hand. Before we really got into a good conversation Amador was in the kitchen mixing things up. He didn't ask me about food or if I was hungry or anything...he just made enough for all of us. That's the way these guys are. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. Mostly pasta or rice based dishes of massive proportions. Again, it was cold and all we wanted was a hot and hardy meal! Even snacks were shared...a little PBnJ or pizza, or avocado or bananas...the only thing that was evenly split was the amount of tea I drank...for every cup of theirs I had three or four...I just couldn't seem to warm up.
The mornings we cleaned the dishes from dinner, ate breakfast and I drank tea. We watched the fog turn to...well...more fog. The wind blew the Chilean flag from the south and the dogs wandered around the yard.
I had been to town with Coké and got my money and groceries...he took me to his friends house bc I indicated that I wanted to rent a wetsuit and surfboard for the week...he said I could use his board and that his buddy had all sorts of stuff...so I'm given a 4/3 wetty, a thick suit that I've never experienced before, and some booty's. We negotiate a price in broken Spanish, which is now a bit more comprehensible. Then this dude hands the money to Coké...strange I thought...and they proceeded to explain that Coké's wife was going to perform a castration of this guy's pit bull (bc it attacked a cow or something) and this was the money in exchange for the future operation...weird but whatever...I have a wet suit, mission accomplished.
So I spent a week with the Colombians...eating, cleaning, eating, then coffee-making, surfing, coffee-drinking because we had no customers, then walking back through the yellow fields while dodging horse and cow manure. We saw the sun for about two hours one day...it was amazing. We all sat there at the coffee shop, waiting for the tide to turn, drinking Colombian coffee made by shirtless Colombians, and listening to Ben Harper.
The water was quite cold, less than 50...every time you duck-dove your head felt like an ice cube or as if you just drank your milkshake ten times too fast. But the waves were perfect. Now you may think I´m just embellishing here for the sake of my story but literally this wave at Punta de Lobos is a perfect left hand breaker. A place where the professional surf tour comes for a big wave competition every year...a place where the peaks raise up on the outside reef and start barreling and continue to reform and tube as it peels off the jagged landscape...a place where you can catch a ride for hundreds of meters...a place where the rocks will eat you up if you fall at the wrong moment...It´s perfect!
Juan Jose and I would get out of the water, typically I before he. Numb! My hands and joints didn´t function normally. It was as if i was the "Tin Man" in Wizard of Oz, desperately needing a couple shots of oil. Amador would have a pot of hot coffee waiting for us, the oil for our Tin. We would then lock up the 10´x10´ shop. But not before cooking up a little handmade pitta pizza snack in the toaster oven. 
We always walked home on the North side of the road which eventually T-bones into the fields with the lake. And on a seemingly normal evening just before sunset, just before reaching the fields, a little golden brown puppy appeared out of nowhere. It looked quite healthy, nothing but a few burrs in her coat. I bent down on one knee gave her some pets and walked off. Wouldn´t you know it...the little bugger followed us. Through the two barbwire fences, past the lake, up the hilly cow pasture, over the logs that separate the horse pasture, down into the eucalyptus lined stream, over the bridge and up the back yards of neighboring cabins to our hostel. Wasn´t sure the little dude was going to make, but she managed. There was a 30 minute show of dominance from the other dogs. Yipping, yelping, tail tucked fleeing, and finally lounging around the bonfire. The fire was crackling, the kettle was whistling, and the "La Muah, African Champeta" was blasting from the computer room. I was in the kitchen rummaging, mixing, boiling, and conjuring up a massive amount of random things. My tomato soup from a bag was mixed with veggies, quinoa, rice, and pasta. Amador starts singing with the Champeta music, Juan Jose yells "Papiiiiii"...I laugh and and chime "Lo Basico" hahah!!! The boys spilled into laughter. The sheer fact that I could use this slang phrase in context was shocking to them. There wasn´t explanation on it´s use or meaning...it´s Lo Basico! The basic! "Quieres slasa picante con tu comida?"..."Lo Basico" is the response. "How was your surf sesh?"..."Lo Baaaaasico Papi!" It was fun and fresh and always brought laughter with it. I would drink my tea after dinner, play on my tablet struggling for bandwidth, and laugh while wrecking the Spanish language with my Colombian bro´s!
The entire trip to Punta de Lobos was Lo Basico!!!!!
