My long weekend started with an intense odour of barbequed meat. Preparations for the family asado had begun the weekend before when kilos of meat had been purchased on sale for the occasion. The following Friday lunchtime various members of the family came to join us in drinking Pisco Sour and stuffing ourselves silly with food. Jolly and nostalgic souls sat around the table to celebrate not only the country's history but also this special occasion which allows families the chance to spend time together.
In the early hours of Saturday morning, my lovely Chilean and I left the quiet, sleeping house to make our way to the bus terminal. It was here that our adventure really began. Our bus was to leave at 8:20am but the metro was not due to open until 8:30am. How were we ever going to find a taxi this early on a public holiday? Well, luckily we did and we paid the necessary fortune to make it across town to our delayed bus. 40 minutes after standing around waiting (apparently the staff on the bus had quit and so the company had to desperately find replacements), we left Santiago and started our journey down south to Chillán.
A very scenic five hours later we arrived in town and encountered the same dilemma: where were we going to find a taxi in the middle of a public holiday when everyone is most definitely at some asado or Fonda or just plain getting drunk somewhere? Well, luckily we did and as we sat in the car, wondering where we were going, we listened to strange 80's music that profusely repeated the lyrics "People are still having sex. This Aids thing has not caught on. People are still having sex!" We paid even more of a fortune but at least we had finally arrived at our destination – the country house of our dear friend – and we were finally rid of that terrible music!
The old shingles of the roof sat neatly against the fence as we walked into the property. The earthquake had shook with such force that those shingles that had not fallen to the ground were now replaced with sturdy tin sheets. Yet the house was still beautiful and old and typical of the country houses in the area, with its large double French doors and curved archways. An uncultivated vegetable/herb garden cushioned one of its sides, while the other opened out to large fields of fruit trees. All the land used to belong to this family but since her husband had died and her child moved away, the grandmother had sold those acres and farming was no longer the family trade.
We took a walk down to the river and climbed along the rocks of the water's edge. We giggled in the sunlight and soaked in nature’s calm surroundings. Upon returning, we ate homemade empanadas as well as longaniza, the local sausage speciality. The afternoon was spent sitting around the fireplace and listening to old Chilean folk songs being played on the acoustic guitar, with all the family singing along and inhaling the perfume of burning fresh wood. The tunes carried on long into the darkening sky. At night, when the old and the young had gone to bed, the middle folk continued the tunes under the soft light of candles.
The following morning, my poor, lovely Chilean awoke with an awful flu. We left the country house and travelled back into the heart of Chillán. After lunch in the auntie’s house, we went to a tradition Chilean rodeo. We lasted half an hour watching the Huasos (cowboys) ram poor cattle into the fence, only to let the cattle go and run to the other side of the half moon arena so it could be rammed once again into the fence. The idea is that ramming different parts of the cow's body gains different points; ramming the cow's backside first into fence gains more points than ramming the cow's neck first into the fence. The poor animal ends up utterly exhausted and morally defeated. We walked back through town to the auntie's house where we ate homemade bread, fresh out of the oven.
On our last day in Chillán we ventured through the artisan markets and ate lunch amidst the food markets. By this time, my poor, lovely Chilean could hardly eat anything at all. As we said goodbye to the little town of Chillán, we also said farewell to a household of sick Chileans – the flu having wiped its dirty hands across the mouths of most of our friends. 8 hours pushing our way through people returning home after a long weekend of celebrations, we arrived back at the bus terminal in Santiago, but not before the metro had closed for the day. We found a taxi easily and again, paid the necessary fortune back to our house. Exhausted and dehydrated, my poor, lovely Chilean slept away his sorrows as I reminisced about the adventure I had just undertaken.
No comments:
Post a Comment