I woke up, gathered my things, had my last bit of maté, and started my trek to the bus station. I ran into Brenda on my way out. She was sad and could not or would not look me in the eye. She would not say goodbye a second time. So I put out my hand and said, “See you later.” She took it, then quickly went to do her tasks. As I was leaving, I took one last look around the hostel, my home in Buenos Aires.
I then grabbed my things and started walking. I had gotten a postcard for my friend and dropped it in one of the oddly English-looking postboxes they have around the city. I got to the station, waited for a little bit, then hopped on the bus to the airport.
When I arrived, a strange thing was happening. Apparently, the airport workers were not happy with their wages, so they decided to have an incredibly loud protest. There were large drums and chanting that echoed around the cavernous terminal. If only I knew how much this would foreshadow the rest of my journey.
As I waited, I talked to my friend to whom I had sent the postcard letting him know of its imminent arrival. Pretty soon after, I was called to board the flight, found my window seat, and got situated. The flight was uneventful, but it offered spectacular views of the snowcapped Andes mountain range, the first time I had ever seen them. It was peaceful and serene; the calm before the storm.
I landed in Santiago. As soon as I could turn on my iPod, I was made aware by the State Department that there was trouble brewing. I got my bags from the conveyor belt and tried to find a bus or a train that went downtown. I noticed on a marquee that buses were only going to a certain point on the outskirts of the city, well short of where I needed to go. I asked the person behind the counter what was going on. Their reply, “Problems.” This would not do. I opened up the Uber app and put in my hostel. A few minutes later, someone answered my request. They told me to head to departures, not arrivals because Ubers were not technically allowed at the airport. I did what he requested. A car pulled up and slowly kept rolling, which made it difficult to check and compare his license plate to what the app told me. After I matched the first three letters, I complied with his request to jump in. As soon as my stuff was in, he peeled out.
I asked my driver what was going on. He told me that we were in a state of national emergency. I asked him to be more specific. He said that people had been protesting all day and that we would be lucky to get to where I needed to go in the center of the city. There was traffic, but my driver was resourceful. While the ride should have only taken 25 minutes, it took three times that as roads were being blocked by police, military, Carabineros (Chile’s national police), and protestors. My driver had an app on his phone much like a CB radio where he could talk to other drivers to get intelligence on the best routes to take. We finally got as close as we could. He told me that as much as he wanted to make sure I got to where I was going safely, he would not be able to move out of traffic. I was about two blocks away so I said that was OK and I would find my way. We shook hands and I got out of his car.
He dropped me off a pedestrian thoroughfare and I wandered around for a little bit until I found a Starbucks whose WiFi I was able to join to get a map to where I needed to go. There was a din in the air, people singing the songs of angry men. I walked slowly to where I needed to go, keeping my wits about me. I finally got to my hostel which had already lowered the large protective barrier over its plateglass doors. I went inside and checked in. They showed me my bed up on the seventh floor, an 8-topper suite with a bathroom. I was hungry and had a little food with me that I did not finish in Argentina, so I made that for dinner in their kitchen.
Since it did not look too bad outside, I went out to unwind after a pretty strange day. I found a bar with a television, sat down, had a drink, and watched what was going on. The bartender asked me where I was from. I told him the US and that I had just arrived. Both of us watching the television, he said he wanted to be the first to welcome me to Chilezuela. We both laughed. I thanked him for my drink and I left out into the night. On my way back to the hostel, wafts of smoke and teargas floated through the air. I passed several people lighting cardboard on fire in the middle of the street. I went up to my room and settled in.
The next day, I got up and headed down for breakfast. Unlike in a few other places I had stayed, it was not included. I paid for the overpriced eggs, coffee, and fruit then decided to head out and check out the damage. This was not like any protest I had ever seen. There were remnants of bonfires in the streets. Bus stops with digital displays were destroyed, having had people with tire irons, hammers, or even the waiting benches themselves used to do so. Ersatz barricades of metal detritus were piled in front of metro stops. Grafitti covered everything, modern and historic buildings alike, even plaques dedicated to the author Borges.
Since I knew protests were unpredictable, I stayed in about a five-minute radius of my hostel in case I needed to get back quickly. I walked back to the pedestrian thoroughfare by the Starbucks to see if there was a supermarket where I could get some food for the week. While there was, it was locked up very tight at 10 in the morning. I walked back, the slight smell of tear gas in my nose, and headed upstairs. I watched a movie or two and headed back downstairs to see if the situation had improved.
I went to the front desk and asked how things were going. The young lady turned around her computer monitor. There was a cadre of masked men kicking into a storefront. I asked if she was watching the news. She then pointed to the front door and said this was happening right outside. I was incredulous. Behind the plate glass, I could hear a faint banging. I watched the monitor as she did. Smoke clouds soon obstructed my view of the scene and I could see through the plate glass the vandals were running. Some came our way and started banging on the glass to be let in. The young lady behind the counter hit the magnetic lock to let them do so. Then kept the door open for the rest of the cadre letting the smoke waft in. I yelled at them to shut the door. I joked with the front desk girl that my lunch would have to wait a bit longer.
I walked back up to my room which offered a better vantage point of what was going on. After launching more teargas that wafted up to my seventh-story perch, I shut the window and waited for about 20 minutes until it and the police dissipated. I was very, very hungry and decided that the coast was clear enough for me to go get something to eat. Much like any mass population mobilization, a good opportunity should never be wasted. I got some food from a cart that had no doubt been feeding some of the protestors. I walked along the main street at the end of my block towards the largest Chilean flag I had ever seen. However, my exploration of Santiago would need to cease and desist as the military helicopters and Mad Max-esque vehicles started making their patrols.
I went back to the hostel and sat in the lounge to watch the news to find out what was actually going on in this country. What I could glean was this: the powers that were decided to raise metro fares by 40 cents. While this sounds ridiculous, it is important to remember that Chile had one of the highest standards of living in Latin America. Under Augusto Pinochet, Chile privatized a lot of its government services, public transportation, and even healthcare. This was radical at the time and still was as many countries in the region had taken a more socialized approach. However, this increase in metro fares was the straw that broke the camel’s back as wages had remained stagnant for years while prices had continued to increase. This was the spark that set alight a lot of grievances with the state, some decades old.
After the coast was clear again, I headed back out to see if I could find at least some store with food that was open. It was fruitless. In the late afternoon, I could see the Carabineros coming towards me, dressed in armor that made them look like a gaggle of Robocops, so I walked with purpose to the classy hotel across the street from me. I immediately went to their bar, ordered a round of my favorite rum, Havana Club, and had a drink whilst watching CNN Chile.
I woke up after a rough night as even though I was seven stories up, I could still hear the commotion going on on the street. I came down to the kitchen just as breakfast was closing down. I figured this was as good a time as any to go back out into the street to find something to eat to hopefully bring back home.
Leaving the hostel, I made a right onto Avendia Liberador Bernardo O’Higgins, one of the major arteries of Santiago. I was assessing all the damage to the storefronts when some armed soldiers came up to me. I quickly continued on my way. I followed the path of the pedestrian walkway all the way to the central plaza. It is interesting, that in a lot of Latin American countries, their central squares are called Plaza de Armas or Plaza of Arms as that is where the real power with weaponry resided. The square was packed with people. Some brave tourists like myself were taking selfies in front of a sign that read STGO. I kept walking as I needed to find my way to the central market. Anything and everything one wanted to eat was available there. From freshly slaughtered beef to recently caught seafood, it was all at the central market. I bought some rice, some shrimp, and some fruit to tide me over. As I was walking away, I realized that the kitchen had no cooking oil, so I bought some too.
As I was walking home, I saw a huge crowd of people marching so I started taking a video. Suddenly, teargas and a pop-pop-pop sound caused this docile crowd to suddenly disperse and run towards ME! I held out as long as I could until my fight-or-flight response kicked in and I ran. I made it back to the hostel without further incident. I went up to my room and did a little work that was often interrupted by police launching teargas canisters down my street at fleeing protestors. I realized I was in for the night. I headed downstairs, cooked a lovely shrimp risotto, and adjourned to the lounge. Apparently, there was a countrywide toque de queda that began at 7 PM.
I did not want to alarm my family, so I talked to my friend that was former military that was in lots of hairy situations when he worked “in the jungle” in the 70s. He said that the best advice is to trust your gut. I finished dinner and started watching the news, trying to figure out what was going on. I was not overreacting nor underreacting. I was just keeping an eye on things. I also decided that I would not be shaving at least for the rest of the time I was in Chile. I knew beards, especially on tall men, could be intimidating and since I was all alone I went with my instinct to increase my do-not-fuck-with-me-atude.
The next morning I noticed that the days were really starting to blend together. I had been in this room for probably 46 of the last 48 hours. While the country was still under a state of emergency, so was I as I had no food. I tried going back to the central market as all the grocery stores were closed. Apparently, one of the things these protestors started doing was ransacking grocery stores and then setting them on fire. In order to avoid the loss, they were just staying closed. I was able to buy some eggs from a guy selling them on the street. I got six in a plastic bag and carefully carried them home.
After I deposited my food in the fridge, I headed back up to my room to get on Bumble and see if I could get a pulse of what was going on. Unfortunately, the ladies were just as lost with the whole situation as I was.
I made myself an early dinner of what I would end up calling the Santiago Special, fried eggs with white rice as this would become almost a nightly occurrence. Since it was not safe to go outside, I went up to my room, watched a movie, and tried going to bed. It was difficult as I had some new Brazilian roommates that were snoring loudly.
The next day I got up and made my way down to the Palacio de la Moneda. Literally the Palace of Money, this building complex started as the mint of Chile but was later converted into the presidential seat of the country. There were also three other cabinet government authorities there, of the interior, the general secretariat of the President, and the general secretariat of the government. This was the focus of the action.
I arrived and there was a woman with a megaphone yelling at the building behind a bunch of barricades. I continued on my way as it looked like this was not a place to stop and admire 18th-century architecture. Further down O’Higgins was the university of Santiago, the epicenter of the movement. I grabbed a parfait on a cart without breaking stride as there were Carabineros, police, military, and accompanying hardware all about. There were very long lines at newly barricaded supermarkets to keep them from getting stormed, looted, and set on fire.
I walked back to my block and saw there was a post office, so I took the time to send my postcard to the boys. I also found a second-hand clothing store that finally had a hoodie I could purchase. Unfortunately, their card machine did not work, and I could not take it with me until I got some cash, which would prove difficult as ATMs were a prime target for looters. I consoled myself by buying a coffee and returning to the hostel. I watched a little news that highlighted all the looting that was occurring. The big news is that some protestors highjacked a city bus and crashed it. Pretty wild stuff.
After chatting with a client, I headed out for lunch as the coast was clear. I found a Subway and got myself a sandwich. I did not want to get caught outside should the protestors return, so I took it back to the hostel. I noticed that protestors were out in the distance, so I stopped at a convenience store and got some plantains that I was going to fry up for dinner as a way to accompany my rice and eggs.
By this point, it was the late afternoon and I had found an ATM that was not kicked in or behind a barricade. I withdrew some funds and then marched back to the store to buy my hoodie, but it was closed due to the proximity of the rioting, excuse me, protesting, as well as people needing to be home in time for the curfew. I took the opportunity to head back to the hotel across the street to have an evening beer while I watched the news before I headed back to the hostel to make dinner. After I went up to my room to do some work, and the went to bed.
I got up the next day and headed out to go check the post office as I wanted to send some more postcards which was next to the second-hand clothing store. Both were closed. I then decided to walk the opposite way down O’Higgins towards the Plaza Italia, which proved to be a mistake. Plaza Italia was at the end of O’Higgins and was the terminus of all the protests. The air was still thick with tear gas. So much so, that it was hard to breathe. The writing was actually on the wall. After I stopped sneezing and felt better, I headed to the second-hand clothing store and FINALLY bought my hoodie. I saw the post office was open, so I went up to my room and gathered the goodies I wanted to send.
Now, this was not like any process I had ever done of mailing things in any country. The guy at the counter cataloged EVERYTHING I was sending abroad along with a description and a monetary amount. I guess it was to make sure no drugs or priceless artifacts were going abroad. I could not send booze, nor coins (not even from other countries) which was beyond me. The guy “helping” me was a bit of an asshole, but I just smiled and took it as I know postal workers can make things disappear if they wanted to.
After this experience, I took a walk, got a fruit juice, went back to the hostel, and made my escape plan. I figured that since everything was going to be closed from the mundane bars and restaurants to cultural like museums as none wanted to be looted, I was just wasting my time in Santiago. Also, the looting was getting closer and closer to my hostel. There were other parts of Chile I wanted to see, so I decided to head to Punta Arenas in Patagonia, and since I was there, I figured I would check out Ushuaia, Argentina before I went to Mendoza for my birthday. I sent this note to my friends and family:
Bugging out Friday morning. Flying to Punta Arenas, then taking a bus to Ushuaia, Argentina. Will be in Argentina until Nov 7. Not because I’m worried. There’s nothing to do and there are more things I’d like to see. Also, tear gas smells.
I figured this was the best plan as I wanted to avoid any possible interaction with the police or military. There was a law on the books that any foreign participants in protests will be immediately arrested and deported. I imagined this was a way to keep outside agitators like Venezuelan agents of chaos at bay.
It was at this moment that I heard yelling and screaming. I looked out my window and protestors were running down my street with police in hot pursuit. They started launching teargas cannistors that began wafting up to me. This was the fifth time I had been teargassed in less than a week.
I waited until it calmed down, then quickly headed out to grab a little lunch. I came back and watched a little news then did some work. I was getting hungry, so I cooked dinner and watched some news before going to bed.
The next day I got up and it was more of the same. I walked across the street to a bakery and got myself some breakfast and a fruit juice. I headed back to my room and did some client work. After that, I saw a restaurant was open that I wanted to try.
Apparently, back in the 90s, President Bill Clinton came on a state visit to Chile. Creating a great marketing opportunity, this business decided to name their restaurant after him, much like that place back in Vietnam that named it after Obama. I sat down and ordered an Italian hotdog. It was like a regular hotdog except it had guacamole, diced tomatoes, and some indistinguishable white sauce, possibly light mayo.
After lunch, I had more work to do so I headed back to the hostel. It was just in time as the protestors and police were out. After it cleared a little, I needed to grab some supplies for my trip the next day, so I walked down to my Peruvian market that had my plantains and eggs. On my way, since it was very hot, I decided to treat myself to a mote. Mote con huesillos is a non-alcoholic drink comprised of peach nectar, water, peach pieces as well as hulled wheat. The server looked like an old-time pharmacist dressed in a white lab coat as he poured me my drink. It was very good and refreshing.
I got back to the hostel and decided to cook some dinner. As I was cooking, I started talking to one of my hostel mates, a Venezuelan gentleman. It was right at this time his country was descending into chaos as President Maduro started cracking down on dissent, with guns and armored personnel carriers. He said that the Chileans were playing with fire and did not even know it. He asked me about the current impeachment of President Trump, and I walked him through what was going on in a non-partisan kind of way. It was a very good conversation.
Afterward, as there was a curfew, I headed to my room and started watching Midsommar. My roommate came back and saw me packing my things and asked if I was leaving. I said yes. He said that I better leave early as there was a coming transit strike. Apparently, trucks were going to start blocking the major highways and streets starting early the next day. We chit-chatted a bit. He was named Mateous and was from Brazil. He was an independent photojournalist that came to cover the protests. He then asked if I wanted to split a ride to the airport as his fixer had arranged for him. He told me he would be leaving at 3 AM. I jumped at the chance. I got packed and left the clothes I would be wearing out then tried to get a few hours of sleep. As usual, I did not sleep well.
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