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Published: January 26th 2018
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Landing in Osorno is a shock. Flying south from Santiago de Chile all you see from the Eastern side of the plane are volcanoes. They seemed to get larger and more frequent as we went on. Then we dropped down onto a huge rolling fertile plain, with small farms, green meadows, ripening wheat, rivers and lakes. Wait. This is Uruguay – or Austria. The town of Osorno with some 150,000 inhabitants reminds me a lot of Melo – the one time Fairless/Brown home in Northern Uruguay. It is an agricultural town, serving rich farms that stretch East to the hills and down to the coast. The motto of the town is Meat, Milk and Wood -- the main sources of livelihood for the past 150 years. This area was tightly held by the Mapuche Indians, who battled the Chilean government throughout the late nineteenth century to try and keep control of their land. They eventually lost, and the area was settled by waves of immigrants from all over Europe. Many Germans and Basques settled near Osorno, and their cultural influence is still visible: check out the cold meats and pastries in shops with German names. I found the place a lot
like Canada – there is an innate optimism and openness: a brass band keeping folks in the Plaza de Armas entertained, a willingness to build over large statues of the things that make their local society strong: a giant metal bull on the main plaza (bigger than the Wall Street version) and a huge milch cow and her young, outside the BICE bank.
The main plaza has a strange variation on a Gothic cathedral. The walls and tower are composed of multiple sections of the sharp Arab-Gothic arch, all the exact same shape but in different sizes. And cast in concrete -- not stone. The signs from the Pope's visit to Chile last week were still on the wall. He faced some hard questions from this part of the country, relating to his management of cases of sexual harrassment by a local priest.
I felt welcome whever I went. People were willing to engage on any topic. Scatterbrained as ever, I left my passport in the Post Office after mailing a book. The random very kind woman who was next in line realized this when she went up to the counter. She came running out after me as
I wandered away into the street and dragged me back.
At this time of year, agriculture loses pride of place to tourism. Chileans and Argentinos and folks from other continents converge on this region for its beaches, lakes, mountains and need I say it: hot thermal baths. After going to Japan with Beth and David and Mark last October, there seem to be traces of Japan wherever I look. And its not confined to baths. The region is overlooked by a beautiful, smoothly symmetrical snow-topped not so sacred volcano: the Osorno. Unlike Mount Fuji one can drive most of the way up, and then take a ski lift to the summer snow line. The crowds are a lot like Mount Washington in summer. They had some crazy ziplines whipping across under the chair lift as we went up.
I arrived in Osorno two days early on purpose. I wanted to make sure that the bike I had reserved was indeed going to be ready tomorrow morning (still some uncertainty there). And I wanted to spend some time in Chile, before I got locked into the schedule-driven bike tour I had signed up for. I am glad I did.
I managed to rent a smaller (than mine) BMW bike for a couple of days and tour the lakes and mountains one day, and the beach the next (a bit like being in Los Angeles). Searching for gasoline at a country garage on the way to the beach, I ran into another Uruguayan. Very nice. We had a long talk, and he helped me out with gas from a drum. Having survived Chilean traffic I have learned their (aggressive) style and feel ready for tomorrow.
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Héctor Luisi
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¡Muy lindo!
Querido Jimmy, Ahora estoy con aún más envidia. Tus fotos preciosas, y tu comentario excelente. You should become a travel writer. Eso de dejar el pasaporte en el Correo es medio despistado, ¿no? Lo que no me sorprende es lo de encontrar un uruguayo con voluntad de ayudar. Eso pasa con mayor frecuencia de lo esperado. There's a pattern. Abrazos, Pepe