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Published: March 2nd 2007
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The Man
Jorge was The Man After the intially daunting experience of arriving in Santiago with no Spanish and no real idea of the value of the Chilean peso, I spent the next five days there to find my feet and build up my resistance to being fleeced - I would have been a very soft target that first night.
Without going into too much detail, I found Santiago pleasant enough for a few days, and a good safe place for a greenhorn backpacker to become accustomed to his lifestyle change, but at the same time it lacked a whole lot to do and see.
I have been told by friends who have travelled to Europe that one can get 'all museum-ed out' and I reached that point halfway through the first museum. Perhaps that is an obtuse observation, but I imagine they would be far more interesting if I could in fact read any of the descriptions. To just look at something without any real idea of its significance doesn't really float my boat. The lookout of Cerro Santa Lucia, with its amazing views over the whole city and to the Andes beyond was the highlight of Santiago for me.
After keeping to
On top of Cerro Santa Lucia
You can only just see the Andes through the smog myself for the first couple of days, I met Jorge. I couldn't really figure out where he fitted in at the hostel ie whether he was part of the family that owned the hostel, or a friend of theirs etc. I'm still not totally sure, but it was to become a little clearer.
None of the others spoke any English, but Jorge had learnt the language when he spent 8 years living in the States in his late teens and early 20's as a young middleweight boxer with big ambitions. He told me that he was 'the man' and 'quite famous' in Chile, and took me under his wing.
That night, Jorge told me, we would take take the two chicks who ran the hostel out on the town, buy them a few drinks, do some dancing, and have some good times. Despite smelling a rat (a few rats actually) I thought it sounded like fun so off we went. I had learned that Jorge had been sharing a bed with one of the chicks, and soon after we arrived at the first venue it became apparent that Jorge had grand plans for me and the other one.
Enjoying a dip in the cool blue water
I reckon these kids would happily swim in the Yarra "She likes you man" he told me. Though feeling caught between a rock and a hard place I stood firm, and told him that I wasn't interested. "That's OK," Jorge reassured me. "There is no obligation - I'm the man". It came as a great comfort to me that Jorge was the man.
As we were wrapping things up at the first venue and taking care of the bill, I remembered that Jorge had told me that we should look after the gals (who had snuck in a meal while Jorge and I just had a few beers). Accepting this local custom, I saw that the bill came to about 19,000 pesos so slapped down a 10,000 peso note for my kick. Jorge then graciously pointed out to me that I was 9,000 pesos short. Confused and embarrassed by my silly error, and eager to adapt to this foreign culture, I pulled out another 5,000 peso note, and the gals picked up the rest of the tab. I didn't question Jorge though. He was the man.
At the next (highly dubious) venue we went to, I thought I would be polite and try to make some broken conversation with the young lady. Having forgotten, I asked Jorge what her name was and he told me he didn't know. I then asked him what his own lady's name was and he didn't know that either. "I don't know her name brother. I'm the man."
The girls bought a couple of rounds of drinks but Jorge's pocket may as well have been stitched closed. So on the night went, and when eventually Jorge's lady left for home, I visited the gents, only to return to find Jorge and the young lady he was trying to set me up with locking lips in a passionate embrace. There was no doubt about it. Jorge was the man.
I decided it was time for me to leave, and the young lady thought it was time for her to pull up stumps also. Being the man, Jorge stayed on. Given her conquest of Jorge, I thought I was in the clear with the young lady and together we hailed a cab to head back to the hostel. You could then appreciate my shock and dismay when the leg rubbing in the cab began.
Upon arriving back at the hostel I tried to explain to my host in a mixture of English and Spanish (with some French and Italian thrown in there as well) that I would just visit the gents and be back down in a flash. I then went to my room, locked the door, and did not emerge until around midday the next day.
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Scott
non-member comment
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I'm sorry but did I miss something? A South American babe gets frisky in the back of a cab on the way back to your hostel after a night on the soup and your response is to go and lock yourself in your room? Up to the room locking part, it sounded like a letter to Penthouse. Can you explain further?