It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

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Friday

I stand and look up at the Twin Towers looming over me in the night sky. I made it. I am here. This is the end of the world.

The Chileans have an affectionate joke that, at the end of the seven days of creation, God looked down and realized he had a bit of desert, beach, mountains, and forest left over. So he decided to just string it all together, tack it on to the end of the world, and call it Chile.

Referring to Chile as the end of the world isn't so bizarre considering how isolated it is. The Atacama desert lies in the north as an obstacle to Perú, Bolivia, and Argentina. Down the eastern edge of the country, the Andean mountains provide further separation from Argentina. On the west - the Pacific. The south doesn't provide too much obstacle to Antarctica, but this hardly means anything.

Antofagasta itself is the fourth largest city in Chile. It is a major center of business and trade for the ever-booming mining industry that relies on the resources of the desert to the east.

The Twin Towers is a nickname for an apartment complex of two twenty-some-odd story buildings on the main coastal road.

I walk into the lobby of Tower One and approach the elevators. The guy sitting at the reception desk asks me which apartment I'm going to. I tell him. He asks who I am visiting as he reaches for the phone to call up and confirm. I tell him, pronouncing the American name perfectly with my obviously American accent.

"Ok," he says, taking his hand off the phone.

My friend, Alli, is a music teacher at a bilingual school here in Antofagasta. We met in Buenos Aires a few months ago. This was at the beginning of my plotting of this trip and Alli came in at the right time to provide inspiration on Chile. We've kept in touch and she's invited me to crash on her couch and hang out for the weekend. Antofagasta really isn't much for tourism, but I'm looking forward to it.

Tourism is about photo opportunities and guided tours. Travel is much more. It is to become part of a place, to understand it, to love and hate it. To live it. You don't need canyons or Monet galleries for this. And there is no better way to experience such places than with someone who already knows them.

After the surprise and greeting of my somewhat earlier than anticipated arrival, Alli shows me around her apartment. It is provided by the school, and she shares it with two other American teachers. It is very nice with comfortable furniture, and I almost wish it was later in the trip. This is the kind of place that would be a luxurious oasis after months of cramped hostels and unpredictable showers.

The dining room is an enclosed balcony with a beautiful view of the sea just a block away. I had been hoping this would be a good place to get some sunset photos. Alli assures me I won't be disappointed.

After getting settled, she asks "Well, are you tired, hungry, do you want to go out? You've been travelling all day. So if you're ready to call it a day..."

I got up at 5:30 this morning, sat on buses, stood around at border controls, and spent the last 2 hours listening to easy-listening 80's pop hits on the bus from Calama. But, "it's Friday, I'm up for anything."

We head to a small bar near the apartment that has a happy hour. It's only 10pm, so things are still getting started. I ask about Chilean beer, and Alli gives me a full and detailed report. I expected nothing less. Alli is from Philadelphia and is one of those Irish girls from the East who knows far more about the intricacies of beer than a guy like me from the Midwest can ever hope to learn. I'm by no means insecure, so I just absorb the knowledge like a child sitting at the feet of a Shaman.

Before long, we are joined by Luis, a guy Alli has been dating. We chat for a bit, finish our drinks, and head off.

Later, after meeting with Luis' brother and a friend, we go to a club. We enter and I laugh out loud as I hear the pulsing rhythms of reggaeton music. This stuff isn't known in Brasil, so it's been almost a year since I've heard it in Spain. Dame más gasolina!

We all get some rum and cokes and stand around watching people. Luis and I discuss Chilean rock music. He swaps out my outdated and small list of bands with a preferred selection. Unfortunately, I can feel the rum intercepting the information and using it as a chew toy before it can make it safely into long-term storage.

Luis' brother is very cool and we buy each other round after round of drinks. We joke and laugh about everything. He gives me valuable advice about Chilean girls that I will probably never have a chance to use.

After a few hours, the sensation of what has been about a 23-hour day starts to sink in and my batteries start to drain. As luck would have it, the others are about done as well, so we leave and head home.

Quit while you're ahead.

Saturday

Once we're eventually up and around, Alli gives me a walking tour of Antofagasta.

We stroll along the coast for a while then head into the commercial center. This is a set of pedestrian streets that reminds me of a calmer version of the Buenos Aires shopping area. We walk through and head to the port to see the fish market.

At the edge of the market, one can look over the wall and see sea lions swimming around. Alli explains that at the right time of day, people will throw fish over the side and they go nuts trying to get to the food. For now, they are lazily drifting in the water hoping for more scraps. I take crappy, uninspired photos of them in hopes of being published in National Geographic.

We walk over to where all sorts of sea creatures are for sale. It's Saturday afternoon, but there are plenty of people buzzing around buying fish, crab, octopus, and anything else you care to think of.

"Ok, you have to try a Chilean empanada," she says.

Empanadas are best described as pastries filled with usually meat, cheese, vegetables, whatever you can think of. It is a term used all over the Spanish speaking world and is as general and open-ended as saying "pasta" in Italy. But you get the idea. I'm quite familiar with a wide variety of both Argentine and Spanish versions, and am a big fan. However, I've never thought of them as a crucial contribution to the quasi-orgasmic ecstasy that is my gastronomic life.

So when I met Alli in Buenos Aires and she continually commented on how much better the Chilean empanadas were, I was coolly skeptical. I mean, they're just empanadas.

But Ok; of course I'll try anything.

We walk over to a stall where a tall, dark guy is serving up various things. While we wait for the empanadas from the small kitchen behind his booth, we talk to the guy in a mix of Spanish and his surprisingly good English. He let's us try all the different kinds of ceviche he has for sale.

Ceviche. It comes in several different forms, but the general idea is as follows: You dice up raw fish and pickle it for an hour or so in lime juice. Served cold. An example of a more traditional form would be to also mix in cilantro, aji (spicy Andean pepper sauce) and red onion. But it goes on from there with all kinds of seafood, spices, olives, corn, whatever.

It sounds gross. On first experience, it is very weird. In the end, if it takes root in your bloodstream; it becomes a vital aspect of your life. I love it.

Alli sees a friend a few booths over and takes me over to meet him. Ryan is from New Jersey and has long black hair and a beard. I don't trust first impressions much, but he is the kind of guy you immediately like. The air about him seems to have a Do No Harm policy that makes the more decent people in the world. Ryan is up for going out later, so Alli says she'll let him know where we end up. Luis may or may not go out, but English looks to dominate the evening in either case.

We go back to our booth where the empanadas are nearly done. Alli catches me eyeing the ceviche with pulpo (octopus) and Abalone and laughs, "You can get some to go and take it with us if you want"

"Um, yes." I try and hide the shudder of ceviche lust.

While the guy gathers some of it up into a cup, the empanadas come out.

I take the first bite of mostly crust. It's good - better than most empanada doughs, but come on. Just dough.

The second bite produces an explosion of juicy jaiba crab and cheese. I like crab, but this Jaiba stuff is on another level. I chew slowly, savoring, analyzing, categorizing.

Alli smiles at my expression, "Good, isn't it?"

I nod slowly and dramatically. She was right. That is the best empanada I have ever had.

We take the ceviche, and continue walking around town. We talk about life in Spain, Brasil, and Chile. Alli lived in Mexico City for six months and gives me a full list of things I will need to do, eat, and see when I get there. Mexico will be a great finishing touch to the whole trip. Can't wait.

After resting at the apartment for a few hours, we hit the street to find some dinner. We end up at Picadillo, a nice place a few blocks away on the main coastal road. Fettuccine with mariscos, smoked salmon, and a dollop of caviar. Delicious, but way too much food for any mere mortal.

We finish eating and walk back up the road and consider what to do next. We pass another restaurant - San Pedro - where some of Alli's fellow teachers are having dinner. We stop in to visit for a bit. They are all making plans for short trips around the region before they leave in December. Santiago, Lima, Cusco, and a few other places are on the table.

The food comes out and reminds both of us that we never want to eat again and we make our escape. Alli is in a dilemma over where to go. We're both a bit lethargic from the night before and prospects on our ability to match or exceed its success aren't quite grim, but waning.

Names of bars and hangouts fall from her mouth like some alien language and I'm forced to resort to a series of "Yeah that's cool. I mean, whatever you want to do is fine with me." The only assistance I can offer is to rule out a club. I am a discotech camel and my thirst has been quenched for a while. The hump is full.

Finally, Alli decides on a two-story bar not far from her place. We go upstairs and pick a small table amongst a few dozen locals talking and drinking beer. Alli flips through the small, circular menu and reads off the various beers on fare.

She stops halfway through the list. "You know, this is really expensive," she flips a page or two. "Wanna go somewhere else?"
The indecision is back as her eyes glance from side to side, searching through long-term memory images invisible to the rest of us that float just before her eyes.

The pinball machine of Alli's decision making process bounces around for a minute as more incomprehensible names are uttered. Finally the ball slams into the bonus bumper and the backboard lights up in color, buzzes, and bells. The LED blinks feverishly: "100,000 POINTS!!! FREE PLAY!!!"

She grins, "I got it! Come on, we're going to Cafe del Sol."

We enter Cafe del Sol right as things are getting warmed up. I immediately like the place. There is a live band playing traditional Andean music with a funky overtone. This is a small dark place lit mostly by candles. Most of the people would seem to be a bit more on the indigenous side than I've seen so far. But maybe that's just the music.

We head upstairs and a squat, middle-aged woman with her long hair braided in back arranges a small table and chairs for us. A balcony looks down over the first floor with a view of the band on stage. The woman hands us a few laminated menu sheets and places one of the candles on the table. The lit candle is jutting out of the mouth of a large liquor bottle. The exact nature of the bottle's previous life is hidden from view by a large volcano of dried wax that spills down the side. It's a nice touch.

"Ok they have Pisco," Alli says looking over the menu by the candlelight. She reads off some beers and various mixed drinks.

We discuss it for a moment as if it were a national budget decision. Neither of us has verbalized it, but I think Alli understands the potential importance of two people staying on the same page with respect to what they drink. It isn't mandatory or even controllable, but if the right kind of people can stick to the right kind of drink and avoid inequalities such as beer/liquor or wine/shots, the evening can evolve from fun to something approaching a telepathic Zen normally described only in Eastern philosophy.

You think I'm kidding?

We bounce around the menu for a minute and examine the options. In the end, the choice is clear. The music has spoken. The Andes have spoken. The candle has spoken and we know what that bottle is underneath the undulating yet motionless cocoon of wax.

This is a Pisco night.

The drinks come out, the glasses clink, and the seamless and ever-changing conversation of the past 24 hours continues.

About half an hour in, Ryan from the fish market shows up with a friend of his from Wisconsin. The band has stopped playing and the loud performance is replaced by the bar's slightly softer stereo system.

We discuss travel around Latin America. Wisconsin has spent some time in Buenos Aires so we swap stories. Ryan is saving up money to do something similar to what I am doing. I get sick of people telling me how daring it is to travel like this. They have no idea. Ryan is planning on doing it with a tent, a portable stove, and a drastically smaller cost structure. I'm jealous. I don't even like taking the bus. I'd walk from here to Tijuana if I had the guts.

A few drinks in and Wisconsin leaves. Wisconsin is a cool guy and I've enjoyed talking to him, but I think Ryan, Alli, and I will make a better team for this particular night.

The psychic frequencies fluctuate, modulate, and resynchronize as the evening shifts into a new dynamic.

The band has started up again, and we are feeling the Pisco. Pisco, for the uninitiated, is a distilled grape liquor from...well from this part of the planet. It is wildly popular in both Chile and Perú. Enough said.

The band is going full throttle and the conversation level of the entire place has reached an apex, littered with the occasional peak of boisterous laughter and shouts of approval to the band.

"I'm thinking it's about time to dance," says Alli.
"Hang on," I say, mentally preparing myself for something I don't do well. Ryan just grins and nods. He came in way ahead of us from a prior engagement and is really flying. But he's holding his own.

Alli eventually loses her patience and grabs us both by the hands and drags us downstairs to the small dance floor in front of the stage. Obviously, they are both more accustomed to the traditional dance that everyone is doing. I do my best to watch their feet and copy the movements, but it is difficult to see through years of faulty retinal protein coding and a Pisco haze.

I do my best for a few minutes laughing and trying to keep up. Suddenly, I feel a large hand grasp mine and look up to see a big man in his early forties break into the circle between Alli and me. He is dancing and pointing to his feet and instructing me on the proper movements. He reaches down with his right hand and taps out the pattern on my knees to get the rhythm right. This helps and I start to get the hang of it and the four of us dance on for a few minutes laughing and yelling. Finally satisfied that the gringo has gotten as good as he will get, the man gives me a few friendly claps on the back and dances back to his group of friends.

After a while, we return upstairs for another drink. The glasses clink one last time. The Zen has reached its zenith and the three of us are grinning and happy.

Halfway down the glass, I look to my left and see a face six inches from my own. It belongs to a Chilean guy with long stringy black hair down well below his shoulders and a beard.

He smiles, "I can....talk...English with you?"

Before Alli or I have a chance to respond, he pulls his chair over and sits down next to me.

"I like...Americans! Bush...is..not your fault!"

Great. Rob Zombie just pulled up a chair and wants to discuss post-modern imperialism. I take a second to reabsorb the surroundings of which I've maintained only a limited notion in the past half hour. Rob's table is next to ours, where his friends are all in the exact same heavy metal style of long hair and black pants and t-shirts. They are all quite a bit drunker than us.

Rob goes on talking to me in his strained English about the state of the world and all its injustices. I listen attentively and put in remarks where I can. I don't do this because I want to engage this guy over intellectual issues, but to appease and keep the peace. I'm sure I know the situation here. These guys are drunk. They're metal heads. They're passionate. They are not dangerous unless given a reason. It's just that our mere presence here sparks curiosity and a desire to engage. But they are drunk, and this can get weird if I don't play the cards right. To complicate matters, Rob is insisting on his labored and slow-moving English. Difficult lingual communication causes tension. Tension requires release. Alcohol triggers release.

After a few attempts to contribute to the conversation, I know that he isn't really listening and is just talking. I let him go on, nodding thoughtfully and maintaining eye contact.

The cards shuffle. Images and sounds skip like a scratched DVD. Dammit. Listening is something you can't afford to do while intoxicated. I pull myself together to reassess the situation. I lean over and see that Alli is now seated next to a guy on the other side of Rob. I size him up and make a rough estimate that he is the quieter and more congenial of the group. Still, I know what he is up to. I look across the table to find Ryan to check on him. The problem is that, aside from the lack of latent Metallica-driven aggression, Ryan looks just like these guys. So I can't really tell which of them he is. But that side of the table is all laughing sarcasm and story telling, so I think he's ok.

I then do a double-take back to Rob as I realize he has moved on to the subject of the Basque separatists in Spain. It turns out his family on his father's side was Basque or something like that.

This is it. This is my chance to turn the tables on the situation. I know the Basque thing.

Like most sensitive subjects, my opinion on the Basque issue is a highly complex structure of rational and unbiased components - most of which can enrage parties on either side of the argument at any moment depending on which point is being discussed. Luckily, I've become adept and temporarily stripping away a subset of the components in order to placate and diffuse potentially bad situations.

I lean over again and catch Alli's attention. "You doing Ok?", I mouth and she nods. For the moment.

I wait for Rob to make an impassioned and mostly uninformed statement about the current situation. Luckily, he has given up on the English and I will be able to proceed in rapid Spanish.

Let's get this over with, Rob.

When the statement comes, I jump in with a "DAMN RIGHT" and launch into a tirade over the current developments. I drop names and incidents with which he is not familiar. I tell him things he would like to hear peppered with things he likes hearing but has never thought of.

It works. Taken aback by my sudden and highly detailed interjection on the subject, the tables are turned and he begins to listen. I go on and on. Aznar this. Los Fueros that. His eyes shift from mine and begin to glaze slightly. His cards are shuffling. Soon he will lose interest along with focus.

However, I go too far and provoke him into a moment of ecstasy. He yells some cryptic slogan and pounds his fist on the rickety table. His friends repeat at three times the volume and slam their fists down as well. The poor table is not designed for this type of seismic activity, and I think it's time to go.

I lean over again and this time Alli makes a gesture and says "Alright, let's go."

The explosion has reunited Rob Zombie in conversation with his compadres and I use the distraction to sneak behind him, grab Alli from the clutches of the would-be sexual predator, and head down the stairs.

Once outside we take a moment to laugh it all off. The incident is funny enough to not ruin the night, but it certainly has put the brakes on its momentum. Time to go home.

We head up the street toward Alli's apartment. Toward the sea; following the scent of salt air.

Sunday

Awake.

Confirm Ryan's continued existence.

Empanadas on beach.

Kids with kites.

Pre-Inca ruins.

Relax.

Dinner.

Hug.

Thanks.

Back east into the desert.

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Photos

Sea Lions
Possibly the best wildlife photo EVER taken

Pre-Inca Ruins
There are Pre-Inca ruins in the middle of the city that you can explore