"Hey dig Isla Negra... our Nobel Prize, Pablo Neruda was a crazy guy... he has a great sense of humor!!!! I live over there for about 3 years... I love the place, in summer time it's very shitty, too meny Santiaguinos fucking around..." writes one native Chilean of this small village on the coast. In this case, the offending party were Santiaguinos née Estadounidense, a band of excitable students from a program called USAC.Our first class excursion left UAB at about 9:30 a.m. The lot of us were scattered about in front of the building, clicking and clacking and pecking like excitable hens. For the first time since orientation, our group was assembled together for a comfortable bus ride to the coast to visit one of author/poet Pablo Neruda's homes, with a pit stop in Pomaire, a popular tourist destination. I was eating a banana which had offended its original owner, Shannon, with its mushy-ness. I overlooked its transgressions to replace the breakfast I slept too late to eat.
As the buses neared, Program Director Luis Figueroa announced through his lilting Chilean accent that one would hold 40-some passengers, the other, only 20. Nobody's fool, I called out "dibs on the big bus!" My swift decision-making skill was rewarded with a rowdy trip westward. Vail had the foresight to bring along a small but potent iPod stereo, which I was awarded control of after replacing its batteries. We descended on Pomaire primed for adventure.
Famous for earthenware cookery and empanadas bigger than your head (ignore their siren call, Luis advised; they're not as tasty as the smaller ones), Pomaire reminds one of Wisconsin Dells with its small shops, each vying for your patronage, but the similarities end there. The teensy village didn't seem to have a building with more than one story, and exhibited a slow sweetness unsullied by grubby tourist hands or "Santiaguinos fucking around." My wandering coincided, I think, with the school's lunch recess, and uniformed students passing by would happily return smiles and waves when offered.
Pomaire's more eclectic wares.
Pomaire homes, hills rising beyond.
Pomaire's frontispiece and our rallying point.
Unpictured, to the left, is the tourism office
But it wasn't just wandering fun and cookware watching in Pomaire. I was in the middle of examining a casserole pan when my phone rang. Britt and company had assembled at a restaurant. "I'll come find you," she said, and I left it at that, resuming my interrupted pan-perusals. Going from shop to shop, I eventually came to an intersection. An energetic pamphlet-hander called to me, "Hola! Tu amiga! Tu amiga!" and pointed left. He waved for me to follow him, which I did with equal amounts of curiosity and concern. He led me into a building and I saw the USACers at a table with cervezas, fresh biscuit-like buns and bowls of some of the better salsa any gringo has ever sampled.
With the second round, the waiter brought Murph one of Pomaire's famous earthenware bowls (a "paila," according to wikipedia) filled to the brim with an indeterminable golden goo. It was a pastel de choclo, a traditional Chilean dish, consisting of large chunks of chicken, hard boiled eggs, olives, pork, and the eponymous corn. I immediately ordered one of my own and waited on pins and needles for what felt like an hour before it finally came. Forkfuls were abetted with salsa and cerveza and contented me beyond words.
I forked over my portion of the tab and disbanded from the group under the guise of buying presents for my mom, but the selection of wares overwhelmed me, and I assured myself that hastening to decisions in my first month here wasn't wise. So I wandered more, venturing away from the tourist trapping storefronts and into the more residential area.
I passed a clearing among the houses filled with piles of shoddy lumber and smelling of smoke, and the cars passing by filled to the brim with ceramics led me to assume that this was one of the fabricating zones for the pottery which probably sustained the economy of town. Further away, I rendezvoused with Adriane who, too, was wandering, and who solicited most of the schoolchildren's waves previously mentioned. Eventually, we made our way back to the rally point where I played spectator to an impromptu USAC futbol circle facilitated by Wes. Wes has brought his ball to class before, leading me to wonder if he is ever without it.
The ride from Pomaire to Isla Negra was even more raucous than its predecessor, and we in the back of the bus rang in our arrival at the coast with a rousing rendition of "Father & Son" by Cat Stevens (and a somewhat louder and less dignified "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" by The Darkness).
We filed out and stretched and ran around and climbed on things until we had shaken off our road-weariness, and poured into the receiving area for the Casa de Isla Negra. Inside we saw Neruda's collections of collections, his ornate living room adorned with ship's figureheads from around the world, the telescope given to him by the French government during his diplomat days, the guitars and lutes and a Mongolian shamasan which he could not play, and the narwhal tusk purchased with Nobel Prize money.
The house was interesting and impressive, but dwarfed by the awe of the black rock laden beach for which the area was named. The lot of us spent the next few hours climbing over rocks, investigating tide pools and dipping our toes in the frigid surf, the inattentive getting soaked by crashing waves.
Pablo Neruda's waking view: enough to
make anyone a Nobel-winning poet.
Artistry on the rocks.
Countless rounds of "would you rather" ("Fly or be invisible?" "Only eat vegetables or only eat fruit?" Or, my contribution, "have a pet lightning storm or a pet earthquake?") and naps passed the hours on the trip back. For dinner, a crowd of us went out for Santiago sushi, which is on par with the best I've had, and expectedly less expensive.
I arrived home ready to take a load off, but the family was just sitting down to more completos, and Leonardo was in the mood to tie one on, so the night got long. Shooting the shit, we put down over half a bottle of Jack Daniel's, prompting Gabriela to snap some pictures with her camera, which were then uploaded to her Facebook account. Readers will be spared. I'm not sure if Chileans know of the pre-sleep-jug-of-water hangover cure, because when I showed up at the breakfast table the next morning in a considerably better state than Leo, Ana Maria suggested that I might have a drinking problem.
The weekend has been slow and easy. Gabriela's cuisine never fails to please, and this afternoon really took the cake (also, there was cake). Gabriela, Ana Maria and I put together antichucos, the kind of kabobs you'd make if you were unconcerned with health or price: chicken, beef, longanizas, chorizo, prosciutto, peppers, mushrooms and onion. Ricardo grilled them and brought out batches which must have totaled about 40.
Before.
After.
Afterer.
And then we had dinner.
Not too shabby. The Chilean independence celebrations begin this week, which means no class on Thusday or Friday. From what I've heard, the modus operandi is to drink for five days straight. If I survive, updates will follow.
Stay tuned.
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