Saturday morning came way too early, sun shining through the thin curtains of the dorm room. I got up, thinking I might eat and give everyone time to get up and out and perhaps return for a bit of recuperation.
Casa Roja backyard
The first thing I did was go to the lobby and buy a ticket for the desayuno de la casa (con tocino), the biggest breakfast available (with bacon, please). I also asked if there was a chance of upgrading to a private room, there was no way I’d survive another dorm-room night. I was in luck, a private room (shared bathroom) would be available by one and I jumped at the chance.
The breakfast was good, though the eggs and bacon tasted like they’d been marinating in salt for a few days—perhaps it’s a way of helping partygoers with their water retention.
Ah, a private room 🙂
Spent most of the day by, and sometimes in, the pool at the Casa Roja. As usual, the place was filled with people from all parts. The german/norweigian team were nursing hangovers after an interesting evening (I met three of them coming back when I got up, around 08h00). Met some Israelis, a nice bunch but so aggressively on the prowl that they created a void of females around them wherever they went.
The most interesting conversations were with Margot—a repentant accountant from New Zealand—and Oliver, an American economist of some sort. Oliver was also a cyclist, who been to La Paz to train for upcoming competitions (great place, due to the altitude) but wound up taking a break from the drudgery of his work and staying in Cuzco, Peru, working as a cycle tour guide.
Afternoon by the pool
By the evening, Tom—a brit and the most interesting soldier I’ve ever met—joined our little group. He almost convinced me to head to Cambodia, describing in fascinating detail this remote beach which is officially a Cambodian naval base but basically one boat that maintains a few land-to-air defence canons and plays volleyball on the beach all day. Apparently, some computer geeks leased out the beach for 100 years at a ridiculously low price, built a few huts, and rent them out to tourists. Sounded like a weird and interesting paradise, somewhat like that “The Beach” movie. Maybe next year 😉
By the time it was dark, Margot, Oliver, Tom and I were well acquainted and having a good time, but for the exception of the participation of the Casa Roja resident barman. That guy started off as an interesting voice in the mix, if a bit overly sarcastic, but as the percentage of alcohol in his blood rose, so did his need for attention—at any cost. He became disruptive, with attempt to shock everyone with nonsensical, but distasteful and downright gross comments about molesting teens and shit. The guy needs some help, but it wasn’t going to come from us. We ditched him, and the Casa Roja, and hit the town, heading to Bella Vista by cab.
Oliver and Tom, on Pio Nono in BellaVista
We hit a few bars, where Oliver insisted on ordering the drinks and getting charged absolutely insane prices. After a few times, I took care of it and costs magically went down.
By four or five in the morning, I headed back to the casa, leaving the group in Tom’s capable hands. As I arrived, I met up with the Casa’s official cook and organizer of barbecues—a nice kiwi who’s easy to get along with. We decided to share a beer, and soon enough there were about 8 people re-opening the bar out back. My friendly cook was acting a little drunkenly weird, though, and started getting aggressive. At one point, he actually pushed me—as a “joke”–but I was a little drunk myself and reacted by bodyslamming the guy. He literally flew away, smashed into the wall and fell to the floor. Everybody turned to the scene, surprised. I realized I’d put a little more juice into it than intended, and rushed to help him back up, apologizing. His eyes were wide and his was a little freaked out, unsure if I was going to help him or pound him. I tried to reassure him, helped him up. Stayed another few minutes to ensure all was well, but that was enough for me and I headed to bed shortly thereafter.
After another tough night, I got up hoping that today—the last official weekday of my vacation time—I would finally close some deal for an apartment. I had to call Sheryl (the apt @ LaMoneda) and wanted to get some time off downtown by booking a few nights at La Casa Roja. I was getting tired of the never-ending apt hunt, especially since everyday that went by meant another day of feeling like everyone in Nunoa and back home was worried and trying to help out. The upside was that as time was running out, apartments por diarios (paid per day) started coming into range.
In any case, if nothing else worked out, I thought I might risk doing the thing through HomeChile. In the end, even if I lost the entire deposit, it would be a price similar to an apart-hotel.
Hit the road and started with La Casa Roja. One thing I noticed: it’s better to get off at Los Heroes and walk west on O’Higgins, to Av. Brasil, and then walk up north directly. Going straight north, you wind up in some less hospitable areas…
Brasil Ave and Agustinas
Book a shared room for that night and the next (Friday and Saturday). I’d been promised a night on the town on Friday by my new pals from Bar La Nona… not sure I could take it tonight, but either way I’d get some time out of the family action in Nunoa.
Aaah... Back yard, Casa Roja
Was told the best way back to the Casa late would be by taxi: Brasil avenue is a street with a few bars, passed Agustina, but below is mainly a slew of tiny stores selling hydraulic machine parts, tires, car parts and gaskets… It must be quite dead at night.
Shops on Brasil Ave
Typical example of the very specialized minishops
The call to Sheryl went in what I was coming to think of as classic Chileno fashion: suddenly things had changed, nothing was available and I should just forget it. Hard to count on anything, in these parts. “We’ll come pick you up on Wednesday”, mmhm. “Walk down three blocks”, yeah. “Use your phone number as the PIN”, sure. “Call tomorrow”, ok. It seems a grain, or ten, of salt must be added to every statement relating to the future.
La Moneda, down belowLa Moneda, up top
Sick of the equivocation, I went from Los Heroes, in barrio Brasil, to Los Leones, in Providencia, and the offices of HomeChile. Was so tired of it all, I decided to take the risk, without even seeing the apartment—even if they were starting to raise the pressure with the “other people are interested” line. Murgh.
HomeChile's spartan offices
HomeChile wanted to take the whole sum: fee, deposit and monthly rent for the owner. However, they’d only provide a receipt for the first two, and transfer the rest of the cash to the proprietor. Uh, no thanks. I gave them what they’d provide a paper trail for, and would pay the owner on Sunday, when I’d actually get the key to the place.
Took a few subtle pics of the office, and swiped the owners phone number and RUT from the computer screen by entering it in my phone like a text message. Yeah, a little paranoid, but it’s a good chunk of cash with little of anything real in hand for the moment.
A little stressed, but very happy the apt hunting might be over, I left Providencia for a little pre-Friday night downtime in Nunoa. After that, the Casa Roja seemed oddly empty.
The I've-got-an-apt dance of joyShared Room @ Casa Roja... hmmmm.
I went out back for a cerveza and a little time to collect my thoughts. The minibar by the pool had only a handful of patrons, and the actual bar was completely shut down. A small group of germans were the single source of life but their circle was slowly growing.
Seems most people were partying elsewhere tonight. Actually, you could hear the activity beyond the Casa walls and, in a quick tour of the block, I found people everywhere. The patios on Brasil were full, but so were most of the street corners and the park. Around 11pm , screaming and giggling children were on the slides and swings, while globs of teens agglomerated around most of the park benches, laughing and drinking beer, some playing music.
At the Casa, the bar man was morose and wasn’t helping the atmosphere with his complaints about low turnout, places he never wanted to go back to, and life in general. That was my queue to head out for a snack before calling it a night. I ambled down Brasil Av. a bit, stopped at the Blondie Snack Bar and ordered a napolitana pizza and coca light.
As I was sipping my coke, waiting for the food, that same group of germans showed up. The troupe had grown to 11, and included two Norwegian girls, one Canadian from T.O. and a Chilean. They promptly merged my table on the patio with two others and I was suddenly part of the gang.
A friendly and festive group, the germans had met in Valparaiso where most are studying mechanical engineering and pretty much everyone but Shane, the canadian, was in Santiago for some sort of bal-en-blanc: a rave-type affair where everybody dresses in white, to be held the following night two clicks north in an old train station. I was invited, tongue-in-cheek, to join that party—everyone seemed to know I wouldn’t have much white in my wardrobe. Shane, who was only part of the band that night, tried his best to chat with me from across the table but had lost his voice from partying the night(s) before so we basically did a bit of smile and nod and left it at that.
I was discreetly handed a small roll of paper and told it was Alex’s–the guy to my right–birthday and that on the signal, we should all throw him a little surprise. Shortly after the beers arrived, it was time. I obliged, and threw my roll which bounced off his head without unfurling. The others were more successful, namely because they were throwing confetti. Lots and lots of confetti.
Alex, the birthday boy, trying to lose a little confetti
The small mounds accumulating on the ground around Alex didn’t seem to bother the Blondie staff, but I felt a little awkward about the mess. At least they, unlike me by this point, were drinking heavily so I figured it would be all good. Still, I made excuses for the mess to the waitress and gave her a good tip to compensate a little. She didn’t seem to care about that either.
Back at the table, the booze was flowing and the conversation bouncing around many subjects but always returning to the big party set for the next night. At first, one of the Norwegian girls—studying Corporate Social Responsibility in Valpo—seemed pretty interesting and we had the beginnings of a conversation about the nature and role of enterprise. But soon the subjects of how annoying the “German mafia” at her uni was, or how tacky this or that or something else was, started getting a bit repetitive.
At some point, I returned from the washroom and a local had joined in the conversation obviously with the intent to sell something. He was 61 years old, and had a short grey beard, dark skin and was wearing fatigues with a beret. He quickly turned to the subject of the ongoing, never ending, revolution of the people of South America. You could feel the yearning in his voice when he spoke of the 1970-1973 period. He said it was the best times Chile had had and that, after, everything had changed. However brutal the Allende government had actually been here (only heard that one from a single person: a Player on the Chilean cricket team, who I’d meet later, but he had a bit of mala onda to him… so I dunno the real story there), this guy seemed like he’d been—and still was—firmly on the side of the people, and I respect that.
A revolutionary visits our table
He had something good, and revolutionary-related, to say about all the nations represented at our table. When someone spilled the beans about me, he tilted his head and stroked his beard… “yes, yes, Canada, Montreal. I can’t remember… what is the name, where you are from?” I guessed he meant Quebec, and he jump and exclaimed “Ah oui! Les Quebecois! Les Quebecois! They are fighters, as well, les Quebecois!” beaming a huge smile.
I’m uncertain whether he was living out on the street, but his income was derived from the jewelry he made of onyx and other stones. Instead of making a sale, he just gave an earring to one of the Norwegian girls and was on his way.
The party was just starting for these guys, but I was exhausted and bid them farewell. By the time I was ready to try out my upper level bunk in the shared room, it was 02h30. Shane was in the common area, with a few other people, having a cigarette or ten to ensure his voice would never return. We managed to have a talk, then, and he showed me pictures of Mendoza (Argentina). I’d been thinking of going, if only to cross the Andes by bus, and he talked of the place as somewhere he would love to live: a burning sun but with every street shaded by rows of trees, a beautiful and quiet town but where you could party all night if you felt like it. Not a bad sales pitch.
Turns out we we in the same room. I prepped and crawled into bed as quietly as I could, but feared that the alcohol might put me in big-snore mode. Don’t think it was much of a problem, my sleep was light and disturbed regularly by movement, the return of revellers, and someone’s checking around 6 am. Got a call around 7am: the guys who were supposed to take me out the night before… not sure what it was about, but it was a little late for partying by that point. Not a very restful night.
Tonight, we planned to be living it up in Barrio Brasil’s home of the traveler, la Casa Roja. First, we wanted a good breakfast and some supplies so we headed out for a second attempt at locating the local Lider.
The Lider chain is one of the big players in the supermercado business, along with Jumbo (who’s logo incorporates a Dumbo-like elephant), Unimarc and the smaller (and somehow grimier) Santa Isabel.
Lider has locations scattered throughout, regular sized stores are “Lider express” and giant behemoths that rival and surpass IKEA are “Hiper Lider”. They are big.
SiperDiper Hiper Lider
I always find it interesting that it’s in the cases where things are almost the same as at home, but not quite, that I feel the most perturbing sense of culture shock. I think it’s that the familiarity lulls you into an impression of the known and you let your guard down, then suddenly something surprises you, or just doesn’t jive. Add up enough of these little events, and my brain seems to react by assuming it’s in a dream state and feeling like I’m in some pseudo-reality, a little disconnected and giggly.
Ah, comfort!Fry-chips
Obviously, the selection and branding are different. Would you like some GROSSOs (Chicle Globo) with that? How about some Lays french fries (stacked alongside the other chips but microwaveable), or some comfort for your butt?
It’s impossible to find milk—I mean fresh milk, not in a box made to last forever—but yogourt and cheese abound. It’s impossible to find coffee—I mean coffee grains, used by many to make coffee—but Nescafe and 50 brands of instant 100% arabica are available everywhere (even coffee shops are few and far between).
The hand baskets are like small luggage, with retractable handles and wheels. They’re really cool. The cash registers never have scales, so there’s a fruit&veggie guy somewhere who’ll bag and tag everything you want to buy in the section, even if it’s just one lemon, before you head to the cash. Same thing for the bakery section, though it’s another guy.
We headed back to HQ and packed up for our road trip trial run, and set out for the red house.
On the road
La Casa Roja, situated in the heart of Barrio Brasil at Brasil and Augustinas, is a hostel in a huge restored casona. I have no idea how many rooms it has, but there are many, and it has loads of common spaces: TV rooms, internet center with workstations, living rooms for lounging around, tables in inner yards, a back yard with a swimming pool… all in a beautiful setting, a slight creak and breeze following you everywhere you go, with wood and ornamentation everywhere and windows and patio doors open on the beautiful weather at every turn. I’d say we liked the place.
We rented a double room (with bathroom) for about USD35 a night: a steal for the quality of this place. The room was clean, private and comfortable, but much of the fun happens in the halls and yards.
Casa Roja Room
One thing Santiago is lacking is swimming pools and, though most locals consider the summer pretty much over, on 25 to 30 degree sunny days we were itching for some splashing. So the first thing we did was to take a dip in the back yard pool.
Casa Roja, backyard.One large casa!
Not an Olympic swimming pool, but a nicely designed on with a smaller Jacuzzi-type basin feeding into the deep end, with a bar providing service in the water on the other end. Ah, enjoyable.
We spoke to a few travelers, students globe-trotting before getting tied down to another semester or real life and the like, and avoided a few others (namely, a group that were obviously from the same spot in the world as ourselves—we didn’t come all this way for more of the same, it seems).
2nd floor, common room
By the time we had supper, Saturday night was upon us and it was time to dive into the action. Inquiring with the staff about suitable venues for our escapades was a bit of a disappointment. Having particular tastes, our choices seemed rather limited as a few of the bars we were relying on had disappeared or sold out to the 80s trend.
We were told that Oxido, a place we had both mentally bookmarked prior to arrival, might be of interest, and so we were off… to the other side of el centro, into Bellavista.
Oxido is a small club, with a smokey pub type tables-and-chairs section in front and a showroom in back. The ambiance is a noisy relaxed that is quite enjoyable with a good Russian beer ($1000 pesos for a litre!) and tar stick. A great spot was available, slightly elevated in the corner of the room, but only because it was a table with no seating. L asked two guys whether we could take two of their chairs and they promptly invited her to “take a seat, no problem, yeah!” Sorry, just want the chairs and we got a comfortable spot from which to observe the fauna.
Bar Oxido, in Bellavista
We (really L, because with the noise I could hardly understand a word) struck up a conversation with the neighboring table. Turns out Ramon, a sixty year old with a good vibe and lots to say, was out having a beer with his youngest son and waiting impatiently to get a look at the show that was setting up in the other section. In the meantime, we all chatted about the state and future of Chile and the western world—Ramon seemed to have a worldview very much like our own, which is probably related to how we ended up in the same place on this Saturday night and was an all around cool guy.
L's new pal @ OxidoSweet graff on the way back
After a good talk, and a few liters of Russian ale, we decided we weren’t going to close the bar on this night: turns out, on the weekends at least, the bars in the area close at 5 AM. W00t!! That’s a last call I can live with, just early enough to avoid the sun on your way back!
So we took walked back down across the rio, caught our first cab in the city(fast, so cheap and safe because tracked by GPS… uhm, hm… anyway, was cool) and headed back to our room in the red house. As we entered, we were invited to join the ongoing party at the bar in the back yard. Wow, I want to work in a hostel. A liter of Heineken later we’d had enough—the ambiance was cheerful and the people cool, but we were looking forward to some alone time followed by sleep uninterrupted by noise or light seeping in through paper-thin curtains and holes in the seems of the house.
