Baseball v. Fascism? From Argentina to the United States

 I have always been a baseball fan and, in the course of my guidebook-writing career in the Southern Cone countries, I would often say that I left home when the World Series ended and returned for Opening Day. This wasn’t quite literally true, but it did mean that I had something to occupy my time in the Northern Hemisphere when nothing was happening on the diamond (a truly appropriate description of any baseball field, including this unexpected gem in the Argentine city of Salta).

The Argentine city of Salta has a new baseball stadium, but this older diamond was still a gem.

In mid-1981, when my wife first arrived in the United States from Argentina—a country in which baseball is still a fringe sport—she immediately took to Fernando Valenzuela, the Los Angeles Dodgers’ Mexican pitcher who served as a symbol of inclusion in her new home country. It helped, of course, that I was a Dodgers fan since my childhood—since the early Jackie Robinson years—and we have maintained that loyalty toward what has long been baseball’s most admirable franchise. By signing Robinson, the Dodgers had led the way in crossing the “color line” that had excluded black players from Major League Baseball.

 

Dodger Stadium, where the legendary Fernando Valenzuela began his career.

That progress, however, hasn’t been without setbacks. The Dodgers won the World Series in 2024, and that victory came with an invitation to visit the White House that has been traditional since 1924. Many of us hoped that the team would decline the invitation to interact with an occupant (who shall remain nameless here) whose loathsome public persona, including overt racism, was unpleasant at best. Then, however, we could at least rationalize that the visit was part of a longstanding apolitical tradition.

 

Argentina's military dictatorship kidnapped and murdered my future brother-in-law's first wife in 1976.

That rationalization is no longer tenable, if it ever was. It’s truly disheartening, in face of this regime’s assault on civil liberties—resorting to widespread kidnapping, prison camps, and even summary public executions—to think that the Dodgers would once again honor the current occupant with their presence. It’s worth adding here that my future brother-in-law’s first wife, María Eugenia Sanllorenti, was kidnapped in the Argentine city of La Plata and then murdered. It was more than three decades before forensic experts identified her remains.

 

The Argentine dictatorship abducted Maru from this apartment in the city of La Plata in 1976.

The last straw, here, should be the White House’s grotesque caricature of former President Barack Obama (this country’s first black President) and his wife Michelle as apes in the jungle. What would Jackie Robinson say? Perhaps someone in the Dodgers ownership should ask Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s 103-year-old widow and head of the Jackie Robinson Foundation, her opinion.

 

At the very least, the Dodgers could decline the invitation with a statement saying “We did that last year, thank you.” Then we could wholeheartedly cheer for the Dodgers’ third consecutive championship—a three-peat—in 2026.

 

Should the Dodgers decline the invitation, they could face backlash from a vengeful White House that went ballistic over Bad Bunny's Super Bowl half-time show, which celebrated the culture of Puerto Rico—a territory whose inhabitants are US citizens—and other Latin American peoples. There's at least one Dodger who would almost certainly boycott an invitation—the charismatic utility infielder/outfielder Enrique (Kiké) Hernández is a Boricua who was an enthusiastic presence at Sunday's game and halftime show. Relief pitcher Edwin Díaz is also Puerto Rican.

As US citizens, both of them would have little to risk by declining the invitation. However, the Dodgers also have players from Cuba, the Dominican Republic Venezuela, Japan, and South Korea who could conceivably have their work visas revoked by a vengeful White House. There are many more in the Dodgers' minor league system, so this could wreak true havoc.

Post-Script: I just realized this is my first blog entry in more than three years. I'm not traveling quite so much now, though there is a new edition of Moon Handbooks Patagonia, and I'll try offer my insights a bit more frequently.

Tuesday Topics: Patagonia, Reopening Chile, Vaccines, Masks & Linguistics, and Falklands Flights

When I arrived in Santiago de Chile in late February of 2020, to begin updating Moon Handbooks Patagonia for the upcoming sixth edition, what we now recognize as the COVID pandemic had barely begun and few of us appreciate what was a transformative event it would be. A couple weeks later, after I had crossed into northern Argentine Patagonia, its significance had become apparent and I managed to return to Chile before the border shut down and then, after various delays, to home in California.

When I landed in Santiago during the pandemic's earliest days, there were only the most basic temperature checks for airport arrivals.

After that lengthy delay, I’m once again planning—tentatively—to return to Chile in November. While I did travel to Buenos Aires and surroundings in March and April, I didn’t even consider a detour into Chile because its government had been slow to acknowledge foreign-administered vaccinations—an approval that’s necessary to obtain a pase de movilidad (mobility pass) permitting access to museums, restaurants, and other sites of interest to non-resident visitors.

Chile's acceptable vaccines list, according to Minsal (Health Ministry)

At that time, it was taking weeks to obtain the obligatory homologación, requiring an extended quarantine that made tourist travel inconvenient at best. Under pressure from the tourism sector, though, it has now instituted a process that should take no more than 48 hours through the Health Ministry’s vaccination website. Unfortunately, this does not (yet?) appear in English or any other foreign language but, since the policy in question is barely a week old, perhaps that’s just a short-term glitch? For those of us competent in Spanish that’s not an issue, but for the upcoming season it would seem essential.

 

What Is a Mask? A Linguistic Digression

A Chilean mascarilla

Ever since the pandemic started, we’ve been wearing masks and, when out in public, I still wear one (Alameda County, where I live, has only just rescinded its indoor mask mandate). I was in Chile when the pandemic started but before the mandate but, after I returned home quickly, the mascarilla soon became universal there and is still obligatory indoors and in outdoor spaces where it’s not possible to maintain one meter of distance between individuals. Mascarilla, by the way, is a diminutive of máscara, but I think the latter implies something that covers the entire face. In English, of course, we have just one term that covers both, though there qualifiers—“surgical mask,” for instance.

Instructions for your barbijo.

In Argentina, where I recently spent a month-plus, there are no mascarillas—rather, there are barbijos and tapabocas, two words that seem etymologically or otherwise curious. Barbijo derives from barba (beard), which feels odd since both men and women wear them, so perhaps it should be “barbijx” in interest of inclusive language?

This tapabocas covers more than just the mouth.

Alternatively, Argentines use tapabocas, which literally means “mouth covering”—oddly inappropriate, one would think, when masks are supposed to cover both the mouth and nose. Nevertheless, during my time there, Argentines were pretty conscientious about wearing their masks properly—both indoors and outdoors.

 

SCL to PUQ to MPN

Mount Pleasant International Airport (MPN) in the Falklands

Meanwhile, flights from the South American continent to the Falkland Islands will resume this coming Saturday, July 2nd. Since the Islands—insular Patagonia, if you will—form an important entry in the book, I’m very keen to return. Also, having lived there for more than a year in 1986-7 and revisited half a dozen times, I have many friends and acquaintances whom I am keen to revisit.

The Offices of International Tours and Travel (LAN has since been rebranded as LATAM)

According to an email I received from Sally Ellis, of Stanley’s International Tours and Travel, “The LATAM airlink with Chile will resume on 02 July with its normal route of Santiago - Punta Arenas - Falklands roundtrip, and a roundtrip possible from [the Argentine provincial capital of] Rio Gallegos if you travel to the Falklands on the second Saturday of each month and return on the third Saturday of each month.” It’s worth noting here that anyone flying from Punta Arenas to the Falklands and disembarking in Río Gallegos on return could run afoul of Argentine immigration—since Argentina consider the Falklands to be theirs, they may not give you an entry stamp at the airport and, when you try to leave at another border post, officials there might say you entered the country illegally.

 

Before the pandemic hit, there was an alternative route via Brazil and the central Argentine city of Córdoba but, according to Sally, “The Brazil route has no resumption date yet but will not be before the summer - maybe November?” I’ve never taken this route, but I wouldn’t rule it out at some point—especially since it would give me a chance to revisit one of Argentina’s most historic provincial capitals and its nearby Sierras.

Why We're Not Going to Buenos Aires Now, and Other Miscellanea

Recently I dreamt that, having arrived at Buenos Aires’s Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini (commonly called “Ezeiza”), I was in a taxi to our apartment in the barrio of Palermo—where my wife and I had been longing to go ever since the pandemic began. En route, though, I realized I’d left the keys at our California home—and then I awoke wondering whether that was a metaphor for the times we’re in. In fact, we’d planned to fly to Argentina this New Year’s Eve, and were eager to see friends and family in and around the Argentine capital, but I’d begun to have my doubts as news of the Omicron variant hit the country especially hard.

We might have hired a taxi here...

Uki Goñi's Twitter account is a good up-to-date source on many Argentine topics.

In fact, I’d contemplated postponing the trip a few days earlier, but María Laura was still committed to going until Monday, when she first expressed doubts and then consulted with siblings, nephews, nieces, and friends (some of whom are directly involved in the healthcare system there). Everyone concurred that the situation was worsening, and expressed doubts about the trip despite their eagerness to see us.

Argentina's vax rollout has actually been pretty good, but I couldn't resist posting this photo from my nephew's Parque Patricios neighborhood.

For our part, we are fully vaccinated and boostered, and live in an area where people take vaccinations and masking seriously, so we were never panic-stricken. That said, we could still theoretically be carriers, and we didn’t want to risk a breakthrough case that could put others at risk. We also worried, however, that flight cancellations and layovers might disrupt the trip—partly because San Francisco International Airport (SFO) is notorious for weather delays and also with respect to our connecting flight in COVID-friendly Texas. That state has great food and music, but deplorable government.

 

That said, we look forward to trying again in March or so. I might stay a bit longer than the month we originally planned on, as I’m starting to work on the upcoming sixth edition of Moon Patagonia—perhaps an excursion to Ushuaia is in order.

 

Meanwhile, in Chile…

Chile, of course, will be a key part of the Patagonia update, and its high vaccination rates have made it an example to emulate in handling the pandemic. It’s been circumspect about the entry of non-resident foreigners, though, and that seems likely to complicate the upcoming tourist season, even though more border crossings are opening with Argentina and its other neighbors. Still, there are fairly stringent requirements, including quarantine, and the Chilean bureaucracy has also been slow to acknowledge intending visitors’ vaccination status—according to a friend of mine who’s a permanent resident, a friend of his spent two weeks stranded in Lima because LATAM Airlines would not let him board a connecting flight.

Chile's border are reopening, at least in theory.

For me, as an independent traveler having to cross the border multiple times while updating my book, frequent retesting and quarantines would mean significant delays and expense. As the attached screenshot shows, that situation may be improving), but requirements are likely to change even more so that southern spring—October or November—seems more agreeable.

Of course, Chile’s made international headlines for its recent presidential election in which the left-leaning (but hardly extreme) Gabriel Boric defeated right-wing extremist José Antonio Kast (a Pinochet worshipper whose German-born father was literally a Nazi). Though Kast finished first in the multi-candidate primary (there were seven options), the 35-year-old Boric won the runoff handily and, to Kast’s credit, he quickly conceded and congratulated the winner. It’s worth noting that Boric’s final margin was almost identical to that of the 1988 plebiscite that ended Pinochet’s “presidency,” and that Communist candidate Eduardo Artés received only 1.46 percent of the primary vote.

The losing candidate's late father, at right, was literally a Nazi.

Even so, Kast partisans’ accusations of extremism have continued, the “markets” were not pleased with the result, and the peso has slipped against the US dollar (any visitor so inclined could now eat a Weißwurst more cheaply at the Bavaria restaurant chain that is the basis of the Kast family fortune). Still, as Chile proceeds with a Convención Constitucional to draft a new constitution to replace the Pinochet-friendly document authored by the late rightist lawyer Jaime Guzmán, the challenges to a long overdue reform won’t disappear. The new charter must be approved by plebiscite but until then and even after, governing could be a challenge.

 

In Other News…

My Patagonia title also includes the Falkland Islands, where I once spent an entire year and have revisited at least half a dozen times. Except for my initial trip, when I flew from and back to the United Kingdom (with a memorable stopover on Ascension Island), I’ve always arrived via the southern Chilean city of Punta Arenas but, since the start of the pandemic, there’ve been no flights on that route, which requires overflying Argentine airspace.

The passenger terminal at the Falklands' Mount Pleasant Airport

Next year, hopefully, these flights will resume, but the Argentine government (which claims the Islands as the “Malvinas”) has recently stonewalled humanitarian charter flights that would have allowed the Islands’ Chilean residents (there are roughly 200 of them) to return home for the holidays. That’s not an auspicious development.

Alex Olmedo's Waterfront Café is a Chilean-owned business in Stanley.

For an incisive account of the Islands and their current prosperity, read Larissa MacFarquhar’s outstanding piece in The New Yorker, researched immediately before the pandemic.

 

 

 

 

Farewell, Jan Morris...and That Soccer Guy

In the early 1990s, I finished my original guidebook to Argentina for a publisher whose name I will decline to mention here. Shortly thereafter, the same publisher offered me a contract to update their existing guidebook to Chile, which I accepted, and my career as a guidebook writer seemed like destiny.

While those two assignments might sound comparable or almost identical, there were significant differences. The same author—whose name I will also decline to mention here--had done the previous editions of both books. In the case of Argentina, though, the author held copyright and, therefore, I had to start the book from scratch. Given that the book was awful—so bad that the publisher decided to do a new version shortly after the initial publication—on one level that was no big deal.

 

Of course, that meant more work for me (and my wife), who also wrote part of the new title. We had to avoid plagiarizing the previous author’s work but, given its shortcomings, that was never an issue. The downside was that the publisher would claim the copyright to our new book, as it was then eliminating author-friendly royalty contracts.

 

In the case of Chile, the publisher already owned the copyright, so plagiarism would not be an issue—or would it? That came to mind last week when I heard that Jan Morris, famed for her journalism, travel writing and personal life, died Friday at the age of 94. I had once unknowingly plagiarized her.

When Jan Morris visited Puerto Montt, in the early 1960s, it looked different than it does today.

In 1961, Morris had described the southern city of Puerto Montt as filled with “structures in the Alpine manner, all high-pitched roofs and quaint balconies.” Thirty years later, the author of the Chile guidebook wrote that “many houses are of northern-European design, faced with unpainted shingles, high-pitched roofs and quaint, ornate balconies,” without attribution.

 

Updating the book, I was unaware of the flagrant plagiarism until several years later, when I expanded the quotation with appropriate credit to Morris herself. Legally, the publisher would probably have been responsible but, when I was fortunate enough to meet her at the annual Book Passage Travel Writers Conference in 1999, Jan simply laughed it off. That’s a great way to remember her.

 

It Goes to 11, or Is It 60?

In other necrology news, soccer icon Diego Maradona has died at the age of 60. Never able to appreciate soccer’s absence of hand-eye coordination, I'm not a fan of the sport, but there’s still no underestimating the impact this addictive personality had on his native country—which was always willing to rationalize his personal shortcomings.

Maradona shares a mural with tango icon Aníbal Troilo.

Argentine President Alberto Fernández declared three days of mourning, with Maradona’s body lying in state in the Casa Rosada presidential palace, but that turned into a truncated free-for-all as many fans tried to force their way in to view the corpse; earlier, morgue employees at the autopsy site apparently took selfies of that event.

 

In a country where embalming is unusual—the most famous case is that of Eva Perón, whose post-mortem odyssey is a true epic—Maradona apparently requested to have himself put on public display in perpetuity, but the family appears to have overruled that. “El Diego” may never enjoy Evita’s privileged position at the elite Cementerio de la Recoleta, but his tomb in suburban Buenos Aires Province seems likely to  become a pilgrimage site in its own right.

 

Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano may have summed up his legacy best: “Maradona was condemned to believe himself Maradona and obliged to be the star of every party, the baby at every baptism, and corpse at every wake. Success is even more devastating than cocaine. No analysis of urine or blood can reveal that drug.”

Walled Out? Walled In? Or Both?

Having received an advance from my publisher, I am theoretically updating the current edition of Moon Patagonia, but it’s not quite that simple. When I flew to Chile in late February, after a few days in Santiago I drove south to the volcanic highlands of the Araucanía region and across the Argentine border to San Martín de los Andes and San Carlos de Bariloche. I abruptly returned to Chile, though, when Santiago announced the impending closure of the borders between the two countries.

In mid-March, Chile was about to close the border with Argentina because of the Coronavirus crisis.

I had double-checked and acquired quite a bit of material in the process but, when I left to return to California in late March, I told my Chilean friends—one of whom is storing my car in Santiago—that I hoped to return in November, but couldn’t guarantee that would be the case. February or March of next year sounded a bit more realistic. Even now, that’s far from certain because of the Coronavirus crisis, which is worsening in Chile—though it’s not yet reached the levels of misgoverned countries like Brazil, the United Kingdom and, of course, the United States.

COVID-19 trends are worsening in Argentina and Chile, but still not close to those in the United States, Brazil, or the UK. 

Many people are without work these days, but my own is simply in limbo even if, in theory, I could be working on the book in question. In past years, spending the summer at home in Oakland before heading south after the World Series, I would revise background material such as government and politics. Still, even before I arrived in Chile earlier this year, that was full of uncertainty with the pending plebiscite on a new Constitution—now rescheduled for October 25th—and whether the accompanying political unrest might affect the travel and tourism sector.

The public health crisis, of course, put that issue on the back burner—almost literally, as the Chilean government decided (rightly, in my opinion) that holding an election in the midst of a pandemic was risky. For what it’s worth, the country does not allow absentee voting, so vote-by-mail is not an option; voting was once obligatory, but that is no longer the case. Interestingly, Chile does allow resident non-citizens to vote in its elections.

Open-air dining space at Pucón's Loretano

Besides background material, though, there’s equal uncertainty about tourist services. In my short time in South America, I discovered new restaurants, such as the Peruvian Loretano which, at present, continues serving takeout meals in Pucón. Still, in the aftermath of the public health crisis, many restaurants, accommodations and other services are sure to fail or, at least, change dramatically. It’s too early to say whether Loretano, or even established accommodations and restaurants with a solid track record over the decades, will necessarily survive.

I'd love to try the Peruvian-style ceviche at Loretano again.

Even if the travel and tourism sector re-opens, there’s another obstacle for me (and many other US citizens). Everybody knows, of course, about the notorious vanity wall under construction at the Mexican border, but now the current White House occupant’s minions are taking it to another level entirely. My US passport expires in early September, and I recently learned that the State Department is not processing either new or renewal applications so that, even if Argentina and Chile open up for tourism, it's uncertain (at best) when we'll be able to return.

In early March, when I entered Argentina from the Chilean side, I saw this camper van with Washington State plates. What their status might be at present, I can only guess, but the immediate outlook is not promising for US travelers.

The United States, of course, always used to criticize the Soviet Union and its allies for confining their citizens within their borders—most notably after the erection of the Berlin Wall. Now, it seems, any supposed “reopening” of the US has its limits, as its citizens must contend with walls—not just to keep foreigners out, but also to keep us in.

The Erosion of Lonely Planet

Guidebook writing has been my occupation for three decades, though the digital revolution has put pressure on the print sector for at least two-thirds of that time. In the context of the coronavirus crisis, it drew renewed attention last week when Lonely Planet, my first publisher, announced the closure of its Australian flagship in Melbourne and its London editorial office. It is also shutting down its namesake magazine. This will leave it with a reduced presence in the Nashville suburb of Franklin, Tennessee (!) and Dublin, where it’s presumably cheaper to operate. The Tennessee office replaced its former US headquarters in my hometown of Oakland, California.

The skeletal 1989 edition of LP's Argentina prominently featured the author's name.

I’ve always had misgivings about digital travel content, especially crowd-sourced sites like TripAdvisor. They are vulnerable to anonymous and pseudonymous comments—especially by competitors—but not everything about them is necessarily untrustworthy. I would never even consider a restaurant on the basis of a TripAdvisor recommendation, for example, but if somebody reports claims to have eaten there three days ago, I’ll have reasonable confidence that the business in question still exists (except, perhaps, in times of coronavirus).

While the proliferation of digital content is certainly a factor in the decline of print guidebooks, LP’s corporate culture has also devolved from what it once was. In the beginning, the company gave its authors an autonomy to explore and make decisions on the content of their titles. Developing regional expertise over the years, those authors held copyright to their work, and received generous royalties—enough, in some cases to result in six-figure annual incomes.

Arguably, LP’s decline coincided with the devaluation of the on-the-ground regional expertise that first made them credible. In this context, Paula Hardy’s quasi-obituary in the Guardian (linked above) is a blend of naiveté and misinformation, not to mention gaping lacunae. About the time she came on board, in 1999, LP was morphing from an author-friendly company to one that dispensed with experienced authors, eliminating their copyrights and royalty contracts.Some were told that (I’m paraphrasing here) “You’re getting a reputation as difficult to work with.”

After the company warned that it might start titles from scratch with new writers, longtime authors learned that continuing with LP would involve fixed-fee contracts for a third or less of their previous income, with no certainty of future employment. Several whom I know opted out—choosing to sell their copyrights to the company, which seemed to conclude that destinations and authors were fungible (in fairness, the copyright buyouts could be generous).

Nothing in Santiago de Chile remotely resembles the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, but an LP editor wanted it as a cover shot.

New editions and titles became the product of multiple writers, some with doubtful qualifications—if an author had collaborated on a guide to, say, Sweden, he or she could just as easily draw an assignment for Myanmar, academic preparation and language skills notwithstanding. Many incoming authors and editorial personnel were neophytes whose geographical ignorance was palpable—in one case that I know of, an editor chose a photograph of Spain’s Santiago de Compostela (population about 96,000) to represent the capital of Chile (population five million-plus).

My first LP guide (left) omitted our names from the cover, but the licensed Spanish-language version  acknowledged us.

In that context, it’s noteworthy that LP stopped putting authors’ names on the covers of their books in the late 1980s, as best I can figure. After signing my first LP contract in 1990, I never had my name on the cover with a single exception—when Barcelona’s Editorial Kairós licensed my Argentina, Uruguay & Paraguay title, it featured both my wife’s and mine (María Laura was also the translator).

I spent ten years with LP, producing titles on Argentina, Chile, Buenos Aires, Santiago, Baja California and The Rocky Mountain States, but was never so fortunate as to have a royalty contract. That said, the flat fees seemed reasonable at the time and, in one instance, LP provided me a supplement when Argentina dollarized its economy, which made it a very expensive destination for several years.

Meanwhile, Hardy’s assertion that LP is the only guidebook publisher to send authors into the field is laughable. I  can contradict that on the basis of my own experience, in part after returning, earlier than I had hoped, from fieldwork in Argentina and Chile to update my Patagonia title. Because of the public health crisis, I have no idea when (or even if) Imay be able to resume the work, but I still hope to do so. A friend, also an ex-LP author, recently informed me that a different publisher has commissioned him to update two of his titles, and I am confident that other publishers will do the same.

The Independent’s Simon Calder seems to share Hardy’s romanticism about the publisher’s struggles: “When this wretched crisis is over, we may begin a new era where travellers will be hungry for resources they can trust, in particular guides researched and written by professionals, which don’t require batteries or an internet connection, and which feed our sense of adventure.”

I too would like to think so, but LP seems unlikely to carry that torch forward. After two ownership changes since my time, it is wearing down; the current contraction is part of a process that began decades ago when it jettisoned its most credible and dedicated authors. In both the physical and the publishing world, erosion is a slow but inexorable process.

White Line Fever? Travel in the Time of Coronavirus

Last Monday, having heard that Chilean land borders would close on Wednesday the 18th because of the coronavirus crisis, I drove from San Carlos de Bariloche to Argentina’s Paso Cardenal Samoré border post—where mine was the only vehicle in sight. At a roadside booth, as a young Argentine gendarme (border guard) handed me a ticket to present at immigration and customs, he asked me whether I was suffering any symptoms and, then, he himself sneezed!

With all due respect to Merle and Gabo..

In fairness to him, he averted his face and blew into his elbow. When I remarked that he, instead, might have been showing symptoms, he smiled sheepishly and I continued to what might have been the quickest departure ever at what is normally the second-busiest border crossing between the two countries (only the Los Libertadores crossing between Santiago and Mendoza gets more traffic).

Argentina's border post at Paso Cardenal Samoré

The actual borderline between Argentine and Chile

Chile's tentative tactic to deal with coronavirus at the border

On Chile’s side of the border, a handful of vehicles made the process—which included filling out a brief epidemiological questionnaire—slightly slower, but the stroll through immigration, customs and agricultural inspection was still expeditious. Oddly, no official even glanced at the questionnaire, which we had to deposit in a box for presumed data collection. Then I was on my way into Chile, a tale I’ll continue below.

Welcome to Chile!

How It All Started

This trip has changed dramatically since it began in late February, when I arrived in Santiago with the goal of updating the current 5th edition of Moon Patagonia. On arrival in the capital, my biggest concern was the estallido social (social explosion) protests that—whatever their inconsistencies—have brought decades of social and economic inequality into focus. For the few days I was in town, things were relatively quiet, but there was plenty of evidence of the fierce demonstrations that left several Metro stations and other services in near-ruin (the previous link here reports what stations may be closed at any given time).

Information screens let Metro riders know which stations are closed or with limited access.

I was staying in the house of Marializ Maldonado, a long-time friend who is working for the constitutional referendum to replace the one drawn by pro-Pinochet ideologue Jaime Guzmán. Guzmán’s custom constitution disproportionately favors Chile’s more conservative elements—rather as gerrymandering favors Republicans in the United States.

Protestors have defaced monuments such as Plaza Baquedano (informally renamed Plaza de la Dignidad).  This site has since been cleaned up.

Marializ hosted several meetings of activists favoring a new constitution, the vote for which was scheduled for April 26th, but has since been postponed until October 25th because of the Coronavirus crisis. Her Revolución Democrática party considers the rowdier elements who’ve gotten the most publicity in the estallido as outsiders (a term they’ve adapted from English).

The Plaza de Armas at Lonquimay features native Araucarias and a knitted tree apparently left over from Xmas.

When I arrived, the coronavirus issue was not yet critical, and I drove south with the idea that I’d spend two months in Chilean and Argentine Patagonia. That would put me on track to submit a new manuscript toward year’s end, and I began with a long drive that took me to Curacautín, at the northern approach to Parque Nacional Conguillío, where I spent a night at the Bavarian-run guest house Andenrose. The next morning I circled the park via the town of Lonquimay and thence to Melipeuco, the park’s southern gateway but, on this occasion, I decided I couldn’t make the detour into the park.

Feeding time at Aurora Austral, for just three of Konrad's 55 huskies

Instead, I continued to the lakeside town of Villarrica and, after a brief reconnoiter of the town, on to the Aurora Austral husky farm, where another Bavarian expat, Konrad Jakob, offers sledding trips in winter and carting trips in summer with his kennel of 55 huskies and a handful of mixes (full disclosure: I’m a devotee of northern dogs and have recently adopted a rescue husky, after four malamutes and one Akita). I spent two nights in one of Konrad’s cabañas, commuting to Villarrica to update practical information on the city. I only regret that I’ve never seen the area in winter, when I’d love to go mushing.

My cabaña accommodations at Aurora Austral

On the third day, I headed to Pucón, at the east end of Lago Villarrica, where I stayed at my long-time favorite Hostería Ecole, but there was an issue that aroused anxiety even before coronavirus entered the conversation. Some years ago, Chile fiddled with the regulations for non-residents crossing the border with their own Chilean vehicles. Were I unable to cross with my vehicle, it would be disastrous for my work.

Template for the declaración jurada that let me cross the border.

Fortunately, Hans and Verónica Liechti of Pucón’s Travel Aid agency had put me in touch with an American couple who own a house outside town and were in much the same non-resident situation. That couple had found an apparent loophole that allows such vehicle owners to leave the country so long as they obtain a notarized declaración jurada (“sworn declaration”) that they intend to return the vehicle to Chile. They’d done it several times and sent me a template for the document that I completed, printed out, and took to Pucón’s only notary public for verification.

When I Get to the Border…

Loretano is a worthy new Peruvian addition to Pucón's dining scene.

After three nights in Pucón, where I really enjoyed the new Peruvian restaurant Loretano (presently closed for the virus emergency), I headed east to the border at Mamuil Malal; I couldn’t completely contain my apprehension until, when I produced the declaración jurada, the Chilean customs official gave me a smiling thumbs-up. Entering Argentina was similarly routine, despite the presence of a list of various nationals subject to coronavirus quarantine but not—yet—US citizens. I got in under the wire, as that would happen a couple days later.

At the Mamuil Malal border crossing, Araucarias line the road, which passes through Parque Nacional Lanín.

Parque Nacional Los Arrayanes was presumably closed to hikers, but there was no  visible enforcement at Villa La Angostura.

The next few days were relatively routine, as I spent a night at Estancia Huechahue, two in San Martín de los Andes, and one in Villa La Angostura, where Argentina’s budding coronavirus precautions became more obvious. En route there had been evidence for concern, as I saw Argentines from a tour bus still sharing yerba mate, and many still greeting each other with kisses on the cheek—men as well as women. Argentina had closed all its national parks, though, and Parque Nacional Los Arrayanes—a popular hiking destination with an entrance in town, was supposedly off-limits (there were still people crossing the line into the park).

Probably now closed because of Argentina's widespread quarantine, the Bariloche tourist office was keeping  distance between its personnel and visitors.

Then I was headed to Bariloche—arguably Argentine Patagonia’s de facto capital, with the notion of continuing south to El Bolsón and Esquel, and then across the broad steppe to Puerto Madryn and Península Valdés. It was not to be, however, as I heard the next morning that Chile was about to close it land borders and, if I did not return before Wednesday, I would be unable to leave (and potentially unable to comply with my declaración jurada).

That information I heard second-hand but, for confirmation, I walked to the Chilean consulate—which was closed. Nevertheless, I rang the bell and, after a middling wait, was assured that US citizens like myself would be able to cross. I left almost immediately, returning via Villa La Angostura and thence to the border crossing described above. Before leaving, though, I managed to visit the new locale of Helados Jauja, arguably Patagonia's best ice creamery (the mother ship is in El Bolsón).

Helados Jauja has new quarters in Bariloche, with a secluded patio in the back.

When in Chile…

My accommodations at Zapato Amarillo were picturesque, comfortable and - in the current situation - socially remote.

After crossing the border, I headed to Puerto Octay’s Zapato Amarillo guesthouse, where the Swiss-Chilean couple Armin and Nadia Dübendorfer have hosted me many times over the years. On the outskirts of town, its stylishly rustic cabins were also an ideal place for self-quarantine, with nobody else about. I had considered staying several days, and perhaps even continuing to Puerto Varas, but after Armin and Nadia told me that international flights were being drastically reduced, I took their suggestion to drive to the city of Osorno and reschedule my April 29th departure for California. Otherwise, I would be spending nearly six weeks in Chile in virtual seclusion.

LATAM'S Osorno office switched my flight. It's a nice touch both the agent and the client can watch the computer screen.

Osorno’s about an hour away, but I was fortunate enough to find parking in the densely built downtown area, barely a block from the surprisingly small LATAM office (Osorno has an airport, but flights are fairly few). There were also few clients, so I quickly got seated and, though my preferred departure date from Santiago on Monday the 23rd was not available, the agent found me space for Tuesday the 24th. She first suggested the route via New York City, then with Delta to SFO, but having heard of huge delays at JFK immigration I chose to fly from Santiago to Mexico City, thence to SFO with Aeroméxico. Time will tell whether I’ve made the right decision, but I’m due home by 1 pm on Wednesday the 25th.

Then there remained the issue of getting back to Santiago, amid rumors there would be a toque de queda (curfew) at midnight. I returned to Puerto Octay immediately and packed my bags for the Chilean capital, a distance of roughly 970 km (about 600 miles) that I covered in 10-1/2 hours, with just two stops to fill the tank (plus some slowdowns for construction). I got to Marializ’s house at 11:30 p.m., just half an hour before the supposed curfew (that’s still not happened, though authorities are encouraging people to stay home). By then, with all apologies to Merle, I'd seen enough white lines for the day.

Here, until Wednesday, I’m in modified self-quarantine, taking short walks around the neighborhood  but avoiding contact with anybody—and making minimal purchases from the nearby shop. And writing stuff like this as, for the foreseeable future, we’ve had to suspend work on the new edition of Patagonia.