Surrealistic Roadie

When I read Latin American literature, I usually do so in English—partly because my own Spanish, though fluent, is more academic than idiomatic, and partly because English is, presumably, the native language of most readers of this blog. I also want to provide an idea of the availability of Latin American literature—mostly Argentine and Chilean—to an English-speaking audience.

Trabucco's novel won the Man Booker International Prize.

Even that is a challenge with Alia Trabucco Zerán’s novel The Remainder which, for lack of a more inspired description, I’ll call a Chilean millennial version of Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism. Trabucco Zerán is part of the generation whose parents supported Salvador Allende’s “Chilean way to socialism” and suffered (or died) under the lengthy dictatorship of General Augusto Pinochet.

Trabucco’s protagonists are three young Chileans, two women and a man, one of whose parents has recently died in German exile but expressed her desire to be interred in her South American homeland. When a mysterious ash storm halts flights into Santiago, the three have to cross the Andes into Argentina—in a loaner hearse—to fetch the mother’s casket at the airport in Mendoza.

Trabucco's characters don't see the same landscape I do when crossing the Andes to Argentina.

Having crossed this border many times—though never in a hearse—I found the stream-of-consciousness narration hard to follow, perhaps because I view the crossing from the viewpoint spectacular landscapes rather than as part of a surrealistic mission that gets even more so when the three amigos have trouble locating the body and, then, getting it released into their custody. The narrators take such liberties with geography that I found it difficult to follow, even as I could sympathize with their quest (I lived in Chile during part of the Pinochet dictatorship, and can still recall measures like Santiago’s 11 p.m. curfew, though I never personally felt any threat there).

Maybe I’ll have to reread this, at a more leisurely pace, to get as much out of it as Chilean millennials dealing with their parental hangover traumas would. On the other hand, I might prefer to see it as a black comedy, perhaps in the hands of nonagenarian film-maker Alejandro Jodorowsky (the trailer above is from his cult classic El Topo). Whatever the result, I’d have to say “Don’t try this at home.”

Finding the Forest For the (Monkey-Puzzle) Trees

New growth on an Araucaria branch, Parque Nacional Conguillío

In November of 1911, when John Muir climbed a ridge to camp among the “monkey-puzzle” forests of southern Chile, he marveled at “A glorious and novel sight, beyond all I had hoped for.” At the age 73, the legendary conservationist had sailed to South America, first exploring the Amazon and, after reaching Buenos Aires, he crossed the Andes in search of Araucaria araucana, the “monkey puzzle tree.”

Bark of a mature Araucaria tree

The present-day gateway to Fundo Ontario, where John Muir stayed in his search for the Araucaria

In Santiago—where even Juan Söhrens, director of the national botanical garden, had never seen the tree in the wild—Muir took a hint from a friend of the US ambassador and the train to the city of Victoria, just north of Temuco. Here, he made contact with the Smiths, a Canadian immigrant family, whose Fundo Ontario ranch was Muir’s gateway to the Andean foothills near what is today Parque Nacional Tolhuaca. It was here that sketched the forests and slept beneath the trees he’d come to observe—just as he did beneath the giant sequoias of California’s Sierra Nevada.

Parque Nacional Tolhuaca, with Araucaria trees in the right foreground and atop the ridge in the distance

Several times I’ve had the good fortune to see the area Muir visited, and several comparable areas on both sides of the Andes. The pewén, as it’s known in the indigenous Mapudungun language, has a narrow distribution between 37º20' and 40º20'S. In total, Araucaria forests cover less than 400 square kilometers, mostly in the Andean cordillera but with scattered stands in Chile’s coastal range.

A young ornamental Araucaria on the grounds of Oakland Technical High School

Where are the best places to see this distinctive tree, also known as the paraguas (umbrella tree)? It’s not uncommon as an ornamental—there’s one on the grounds of Oakland Technical High School, about five minutes from my California home—but Argentina and Chile are the Holy Grail. Following Muir’s trail toward Tolhuaca is one option, but access by public transportation is limited at best. Larger numbers see Parque Nacional Conguillío, to the southeast, which is more accessible from Temuco and the town of Melipeuco (though only by taxi).

A mature Araucaria forest at Parque Nacional Conguillío 

In terms of public transportation access, though, the best place to see the Araucariais the more southerly resort of Pucón. Two nearby national parks, Parque Nacional Villarrica and Parque Nacional Huerquehue, have frequent bus service. Personally, I prefer Huerquehue for easy access to hiking trails, dense pewén forests, and great panoramas that include the smoking, snow-topped Volcán Villarrica, which Spanish conquistador poet Alonso de Ercilla called the “great neighbor volcano.”

Araucarias on the Sendero Quinchol, Parque Nacional Huerquehue

On my most recent visit, though, I chose the Santuario Cañi, a private nature reserve that’s only 20 minutes out of town, and also easily accessible by public transport. I first hiked here in the 1990s as a guest of the non-profit Fundación Lahuén, on a sore ankle that caused me some difficulty. This time my joints were healthy, but the trail seemed even steeper than I remembered, and younger hikers were consistently passing me. At the end, though, I reached the plateau of Laguna Las Totoras, a marshy lake surrounded by monkey puzzle trees, but declined to climb to the El Mirador ridge. 

Hikers among the Araucarias in the Santuario Cañi

An Araucaria seedling has found growing space at Parque Nacional Nahuelbuta.

For my money, though, the best place to see the trees is Parque Nacional Nahuelbuta, in the coastal range near the city of Angol, where the trees even find growing spaces in cracks among its igneous outcrops. One of the best nights I ever spent was the campground here on Christmas Eve of 1998, when I had the entire park to myself. Nahuelbuta is scenic, with great hiking trails, but it doesn’t get many Chileans because it lacks water—there are no rivers or lakes suitable for swimming except outside park limits.

A panorama of the Araucaria forests at Parque Nacional Nahuelbuta

Along the trail at Argentina's Parque Nacional Lanín

I’ve barely mentioned Argentina, where the best site is Parque Nacional Lanín, across the Andes from Pucón, and easily reached from the cities of San Martín de los Andes and Junín de los Andes. It bears mention that the indigenous Pewenche—who take their name from the trees—gathered fallen forest nuts for their subsistence. I myself have eaten the toasted nuts and also consumed them in a pesto in a San Martín restaurant that is now, sadly, closed.

Pewén nuts on display at the Feria Masticar, an annual food fair in Buenos Aires

On the Road Again? Southbound from Santiago

Whenever I return to Chile, I spend several days in Santiago—a city that I enjoy—for partly procedural reasons. One of those is dealing with my car which, of necessity, is parked at a friend’s weekend house in the coastal range village of Caleu, about 70 km north of the Chilean capital. There’s only one bus per day to Caleu, so getting there involves taking a bus to the town of Til-til and then contacting my friend’s caretaker, who descends from the mountain with my car. I then drive him back to Caleu and return to Santiago.

Some of those in Caleu get around on horseback, but I store my car there.

That’s what happened last Sunday, and I planned to take the car to my mechanic on Monday for a quick checkup before heading south toward the Los Lagos region and Patagonia, with a stopover in the Colchagua wine country. I also planned to renew my permiso de circulación, the car’s annual license fee, in Santiago, and then spend the rest of the day enjoying the city I described in my recent National Geographic Traveler article.

My share of the fender-bender damage.

There was a glitch, however. The drive down the mountain from Caleu and on Ruta 5, the freeway to Santiago, was uneventful. But when I turned off the highway into the denser downtown traffic, I erred by turning left onto a busy arterial and, suddenly, a small speeding car clipped my right front fender. Both of us spun around but, fortunately, no other vehicles became involved and nobody was hurt.

The other guy got it worse.

The damage to my own car was minimal, while the damage to the smaller car was greater, but both remained functional. There followed a civil exchange of identity documents and insurance, and cell phone snaps of the vehicle damage. We each went on our ways in short order, with the assurance that we would contact our insurance companies. I then proceeded to collect my luggage at the Hotel Magnolia, where I’d stayed the previous three nights, and moved to a friend’s house in the outer borough of Renca.

The following morning, I dropped my friend off at her job and then drove to my mechanic’s garage, where they were unsure whether they could repair the damaged plastic bumper or would have to replace it (I’m old enough to remember when automobile bumpers were sturdy steel). I left the car and then proceeded downtown, where I first renewed the permiso de circulación at one of the many sidewalk tents the city sets up at this time of the year, and then continued to my insurers’ offices.

Fortunately, the offices were not yet busy—Chileans tend to be late risers—but there were glitches. I preferred to make the accident report face-to-face, but the office agent referred me to one of their onsite computers. Their website, though, wouldn’t accept my RUT tax ID because it was “corporate” rather than personal (as a non-resident foreigner, this had been my only option for purchasing a vehicle). That meant I had to make the report by telephone, on a line with substantial interference and, although I’m fluent in Spanish, it was not easy to understand the well-meaning young man at the other end.

In the end, though, I succeeded and, after a quick lunch, I took a cab back to my friend’s house for a nap because I hadn’t slept much the previous night (though it wasn’t because of worry about the accident). The next morning, I was pleased to learn that my mechanic had managed a capable repair of the damaged bumper, thus avoiding a more expensive replacement.

This is better than car chores in Santiago.

That also meant I’d be able to continue my excursion to the Colchagua valley wine district—arguably, the Napa of South America—as I had originally planned. There’ll be more about that stay, which began Wednesday at Hotel TerraViña in Santa Cruz, in the near future.

Finger Food for All! Eating on the Go in Argentina and Chile

Whenever I’m in southernmost South America, my end-of-the-day ritual is sitting down to a good meal—after spending most of my daylight hours in the essential task of updating formulaic text, it feels like a reward to dine well and enjoy a pisco sour and/or a glass of wine. Even though it’s still technically working—after all, I review restaurants in my guidebooks and this blog—it’s also an opportunity for indulgence.

A pisco sour at Afrigonia, a Patagonian fusion restaurant in Puerto Natales, Chile

At other hours, my eating habits can be strictly practical, and I often grab things on the run, even though I avoid fast-food chains. When I’m driving, especially for long distances, I’ll carry takeaway food such as empanadas that I can eat while on the move. Finger food becomes a way of life.

The pastry display at Café La Gringa, Puerto Varas, Chile

Argentines and Chileans don’t take quite the same approach. For instance, I love cupcakes and muffins, but they’re something to grab and eat on the run. Recently, though, at the downtown branch of La Gringa Bakery in Puerto Varas, I saw two locals eating blueberry muffins with forks. Maybe that shouldn’t have startled me but, to my mind, a muffin is something that you eat with your hands.

That said, Argentine and Chilean table manners differ from mine in many other items that I prefer to eat with the hands. My wife sometimes attributes that to my Scandinavian heritage and calls me vikingo (“Viking”) which, in Argentine Spanish, is roughly synonymous with “slob.” In the following paragraphs, though, I’ll try to explain the differences.

A plate of Argentine-style empanadas

To my mind, one of the world’s greatest finger foods is the Argentine empanada—roughly the size of the palm of your hand (I prefer it to the Chilean version, which is larger with heavier dough). So long as it’s not too warm and juicy—there’s a danger of splashing your shirt—I enjoy the feel of it before I bite in. Still, in many restaurants (not necessarily formal ones), Argentine will eat their empanadas with knife and fork.

A slice of onion-rich fugazzeta at Pizzería Güerrín, downtown Buenos Aires

Then, of course, there’s pizza. When I was a child in the Pacific Northwest—so many decades ago—pizza was a novelty and I recall hearing on the radio that “pizza is eaten with the hands.” Argentines, though, almost invariably choose to consume their thick-crusted, cheese-heavy pizza with knife and fork, and I sometimes feel conspicuous when I bite into a slice of my favorite cheese-and-onion fugazzeta while holding it in my hand. Chileans, for the most part, also use knife and fork when eating pizza.

A lomito sandwich from a stand on the Plaza de Armas, Santiago, Chile

Then there are sandwiches, which Chileans devour at outlets such as Fuente Mardoqueo (one of Santiago’s best sandwich shops). As the photograph shows, Chilean sandwiches can be stacked high or, alternatively, spread wide—some of them are so large as to resemble pizzas. Almost invariably, though, Chileans eat their sandwiches with knife and fork and, given their size and tendency to fall apart, it’s not an unreasonable thing—though I almost always try to use my hands. I do find that I often cannot finish a Chilean sandwich because of its size, and recommend that visitors order one for every two persons—you can always order another.

A Barros Luco - beef and melted cheese - available in downtown Santiago

That’s what Anthony Bourdain learned when he visited Chile and tried the completo—a caloric overload that I relished (pun intended!) when I was a backpacker on a budget but haven’t touched in many years. Bourdain’s famous for diving into everything and did so in Chile, but even he couldn’t finish the foot-long hot dog smothered in condiments including avocado and mayonnaise. At least he managed to avoid soiling his shirt with drippings from this notoriously messy item—which Chileans also eat with their hands.

Anthony Bourdain couldn't finish a foot-long completo when he went to Chile