Jesus Christ Almighty, I am finally in Chile where I am wrapped up in a fleece blanket I found folded in my new bedroom. Now that I have time to mull over the series of events that have occurred today, laying low in the living room seems to be the greatest decision.
After enduring a thirteen and half hour travel from Newark Liberty Airport to Miami and then to Santiago, I thought god would take it easy on me by the time I landed. Not quite. Customs wasn't too bad. However, it was the precursor of me later hating myself for not being great at speaking Spanish. All I had asked was "Where can I catch a taxi?" What do I get from the woman behind the bullet proof glass who speaks through a microphone? "ekgberge drgeg fdgtsg grgrgwkjret erjgeng, I speak Chilean so you are not allowed to understand me ewfjkefwkfnwerf dfegfer." Needless to say, I was on my own.
Man, coming to Miami from Newark was great, despite the plane being delayed for about an hour. I was seated next to a self-proclaimed 'Gordaita' (a fat little lady, I am guessing) who was on a trip to meet her boyfriend. Her story about her and her man friend, also fat, 'gordoito' (as she called him) was some Hispanic storybook shit. Both from Puerto Rico, met when they were like 15 or something and dated until he somehow knocked another girl up (she left out the messy details of that affair). Now, that was more than twenty years ago and she said when a man knocked another woman up back then, the two were pressured to elope, or as Maggie liked to put it, have a shotgun wedding. With that said, Maggie and her gordoito were finished, but only temporarily. The woman who he knocked up ended up dying! She didn't say what caused the woman's death because to Maggie, the woman didn't seem to really matter and who wouldn't feel resentment from a person who takes somebody you love away? After gordoito's kid(s) grew up, the two got back together and are moving to Puerto Rico when Maggie figures out when she will retire.
But no, that wasn't even the good part about the flight. Maggie and Primi, this hot little Peruvian lady, let me speak Spanish to them the whole way down there. They said my Spanish was good, but I could see right through them. They were liars. I knew I wasn't good. I'm terrible, actually. But at least I could comprehend a good amount of what they were saying, unlike the woman at the custom's desk in Chile.
At Santiago's airport and maybe in other parts of Chile, the cabs are called 'radio taxis' and they charge a flat rate to get you into the city's center or wherever in the city, really. From the airport to Santiago's center is about a 25-30 minute cab ride (without traffic on the highway). It only cost me 13,000 pesos (equivalent to 25$) to go to my apartment. If you were to take a taxi from Midtown Manhattan to La Guardia in Queens (about 30 miles), it would run you at least 50$. I could've also taken a shuttle bus, which would've been only under 5$. They also took my American currency too! I needed to get rid of it anyway.
I almost wished that we would've hit traffic on the highway because when the cabby dropped me off in front of my apartment, I waited over an hour for this person who I had only corresponded with via e-mails. A girl I am living with found an ad on craigslist for an apartment in Santiago and this is how I got into this situation. While waiting, this man in my apartment complex named Jorge came outside and insisted that I keep my bags in his apartment while I waited for this internet figure to appear and let me in. Tempting, I wanted to just go inside and make conversation with whoever might be in the apartment, but with the lesson taught to me by my mother of never go home with a stranger and my fear of being in a different hemisphere with no phone, all my valuables, and not knowing the language too well, I opted out. Will I ever accept the fact that Chileans are intrinsically helpful, inviting and polite like Jorge or will I always be wary of these valley dwellers?
He left the option open for me to call on him if I was to need any assistance. "Knock on the window if you need anything," said Jorge. I didn't want help. I just wanted to see this elusive internet person. So I waited, smoked a cigarette, shuffled my luggage around, smoked another cigarette, had a staring contest with a homeless man (who won because I got scared), and then got called a gringo by a group of Chilean teenagers. "Hola, gringo, como estai?" I read somewhere that non Hispanics shouldn't take offense to the term gringo in Chile, but I was pissed nevertheless. Finally, I called on Jorge. "Jorge! Puedes usar tu telefonia?" He came out immediately, but with no phone. Instead, he took me down a block to get me some change to make a phone call on a pay phone. To no surprise, I didn't get an answer.
Next we went to a cellphone provider store. The name eludes me right now, but they were no help for me. In my checked-bag I brought with me two old cell phones that hold sim cards. I found out today that not all sim cards are the same.
*Tip numero 1*
Don't think that your cell phone with a sim card will conveniently work with a sim card provided by a Chilean phone provider.
At this point, I think Jorge and I were both very confused. He was probably thinking, "Who is this American boy and why can't he figure out his shit?" and me on the other hand, I was thinking, "Why did fall for such a scam? Don't I know that just about everything ostensibly decent on Craigslist is a hoax?" Both of us not really knowing what to do at this point, we just decided to go back to the apartment building and wait.
When we get to the front of the apartment, the internet figure is there waiting. I was confused because this internet figure was not who I thought it would be because this internet person's name was supposed to be Fernando and this was a lady and her daughter. I didn't mind the confusion because I would much rather be consumed with confusion rather than fear.
When it comes time to sign the contract, fear and confusion combine and make atom bombs in my mind. It's like three pages of long Spanish words I have never seen before and I just couldn't sign something I couldn't read. She was empathetic about it and said she would have a translated copy tomorrow for me.
I knew that I was to pay 540,000 pesos for this half of August's rent and the last month of December in cash, but I forgot to go to the ATM before she came. By this point, the woman, her daughter and I were becoming very friendly with each other. I asked if they could help me find and ATM and they agreed. Before I arrived to Santiago I called my banks and told them of my travel plans.
*tip numero dos*
Always notify your banks before travel. Otherwise, they will most likely suspend your credit and debit cards for suspected fraudulent charges.
Walking on my street, Santo Domingo, we ask a local where the closest ATM is. She shows us how to get there and then off we went to the ATM. "Invalid transaction"? Nah, this ATM is broken and part of some weird credit union or something. Let's go to a bigger bank - "Invalid transaction" it says once again. We walked around the center for two hours trying to find an ATM that would allow me to withdraw money. Nothing.
In between all of our boiling points from being rejected over and over, I got to know two new people a little bit better. Hey, and when you are alone on a different continent with nobody to count on, I'll take companionship from anyone. I felt safe with them too, despite the mother asking me if I had ever smoked marijuana. She also asked me if I would like to go over to her house tomorrow for dinner. Maybe a good gift to bring with me would be my rent money. I called my bank and for some reason, they put a hold on my card. Idiots.
*Tip numero tres*
Always notify your banks before travel twice.
When I got back to the apartment building, all that I wanted to do was shower and inspect my new surroundings. No. My day continued to be inconveniently consistent with bombardment. This one's name was Francois, the landlord. He's an older French man with cartoonish features (very friendly though) who liked to talk your ear off. Somehow in a matter of five minutes, we got on the subject of Pinochet, a previous dictator of Chile in the '70s that stirred up a lot of political issues within the country. As we were chatting it up, he started telling me about the cameras in the building's lobby - that gave me comfort. Then suddenly, Francois switched gears and told me that my apartment needs new locks. What?! He mentioned that the room above me had two locks on the door like mine and somebody broke into it and stole 3 million pesos. Tomorrow I think I should call up a lock company or whatever to get an extra deadbolt.
Another man walked into the apartment and I could tell he just wanted to get away from Francois. His name is Jason. Jason is American like me and after I was through with talking to Francois, he asked me to come up to his apartment to get the number for the lock company. He lives higher up in the complex than I do, so he has a much better view of the city and the mountain top. He took me out onto his terrace and poured me a drink of precio especial, a brandy drink that also has fermented grapes added into it. It wasn't bad! I had it with Coke.
He told me about his story of moving to Santiago and it was pretty unreal. On a visit to Santiago with his girlfriend three years ago, he spent only one week here to decide that he wanted to live here permanently. With his Carolinian accent, "I called my mom and said, 'Mom, ship my things to me because I'm not comin' back." He helps run a culture weekly magazine that is on-line based - Revolver Magazine. I'm going to check it out often because it is in both Spanish and English. He also told me about this other more established English newspaper called The Santiago Times. I am going to hunt for it tomorrow! I hope this week was as good as Jason's first week, but I am not too sure I will, the weather is looking bad.
0 comments:
Post a Comment