breezy Saturdays and lomitos and beers

Chile was chillin brah.
Ef yah brah. like totally.

After a teary faced departure from Spencey Poo and Mama K in Concepción, I headed northish to Chillàn, a city not worth mentioning much, aside from an undulating Saturday market with howling veggie vendors and ancient prunes of women selling baskets and a bus terminal next door that would take me to the coastal towns of Cobquecura and Buchupureo that Spencer told me about. Whew. I should work on my run-ons. Two hours in a rickety minibus brought me to a beautiful wooded coast struck with chunks of slate.

But like a good and patriotic UnitedStatesean capitalist, I neglected to bring sufficient funds, expecting an ATM, and ended up stranded in said 1000-some person town with no bank but a two-year-old ATM that did not accept foreign debit or credit cards. I had enough money for a night of camping and fortunately had brought some for a day or two, but not enough to get by (comfortably at least). I met kids who had met kids, incredibly nice and curious Chilean kids, who ended up squeezing me into their already undersized tent and feeding me a few meals. I wove them bracelets and trenzas in exchange. When they left back home for Chillán via bus, I found myself on the side of the road with no food no money no place to stay and no choice but to stick my finger out and hope for the best. Hitching down here is easier and safer and after an hour I was being sped through mountain terrain back towards the next town of Querihue, 45 minutes away to look for an ATM that ended up being just as testy as the one in Cobquecura. Luckily the guy I received the ride from was a Buchupureano ex-pat living in Canada, building a house in his home town every summer. He brought me all the way back to Chillán, 2 hours, to the very bank he was headed, a bank with a very nice and willing ATM I might add, then to the bus terminal to catch a perfectly-timed bus back to Chillán, than another hitched ride to Cobquecura before nightfall.

The friends I crashed with knew the tourist info center employee, a local kid my age who I ended up befriending. He let me stash my goods while I hitched to Chillán. The night I got back his mom fed me dinner and coffee and we went out for a local`s tour of the town that actually ended up being more or less everything I had seen days before looking for a campsite. But the town is nonetheless perfectly quaint and South American in every way and the family´s hospitality was unending as was the list of Chilean slang Juan (aka Bonito, Pretty, to just about everyone in town) shared with me over beers. Turns out I can`t remember much besides a couple basics that Spencer had already taught me as well as the phrase for ¨giving a blow job¨, which is ¨darse una conferencia de prensa¨, or to give a press conference.

After taking too much sun with a wild sea otter who even let me pet him and after too much bread and canned tuna (except for some clam and crab and cheese empanadas I splurged on once), I decided to head back home on a relatively uneventuful 20 hours bus and terminal session (my legs did swell up again though) to a farm renewed and bustling with at least 8 volunteers. The alternative construction is speeding up and the tomato plants have pretty green tomatoes. Lettuces, beets, and a bunch of other plants are ready for seed saving and replanting. Things are good there. Sancho Panza was fed a lot and gained weight. He´s even cuter and things are good.

This morning (since we now have Saturdays off) I received many crotches in my face and bums on my back. A new volunteer taught us acrobatics. Turns out I´m a pretty good base and had a 6 foot 5 or so Scot on by back for a while. Sounds a lot sexier than it actually was. Surely nothing like giving a press conference--I mean--er, listening to one?