FIRST JOURNEY PART FOUR:
ON THE ROAD AT LAST
DESTINATION PICHILEMU AND THE SOUTH PACIFIC
Once I had that all pretty much taken care of, I went over to Andres' office to check on the rental truck. For the record, I would be touring Chile and Argentina in a white 2001 Nissan D21 four-door 4x4 pickup truck with a camper shell and two spare gas cans and two spare tires. Andres had my notarized 90 day permit that would allow me to take the rental vehicle across the border into Argentina, and his handyman Luis had the full rental contract set for my signature once we had made a final inspection of the truck including notations of all anomalies such as minor bumps and scratches so that I wouldn't be held responsible for these pre-existing conditions.
Once all that was completed, I was technically all set to get out and onto the road. Luis took me back to the apartment in another vehicle so that we could load my bags and then bring them over to the roof of the parking terrace and loaded everything into the Nissan. Then I went back downstairs to the office once more to say my farewells to Andres and Consuela. Luis then drove the Nissan down to the main exit of the parking terrace, and handed the keys over to me.
"So okay," I thought. "Here I go off for the first time out on my own, driving in a South American country." I'll admit now that I was a bundle of nerves. My first urgent task was to somehow navigate myself over to Ruta 5, aka the Panamericana, or Pan-American Highway, which would lead me out of Santiago and on to points south. Thankfully, Patricio had loaned me a superb set of road maps, a set of the anually updated and fabled Turistel maps and guidebooks of Chile (in Español), so I could find my way around.
I waved my last good-bye to everybody and lurched out onto Avenida Miraflores, the busy street in front of the parking terrace, and suddenly, I was off. Andres had given me specific instructions as to where to turn to get to the highway entrance point, so I figured if I could just do everything a step at a time, I'd be fine. But traffic on the feeder route leading to the Panamericana was thick and congested, and there were a lot of agressive urban drivers out there. I recall forming sort of a vague mental image of it being like some sort of a destruction derby stock car race, but in reality it was just a prelude to what was to follow momentarily, when I found myself suddenly following a choked feeder lane, entering a totally crowded highway going southbound, in the midst of choking exhaust fumes, clanking metal, and all sorts of grinding engines from all sorts of vehicles, going from beat-up old sedans to smelly garbage trucks and freight carriers. I mean, I was totally caught up with the uncertain flow of the human menagerie, which measured itself as literally bumper to bumper.
I began to get my bearings as the hoard of vehicles lurched forward. The Panamericana was under construction on this stretch that was slicing through the heart of the city, so the clanging of rebar and steel beams accompanied by the occasional machine-gun like staccato of jackhammers added to the mad chacophany of the moment. I looked down at the odometer, and then to the gas gauge. To my sudden shock I grasped the fact that this truck's gas gauge arrow was just a hair's breadth above EMPTY! "Damnit!" I cursed. "Luis sent me out into this odious highway nightmare with an empty gas tank!" So it was freakout time, but I could not do anything more for that moment than navigate the Nissan step by step over into the right-hand lane and then hope that whatever exit I might find would lead me to a petroleum station...
Patricio had told me to watch for Copec stations. He had saidthat they were the best for the money because of their amenities. Well, once I got off of the highway I must have driven for two or three kilometers before a gas station came into view, appearing in a lot that fronted on the road across the opposite lane from me. There was a divider which would not allow me to make a left turn, so I was forced to go another half-kilometer before I could turn around and double back. At the moment my circumstance seemed more harrowing than it was...in fact, I should have been celebrating my discovery of a gas station and the fact that now I would be able to finally fill up my tank, which I did in short order. I don't know what the kid who was the attendant who pumped my gas must have thought of me - a nervous and anxiety-filled gringo, but he was pleasant and I suppose, mostly reassuring. I paid him and tipped him as well, thanking him for the gas, while in reality, I think I really wanted to thank him for being there.
It was a calming moment. And with that business taken care of, I took a moment to go over the Turistel maps to get my bearings. I got back onto the Panamericana and proceeded on my way south, and things seemed to settle down considerably after that. The farther away I got from the center of Santiago, the more ordered things seemed to get, on this southward trajectory I was following. Road signs were for Rancagua, then Rengo, and then Pelequén. Once I passed the north exit for San Fernando I told myself to watch for my own exit, which would come up on the south end of that town. Even this far south of Santiago (I'd come some 140 kilometers already) the highway frontage was fairly urban, with an emphasis on tire repair shops and mechanic's garages, interspersed with fruit and vegetable stands all crowding for exposure to all the traffic moving down the highway.
It didn't take any time at all once I got off of the Panamericana and onto the two-lane highway going west-bound past the outskirts of San Fernando for everything to start turning rural, or as I would like to say, pastoral. I was entering the famous Colchagua Valley, one of Chile's prime wine producing regions. As I drove on I passed many lush, green vineyards. The locals call that road the "Ruta del Vino," and indeed, the Turistel mapbook showed something like eight different wineries between San Fernando and the town of Peralillo, which marked just the halfway point on this beautiful drive to Pichilemu from San Fernando.
As I approached the town center I spied a tourist office to my immediate right, and figured that it would be a good bet for me to inquire about lodging so that I could get myself settled in and start to relax. I figured I had at least a couple of days that I could devote to this place, and after the drive I was more than ready to find a place to settle in. There was a very pleasant young woman who was on duty in this tourist office, and she was most cordial and welcoming when I came in. I asked her about a recommendation for a nice place to stay for a couple of nights, and she said "oh, by all means you should check out the Hotel Asthur! They have clean and comfortable rooms with private baths and hot water, a nice patio and restaurant, secure private parking with breakfast included, all for 9,600 Pesos Chilenos (which at 2002 rates came to about $13.25 USD per night - quite a bargain)." She pointed to the hill to the south and said, "There it is - Hotel Asthur, run by Don Enrique Romero, one of the most trusted businessmen in Pichilemu."
Okay, so that was easy. She gave me a town map and highlighted Don Enrique's Hotel Asthur for me. Located on the top of the hill on Avenida Ortuzar it was easy to get to. I drove up and parked in front and went to the door, which was locked, so I rang the bell. A maid came and opened it and I asked her about a room for at least a couple of nights. She let me in and led me to a small office that faced the lobby. It was an interesting office, all enclosed with glass, so practically the entire hotel interior was visible from there.
This was Don Enrique Romero's office. The maid told me to wait there while she went to get Don Enrique. In a minute an elderly man came through one of the doors to the restaurant who walked slowly and deliberately. He introduced himself as Don Enrique and as we shook hands he motioned for me to take a seat. He was calm and spoke quietly in a Spanish that was quite clear and understandable, and he seemed to be comfortable with my halting and quite imperfect effort to converse with him as I made my request for lodging. He was clearly in his sixties at least, if not past seventy, but clearly in good health no matter what his age. His appearance was fairly nondescript, save for the fine clothes he wore, which suggested a man of some substance. I was most struck by the fact that he seemed to be a man quite at peace with himself and his surroundings, and he honored me by addressing me with a few sentences in basic English. He called the maid back and had her show me the room he would give me, which was located on the far right of the lobby with a nice window to the outside, a comfortable double bed and private bath. Very clean. I came back to Don Enrique in his office and told him that the room was superb and would gladly take it. Then we went through the formalities of getting the Nissan parked behind the high wooden fence which concealed any and all from outside onlookers, and I was given the keys to my room.
Okay, so I figured that now I was really here. I got my things stowed away in the room and then went out onto the patio with it's nice view towards the "playa principal," or the main beach. I was pleased that the room and the lobby are so charming and I was very pleased with the view into the north end of town from that patio. I kind of figured that the peacefulness of Don Enrique was reflected in the peacefulness of his hotel. With the sun sinking low and the gentle cool evening breezes surrounding me, I was happy to be where I was. The next two pictures show a couple of views from the patio:
I got a bit frustrated that first night with the Hotel Asthur because the "restaurant" never opened up that night, and furthermore, there was no sign at all on the outside that there was a restaurant, and the security door remained locked. There was nobody in the service area even to do any cooking so I resigned myself to eat some of the snacks I had - I had plenty, including some of the fruit that had been given to me upon my arrival in Santiago days before, so I hunkered down with my books and maps for the night, hoping that in the morning there would be somebody there to serve the promised breakfast. Then, before I turned in it dawned on me: The reason why the hotel was practically empty, and why the kitchen wasn't even occupied was because the tourist season wouldn't even begin for another four weeks. That's just the way it is.
December 5, 2002: 7:45 p.m. Hotel Asthur, Pichilemu - The morning greeted me with sunshine, and the hotel people greeted me with smiles. Indeed there was a typically modest Chilean breakfast coming for me, served promptly at a single table by the window in the restaurant at 9 a.m. by a very nice and friendly maid. As I sat there eating my "pan con queso" (toast and cheese) with instant coffee I realized I needed to be a bit less judgemental, and moreover, I needed to be more open-minded and receptive to my host's ways. After all, this was their country and their culture, and I'm the visitor.
One of the kitchen assistants back at the hotel had told me that tomorrow morning the Chilean surfing championships would begin here and run through the weekend, so I contemplated hitting the road then to avoid any surfer madness, but in the end I figured I might find it sort of fascinating to watch.
On my walk back from the rocky point I came to the park grounds known as Parque Ross, which is adjacent to the old mansion which was once the home of the 19th century land baron, railroad king and entrepreneur Agustín Ross Edwards, who had built up Pichilemu in the late 1800's and had promoted it as both port and vacation mecca for the well-heeled of Santiago. The old mansion, called the "Palacio Ross" in its heyday, was notable for housing Chile's first casino, and once must have been really something to see. What I saw however, was an obviously historic structure in a state of mild disrepair that was functioning as sort of a municipal museum, open to the public but with no attendant on duty and little to display to the curious visitor. The casino was long gone, but I was impressed with the place even though it appeared to be the victim of decades of benign neglect.
December 6, 2002 8:05 p.m. Hotel Ashtur, Pichilemu - I ended up deciding to stay another day and do nothing in particular because of Pichilemu's tranquility. I walked back down to the beach and more or less reprised my meditation by the waves from yesterday and then later strolled back to the supermercado to buy some things for the road. I ran into a Californian gringo surfer who was camped a bit south of town at a place called Punta de Lobos, a rather stark and treeless promontory which attracts surfers because of its waves, which make for one of the longest and most consistent left points on the continent. His Spanish was very bad, so I helped him order some cheese from the market's butcher.
Other than that, there's little more to be said for my last day in Pichilemu, except for the fact that it was, for me at least, a very pleasant, laid back beginning to my epic journey. After perusing over my maps and guidebooks, I decided that I'd continue working my way southward, and that my goal for the day would be to try to find a place to camp at or near the towns of Curanipe or Cobquecura, both coastal villages, roughly 150 kilometers from the hosteria of El Rincón, just north of Los Angeles, where I had reservations for a room and a Spanish class on the 8th...
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