A bike named Hank, poets and mermaids
- Feb 19, 2016
- 3 min read
Santiago
We eat breakfast amidst the colourful explosion of tomatoes, avocados, red onions, nectarines and other neatly stacked fresh fruit and vegetables in Santiago’s Vega Central market.
The people of central Santiago fill the market to buy their meat, produce and any other need they may have at the buzzing maze of stalls.
Catherine likes the heuvos revueltos at the busy morning market. The eggs are fresh and the coffee is hot.
A nurse, Catherine has just finished her nightshift at the hospital. She promises I'll enjoy my desayuno at one of the city’s most popular markets.
After breakfast she buys a washing basket, lettuce and some cat food. I carry her shopping to the bus stop and we say goodbye.
Santiago’s smog hovers during the hot summer days I spend in Chile’s capital as I go through the process of buying a motorbike. I have thrown caution to the wind – strong winds I hear in South America’s barren south – and will attempt to ride a small Honda 150cc as far as these winds carry me.
Just like the mighty Andes in the distance I manage to permeate the smog, bureaucratic smog that is, and buy the motorbike - Hank.
The suburb of Providencia is my home in Santiago. Casa Matte’s wooden floors and comfortable sinking sofas are a cool and calming refuge from my tasks and my sightseeing.
I get my morning fruit from the truck parked a few doors down. Beneath the leafy and shady avenue of trees the fruit seller always has a smile on his face and his gregarious voice greets his customers with gusto and familiarity. He is there everyday.
At Casa Matte, my fellow guests are also riding the roads of South America on two wheels. Ioane, from Hawaii, is carrying his two beloved surfboards - on his even more beloved classic BMW motorcycle. He is riding and surfing the length and breadth of both American continents. He wears a Fu Manchu moustache and no shirt. He likes organic food and owns a grin that comes easy like his conversation. The three Texans have just finished their trip down to the end of the world and are heading home. Terri, John and George have hearts the size of their home state. They give advice, friendship and peanuts freely. Jay is as tall, strong and staunch as the peaks from his Colorado.
I explore the street art of Bario Bellavista. The walls are covered in magical and mystical murals. Hues of every colour burst from around each corner. Monsters, maidens and men are part of an urban art museum. In the Central Market, the air is filled with the fishmongers' calls of a bargain and the smell of their catch.
To escape the heat I seek sanctuary amidst the trees on the steep slopes of Cerro Santa Lucia. The cone of rock provides striking views of the city and beyond out to the haze shrouded Andes in the east and a place for lovers and friends to play and pose.
At the city's busy traffic lights, artists, jugglers, and other talented folk entertain the waiting motorists with their skills and tricks. I wait and watch.
I get a message from Catherine. She is in Isla Negra, the seaside retreat of poet Pablo Neruda and other Chilean wordsmiths. She asks if I want to pass through on my way south.
The ceviche and the company on the coast are perfect. Chileans are on their summer holidays. The beaches are a Jackson Pollock canvas. Splashes of colour. The pinball machines are ringing and the disco music is thumping. Sun, sea and salty air are a recipe for smiles and laughter.
“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” ― Pablo Neruda,
Comments