Che in Chile

To be honest, there was probably a moment or two when our friend wished he’d never met us, since we caused him an uncomfortable night’s sleep, but he only had himself to blame, bragging about the money he spent on women and inviting us for a night out at a “cabaret”, which would be at his expense, of course. His invitation was the reason we prolonged our stay in the land of Pablo Neruda, and we became involved in a lively bragging session lasting for some time. In the end, of course, he came clean on that inevitable problem (a lack of funds), meaning we had to postpone our visit to that very interesting place of entertainment, though in compensation he gave us bed and board. So at one in the morning there we were, feeling very self- satisfied and devouring everything on the table, quite a lot really, plus some more that arrived later. Then we appropriated our host’s bed since because his father was being transferred to Santiago there was not much furniture left in the house.

Alberto, unmovable, was resisting the morning sun’s attempt to disturb his sleep, while I dressed slowly, a task we didn’t find particularly difficult because the difference between our night wear and day wear was made up, generally, of shoes. The newspaper flaunted a generous number of pages, very much in contrast to our poor and stunted dailies, but I wasn’t interested in anything besides one piece of local news I found in large type in section two: “TWO ARGENTINE LEPROSY EXPERTS TOUR LATIN AMERICA BY MOTORCYCLE”.

And then in smaller type: “They are in Temuco and want to visit Rapa-Nui”.

This was the epitome of our audacity. Us, experts, key figures in the field of leprology in the Americas, with vast experience, having treated 3,000 patients, familiar with the most important leprosy centres of the continent and researchers into the sanitary conditions of those same centres, had consented to visit this picturesque, melancholy little town. We supposed they would fully appreciate our respect for the town, but we didn ’t really know. Soon the whole family was gathered around the article and all other items in the paper became objects of Olympian contempt. And so, like this, basking in their admiration, we said goodbye to those people we remember nothing about, not even their names.

We had asked permission to leave the bike in the garage of a man who lived on the outskirts of town and we made our way there, no longer a pair of more or less likeable vagrants with a bike in tow; no, we were now “The Experts”, and we were treated accordingly. We spent the whole day fixing and conditioning the bike while every now and then a dark-skinned maid would arrive with little snacks. At five o’clock, after a delicious afternoon tea prepared by our host, we said goodbye to Temuco and headed north.

OUR DEPARTURE from Temuco went as normal until, on the road out of town, we noticed the back tyre was punctured and we had to stop and fix it. We worked energetically, but no sooner had we put the spare on, we saw it was losing air; it too was punctured. It seemed we would have to spend the night out in the open as there was no question of repairing it at that time of night. But we weren’t just anybody now, we were The Experts; and we soon found a railroad worker who took us to his house where we were treated like kings.

Early next morning we took the inner tubes and tyre to the garage to remove some bits of metal that had become embedded, and to patch the tyre again. It was close to nightfall when we left, but not before accepting an invitation to a typical Chilean meal: tripe and another similar dish, all very spicy, washed down with a delicious rough wine. As usual, Chilean hospitality wiped us out.

Of course we didn’t get much further, and less than 80 kilometres on, we stopped to sleep in the house of a park ranger who was hoping for a tip. Because it never arrived, he refused us breakfast the following day, so we set off in bad humour, intending to light a small fire and make some maté as soon as we’d done a few kilometres. We’d gone a little way, and I was looking out for a good place to stop when, with no warning at all, the bike took a sharp twist sideways sending us flying to the ground. Alberto and I, unharmed, examined the bike — finding one of the steering columns broken and, most seriously, the gearbox smashed. It was impossible to go on. The only thing to do was wait patiently for an accommodating truck to take us as far as the next town.

A car going in the opposite direction stopped and its occupants got out to see what had happened and to offer their services. They told us they would do everything possible to help, with whatever two scientists like ourselves needed.

“Do you know, I recognised you straightaway from the photo in the paper,” one of them said.

But we had nothing to ask of them, except for a truck going the other way. We thanked them and settled down for the usual maté when the owner of a nearby shack came over and invited us into his home. We downed a couple of litres in his kitchen. There we met with his charango, a musical instrument made with three or four wires, some two metres in length, stretched tightly across two empty tins fixed to a board. The musician uses a kind of metal knuckle-duster with which he plucks the wires, producing a sound like a toy guitar. Around 12, a van came along whose driver, after much pleading, agreed to take us to the next town, Lautaro.

We found a space in the best garage in the area and someone who would be able to do the soldering, a short and friendly boy called Luna, who once or twice took us home for lunch. We divided our time between working on the bike and scrounging something to eat in the homes of the many curiosity seekers who came to see us at the garage. Next door was a German family, or one of German origin, who treated us handsomely. We slept in the local barracks.

The bike was more or less fixed and we had decided to leave the following day, so we thought we’d throw caution to the wind with some new pals who invited us for a few drinks. Chilean wine is great and I was drinking it unbelievably quickly, so much so that by the time we went on to the village dance, I felt ready to take on the world. The evening progressed pleasantly as we kept filling our bellies and our heads with wine. One of the particularly friendly mechanics from the garage asked me to dance with his wife because he’d been mixing his drinks and was not feeling very well. His wife was hot and clearly in the mood and, full of Chilean wine, I took her by the hand and tried to steer her outside. She followed me meekly, but then noticed her husband watching us and told me she would stay behind. I was in no state to listen to reason and we began to argue in the middle of the dancefloor. I started pulling her towards one of the doors, while everybody was watching, and then she tried to kick me, and as I was pulling her, she lost her balance and fell crashing to the floor.

Running back towards the village, pursued by a furious swarm of dancers, Alberto loudly mourned the loss of the wine her husband might have bought us.

WE ROSE early to put the finishing touches to the bike and to flee what was no longer a very hospitable place for us, but only after accepting a final invitation to lunch from the family who lived next to the garage.

Due to a premonition, Alberto didn’t want to drive, so I sat up front, though we only did a few kilometres before stopping to fix the failing gearbox. A little further on, as we rounded a tight curve at a good speed, the screw came off the back brake, a cow’s head appeared around the bend, then many, many more of them, and I threw on the handbrake, which, soldered ineptly, broke too. For some moments I saw nothing more than the blurred shape of cattle flying past us on each side, while poor Poderosa gathered speed down the steep hill. By an absolute miracle we managed to graze only the leg of the last cow, but in the distance a river was screaming towards us with terrifying efficacy. I veered on to the side of the road and, in the flash of an eye, the bike mounted the two-metre bank, embedding us between two rocks, but we were unhurt.

Ever aided by the letter of recommendation from the “press”, we were put up by some Germans who treated us very well. During the night I had a bad case of the runs and, being ashamed to leave a souvenir in the pot under my bed, I climbed out onto the window ledge and gave up all of my pain to the night and blackness beyond. The next morning I looked out to see the effect and saw that two metres below lay a big sheet of tin where they were sun-drying their peaches; the added spect-acle was impressive. We beat it from there fast.

Although at first glance the accident seemed to be of little importance, it quickly became clear we had underestimated the damage. The bike acted strangely every time it had to climb uphill. On the ascent to Malleco, where there is a railroad bridge considered by Chileans to be the highest in the Americas, the bike packed it in and we wasted the whole day waiting for some charit-able soul (embodied in the shape of a truck) to take us to the top. We slept in the town of Collipulli, after gaining the hoped-for lift, and left early, fearing impending catastrophe. On the first steep hill, one of many on that road, La Pode-rosa finally gave up the ghost. A truck took us to Los Ang-eles, where we left her in the fire station and slept at the house of a Chilean army lieu- tenant who seemed very thankful for the way he’d been treated in our country, Argentina, and couldn’t do enough to please us. It was our last day as “motorised bums”; the next stage seemed set to be more difficult, as “bums without wheels”.