Dieciocho or The Mountain the Tried to Kill Me

Artist's rendering of the Elqui Valley. Click to Enlarge.

Better late than never....

I came crawling back into Alex's home in La Serena when the sun was already up on the 18th of September, Chile's Independence Day.  It had taken me a while to make it back from Coquimbo, and I laid down on the air mattress I was using and promptly passed out.  Two hours later, Alex woke me saying that I should get some stuff together, because we were leaving for Valle de Elqui.

The family was already loading their car, as was a rather haggard-looking Filipe.  Along for the trip was the adorable family cat as well, whose name I never quite caught.  I stuffed some clothes in my day pack, threw on a hat, and hopped in the car with Felipe, Daraya, and Salimy.  The drive to the valley couldn't have taken more than forty-five minutes, but nevertheless I was dead to the world for however long it may have been.  When I came to, we were pulling into the tiny hamlet of El Molle, nestled near the start of the valley astride the Elqui river.  The town was quaint and beautiful, with ancient villas that had existed since Chile first began to develop the region for vintage.  One of the villas belonged to Alex's host-family.  Built by a long dead patriach, it was now simply used as a retreat and summer home and as such it was charmingly rundown.  I helped unload the cars, to included the parrilla (grill) we had packed in Felipe's trunk, and then sat down to enjoy an homemade empanada while the asado was prepared.  Meanwhile, the girls grabbed a giant Chilean flag and a super unsafe looking ladder and proceeded to raise the colors.  They only managed to get the flag halfway up, after which they all joined in with the Chilean national anthem; their hands over their hearts.

In the back of the house was a long dead and overgrown orchard where a wall-less tent was sent up and under which an old table, some equally ancient chairs, along with a couch and old armchair were placed.  The sun was bright, the sky was blue, the plants were so green they were glowing, and stalking insects in the undergrowth was the pet cat.  I sat for a while simply enjoying the life that surrounded me.  At some point I commented on the big hill that loomed over us and Alex's host mom told us we should climb it while we waited for the asado (cooked this time by Felipe's father.)  We agreed, and without fulling realizing just how great a trial awaited us, set forth.  As soon as we were at the base of the "hill", I came to realize just how daunting a task lay ahead.  There was no discernible path, the slope was incredibly steep, and the whole thing was covered in loose gravel, giant cacti, and multiple different varieties of stinging plants.  Despite there being no real reason to even think about climbing the beast, we did it anyway.

Now, Spanish wisely has multiple words for hill, depending on size.  This particular geographical beast was a monte, or as I translate it, baby mountain.  By the time we made it to the top, I had come to realize that I had bitten off more than I could chew and that the decent was going to be near impossible.  On top of everything, my irrational fear of heights inherited from my mother began to act up.  Thus, I sat with Alex atop the monte, looking down at the tiny village of El Molle below, wishing for all the world that I had enough sense to not climb up onto high things.  Alex, on the other hand, grew up in the Pacific Northwest ambling all over mountains (I grew up in a coastal, sea-level swamp) and as such had the ability to prance about upright like a bloody goat.  He even admitted later that his favorite animal was, indeed, the mountain goat.  His ease on precipices made me all the more miserable once we began the agonizingly slow decent wherein I had to pretty much slide on my butt most of the way down.  Since the ground was covered in devil plants, this meant my hands were bloody and full of spines before I was even a quarter of the way down.

It twas a fine view though.

At least I had a camera, to document my inevitable destruction.

I could think of nothing more, as I scooted down the mountainside, then of how much I just wanted to be on the ground eating asado.  I was in one of those positions where you are hopelessly stuck unless you continue forward.  In other words, I was in a bad metaphor. At one point, because Alex was moving faster than I was, we became separated.  His family was obviously watching the spectacle from below and tried in vain to shout out helpful directions, but their voices were lost to me on the wind.  Thankfully, Alex took notice and was able to find me and lead me down a virtually non-existent goat path which eventually dumped us into a less steep ravine.  Two hours later, we were back on the ground with a Independence Day mountain (pun intended) of meat awaiting our consumption.  The family had a good laugh at our exhaustion.  I showed them my hands and Salimy joked saying I had many free souvenirs to remember Chile by now.  After we all finally finished eating, blankets were laid out on the grass under the sun and we all took a small respite before the festivities continued with "traditional" Chilean "activities."  Activities meant games, the first of which being a ridiculous relay.  To that effect, we were divided into two teams. The first person had to spin around a bottle five times, then wobble over and tag the next player.  The second person in turn had to run a distance while balancing an egg on a spoon.  The third person had to do something with a plate of flower.  I have no idea what exactly, but it involved sticking your face in the powder and blowing.  I was the fourth person on my team, and it was my job to run over to a tray that held half an empanada and a half glass of wine which I was required to rapidly down before my opponent.  Then I had to grab a bandanna that hung from a nearby fig tree to secure victory.  Maybe they could tell by simply looking at me that I was the ideal fourth man, or maybe I had somehow betrayed my talents over the course of the past two day's asados, because when it was my turn they watched in wide-eyed wonder as I made both the empanada and wine disappear in the space of a breath.  Needless to  say, we won hands down.  The relay was repeated, but the second time Alex and I were in the first position and required now to spin ten times around the bottle.  There is video somewhere of us spinning wildly, falling repeatedly, and stumbling hilariously into our teammates but unfortunately I don't have a copy.  The second game was musical chairs, and the third was tug of war.  They valiantly put Alex and Felipe opposite me on the rope, but in one tug I had them both on the ground.

The games were followed by more cueca, which I sat by and watched since my legs were still rubber from the maldito monte.  When it got dark, we started a bonfire and pulled the old couches and arm chairs up to warm ourselves.  I stretched out on the couch after some of the group left (not everyone stayed at the house that night) and promptly passed out.  Next thing I knew I was being almost carried into a bedroom where I was tucked in under some sleeping bags.  I was finally able to catch up on all the sleep I'd been missing, though I did wake up at one point dying of thirst.  The water was shut off though and the only recourse I had was to chug two litres of coke.  When I crawled back into bed, the little cat had found its way in and proceeded to fall asleep on my chest.  The next day I had to catch a bus back to Calama by six that evening, and so after a light lunch, Alex and I said our goodbyes (which sucked, because another huge asado was being prepared.)  Before leaving, the entire family sang what I gathered was a version of "He's a Jolly Good Fellow" in Spanish and kissed and hugged me profusely.  Alex's host mom told me I should tell the program that I'd found another family in Serena and to stay.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to, but I already had a great family back North.

Back in La Serena, Alex and I returned to his house where I gathered my things.  We then walked over to the bus station where Ryan and Peter were waiting for us.  Vanessa showed up too to see us off as Ryan and I once again, with great sadness, boarded a northbound bus into the Atacama Desert of Doom.  By Monday morning we were once again home in Calama, ciudad de sueños rotos.