(one of the doggos deciding he would shove Sarah out the way for more cuddles)
As I sit here in a cold garage in Nelson, New Zealand, my mind drifts fondly and wistfully back to a year ago when I was living with Sarah in La Serena, Chile. She had decided that learning Spanish was something fun to do, and I had dreamed of seeing South America my entire life, so we headed there to be based for 6 months. Though her studies were far from arduous, she learned the Spanish language with a rapidity that put my attempts to learn German to shame.
With a lot of spare time and not a lot of responsibility, we would often get distracted easily by the little contingent of German and Spanish students who were internationals at the University. This meant that when entertainment was offered these young’uns would attack it with the intensity of coked-up squirrels, and as you might have guessed, this potent recipe (aided by more than a little cerveza) made for interesting outcomes to these evenings.
One of the most shocking was on a cold Wednesday evening in June. In La Serena the days, even mid-winter, would often be warm and sunny, but as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon the temperature would plummet in a heartbeat, and being near the sea it was slightly humid as well. So going out was done either during the day time or after it, very rarely would one not make the obligatory stop at home for the wardrobe change required to stop freezing your stones off.
So it was that after trailing back from a sunny evening on the beach watching a spectacular sunset, my ears were passively trying to unpack the halting and sporadic Spanish spoken amongst the group (strangely I found I picked up Spanish more easily than German, which frustrated me no end as I put zero effort into the former and hours of failure into the latter). In a brief lull of conversation, I heard the word ‘terre-moto’.
Now having done some wonderful tours around the volcanic regions of Bolivia and the Atacama Desert, I recognised this term as Spanish for Earthquake. However the context made no sense as I was sure they were going on about having a piss-up (as about 70% of our conversations normally ended up being about anyway). I queried the term and was treated to shocked and joyful expressions as they realised I had yet to experience this Chilean version of a Pina Colada, though in taste and appearance it bore no resemblance whatsoever to either one.
Before I had acquiesced or even acknowledged what they were on about, I found out that I had had my evening planned out for me. Which was to be, surprise surprise, sampling this local delicacy at one of the seedier bars around the small city.
So, doing my best to raise my enthusiasm levels to that of the University student (nigh on impossible post-30 without at least a week's worth of good sleep in your pocket) we wrapped up warmly, but dressed sensibly in layers. This was necessary as drinking inside and dancing was bound to heat us up fairly quickly, and being able to strip down on the fly was therefore essential.
I was under strict instructions not to look like a hobo (as my ‘comfy’ clothes were often compared to by Sarah- seeming as I had fingerless gloves and ratty hoodies in this getup, it was actually a pretty apt comparison) so I dressed up in a nice shirt, with the usual thermal underneath and a few more of my nicer layers on top.
We gathered in high spirits outside the complex where we all lived, which was not dissimilar to an apartment high rise you might find in a fancy beachside holiday spot, which, it essentially was. However far from being the residences of the rich and famous, due to the economic problems in Chile it was propagated mostly by middle-class workers and university students (Chile was a poor country that, with its unfortunate alignment to the USA had started to suffer under inflation). However, due to the complex being located so near to the beach, it did mean the apartments were in the price range of only the elite students, such as the internationals we represented (I say we, but as an unemployed amateur writer, I was really just an honorary part of the entourage).
(sunset on the beach at La Serena was always spectacular)
As we left to find adventure, I caught snippets of conversation amongst the girls (as they tittered in that way that let you know they had seen a handsome man somewhere around) and when I inquired they told me about ‘El guapo’ (literally translated as ‘the handsome one’) who was a good looking, if a little portly, young guard in the complex working the night shift. One of our young Spanish friends had fallen hard for him but was unable to find a way to get him talking, and I happily shared a few excuses and ideas that might help to break the ice and get her chatting to him. It had been a long time since I had bothered with flirting and ‘playing the game’, as it were, but I had done it enough in my younger days to recognise what would appeal to hormone-driven young men who needed a little push to be encouraged to talk to ladies. I had personally long since given up being coy, and endeavoured to be open, fun and frank with women I found attractive. It worked to get me Sarah, and had been far more successful in my past than humility and second guessing myself ever managed, so I stuck with it. Guys, if you are out there and reading this- shoot from the hip, but do it with honesty and without the guile. Seems to work. Oh, and if you can, do 100 push ups and sit ups and a 10km run every day until you are ripped as hell. That seems to help too ;-p .
We meandered up the cracked concrete pathway, eyes always roving for dog poop from the hundreds of friendly strays that wandered contentedly about, and I marvelled at the perfect pink hues of the sunset that shone through the palm-lined boulevard. This peaceful walk was often spoiled by the loud rumbles and smoke of the huge SUV’s that shot past every few minutes. As a part of America, Chile loved its yank tanks, and seemed to have adopted quite a few of the unfortunate US stereotypes that one should really best avoid, such as enormous portions, gangster-style dress and rear ends the size of two 44 gallon drums strapped together.
We arrived at a likely looking watering hole- appealing for the loud music, attractive street art (which La Serena had in spades) and the added bonus of being locked from the inside to stop the alcoholic types from wandering in and stealing drinks or begging for money.
Every nation, no matter how rich or poor, has its struggles. New Zealand, for example, despite its low poverty and well functioning social systems, has some of the highest youth suicide rates and domestic violence in the world. Chile, on the other hand, struggled not with drugs, as some other South American countries do, but with plain old drinking. This sad story could be seen as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon and young and old addicts alike would gather about the ale-houses in the hopes of snagging a free drink or a dollar to get the next beer.
The bar we were in (I forget the name, it was Spanish so unlikely to stick in my mind but was probably something musical), was playing old school metal like Metallica and ACDC. This suited me fine apart from the fact that I am already very deaf and therefore had to strain to hear anything, and shout uncomfortably to be heard. In a world where I was already disadvantaged in terms of communication, this was a real struggle on my nerves. Still, the music was pumping, we were warm, and soon the drinks started to flow. The server turned up looking very similar to every other Chilean girl I had seen in La Serena- pretty tan skin, dark hair tied in a ponytail, a juicy (not my choice of words, I was forced to use it) backside on a short frame and a bounce to her step that showed she was far from unfit.
She was not wonderful with english, but it was of little consequence, for as soon as she turned up we shouted “Tere-Moto!” and she understood we all wanted to sample this very interesting cocktail.
Now as you may have guessed, terremoto is named so because after drinking one the ground will seem to be shaking. It is a weird mix of usually white (but red is fine too) wine, grenadine, pineapple ice cream (yes, you read that right) and pisco- the highly potent spirit made from grape juice that is so popular it has an entire region named after it out in the desert. This mix is strange in consistency and flavor, but once you get used to it, it is simply sweet, cold and strong, all of which are elements of drinks I approve of.
After working through my first teremoto, I was happy to see I could still converse and move relatively capably. However, looking over to Sarah I saw that she was appealing to me to help her finish off her drink as she was struggling with it (she was a sour rather than sweet girl so didn’t enjoy the drink much). Though she could handle her beer well I never had the pleasure of seeing her absolutely tozzled, being as she was not a fan of the sensation and had enough energy to keep dancing and engaged in an all nighter without needing any assistance from alcohol.
Doing the chivalrous thing, I took the drink and began to work on this one too, I was feeling rather proud of myself for beating the other boys through my terremoto-and-a-quarter to their one, when I realised a friend of ours, Hannah (willowy thin, my height, pale and frail-looking) had already finished her second one. I did a double take at this, not believing my eyes, but it was absolutely true and she seemed none the worse for wear. Now I am as willing as the next man to admit when I am beat, so looking at her carefully, I determined that she must simply have cheek pouches where she stored the alcohol for digestion later at her leisure. With this logical conclusion reached, I went back to the serious business of drinking (not at all trying to keep up with Hannah, it was simply coincidental that I ordered another drink every time that she did).
(the famed Terremoto)
Suffice to say that the rest of the evening passed in a similar fashion, with topics of conversation degenerating from political discussions to hot chicks from movies, all the way down to who would win out of a duck the size of a horse or 100 horses the size of ducks. As the earth began to quake just a little, I eased up, not even caring that I had definitely drunk as much as Hannah had (though may have looked, smelt and sounded far worse for wear- I added the smelt because of my love of cuddling the stray dogs- of which I am completely unashamed).
When everyone had had their fill, we decided it was probably best to drop, cover and hold in our current states, and so were buzzed out of the bar and began that classic half shuffle, half waddle that the drunken man employs when he is absolutely snozzled but for some reason is trying to prove to everyone around him (who are also totally snozzled) that he is definitely not totally snozzled thankyouverrymuch, and is simply enjoying a quiet night stroll at 3am with his compatriots who unfortunately cannot hold their drinks quite as well as he can.
As we walked, I did what I always do (and never fail to get told off for) and said hello and gave a scratch of the ears to every single stray dog that we passed.
The strays here, as I may have mentioned, are technically public property, meaning the populace takes care of them like they might wild birds that come into the garden- they are fed, watered, often clothed (the favourites would get bandanas or sweatshirts- not sure what the dogs thought of this), and if one was injured or sick they would take it to get some help.
The results were an unbelievably content, comfortable and happy population of dogs that wanted nothing more than to say hello. Conversely, the dogs who were privately owned and fenced in were unbalanced in their behaviour, barking furiously as anyone walked past to defend their territory. It was amazing how the intervention of man to alter the natural behaviour of an animal resulted in such aggression. We need to learn to leave well enough alone sometimes I think.
Anyway, as we walked (shuffled, stumbled, laughed and ambled) and I scratched ears, we slowly accumulated a rather large posse of dogs who decided that 3am was an excellent time to go for a wander about the streets. The strays would often do this, knowing that should they meet a rival pack, the presence of a human would stop any dominance issues, so they were free to explore without concern. As we walked, and I counted 17 doggo buddies, I did begin to wonder about pack mentality. To quote men in black, a person is smart, but people are stupid- if something tipped this lot off, the pack-mind would take over and things could get bad for any poor dog that might get caught in the middle of it. But I dismissed these thoughts- firstly because any dogs we met seemed content to simply join in our ever growing menagerie, and second, because I was really rather drunk.
We walked and chatted, happily shooting the breeze, when I suddenly heard a commotion around the corner and saw the dogs all take off. All of my fears about pack mentality returned to the fore and I surged forward to see if I could protect whatever poor pup had got caught in the middle of things. Rounding the corner, I saw a sight that was far far worse.
Lying on the ground, surrounded by a pack of agitated dogs, was a man even more inebriated than even we were. One of our number had reached him first and was shielding him from view as the pack circled. I walked up and helped disperse the dogs, which took no more than a harsh word and a wave of the arms. Then I walked to the man's side.
He was lying on the concrete, jacket strewn next to him, and I saw the blood splatters on the ground and with horror, realised his skin was hanging off his forearm like it had been peeled neatly off with a knife.
I calmly assessed the situation- I have always had a calm response to emergency, bred from years working with kids who will panic more if you worry and are constantly searching your face for how they should react. I saw he was in no real danger, but must be in a lot of pain and very frightened. Unfortunately, I spoke no Spanish, and was reliant on Sarah and the others for explanation as to what had happened and how he was feeling.
From what I could tell, the pack had rounded the corner, startling him, and he had reacted violently, whipping the dogs with his jacket, who had responded (not unreasonably) by attacking him. It was probably the work of no more than 2 or 3 dogs, but they had bitten him badly and he was still scared and in pain.
I asked Sarah to check with him what was hurting, and looked for signs of any serious injury apart from the skin damage I could see.
Unfortunately, he was so upset and scared he reacted angrily, blaming us (her, as I could not understand) for bringing the dogs and attacking him. I spoke calmly and quietly, asking some of our number to keep the dogs away, who were quite nonplussed at all the fuss and still wanted to wander over to say hello but whose presence terrified the man. I also asked if someone was calling the ambulance, or if he preferred someone to come and get him to take him to the hospital, as these costs were often prohibitive for the average Chilean to entertain.
Though he brought up protestations that we should call someone he knew, this was all to no avail, so I told the others to call the ambulance- it was necessary and we had no first aid to materials to support him with.
As we waited, I held up his arm so it didn’t touch the ground, and tried as best I could to make him comfortable. My heart went out to Sarah, who had to communicate with him in her limited Spanish and I could see written on her face what a toll it was taking to be blamed for something she had no control over but taking it on board because he was in such obvious pain. I reassured her as best I could it was not her fault, and to tell him he would be ok and to ask if anything else was hurting so we could look and attend to it if need be.
He was not particularly willing to communicate, but was making a giant fuss about his legs, and as I carefully pulled up his track pants to see, he made a big uproar, though even in the semi light I could see no injuries worth worrying about- he would undoubtedly be bruised and sore but there was nothing dangerous to be concerned about.
We stayed with him until the ambulance turned up, whose capable professionals asked us what had happened, as did the police who quickly followed behind. At this point I was rather useless, so I comforted Sarah, who had taken all of this to heart. She was a doer, and when facing a situation she felt responsible for yet couldn’t meet out the help she wanted to she took it hard, regardless of the complex situation and obvious language barriers she had faced.
Making an executive decision, I began to lead her reluctantly away, reminding her it was not her fault and that she had done all she could, keeping a comforting arm over her shoulders.
We all made it back home safe and sound, the last dregs of the dog pack still in tow, and with nothing left to lose, I whispered to our little Spanish friend that now might be a great opportunity to spark up a conversation with ‘El Guapo’ because she had an exciting story to tell. She perked up at once and rushed forward to do just that as he buzzed us into the gate, and I could see from the look in his eyes he was more than happy to hear just about anything from her.
The next few days drew a sad look from Sarah as we passed the bloodstains on the sidewalk that remained as a testament to the excitement of the evening. However, one good thing did come from it, as I am pleased to say that late night conversation had sparked up a new relationship for our friend and El Guapo. From here, he quickly joined our rag-tag group as one more oddball amongst a group of strangers united through crisis. I am pleased to say their relationship extended well beyond the time we left South America for our own fated return to Europe. I left South America immensely richer for the experience, but strangely, heading back to Europe was like coming home, and though I would miss my wonderful fur babies, I knew they would manage rather well on their own without me and my famed ear scratches.
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