It is a hot, dry Sunday morning in February as we walk two blocks down Avenida Pocuro from our apartment. Art is carrying the soft-sided pink, orange, and red colored woven baskets we bought in the market in Mexico City where we were just married. As we near the feria where vendors come by truck from the seacoast and countryside, I smell the fresh fish, white peaches, sweet cantaloupes, meat empanadas, mixed with the gasoline fumes from cars and buses that whiz by on Toabalaba. We marvel at the variety of fruits and vegetables as we bargain in Spanish, filling our baskets as if we were shopping for a family of ten.
Weddings in Orange, Connecticut and Mexico City - 1975
The tomatoes are luscious as are the green beans, broccoli, spinach, cauliflower, potatoes, onions, garlic, lettuce and especially the enormous artichokes, which we have only ever seen in California. Our baskets overflowing, we cart our treasures home, up the four flights of stairs to the apartment. I carefully wash and soak it all before storing it in the refrigerator which could date back to a 1950’s model. I will cook bunches of grapes, removing seeds, as I have learned to make large pitchers of fresh grape juice. We have stocked up on vino that is cheaper than bottled water. We have been to the fiambreria (deli) and the panaderia (bakery) around the corner. We will eat like royalty for the next three and a half years in Chile.
Santiago, Chile where I began life as a bride and where Hayden was born is my birthplace. It was pure coincidence that I should return to Santiago in February 1975 when Art and I were offered jobs at the International School, Nido de Aguilas. Arriving at Pudahuel International Airport, with our suitcases full of wedding gifts from Mexico City, was sobering as there were soldiers with machine guns everywhere. Quiet prevailed as we made our way through immigration and customs. I thought for a moment that the official examining my American passport might wonder how it was that I was born in this city and returning after a thirty-year absence. He didn’t ask. The backdrop to our lives in Chile would be that of a country recovering from the fall of a socialist government under Salvador Allende on Sept. 11th, 1973 and now firmly in the grip of a dictatorship under General Augusto Pinochet.
Our chileno born Feb. 20, 1977
We rented a spacious, scantily furnished, fourth floor apartment from a German woman. It was half the top floor of a building on Avenida Pocuro in Providencia and had no elevator. The large living and dining room opened to a long narrow covered terrace that overlooked the busy avenida. A kitchen with marble sink and countertops had a stove and refrigerator from another era, a maid’s room and laundry area where one could wash clothes in outdoor tubs while taking in the views of the Andes Mountains. Three bedrooms faced east where the sun would rise over the craggy pink mountains that were snow covered in the winter months.
Fourth floor balcony of the apartment on Av. Pocuro
In time, we filled up the empty indoor spaces with corn plants, a fica tree, jade plants and coleus, and I learned that my new husband had a green thumb. We shopped for hand woven wool tan, red ,and black Temuco rugs from southern Chile to cover the highly polished hardwood floors. We bought a large hand crafted copper mobile of roosters and hung it from the ceiling to the floor. We bought watercolor paintings of fishing life along the coast, and bright colored, hand sewn wall hangings from Isla Negra to fill up the empty walls. Eventually the baby swing, playpen, high chair and toys would fill up the remaining space.
Avenida Pocuro had a wide park down the middle dividing two lanes of traffic on either side. In spring we looked down on blooming dogwood trees. Once, large elegant homes had lined this boulevard but now they looked shabby among some low apartment buildings like ours. Because we had no elevator, we carried groceries, baby stroller and baby, small dog, book bags, bottled water, and other essentials of daily life up four flights of marble stairs without giving it much thought. The conserje (concierge) who lived in the basement apartment was always there to help especially when it became noticeable that I was pregnant. I loved being addressed as la señora confirming my married status. I did have to be carried up the four flights in an aluminum lawn chaise the day I came home from the maternity clinic with Hayden.
Park in the middle of Avenida Pocuro
A few months before Hayden was born, Art brought home a white miniature poodle puppy. He told me a student had brought her to school to find her a home and the dog had ended up in his office all day. At the end of the day Art could not part with her. Sabrina became part of our family despite my misgivings about the extra trips up and down the four flights and knowing we were breaking the “no pets” rule in our building. We quickly trained Sabrina not to bark and would hide her in the empty maid’s room closet when the landlady came to collect the rent.
The International School Nido de Aguilas, named for the eagles nests found in the area was further out from the city in the rural town of Lo Barnechea at the foothills of the Andes. Here, because of the higher altitude, we escaped the pollution of Santiago and breathed the pungent acrid odor of the tall and stately eucalyptus trees. With classrooms that opened onto covered outdoor walkways; the school was cold in the winter. Some days we wore coats and gloves all day indoors. The surrounding woodlands and scrub-like vegetation in the foothills reminded me of California. And similarly to California, we experienced regular earthquakes. It was scary to be awakened in our fourth floor apartment, feel the bed shaking, furniture shifting and know that by the time we understood what was happening the tremor would be over.
An American friend, married to a Chilean who owned his own garage, sold us an affordable used mini MG that frequently had mechanical problems. That did not deter us from venturing out of Santiago. Regardless of the season we headed to our favorite resort of El Tabo with deserted white sandy beaches. Sometimes we went to Algarrobo with a rockier shoreline and quaint town, or even the larger city of Viña del Mar with its dark sandy beaches and crowds of people. We never went in to the frigid Pacific waters beyond our toes even in the summer. Skiing in Farellones was close by and once we spent a weekend at the world famous Portillo ski resort. One summer holiday we drove south on the Pan American highway to Temuco and Pucón, and the Antumalal Hotel in the lake district of Chile with its dramatic landscape in this 2,600 mile long country. On that trip our trusty MG lost its muffler right in front of the only service station for miles around!
El Tabo, Chile
Driving out of the city was an abrupt reminder of the political climate in Chile as we encountered roadblocks guarded by soldiers. No matter how many times we were asked to show our identification papers, it was a frightening experience. Checkpoints were guarded by young soldiers who did not seem old enough to be carrying guns. Sometimes they looked bored, as if they might pull the trigger just to break the monotony.
During our years in Chile, the country was under a toque de queda and everyone had to be indoors by midnight. We could not go out until 6 a.m. At midnight, Avenida Pocuro changed from whizzing traffic to total silence until people ventured out again in the early morning. If you were caught on the streets after curfew you could be arrested. The headmaster of our school who loved to party defied curfew one night and did end up spending the night in a Santiago jail. He was released in the morning. When I was pregnant with Hayden, I’d lie awake at night going over scenarios of what we would do if the baby came during curfew. Although we had been told we could drive safely to the hospital if we hung a white handkerchief out the window, I never believed that nor trusted the police. Luckily Hayden was born at 1 p.m. in the middle of the day.
When it was time to leave Chile, part of me felt complete relief at the thought of discarding the carnet de identidad (I.D. card) that I carried with me all the time. I would no longer have to check the time and worry about getting home if we were out in the evening, nor would I be faced with gun carrying soldiers, or jolted awake by earth tremors, nor worried about my baby getting sick and the inadequate hospitals. Yet I knew that there would always be something special about my connection with Chile. I was leaving with a baby who had been born in Santiago like I had 31 years before. I would carry with me the memories of our trips to the feria, the images of the majestic Andes Mountains that I looked to for reassurance every day of my life in Santiago. I had arrived as a newlywed and was leaving with a family knowing that these years had cemented the foundation for a strong marriage. Starting married life thousands of miles from family and friends, often during difficult times, taught us to trust and rely on each other which we have continued to do ever since.
No comments:
Post a Comment