Wandering off the Tourist Trail Continued

Horcon was what I imagined and hoped coastal South America would be like. One dusty road ran downhill through the town and culminated in a beautiful chaos of fisherman and fishmongers crowded on the frothing shores of the Pacific. The fisherman, dressed in bright, hazard orange foul weather gear and frumpy stocking caps, sat in big wooden dories, mending their nets and sorting their match. Their faces wore the barnacle-like blemishes indicative of their ruddy occupation. Passing around a communal bottle of Brahmas, perhaps the first beer of the morning, the fisherman went about their tasks in a sedated fashion. The fish mongers called out the day´s deals to the gathering crowd of restaurant owners, local hippies, and passing spectators. When the loads of fish were transferred to the hands of the makeshift market, a young boy on horseback pulled the dories back out to sea. Once freed from the shallows, one fisherman began to row the dorie´s´s long oars while the other hurried to bring the archaic engine to life. They past sneakily through the rocky crown that protected Horcon, then entered back into the bosom of the Pacific for another outing.

The scene was intoxicating. I stood there for an immeasurable amount of time, engrossed in the systematic mayhem of Horcon´s daily happenings. What made the experience all the more seductive was the undeniable fact that I was the only gringo in the town. For better and for worse, this became the theme of my time in Horcon.

After indulging in a catch-of-the-day meal at a restaurant on the coast, I trudged back uphill to continue my search for lodgings. When in became clear that camping was reserved for Horcon´s hippy faction, a community I did not have the energy or backbone to infiltrate for a place to camp, I resorted to finding a room in one of the town´s various cabanas. After some failed attempts, I was directed to a man who might have a more affordable option for me. I rang the bell from outside a wooden gate, and a aged man appeared in the doorway. He walked shakily up to me, unlocked the gate, and asked what my business was. When I told him I was looking for a room, and detecting that I was American, his droopy face lifted into a youthful smile. Turned out the man split his time in Seattle. He was overjoyed that an American had wandered to his doorstep. He brought me into his house and introduced me to his wife. The two spoke spotty English which they interchanged with Spanish. After a few minutes of passing pleasantries, the man led me uphill to a property where the room was located.

Workers, all of whom the man introduced me to, hurried around the site, wielding hammers and paint brushes. The building was clearly undergoing a serious face lift. We walked along a cement path dusted with wood chips to a knobless door. The man struggled for a few awkward moments locating the key. Finally he inserted the correct one, and pushed open the door. A gust of musty air escaped from the room. Inside, a lone, unmade mattress sat in a dimly lit rectangle of unfinished sheet rock. I entered. The room smelt like an damp, old towel. It had a tiny bathroom, with a toilet and sink-but no shower. I learned later, only after using the toilet, that it lacked sufficient water to be flushed. On the positive side, the room´s only window had an excellent view of the Pacific and I could hear the crashing waves from below. ¨Diez mil pesos¨- Ten thousand pesos, the man said. The price was exorbitant- the most I had been charged for a room in Chile. But he was a good man, and I figured my night´s rent would help him finish the renovation. More importantly, I had not where else to go.

I set down my pack, changed into some swim trunks, and had a walk down to the beach. The man, also on his way to town, accompanied me. He waved to passing people like a statesman, often stopping to introduce me to some old cronies. ¨Le presenta Ruby. Es de Boston en Los Estados Unidos.¨ On our walk, the man elaborated how far off the tourist trail I was. Horcon does not receive much, if any, international tourism. Travelers heading along Chile´s coast most readily stop at Valparaiso or Viña del Mar. Two word´s in my guide book´s brief blurb on Horcon brought me there: Nude beach. I have never had a tan who-who-ee, and I figured this trip was the best opportunity to try one on. I did not tell this to the man, who was intensely curious on how I ended up in Horcon. ¨Im trying to get away from all the Israelis¨, I jokingly lied in Spanish. He nodded approvingly.

I often forget, as I did then, how unapologetically conspicuous I look in South America. For no other reason than there has been no good reason to do so, I have not had a haircut in over two in a half years. My bright blond split ends fall well past my solders. Over the past three months, I have not shaved my goatee which now hangs in a scraggly, sun bleached mess. In terms of my backpacking appearance, I have employed my father´s philosophy for jury duty: look as crazy as possible and they will probably not pick you. Down here, I figure the more unkempt and mentally unsound I look, the less likely someone will harass me. Unfortunately, now in Horcon, exceptionally alone, this philosophy did not prove as effective as times past.

Walking along the shore, my darting eyes hidden behind my trusty shades, I spotted three drunks nestled amongst some beached boulders. Increasingly aware of how foreign I was to everyone, I quickened my step and readied to pass the three swaying men. Spotting me, one of the men wobbled to his feet. The drunk, missing most of his teeth, struggled to chew what looked to be a piece of dried pineapple. Drul slithered from the corners of his mouth. ¨Bon tour!¨, he slurred. Then, ¨Hello.¨ Finally he finished with, ¨Hola.¨ Turning to him in mid step, in the best Chilean accent I could fake, I responded ¨Buenas tardes.¨ I was pleased at how painless the passing was.

Unfortunately, my stroll back from the beach was not so lighthearted. Shuffling through the crowded market place that lines the beach, I spotted a relatively young, clearly intoxicated local bearing down on me. Although I knew he was directing his unsound steps towards me, I was not too concerned. After three beers, my internal focus was pinned on the fact that I urgently needed to find a suitable place to urinate. As the drunk neared, he hustled to a three step trot, then lunged at me, swinging a clenched fist. For some reason I was not alarmed by this in the least bit. In fact, I was anticipating it. The punch stopped inches from my face. ¨Puta¨-Bitch, he spat at me. I passed him, unimpressed by his drunken courage.

Later as the episode began to sink in, I no longer felt as cozy as I once did. I went to bed early, and caught the first bus out of town the next morning.