los gringos nics

We met in Bogota on October 28'th after being sniffed down by drug dogs. This was coming into Colombia. Huh. The next morning we arrived in Santiago to a crowd of Chilean taxi drivers hustling their services in a cacophony of Spanglish shouts. It was cold, with a fresh halo of snow capped peaks encircling the city. After 20ish hours of travel our driver dropped us off at a dive hotel to rest before venturing into the full throttled metropolis outside.


Around lunch we headed into the heart of Santiago. The streets were busy with vendors of all varieties-- ice cream stands next to underwear tables smelling like the whole array of undefined street meat. Greasy teenagers and weathered city folk grouped beneath clouds of smoke, the bitter stench of tobacco clinging to hats and scarves. We ordered cigarettes with our cerveza in a late night cafe and set the alarm for the early bus out of town.

The first bus to Curico left at 7am. After three hours of driving south, we crossed town with our backpacks, kayaking gear and guitar to another bus terminal where we piled our luggage between the driver and captain's seat of a riggidy microbus. Within a few kilometers the pavement gave way to a gravel road heading into the Andes.


The bus dropped us off in front of the Hosteria (think bed and breakfast) just outside the small town of Los Quenes. It was Turbo's second season working for Todd, a fellow gringo who found his way to Chile 10 years ago from the rivers of Idaho. We set camp uphill of the Hosteria, nestled in a grove of trees opening into the mountains.


We were there a week. We spent three days on the water, kayaking the Rio Tano and Rio Claro. The glacial rivers were sharp and shallow with sections of class 5 rapids. Turbo introduced us to his Chilean caballeros, a dude from Patagonia who goes by Petey, and a local kayaker and his lady- Gonzo and Fran. Petey led us on a full day excursion for views of volcanoes and condors and spectacular tales of combustible plants.


Gonzo drove us through the fertile foothills of the Chilean coastal range. There were remnants of last year's earthquake everywhere. Most yards sported a government financed hut hastily constructed amongst the wreckage of homes-- the Chilean double wide for disaster victims.


The following weekend we left for Argentina. After two bus rides and a full morning of shuffling bags we were in Santiago to catch another bus across the Andes. Two hours outside of Mendoza the driver dropped us off on the main highway and told us this was Potrerillos. It was dark; we knew no one and had no place to go. We didn't have a phone or a number for the rafting company, nor the Argentine currency in a town too small for a bank or an internet cafe. Thus, los gringos nics started their adventure into summer yet again.

--nickiD