Valparaiso

Valparaiso, Chile is an incomprehensible labyrinth of criss-crossed byways, steep sidewalks, and multicolored graffiti. The streets themselves whisper secrets to you as you pass; the colorful fingers of spray paint characters reaching for your hands, revolutionary slogans reaching for your ears, the cataract shadowed eyes of street dogs reaching for your heart.

But, that is not what you see. Because from every viewpoint in the hillside town, you can see the ocean. The expanse of green/blue sea that inspired Pablo Neruda to pen "Ode to the sea". The sea that the fierce Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet scanned awaiting attacks, the sea that lines the great country of Chile from top to bottom, the sea that the three of us stare at, open mouthed, as we soak in the sun and our experience here.

Time is running out, and we know it. Tomorrow night we pack our bags and depart on our three day trip that will take us across the South American continent and back to our homes.

Have we learned anything? Are we different?

Levantarse

They marched, slowly. So slowly.  White hair tied back by white scarves,  bright eyes shining out from behind thick bifocals, 30 elderly women marched. Only the black and white photographs draped around their necks betraying a clue of the history I was witnessing.

I stood; overcome. One hand over my mouth, the other shielding my eyes from the glaring Argentine summer sun,  hiding the tears that threatened to spill out.

In April 1977, the Argentine dirty war was still robbing the country of families and friends. Searching for their ¨disappeared¨children, a group of mothers bonded together and began marching in front of the presidential palace, every Thursday at 3pm, demanding information on their lost children.

Their defiance of the government and courage to make themselves heard gained them international attention and fame, and brought the bloody guerra sucia to the attention of the world. In a time where violence was the only option, these mothers peacefully demonstrated against a government that had murdered their children.

Thirty-two years later, Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo are still marching. Still searching.

Las Madres wear white handkerchiefs with their children´s name embroidered on them, to represent the blankets of their lost children. Standing and watching, tiny tears gliding down my face, I could only think that even though the dirty war is over, and Argentina is rising from the ashes, these women still don't have their children. Their babies are still gone. They´re all in their eighties or nineties now, and the march is painfully slow to match their aging steps. Many have photos of their lost children hung around their necks, with date of birth, date of disappearance, place of disappearance. The three of us slipped quietly into the march, and walked, in a tiny show of support for their life´s work.

You can read about the war, the destruction, the death as much as you want. Go to museums about the desaparecidos and stare in the face of thousands of photographs of those ripped from their homes never to be seen again. But nothing, nothing is the same as looking into the faces of their mothers. Their elderly, activist, mothers, who have spent their whole lives searching and fighting. Would their children even recognize them thirty years later?

Would you still be searching for someone you loved 30 years later?

La Frontera

Sometimes, (in a habit that undoubtedly annoys my travel partners) I tend to narrate an experience as it happens:

"The three beautiful, windswept adventurers stand in between two jutting points of the snow topped Andes Mountains, the border between two incredibly powerful Latin American countries, waiting for the opportune moment to seek refuge in the Chilean wilderness."

Usually Veronika will roll her eyes and Devin will pat me on the back in a sort of motherly, "i´m glad you got that out of your system" way. By now they know all too well my tendency to romanticize everything.

But hey, it sounds better than:

Three overtired, rumbled, slightly smelly American college students, stand in an endless immigration line at the Argentine and Chile border. They`ve been trapped on a bus for 20 hours already, and as they stand waiting to have their passports stamped, they half notice the mountains outside the windows.

el diablo en paraíso

Punta del Diablo was a 24 trip from our bustling, urban sprawl hometown of Rosario.

But for all I knew, it could have been the other side of the world.

This tiny, hippy beach town is a five hour bus ride from Montevideo, along bumpy dirt roads and picturesque ocean views. Reminisent of a crusty old Oregon sea town, the beach houses are all in various, somehow charming states of disrepair, their tourquoise or burnt red paint paint peeling
off the walls, beach buoys hanging from windows, scruffy mutts sleeping calmly by the doors. The roads are unpaved, and horse and carts bump down the central avenue. There is a little stand advertising pescado frito (fried fish) and the owner and his buddies sit outside sipping mate and greeting all who walk by.

Our hostel, El Diablo Tranquilo, is a five minute stroll from la playa grande (the big beach). Two stories high, I am sitting on the second floor typing on this computer and staring out at the beach through sky high windows. There are four puppies that live around the hostel, two of which look like they were left in the dryer a bit too long, and they are communal puppies. As in, this town is small enough for everyone to take care of these adorable balls of fluff.

The high season in Uruguay starts in two weeks, and Veronika, Devin and I have arrived at this little peace of heaven at the perfect time. The weather is spectacular: eighty degrees, endless light blue skies that merge with the deep blue Atlantic, a slight breeze to cool our severly sunburned skin (even my eyelids are burnt) but there are very few tourists. Yesterday, Devin and I splashed around the ocean like six year olds while Veronika read nearby (her new tattoo keeps her from swimming...for now). This morning, we did yoga on a wooden platform overlooking the ocean. Tomorrow, we´re getting up and going horseback riding through the forest and the beach.

We keep extending our stay. We were supposed to go to Punta del Este, the ¨Riviera of South America¨ but none of us can imagine leaving here just yet. Last night we ate dinner at the hostel restaurant, a place full of large, sturdy wooden tables, lit only by candels stuck in wine bottles, and our new friends convinced us that Punta del Diablo was a hell of a lot better than overpriced, casino crazed Punta del Este.

It´s an incredible contrast, the concrete beauty of Rosario against the rolling sand dunes and salty air magic of Punta del Diablo. Where before we were tired, sore, slightly sick, stressed and riddled with hundreds (literally) of mosquito bites; now we are rested, calm, full of yerba and red like ripe tomatoes.

So thank you, you little Uruguayan beach town, for making me feel two things I never thought I would feel together:

so incredibly lucky and so incredibly sunburnt.