Plan C from Outer Talca

Santiago is about as modern as it gets in South America, from the tops of the highrises scraping smog to the inflation-adjusted prices of everything from hot dogs to cab fares. Other than wearing a coat in June and speaking Spanish, Santiago might as well be Los Angeles or Seattle or Boston - everything is slick, new, and Chileans are proud of it. Yet everywhere there are signs that all is not quite right in the city, that there are chinks in the Gucci armour. I saw a few bums, and graffiti, but nothing like Lima´s onslaught of poverty´s poverty. Maybe it´s just sour pisco grapes from Peru, to believe that no country could put it all together the way Chile has.

There was some debate as to what city Santiago really resembled. It´s definitely first world, or maybe a pastiche of the developed world. Whatever- it was expensive. We rented our car and got out of town.

Santiago, the only real city in Chile, bleeds down its valley and out along the highways, down Route Five to the south, past farms and fruit processors, vineyards and new developments on either side of the thoroughly-modern road. Route Five runs all the way to Patagonia, maybe beyond, and it was a straight shot to the rest of our vacation. A good day of driving later, we stopped in Talca for the night.

Talca is the Columbus Ohio of Chile, a decently-sized university town with a few parks and well-lit streets and nothing really going on. We parked out truck, threw all our bags in the cab, and dined on fresh fish.

When we exited the restaurant, everything went to hell. Our truck´s doors were open, the locks drilled out (can you really do that on a modern car?) A quick tally revealed only one thing missing: Jeff´s computer bag. The thief, passing up the radio, the ten other bags in the car, and the bottle of wine on the drivers´ seat stole a broken Mac with login passwords, a Belgian keyboard, and no charger. Also a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Bummer.

So the police arrived, eight of them, all olive drab in clothing and demeanor, asking if we´d been drinking and telling us we just gave away our possessions by parking where we did. The local security guard said they had a night watchman, but he gets off at nine. Typical.

Eventually, after some discussion later - I´m a sworn witness in Chile - Jeff read the official police report aloud. Holding a ballpoint, he scanned the words, making sure it reasonably comported with reality. The computer model number was wrong, so Jeff scratched it out. The chief shouted out, grabbing the Bic, and ripping the sheet from Jeff´s hands. Jeff, only barely remembering that he just tampered with official documentation, swung his hand, in a half-backhand, half-fist at the carbinero´s arm, giving his a punch. Alex, Dave, and I tensed up and started to slink away - maybe we could run for it. The officer took it well, but asked us to follow him to our hostel.

He ended up being a fairly relaxed guy, making fun of his two lackeys for never having left Talca, and trying to bum American cigarettes from us. Since we aren´t GIs in post-war Europe, we didn´t have any. I gave up my Macanudo, my victory cigar, instead. My sister had given me the cigar at graduation, so it had some meaning, but everything passes away. All possessions are temporary on the road.

The cops, sniffing their cigars, told us about a bar, the Witches Three Bar, and that we should go there.They were going, we should too. So we started walking away from the river, back into town, looking for this bar. We asked people to give us directions, but everyone in town kept telling us they didn´t know where this place was, but if they did, it would be down this street.We waked up to a guy and his girlfriend, and he only smiled and shook his head. Eventually, we ran into some other cops and they pointed us straight there.

The townspeople weren´t being difficult, just tactful: the Witches Three bar was a strip club, probably a brothel, with pudgy girls in blacklit white flirting with loud men in sweaters.We all had beers, looked nervous, and left.

This all was less than 24 hours into Chile, and we were already on Plan C. We drove back to Santiago, past the fruit factories, into tunnels, out of tunnels, back to square one.