The Arrival

The flights felt much longer than they did years ago. I was in the Mexico City airport for seven hours, and I was tired already by that point. I persevered, however, and finally managed, by using each device I brought, to get the internet to work. I updated Silvio on my whereabouts, and choked down the food that the Chilean government doesn’t allow in the country due to a fear of agricultural contamination. Soon I was on the plane sitting beside a Chilean couple and we chatted off and on though the evening until we landed at eight in the evening. It felt much later, however, as though we had flown through the night. The illusion was assisted by the LCD windows which could be darkened by pushing a control.

I was expecting more problems at customs, but the figs I had left, as well as my Chinese ginger candies proved to be no issue for the agricultural customs officer I dealt with, and I was passed through with a wave after they scanned my luggage. I sat on the main floor to message Silvio that I had arrived and received an immediate reply. He told me to go to the second floor and look for his truck—the RV he had built from a Mercedes chassis, and even as I walked through the doors he turned the corner.

In what has to be the easiest arrival ever, I jumped in his truck, we pulled around the corner to set the GPS and soon we were on our way out of Santiago and going north to the coast portion of the Pan-American Highway.

Laughing and talking, we drove out of town, through the smaller towns that had sprung up around Santiago, and were soon in the hinterland. We dropped into a gas station, and Silvio negotiated with an African Columbian who spoke Columbian-accented Spanish and before long we had agreed on a spot to spend my first night in Chile, a gas station parking lot

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

tucked out of sight. Silvio’s RV is amazing, I feel like stealing it myself so I can see why he worries about that. He has a cabinet for a bathroom and another for a shower, an oven, kitchen stove, sink, kitchen table, three bunks, cupboards, and tons of storage. A furnace heats the place, solar panels on the roof provide the power.

A video Silvio made of the truck:

About Barry Pomeroy

I had an English teacher in high school many years ago who talked about writing as something that people do, rather than something that died with Shakespeare. I began writing soon after, maudlin poetry followed by short prose pieces, but finally, after years of academic training, I learned something about the magic of the manipulated word.
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