Singapore and On and On and...On to Santiago

by Pallavi Narayan (India)

A leap into the unknown Chile

In total it would be a thirty-four-hour trip in July from humid, ever-sunny Singapore, where I was living, to freezing Santiago. Did the thought faze me? In fact, oddly, I’d been awaiting it my entire life. And it was finally time. Time for me to go to Chile. Of course I was nervous. But not about Chile, though it would be my first-ever time in South America. This flight from Singapore, with a layover in Dubai, would then take me through twenty-one straight hours to Santiago. I’d be in the air for over a day! Would I make it through? My cab driver was blown away: “Wah lah, I tell my wife tonight, that nice lady in my taxi is flying tonight. Tomollow I say to her, that nice lady, she still flying!” The flights were interesting, though uneventful. When the offloaded passengers in Rio de Janeiro, the crew, expecting me to disembark—maybe it was my skin color, or the fact that there are comparatively more Indian-origin inhabitants in Brazil?—covered up their surprise rapidly on learning I’d be travelling a cool seven to eight hours further to the other side of the continent. I was excited, but overwhelmed with the lightheadedness of hours and hours of travelling. Yes, my last flight, I silently pumped my fist in the air. Wow, look at me, gazing out at crowded, mysterious Rio, I marveled at my resilience. The longest leg of my journey then commenced. I was sick to the gills of the sameness of flying, and unable to sleep due to the mere fact of having made it thus far. My seatmate, a Colombian professor who studies gorillas, made for fascinating company: as a standalone event this was seminal. As we began descending into Santiago, I was filled with a tranquil sense of wonder. I’d finally be a part of the narrative of the country I had imagined myself into for over two decades. For that’s how long I had a pen friend there, and he’d be awaiting me at the airport. Would my advent into Chile feel like a reunion, a homecoming, or a strangeness? At any rate, I was confident it would be nothing short of magical. Calm with certitude on landing, I felt a deep thrill at having my passport stamped at immigration and finding my friend. Stepping out felt familiar. As we sped down the highways, it was comfortable. But not even my long years of reading about Santiago could have prepared me for just how comfortable I felt. Getting a takeout at McDonald’s—a special avocado burger, a nod to the country’s famous crop—I reached Hotel Plaza San Francisco where, after washing off, I sank luxuriously into the thick sheets, waking only by noon the following day. The sun was out over, gasp, the Andes glimmering with a fresh coat of snow in the distance. The 16th-century Iglesia de San Francisco beckoned me, as did the surrounding area of streetside vendors flanking the hallowed walls of Universidad de Chile. Seeking to orient myself, I carefully layered myself with inner wear, a sweater, coat and beanie before gingerly venturing out from the enveloping warmth of the discreet environs of the hotel, and took to the task of locating a café to get my first meal at. The task was onerous for it was a Sunday, and I hadn’t realized that downtown it would be an off day. To my luck, I found a Peruvian-Chinese restaurant with a wholesome bowl of dimsum soup that was just the ticket; this unassuming snack bar, open till late into the night, became my go-to place for writing my research papers for the two weeks I was in the city. Treading on a Chilectra manhole cover was another buzz. My next stop, one that I had expected to be a mere blip on my travel radar, was to obtain a local SIM card. In my imperfect, dripping-with-jetlag Spanish, the issue behind the Internet refusing to work on my phone was wildly incomprehensible. Mildly frustrated, I was redirected to an English-speaking staff member, who had spent a year abroad in New Zealand. I was now set and grinning with glee at this, my brand-new adventure.