Letters Home from Chihuio
I tell you, friends, good news to tell: the Shire is doing fair and well…
I am much relieved to be on vacation in a quiet cabin in a small valley nestled between two forested ridges lush with Ulmos bursting white among the deep greens. The river rushes clear over rocks and the sound reminds us all of our ocean days. I can not remember the last time the four of us went on holiday together, it seems so long we had been taking shifts in Los Brujos, hosting guests or stealing away as individual couples. Here in Chihuio, bathes overflow day and night with the intoxicating warmth of water pouring from the mountain’s secret hot springs. We lounge into our days bathing and dreaming, and relax through the nights the same. The Shire, my friends, is in excellent health. Sheep fatten on the steep, green slopes, oxen haul out firewood, and berries and hard fruits ripen for the picking. In this modern age of urban apocalyptic fears coming true, I am much relieved to disappear for a long weekend into a different dream where life rises and falls to a rhythm closer in tune with nature’s cycles. Certainly even here modern conveniences and temptations have dotted the landscape with satellite dishes and pick-up trucks, but though rural and urban consciousness mingle daily here, the memory of sustenance and survival also thrive. Should the outside world collapse, this place, these residents could continue without much exclamation, without much drama. And of course, they have their baths: rich, mineral drenched water of deep mountain heat flowing freely into steam, smoothing skin, relaxing muscles. This is true paradise, glowing green with lichens and moss, steamed warm from the mountain’s depths.
********
On the way home from Chihuio, logging dusty kilometers on foot on gravel, country roads following the river’s windy course past fertile pastures of sheep and cows grazing below the Andean skyline, past ancient forests in late summer splendor and houses with yards filled with flowers, with the shining plumage of strutting roosters and their hens, we arrived too late at the crossing to catch the last bus back. But this had always been a vacation based on blind faith and although we had only seen a handful of vehicles (either passing or even parked) in the whole of the afternoon, we continued on hoping to manifest some miracle to return home. We had luck with two rural school vans, one which took us to Chabranco, the other allowing us to pile in with the bewildered children, hula hoops and driftwood collections pressing against the ceiling and cramped seats, leaving us in el Sector de Las Quemas, still more than a dozen kilometers from the small town of Llifen and on a stretch of valley pastures without a single shade tree or residence along the road which cut straight between the mountains. Facing the prospect of walking all night under a moonless sky as another pick-up truck sped past, four cab seats open and the flat-bed empty, leaving a wave of billowing dust, the driver’s out-stretched palms claiming innocence in our plight, the patience of blind faith finally extended us a miracle: on that late Monday afternoon, a European from Switzerland was out driving a rental car on holiday and something about our pleading faces convinced him to stop. He had seen us on the road earlier in the day when he was driving in the opposite direction exploring the path toward Argentina which had ended in an oxen trail, forcing him to turn back. Hula hoops and road dust piling into our motorized salvation, sharing tales as we sped towards Futrono, Lago Ranco’s shining waters appearing as the roadway slipped into the smooth hum of pavement, and we knew we would make the last bus to Los Brujos.
Bless that funny European who lives in Switzerland, but who never told us where he was actually from or even exchanged names, who likes to pick-up hitch-hikers when he goes travelling to share stories and to better get to know a place. Bless him and all his kind who still believe we can extend a human hand now and again, step outside our boxes, trust positive energy, and share what we have to give. I thank that man for his whimsical kindness, but for more than just the ride and sparring us a sleepless night. I thank him for clearly demonstrating that even in a modern world of billions of selfish souls, in an apocalyptic age of disasters, natural and man-made, when the instinct to only protect one’s self and family is the driving force, that we humans are more than capable of overcoming such woes, in fact, some of us still actively seek to expel them. I went on our mini-family vacation in a moment of philosophical despair, the stories and news from the earthquake’s epicenter shattering my faith in the goodness of human nature as violence and fear plunges millions of people into a state of military curfews to restore order, families attacking one another for food, for water; if this is what happens in a small country like Chile, my mind shuddered, my heart waivered flashing through the list of crowded cities worldwide….
But the curative waters of Chihuio, supposedly one of the favored places poet Pablo Neruda visited before going into exile, had a magical effect and the tranquil landscape of a hobbit’s Shire recast a faith in ancient forests, in crystal, abundant water, in self-sufficient farming and the stories and skills that many in this new generation have willingly not forgotten. To be generously picked up three times on our way home by smiling strangers wishing us well was the final touch to the miracle as if the Universe truly wanted to make the lesson clear: have faith in the goodness of human nature, hold it sacred, and watch it manifest.
I am much relieved to be on vacation in a quiet cabin in a small valley nestled between two forested ridges lush with Ulmos bursting white among the deep greens. The river rushes clear over rocks and the sound reminds us all of our ocean days. I can not remember the last time the four of us went on holiday together, it seems so long we had been taking shifts in Los Brujos, hosting guests or stealing away as individual couples. Here in Chihuio, bathes overflow day and night with the intoxicating warmth of water pouring from the mountain’s secret hot springs. We lounge into our days bathing and dreaming, and relax through the nights the same. The Shire, my friends, is in excellent health. Sheep fatten on the steep, green slopes, oxen haul out firewood, and berries and hard fruits ripen for the picking. In this modern age of urban apocalyptic fears coming true, I am much relieved to disappear for a long weekend into a different dream where life rises and falls to a rhythm closer in tune with nature’s cycles. Certainly even here modern conveniences and temptations have dotted the landscape with satellite dishes and pick-up trucks, but though rural and urban consciousness mingle daily here, the memory of sustenance and survival also thrive. Should the outside world collapse, this place, these residents could continue without much exclamation, without much drama. And of course, they have their baths: rich, mineral drenched water of deep mountain heat flowing freely into steam, smoothing skin, relaxing muscles. This is true paradise, glowing green with lichens and moss, steamed warm from the mountain’s depths.
********
On the way home from Chihuio, logging dusty kilometers on foot on gravel, country roads following the river’s windy course past fertile pastures of sheep and cows grazing below the Andean skyline, past ancient forests in late summer splendor and houses with yards filled with flowers, with the shining plumage of strutting roosters and their hens, we arrived too late at the crossing to catch the last bus back. But this had always been a vacation based on blind faith and although we had only seen a handful of vehicles (either passing or even parked) in the whole of the afternoon, we continued on hoping to manifest some miracle to return home. We had luck with two rural school vans, one which took us to Chabranco, the other allowing us to pile in with the bewildered children, hula hoops and driftwood collections pressing against the ceiling and cramped seats, leaving us in el Sector de Las Quemas, still more than a dozen kilometers from the small town of Llifen and on a stretch of valley pastures without a single shade tree or residence along the road which cut straight between the mountains. Facing the prospect of walking all night under a moonless sky as another pick-up truck sped past, four cab seats open and the flat-bed empty, leaving a wave of billowing dust, the driver’s out-stretched palms claiming innocence in our plight, the patience of blind faith finally extended us a miracle: on that late Monday afternoon, a European from Switzerland was out driving a rental car on holiday and something about our pleading faces convinced him to stop. He had seen us on the road earlier in the day when he was driving in the opposite direction exploring the path toward Argentina which had ended in an oxen trail, forcing him to turn back. Hula hoops and road dust piling into our motorized salvation, sharing tales as we sped towards Futrono, Lago Ranco’s shining waters appearing as the roadway slipped into the smooth hum of pavement, and we knew we would make the last bus to Los Brujos.
Bless that funny European who lives in Switzerland, but who never told us where he was actually from or even exchanged names, who likes to pick-up hitch-hikers when he goes travelling to share stories and to better get to know a place. Bless him and all his kind who still believe we can extend a human hand now and again, step outside our boxes, trust positive energy, and share what we have to give. I thank that man for his whimsical kindness, but for more than just the ride and sparring us a sleepless night. I thank him for clearly demonstrating that even in a modern world of billions of selfish souls, in an apocalyptic age of disasters, natural and man-made, when the instinct to only protect one’s self and family is the driving force, that we humans are more than capable of overcoming such woes, in fact, some of us still actively seek to expel them. I went on our mini-family vacation in a moment of philosophical despair, the stories and news from the earthquake’s epicenter shattering my faith in the goodness of human nature as violence and fear plunges millions of people into a state of military curfews to restore order, families attacking one another for food, for water; if this is what happens in a small country like Chile, my mind shuddered, my heart waivered flashing through the list of crowded cities worldwide….
But the curative waters of Chihuio, supposedly one of the favored places poet Pablo Neruda visited before going into exile, had a magical effect and the tranquil landscape of a hobbit’s Shire recast a faith in ancient forests, in crystal, abundant water, in self-sufficient farming and the stories and skills that many in this new generation have willingly not forgotten. To be generously picked up three times on our way home by smiling strangers wishing us well was the final touch to the miracle as if the Universe truly wanted to make the lesson clear: have faith in the goodness of human nature, hold it sacred, and watch it manifest.
posted by Carol Bushar at 3:14 PM
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