Passing through Conchali
It was the fall of 2000, but it was spring in Santiago where I was visiting the Chilean capital to do a piece for a British magazine on the lasting effects of privatization at the country's ports a decade on. I was to visit Valparaiso and San Antonio, some 90 to 100 miles away along the Pacific coast, but first I was heading to the small municipality of Conchali, in the northern section of Santiago, to pick up a friend of mine named Humberto, whom I met while living in Miami Beach in 1996.
From El Centro I drove my match-box of a rental car across a low-lying bridge spanning the Rio Maphocho and north on Recoleta. The lower middle class neighborhood of Conchali is tucked humbly away and neatly hidden from the rich upper suburbs of Las Condes in the east, just across a small unpopulated ridge at the back entrance of the Parque Metropolitana. A small working class barrio, or comuna, that was spurred by a public housing initiative in the mid 1920s, there are small farms there, but most have been eaten up by a grimy industrial sector and development along the circular roadway Americo Vespucio, which forms Conchali's northern border. Mainly, though, it is a place for families.
I was going to pick up Humberto at his parents' home, where he lived when he wasn't visiting his sister in Maipu or or friends in Vina del Mar, and we were planning to leave that night for the coast. It was getting dark, so I knew I had to hurry. I fought my way north through rush-hour traffic, congested with exhaust-puffing people-packed colectivos racing in front of me and along all sides. I expertly dodged fruit vendors, who insisted on remaining between the lanes of transit undelineated by any visible marking, and had no time to stop and try their succulent goods for fear I might never find my obscure destination among these narrow streets.
As I got into the heart of Conchali the roads were teeming with tan-skinned children playing soccer, using parked cars as goal posts along main streets. Eventually, though, the streets got smaller until even the tiny Suzuki was a tight fit. Very few cars were there inside the comuna, and the ones that were had found spots on the sidewalks in front of a few of the miniature row houses.
Each home here boasted a neat little patch of yard or patio, covered with grass or pavers depending on the tastes of its owners, and was made of cement, whitewashed with painted trim. I parked in front of Humberto's place, which was beautifully adorned with flowering plants, and immediately he thrust his broad shoulders and smiling face out from a second floor window to greet me. His tall frame looked awkwardly large jutting out of such a diminutive structure and from such a low second story window. But as I made my way inside I began to realize that size was relative, and soon became quite comfortable in such a little space, even though it was filled with people.
Humberto's mom and dad couldn't have been more gracious and inviting. After hugs and smiles, they led me to a courtyard behind the kitchen and I was offered a beer mixed with Orange Fanta. I accepted, although the thought of drinking it made my stomach turn. I found out it was a common blend in these parts, so I leaned down to take a sip. I looked up from the glass to find I was suddenly surrounded by family. Sisters and a brother, and lots of children were there. Each was excited to meet me since they'd already heard about me from Humberto and other relatives who I met while in the States; Humberto has a sister and nieces who live in Miramar.
While we drank, Humberto's mom tended the kitchen, where she was making chicken and garbanzos in an oversized pot on top of an apartment-sized stove. The dinner was tasty, and as it turned out I started to really enjoy the orange beer concoction once my stomach was full. We retired to the back pation, and before I knew it we were drinking pisco sours well into the evening. My plan of hitting the highway for the coast that evening to beat the morning traffic got blurred and slowly melted away to nothing.
In the morning, I popped some Tylenol and drank about a gallon of water to ease my pounding head. Then I stepped outside. The entire family had gathered once again at the house to see us off. I took pictures of each of them, which later I made copies of and mailed to them in frames. The sky was clear blue, and the late spring air was crisp. Humberto and I stuffed ourselves into that little Suzuki, and being followed by about 10 children from the comuna we made our way from back alley to main street. Eventually, as the children got distracted by another group of kids playing soccer in an empty lot, we passed them and made our way out of Conchali on the circular Americo Vespucio. By my calcualations, we could hit route 78 on the other side of Maipu and we'd be in San Antonio by noon.
From El Centro I drove my match-box of a rental car across a low-lying bridge spanning the Rio Maphocho and north on Recoleta. The lower middle class neighborhood of Conchali is tucked humbly away and neatly hidden from the rich upper suburbs of Las Condes in the east, just across a small unpopulated ridge at the back entrance of the Parque Metropolitana. A small working class barrio, or comuna, that was spurred by a public housing initiative in the mid 1920s, there are small farms there, but most have been eaten up by a grimy industrial sector and development along the circular roadway Americo Vespucio, which forms Conchali's northern border. Mainly, though, it is a place for families.
I was going to pick up Humberto at his parents' home, where he lived when he wasn't visiting his sister in Maipu or or friends in Vina del Mar, and we were planning to leave that night for the coast. It was getting dark, so I knew I had to hurry. I fought my way north through rush-hour traffic, congested with exhaust-puffing people-packed colectivos racing in front of me and along all sides. I expertly dodged fruit vendors, who insisted on remaining between the lanes of transit undelineated by any visible marking, and had no time to stop and try their succulent goods for fear I might never find my obscure destination among these narrow streets.
As I got into the heart of Conchali the roads were teeming with tan-skinned children playing soccer, using parked cars as goal posts along main streets. Eventually, though, the streets got smaller until even the tiny Suzuki was a tight fit. Very few cars were there inside the comuna, and the ones that were had found spots on the sidewalks in front of a few of the miniature row houses.
Each home here boasted a neat little patch of yard or patio, covered with grass or pavers depending on the tastes of its owners, and was made of cement, whitewashed with painted trim. I parked in front of Humberto's place, which was beautifully adorned with flowering plants, and immediately he thrust his broad shoulders and smiling face out from a second floor window to greet me. His tall frame looked awkwardly large jutting out of such a diminutive structure and from such a low second story window. But as I made my way inside I began to realize that size was relative, and soon became quite comfortable in such a little space, even though it was filled with people.
Humberto's mom and dad couldn't have been more gracious and inviting. After hugs and smiles, they led me to a courtyard behind the kitchen and I was offered a beer mixed with Orange Fanta. I accepted, although the thought of drinking it made my stomach turn. I found out it was a common blend in these parts, so I leaned down to take a sip. I looked up from the glass to find I was suddenly surrounded by family. Sisters and a brother, and lots of children were there. Each was excited to meet me since they'd already heard about me from Humberto and other relatives who I met while in the States; Humberto has a sister and nieces who live in Miramar.
While we drank, Humberto's mom tended the kitchen, where she was making chicken and garbanzos in an oversized pot on top of an apartment-sized stove. The dinner was tasty, and as it turned out I started to really enjoy the orange beer concoction once my stomach was full. We retired to the back pation, and before I knew it we were drinking pisco sours well into the evening. My plan of hitting the highway for the coast that evening to beat the morning traffic got blurred and slowly melted away to nothing.
In the morning, I popped some Tylenol and drank about a gallon of water to ease my pounding head. Then I stepped outside. The entire family had gathered once again at the house to see us off. I took pictures of each of them, which later I made copies of and mailed to them in frames. The sky was clear blue, and the late spring air was crisp. Humberto and I stuffed ourselves into that little Suzuki, and being followed by about 10 children from the comuna we made our way from back alley to main street. Eventually, as the children got distracted by another group of kids playing soccer in an empty lot, we passed them and made our way out of Conchali on the circular Americo Vespucio. By my calcualations, we could hit route 78 on the other side of Maipu and we'd be in San Antonio by noon.
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