Matryoshka Savior Mom
Past the regressives, up a hill, down a hill
24 March, 2023 | Santiago Chile
Between the place I was renting and Bellavista there is a nice little footbridge across the Mapocho River. The river used to be the northern border of the city, but the population explosion during the 19th century compelled expansion beyond it. Stop me if you have heard this one before: a new and/or poorer part of the city opens up, artists/weirdos/sex workers/queers move in and make the place actually interesting, then finally gentrification sets in as more people desire to move there. That’s Bellavista, Capitol Hill in Seattle, and various places I’ll note as we reach them.
Normally crossing the bridge is a pleasant affair where one can catch sight of political propaganda on the canal walls. This time I need not look down at all.
As one might expect from a country that is around 66% Catholic, abortion in Chile has traditionally been insanely illegal with no exceptions for rape, incest, or the health of the mother. But recently - literally 2017 - the laws have undergone some liberalization and exceptions for the above have been carved out.
It’s probably rather a good thing I did not know what they were chanting. I’m also quite happy, as my partner noted, that this particular group did not have any gross-out images of dead babies that resemble the results of about ~0% of abortions in practice.
I’ll take just a moment to note that the Dobbs decision was nakedly partisan trash by a clearly corrupt garbage institution that deserves nothing but our collective disdain. I’m pleased that Republicans appear to be consistently eating shit for their overreach in every election since.
Anyway, let’s take a look at Pablo Neruda’s house!
And that’s it. They do not allow photography inside. If they did, you would observe a home that would confer the following impressions: (1) big (second) wifeguy, (2) enjoys trolling - showing up behind hidden doors, salt shaker labeled “morphine” etc, and (3) a excellent artist with equally excellent friends. The home is filled with them. Good friends with Salvatore Allende, Diego Rivera, and other cool people, he was absolutely murdered by Pinochet basically a week after the coup.
Neruda’s home is build into the side of a very large hill called San Cristóbal and someone conveniently built a funicular up it, hosting the best view of the city.
At the very top of the hill, past stalls selling snacks and souvenirs, you will find you are basically in an open-air Catholic church. This area comes complete with a massive amphitheater for sermons, some particularly wild stations-of-the-cross featuring a biblically appropriate number of eyeballs, and…I’m sorry but there’s not good way to put this - a virgin Mary turducken? A matryoshka savior mom?
No, I did not look to see if there was another virgin Mary inside the one inside the statue; some things you need to leave to faith. Anyway, the real value of coming up here - presuming you are not on a weird vore-related pilgrimage - is the view.
Santiago is massive. More than 6 million people (~35% of the population of Chile) call it home. Spurred by new mines, and then farmers fleeing the effects of the Great Depression, its population started on an exponential curve in the 1930s that is only now starting to level off. Nested in a valley between the Vizcachas Mountains to the west and the Andes to the east, Santiago is famous for its air pollution, but it wasn’t so bad when I was there.
The metro system expanded considerably in an attempt to combat this pollution, with some success. When I used the metro/subway it was jammed with people. I’ll admit it was only by the grace and luck of finding a good samaritan that I was able to negotiate passage through the absolutely inaudible ticket stand personnel. Various translation apps are powerless against the (1) din of many venues and (2) self-admittedly uniquely difficult to understand Chilean spanish.
A gondola ride was included in the trip up, which placed me suitably far east to justify using the metro.
But before I jumped on, I noticed the corner I was on was surrounded by currency exchange places. With the certainty I couldn’t be more screwed over than what their central bank had done (an $8 USD charge on flipping $40!), I obtained more Chilean pesos. The rate was something like 1:800, which while sizable, is nothing compared to poor Argentina which requires the use of exponents.
Next I would return to my rented room to rest up for an evening of bar hopping and drag shows. Stay tuned!
