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I have, in the last week, ridden in many trucks, cars, buses and boats. Mostly trucks though. Mariana and I turned out to be very compatible travel partners--both easily satisfied and amused and both possessing similarly balanced amounts of fear and fun. I had a couple of days on the island of Chiloe before she came and met me--That is when the hitchhiking began. Out of necessity really, as not only is the island quite underserved by buses, it is the low season which means most services are closed. When asking around for this or that (bike or boat rentals, mainly) the answer was always,"sorry, ít´s not summer anymore." Furthermore, the island is rural in that quaint, heartwarming way that makes you trust everyone. It is all green pastures and brightly painted fishing boats. There is of course, the sadder, seedier truth of the island which is that traditional methods of living are being challenged by the infiltration of large-scale, hormone-happy fishing farms. In the larger towns of Castro and Ancud, there is certainly evidence of unbalance. Nobody is prosperous, but most get by. Buses run infrequently if ever and thus when you are walking along any of the many country roads, you are almost always offered a ride by passing farmers and families. And so hitchhiking came to me. By the time Mariana arrived in Ancud it became the true theme of the trip, the decided and necessary means of transport. Hitchhiking with Mariana was a delight, she would sit up close to the driver and chitchat rapidly, about the weather, the crops, island life, argentina vs. chile, etc. while I could sit silent for the most part, trying to understand. Once we were dropped further down the road, she could fill me in on the details. The islanders are proud people and most conversations displayed this.
We spent several days on the island, walking and hitching our way down lovely country roads. Though we never realized our goal of going out into the waters with some kind story-telling fishermen, the island was all we wanted it to be. It is a place famous not only for fish but for it´s rare widespread belief in magic and spirits. Though I did not see any of the legendary trolls, witches or mermaids, their presence is somehow always felt throughout the island.

Our next destination was north to the lake and volcano district. We could not, however, hitchhike our way off the island and thus, restrained by bus and boat schedules, we failed to make it all the way to our destination by nightfall. We found ourselves in the lakeside resort town of Frutillar. A fast-talking holiday-maker on our minibus insisted we stay at the lovely hospedaje she frequented. The hospedaje owner was lovely, with a limp and a warm way, but the damp room was freezing. It was, without a doubt, the coldest night of my life. Mariana and I shared a musty bed piled high with filmy faded blankets and still we woke stiff and miserable. The mood was brightened by the generous breakfast of german Kuchen (a sort of dry yet dense fruitcake common in the region) as well as by the magnificent sight of Volcan Osorno across the black sands and clear blue lake. Frutillar, like most of the lake district, is German. It all has a bizarre bavarian touch--the architecture, overusage of the letter "K", and most notably the popularity of strudels, kuchens and afternoon tea. It is quite convincing, what with the rolling green hills, snowcapped peaks, black and white cows. It is, indeed, a perfect picture of alpine paradise.
We finally made it to our desired town of Puerto Octay, where we had such high hopes in a certain hostel on the outskirts of town, "Zapato Amarillo." It was, in fact, quite lovely. Grass-rooves, raw wood, swiss-owned. From there we went on a miriad of adventures, by bike and foot, all of which started with vigor and enthusiasm and ended in exhaustion and laughter while thanking some truck driver as we climbed from his cab. I had never actually ridden in the cab of a real big truck before. I had never known the sensation of ´climbing´up. Or else the feeling of riding so high. I had never even considered hitching a ride from a truck driver. But somehow here, on these quaint country roads--all dairy, wool and toothless farmers--it seemed perfectly appropriate. We pushed our luck however in trying to arrive at the the supposedly lovely town of Ensenada. THe one and only road going to Ensenada was under serious construction and thus work trucks seriously outnumbered passing vehicles. we walked for quite a while, waiting for some nice farmer to pass. He never did and soon we began taking rides from the tractors and bulldozers. Ensenada seemed to never come. We began to get annoyed with one another as we bumped along through the construction zone getting endless hoots and kissing sounds from the working men we passed from on high. Mariana got fed up first and demanded, quite abruptly that we return. We made our way back through the site, bumping along high in some cement truck, waving at the working men. Once we were safely on paved ground, Mariana declared that she didn´t want to see any more "orange people", referring of course to the men´s work uniform. It is refreshing to travel around with someone who has not been raised in post-80´s, PC, private California schools. We avoided rides from the "orange people" for the rest of the trip, which left us to ride in cars and small trucks. This was fine too, though they all seemed to mention how very lovely Ensenada is. We will never know.
Our last destination was EntreLagos, not because it is so beautiful (it is, like it´s name, between lakes), but because it is close to the Puyuhue hotsprings. We rented a lovely little two-person cabana and then made our way on yet another rickity rural bus to the thermal springs. I faired better than Mariana in the hot waters. I, in fact, seemed to fair better than most. I attribute this to the scandinavian ancestry I am told to have. There are indoor pools but we opted for the outdoor pool next to the river. It is a funny family scene, full of peaceful old ladies in frilly-skirted swimsuits and red-faced bleary-eyed children. If you are brave enough, you can venture out into the misty frigid air and take a dip in the ice-cold river. I did this often, each time rubbing my flesh vigorously with the course volcanic black sand of the riverbed. This attracted quite a crowd who all looked more disgusted than impressed by this private, primitive act. I think Mariana was embarrassed of and for me. Rightfully so. But my skin later spoke the truth, so much like a baby´s it was.
We finally parted ways in EntreLagos, promising one another that we would not hitchhike alone, and also that we would meet up to travel again someday soon. I trust both of these things will happen.