Never ones to sit still for too long, the Liss family took off for another adventure in late December. With everyone miraculously off from school and work for the week, we set our eyes south — way south. Very late on Christmas Eve, an evening when JFK is particularly concentrated with traveling Jews, we boarded a flight bound for Santiago.
Finally we arrived in Puerto Varas in the southern lakes district, surrounded by mountains, volcanoes, lakes and national parks. We claimed our Chilean SUV and piled in, headed further south. Because Chile is so narrow, we passed as many signs for Argentina as we did for domestic cities (prompting my father to continuously sign the central refrain from Evita’s “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”).
The town sits under the shadow of the volcano by the same name, which is still very active. Even from a distance, once the light was quite right, we could see little sulfur clouds puffing up from the snow-topped peak. Our hotel was situated just between the village of Villarica and the slightly larger town of Pucón just a few kilometers away. We explored Pucón later that day, taking in some light fare at the adorably named Mamas & Tapas and contemplating our adventuring options for the coming days.
Despite its regular activity, Villarica is a very user-friendly volcano. During the winter it serves as a ski slope and during the summer as a place for climbers, though it always maintains a thin layer of snow and ice. Climbing the whole things is an ordeal largely because of the snow. You need to start very early in the morning in order to finish before the daily melt, which can be incredibly dangerous. Most people sled down after reaching the summit.
We opted to climb from the base just up to where the first snow could be spotted, walking next to the chairlift operational the other half of the year. One of my sisters likened the experience to walking up a ski slope (which we were, in fact, doing) because of how steep the brief climb was. The view of the Andes from the (semi-)top was incredible.
We took a quick lunch break before heading out into some more nature. The region is filled with national parks and having explored the volcanos, it was time for the lakes.
Chaz and I noted while out west that America’s national parks had the bare minimum in signage; just enough to make it clear where you’re going, but not so much that it’s overbearing. Chilean national parks take a much more relaxed approach, by which I mean: there are no signs. No signs in English, no signs in Spanish, and only sheep to seek directions from.
After several wrong turns, we found what sort of looked like a hiking trail. Once on it, the signage was still pretty unclear. We knew we were walking to a lake, but we had no idea how far it would be nor did we have any confirmation that we were actually going in the right direction. We hiked for a few hours, and it’s not clear that we found our intended destination, but the scenery along the way was still pretty breathtaking.
After making our way back to the car — using not quite exactly the same route we had taken to get there — we returned to the village of Pucón for dinner. Chileans are big on grilling; most restaurants have a large sign outside advertising the parilla. We chose one such place and ordered fresh fish and steaks. I was served the largest, most aggressive piece of salmon I have ever seen. It could have easily served three people. My father took his extra steak back to the hotel to make it into a sandwich for the car the next day. We also had grilled tomatoes with parmesan cheese, which were excellent.
The next morning we set off in our vehicle for points further south. During the early part of the 1900s, for economic and political reasons, Chile experienced a mass migration from Germany, Austria and surrounding nations. As a result, some of Chile’s little villages look more like they belong in the Alps than the Andes. Cafes offer German coffees and cakes served alongside little wooden bridges and lakeside cottages. We stopped in a few villages for sightseeing and refreshment.
Our drive wound through the various lakes and volcanoes of the area and as the fog lifted, we could see Vulcan Osorno rising in the distance. Osorno is one of Chile’s largest, though it has not had an active eruption in a few decades.
During the early part of our drive Osorno had been shrouded in clouds and so when it finally emerged, we were quite pleased and turned a little bit paparazzi.
We kept driving until we hit Puerto Varas, one of the larger lakefront towns in the region and where we would be staying that evening. We planned to keep driving a bit further to one of the more famous of the region’s lakes, but decided to pause for lunch while in town.
Chileans love empanadas, which I had assumed, given that this is their place of origin. So we had a few of those and they were pretty delicious.
But what I was intrigued to learn upon our arrival down south is that Chileans love sandwiches. Sandwiches here are big and delicious and filled with things I love. Avocados are sold by the barrel down here (literally) and cost absolutely nothing compared to the going rate in the U.S. Chileans also seem to be pretty religious about their bread making. Pan casera, which translates to “homemade bread,” is found in warm, delightful abundance. Small rolls graced every table we sat down to and the larger versions were stuffed with sandwich ingredients, like my chicken, avocado, tomato delight from Dane’s in Puerto Varas.
Like most food items we had in Chile, we discovered after ordering that we could have easily ordered half as many entrees and been, collectively, just as satisfied. There is definitely a go-big-or-go-home mentality to Chilean eating.
Fighting off our sandwich-induced food coma, we piled back into the car and headed to Lago Todos Los Santos, one of the largest of Chile’s lakes and a featured item in the New York Times’ must-see in 2011 list. (We squeezed it in just under the wire.)
We arrived at the lake, which is inside another large national park, and encountered the same scarcity of information that we had dealt with the day before. The welcome station was closed (despite signs indicating that it should be open), there were no brochures available and the one posted map had been all but destroyed. We found the park’s emergency medical clinic and I tried to extract some logistical information from the chief medic. Meanwhile, my father located the boat launching station and by waving a few bills and his key Spanish vocabulary words, secured passage for the five of us.
The lake is large and beautiful, surrounded by the nearby volcanos and mountains. The lake is also quite long and if you sail its full length, will eventually find yourself in Bariloche, Argentina. However, that would have taken quite a few hours in our little motorboat and so we just puttered around a portion of it.
Had we continued further south from Todos Los Santos, we would have come to the national park found on the island at Chiloe — the furthest point north where penguins can be found. I have wanted to see penguins in their natural habitat ever since “March of the Penguins” (and also “Happy Feet”), but Chiloe was several hours away. We decided to save the waddles for another visit.
We headed back to the town of Puerto Varas for dinner. The majority of restaurants open for dinnertime bore close resemblance to the little cafe where we had eaten our colossal lunchtime sandwiches. We found a nice Mediterranean restaurant among the casual cafes and three-fifths of us ordered a stewed chicken with vegetables and a pea puree, served with the same familiar basketful of warm local rolls.
We retired to bed and early the next morning hopped back in our SUV, ending our brief, adventurous jaunt through the southern Chilean wilderness.
Ho Chi Minh’s Hanoi
Written by Emmy on 27 June 2011Hanoi is hot. We’re talking over 90 degrees, from the moment the sun comes up until it goes down. And so in this capital city, the day starts early. In the days of Ho Chi Minh, the Vietnamese people were required to exercise every day. Though it has been several decades since Uncle Ho passed (more on him later), the tradition persists. Daily, starting at about 6 a.m., the people of Hanoi — from the infants to the elderly — head to the lake for their daily exercise.
On Wednesday, we rose with the best of them and headed to Hoan Kiem Lake for our own morning exercise. We opted to take two laps around the lake and in the process, witnessed group tai chi, individual stretching, ballroom dancing, what appeared to be some kind of Asian jazzercise and several other communal exercise programs.
Many of the women do their exercise — and spend all day — in what look like silk tracksuits. Usually patterned, the matching two piece ensembles definitely make a statement. And after watching the Vietnamese women parade around in theirs, I decided I could really use one of my own. I assumed we would find them in a marketplace later in the day, but just as we were completing our second lap around the lake, we saw an older woman stake out a bench and begin spreading out her wares. The local women swarmed her immediately. So I followed suit.
I grabbed a patterned shirt I liked, found its matching pants, held them up to me and decided they would probably fit. I didn’t pay immediately because I wanted to see what a native would be charged. I knew I would otherwise get the foreigner rate. But no cash changed hands and I was forced to communicate through a series of hand gestures. We landed on 100,000 dong. Before you freak out at this astronomical price, that actually only adds up to about $5.
After a refreshing break in our hotel air conditioning and a trip to the breakfast buffet, we headed back into the heat for some aggressive sightseeing. Hanoi doesn’t have that many tourist sights — the real appeal of the city is walking its streets — and so we were able to accomplish most of our touring on Wednesday morning alone. And just to see if it made the temperature more bearable, I wore my official Vietnamese outfit.
First stop was the pretty bridge and temple we had spotted in the middle of the lake during our morning walk. We’ve gotten used to temples and altars featuring deities we are not familiar with, but the Ngoc Son temple’s display of Oreo boxes definitely won the prize for strangest religious item we’ve seen to date.
After our lakeside touring, we headed into the heart of the city, where the majority of the monuments and other must-see items can be found. First we paid our respects to Lenin. Hanoi has one of the only statues of the former Soviet leader outside of Russia, and he commands a big presence over an open plaza. In the mornings and evenings, the plaza is apparently packed, but it was totally desolate when we visited midday.
Down the street from Lenin rests Ho Chi Minh. The revered former leader of Vietnam is remembered for bringing independence to the Vietnamese people and crafting a vision to reunify the nation. In the history books, he looms large alongside his contemporaries, like China’s Mao, and in Hanoi, his presence is still felt strongly. The massive mausoleum was clearly influenced with the Soviets, with its heavy, block structure and harsh lines. For Vietnamese people, visiting Uncle Ho in his final resting place is a rite of passage and a necessary undertaking. Lines apparently wrap around the block to see him most mornings (except for the few months when the body travels abroad, a strange discovery we have not yet gotten to the bottom of). We arrived at the mausoleum after visiting hours had ended and were waved away by the armed guards.
Our next stop was the Ho Chi Minh Museum, a similar Soviet structure dedicated to the recent history of Vietnam and the personal history of the former leader. The museum was a little eerie, filled with laudatory statements about Ho Chi Minh and decorated with photos of the Vietnamese people fawning over him. The history wing was even stranger, with abstract sculptures and installations to represent different eras and events. Each was summed up on a small placard in English, French and Vietnamese. The description that struck us most was that of what the Vietnamese usually refer to as the “American War.”
While the Thai museums and their praising of the royal family had left me a little uncomfortable, the Hanoi sights were unnerving in an entirely different way. It seems as if the Vietnamese people are only exposed to a particular view of history, and an entire museum dedicated to the accomplishments of a singular individual only helps to reinforce that. (That, and a controlling one-party government system. There’s not too much room for alternate interpretations in such a system.)
Even in the Fine Arts Museum, which we visited next, the government-approved view of history seemed to pervade. We saw art and other artifacts reflecting the struggles faced by the Vietnamese people under the rule of French colonialists. In another wing, I was particularly struck by what looked to me like a propaganda statement from a communist government. It was the title of an innocuous painting of smiling women, working steadily in what looked like a bakery.
We perused the exhibits a bit more, but hungry from our walking and learning, we took a time out from our sightseeing to enjoy an unbelievable lunch. More on that delicious adventure soon…
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Tags: Communism, Cultural commentary, Exercise, Sightseeing