Babo Conquista

I did okay off Hurtworld. I wouldn't describe it as a breakout hit, but it was an honest passion-project that never lacked ambition and it had some decent sales, and I ended up with some cash to blow. My partner had decided to move to the United Kingdom for an adventure, and I decided it was time for an adventure of my own.

So, in February of 2019, I got on a plane to Santiago. I didn't really have a plan beyond to stretch my money as far as I could and see how much I could see. As it would turn out, that would be quite a lot.

I spent the first few days in Santiago exploring. It's a beautiful city, full of life and action and delicious food and friendly people. I quickly realised I had not learned enough Spanish before this and some quite intense self-teaching would be necessary. I couch-surfed at first with a friendly local who took me out to a bar. I asked about some festivals, and he told me about one that was happening the very next day on the outskirts of the city in Valdivia de Paine that might have some tickets. Monte Mapu.

The next day I took a bus in its vague direction. In the morning, a bird shat on me. It turned out to be an omen of great luck. I ended up completely lost, wandering around a little village and asking for directions in completely unintelligable Spanish, much to the bemusement of the locals. It was only because a friendly German called Max passed by, and by coincidence heard me say the words "Monte Mapu", that I made it at all. He was also on his way to the festival, it turned out, so I suppose I wasn't that lost after all!

I was turning up to this thing with nothing but my backpack. No tent, no gear, no real preparation. My tactic was to just stay up all night to avoid the cold. By great coincidence, it turned out that Max was the housemate of one of the guys who was organising the whole festival. He kindly introduced me to the whole crew. Plenty of DJs, VJs, and regular Js. They took me in with great warmth, and it turned out I would run into them a lot over the next ten or so months. I met Max's housmate Oscar, the organiser, and he was an amazing guy. He channeled so much his Mapuche heritage into the visual design of the festival, transforming it through modern psychadelia, creating so many effects and projections. An impressive artist.

When all was over, and I was passed out in the pool (the festival was at a water park, which was incredible), Oscar had offered me a room to rent in Santiago with him, Max, and his young family. I was happy to take up the offer, and ended up living in the city in his little apartment above Londres street. It was a beautiful place, an island of European architecture hiding within the urban sprawl. We went to parties, he taught me about making art that responded to music, and I realised just how burned out I was. There had been talk of me really getting into the VJ craft but I found myself more interested in just wandering the city, experiencing parties but not contributing, and unable to do much more than that. Still, it was what I needed. I did VJ one party with a visualisation I built in Unity. I thought it went okay, but the organiser didn't like it all that much.

After a time, I was ready to move on. I visited Valparaiso, staying in the Muffin Hostel and meeting a cast of characters. Someone asked me out on the back deck what fictional character I related to the most. I said Spongebob - because he doesn't really understand what's going on, but he's having fun with it anyway. When crossing the highway right outside, I stepped on a rusty upturned nail. It went right between my big toe and the next, leaving me with only a hole in my sole. I went out with some people from the hostel, and walking the streets was attracted to the distant sound of house music. My compatriots weren't about that kind of music, so I ended up abandoning them and entering this little dingy house club. Who would I find there but some friends I had met in Monte Mapu! It turned out they lived in Valpairaso, and we partied together until the sun came up and ran away from police in the muted light of dawn.

I made my way down to Concepción, Temuco, and finally to Puerto Varas to climb a volcano. The air was so unbreathable at the top we had to wear gas masks, and when it came time to slide back down it turned out my sled had never made its way into my pack. I felt a bit guilty as our guide grudgingly gave up theirs to me, though at their insistence, and trudged down behind us as we gleefully slid our way down. That night, I had terrible indigestion from something I'd eaten. A lovely woman who did acro yoga talked to me for hours to keep me company through the late night as I paced the common room, guts rumbling. I bought weed off a punk with spiked hair on the docks, and we rolled a joint together as I stumbled through my broken Spanish. I remember it was a beautiful sunset, and there were good dogs. A german girl sold me her camping gear, which I would carry with me for the rest of my journey.

Then it was to Isla Grande de Chiloe, the largest island of Chile. It's an interesting and unique place. I rented a car from the hotel I stayed at in Ancud and drove the north-south road. I camped alone at a campsite with a burial site, encased in glass, metres away from my tent. But Mr Bones was a far better neighbour than some fellow campers I've had to put up with.

After that, where else but Bariloche, a jewel of the Andes. It was summer, so the slopes were devoid of slow and skiiers. Someone in the hostel I stayed at the first night told me of a camp up the mountain called Refugio Frey, and I decided the next day that I was going to reach it. It was hard work, and almost dark by the time I reached the camp. But there was a cabin with a roaring fire, and I had packed dinner, so with my tent set up I happily munched away and chatted with the other campers. After almost freezing to death overnight, I appreciated the importance of sleeping bag grades. After a hike further up to the top of the mountain to see a spectacularly clear lake, it was time to head back down and plunge further into Argentina.

Like a damned fool, I tried my hand at hitchhiking across the Argentinian desert. It went surprisingly well, and I thought I learned the ropes fairly quickly. The driver that will pick you up is rarely in a branded or company vehicle, and the more beaten-up the better. My best - though perhaps worst - driver was a friendly older chap who didn't seem to mind that I didn't understand him very well. At one somewhat alarming point he pulled a large knife from under his seat. It took a little bit of back-and-forth to establish that he was recommending I carry one for my protection. We stopped for a little bit where there was a collection of graves of those who had passed on the road, little houses with glass fronts that held photos and keepsakes of loved ones lost.

However, and this is probably the language barrier that did me in, he did not take me all the way to my destination of Neuquen. Instead, rather abruptly, he dropped me off on the outskirts of a tiny industrial town. Pretty lost, I managed to look up a campsite a few kilometres away and decided to hike it. The sun was setting, and I could a swarm of dirtbikes in the distance like buzzing bees. I was considering setting up camp away from the road somewhere when I walked past a house humming with activity and music. Desperately wondering if this was a campsite, I walked in and asked. It turned out it was not, and was in fact a second-generation Vietnamese family celebrating a birthday. They insisted that it was not safe for me to keep on walking this late and welcomed me to the party, giving me drinks and food and entertainment into the night. I am forever grateful to them.

They even - bless them - organised a bed for me that night with a gruff older man with a bloodshot nose called Gomez. His house was humble, and he lived alone. The lower floor held only a couch, table and television, and the upper only a single bed with no bedsheets. He was a working man, at an industrial plant nearby, and he assured me that I could catch a lift on the worker's bus the next morning to continue my journey towards Neuquen.

So, at 5 in the morning, hungover like nobody's business, I was stumbling into a bus of Argentinian workers. Once again though, I had a false impression of how close the trip would get me to my goal, and I was unceremoniously dumped out onto the highway to try and hitchhike my way under the rising sun. It got hotter, and the mining trucks that roared past at regular intervals were not about to stop for me. On his way back from a second site, the bus driver that had taken me out there spotted me flailing my thumb out and took pity. He dropped me off somewhere I could finally admit defeat and buy a bus ticket.

I quite liked Neuquen, and took a few days there to recharge. I befriended and partied with some younger guys at my hostel. They had been sent there from Chile to study by their father, and while they both had no desire to return to the farm, neither seemed all that invested in their studies. There were lots of dogs to befriend, and I kind of enjoyed how the hostelier would yell at everyone, even when she was being nice.