Sleeping Around (2 page)

CHILE

1

‘The only rule I have is that you HAVE to shower every day please! (I have had terrible experiences in the past.)

Daniel Ortega, 24, Santiago, Chile

GlobalFreeloaders.com

My Grand Couch Surfing Tour of the Globe didn't start too well. I couldn't find a couch. Or, more precisely, my couch was playing hard to get and wouldn't return my emails. I'd already booked my spot, but it would have been handy if my host Daniel had told me exactly where in Santiago the couch in question was located. Daniel had seemed keen for me to stay when I'd contacted him a month earlier. Well, not exactly bursting-with-excitement keen. He had answered my request for a couch with:

Ok
I would have not problems those days.
Daniel

Daniel was one of a number of people in Santiago I had contacted for a couch. I liked his profile on GlobalFreeloaders because I was intrigued to meet him and hear all about his horrific stories of the unwashed. His brief profile read:

Spare room in 3 Bedroom apartment close to the Andes (view from the living room). A block from the subway station, and 30 min from the city. I am a uni student so I have plenty of spare time on my hands for going out.

I had confirmed my booking for Daniel's couch and he'd emailed me straight back and said to drop him a line a couple of days before I was due in Santiago. I had sent Daniel three emails in the week before my departure, but he hadn't responded to any of them. I thought that he might have reneged because he was worried about my standards of hygiene, so I even sent him an email to tell him how much I loved taking showers.

With only two days left before I was due to fly out, I gave up on Daniel and sent out a new pile of couch requests. The couch owners I emailed included Ignacio, who ‘loves chillies and collects hot sauces from around the world'; Ann Maria, who does not like ‘people who walk around nude or half-dressed in front of me'; Claudio, a belly dancer, who said ‘I'm physically living in Chile, but my mind is somewhere else'; Mauricio, a financial reporter whose interests included oncology
(the study of tumours!),
‘the afterlife' and ‘being profound'; and Diego, who may just be a friend of Daniel since he says you can bring a pet as long as ‘you don't bring anything that might stink'.

I was still checking my emails an hour before I left for the airport, but the results weren't good. Every single one of my requests for a couch drew a blank. Most of my potential hosts totally ignored me, and all the rest were otherwise occupied—three were out of the country, two already had couch-surfing guests and one was rearranging his sock drawer.

I hadn't had any trouble finding a couch anywhere else in the world, so why was I in danger of a total couch wipe-out in Chile? I couldn't understand why I wasn't getting any response. I even resorted to telling Mauricio that I, too, like being profound and assuring Diego that although I didn't own a pet, if I did it wouldn't be a stinky one.

I checked my emails one last time in the transit lounge at Auckland airport. ‘Yes, I would love to have you stay,' said Christian Petit-Laurent Eliceiry, film director, 32.

Bingo.

Christian had just finished filming a documentary in Spain and had ‘plenty of time to show me around, go bike riding in the mountains and visit neighbours'. Just as I was excitedly rubbing my hands together, I noticed the last line of the email: ‘I'll be back in Santiago on the 27th.' That was the day I'd be flying out of Santiago to Brazil.

Okay, be positive. There was still hope. I had all of 23 minutes to send out more emails before the flight to Santiago boarded. And there were still 1672 couch owners left in Santiago I hadn't emailed yet. One thing I wasn't going to do, though, was to send out a ‘blanket' email to all 1672 people. I'd already received ‘blanket' requests to stay with me in Melbourne from people who hadn't bothered to read my profile or even say ‘Hello Brian' and I'd ignored them.

I only had enough time to shoot off a dozen more couch requests. I also decided to cast my couch-surfing net a little further by sending requests to a few people in Valparaíso, less than two hours from Santiago. Although there were plenty of couches to choose from in Santiago and Valparaíso, many of the hosts didn't speak English which was one of my criteria as, unfortunately, I only speak English (a limitation of my Grand Couch Surfing Tour of the Globe, I fully acknowledge).

Ten hours after leaving Auckland we were flying over Chile's coast, which lay below like the front edge of a stage with the snow-capped Andes resembling a long white silk curtain as the dramatic backdrop. I actually didn't know very much about Chile. Amazingly, after all my years of travelling this was my first foray into South America.

Even as I waltzed through the arrivals gate of Aeropuerto Internacional Arturo Merino Benitez, I was still optimistic that I would track down a couch for the night. I'd pop into the airport internet cafe where I was sure there would be a couch offer waiting for me with simple directions to the host's salubrious home and the promise of an ice-cold beer waiting for me on arrival. I soon discovered, however, that my masterful plan had one tiny flaw. There was no internet cafe at the airport.

That left me with very little option. I had to get into the city. A city I knew absolutely nothing about. To gain a true ‘local's perspective', I had decided not to take guidebooks with me and to do very little research on my couch-surfing destinations. Which would have been all very well if there had been a prospective local to give me a local perspective.

The centre of Santiago seemed the most likely place to find an internet cafe. I still hadn't given up hope of procuring something that resembled a couch for the evening. I wasn't being totally inflexible, though. At this late stage, I'd settle for a chaise longue, a chesterfield, a divan or even a large ottoman.

Santiago looked like a European city thrown into the middle of the Himalayas. The towering mountains around the city seemed to crowd in almost to the edge of the suburbs, with the snowy peaks shimmering brilliantly white above the city's murky brown haze. Every time the airport bus stopped to let someone out, I would say ‘El Centro?' to the bus driver and he would look at me with disdain and say something in Spanish which I guessed meant: ‘What do you think you idiot? Does it look like the centre?'

But when we finally got there, El Centro looked nothing like my idea of a city centre. I was dropped off on a wide busy boulevard lined with office buildings and poplar trees. The spot looked identical to the last three stops on the boulevard where the bus had dropped passengers off. I stood for a minute and tried to get my bearings (which is actually quite difficult when you have no idea even where you are supposed to be), then started walking up the boulevard. Still looking for the heart of the city, I turned down the first side street I stumbled upon. It was lined with shops and sidewalk cafes filled with slim good-looking folk eating large good-looking ice creams.

I found an internet cafe easily enough, but much to my frustration I still couldn't find a couch. I sent out a few more requests as I still had another six nights in Santiago, but I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be couchless for the first night of my Grand Couch Surfing Tour of the world. It looked like I had to get a hotel—either that or go Park Bench Surfing.

I passed a couple of hotels, but opted for Hotel Foresta, which was only-just-slightly-rundown (read: cheaper). The hotel overlooked Cerro Santa Lucía, a lavishly landscaped park that looked more suited for mountain goats than people. Crammed into a small city block was an impossibly steep wooded hill full of fountains, curving staircases and intricate stone paths.

No wonder I wasn't getting a response to my couch requests. Everyone in Santiago under 30 was canoodling in the park. After checking into my only-just-slightly-rundown room, I decided to take advantage of the balmy late afternoon and climb the park. The steep hill was packed with amorous couples, their arms, legs and lips all entwined. They were sprawled on park benches, lustfully lounging on the grass and there were even parents groping each other while their kids ran around their ankles.

I hiked up the narrow leafy terraces trying to find a lookout, but every time I stepped into one of the small nooks hanging precariously over the rocky edge, I'd bump into a couple with their tongues down each other's throats. The final steep ascent took me up to the tiny Caupolicán Plaza and a sweeping view of Santiago. The suburbs of the city really did stretch out to the very base of the Andes and in some places were creeping up the lower reaches as if the mountains were slowly pushing their way into the city.

‘It was on this site that Pedro de Valdivia, the conqueror of Chile, founded Santiago in 1541 for the crown of Spain. The hill was originally called Huelén, which in the local mapudungún language means “pain or sadness”. In 1872 . . .' I couldn't read the rest of the plaque because a young woman's bottom was draped across it while her boyfriend fondled it (that's the bottom he was fondling, not the plaque).

The streets behind the hotel were a warren of charming little cobbled lanes and passageways that were packed with restaurants and bars. As a parade of beautiful people wandered around happily spinning out the process of deciding where to eat, I randomly picked the first restaurant with outdoor tables and ordered a beer. My first night of my Grand Couch Surfing Tour may have been couchless, but I was still determined to enjoy myself. Or get drunk. Whichever came first. Getting tipsy proved to be quite easy. First of all my beer was served in a huge Alice-in-Wonderland tea cup. Then, when the waiter suggested I should try the Chilean national drink known as ‘pisco sour', he brought out two large glasses. It was two-for-the-price-of-one Pisco Sour Happy Hour. The drink had more pisco than sour and was basically a glass of strong clear brandy with a squirt of lime and a pinch of sugar in it.

I tried to soak up the pisco sours with a plate of fried squid and salad, but the combination of lime-flavoured rocket fuel and jet lag (I wasn't sure if it was 3.30 in the morning or 3.30 in the afternoon in Australia) was definitely affecting my judgement. That's probably why I dropped into a bar on the way back to the hotel for another drink. Bar Berri looked as if it belonged to a past age with its low ceilings and tiny wood-panelled rooms. When I ordered a beer in my clumsy Spanish, the manager asked where I was from. ‘Ah, Steve Irwin!' he gushed. ‘Crikey!' he said as he handed me my beer.

I'd only been sitting at a table by myself for a few minutes when the manager came over and said, ‘I have a friend you can meet'. His friend was the Spanish ambassador to Chile. ‘Ah, Steve Irwin!' the ambassador said, shaking my hand. This might work out all right, I thought. My suave new friend would surely have a spare couch. And more than likely it would be a lovely, soft leather one. I soon realised, however, that the ambassador might have other plans for his couch that night. Even as he spoke to me, he was deftly fondling his secretary's bottom.

On the way back to the hotel I noticed that the internet cafe was still open, so I shuffled in to check my emails. I was nothing if not persistent.

‘YES!' I blurted out at the top of my rather inebriated voice.

As far as couch surfing goes, I'd hit paydirt. I'd been invited to stay at a ski lodge up in the Andes for two days. Miguel Angel Chacana lived in Valparaíso, but according to his profile he ‘wasn't home too much'. Miguel worked as a guide and cook on horse riding tours in the wilds of Patagonia in the summer and ‘cooked in a ski lodge when it was busy' in the winter. Miguel was in Santiago for the night and he said in his email that if I wanted to join him I needed to call him before eleven o'clock because he was leaving early in the morning for the 90-minute drive up to the lodge. I looked at my watch. It was five to eleven.

2

‘Skiing is the sport I like the most in winter and sleeping later from time to time.'

Miguel Angel Chacana, 45, Valparaíso, Chile

CouchSurfing.com

Miguel looked nothing like Miguel.

‘Brian?' he asked as he stepped out of his car in front of the hotel. In the photo of Miguel on his profile, he had a shaved head. This Miguel had a wild crop of grey hair and was at least ten years older.

‘Hola, nice to meet you,' I said, reaching for Miguel's hand.

Miguel grunted a quick ‘Hola' then grabbed my pack and threw it into the boot of the car.

‘Now we go,' Miguel said with an evil grin. Okay, possibly I was being a little paranoid, but it all seemed a little odd. Miguel didn't appear to speak much English yet his CouchSurfing profile was written in perfect English. As we drove away I began to feel a tremor of foreboding. In Miguel's profile he sounded nice enough, but I really knew nothing about him. Why, for example, had he previously shaved his head? Or was he wearing a wig? Then it hit me. No one at home knew where I was or who I was with. If Miguel took me up to a secret hideout in the mountains to torture me, no one would ever know. Maybe that was it. Maybe Miguel was part of some Chilean Freedom Fighter group and he was about to hold me to ransom. Even more worryingly, none of my friends or family have lots of money, so Miguel and his Freedom Fighters would have to kill me to prove a point. Maybe this couch-surfing thing wasn't such a good idea after all.