by Dina Bennett
“Ay no. No te preocupes,” one replies, to put me at ease. “El comité de transporte siempre se organiza bien las cosas.” I’m relieved, but I don’t know why, since if there’s a connection between a transportation committee and the immediate need to evacuate injured accident victims, it escapes me.
“Entonces eso ocurre mucho?” I ask, not knowing how to figure out what she’s telling me, but hoping that, by making this a dialogue I will eventually learn something pertinent that informs the situation.
“No, no, solo por los días del Festival Costumbrista,” she tells me happily. Seeing my perplexed look, she offers me her bag of chips. Chile is a country where food is the answer to all questions. As if to support her statement, the long line of cars now takes a great leap forward and the ladies nod sagely at me, to convey this is no divine miracle, simply evidence that another ferry has loaded. We all jump back into our cars, drive forward a heartening number of yards, then cut the engines and get back out to resume our conversation. Within minutes there are cars extending far behind us. This makes me especially glad. I hate being last in line.
We adopt the mood of the convivial Chileans in front, taking out our own drinks and snacks, offering them to our neighbors. There’s another reason I’m happy. My new friend in the car ahead has said a word that fills me with delight: festival. Added to that is a word I don’t know but which makes me think of local customs, another personal thrill. “Bueno,” I say, wiping chip crumbs from my lower lip. “El Festival Costumbrista, qué es?”
“Primero, es por todo el weekend. Hay muchísima gente que vienen, porque hay tanto a comer, cosas muy ricas, y también muchas cosas a hacer!” It takes me a moment to absorb the fact that the island will be thronged with festival revelers from all over the country this weekend. My roadside companion is so giddy thinking about it that she has to eat some more before she can continue. Fortified, she explains that the festival committee, knowing that thousands will come to the island that particular weekend, arrange for five times the number of ferries to ply the channel separating mainland from island. Out the window go our plans for a peaceful retreat. In flies exuberance that we have found ourselves in the middle of a native holiday celebration that seems geared to enable us to eat as much as we can for as long as we want.
The crossing is everything I wish for. There’s salt air and a boatful of holiday revelers and cars parked in their orderly ferry fashion. There’s even enough breeze on this sunny day to tangle my hair and lift the fishy scent of seaweed to my nose. Not even the slow traffic from the docks to the mid-island town of Castro dampens my mood, though we have to inch along behind so many cars that it takes twice as long to get there.
Castro itself is a bit of a letdown, and that’s putting it gently. But this is the brave new post-P2P world, in which I’m determined to overlook such flaws. I feel I’m shining a spotlight on myself, in which I must learn to behave better. From my near-calamitous descent into despairing grumphood on the P2P I knew what would happen to me—and hence to Bernard, who’d have to bear my ill nature—if I let myself backslide. The simple truth is we’re not only on a trip I agreed to embark on with senses wide open to what a long-distance drive could be, we’re on a trip I personally helped craft as an equal partner. Optimism isn’t a natural state for me. Up till our “Anti-Rally,” I’d been comfortable going through life in “I told you so” mode. This allowed me to accept a pat on the back if things turned out well but to dodge culpability if they didn’t. Now I wanted to pull that particular root out and plant something new. I was determined to start stepping up as an active player, despite not yet knowing quite how to walk that walk.
“How ugly,” is all I say about how dismal a city Castro is, mainly to be sure Bernard still agrees with me. I avert my eyes from the plastic soda bottles and empty detergent tubs floating in the turgid bay, instead of counting them and announcing triumphantly exactly how many offending bits of litter are bobbing about. My spirits lift only when I see our hotel, the eccentrically named Unicornio Azul (Blue Unicorn), whose four stories cling to the steep hillside above the polluted bay like a leech on a choice bit of skin. It’s painted pink. Not shy pink. Bubblegum pink. This seems appropriately free-spirited and a good emblem of what I want our trip to become. And what’s not to love about an entire island that devotes itself to nothing but food and drink for two days a year?
Next day we arrive at the fairgrounds early, appetites in tow. As soon as he’s out of the car, Bernard spies a fire truck with ladder fully extended. “A ladder with a view,” he exclaims. “I must climb it.” This is a pay-to-play ladder, in support of the local bomberos, Castro’s busy firefighters, who are delighted to strap Bernard into a safety harness in exchange for a few pesos. From the looks of the fragile old wood houses we passed on our drive down island, the bomberos must be the most popular fellows around, and indeed they’re happy to fill me in on their fire exploits while Bernard climbs. “Ah, Dina, it’s wonderful up here,” he calls down to me from his perch one hundred feet in the air. I get queasy just looking up at him swaying at the top. His hair would be whipping in the breeze, if he hadn’t again shaved his head for this trip, as he did for the P2P.
After this short diversion, we’re off into the capacious, welcoming heart of the festival to inspect the fifty-five booths where more than three hundred pigs, lambs, and steers have given their lives, creating the most extraordinary display of wood-fired barbecue skills I’ve ever witnessed. The trusty little red Weber that sits on the flagstone patio outside our dining room at home, ready for Bernard to grill the occasional brace of bratwurst or single ribeye on a dry summer evening, would be green with envy. These barbecue stalls are hosted by everyone from the local girls’ basketball team and the Red Cross to all seven of the aforementioned bombero companies. Each one offers whole sides of lamb or hogs roasting on fifteen-foot-long spits that take four people to heft over the coals. Sturdy men in overalls and plaid shirts take it in shifts to turn the red-hot stakes.
We literally masticate our way through the fair. We’re in a food delirium, and we’re not choosy in what order we put food in our mouths. First some sweet fried rolls. Then savory bread made from a flattened dough of potatoes and flour wrapped around a hot cylinder, barbecued over wood coals, finished with a schmear of shredded seasoned pork and folded in thirds. Next a copious slice of berry pie and a cup of scalding coffee at the Red Cross stand. No longer hungry but unable to stop, I sit at a wood plank with a host of gregarious Chileans and dig into a plate heaped with a big chunk of lamb, steamed potatoes, and sliced tomato, washed down with the local chicha, a fermented apple cider. Bernard is suddenly feeling reasonable, so he sits this one out. But then we’re both back at it with gusto. When we pass a booth offering baked salmon, he insists on a generous piece that he justifies by saying, “I want to support the locals.” Nearby is a pastry stand boasting a seven-layer chocolate cake too luscious to resist, so Bernard doesn’t. Cake secured, he plunks himself down on a nearby seat, right arm circling the iced marvel as if he’s Frodo protecting the One Ring from the Eye of Sauron, while I act the part of Gollum, my stomach coveting just one bite while I pretend indifference with a “No thanks, not hungry anymore.” This is one of the marvelous things about being married for nearly thirty years. We know each other so well, but we still give each other license to act as if we’re on our first date.
Finally, I have to call a halt to the gluttony. “Bernard, I don’t think I could put one more bit of food in my mouth. At least for a few minutes.”
“But we’re not done eating, are we?” Bernard knows a good thing when he sees it, and with over forty booths still left to sample, he’s not yet ready to cede the territory.
“Let’s go work off some calories, make some room in our bellies. So we can eat more!”
In the light drizzle that’s been sprinkling since late morning, we inspect the crafts stalls, a visual feast of colorful but scratchy hand-knitted wool socks and caps, cuddly fleece barn anim
als with painted fabric heads, jars of amber honey with sections of the ivory wax honeycomb in each, a jeweled array of fruit preserves in tones of amethyst, ruby, and topaz, yellow rounds of handcrafted sheep’s milk cheeses, garlands of purple-white pork sausages, and more. Next we wander the field exhibits, our shoes soaking up water droplets that cling to the tramped-down grass. Each shows how hard life actually is here on Chiloé, where sheep are sheared by hand, cows are milked by hand, hay is threshed by hand. Having just drunk my share of the local brew, we linger a while at the exhibit that shows how chicha is made. The main task seems to be smashing apples into a pulp. I have no particular experience at this other than whacking my birthday piñata as an eight-year-old, but I see a chance to expend some calories, and apple thrashing looks easier, and less scratchy, than the option of packing hay into a bale-sized rectangle, which is being offered nearby.
Bernard and I each grab a ten-foot-long wood paddle, which resemble what you’d use if you were in an ocean-going canoe and needed to get somewhere before the next squall. The apples reside, yellow, red, and green, in a shallow trough that’s paddle-wide. I raise the paddle over my head. It’s surprisingly heavy and I wobble precariously, thoughts of toppling over backward in front of a crowd serving to steady my legs just in time. Bernard hoists his with ease and we begin bashing the innocent apples in alternate strokes. After ten strokes my arms are shaking and we’ve barely broken half the apples, let alone mashed them into a pulp. “Bernard, holding maps for hours a day is not doing my biceps any good. I don’t think I’m designed for this,” I gasp, leaning on my paddle and wheezing while he gives the apples a few more whacks. “I’m better at drinking chicha. In fact, I’m getting thirsty again.” We hold up our paddles in a bid to declare ourselves the winners in a knockout victory over the apples. The crowd standing behind the rope gives us a spattering of skeptical applause. We move on.
Late afternoon we drive to Bahia Cucao on Chiloé’s west coast to inspect the Pacific, which we will soon be crossing on a long-distance ferry. The morning’s drizzle has turned to slashing sheets of rain, a good first test of our rain gear. Stupefied by the number of calories he’s ingested, Bernard has trouble thinking straight, leaving the car park with only his anorak on. I’m stupefied too, but also naturally wary of conditions that might make me uncomfortable, so I don my full rain suit. Thus attired, we toddle a mile or so down a sandy path through woods of scrub oak, pine, and the occasional prehistoric-looking Chilean shrub. We walk in silence broken only by intermittent burps, until we clamber panting and sweaty to the top of the low shore dunes. Crashing breakers pummel the deserted beach in front of us, roaring, spitting foam, and clawing at the gray sky. The ocean, a steely green, blends seamlessly with the heavy clouds that press on the horizon. A broad swath of fine, fawn-colored sand melts into the misty distance. If this were the Gobi, grit would be flying, but the beach sand has been compacted into a dense pancake by the heavy spray lifting off the waves. Now that we’re actually on the island’s edge, I feel obliged to touch the ocean, as an act symbolizing I’ve indeed gone as far west as possible. We walk briefly on the hard-packed sand, our feet barely leaving a trace as we head toward the pounding surf.
I’m no wave rider. In fact, big waves terrify me, stirring up visions of tumbling helplessly as I’m pummeled by tons of water. This stems from actually tumbling helplessly as I was pummeled by tons of water in an early childhood episode. For me, a proper beach experience is one in which I can stroll along under a benign sun, waves lapping at my toes, searching for shells, and daydreaming of the tuna sandwiches and cucumber spears chilling between icepacks back at my beach towel. Now, with the wind pushing me forward like a boot in the small of my back, it feels like work to be here. I dip my fingers in the ocean, raise them to my lips, and taste the salt. Then I turn back into the wind, wiping away fine strands of seaweed that cling to my face like a damp spider web.
We pause again on the crest of the dunes and turn around for one last look. Several gulls wheel low, eyeing clumps of brown kelp, searching for a fish or crab tangled within. In the fading afternoon light, it’s a wild and seemingly untamed coastline, and we’re the only people in it. I exult in the empty passion of the Pacific pounding the shore. I want to laugh, to whirl with my arms open till I fall to ground, too dizzy to stand up. If only I could proclaim as did Simone de Beauvoir: “I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life … to have many friends and to have loneliness … to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish.” But I’m me, and it’s raining harder, and I see Bernard’s look of tender frustration, which says, “Come on, silly one, let’s get going,” because he knows I’m not Ms. de Beauvoir and if I get wet and cold I’ll turn sulky.
Back at the Unicornio Azul, I fold my perfectly dry clothes on a chair while Bernard squeezes water out of his pants and hangs them over the shower rail to drip. We curl up together, the pull of a nap in a warm, dry bed too strong to resist. The feeling is reassuring in all the right ways, comforting, peaceful, and homey in its ordinariness. Just like at home, it takes me some time to fall asleep. Before I doze off, my mind spins as if the comfortable bed in that pink hotel were swirling. I want to turn to Bernard and rejoice at how opposite the P2P our experience on this Anti-Rally has been, to revel in the happiness I feel, which is due both to the travel itself and that the two of us have created it together. Look at it all! We’ve eaten, ridden horses, hiked, eaten, talked in the local language to local people, climbed ladders, eaten, been in and out of a hospital, eaten. All without effort. And in such a short time. Can you believe it? But he’s turned on his back, his arms flung over his head like a baby. Already, he’s snoring softly.
Mare’s Milk
NARYN, KYRGYZSTAN, 2011
I am on a quest to try mare’s milk. My thirst for this beverage took hold five years ago, on day five or six of the P2P, as we drove at breakneck slowness across Mongolia’s Gobi Desert. I’d finally seen a few of the horseback herders for which Mongolia is famous, their horses as small as ponies elsewhere, the horsemen more skilled than any I’d ever encountered. It all started me wondering how I could sample fermented mare’s milk, airag, which is Mongolia’s national beverage. Sadly, as we continued our limping progress across the Gobi, finding our way through the bland sand tracks took all my attention, leaving none for spying out yurts with mares.
Recently, when I found myself in Kyrgyzstan, it dawned on me I’d been granted a second chance. The Kyrgyz are semi-nomadic, conquered eight hundred years ago by that famed Mongol-on-horseback, Genghis Khan. Ever since, their culture has been entwined with the horse and, apparently, much affected by Mongolian thirst. Driving across Kyrgyzstan, I was in mare’s milk mecca, assuming, that is, someone did the milking for me.
When we sold our software localization company in 1999, we moved to a two-thousand-acre working hay and cattle ranch high in the Rockies of northern Colorado. For much of the year we were crazy busy ranchers, as nature’s deadlines are just as immutable as Microsoft’s, with equally vexing results if missed. During the work season, we devoted ourselves to irrigating, fixing fence, haying with the crew, and loading trucks with twenty tons of premium forage for the fancy horse barns dotting Colorado’s Front Range. In the off months, our work is modest enough that we can hire someone else to do it. That’s how it happened that we could do the P2P and that’s how we’ve managed our lives ever since, heading overseas during slack time, in this particular case on a nine-thousand-mile journey by car from Istanbul to Kolkata.
It’s not easy to milk a mare. Unless you’re an experienced nomad, the job takes two, plus a handy foal. The foal is a teaser, four legs with a set of lips to get the milk flowing. After that, one of you has to pull the foal off and hold him, squirming and wriggling, next to his mother’s shoulder, so she doesn’t panic and neither does he.
The other has the riskier job, kneeling on one knee by the mare’s haunch, as if proposing, while balancing a bucket on the raised knee to catch wh
at you’re about to squirt out of the mare’s teats. Remember though, horses are adept at kicking things. And that arm you’ve wrapped around the mare’s hind leg to steady yourself? It could be flung away like limp spaghetti if she chooses to shake you off. But the risk is worth it if you’re a nomadic horse herder, because in the four months of the milking season, you can extract three hundred gallons of milk (2,650 pounds), only half of which has to go to keeping your pump primer, that frisky foal, well fed. The rest can be sold.
The best place in Kyrgyzstan to get mare’s milk is the narrow, verdant Suusamyr Valley, near the border with Kazakhstan, where nomads have summered their horses for centuries. Day 1 of my quest is cold and gloomy as Bernard and I drive through Suusamyr on our way from Osh to Bishkek. Slashing rain at lower altitude has turned to sleet at 7,200 feet. Fingers of fog drift over the valley floor, camouflaging the nomad yurts, whose white canvas is soaked to a soiled-looking gray. Yurt stovepipes, like so many landlocked periscopes, release curls of smoke into the wetness; the warm plumes of vapor lay low, hovering around the roof, too sodden to rise.
By the roadside are small tables displaying each nomad’s milk offerings in reused Fanta bottles, larger quantities filling gallon cooking oil jugs. Each yurt also has equine advertising: a group of small mares, heads drooping and backs humped against the rain. Their foals are nearby, but not close enough to suck.
