So I'm without wallet, digicam, passport, any sense of mirth and I have about 40 pesos to my name as the bus pulls into Pucon. This strangely didn't seem to resonate with my brother as we got off the bus. While I made merry with the bus driver -- Me: "Hey, if I my bag somehow turns up, can you contact this address?" Him: "No habla ingles." Me: "Oh." -- my brother took off down the road looking for a hostel to call home for a few days.
As I mentioned before, Pucon is the outdoor/adventure/extreme-games/whatever destination mecca for Chile, and probably South America proper. I'm not really into the whole outdoor sporting thing -- I don't even have a fleece jacket anymore. I think I lost it at the Phish show in Hampton...or maybe it was Roanoke -- but Pucon definitely offers pretty much every imaginable outdoor activity.
In its high season (Jan/Feb.) when the weather is constantly sunny, the town is packed. It's basically Spring Break for the granola set. But seeing that we were a month late, we had our pick of places to stay. It keeping with the family credo, we went cheap and we went often. I think we ended up paying $8 a night for a double room -- a double room being two dorm beds spaced 12'' apart with a fake wood wall separating us from an Aussie couple next door. Upon seeing our room, my brother and I gave each other that "jesus, what if we bring girls back" look, which quickly permeated into that "jesus, as if" look.
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After the nap, we decided to avail of the hot springs/spa option. A bus picked us up and dropped us off for a two-hour sojourn. On a cloudless night, you could sit in the outdoor hot springs and see the volcano in the moonlight, but with the weather being crap, we spent most of the time in the indoor pools. It was there that we met Kev, a Liverpool DJ who was in town to see his best friend...in the clink. Turns out his friend came down from Liverpool a year earlier, fell in love with the area and decided to stay. Apparently the local club scene wasn't lucrative enough so he dealt some LSD on the side, to tune of 150 hits.
Long story short, he falls in love with a girl who ends up ratting him out to the local cops (there's a lesson there. I just can't find it. Is it 'never trust girls', 'don't deal drugs' or 'don't DJ'?). From the wheels of steel to the bars of steel. His conviction was on appeal, and in the meantime, Kev had decided to travel all over South America and then surprise his buddy with a visit. We should all have friends as committed.
After the hot springs, they recommend you get into the thermal mud baths. Not exactly my scene -- the mud baths -- but we figured we'd try. Seeing that all the soil in the area is volcanic, the mud stunk of sulphur, but once in the mud it wasn't so bad. We did that for a few minutes, rinsed off, and to be fair to all the people I called gay for recommending mud baths, I'd have to say it was worth it. My apologies.
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Never one to follow orders, my brother James, much to the chagrin of our raft, decided to freestyle. Whenever we hit the rapids, James broke out his "Cockroach Paddle". I'm not sure if it's been patented yet, but essentially the "Cockroach" is as soon as you hit rough water, you flip into the middle of the boat on your back with your legs, paddle and arms in the air. It does nothing to help the rest of the crew, but judging by its regularity, it must have been fun. Even the CPA from Tempe was laughing at my brother.
It looked even better on the video the outfitter filmed. You couldn't really hear on tape what the guide said due to the rushing water, but I'm pretty sure the guide yelled "right", and all my brother heard was "Cockroach!" It was truly a sad display. A display so sad in fact that it made me question the job I had done as his big brother. Had I been so neglectful in my duties that I let him grow into this six foot weenie?
But as soon as I was ready to write James off for the rest of the trip, he came up aces. I may have failed miserably in many areas of big brotherdom, but at least some of the meager wisdom I managed to impart actually stuck. So during the ride back to town when the American girl who had been on our raft said in passing conversation, "I go to Wesleyan”, I could see my brother's brain go into action.
He took her information, put it through the filter I schooled him on years ago and acted accordingly. Northeastern competitive liberal-arts college. No brainer. And he didn't let me down. He immediately started spinning a yarn from a fabric of complete bulls&%@. "Oh, and then my junior year I started the PETA chapter on campus, right after I finished my short film about gender inequity in the interpretive dance arena..."
It was straight-up Bassmasters from there on in. He had a 98lb.er on the line and proceeded to reel it in with a grin and a boner. The only thing left to do was figure out where I would be sleeping that night. An hour earlier he was the scourge of our dinghy, and now he was debating what brand of cigarettes to buy for the morning after. Play on playa!
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So that night after a few drinks with some random international tourists, we met up at the main nightclub in Pucon (Note to US tourists: I've traveled many times to places that aren't that hospitable to the good ol' USA - France and the West Village to name a couple -- but, and you probably don't need me to tell you -- it's a brave new world out there. So much as an American accent can bring on a case of random "your country is ruining the world" diatribes. Just trying to get a beer, man.) Right before we went it to the nightclub, I took a look at my brother and can say that I had never seen my brother in such fighting shape. It was like he had an iPod embedded in his brain and all he could hear was the club mix of "Eye of the Tiger". Just pure focus cloaked in a stained Patagonia fleece and questionable, baggy denim. My man was ready.
And sure enough the byrd from Wesleyan shows up (wearing socks on her arms!? Is that cool?) soon after. But no sooner than James goes over to talk to her, the 34-year old CPA from Tempe rears his head and proceeds to join their conversation. Nicest guy ever the CPA, but we really could have used Alex Trabek to give this guy a clue. He might as well have doing wheelies on his third wheel. I tried to pry him away with the lure of shots and native girls, but he was having none of it. He just wanted to see what the "kids were up to." Jesus. I finally got him away, but James was clearly rattled. The focus was all gone and he might as well have been Glass Joe getting beaten with a pair of tube socks that had now come off the girl's arms.
I try to give my brother a non-gay shoulder rub, throw some water on his face, but he was a beaten man. The CPA had moved on to the bartender, but the damage was done. I tried to help James give it one last try. But instead of getting on the dance floor, we just perched on the edge -- a very uncool 10 feet from the girls dancing -- and proceeded to stare. So bad. So bad. So bad. I can't emphasize this enough. For a good five minutes, two guys just gawked at two girls dancing. Maybe my worst moment since college. College, of course, being 4 straight years of me staring at girls dancing. Even the CPA was disgusted, and rightly so.
We finally snapped to, looked at each other, didn't say a word, sulked home and smoked that pack of Benson and Hedges. We'll never speak of this again. Promise.