deepundergroundpoetry.com
Anxious quietude in the resolve
Torrential rain and brutal cold would go on for days if not weeks, causing all manner of slush in the city; mud and effluent and flooded intersections, backed up storm drains, and the sea of umbrella carrying pedestrians trying to get around it all. The coat robed and the fingerless gloved hands of the vendors accepted the season in turn. The ever present plastic covered the kioskos and magazine stands so that Time International remained a constant source. And the envious glances as I too joined in the navigation of the to-and-from.
An almost constant odor of diesel, and brakes from the city buses and cars, and faint hints of burning paraffin from the estufas mixed with the mildew and musty damp smog. Downpour and drizzle, scudding low clouds masking the snowcapped Andes, La Cordillera, a sometime fog and mist, a pall, seemed relentless. There was no color of grass or flowers, no autumnal red on the stunted trees, and all pastels extant on the stuccoed brick rows took on a fade in the gray. Everyone had an anxious quietude in the resolve to get through to the next change of season.
To and from work, all manner of city office worker, school boys and girls in the navy blue, waiting for the rushing splashing city bus, queue in the metro, being careful not to slip on the steps, avoiding a splash of effluent and mud at the flooded intersection, stay warm in the hurry. The ever present entrepreneur for the 100 peso coin - the gamba - in summer would be hawking cherimoya flavored popsicles, now works a makeshift dolly to ferry the desperate across the flooded street. I feel the stare, the raised eyebrow of the unbelieving as I cross the flood on foot. I have L.L. Bean rubber boots with eight inch leather uppers, trousers tucked inside, gaiters, and a brown Australian waxed canvas raincoat, a Jansport ruck over one shoulder, umbrella in my left hand. Preparation, out of place, my feet are not wet.
The air was damp and dank on the bus; as usual standing room only, all windows were closed to the rain and cold, coughing; more envious glances, what with my attire, somewhat never formal for this gringo. “He must be a teacher; what else could he be”, or “where did he get those boots, where is he from”, I caught a downward glance. Now a 45 minute respite from the cold damp, time to read Time International, held in one free hand, as the #210 Maipu-Tobalaba does its meandering, its start and stop, its lurch and lunge in the city slog in the rush. We would pass the colonial Iglesia San Francisco and pause to take a glancing solemn sacrament, "in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti" with the rest of the hurried, giving thanks for our sanctuary.
Classes and students wait for me; I wait for the day’s end and anxious to quietly resolve to head home in the rain; to have tea next to the paraffin estufa warmth, the evening news on Teletrece, catching up on the day with Evelyn and her family, the constant sound of the torrent on the planchas of the roof, what must have been a fine day in winter, Santiago, Chile, July, 1994.
An almost constant odor of diesel, and brakes from the city buses and cars, and faint hints of burning paraffin from the estufas mixed with the mildew and musty damp smog. Downpour and drizzle, scudding low clouds masking the snowcapped Andes, La Cordillera, a sometime fog and mist, a pall, seemed relentless. There was no color of grass or flowers, no autumnal red on the stunted trees, and all pastels extant on the stuccoed brick rows took on a fade in the gray. Everyone had an anxious quietude in the resolve to get through to the next change of season.
To and from work, all manner of city office worker, school boys and girls in the navy blue, waiting for the rushing splashing city bus, queue in the metro, being careful not to slip on the steps, avoiding a splash of effluent and mud at the flooded intersection, stay warm in the hurry. The ever present entrepreneur for the 100 peso coin - the gamba - in summer would be hawking cherimoya flavored popsicles, now works a makeshift dolly to ferry the desperate across the flooded street. I feel the stare, the raised eyebrow of the unbelieving as I cross the flood on foot. I have L.L. Bean rubber boots with eight inch leather uppers, trousers tucked inside, gaiters, and a brown Australian waxed canvas raincoat, a Jansport ruck over one shoulder, umbrella in my left hand. Preparation, out of place, my feet are not wet.
The air was damp and dank on the bus; as usual standing room only, all windows were closed to the rain and cold, coughing; more envious glances, what with my attire, somewhat never formal for this gringo. “He must be a teacher; what else could he be”, or “where did he get those boots, where is he from”, I caught a downward glance. Now a 45 minute respite from the cold damp, time to read Time International, held in one free hand, as the #210 Maipu-Tobalaba does its meandering, its start and stop, its lurch and lunge in the city slog in the rush. We would pass the colonial Iglesia San Francisco and pause to take a glancing solemn sacrament, "in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti" with the rest of the hurried, giving thanks for our sanctuary.
Classes and students wait for me; I wait for the day’s end and anxious to quietly resolve to head home in the rain; to have tea next to the paraffin estufa warmth, the evening news on Teletrece, catching up on the day with Evelyn and her family, the constant sound of the torrent on the planchas of the roof, what must have been a fine day in winter, Santiago, Chile, July, 1994.
Published 25th Mar 2015
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