I´ve decided Chile is a magical, magical, magical place. I couldn´t think of a better synonym, there.
Only in this country do you have Brujaterias (witch stores, literally,) national epics with table-shaking psychics, and tarot readers as populous as clandestine stolen-watch vendors.
A couple weeks ago I fled to a small wine region in the south called el valle Colchagua, at the invitation of a good friend, Luis. His home is featured in some of the images below, an ancient, 16th century fundo. The fundo system is very similar to the colonial North American seigneurial system of wealth distribution: a rich and influential patrón (often a Spaniard, or one from an "old family," despite the fact that everyone is a scion of a long lineage) controls the land and finances of a small community of workers, whom often congregate around the main house for holidays or festivals, seek education from employed schoolmistresses (if they´re lucky,) and get medical treatment every few months (again, if they´re lucky.) In this fundo, there was a chapel (which would put most North American Unitarian hardware stores to shame) and theatre to seat 300. Luis´ family held this home for generations, until the socialist regime of Salvador Allende, in the early 1970s, when it was annexed, and 25 families moved in.
You can imagine the scale of this place.
Three years of socialism, depending on whom you talk to, was either a curse or blessing for this country, but ultimately led to a bloody military coup on September 11th, 1973, under the iron fist of Augusto Pinochet. I´m oversimplifying here, but it was messy. Estimates range from 3,000 to 30,000 dead, depending on whom you talk to. Some of these dead were the more outspoken inhabitants of Luis´ fundo; shot, or worse, in some of the various courtyards of this cloistered labyrinth.
Fast forward a few decades and we have a decadent Jordan, relaxing with some friends in hedonistic splendour on what is esentially a chilean burial ground. Smoking fantastic Senegalese pot, drinking enough red wine to drown Dionysus, and listening to live Mapuche throat-singing with Luis´ 35 dogs. 35.
The first night I had trouble sleeping, despite the wine, women and song, but decided to take a walk in the courtyard. Before I opened my door (they all lead outside) I heard footsteps in the gravel. Expecting someone to be taking a stroll, I opened the door, only to find horror movie-grade backlit trees and that misty moonlit miasma you think would only exist in a Friedrich painting (a little overdone, I´ll admit, but I´m setting the ambiance.) Nobody was outside. I went back to bed, a little perturbed (I heard the footsteps, really) and they started again. With some distilled courage, I decided to open my door again, and, nothing. Eventually I fell asleep.
The next morning, over breakfast, I told one of the housekeepers, Luz, about the footsteps. She crossed herself (honestly,) and told me to be careful. She had heard sounds of children crying a couple of times, sometimes right outside her window. Luis had heard the footsteps the night before and said it was nothing new. The day proceeded like any other in the country, taking tours, chasing ducks, playing with puppies, reading Borges, profound conversations in countless languages, pretense. That night I went to bed late.
This time the footsteps were louder. This time they were dragging something heavy, back and forth. I was less drunk and less courageous, but convinced this couldn´t be phantasmic, perhaps one of the gardeners working ludicrously early. I opened my door and the footsteps abruptly stopped. Nothing. I closed my door, and not a second afterward, something SLAMMED into my door. It felt like the whole wall shook. I locked it with hopeful futility and tried to sleep, which didn´t happen until dawn.
An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.
...I can´t wait to get back there.
