Going to Oz

   Study abroad horror stories.  Losing credit cards, money, digital camaras.  Being mugged.  Accidentally eating undercooked cow tongue.  Though I have survived all these things and more, I recently experienced something even more terrifying.  I was taken to...(dramatic music)..."the end of the line."  Just days before, an unfortunate friend had a similar experience, in which the micro driver failed to inform her when to get off the bus, and thus she ended up at what she referred to as "the source" (ie bus terminal.)  This, she, revealed in hushed tones, was frightening enough, though the mix-up occured during daylight hours and in a decent neighborhood.  I, however, would not be so lucky...

   The day began like any other.  After a quick breakfast of toasted bread and coffee, I joined the countless rush-hour commuters packing themselves into the metro and attended a few morning classes at Catòlica.  After more metro rides, an hour walk to the UChile campus (though still "en toma," selected professors are now holding classes for international students,) I sat through my 2 hour class, in which the professor informed us that  "the two good things to come out of your country are John Wayne movies and jazz." 

   He concluded the class by reiterating the impossibility of understanding US culture without a working knowledge of westerns, jazz, and (most importantly) Chuck Norris.  I was relieved when class ended and a friend informed us that she was having a party, gave us directions to her house in Tobalaba (one of the nicer neighborhoods,) and told us to come around 10. 

    Thus, vowing to be punctual (for once,) I left my house at 9, allowing plenty of time to track down a micro and travel to Tobalaba, normally a 20 minute ride.  Since micros at night are usually more difficult to find, I was thrilled when one reading "Tobalaba" (along with some other destinations I did not bother to notice) pulled up a few blocks from my house.  My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat when the bus turned in the opposite direction of Tobalaba, but, confident in my familiarity with Santiaguian public transportation, I felt sure it would circle around at some point. 

   An hour later, I became suspicious when we passed a sign welcoming us to Maipu.  My false confidence was replaced with a growing sense of dread.  Trying to recall if I had ever heard of Maipu, I attempted to regain a sense of direction.  Envisioning Dorothy in Oz, I noticed that the neighborhood had changed somewhat, and began to doubt the wisdom of allowing certain passengers to board.  The angry clowns spray-painted on a nearby gas station did nothing to lessen my concerns.  Gradually, the bus grew empty and the neighborhoods more questionable.  As the last passengers exited, the bus went dark.   

   I approached the driver.  "¿Vamos (we`re going) to Tobablaba?" I inquired, ever hopeful.  He grunted and killed the engine.  "This was my last run.  Take a taxi," he muttered.  Though I am normally fine with taxis, suggesting I wait for anything on a corner in that neighborhood seemed equivalent to proposing I jump off a bridge or run into a burning building. 

   "What time is it?" I squeaked, hoping he would realize the danger that may befall a lone gringa wandering through Maipu in the dark. 

   "After 11," he informed me, lighting up a cigarette.  "Where did you get on?"  My reply provoked a long whistle.  He mopped his forehead.  "That`s nearly two hours from here."  He shook his head.  "Good luck."  I stood on the dark bus, envisioning my friends feasting on hot dogs and cake, wondering why I never showed up. 

    Fortunately, as I debated how much a taxi from Maipu would actually cost (probably over $40,) he paused and turned around.  "I`ll see what I can do," he promised.  "Stay on the bus."

    30 minutes and a fair amount of pleading later, another driver agreed to take me back into Santiago after he finished fixing his tire.  The ride home, (which ended up being complimentary,) involved an interesting discussion with the driver regarding the current situation in Bolivia and the "Chilean mentality," among other things.  Our blatant disregard for the "Don`t Talk to the Driver" sign ended when, making a strong point about Catholicism, he nearly drove us into a cement barrier.  We rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence. 

   Fortunately, I was actually able to attend a party last night.  (We walked.)