Freaking in my hotelroom at Puerto Montt

Something is really starting to do my head in. Thirty years ago I wouldn’t be walking trying to catch some distant pictures of those people hanging around next to the bus terminal and camping and sleeping in little tents under a kind of abri out of the wind at the seaside. I’d be one of them. Maybe not in a tent, ‘cause I never really dug backpacks and other touristgear, but I’d be spending the evening, the night, the fuckin’ next morning and the whole daylight with them, drinking the licory we’d have found, sucking the junk, play the guitar. I’d have a guitar myself and a blanket, move around hitching or driving a car or truck, be one of those. I would have no money, nothing to loose, and the little “we” would have, “we” would spend together and the next day “we” would go and try to find some more. Make some music, juggle a bit, try to be funny, playing the fool, being the clown, anything. We’d step into bars, never knowing when and how we’d be coming out of them. I’d cross people, make friends, make music, swim in the sea, sit and smoke joints on the beach, get pissed out of my head “with” people.

NOW, I’m sitting here in my little “hotel” with my bottle of cheap wine, because I can’t affort the better wine and the better restaurants and the better fuckin’ all of it. What’s more, I’m quite O.K. with the cheaper stuff, I don’t like moneytourism. But nevertheless I’ve got to face this situation I’m in now every bloody day. Either the take me for Santaklaus, or they think there must be something to peal off of me. I cannot enter these typical local “humpapa” bars, with all these “obscure” but oh so interesting people, because I’m stuck with this little cash on me and these necessary documents (passport, etc.). I just want to go home. Do I ? Apparently yes, ‘cause I’m hiding away in these boring second class fish and chips shops, trying to look local. I must be crazy.

Thirty years ago, I’d probably manage to disappear at some time in the night, strolling off into a toilet or go and give up in some bush by the seaside and hide off to my wherever I’d be staying.

NOW, as soon I’m coming into a place “THE BAD BOYS” got an eye on me. These are the same like anywhere else. I see them, they’re hunters and they spot their preys and the know straight ahead that I’m one of those preys. I know I’m one. So I’ve to move quick, assured, discrete and of course I shouldn’t get involved with them in whatever way, cause I got to remember : I’M THEIR PREY.

And “THAT’s” exactly what’s doing my head in. I cannot go to see them, meet them. I’d love to spend some night by the sea, but you’d never read this bloody story because I’d be probably dead somewhere. That’s the thing : I’m not up to it anymore. I’ve got my budget worked out, my planeticket back “home”, my passport. I’m not up to get stuck here in Chile, having to find the bread, playing music or clowning in bars or in the street, ’cause I lost everything in a silly twist of fate.

What about it for God’s sake. What if tomorrow, they take everything of me, my papers, my money, everything. No more “hotels”, sleep on the beach.

Well, it’s still summer. grape picking is coming up very soon. I’ve done the job, I can do it again. I’d meet people, sing my songs, get employed one way or another, fall in love, who knows. Maybe I’ll become fuckin’ famous, but probably I’d never come out of here again. I don’t know. Off course 56 years is only half a century, I’m YOUNG. Life lays in front of me. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life, as they say. But…… I’m not up to it, I’m not into it neither.

Sorry man, but as I pass in front of these obscure bars with their local humpapa accordeons and people sharing cheap beer, I’m SCARED.

No, I’m not trembling, but I won’t put a step into there (winds me up, why not). I take a walk along the beach. Some guy comes up to me and says : “If you want a good time, stay along”. “Yes”, I say, and walk off without further looking at the man (winds me up, why not). I watch them people drying their tents, sit on the benches, I scent the stuff they’re smoking. But I walk by, away, so they don’t invite me (winds me up, why not). I move discretely to my cheap little hotel, look out of my cheap little window, go and have some cheap little fish and chips and drink some cheap little wine, watch some cheap little television, convincing myself to be learning some cheap little spanish (winds me up, why not). And it really isn’t that cheap at all, ‘cause after all I’m one of those fuckin’ tourists, may be a cheap little one, but a tourist, that’s clear. Impossible to pretend I’m not. They spot me as soon as I get off the bus (winds me up, why not). Of course, like I said earlyer, I should come hitchhiking with a guitar on my back, some dope in my pockets, no money, may be a sleeping bag. But not where I come from now, I passed the line, I’m on the other side. So much for that (winds me up, why not). And that is what really starts to do my head in.

Because at the other side, what did I find?!! No bloody nothing, my friend, amigo. Lets go meet some artist friends in Argentina!! NADA, apart from this very nice guitar playing son of her sun, Lobo. In stead we did find a nice famely house where we could have spend all our hollidays, without seeing anybody or any country at all. luckely, we moved and very soon I realized, that staying with my dear friends was going to cost me lots of money I did not have, staying in expensif touristic areas I’d never go to by my self. Something like Lacanau or Canet-plage. I’m so glad I got out of there, I love my friends but nevertheless I guess it was a wise decision to move on further alone. Still I feel not in the right space and time to meet the people I’d like to meet. Will I ever, WHEN?!!!!!

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