SANTIAGO'S SCREAMING STREETS

         Half the people in the immensely long and varied country of Chile live in the sprawling capital city Santiago, in a hollow under the Andes, under a cloud of smog. Towering office blocks, mainly banks, mushroom along the avenues of the affluent Las Condes district, heading towards the massive curtain of mountains in the east. The car culture has a suburban US flavour, revolving around traffic jams, parking spaces, petrol stations and shopping malls. The old bungalows and sprinkled lawns are being demolished in favour of tall towers that block out the sunlight. The Las Condes residents are aware that they live in an artificial bubble of privilege, behind electric gates, looked after by domestic servants. The grass verges are unnaturally green, graffiti is quickly painted out, and all the shops and cinemas are a short drive away in the land-cruiser. There is little need to descend into the streets of the bustling centre, let alone the mean ‘barrios populares’, some of which are no-go areas for the Carabineros police force. Television reports showing violent demonstrations in the centre flicker across the plasma screens of Las Condes like news from another planet.

      

          I visited the Roberto Matta show, filling three cavernous spaces with cosmic visions on a grand scale. It was like seeing Moebius’ vertiginous science-fiction cities blown up into blurry extravaganzas the size of tennis courts. Some of the 1960’s, anti-US-military canvases captured the spirit of Paris ’68. In 1970, when Allende’s left-wing coalition was in the ascendant, Matta visited Santiago from France. He assembled a group of fellow-communists to paint an optimistic mural, structured like a comic strip, on a wall in the poor district of La Granja. With Matta, the muralists of the Brigada Ramona Parra produced a colourful sequence that was obliterated under several layers of paint in 1973. Now, it is being painstakingly restored. The exhibition space itself sat under the rebuilt Presidential Palace, bombed by the air force during the coup.

          Across the main road from the Moneda Palace, the walls were covered in graffiti and murals, left over from the 20011 student demonstrations. The front of the building was a compendium of bold, defiant images, in a variety of styles. Some ‘portraits’ of individual students showed self-depreciating humour. More slogans and pictures were scattered along the sidewalks for miles, in all directions. In 2006, Juan Vazquez had published comics supporting the protests of children against low educational standards under the Bachelet government, known as ‘The Revolution of the Penguins”, because of their school uniforms. He pointed out a series of big comic-strip pages, criticising police brutality, pasted to the University walls.

      

"These were produced by a group I belong to called "A Mano Alzada" (Freehand)," he said, "We aim to do much more in the coming year."

         
 If, as seems probable, Pinera’s centre-right coalition continues to insist on private education run for profit, as opposed to a decent, free, state system, the stones, water cannons and tear gas canisters are set to fill the air again with the coming autumn. Further layers of paint, paper and aerosol will be added to the open-air expressionist exhibition in the streets. The contrast with the clean walls and glass office towers of Las Condes could not be greater.

          A short walk from the centre, the bohemian quarter of Bellavista lies across the glorified storm drain that is the river Mapocho. Here, the low-rise shops, clubs and bars are also decorated with garish murals. Experimental and imaginative styles proclaim the district’s rebellious character. They provide a funky backdrop to a good night out, covering entire blocks. With a dynamic, action-packed wall behind you, leading through different themes and moods, you inhabit your own comic strip as you walk along. Bellavista is a designated playground for youngsters and students to let their hair down, a safety valve, surrounded by loud music and loud imagery.

          From this immersive environment, it is only a hop across the bridge into the wide avenues where the demonstrations take place. The concrete banks of the Mapocho used to feature massive political murals, like Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ with a Native American flavour, during Allende’s government. Under Pinochet, dead bodies floated past the over-painted blank surfaces. Now, a hotchpotch of slogans had reappeared.

          The southern nights are closing in again. I am sure we can expect a greater bursts of creativity on the walls of downtown Santiago. It is, of course, only the illusion of a revolution. The rich streets will remain untouched, but the message is up there, in the city centre, for all to see. It is more than hip-hop-style ‘tagging’. It goes far beyond vandalism and the marking of urban territory. The scope is broader, and the roots deeper, than the repetitive conformity of aerosol gangland graffiti. These theatrical backdrops for the ritual drama of confrontations with the riot police are the visible fault-line of a fractured society. You can’t appreciate them on television, or even in a magazine. You have to run your hands over the blistered surfaces, with the noise of the streets in your ears, and realise that you are a part of it all. This is a huge gallery with no entry fees, no catalogues, no price tags and no free glasses of wine. It is pure communication of thoughts and feelings; the essence of art. I don’t think I would miss Santiago’s ubiquitous advertising hoardings if they all vanished overnight, but the environment would become distinctly less human if the soldiers returned with their buckets of white paint to make the murals disappear again.                                                                         

          

   

MAGICAL MONTANITA

The village of Montanita lies on the Pacific coast two-and-a- half hours’ drive north of Ecuador’s largest city, the port of Guayaquil. I arrived during the 2012 mosquito-infested rainy season, with my Chilean girlfriend. We had been warned never to hire taxis unless local hotels recommended them. Robbers prey on tourists using hijacked cabs. In Guayaquil, only the main 9 de Octubre Avenue from the centre to the modern riverside promenade, the Malecon Dos Mil, is safe, with armed guards, toting pistols and shotguns, on every block.

          As a middle-aged couple seeking peace, we found Montanita bursting at the seams with an international crowd of young backpackers and surfers, mainly from Argentina, with European, US, Canadian and Australian elements. The local population is brown, short with jet-black hair, wearing sneakers, sportswear and baseball caps. When not working or hustling, they swing in hammocks in their porches. Small children play freely in the streets. Credit cards are rarely accepted. The village centre throbs with a cacophony of reggae and salsa, notably in an alley dedicated to cocktail vendors, where the racket of the competing loudspeakers is deafening. Fast food smells mix with the stink of inadequate drains. Most of the roaming dogs are not strays, but belong to local households. We saw one lying dead in the surf at noon. The huge oysters sold on the beach greatly increase the chances of diarrhoea. One would have to be very drunk or exhausted to be able to sleep in the adjoining hostels. The tattooed youngsters party a few steps from the beach, where they can collapse on grey-yellow sand round driftwood fires until dawn.

          We had booked a room at the quieter north end of the beach, at La Punta, where substantial palm-thatched buildings sit behind a dirt road and bamboo bars and kitchens. The three-storey Hostal del Sol looks luxurious from the outside. My girlfriend Maria chose it online because of its Yoga classes, which take place two, or three times a day in a purpose-built thatched room above the reception.

          Maria enjoyed the Yoga and Nia, conducted with enthusiasm and expertise for ninety-minute sessions. She found the overcast weather and sea temperature too chilly compared with the Caribbean. Being English, I loved swimming among medium-sized breakers under heavy rainclouds. When the sun emerged briefly, it was scorching. The mosquito bites became more frequent and itchy as the season progressed. Our dark room, with a view of next-door’s toilet, felt oppressive. The hostel had just changed ownership and there was often no water supply while a succession of plumbers tried to fix the pipes. The dirt road turned into a river of sticky mud. On the sixth day a power cut added to our discomfort

          We moved next door to the more salubrious Rosa Mistica. It’s beach bar/kitchen provided unforgettably beautiful moments, watching sunsets and surfers in a red Pacific glow to the music of Bob Marley and Peter Tosh. Despite this, Maria had had enough. When we heard that the village was about to be invaded by 60,000 visitors attending the 2012 Reef Classic surfing competition with a concert by a San Diego reggae band, we decided to leave. Giant inflatable beer bottles and speaker stacks worthy of Woodstock arose yards from our retreat. In a short while, simply negotiating the cars double-parked everywhere, since the parking area was flooded, might take five hours. We cut our losses and headed back to the Grand Hotel in Guayaquil, next to the Cathedral, with its cool suites, efficient showers, room service, armed guards, security boxes and spectacular swimming pool.

          Even so, Montanita possesses a unique magic. With all the diverse cultures milling around, we never witnessed an angry scene, let alone any drunken violence. The secret lies in a combination of two factors; the close-knit village community, effectively one extended family, and the peaceful nature of the visitors: educated backpackers, laid-back surfers and old hippies. There is a third factor. On the rare occasions that a rapist, paedophile or hard drugs dealer is identified, the local men by-pass the corrupt national police, drag the offender into the jungle and burn him at the stake.