A Quiet Moment at 2AM Outside A Karaoke Bar Overlooking the Sea (or FUCKLMFAO)

My head fucking hurts. My fucking head hurts. Fuck, my head hurts. It's Friday night and I'm smoking a cigarette outside a bar. You can smoke inside the bar (in Chile, you can smoke just about anywhere) but I needed some air. I'm exhausted from a full day of half-understood conversations and overindulging in alcohol, et al. And then, just five minutes ago, the hype man/MC at this karaoke bar threw on some LMFAO and shoved the mic into my face. I do not know any LMFAO lyrics. I doubt the dumbasses in the group are even conscious of the words they excrete nightly. And then everyone was disappointed that the gringo didn't know the words to the gringo song. The friends that I was with sang "Otherside" by Red Hot Chili Peppers and the crowd soon forgot the fome gringo and his telling lack of sexiness and awareness of said sexiness.

I can't hear the ocean over the music/hype man in the bar. I wish he would shut the fuck up. I think about going down to the water but it's too cold. It's so cold in Antofagasta at night. I am frozen in the parking lot with a rapidly fading cigarette I'm holding an inch from my mouth.

Things got weird after lunch. All the staff at my school went out to a Brazilian restaurant where the main course was 3 types of meat fresh off the sword. Stuffed and wanting to

siesta the afternoon away, I somehow fell in to a car with 3 Chileans from work and off we went on a vuelta (round) of Antofa. We headed East, up the hill, and stopped at a market for a 6 pack of beer and cigarettes. The driver handled the stick shift, the cerveza and the stereo with stunning grace. He flew up the hill and caught a main street that went north. The music selection was great. Weezer, Oasis, Pixies and all sorts of Latin American music that I'd never heard before. Hip-hop, folk, cumbia. He knew the words to all the English songs. "This… how I learn English," he told me.

He did not play any LMFAO.

The drinking and smoking and attempted conversation continued as we went further north; through the poorer neighborhoods up on the hill, past grassless parks and a farmer's market. The view from above the city was amazing. The rich have the beach (which is mostly inaccessible), but the poor have the view. The living conditions up there were worse than in the city, though not devastating. The children played in dirty clothes without shoes. 15 minutes into the vuelta my driver asked me if I had any problems with him smoking some weed. At first I thought he was offering. "No paragua*," I told him. He laughed and said if it bothered me that he smoked. "No, no. Esta bien," I assured him. "Pero, yo-" I pointed to myself, "prefero el natural." A few turns later and we were on a desolate street of deteriorating buildings and broken down vehicles. We pulled up to a group of ominous looking youth (flaites, as they're called here), my amigo extended a 2.000 bill, some mutterings were exchanged, hands touched hands and we were peeling away before I realized what had gone down. The whole transaction lasted less than 5 seconds.

The vuelta continued. The city of Antofagasta is buffered by the coast on one side and mountains on the other (Cerro El Ancla). In this way, like the country itself, it is one long thin line stretching north and south. We were about 25-30 minutes north when we decided to head back towards the center. And there was still more "Antofagasta" to the north. But we were out of beer so we headed to a bar in downtown.

And the stilted conversation continued. They tried to teach me slang. Laughed when I repeated it with my mouth-full-of-marbles English accent. We were into our second pitcher of beer when they tried to jokingly tell our, admittedly, cute waitress that I was in love her. To which she responded, "No me gusta los gringos." More laughter.

Feeling the need to escape home for a bit (and having killed the last of the pitcher) I told them I had to be home to eat dinner with mi familia. They insisted on one more drink. But at a different bar. We hit the street, only to dive into a place called "Chikas Bar" directly across the way. We walked up a flight of stairs, passed through a red velvet curtain and were in the middle of a sad, cramped strip club. The room fit about 20 men in a circle around a single platform with a pole. You had to buy a beer before the performer took the stage. My giddy, giggling amigos gladly covered the expense. When it was time for the "show" to start, a beautiful black woman (most likely from Columbia) stepped up to the stage. Her expression was indignant, hardly suppressed - her moves well rehearsed. The music that accompanied her turned the whole situation into a wonderfully depressing piece of comedy.** A faintly British, male voice crooned over and over on the sound system, "When I see you smile…" Her face looked as if it hadn't smiled in decades. The whole situation was further perverted by the fact that the three Chilean men I was with kept staring at my face, making sure the gringo was enjoying the "show". The song eventually found the decency to end and the woman indifferently descended the stage. I had fulfilled my promise of one more drink. And besides they didn't really want to pay for another overpriced Corona. We made our exit.

And that was earlier this afternoon. Here I was in the south of Antofagasta, 5 minutes after 2 in the morning. Smoking a cigarette. Alone. A different group of Chilean friends still inside, singing some Chilean rock ballad I didn't know and couldn't understand. It was so loud in there. My head hurts. This cigarette isn't helping. Did I think it would? I thought about just going home. But I liked this group of University kids. At least it was less depressing than a strip club.

I didn't know then but that night was just beginning to unfold. I sucked my cigarette to the filter, slapped myself a couple of times to sharpen up and went back inside. Luckily, we left shortly thereafter and moved on to an after (Chilean-English slang for an after-party, usually at someone's house) that was much more low-key and enjoyable and LMFAO-less.

That Friday just happened to be a 13th, too.


*There are two basic types of marijuana in Chile. The most common and cheaper of the two is known as paragua (the spanish word for "umbrella"). It appears brown and is laced with chemicals in order to sell more quantity - like cutting cocaine with baking soda. It is an immediate, oppressive headache. Still it seems to be preferred, if only because it is inexpensive (in the above story, $4USD bought a gram). The other, more costly alternative is known as natural (filete ["steak"] is the slang term for it). It is grown in the country and although it pales in comparison to it's North American equivalent, is a far more pleasant experience.

**I was struck by how similar the thick vibe of melancholy was in this strip club to the strip clubs I've been to in the States. Well, I guess if I'm being honest, the strip club. Still there were men here - just like there were men there - who seemed to be able to ignore the clear resentment in the eyes of these women and laugh and drink and be merry, as it were. Maybe the trick is to focus one's attention less on the annoyed face and more on the, uh, curves. The perfected-in-a-doctor's-office curves. Oof.