I Didn’t Do It My Way Either

By Fernando Felgueras

My memoir is set in the carefree 1950s and 1960s, leading to the dictatorship in Chile (1973–1990). It is sprinkled with irony and with a cornucopia of bizarre situations, such as when our home was broken into and my father (a celebrated radio personality), in underpants and wielding an unloaded rifle, pursued the robbers, who returned and politely requested their ladder back.

It revolves around our peculiar family, my triumphs and defeats, and those of my contradictorily tenacious father, who buried hundreds of people (but it was not a crime as they were already dead). He ingeniously imported the first peacemakers, saving many lives, while at home, occasionally, we couldn't pay our bills.

Innovative, he owned a radio station and given his gargantuan energy, enthusiasm, and style, Radio Monumental became a success, but 'Houston, we have a problem.' When he erected the mast on top of the building, that was the sole station listeners could tune into. The rest of the signals were swallowed as if by an intergalactic black hole. He was compelled to move the antenna, but what a way to do it!

Audacious, in business as good as a chimp home alone with a razor blade, he ran a casino devoid of roulettes and slot machines as if for gamblers on rehab. Compassionate, we visited the local prison, where jailers and inmates welcomed him as if he was a rock star.

'Scholarly', he taught me things that were off limits at my Catholic school: he took me (underage) to see a striptease.

Although my father acted sometimes erratically, I knew what tormented him.

Amid gradual sociopolitical change, at fifteen, I instead aspired to become a cartoonist. Broke, armed with my creations, I resorted to hitchhiking on trucks laden with goats. On one occasion, the alpha male mistook me as one of his females. Luckily, I won that battle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514446195

Fernando Felgueras

Fernando Felgueras was born in Valparaiso, Chile, on December 24, 1947. The son of a well-known radio announcer, at age sixteen, after many rejections, he became a professional cartoonist. In Los Angeles, USA, he had a stint as newscaster and reporter at KSCI TV and as TV producer and presenter in Australia's SBS TV network and in Sydney's TVS. In the early 1980s, he set out from Sydney on a solo overland filming expedition across the USA, Central America, and South America. He screened some of his experiences on his SBS TV show Latin America in Vogue. At thirty-six, he became an independent radio producer and announcer at various stations and visited a number of countries in four continents. His hibernated love for writing emerged later. He has written four screenplays and has produced, written, and directed the short films The Third Corpse and Fair Dinkum. He too has conducted studies at the University of Sydney, where he has majored in English. Fernando has called Australia home since October 1969. This is his first book.

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Copyright © 2016 by Fernando Felgueras.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Front, spine and back cover, including photography and graphic work, portrait of Lukas, photograph of author, photo touch ups including galley images by Australian artist Thomas Felgueras, Feltom Art,

www.feltomart.com

Rev. date: 12/12/2023

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

About The Author

First Dedication

Second Dedication

Third Dedication

Acknowledgement

Prologue

From The Author

Introduction

Ancestry And First Sensations

ACT I: SAVED BY MY FORESKIN

First Memory

A City Up And Down

Top Cemetery

A Third World Melting Pot

The British Invasion

Battles

Bullfighting Anyone?

Not Love At First Sight

Almost Like Bilingual Canada

Rotos And Ockers

Accents

Why It’s Not A Hot Chilli

Cueca And Folk Music

Tribe Metamorphosis

I Was Here First

The Imported Tribes

Spaniards And Basques

A Taste Of Anglo-Celts

The Selective Immigration Law

The Croatians

Le French

Veramente Italiano

By Socrates!

The Dutch

Swiss Clocks

Dasvidaniya

Other European Arrivals

Shalom

The Art Of Bargaining

A Touch Of Asia

Arrivals From The Americas

The Chilean Roma

Other Ethnic Groups

A Penguin’s Life

Missing

The Final Soup

The Apples

O’higgins, Carrera, Rodríguez, And A Visionary

John Christian Watson

Emile Dubois

Wilhelm Becker

Rotten Apple To The Core

Why Being A Saint Is The Hardest Profession

Santa Teresa De Los Andes

Padre Hurtado

The Written Word

Pablo Neruda

Gabriela Mistral

Tragic Apple

When Blanca Met John

Blanca’s Background

Claudio Arrau

Apples That Would Have Given Newton The Jitters

Chile Breaks Away From The Axis

The Wrong Nazi

If You Can’t Wreck Them, Help Them

What A Friend Told Me

The Chilean Germans

If Hitler Had Won

My Story

ACT II: LILIES OF THE FIELD

The Admiral

Happy, Silly Days

Mum, I Shrank My Father

Airwaves

Alfonso’s Beautiful Lies

Víctor’s Pistol

Whatever Happened To Betty?

La Matriz

Underdogs

Fishy Santa

First Boobs

Puente Colmo

Family Confusion

Argentinean Encounter

Foul Mouth

Don’t Shoot Them In My Presence

Interactive Cinemas

The Lame Projectionist

Movies And Nicknames

In The Arms Of Stardom

Quince

Arithmetics And Frogs

Another Taste Of Reality

ACT III: NEPTUNO HOUSE

240 Volts

John Wayne

What Cobbled Streets Offered

Touched By An Angel

Figurines And Czechoslovakian Glassware

Inelia Bouey

Sex On The Bench

Bullets And Borrowed Buick

Juan Segura

The Ladder

The Kiosk

The Vista

The Pharaoh

Australia And New Zealand

Tango Advocate

By Reason Or By Force

Pomponio

Death Of The Underwear

Why

El Señor Lyndall And Radio Lord Cochrane

Second Chance

Ice Cream

Valparaíso’s 9/11

I Was In The Tunnel

Restaurante Yolita

Christmas Trees

A Touch Of Feminism

The Compositor

The House Is On Fire

The Letter

The Hen

Oscar And Fakirito

El Derby

Cannibalism

Reaction

Class Distinction

The Drawers

I Turned Saint

Makeshift Earthquakes

The House On Stilts

Captive

Hormones

Modernity

Korea And Inflation

Infinity

Christening

The Deep

Cinema Val-Paradiso

Jimmy’s Eyes

El Molo And La Costanera

Valparaíso’s Indianapolis

The Casino

Cappuccino Anyone?

Mapuche Radio

Radio Monumental

Invention

A Helping Hand

A Radio World

Pacemakers

A Truthful Politician

King Of Coffins

Colleagues, Clients, And Radio Advertising

A New Station

The Flashy Apartment

Discovering Jesus

Jesus’ Rude Finger

Jesus’ Sermons

A Surreal Sighting

Photo Gallery

ACT IV: BUENOS AIRES STREET

Abode From Hell

The Removalist

Fire

Don Juan

Jailed

Detained

The Chuchoca Affair

Hunger

Test

Transformers

My Father’s Compensation

Brothel Inspection

The Swan

There Are No Chinese In The Chinese Quarter

The Two Chinese

Action And Reaction

The Heretic Catholic

Malones

Abortion

Again By Reason Or By Force

The Square Metre

Timber Mario

Hot Morning Bread

Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

Loyalty

Turkish Sweat

Sex In European Films: A Mystery

Manuel

When Jack The Ripper Met Michelangelo

De La Salle Zoo

Fiat Bambino

To Sir, With Lots Of Love

Chile World Cup 1962

He Liked His Chilli

A Special Kind Of Passion

Ruperto And Camilo

The US President

Discovered

Bakery

Peñuelas

The Romantic Toe

Don Lorenzo And The British

Contrasting Locals And Europeans

The Maid

Bullet In The Leg

Multi-Ethnicity

Peter

El Lucho

Hand On The Rump

El Paredón

Not Pele’s Soccer

The Philosophy Conundrum

Planet Balland

Lukas

Cartooning And Culturismo

File 503

A Dark Cloud On The Horizon

Tin Man

Chooby Checker

Chito Faró

Still Not My Way

A Windfall

Lieutenant Merino

Samba With Faith

Very Lively Still Life

Master Persuader

Burritos

The New Wave

The Chilean Beatles

Mathematical Genius?

What Is Zero To God?

Peculiar Measurements

The Square Metre Revisited

Auntie

Woodcarvers

Víctor Hugo

Coins Again

The Endless Parade Continues

Was Dean Reed Killed?

Pig And The Wrestlers

Destiny

The Comeback

Rainy Days

First Squeeze

Luis

Revenge

Dread

The Truth

Gnomes

Signs Of The Time

Guru Salesman

For Emblem And Country

Southbound

The Mother Of All Quakes

Chainsaw Muncher And Beyond The Farm

The Mystery

El Hombre

Goat Story

Home Again

Paparazzi Blues

Uncertain Future: Take Two

Near-Death Of A Salesman

The Roman Emperor

Fiat 1600

Do Me A Favour

The Cigarette Vendor

Wedding Without A Shotgun

A Threesome Honeymoon

My Father Learns The Truth

Another Favour

A Lightbulb Moment

Exodus

Last Burning Bridge To Cross

‘Delilah’ Dies, Submarine Surfaces, And They’re A Weird Mob

The Eagle Has Landed

Roberto Parragué Singer

Architecture Mirrors Society

Touchdown

Epilogue

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Fernando Felgueras was born in Valparaíso, Chile, on December 24, 1947. The son of a well-known radio announcer, at age 16, he became a professional cartoonist.

In Los Angeles, USA, he was a newscaster and reporter at KSCI TV and a TV producer and presenter on Australia’s SBS TV network and Sydney’s TVS. In the early 1980s, he set out from Sydney on a solo overland filming expedition across the USA and Central and South America. He screened some of his experiences on his SBS TV show Latin America in Vogue. At 36, he became an independent radio producer and announcer at several stations and visited various countries on four continents. His hibernated love for writing emerged later. He has written four screenplays and produced, written, and directed the short films The Third Corpse and Fair Dinkum. He graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Sydney, majoring in English. Fernando has called Australia home since October 1969. This is his first book.

FIRST DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to God. All that is. Or the eternally unfathomable. Call this what you may. I will call the omnipresence God. As I write, God tells me that I will not do it my way, for my path, like that of all of us, is a learning process. Yet I know He loves me like He does all of us. God inhabits what came to me as the Real Realm. He is invisible. But through His Son, who referred to Him as His Father, he takes human form so that those He has summoned for a precise appointment (including our purpose and when our time is up)—we can feel that warm familiarity because life does not end here.

Then, there is no design without intelligence. Even tree leaves appear mathematically designed. And to God, there is no zero. Furthermore, it does not make sense that something randomly thrown into space can turn out ferociously intelligent and orderly. If the theory is correct, the Big Bang may not have been spontaneous but conscious and designed. With exact imprints. Like our DNA. We may know something about DNA. But scantly about the universes (I believe there are different ones) that are expanding. Although the sage might accuse me of being simplistic, I know that if I hurl a bunch of cards in the air, they will not land on a table, a perfect, orderly, symmetrical Scottish castle as if a product of the Big Bang. Maybe a magician could do that, but we know this would be a splendid load of illusionary bullshit on his part, not the real deal.

The expanding chaos of those universes turns into exact order through a master engineer, architect, builder, and mathematician. Counterbalanced with the binary of imperfection in an endless cycle of infinite expanding force, perhaps creating their space as they advance, it can only come from intelligence. And intelligence equals a Conscious Being. That unseen being escapes our comprehension. But it is no use trying to work Him out. And to understand Him. Similarly, a mayfly that lives around 24 hours (and in cosmic time, even if we die at a ripe old age, we probably live as long, if not a great deal less) would be unable to comprehend quantum mechanics, the science of that which is infinitely small. Or the human capacity for rocket science.

God is the most outstanding scientist. He has left all at human disposal for science. When human science decides to stop thinking about its precious self as the way to find answers and be close to God, I am confident that new doors will open to many mysteries in those universes. We must realise that God and science are one for this to happen. We also need to be at peace with that Invisible Being who created the visible. And as far as the human condition, beyond religion and its rituals, He cares more about pure and simple deeds in the shape of righteousness.

SECOND DEDICATION

To Australia when in 1969, it was just a matter of flying back home.

THIRD DEDICATION

To my father, who was born to give. To my mother, Yolanda, for her love during my childhood and throughout my life. To the relatives of my youth whose time has passed; to my Australian family—Karen, Antony, and Thomas—and to their brothers, also my sons, Patrick and Luis; to their mother, Ester; and to my friends, husband and wife Lee Burns and Raffi Andonian, and to Raquel Domingo from Madrid. I dedicate it to us, our global society. There is a solution. Let us change from Lehman Brothers likes to the village idiot. Who knows, we might win everything back. Gordon Gekko of Wall Street fame was wrong: greed is not good. Financial instability is part of our Achilles heel. We will heat the planet in one explosive go if we are not careful. Meaning a significant war. Otherwise, it might happen in ‘killing me softly’–mode gas emissions, to say the least, including pandemics, sending ourselves back to less than basics. Can we finally become a truly civilised, evolved planet? I hope we have a united yes, ‘eight billion and counting.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The author wishes to thank La Estrella and El Mercurio newspapers of Valparaíso, Chile.

PROLOGUE

Coup d’ État

It was a typical windy September day at the seaport of Valparaíso. It was hard to believe that this was actually happening. It was surreal, a hazy nightmare, said my father. ‘Entren rápido! [Get inside quick!]’ he urged the crowd. Profuse machine-gun fire rang out in the hills, the buildings, and the crowd in their crossfire. Many hurried to the third floor of my parents’ large old apartment. These were friends and acquaintances—people my family knew. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. Scared people were inside, and the newcomers joined those lying face down on the long corridor. One of those, flat on the timber, was Juan, a man who had made me so angry four years before, but I had no chip on my shoulder on this day. That rat-atat-tat-tat drowned out my father’s directions and the prayers and cries of the women.

The drama unveiling around my family’s home was not nearly as terrifying as other gun battles nationwide. On one side of the conflict were the Chilean Police and the Army, fronting the socialist and communist fighters who made up the other side.

There was passionate resistance from the socialists and communists, but they were no match for the armed forces’ power, discipline, and synchronicity.

The Chilean Army forcefully removed the socialists, communists, and sympathisers from their homes. In Santiago, many were rounded up like cattle and detained in a large stadium, while others found themselves locked up in camps. On the opposite side, military members also lost their lives at the hands of the Left. Everyone suffered.

My family’s experience took place around September 11, 1973. Chile’s coup d’état.

My father was not an extremist, nor were the people taking a hasty refuge in his home. These visitors were ordinary Chileans caught in a frightening situation. They had violated a curfew enforced by the armed services. This was a harsh new rule inflicted on the population; they were unaccustomed to having their personal freedom restricted. It was difficult for them to embrace the loss of simple liberties they had enjoyed previously. These bystanders, therefore, were risking their lives at most. And their autonomy for merely being outside. They stayed for days at my parents’ place until the shooting had stopped, and it was safe enough for them to go straight home.

I did not live through this incident. I did not live through it because I had already migrated to Australia. My father described the horror of being trapped by gunfire surrounding our family and friends. This happened about four years after I had moved to my new country; I left on October 14, 1969, aged 21, with my young wife of 19 and our 7-month-old baby boy. I had come to Australia by economic necessity, but above all, in search of personal identity, an identity within a society in harmony with who I am and one that would be good for my young family. Though my connection with my country of origin was pretty fractured, the news shocked me. I felt sympathy for the people.

I know I would be six feet under had I stayed. The year after I arrived in Australia, the socialist Salvador Allende Gossens became president. His administration and the right wing clashed heavily. I am not a political man but a fair and outspoken man. During the Allende administration, when leftists and rightists physically attacked each other, most likely, I would have tried to separate them; hence, I would have been in trouble with both sides. I would have reacted in the face of violence. When people were arrested during Pinochet’s coup, my mouth would have dug out my grave by protesting or asking why.

Before the 1973 Golpe de Estado (coup d’état), the country had descended into absolute chaos and anarchy. The Chilean currency was virtually worthless; the inflation rate was 600 to 800 per cent. People were compelled to queue for essential items. Like in the former Soviet republics, my family, acquaintances, and people everywhere queued for toilet paper, food, and other necessities I could previously pick up from my local shop. In Chile, the most common sign in the stores was Out of Stock or No Hay. Despite this appalling situation, some owners kept their sense of humour. They renamed their outlets’ Out of Stock,’ reflecting that the country had become a joke.

The US dollar had reached an outrageously high value. I heard unofficial reports of palatial homes in the Garden City of Viña del Mar selling for only a few hundred dollars. Also, some flew overseas to escape, leaving their cars at the airport with the keys in the ignition. And a note on the windscreen: ‘If you want this car, take it.’ The Chilean currency was so devalued my father bought the apartment where we lived for the equivalent of US $11 (yes, eleven United States dollars!). It was an economic collapse. Many Chileans compared the chaotic economy to that of Germany after WWII and added sarcastically that the only difference with Germany was that Chile’s buildings were still standing.

Chilean society was divided.

There was no intake of immigrants for the first time in the nation’s history. Instead, people were desperate to get out. The exodus increased after the coup: 200,000 Chileans sought asylum and left for other countries, 1,000 had disappeared, 3,000 were assassinated, and 35,000 were tortured. There were accounts of rape.

It was painful for many nationals abroad to watch this human catastrophe unfold. They did not care about politics but cared for the people. It was embarrassing to know that Chile was once ‘an example of democracy,’ yet this gargantuan tragedy continued to spread across the nation. I even felt guilty when Australians spoke to me (which was often) about this situation. They always spoke with a mixture of pity and shock. When asked about my origin, I could not escape these sad reminders about Chile. And I did not know what to say.

Even I became divided.

There was a time when I felt in favour of the military. The latter had unwittingly saved my father’s life, as I will detail later in this book. My father, a well-known radio personality in Central Chile, did not support either side. Like me, he was no fascist but opposed the now-overthrown socialist regime for his country’s mess.

However, the situation was more complex. Internal and external forces were at work. Which prevented Chile from becoming a socialist or communist country. This was not convenient for the Chilean right and for US interests. A growing social democracy like Scandinavia or Australia might have been ideal. However, the Chilean socialist experiment had turned into anarchy. Ultimately, it was not the ordinary Chileans who decided the fate of their nation. But it was many who suffered through a right-wing dictatorship.

To understand the unreality of the coup in Chile, one has to know how it felt when I lived there—before the coup. Hence in part, the reason for this book. Upon my departure for Australia, I left a notably sardonic book behind. It was called Revolución en Chile, which we students and perhaps the whole nation had devoured in 1964 when launched by two local journalists. They used the pseudonym Sillie Utternut. To many of us, their pen name could not be more accurate!

Revolución en Chile was a truly comical read back then. Nevertheless, there was an ominous undercurrent running through this fictional work. It contemplated the unthinkable. A revolution in Chile. The nation had a unique record of democracy and civility, and the idea that we could be anything but democratic was as alien as it was frightening. At school, we used to laugh at this preposterous thought. It was so far-fetched that we were unaware of when it became a reality. Though I was amused by the novel’s bizarre situations, the nationwide upheaval symptoms were evident. However, in my naivety, I only recognised them shortly before my young family and I hopped on a plane bound for Australia.

If the copy of Revolución en Chile was still under my bed, collecting dust on September 11, 1973, it must have been a picture-perfect mise en scène with the rat-a-tat-tat-tat machine-gun fire in the background. What’s more, sinisterly in tune with the book’s ironic content.

To millions of Chileans, September 11, 1973, is a historic day. Historically, countless events of importance were centred on the city of Valparaíso. Significantly, the coup started at this seaport under the direction of Admiral José Toribio Merino, a member of the newly formed junta. During the coup, Augusto Pinochet, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, emerged as the self-appointed President of Chile, drastically terminating the socialist regime of President Salvador Allende Gossens.

In 1981, as a news anchor and reporter for KSCI Channel 18 UHF TV in West Los Angeles, I met Henry Kissinger, former Secretary of State under the Nixon administration. I knew that Kissinger was the ‘architect’ of the US intervention in Chile aimed at derailing Allende’s government culminating in the coup.

We met in a packed room amid shouting American journalists, quickly silenced by even a hand gesture of Kissinger’s. The topic of the press conference with Mr Kissinger was the troubles in El Salvador. El Salvador’s military was US-backed. Yet US participation in the actual Chilean coup is debatable to others. Chile’s military maintains that they acted alone. However, I was tempted to ask Mr Kissinger, a lover of ‘political architecture,’ about his architectural work in Chile, but this was outside the subject. Though he gave me more time than everyone else, before risking losing my lungs yelling, I stood up. Raised my hand. And then he let me ask pertaining questions. However, I regret acting out of character and not asking questions about his and Richard Nixon’s intervention in Chile.

Although my story revolves around what I considered happy and carefree times, an ominous cloud was stealthily taking shape on the horizon. These developments were inextricably connected to the events of September 11, 1973.

*         *         *

FROM THE AUTHOR

This work is an extensive introduction to my first tribe and how, in part, it shaped me culturally. It portrays the intimate account of the first twenty-one years of my life in the 1950s and late 1960s in Chile, at the time, one of the world’s free democracies.

I do not intend to praise my place of origin. That is what its tourism bureau is for. Including what I perceived were its right sides and not-so-good sides, this account takes place mainly in the society I knew back then. You may read it as a memoir written in the style of fiction or fiction that reads like a memoir.

Unless filmed in real time from beginning to end, no true-life story can be accurate in the written word.

This is also the story of my contradictory famous radio announcer father. Among many things he did, he buried hundreds of Chileans, but it was not a crime because they were already dead.

Over the years, my adopted nation, Australia—my other tribe, the definitive tribe—has helped me immensely in the character-tuning department. Australia is not the place where I reside. I feel part of it.

If you were a child, adolescent, or young adult in the West during that era, you might find as you read on that you and I shared a common culture; but we certainly shared the same pop culture. If you lived in the Eastern Hemisphere, you might also find a reflection of your times. Or you may see that culturally, we have had very little in common or nothing at all. Yet we have the most crucial thing in common: humanity.

If you were born later on either side of the globe, I cordially invite you to a past I lived and observed.

If you grew up in Chile and like this story, pass it on. If you do not, send me your eggs and tomatoes by post, as I am allergic to them in direct contact.

Some stories I relate to may be unique. And they stand by themselves. At times, they may be bizarre or baffling. Others might be quietly mortifying and downright sad. You be the judge. Unfortunately, I did not have a movie camera to chronicle the scenes; otherwise, this would have been a documentary. Instead, I have to rely on my memory. I have strived to be accurate with the events I underwent and witnessed. Those I heard about, in telling them, I have sought to be a writer, not a historian.

My first name, Fernando, is believed to be a Spanish variant of the German Ferdinand. I don’t quite like the German version. Fernando, in my estimation, sounds better, and it means a few things that would make me blush, but it also means adventurer. In that respect, my parents chose the correct name as, to this day, I continue to plunge into every damned challenge that crosses my path.

During the sixth century, the Visigoths of Eastern Germany (who didn’t know that they would have a dividing wall in the future, which, thank heavens, was torn down) invaded Spain (España) when illegal immigrants weren’t respectful. Thus, various Spanish names are of Germanic origin. Let me seize the opportunity and share a sad story: Fernando could easily have become common in the English-speaking world. Though foreign, I hope you agree it is endowed with a nice light ring, like ‘hearing the drums.’ However, I learnt that on one of the occasions when England was at war with Spain, the king’s name was Fernando. Allegedly, my first name was prohibited in the British Isles. How disappointing. I wished I had company in my namesake! Why did the king of Spain have to be called such? Why couldn’t he be Ramón instead?

Despite the famous song by the musical group Abba, it feels a bit lonesome to bear the name Fernando in English-speaking Australia. I am sure there are more here called Muhammad than Fernando. Lucky for those called Muhammad. I envy them! As far as namesakes, they have more company than I do.

I also have an unusual Celtic Spanish surname, which I was compelled to spell out during my visit to Spain, to Spaniards! I have had to spell it in Latin America and everywhere else too! Those with uncommon names like Schwarzenegger know the feeling too well. How many hours of his life did the actor and former California governor spend spelling out his name to Americans? The latter could not get it right before Arnold became ‘terminally’ famous. He must have walked away in frustration quite a few times. Now I know where ‘I’ll be back’ comes from.

My paternal grandfather, a Spaniard (I will give you his name soon), used to remark that whoever bears our surname is a relative. Big deal! If one of us commits a felony, the news will spread that a clan member is a perpetrator and not someone else wholly unrelated, someone who coincidentally has the same last name. The González or García tribes, for example, do not enjoy such distinction. Or rather a condemnation if they do wrong.

As I write, my European research indicates that approximately 126 persons in Spain bear the surname Felgueras. It is the nation’s 19.418th less-frequent surname. In France, only two individuals hold it and two in Germany. Statistics reveal nothing about how infrequent my family name is in those countries. I am therefore trying to work out mathematically how less frequent my name is in France and Germany with four people. (Yet, on second thought, maybe I should consider it infrequent).

In Argentina, they reach 239. The numbers could be more precise in Chile but fewer than in Argentina. Canada used to show three phone book entries (my cousins and their progeny). Since I arrived in 1969, Australia has held additional blood-related family members. As far as I know, primarily female relations immigrated to the USA, so the surname would be lost in intermarriage. The same applies to Norway. My latest research reveals that only 677 persons worldwide have the name Felgueras. Yes, we have a rare patronymic, ironically emanating from a densely populated part of the world. Moreover, similar to Australians who feel proud of a convict ancestry, we are mostly a peculiar Celtic clan. Enough in numbers to start a new colony on Mars.

Physical appearance among us varies. I inherited my mother’s olive skin. On my paternal side, they are Caucasians. So next to them, as they would say, I resemble ‘a fly flailing in milk,’ a racist family joke intended as a term of endearment.

My father’s folks originated in Asturias, the lush green northern part of Spain. Many inhabitants of Asturias retain their ancestry, as do those from adjacent regions. Centuries ago, the Moors could not penetrate this area. They were consistently repelled. However, it is worth noting that the Arab invaders left a grand cultural legacy in Southern Spain during their 900 years of overstayed ‘welcome.’ At the time, the Moors were more advanced than the people they subdued; the Moors represented the civilised world. Among other things, they taught the Europeans to take a bath.

The Arabs then just loved Spain. Their feelings are aptly portrayed in the catchy 1970s song ‘Crying for Granada [Llorando por Granada].’ It is based on the emotional story of the last reigning Arab caliph, defeated in battle. As he prepared to leave Spain, he sobbed. But his mother rebuked him, ‘You weep like a woman for what you could not keep as a man.’ Now, that was a strong mother. The Arabs might have stayed longer in Spain if she had been in charge. Women in politics and in authority seem much tougher. Mrs Margaret Thatcher might have agreed.

My paternal grandfather said that we are Celts on his side of the family and persistent and determined as Celts. So, many years ago, I visited Asturias to retrace my roots. To my surprise, I heard local Spaniards playing the bagpipes as the Scottish do amid green rolling hills! This felt both weird and fascinating. More so when I heard a haunting Celtic Spanish tune, bagpipes and all, strangely mixed with Mexican mariachis on the radio. Thus, maybe world music was born in Asturias, though I was more interested in the bagpipes. I thought only the Scots could transform wailing dissonance into haunting, glorious sounds that resonate on parades at Saint Patrick’s Day, state funerals, or battlefields. Playing those bagpipes with bullets whizzing past must require a lot of courage. It could be a sonic weapon for demoralising the enemy. With so much pipe blowing, there is no wonder many Asturianos have flushed cheeks like the Scottish.

Towards 200 BC, the Celts were a majority group in Britain, Ireland, France, Portugal, Spain, Switzerland, Northern Italy, Belgium, Southern Germany, Austria, Southern Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Serbia, Slovenia, Romania, Bulgaria; in fact, in most of Europe and in a good portion of Asia Minor, today’s Turkey. The Celts were there before the Romans invited themselves in. The other important tribe was the already disciplined Germanics, whom the Romans decided not to conquer. Instead, the Romans went for a softer target: the Celts. One scholar wrote that the Celts were the ‘wogs’ of Europe, and the famous Greeks Pytheas and Herodotus were among the first ‘civilised’ Europeans who encountered this weird Celtic mob. Julius Caesar and Tacitus were historians-war correspondents and wrote extensively about the Celts.

I feel a strong affinity with the mysterious Celts. With their unsung heroes, the Druids. With their prediction that the Roman Empire would fall. As it did. And with their bagpipe-puffing descendants. Today’s Celts play a pivotal role in the civilised world. But this argument is for another book if it eventuates.

I was a young boy when I learnt that my paternal great-grandfather, Ramiro, a Celt, had migrated in the early 1900s from Asturias, Spain, to Valparaíso, Chile, with his Parisian wife, Ramona Dromand Durat, and their numerous children. I was curious about their migration. So I asked Jesus the reason behind their move. His response, in a moment. Jesus (Spanish: Jesús) was one of their children and my paternal grandfather. About the name Jesus, for many Spaniards, it was, and it is still OK to bear the name of the Son of God. Perhaps the Spaniards felt they were entitled to this after the miracle of discovering the American continent and its subsequent conquest.

There was another, albeit minor, miracle around Jesus. According to many—and I would agree—my grandfather Jesus had a remarkable physical resemblance to Winston Churchill, robust and wilful jaw included. This similarity also extended to his no-nonsense character. Jesus was a determined, tough-as-nails-action individual and not at all sentimental. Luckily, Jesus also had a dry sense of humour, like the original Churchill.

Jesus responded to my immigration query casually, with a slight shrug, ‘Why did my family come to Chile? Because my father was going to kill his business partner, that’s why.’ With a mixture of shock and amusement, I asked him, ‘But why?’ Jesus added nonchalantly, ‘My father and that man owned a civil engineering business when the latter fleeced him en grande [big time]. He was so distraught by the betrayal that he swore he would finish him off.’ Jesus continued, ‘Like many folks back then, my father was a man of his word. So fearing a tragedy, the rest of the family convinced him to leave Spain.’

People emigrate for many reasons. But this was the first time I heard about somebody migrating to avoid murder. Many people were sent from England to Australia as convicts for the most ridiculous felonies: petty theft, stealing a chicken, the offence already committed. Yet to ‘escape’ to a distant country before the crime was even attempted was beyond me. After Jesus revealed the bizarre account, I wondered why Ramiro could not give his partner a punch in the nose, stay in Spain, and forget all about it. My impressionable mind kept pondering that maybe it was not a good idea for them to remain in Spain; otherwise, I would not have existed. I was meant to be born elsewhere.

At the time, rumour had it in Spain that the family’s adopted country, a former colony, was a fine place to start a new life. Its climate is defined by the massive Andes Mountains, Chile’s climatic moderator, running insolently from north to south. The North is arid with vast deserts and quaint cities and towns, while Mediterranean weather prevails in the central region, its landscape reminiscent of Southern California. Yet it is bitterly cold in winter, especially in the lush green, rainy south, with abundant lakes. Breathtaking fjords. And forests similar to Europe’s. It is devoid of jungles, one aspect that many Europeans preferred, without poisonous or dangerous animals, except for a type of spider that showed up nearly as often as comets do.

Before the construction of the Panama Canal, vessels from around the world had to dock in Valparaíso harbour following the circumnavigation of the perilous Cape Horn. This necessity turned Valparaíso, the most important Chilean seaport, into a splendid city with magnificent European-style buildings. That was until, in 1906, a powerful telluric force devastated it. This horrific earthquake obliterated the town. It was razed to the ground. Coincidentally, the same year, Valparaíso’s sister city, San Francisco (USA), was also struck by distinctly destructive tremors.

So which city, called Valparaíso, did Ramiro and Ramona choose to migrate to after the quake? I admit I had a most colourful family, but as we will see, logic was not one of their virtues. Amid the tons of rubble still to be removed and mother of all quakes behind, there was no time for regrets and second thoughts for my great-grandparents attempting their way back to Europe. Did it occur to them to move to another town? Had Ramiro’s thieving partner known this, he would have killed himself laughing and declared defunct without Ramiro’s ‘help.’ As a common belief, my pioneering ancestors probably thought that since Valparaíso had been struck by a quake of such devastating magnitude, it might be decades before another wobble hit again. Hence they stayed amid the debris.

Many years after Jesus’ passing, again curious, I wondered how their life was in their new country. Thus, I raised the question to one of Jesus’ sisters, Auntie Gumercinda (Goome), the matriarch, well into her mid-90s and the sole survivor of that generation. I was particularly interested in my French great-grandma Ramona’s adaptation. Sharp as a razor, Goome told me that the Chileans used to make fun of Ramona. According to Goome, the poor Gaul spoke stilted Spanish with a strong French accent. And embarrassed by her speech, she mainly stayed at home. What blatant discrimination! I exclaimed indignantly. I wish I had lived then, so I would have told off those who mocked her. But Ramona died young. And I never knew her or her tormentors.

Without my asking, perhaps revealing a secret, Goome said that her dad, Ramiro, a widower by then, was quite popular with the opposite sex. Goome said she remembered him on his way out of the house, stopped outside the door, scratched the soil backwards with his feet (as roosters do), and jokingly complained that he would ‘have a hard day’s work ahead’—with women. Yet Jesus was so different from his father, Ramiro. True to his name, Jesus didn’t fool around. Goome asked me why some men like her father do such things. Bringing to mind the story of the scorpion that crossed the river piggyback on the frog and promising not to sting the frog but still did, I responded: it is in their nature. Can’t they help their nature? asked Auntie Goome, yet I had no response to that. Goome then disclosed that Ramiro had remarried, had more children, and some migrated to Argentina. As far as I know, the family is also scattered in Spain, Canada, the USA, Norway, and Australia.

To my relations and friends in Spain, my ancestors had migrated to ‘the Americas.’ Or, simply, to ‘América.’ To traditional Spaniards, America is not the United States of America. America is any part of the three Americas. I believe that the Spaniards have the right to think this way: if we put it in cinematic terms, Spain was the executive producer of the discovery of the Americas and Columbus, a great visionary who must have been an accomplished salesman for he sold his idea to the Spanish king and queen, was the film director. Together, they made a blockbuster.

According to the family in Asturias, Ramiro, Ramona, and their children had migrated to America. Indeed, to a very long, very skinny country called Chile. Any narrower and Chile would be a tightrope. But this would be fine for my family. We were used to keeping a balancing act.

*         *         *

INTRODUCTION

‘Can we escape our tribe?’ I fired my point-blank question at the screenwriting teacher, who appeared to be struggling with the answer. Judging by how he reacted, I had put him on the spot; he sat in silence until it became apparent that he seemed uncomfortable. Seconds earlier, he told our class about the importance of writing about the things we know. Our origin. Where we come from. What we know intimately well and is closer to us. As is our tribe.

‘Can we escape our tribe?’ Typically me, I had somehow managed to defy his reasoning. I was curious and wanted to query the teaching. In my younger years, my questioning manifested in sarcasm; it was no wonder that I was expelled continuously from class during my time at school due to my smart-arse remarks. The difference was, this time, I was older, and I was serious.

‘Can we escape our tribe?’ The teacher and the few dozen students kept silent. I was unsure if this American was upset with me for posing this question. He seemed challenged; otherwise, he would have answered straightaway, being quick with his tongue as he was. Finally, he uttered what appeared to me a half-convinced no. I thought his hesitation encapsulated the idea that no matter how much we integrate or camouflage ourselves in another culture, we cannot escape our own tribe. It dawned on me that trying to escape the tribe would be like turning my skin inside out and letting all the cultural and mindset influences vanish into a gust of wind, all the initial sway that shaped me—gone. According to the teacher, I could not escape the tribe. I had no choice. The tribe would be there until the day I die.

In hindsight, the screenwriting teacher was resentful of my enquiry, which disconcerted him. A day or two later, he suddenly turned to me before the class and asserted that I was ‘completely mad.’ Yet all I asked was, ‘Can we escape our tribe?’ I nearly retaliated by telling him it was an honour to have been recognised by a kindred mind. But I decided to bite my tongue. I loved screenwriting lessons too much to risk expulsion. I liked that teacher. He was both charismatic and monumental in the knowledge of the craft.

My original tribe is a mask I don’t recall ordering online. And as I see it, a tribe has nothing to do with anthropology and skull shapes. In my opinion, a tribe is also about mentality. Not only physicality. I had been born and raised in one place, but my psyche, much to the dismay and shock of family and friends, was another, completely alien. All I had to do was search for my real tribe, the one I would identify and spend the rest of my life with. Another idea assaulted me. Which tribe did I identify with? The one I would be heading to or the one in my genetic code?

Yes, I was confused. Divine confusion is the mother of all writing, for only the written word can help clarify what the tongue cannot. So I knew I would write about this one day. At around age 12, I wanted to inscribe my memoirs. But decided to postpone it for decades. ‘Something’ told me I might be short of lasting experiences to write then, except for a feel, sense or perception. Those three detections lingered from my times as a baby. And as far as consciousness, the only conscious ‘experience’ I could reveal in my memoirs (as a 12-year-old) was about something that bit me. What bit me was not a spider or a snake. It bit me memorably enough to leave a permanent impression. To this bite, I must add electrical current. And much more.

I have divided the pillars of this book, not into chapters. But into acts. Like a stage play. Because I believe that life resembles a drama on stage. Life is the original magnanimous play, so full of histrionics. Hence, I have narrated this work, in part, as the person I am today. But mainly as a young adult. The teenager. The boy. The infant. And, believe it or not, the baby I used to be. I have no recollection of my nine months as a fetus. I think everyone would agree that I was pretty basic. And comfortable. And still without much experience to write about other than as a parasitical larva feeding off my mother. If I endeavoured to learn who I was or what it was like for me before birth, I would have to submit myself to regressive hypnosis, and I am not in the mood for that.

*         *         *

ANCESTRY AND FIRST SENSATIONS

Ancestry can be fascinating. Surprising. And a source of pride even if our ancestors had not discovered penicillin or won the Nobel Prize for Peace. For example, I have known some Australians who feel proud of their convict background. For some morbid reason, this proves good for their psyche. I have sensed that Australians who lack convict ancestry wish they did. Some Aussies have revealed to me (with an unavoidable complicity grin) stories about a convict relative who, in colonial times, had broken the law in the British Isles and ended up whisked away Down Under to be amongst the first under-duress settlers. I would say that unless we are descendants of people like Albert Schweitzer or Mother Teresa, a black sheep in the family might be stimulating, significantly, if it does not affect us in the present. This can even give us mild prestige and acquire a romantic air over time. Frankly, a blood relation to Idi Amin would not make me proud if it came to a choice. But Ronald Biggs would suit me fine. At best the latter was seemingly repentant.

If ancestry is a form of memory, it appears that in our human endeavour, we, as babies, experience want, feel, and tactile sensations before memory. They are feral first-aid kits for survival that we might not cognitively recollect in later life. Yet they remain there, dormant in our subconscious. One afternoon, these hibernating memories might find awakening by association. They might even be ‘smelled,’ like a particular male perfume aboard a French train on your first trip to France in 2003. The man who splashed it on, confirmed by carriage advertising posters, passengers’ whispering, and quiet and loud political comments, pro and against, is the French President sitting quite unmoved in front. Perhaps the first person important in France to remember that the French Revolution meant egalitarianism. At least for public transport. Thus, he decided to travel like the common people. Earlier, you had landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport. You had no hotel booking. And the information desk was inexplicably closed. You were almost in tears, desperate to get to your embassy that would lock in an hour. Why? Your cell phone, clothes, passport, credit cards, and cash had been stolen. You did not have spare money to buy a train ticket, and the only human who helped you out here was an illegal immigrant who aspired to migrate to Australia (even by boat, he affirmed). Yet, you are against ‘queue jumping’ aliens. And now you feel like one. To make matters worse, you can’t speak French in English-averse Paris. Aboard the train, that perfume on Monsieur Le président is so penetrating that your nostrils would welcome tenacious Australian outback flies instead. You exit the station. Sprint a la Cathy Freeman, concertina-Paris-map flying behind you like a paper-made Olympic torch. With sweat dripping down your face, you accomplish your feat by sheer miracle, blasting through your embassy’s gates a minute before closing time—your problem is solved. You return home and absolutely forget this incident.

You come across the same scent in Melbourne or Quebec many years later. And you ask yourself, Where have I smelled that perfume before? Instantly, igniting gunpowder travels at lightning speed to the confines of your brain cells. You revive the same undesirable episode in Paris. And you see it flashing past your eyes in full swing, a fast movie trailer.

So why compare an adult’s bad experience to a baby’s bad one? In the face of unbearable events, whether adult or baby, though we would rather forget, we still remember or feel.

I will now share my first tactile feeling (followed by my first shocking memory). What kind of association has triggered revisiting my first feelings or sensations? The answer—in other words, the ‘Presidential perfume’ that sparked it—is writing this book. This book has compelled me to dive into those first sensations.

My absolute first feel as a baby remains woven in a hazy veil. Notwithstanding, it was terrible for other babies and me, reiterated later by what I heard. And although what I encountered was obnoxious, to say the least, I could not linguistically complain then. We, babies, did not have a say. Not because we lived under a dictatorship—well, not yet. However, I am protesting now. I do it on behalf of the babies of our epoch who made it to adulthood. And also those who, for any given reason, did not.

I belong to the baby boomers’ vintage, humanly speaking, a seemingly good harvesting span where things were clearly defined. Good and evil. Allies against Nazis. We in the West were good. The communists were wicked. Nothing in between. No ‘political correctness.’ Yet, as a baby, I sensed that I had to endure that indignity even without military intervention. There was this local culture to swaddle us, babies like Egyptian mummies when it came to nappy changing. Arms included. Already indicative that I would live in a society where I would find difficulty expressing individualism. The swaddle was fine on something inanimate. But not on something alive. It was claustrophobic. Traumatic. All I could move were my eyes and mouth. When I developed more command over my controlled body, I desperately tried to free my limbs, only to somehow find my face pressed against a smothering pillow. Talk about cot death! But I was a little fighter who kept his apertures aimed at oxygen. Shifting my head sideways, I managed to breathe and cry my lungs out until rescued. The changing of nappies, moments of freedom. They equated to a prison inmate allowed minutes of exercise around the yard to end up again imprisoned and in the same position, followed by another of my struggles: faced down.

As I grew up, family members told me that the baby sheathing was done to stop us from scratching our faces and damaging our eyes. I did not buy it. I thought our minders were slack. They refused to take the trouble to cut our nails. Consequently, the babies of my generation must have sported the longest fingernails in the world.

Before I was conceived—I mean, when I was nothing, nada, zilch (for atheists), or when I was a spirit, a soul (for believers)—I did not have a clue that I was going to embody a ‘parcel,’ literally a parcel. Once landed on Earth, we local babies had to put up with that stupid mummy-like swaddling. That tight straightjacket. Were we babies meant to be leakproof? The Titanic, wrapped up like that, would not have sunk.

I mention a photo of my parents and me at the end of this book, two hours after I was born. My arms are free, but it must have been only for appearances. If I only knew what awaited me. No wonder I cannot bear being restricted in any shape or form.

On the other hand, there was a curious superstition about a baby’s rump. The popular belief was that if a baby was born with, or had developed, a natural bluish-purple bruise-like mark called cayana just above its bum, it was a sign of vicious character and ill temper. As a young boy, I saw a few babies sporting cayana during nappy changing. Those babies must be today’s politicians, retired or six feet under. I am curious to know if I had cayana or not. If I did, it disappeared in time; I know because a mirror does not lie. As a proven Cinderfella, I asked: ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who has no cayana at all?’

Another problem was that in the very early years of my existence, I felt immensely frustrated by my absolute lack of language, perhaps provoked by the swathing. I knew I meant to say something, but I could not articulate what people called words. I heard others speak steadfastly, eloquently, and freely, yet I could not express myself. It was torture to imitate the sounds of language; language developed quite late for me. I have always been the last in the queue for everything; ‘a late bloomer’ states my Zodiac sign. The only way to counterbalance my linguistic disadvantage was to do something about it on the double. Although I enjoy talking, I am a doer. As I was born persistent, family members confirmed that I used to stick my fingers into my mouth as though searching for something, which gave my face bizarre distortions, making me grimace and puke often. I know why I did this; it gave my mouth elasticity to see if it would help me emit sounds (language) similar to those around me. I was desperate to express simple ‘feelings’ to adults—feelings related to good or foul smells, flavours, sights, or touch—and protest, especially about fabrics that scratched my sensitive skin like sandpaper. Later, I massaged my tongue to make it more flexible, but to no avail. My communication urges were blobs in a clogged pipe.

The terror and limbo of verbal impediment gave me panic attacks. I thought maybe babies and toddlers do not just sob. Perhaps they do have actual panic attacks. Those who didn’t know about my predicament ignored my cries like those of The Incredible Shrinking Man, who, in Kafkaesque mode, turned smaller and smaller until disappearing into Infinity. No one in the world heard him. Instead, adults attempted to comfort or distract me by rattling a stupid toy on my nostrils, not realising I wanted to speak! Strange as language sounded, I longed to imitate the gabble people exchanged, coming across to my ears as unfathomable beeping radio signals from outer space.

My original language, Spanish, like yours, has plenty of character. It is rich and sensual and endowed with a plethora of vocabulary and semantics, high in world popularity esteem. But for me, just like don Quixote’s adventures, it was initially not an easy ride. Coupled with this isolation, I also had a desire for constant cuddles. Which I longed for far more than my need for food and language. However, all I would get were pats on my back to expel flatulence, which, historically, I have produced aplenty.

I will now freeze my baby’s feelings and sensations. And then, fast-forward to a short, narrow street, searching for my first shocking memory as a toddler.

*         *         *

ACT I

SAVED BY MY FORESKIN

FIRST MEMORY

What is the first vivid memory that comes to your mind since you exist, the one that stands out, the one you can reach, the one in your memory bank that you can open like an old photo album? The one that brings a smile or tears to your eyes as you slide your fingers on the smooth, shiny sepia photograph and see that family gathering of yesteryear? You can see that significant moment your parents or grandparents have told you about or participated in. The one that is there, taken with those archaic square cameras on a tripod, the Kodak or Leica, when the photographer announced, ‘Look at the bird. Don’t move’ seconds before Uncle Cyril, the chubby tipsy one in the middle, couldn’t help releasing a silent gas that kept everyone stoically immobilised out of a sense of duty.

Well, I have one such memory. Luckily, nobody took a photo of it. I remember this so well; it could be happening now. Sunny morning. I am an infant and naked. I find myself riding a chamber pot or jerry, rocking myself back and forth, sort of joyful, pretending it’s a horse. I have just finished my basic inevitabilities; I feel a warmish splashing on my rump. I stop. But what happens next is enough to vividly remember for the rest of my days. It hurts like hell. It is a surprise attack. The sharp tiny teeth of our fluffy puppy Copito (Snowflake) sink with precise impetus into my flesh. The canine pulls and wags its head and growls. I spring off the jerry in shock and scream at the peak of my lungs. Copito then let go of my tiny strip, which had become elasticised to maximum capacity. I see through teary eyes the teeth marks and blood on what, years later, I understood to be my foreskin.

What if I had been circumcised? If I had, my foreskin would not have protected my appendage; Copito might have chopped it off! I am not criticising the ritual or whoever does it, for its practice is part of their tribe. And tribe members from different clans must respect each other’s cultural territory. But male circumcision was uncommon among us Gentiles in our region. It probably still is. Saved by my foreskin! I bet cultures that circumcise male toddlers do not sit them on jerry pots and risk the family dog biting off their penises.

However, in purely practical, not religious, terms, what happened to me proves that it pays not to be circumcised when it comes to penis biting. Long live the foreskin! Since this experience, I have become an unwavering advocate for preserving the foreskin. Albeit, life is not about perfection. If you have ever wedged this most delicate portion of your male gender in the cold, merciless sharpness of your pants’ metal zip (by the way, it is best to relieve ourselves sober), my untoward experience was much worse. Trust me. Noticeably, your metal zip has no will. It would not persist as our puppy did.

This is undoubtedly the most distressing memory I have had since birth. What a way to start life! Who could forget something like that? I nearly lost my penis. And it got hard—my life, that is. No, my voice has not changed, if you wonder. Everything is still there in the right place, functioning just fine. There is no evidence of residual physical or psychological traumas.

Next, I see my mother crouching beside me, holding a white cloth dotted with red stains, Copito defiant, still growling in a corner.

Back then, a little boy’s privates were exposed for general viewings, like frankfurter sausages at the corner deli. This was, in part, cultural. There was nothing wrong with it because child molestation was rarely heard of. However, because of this public exposure, I had another predicament. With a Band-Aid wrapped around my willy, family members and friends would have asked my mother why. She then would have explained to everyone dozens of times that Copito had mistaken my little extension for a worm, as I am sure that is what our puppy took it for. Let us bear in mind that frankfurters’ exposure or not, I was raised in a macho country, so in later years, the story of the wrapping around my ‘worm’ would have been more demeaning to me than the bite itself. Had my mother applied the Band-Aid, someone would have given me a laughable nickname, and nicknames in our midst followed us to our graves. There would have been sympathy for the actual incident. But not for what my penis looked like with a Band-Aid on. Luckily, my mother did not opt for the latter. It saved me from a humiliating nickname. After antiseptic application, all my little ‘kettle,’ tetera (a local term of endearment for the penis) needed was some fresh air to heal.

This unfortunate event took place in our front yard at Socrates Street. But despite its name, there was no way I would be philosophical about it.

A CITY UP AND DOWN

My close-to-severance-of-the-crutch kind happened at Cordillera Hill, one of many residential hills—if you like, suburbs or districts—of Valparaíso, Chile’s main seaport.

The word Valparaíso is not easy to pronounce, particularly for Anglophones who omit the correct pronunciation of the second and third a. Many still pronounce it Val-per-eeso. Suppose you are English-speaking and cannot utter it correctly. In that case, you might be glad that the locals affectionately nickname their seaport Pancho (easier to say), a diminutive of Francisco. Noteworthy is that San Francisco, USA, long considered Valparaíso’s sister city, is still referred to as Pancho, perhaps also the origin of the term Pancho for Valparaíso. So when visiting, you will not sound very official if you call the latter Pancho. But likely to provoke a few grins and get the locals to open up to you. They might like you since this may seem attractive to them, if not endearing, coming from a foreigner. As I have noticed in my travels, nothing warms people more than displaying some knowledge of the local lingo, particularly jargon that is dear to them. The latter invariably strikes a welcoming chord.

You may also step up a notch, engage in the local vernacular, and call Valparaíso Pancho gancho (an old expression). Gancho was the metal hook rugged stevedores used at the docks to handle heavy bundles. It hooked on loads as true friends and mates do, hence the term gancho for a buddy. So who knows, they might present you with the keys to the city this time.

Let me give you some personal, historical, and urban tidbits about this place.

Most of the Valparaíso population