Mario y el Día del Padre

El Día del Padre with the Cádiz family.

     For the past few weeks, I have been developing a relationship with a taxi driver I met here in Chile. His name is Mario. We met for the first time one Tuesday afternoon as I was leaving work.
     I was standing outside next to the bus stop for the buses that run by Saint Georges College hoping to catch the C22 and ride it to the Escuela Militar metro stop. Unfortunately, the C22 almost never comes by, and when it does, it is packed to the gills and sometimes impossible to board. Often, a more reliable alternative is to take the C07. Yet, this too has it's faults. The route is extremely indirect and leaves the passenger at the Manquehue metro stop, which is further away from my apartment than Escuela Militar and in the opposite direction. It can often take a full hour to go this route, which is the same time it takes to walk to my apartment from school. Therefore, it is only preferable when it is raining or when one is simply to tired to walk.
     This particular Tuesday afternoon, I had an English/Brazilian guitar lesson exchange and I needed to get home quickly. So, I had to take the gamble on the C22. As I was waiting for a bus that was not guaranteed to come, I saw a taxi go by. It's "LIBRE" light wasn't turned on, meaning that it probably already was carrying a passenger. I thought it was worth a shot anyway and I attempted to flag it down. As predicted, the taxi, already a passenger in cargo, continued on without stopping. A little later, the same situation faced me, and I again made the hand gesture to get the attention of a cab driver who, in all likelihood, already had a client. The driver sped by me, apparently empty; then suddenly, he stopped. I hustled to catch up with the car and, without making a conscious decision, sat in the front passenger seat. That choice, I'm sure of it, made all the difference.
     The driver explained to me that his light wasn't on because he was on his way to work and wasn't expecting to pick up any passengers that far out. He lived behind the hill in Huechuraba and was on his way to work in Las Condes/Providencia. Everywhere I go, it is clear that I am a foreigner, and while it can be frustrating to not feel like I'm blending in, it can be a great conversation starter. The conversation started the way that they all do; I told him about where I was from and what I was doing here. Upon learning that I was a professor, he told me that he and his wife were going to visit his sister in Toronto and that they were trying to learn English. He also asked me about the socio-economic nature of my school. I told him that it was very much an upper class school and, in response to his inquiry as to whether I had gotten to know the common people of Santiago, that my life pretty much revolved around the wealthiest parts of the city. He invited me to come over to his house for dinner sometime and when we arrived at my apartment, we exchanged numbers, shook hands, and I departed the vehicle. Another client jumped in the cab even before I finished saying goodbye.
     It wasn't until I was through the gates of my apartment complex that I realized that I hadn't paid. I ran back out onto the street, but he was gone. Fortunately, we had just exchanged numbers, so I called him right away. We agreed that he would call me when he was near my part of town and I would run the money down to him, but later that night when I received his call, he was already home. Instead, he suggested that he take me home again the next day, after all, he always passed by there at the same time every day, and I would give him the money then. We followed through with our plan and on that second ride with Mario, we made arrangements for him to come pick me up on Sunday and take me to his house for "once", a traditional Chilean pseudo-meal consisting of bread and tea.
     That first Sunday went very well. I met his wife Graciela, and they showed me pictures of their children and grandchildren. They are both 61 and have been married since they were 19. They also showed me pictures of their "campo" in the south of Chile and suggested that I might be able to visit it. They served me kuchen and marraqueta along with my tea. I agreed to help them with English and took a blank CD with me so that I could record myself saying various helpful phrases. Finally, he dropped my off at Saint George's for Sunday evening mass.
     Today, just like in the U.S., was el Día del Padre. This time, I was invited to join them for a full-fledged asado with his eldest son, also named Mario, and the grandchildren (los nietos). He picked me up in his cab around 2:00 with his nieto Cristian and we headed back to his house in Huechuraba. There I met Mario Eduardo, his son, who happend to have in his arms one charming Mr. Mario Antonio.

Los Marios, left to right: Mario del Carmen, Mario Antonio, y Mario Eduardo

     Mario del Carmen was the master of ceremonies, grilling up some cerdo and vacuna. The cerdo was just seasoned with salt, lime and oregano, which turned out to be delicious. The most memorable part of watching the master at the grill was how he got the coals started. After lighting them, he brought out a hair-dryer on an extension cord to supply some extra hot oxygen. When he needed to grab the meat, he left me in-charge of manning the hair-dryer, blasting the coals with hot air, sparks flying. It's definitely the most exciting way I've ever manned a gril.

El maestro del asado

     

     We spent the evening eating and talking about Mario and Graciela's upcoming trip to Canada. Mario   seems pretty convinced that he's going to want to move to Canada. He explained to me that he has the status of "político exonerado" from the days of the dictatorship. It means he receives benefits from the government as a sort of reparation for being fired during the military takeover of Pinochet. He asked me to translate for him a pamphlet labeled "Canada Welcomes Newcomers" to see if his status granted him easier immigration to Canada. I had to inform him that unless he was currently experiencing persecution then it did not. After that, we slipped into a brief English lesson, with which Mario Eduardo was able to help because he uses English for work. By the end of the night, I convinced Mario to break our his accordion.

¡Abuelito, abuelito, me toca a mi!

     The night wrapped up and Mario Eduardo's family left. Mario del Carmen, Graciela and I shared some café and sopapilla before they dropped my off for evening mass at Saint George's. All in all it wasn't a terrible replacement for father's day at home. Though I have to say, Chileans need to quit worrying about having Día del Padre on the same day as the U.S and instead have it in summer time so that the asado is a bit warmer. Either way, I won't forget the warmth of the Cádiz family when they made me feel like I was part of their family on Father's Day.