Concepcion Part I: In Transit

This weekend, the entire Stanford program flew south to Concepcion, Chile’s third largest city (after Santiago and Valparaiso). The trip was paid for by the generous patronage of the Bing family, a kind, wealthy couple whose generosity to Stanford is evidenced by Bing Wing of the main campus library. I am now, as ever, very grateful for the opportunities that they have provided for us.

I struck up a conversation with our cab driver on the way to the airport. He was in a talkative mood, and pointed out some of the major landmarks that we passed as we drove along the road that curves north of the city and then back down towards the to the west.

“You can see all this new construction here. They’re widening the road and putting up more of these tract housing developments. If you have the money, they make a very good investment; about $15,000 US dollars and you own your own home.” He gestured toward the right-hand side of the car. “They’re putting up a big mall over there where the “Almancenes Paris” sign is. The government wants one in every borough so people don’t always have to commute to Las Condes or Maipo. Oh look, there’s the old colonial houses.”

“Who lived there?” one of us asked.

“Don’t know,” he said smiling. “Some Spaniards with money, I guess. One of the presidents lived there for a while too. Now it’s a museum.” Now he directed our attention to the left. “Over there on the other side is one of the poorest parts of the city. It’s where people live if they don’t want to work hard.” The last statement stuck with me for a while, and I thought about it as the taxi weaved its way in and out of traffic.

The day was dry and blisteringly hot, just like every other day in Santiago during the summer. Smoggy air roared in through the open windows, blowing back my hair. On the right, the brick wall of the city’s main cemetery snaked its way along parallel to the road. On the left, an eclectic collection of condos, construction sites, office parks and the occasional intransigent clump of chipping plaster and haphazard corrugated tin passed in quick succession.

”I’ve lived in Santiago all my life,” the driver told us. “I consider myself very lucky to be in Chile. There’s not so much crime like in so many other places. We’re good people. Our fruit is the best in the world, our wine is the best, our beaches and mountains are the best.” He smiled again. “Our beef… not so much. Our water… eh.”

We crossed over a concrete-lined stretch the Rio Mapocho. It was narrow, frothy, and impenetrably dirty and dark like chocolate milk. The driver continued.

“I have two kids, and both of them went to the university. My son speaks English and… German I think. And I like my work. I tell my friends that I’ve have met thousands of people from all over the world doing this. I just give thanks every day. I believe in a higher power. I thank God for every day.”

At the airport, he helped us unload our luggage. “Thanks for being such a good driver,” I said, “and guide and professor.”

“It’s nothing,” he replied. Give me a call if you ever need a ride to Mendoza. I can give you guys a discount. A really great rate.”