CAP HORN - VALPARAISO - SANTIAGO - LA PAZ

Paganini in the Antarctic.
Ordeal on TV.
The world's highest train.

Armed with a fistful of travellers' checks, I’m ready to take another stab at South America. I don’t care how I get around as long as it’s not by car..

Next stop: the Antarctic

Be careful what you wish for! I wanted to visit Tierra del Fuego and got more than I bargained for! Somewhere between Cape Horn and the adjacent island, the DC3 I’m travelling on goes into a downward spiral after getting caught in a powerful vertical draught. Since no one fastened their seatbelt, we find ourselves pressed against the ceiling, dancing a rather unconventional saraband as the aircraft continues to spiral downward at alarming speed. Some of the passengers have managed to grab hold of something with one hand, which makes it possible for them to make the sign of the cross with the other. An elderly Indian woman pushes my guitar, which, as if possessed by a demon, goes on the counterattack.

Meanwhile, the pilot is frantically trying to get back to his seat after a visit to the cockpit by a beautiful blonde, who was no doubt trying to get a better view of the landscape. Luckily, our hot-blooded pilot manages to keep his cool and makes an emergency landing at the last minute.

*******

Fascinated by the majestic beauty of the glaciers, reflected in the turquoise sea below, I decide to stay here a bit longer than I had planned.

At a bar in Punta Arenas I meet the captain of a naval ice-breaker called the "Piloto Pardo." He turns out to be a violonist. He takes a liking to me and invites me to accompany him to the Antarctic. After this we’ll travel up the canals of southern Chile to Valparaiso. All he asks in return is that I accompany him on the ship's stage. He wants to play the duets Paganini (encouraged by Berlioz) wrote for his friend Sina, a violinist. Paganini himself played the guitar part. Musically, this is a new experience for me. It's no longer a matter of listening to myself play; now I have to keep time with a partner as well.

One day, from the ship’s helicopter, we travel over the south-Chilean fjords. Their splendor highlights the region’s beauty and isolation.

This journey proves to be one of the most unforgettable I’ve ever experienced. Although we are sailing during calm weather, the waves are 25 meters high in the Gulf of Penas. Ice-breakers are unsteady by nature and our ship sits badly in the water, the turret often dipping close to the water line. It’s the only time in my life I've ever been seasick, and the captain is affected as well. I think he’s taking his "duet" part a little too seriously. I just want the whole thing to end. If we're going to sink, let's get it over with.

*******

In Santiago I appear on a television program, the most popular in Chile. Although cutting a record seemed to conflict with my nature, I felt that a television appearance would be easier to deal with. I pictured myself on screen. A close up reveals my tense facial expression at the very moment I'm about to tear into a virtuoso ritardando. The TV audience is captivated, the expectations of the radio audience amply fulfilled. Things didn’t work out quite as expected, however. I'm given a brief segment on the show and the working conditions are a nightmare: there’s noise coming from all over the studio, blinding lights, stifling heat, a throng of workmen coming and going, whispering and mumbling...On top of this they expect precision-timing on my part, and inform me that several takes may be required.

I seem to have two options: Either I defend my integrity as an artist by telling the producer to take a hike or I give in to his demands, thus displaying my professionalism. Given the circumstances I decide to rely on my sense of humor. What? You expect me to play at the top of my form with the spotlight shining in my face, a grinning boom operator, and this guitar, which keeps going out of tune like a dying vacuum cleaner? Well, brace yourselves, my friends! Roll it!

The show is a "hit." I'm immediately hired to do a series of concerts throughout the country, which has much to offer: hospitality, music, poetry, and fine dining. The landscape is unspoiled. The local produce and excellent wine, the shady trees and nearby sea all seem to encourage overindulgence.

In Puerto-Montt, the country's university town, as I'm signing record covers in the theater dressing room, a young girl with an assured, delicately liquid voice looks up at me and says:

- Your playing subtly leads the listener toward silent reflection. And, correct me if I'm wrong, at times weren't you miming some of the movements, without even touching the chords?

The girl's lips are sculpted out of sepia-toned flesh. Her long black hair frames her warm, gray eyes, eyes so bright they seem unnatural and appear to sweep across an infinite field of view. Despite the delicacy of her face and body, her expression is frank and determined. She speaks perfect French. I ask her to have dinner with me.

- Oh, I can't! My parents are waiting for me outside and are probably starting to worry.

She agrees to accompany me to the airport the next day. In the car, she tells me:

- Music is my salvation. My parents never allow me to leave the farm. My horse is my only friend, and I can't even ride him anymore since I'm losing my eyesight. I have irreversible retinal degeneration and soon I'll be nearly blind. I used to draw so well! Music gives me the strength to go on.

- You're right, appearances are deceiving. Real communication takes place through sound. The blind are upbeat, the deaf suffer in silence in their solitary world.

- And yet, the pure lines of a horse are so beautiful to look at...

- Sounds allow people to communicate on a deeper, less superficial level. A voice is more authentic than a smile, which can be forced. Sounds pick up where images leave off. Illusions are replaced by harmony. You begin to "see" the world as it really is.

- But I'll never be able to read again!

- You'll be able to appreciate what really matters and avoid wasting time with the superfluous and petty. Did you know that there are 3000 languages in the world but only 25 alphabets? The moral is oral! Music doesn’t need the written word, except in the Western world. Oedipus blessed the underworld and true love is kindled in darkness. You can only savor the sweetness of nectar with your eyes closed.

*****

There's a train from Chile to Bolivia, which hasn’t had a route to the sea for years. For a price, and with special permission from the military, you can ride in a luxurious old wagon attached to the train, complete with opulent furnishings, a Louis XV dining room, and a bathroom with a real bathtub. Still, at 5000 meters above sea-level, there isn’t much you can do about the cold. The trip lasts 36 hours and provides a wealth of spectacular close-ups of the Andes. At the border a customs officer climbs aboard to examine my passport.

- Señor Jumez? But you’re not Señor Jumez. I saw him on television two weeks ago. The real Señor Jumez is much thinner than you!

Chilean food? Love it but pay the price for leaving it.

A young charango player in a multicoloured outfit and hat, is "hitchhiking" by train. He's happy to take advantage of my anachronistic luxury and expresses his joy with bursts of vibrant music. And yet his instrument is fairly rudimentary: a few strings, amplified by the shell of an unlucky armadillo. (The animal is hunted in this region of the Andes for its shell and in the Amazon for its meat.) He plays ancient pieces composed for the Spanish court, a legacy of Pizzaro, the devoted missionary ("kill them first and let God sort them out"). A great improviser, he switches from Quechua melodies to chaconnes (a musical form introduced in Europe by means of the guitar in the 16th century). He also seems to enjoy mimicking the rhythmic squeaking of the wheels along the unsteady rails. He plays, by ear, the music I play for him on the guitar. When we arrive at the station, we shake hands. He got a ride on the train, I ended up with a headful of memories. I’d say it was a fair deal.

*******

At the spanking-new French lycée in La Paz, I perform a little concert for the children who, as is often the case, do not have any music classes in their curriculum. At the end, a little girl stands up and asks:

- How old do you have to be to become an artist?