Dunedin (said Du NEE den) is the very picture of a perfect Scottish city here in the south island. It is darling and hilly, has astonishingly beautiful architecture, the Cadbury factory and is also where you end up if you take the train from Middlemarch after pedaling the Otago Central Rail trail, which I did. It was gravelly (too much so, according to some pedallers), sometimes a bit mind-numbing, often hand-numbing and occasionally very windy. I nearly hit a sheep (avoided) and got to gaze upon a loping heron, which may have caused me to utter an expletive into the Central Otago prairie.
The snake bite is a reference to two parallel punctures I had in my innertube upon arriving to Dunedin, now fixed and my bike awaiting its nightly storage in the "wee room" (their words, not mine), before heading somewhat north past some boulders of note (really, everything here is so incredible, you even have to stop and see rocks, and this after I missed the pancake rocks near Greymouth).
I rode out onto the Otago peninsula today and had the same experience I often have when I am out pedaling. Wow, I'm weak, I think. So slow! I look at the speedometer and urge it to eek up higher. And it won't. And then I turn around and pedal like the wind, and realize I had been riding uphill the whole time. There's probably a parable for our times hidden in there. Let me know if you find it.
T-minus three or four days until I return the bike. I will be both relieved and sad to see it go. Oooh! another opportunity for parable-hunting. Not for me, though. I'm working on the conservation-of-matter-in-panniers-problem. I'll let you know when I get it solved, but it may involve eating a second dinner.
Not that I don't deserve it.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Crown Saddle in NZ. Good for cyclists, bad for bunnies
I have never in my life seen so many bunnies in various states of splat in my life. It was a bad day for Flopsy in the Crown Range. Bad news for bunnies, but a beautiful ride for cyclists, and a healing gouge wound on my calf where the chainring and I had a fight on the Haast Pass. Now, with no infection!
The Crown Saddle is what they call the long windy uphill that takes you from the shores of the lake in Wanaka past the old goldmining town of Cardrona, where I stopped for a flat white (a latte, or so I hear) and some very melted timtams I'd been gifted the day before. The hill snakes up from a flat valley past some ski resorts into a tussock grass-lined roadway with the aforementioned bunnies and purple lupins and statice (that papery violet flower that's called siempre vivo in Spanish and grows at the beach near Quintay in Chile) and a cornflower blue sky. It summits at a pass that's clearly marked with a stone marker and a gnarled tree, and this is where I caught up with the family with six children that's been pedalling the south island, who I'd been hearing about since Ross, or thereabouts. I was very impressed with the family, and also happy to see the marker, because this hill, unlike many others I have met on this trip, is solitary, and has no false peak (I am looking at you, spires of doom and of Hades, and also the aforementioned Haast pass).
The hilltop with the stone marker gives a view of a dark turquoise lake around which Queenstown spreads. After the rock it was a hand-cramping high-speed zigzag down to the bone dry valley where I may have filled a water bottle with purloined plums from a tree I found at the roadside. Still working on them. Tasty!
It is touristy here. But where there are tourists there is easier Internet, and about this I am thankful, so I will forgive (but not patronize) the McDonalds and all the rest. I am taking a rest day from my dogged pursuit of the strangest tan line I've ever had, a big V marking the top where my capri-length tights have a little notch cut in them, and a fine line at the top of my ankle where my beautiful flowered cycling socks stop.
I have been whiting-pizza free since the great event, which I know was very upsetting to all of you, for which I apologize. Though my free muffin on the tourist-package Milford Soundvaganza was gummy enough that I almost wished for the pizza at that point.
Tomorrow is more pedaling, hoping to rendezvous with a rail trail which will grrrr and crunch under my wheels, what with the gravel and all. I believe the worst of the hills are behind me, though I kind of feel like I will feel that I'm just getting started when this whole thing will be over.
Hope you are all well, and I wish you a night of sleep like the ones I get after a good day of riding. Profound, unmoving sleep, so deep and dreamless you're surprised to find you're still you when you wake up. But without the pins and needles in your hands.
The Crown Saddle is what they call the long windy uphill that takes you from the shores of the lake in Wanaka past the old goldmining town of Cardrona, where I stopped for a flat white (a latte, or so I hear) and some very melted timtams I'd been gifted the day before. The hill snakes up from a flat valley past some ski resorts into a tussock grass-lined roadway with the aforementioned bunnies and purple lupins and statice (that papery violet flower that's called siempre vivo in Spanish and grows at the beach near Quintay in Chile) and a cornflower blue sky. It summits at a pass that's clearly marked with a stone marker and a gnarled tree, and this is where I caught up with the family with six children that's been pedalling the south island, who I'd been hearing about since Ross, or thereabouts. I was very impressed with the family, and also happy to see the marker, because this hill, unlike many others I have met on this trip, is solitary, and has no false peak (I am looking at you, spires of doom and of Hades, and also the aforementioned Haast pass).
The hilltop with the stone marker gives a view of a dark turquoise lake around which Queenstown spreads. After the rock it was a hand-cramping high-speed zigzag down to the bone dry valley where I may have filled a water bottle with purloined plums from a tree I found at the roadside. Still working on them. Tasty!
It is touristy here. But where there are tourists there is easier Internet, and about this I am thankful, so I will forgive (but not patronize) the McDonalds and all the rest. I am taking a rest day from my dogged pursuit of the strangest tan line I've ever had, a big V marking the top where my capri-length tights have a little notch cut in them, and a fine line at the top of my ankle where my beautiful flowered cycling socks stop.
I have been whiting-pizza free since the great event, which I know was very upsetting to all of you, for which I apologize. Though my free muffin on the tourist-package Milford Soundvaganza was gummy enough that I almost wished for the pizza at that point.
Tomorrow is more pedaling, hoping to rendezvous with a rail trail which will grrrr and crunch under my wheels, what with the gravel and all. I believe the worst of the hills are behind me, though I kind of feel like I will feel that I'm just getting started when this whole thing will be over.
Hope you are all well, and I wish you a night of sleep like the ones I get after a good day of riding. Profound, unmoving sleep, so deep and dreamless you're surprised to find you're still you when you wake up. But without the pins and needles in your hands.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Where fools dare to cycle, NZ trip part 2, South Island continues
Sometimes you may be pedaling (albeit slowly) up the first of what on your altitude map looks like the first of three spires of doom, and you may find that up at the top of King's point/lookout, there is a family from Mumbai, all cameras and laughter and beautiful blowing matching blue and gold scarf and salvar cameez (sp?), and they may ask if they can pose next to you for a picture. And you may not be looking your best, for after 3 days of headwind and 1 day of stultifying humidity, who among us would? And you will say yes, because how could you say no to a family so charming and happy and so incredulous at your undertaking, talking back and forth in Hindi, which despite having studied briefly, you understand nothing at all of.
And so somewhere on a highway, in a van, in a purse, in a camera on a memory card, there is a picture of me in cycling garb, happily smiling with the family that found me noteworthy enough to bother taking a picture with.
In other words, still alive. Clarification: pizza was a whitebait pizza, where the whitebait (some kind of small, mild fish) was mixed with a beaten egg. It did not cause a sad stomach saga, but it makes for a heck of a story, it would seem.
Today was my best day of pedaling, despite the three spires of doom, which followed yesterday's three spires from Hades, and precede cycling up the Haast Pass, which is probably enough to foil mere mortals. Luckily, while mortal, I am feeling particularly unmere lately. The radio station in my head trudges along, but is continuously interrupted by "Cripple Creek," sometimes sung in my version of a hillbilly accent, and sometimes not. This because of the scads upon scads of creeks I cross, each one with its own, numbered bridge. They are numbered in the thousands, and I believe it. Today there was a time when I was passing through the bird-and-plant named creeks, passing Rata (a tree), Kea (a bird) and Kiwi (another bird). I do not know what tomorrow's creeks will be called. Any guesses?
I have taken hundreds of pictures, and promise to bore you all with them (but not with all of them) at a time and from a place where I am not on coin-operated internet in a supermarket (their name, not mine).
New Zealand is lovely beyond my imagination and I owe a set of people shoutouts from here, which I will do when I can open more than one window at a time. Heather (See previous post's comments) hooked me up with a fab. breakfast, where I ate poached eggs for the first time in my life, and did not make fun of my excessive coffee consumption. What more could you want from newly-minted internet friends?
And now I return to the drizzle.
And so somewhere on a highway, in a van, in a purse, in a camera on a memory card, there is a picture of me in cycling garb, happily smiling with the family that found me noteworthy enough to bother taking a picture with.
In other words, still alive. Clarification: pizza was a whitebait pizza, where the whitebait (some kind of small, mild fish) was mixed with a beaten egg. It did not cause a sad stomach saga, but it makes for a heck of a story, it would seem.
Today was my best day of pedaling, despite the three spires of doom, which followed yesterday's three spires from Hades, and precede cycling up the Haast Pass, which is probably enough to foil mere mortals. Luckily, while mortal, I am feeling particularly unmere lately. The radio station in my head trudges along, but is continuously interrupted by "Cripple Creek," sometimes sung in my version of a hillbilly accent, and sometimes not. This because of the scads upon scads of creeks I cross, each one with its own, numbered bridge. They are numbered in the thousands, and I believe it. Today there was a time when I was passing through the bird-and-plant named creeks, passing Rata (a tree), Kea (a bird) and Kiwi (another bird). I do not know what tomorrow's creeks will be called. Any guesses?
I have taken hundreds of pictures, and promise to bore you all with them (but not with all of them) at a time and from a place where I am not on coin-operated internet in a supermarket (their name, not mine).
New Zealand is lovely beyond my imagination and I owe a set of people shoutouts from here, which I will do when I can open more than one window at a time. Heather (See previous post's comments) hooked me up with a fab. breakfast, where I ate poached eggs for the first time in my life, and did not make fun of my excessive coffee consumption. What more could you want from newly-minted internet friends?
And now I return to the drizzle.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Two wheeling in NZ, not as wind-free as you might hope
"Got a bit of a southerly," said the man as he prepared my fish and egg pizza.
I wish I were joking about either of these things, either the headwind I have doggedly pedalled into for the last two days, or the pizza, which I finally finished after two days of eating this highly improbable dish, which while, energy-laden was also sufficiently weird as to make me wonder if its consumption would lead to a sad stomach saga (sss, trademark pending).
I am hoping that the end of this pizza, which I carted around in a pizza box under the bungee cord strapped to the back of my bike, will also portend an end to the headwind I have experienced, but I am sure I will later blame the headwind on the cookies I have stashed in my pannier, but never seem to eat (because unzipping the pannier would require too much energy) or on having upset the windgods by ponytailing my hair such that it no longer whips in the wind like a flag.
So. New Zealand. A little windy. Not so bad, actually. Not an unpedalable wind. But the kind of wind that, when it stops, you think to yourself, wow! where did that energy come from? Or maybe it's the fact that New Zealand has a fabulous coffee culture, which means I can pull into any podunk town (no offense to Hokitika, Ross, Hari Hari (which is said Harry Harry, much to my chagrin, and no, this does not make me stop singing the Hare Krishna song from Hair, sadly) or any of the other one-horse towns I've passed through, and ask for (and receive) a flat white, which differs from a cappucino in some, unknowable way (no chocolate sprinked on top?) and which comes in one of those coffee cups that looks like a bowl, and since I have limited clean clothes, I drink, rather than swim in the coffee, which is probably better for getting the caffeine in anyway.
So as you can see, I am well. I am so well, in fact, that I am not going to throttle the woman sitting behind me at this computer who insists on having a very loud conversation with her friend who is some ten meters away as she shakes a small lucite box filled with rings and ball bearings, clearly misunderstanding that it is a game, which requires patience and slow movement, and not a baby's rattle, which should be shaken for maximum entertainment. You'd think the shape of the box (pointy) would be a giveaway.
I'm in glacierland tonight, and though I pedalled in under clouds(though without rain)and in pre-dusk, I understand that after the sun is done illuminating you people on the other side of the world, it will come back this way (though with us in the later side of the international dateline, maybe the sun just goes somewhere else completely). I am hoping that when it comes back, it will break through the ominous grey clouds and treat us to a 90 SPF-worthy day.
Enjoy your snow and whatnot, wherever you are.
I wish I were joking about either of these things, either the headwind I have doggedly pedalled into for the last two days, or the pizza, which I finally finished after two days of eating this highly improbable dish, which while, energy-laden was also sufficiently weird as to make me wonder if its consumption would lead to a sad stomach saga (sss, trademark pending).
I am hoping that the end of this pizza, which I carted around in a pizza box under the bungee cord strapped to the back of my bike, will also portend an end to the headwind I have experienced, but I am sure I will later blame the headwind on the cookies I have stashed in my pannier, but never seem to eat (because unzipping the pannier would require too much energy) or on having upset the windgods by ponytailing my hair such that it no longer whips in the wind like a flag.
So. New Zealand. A little windy. Not so bad, actually. Not an unpedalable wind. But the kind of wind that, when it stops, you think to yourself, wow! where did that energy come from? Or maybe it's the fact that New Zealand has a fabulous coffee culture, which means I can pull into any podunk town (no offense to Hokitika, Ross, Hari Hari (which is said Harry Harry, much to my chagrin, and no, this does not make me stop singing the Hare Krishna song from Hair, sadly) or any of the other one-horse towns I've passed through, and ask for (and receive) a flat white, which differs from a cappucino in some, unknowable way (no chocolate sprinked on top?) and which comes in one of those coffee cups that looks like a bowl, and since I have limited clean clothes, I drink, rather than swim in the coffee, which is probably better for getting the caffeine in anyway.
So as you can see, I am well. I am so well, in fact, that I am not going to throttle the woman sitting behind me at this computer who insists on having a very loud conversation with her friend who is some ten meters away as she shakes a small lucite box filled with rings and ball bearings, clearly misunderstanding that it is a game, which requires patience and slow movement, and not a baby's rattle, which should be shaken for maximum entertainment. You'd think the shape of the box (pointy) would be a giveaway.
I'm in glacierland tonight, and though I pedalled in under clouds(though without rain)and in pre-dusk, I understand that after the sun is done illuminating you people on the other side of the world, it will come back this way (though with us in the later side of the international dateline, maybe the sun just goes somewhere else completely). I am hoping that when it comes back, it will break through the ominous grey clouds and treat us to a 90 SPF-worthy day.
Enjoy your snow and whatnot, wherever you are.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Out of the Wormhole, in Christchurch
It's not fair to compare Christchurch to anywhere-not fair to Christchurch and not fair to other places. That said, received, digested and ratified, there is an air of Seattle, or San Francisco, of Ushuaua, Argentina, of Stanley, Falkland Islands, of Reykjavik, of the south of Chile.
Seattle, for the dogged (that's doggid, not dogd) tricked-out cyclists and their pack covers and cut legs (but less indie lookatme than Seattle, for certain), and the occasional weeping willow. San Francisco for a few brightly-colored houses and a couple of trolleys that inch along. Ushuaia for grey-haired cruise daytrippers in windbreakers and practical shoes. Stanley because it's tourists and more tourists, so unapolagetically touristy that they don't even try to do anything other than pose beside statues and art (and oh, how there is street art here! One day with a memory card in hand, I will show you.) Reykjavik because you have never smelled a city so clean nor seen such perfect azure skies amid leaden storm clouds at 6 in the morning. The south of Chile for some plant species, and maybe because I know that if I crane my neck and look really hard to the east (or west), that is what I will see.
But in the end, Christchurch is just Christchurch, a pretty sizeable city on the southern of two improbable islands that are pretty much in the middle of nowhere (and I say that with kindness). It's architecture and art and good food and lots of boys out running in the evening, and scootering and riding each other on the handlebars in a manouver I'm surprised doesn't have more of them missing teeth.
Christchurch is where I neded up after 28 hours of travel (bad connections and delayed flights partially to blame, but also the fact that it's just a long way). I'm happy to stop moving and still have a touch of "where am I, exactly?" which will probably dissipate as I spend more time here, fall asleep and wake up again, take another shower, do my day's tasks (like picking up my bike) and meet some locals who have generously offered to meet up, greet up and watch me imbibe obscene amounts of caffeine (because some things never change, regardless of the hemisphere). So I'm waiting for New Zealand to make its mark, but I realize that I also have to do my part. Sometimes, the place-repellent, it is strong with this one.
And I'm off.
Seattle, for the dogged (that's doggid, not dogd) tricked-out cyclists and their pack covers and cut legs (but less indie lookatme than Seattle, for certain), and the occasional weeping willow. San Francisco for a few brightly-colored houses and a couple of trolleys that inch along. Ushuaia for grey-haired cruise daytrippers in windbreakers and practical shoes. Stanley because it's tourists and more tourists, so unapolagetically touristy that they don't even try to do anything other than pose beside statues and art (and oh, how there is street art here! One day with a memory card in hand, I will show you.) Reykjavik because you have never smelled a city so clean nor seen such perfect azure skies amid leaden storm clouds at 6 in the morning. The south of Chile for some plant species, and maybe because I know that if I crane my neck and look really hard to the east (or west), that is what I will see.
But in the end, Christchurch is just Christchurch, a pretty sizeable city on the southern of two improbable islands that are pretty much in the middle of nowhere (and I say that with kindness). It's architecture and art and good food and lots of boys out running in the evening, and scootering and riding each other on the handlebars in a manouver I'm surprised doesn't have more of them missing teeth.
Christchurch is where I neded up after 28 hours of travel (bad connections and delayed flights partially to blame, but also the fact that it's just a long way). I'm happy to stop moving and still have a touch of "where am I, exactly?" which will probably dissipate as I spend more time here, fall asleep and wake up again, take another shower, do my day's tasks (like picking up my bike) and meet some locals who have generously offered to meet up, greet up and watch me imbibe obscene amounts of caffeine (because some things never change, regardless of the hemisphere). So I'm waiting for New Zealand to make its mark, but I realize that I also have to do my part. Sometimes, the place-repellent, it is strong with this one.
And I'm off.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Fonendoscopio, Pedaling the South Island of New Zealand
I'm leaving my house in about two hours to head to the airport. Some many, many hours later, I will reappear out of the wormhole in Christchurch, New Zealand. Christchurch! New Zealand! I know, I'm as surprised as you are.
One of the main events on this trip, which, as always will be comprised of bundles of smaller events, moments, rash decisions and fleeting thoughts is the renting of a bicycle and riding it around.
I have a brain-eye disconnect that makes it hard for me to follow words on a page and translate them to a map on another page. Advanced Geometry was hell my friends, hell, I tell you. So I did what any brain-addled netsavvy person would do, and I found a nifty service that maps your route for you, drawing and tracing minimized. My approximate route for the first 23ish days of this trip look like this:
Map generated by me at www.bikemap.net, and enchulado (gussied up) on iphoto.
Now, before I spoil it for you. What do you think this looks like?
Got it?
Ready?
Well, to me, as soon as I saw it plotted out, I saw it as a stethescope (fodendoscopio in Spanish), where Christchurch goes in one ear and Greymouth goes in other other, and we all listen to the earth's heartbeat in Milford Sound.
Some of this will be by bike, the trajectory across the grey matter (not pictured) will be by train, and I'm certain buses, trucks, or cars will play a role. With any luck there might be a boat. I have no idea if I'll follow the exact route or maybe meander a little more this way or that.
I've got a pile of stuff laying next to my backpack, waiting to hop in, and the remainder of food willing themselves into lunch as we speak. I've got tickets, lists, a guidebook (I opted for the Rough Guide, over Lonely Planet, possibly because it was more recent), batteries both camera and body and soul charged, a silly good luck charm that I believe in beyond reason, and a world of wind, rain and hard days ahead.
I am so privileged. And so amped.
Feel free to come along on this stethescope of a journey, where I measure the world's heartbeat one pedal stroke at a time and grind up and coast down ridge after punishing ridge of mountains wishing for all the world that I could change the lens on my own vision to wide angle.
Hope you enjoy the ride.
One of the main events on this trip, which, as always will be comprised of bundles of smaller events, moments, rash decisions and fleeting thoughts is the renting of a bicycle and riding it around.
I have a brain-eye disconnect that makes it hard for me to follow words on a page and translate them to a map on another page. Advanced Geometry was hell my friends, hell, I tell you. So I did what any brain-addled netsavvy person would do, and I found a nifty service that maps your route for you, drawing and tracing minimized. My approximate route for the first 23ish days of this trip look like this:
Map generated by me at www.bikemap.net, and enchulado (gussied up) on iphoto.Now, before I spoil it for you. What do you think this looks like?
Got it?
Ready?
Well, to me, as soon as I saw it plotted out, I saw it as a stethescope (fodendoscopio in Spanish), where Christchurch goes in one ear and Greymouth goes in other other, and we all listen to the earth's heartbeat in Milford Sound.
Some of this will be by bike, the trajectory across the grey matter (not pictured) will be by train, and I'm certain buses, trucks, or cars will play a role. With any luck there might be a boat. I have no idea if I'll follow the exact route or maybe meander a little more this way or that.
I've got a pile of stuff laying next to my backpack, waiting to hop in, and the remainder of food willing themselves into lunch as we speak. I've got tickets, lists, a guidebook (I opted for the Rough Guide, over Lonely Planet, possibly because it was more recent), batteries both camera and body and soul charged, a silly good luck charm that I believe in beyond reason, and a world of wind, rain and hard days ahead.
I am so privileged. And so amped.
Feel free to come along on this stethescope of a journey, where I measure the world's heartbeat one pedal stroke at a time and grind up and coast down ridge after punishing ridge of mountains wishing for all the world that I could change the lens on my own vision to wide angle.
Hope you enjoy the ride.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Things that don't make sense, or my trip to SII (Chilean IRS)
So among the things I do around here while I'm not busy communicating with people I don't yet know, but someday might is some editing and translation, and some teaching. I do these freelance, which means I have to use something called a boleta to bill them. It's a nifty little system, now that I have boletas electrónicas, or as I like to call them "online boletas." You tell the person who owes you money and the government how much it is at the same time, and it's all online. Everyone wins. I think.
There are two main ways of getting paid here, as an employee and as a contractor. As a contractor, you can either use your own boletas (electrónicas or paper, I suppose), or use a third-party boleta. I have used a third-party boleta before, and that's a whole story for some other time, but right now we're talking about my own boletas. You sign up for these on the SII website, and it's pretty easy, though it was hard to qualify what I do in terms of boletas. I think I ended up as an interpreter translator lender of professional office services, or something like that. I don't do interpretation, but nobody seemed to mind.
When you are paid by boleta, there is 10% that someone retains. Could be you, or could be the person that paid you. If it is the person that paid you, in (apparently) the worldwide tax month of April, you do some mad abracadabra and the money comes back to you, either directly online or as a check, slipped under your door.
If, however, the person that pays you does not retain the money, you are required to do so. I have no problem retaining money, though I do occasionally let some of it slip through my fingers, spending it on diet coke and other vices. What I wanted to know, now that April is just around the corner was, do I need to give this money to the government and then get my refund from them? And if so, how?
I called the helpful people at SII, who informed me that I needed to fill out the dreaded formulario 29. I looked at the formulario 29 and determined that it had more fields for filling out than I had information. Then I looked at the instructions and decided that that was going to give me (more) grey hair. I called a couple of friends, and none of them knew what to do, saying, galla! (girl!) your situation is so strange? Why does this always happen to you!
To which I responded, because the universe knows I like a challenge.
So this morning, fortified by a giant cup of espresso with cold-frothed milk, and with cash and a checkbook and a credit card on hand, just in case I managed to find someone who could explain the whole thing to me, hold my hand through the form filling out and take my money, I would be ready. I also brought my Chilean ID because you can do nothing in Chile without your ID, except go to the doctor, for which you only require your right index finger.
I pedaled over to SII (the one on Santa Rosa, and by the way, did they move, because I'm sure the last time I went that building was on the other side of the street), locked up my bike, wondered at what point in the bureaucracy my blood would start to boil and/or tears would begin to flow. I walked up to the woman behind the information desk and started to explain my situation.
Which goes like this. blablabblablabla.
Fade to audible:
Why do you want to pay? she said.
Um, because I think I have to, I said.
No, boletas don't require you to pay, she said.
Then why is there a system for me to declare and pay online? I said.
Oh, you can pay online, she said.
I tried, I said, but there are so.many.fields on that dreaded formulario. I said.
Oh, I don't have any forms, she said. Maybe someone from this line (pointing) has a form, or you can buy one from the kiosks.
Or I could do it online, I said.
Right, online, she said.
But the fields? I said.
You just need to pop the info into fields 152, 595 and 91. she said.
152, 595 and 91, I said? (note: the convention for reciting a series of number is to recite them in size order, not to recite them in size order and then put the lowest one at the end)
yes, she said. But it's really not a good idea for you to pay because they'll fine you (I'm overdue), and you won't get the fine money back.
They'll fine me if I pay my taxes, I said? So it's better if I don't pay them?
That's right, she said.
... it was hard to trust her at this point, since she recited those numbers out of order, but she seemed pretty sure of what she was saying.
I don't want to end up in Dicom, I said.
... Ending up in Dicom is having a bad credit rating, the kind of thing that prevents you from doing pretty much anything in Chile. It's like being blacklisted.
You won't end up in Dicom, she said.
What about the other money, that the people who paid me retained? I asked.
That part you get back in April, she said.
So I don't pay this part? I said.
You could, but it's not a good idea, because of the penalties. Though if you do it online it's less because you get a credit for doing it online. She said.
So I don't pay, and I don't go in Dicom, I said?
Right, she said. Anything else?
No, I said.
... And then I stood there, blinking, wondering what had happened, and started to walk home, except that then I noticed I had my bike helmet strapped to my bag and lo! there was my bike outside, so I pedalled home instead. Which, in addition to avoiding brain injury, is why you should always wear a helmet.
I'm still confused. And now so are you.
See? Generous.
Tune in tomorrow for OMG, I'm going to New Zealand, and it rains there all the time like the rain of the rainy place, what was I thinking?
There are two main ways of getting paid here, as an employee and as a contractor. As a contractor, you can either use your own boletas (electrónicas or paper, I suppose), or use a third-party boleta. I have used a third-party boleta before, and that's a whole story for some other time, but right now we're talking about my own boletas. You sign up for these on the SII website, and it's pretty easy, though it was hard to qualify what I do in terms of boletas. I think I ended up as an interpreter translator lender of professional office services, or something like that. I don't do interpretation, but nobody seemed to mind.
When you are paid by boleta, there is 10% that someone retains. Could be you, or could be the person that paid you. If it is the person that paid you, in (apparently) the worldwide tax month of April, you do some mad abracadabra and the money comes back to you, either directly online or as a check, slipped under your door.
If, however, the person that pays you does not retain the money, you are required to do so. I have no problem retaining money, though I do occasionally let some of it slip through my fingers, spending it on diet coke and other vices. What I wanted to know, now that April is just around the corner was, do I need to give this money to the government and then get my refund from them? And if so, how?
I called the helpful people at SII, who informed me that I needed to fill out the dreaded formulario 29. I looked at the formulario 29 and determined that it had more fields for filling out than I had information. Then I looked at the instructions and decided that that was going to give me (more) grey hair. I called a couple of friends, and none of them knew what to do, saying, galla! (girl!) your situation is so strange? Why does this always happen to you!
To which I responded, because the universe knows I like a challenge.
So this morning, fortified by a giant cup of espresso with cold-frothed milk, and with cash and a checkbook and a credit card on hand, just in case I managed to find someone who could explain the whole thing to me, hold my hand through the form filling out and take my money, I would be ready. I also brought my Chilean ID because you can do nothing in Chile without your ID, except go to the doctor, for which you only require your right index finger.
I pedaled over to SII (the one on Santa Rosa, and by the way, did they move, because I'm sure the last time I went that building was on the other side of the street), locked up my bike, wondered at what point in the bureaucracy my blood would start to boil and/or tears would begin to flow. I walked up to the woman behind the information desk and started to explain my situation.
Which goes like this. blablabblablabla.
Fade to audible:
Why do you want to pay? she said.
Um, because I think I have to, I said.
No, boletas don't require you to pay, she said.
Then why is there a system for me to declare and pay online? I said.
Oh, you can pay online, she said.
I tried, I said, but there are so.many.fields on that dreaded formulario. I said.
Oh, I don't have any forms, she said. Maybe someone from this line (pointing) has a form, or you can buy one from the kiosks.
Or I could do it online, I said.
Right, online, she said.
But the fields? I said.
You just need to pop the info into fields 152, 595 and 91. she said.
152, 595 and 91, I said? (note: the convention for reciting a series of number is to recite them in size order, not to recite them in size order and then put the lowest one at the end)
yes, she said. But it's really not a good idea for you to pay because they'll fine you (I'm overdue), and you won't get the fine money back.
They'll fine me if I pay my taxes, I said? So it's better if I don't pay them?
That's right, she said.
... it was hard to trust her at this point, since she recited those numbers out of order, but she seemed pretty sure of what she was saying.
I don't want to end up in Dicom, I said.
... Ending up in Dicom is having a bad credit rating, the kind of thing that prevents you from doing pretty much anything in Chile. It's like being blacklisted.
You won't end up in Dicom, she said.
What about the other money, that the people who paid me retained? I asked.
That part you get back in April, she said.
So I don't pay this part? I said.
You could, but it's not a good idea, because of the penalties. Though if you do it online it's less because you get a credit for doing it online. She said.
So I don't pay, and I don't go in Dicom, I said?
Right, she said. Anything else?
No, I said.
... And then I stood there, blinking, wondering what had happened, and started to walk home, except that then I noticed I had my bike helmet strapped to my bag and lo! there was my bike outside, so I pedalled home instead. Which, in addition to avoiding brain injury, is why you should always wear a helmet.
I'm still confused. And now so are you.
See? Generous.
Tune in tomorrow for OMG, I'm going to New Zealand, and it rains there all the time like the rain of the rainy place, what was I thinking?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Missing the second half of Chilean summer, pre trip to NZ
Santiago in the summer is sheer joy. It is spacious streets and five minutes in and out at the bank, and tables available at cafés and warm weather (sometimes too hot), and arts and theater.
So I'm a little bit sad to be leaving Santiaguino summer in a few days for New Zealand's version, which I've been preparing for by standing in my clothes in the shower. I cheat, in that I use warm water, and really, this is just to see how resistant the old Gore-Tex is (does someone want to sponsor me with a truly waterproof garment? I would be ever so pleased and grateful).
As a sendoff today, I went to the supermarket for the last compras (purchases) before the trip, toting my blue avocado bag (I have the pod, in green, and it's the perfect reusable bag with comfy straps) I got from my friend Stephanie's (in the news today, whoo!) mother at Christmas, and loving it very much. I think it will make the trip over to NZ, so as not to run afoul of the rabid environmentalism I hope to run across there.
At the supermarket I was treated to this fruit, the likes of which I've never seen before, which they were calling "lemon plum." I've eaten two already, and they have more lemon shape than taste, though they are a little sour (though not acidic).
Which got me to thinking of all the fruits and vegetables we like to call by other fruit and vegetable names.
Got that?
In Spanish there's
guineo fresa (strawberry banana, this in Ecuador for one of the gazillion varieties of bananas they have there)
ciruela limón (lemon plum)
durazno platano (lit: banana peach, this one is a nectarine)
got any more?
In English I can only think of grape, cherry, pear and plum tomato.
Which then reminded me of the dreaded tomate de arbol or tree tomato, which they apparently have in New Zealand.
And so I add that to my goals.
1. Explore bearshapedsphere
2. Pedal furiously (but not angrily)
3. Snap many photos
4. Encounter rabid environmentalism
5. Avoid dreaded tree tomato
If you're in Santiago and want to try the juice of this dread fruit (despite my warnings) check out the place I talk about here)
If you have anything else to list, please feel free. And also, the captcha? sorry, but it was necessary. I just can't keep up with the Japanese spam and people starting every day with the words "good morning sunshines."
Enjoy your day mightily and with vigor!
So I'm a little bit sad to be leaving Santiaguino summer in a few days for New Zealand's version, which I've been preparing for by standing in my clothes in the shower. I cheat, in that I use warm water, and really, this is just to see how resistant the old Gore-Tex is (does someone want to sponsor me with a truly waterproof garment? I would be ever so pleased and grateful).
As a sendoff today, I went to the supermarket for the last compras (purchases) before the trip, toting my blue avocado bag (I have the pod, in green, and it's the perfect reusable bag with comfy straps) I got from my friend Stephanie's (in the news today, whoo!) mother at Christmas, and loving it very much. I think it will make the trip over to NZ, so as not to run afoul of the rabid environmentalism I hope to run across there.
At the supermarket I was treated to this fruit, the likes of which I've never seen before, which they were calling "lemon plum." I've eaten two already, and they have more lemon shape than taste, though they are a little sour (though not acidic).
Which got me to thinking of all the fruits and vegetables we like to call by other fruit and vegetable names.
Got that?
In Spanish there's
guineo fresa (strawberry banana, this in Ecuador for one of the gazillion varieties of bananas they have there)
ciruela limón (lemon plum)
durazno platano (lit: banana peach, this one is a nectarine)
got any more?
In English I can only think of grape, cherry, pear and plum tomato.
Which then reminded me of the dreaded tomate de arbol or tree tomato, which they apparently have in New Zealand.
And so I add that to my goals.
1. Explore bearshapedsphere
2. Pedal furiously (but not angrily)
3. Snap many photos
4. Encounter rabid environmentalism
5. Avoid dreaded tree tomato
If you're in Santiago and want to try the juice of this dread fruit (despite my warnings) check out the place I talk about here)
If you have anything else to list, please feel free. And also, the captcha? sorry, but it was necessary. I just can't keep up with the Japanese spam and people starting every day with the words "good morning sunshines."
Enjoy your day mightily and with vigor!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Pre-trip winged insect whatnot, New Zealand on the brain
My coffee table is a jumble of desorden (disorderliness), cables and goretex and the occasional piece of paper with the word "cubrebotines" (shoe-covers, a biking thing) scribbled upon it. It is packing central, and it is the perfect metaphor for my brain, a giant jumble of some things I need, some things I don't need but will bring anyway, and some stuff that I hope I have the good sense to leave home.
A friend just asked me exactly where I was planning on going to this trip to New Zealand and I sent her a map I've been looking at to look at possible cycling routes, terrain and whatnot. And I held down NZ and scanned to the left and saw Australia, and then nothing, and I scanned to the right, and there was nothing at all.
And for the first time, I got butterflies. Big, flappity ones with wings that shushh shut while they pretend to have a giant eye on their back end to discourage predators. There is so. much. ocean.
This may seem strange, because after all, in Santiago I'm a solid ten hours from anyone who remembers me with a gap-toothed smile or during any of the many unfortunate oh! bangs are curly, and get shorter after you cut them! events. But I could, in theory, walk to my family. It might take me three years, but I could get there.
Have you seen New Zealand? If the world's transportation network breaks down, you're not going anywhere. Just walking in giant circles for the rest of time.
This is an irrational thought. And I know this.
These are the first of many butterflies, fluttering languidly and then in panic, like moths against a lampshade. Not because of what might happen on the trip, but because of what might not. I have a set of things I want to sort out, write, dream, believe, inspire. And during the year, I often tell myself that I'm not in that space, that I don't get there because there's too much coffeetable and accoutrements and distractions and the idea that hey! I could put cardomom in these pancakes and that would be different!
And my greatest fear, giant oceans and bike mishaps aside, is to not reach that elusive space of me when I need her. Because really? I'm going to New Zealand, but more than that, I'm going to my bearshapedsphere.
I know, it's a very, Wizard-of-Oz-like moment.
Because I was always here.
T-minus six days.
A friend just asked me exactly where I was planning on going to this trip to New Zealand and I sent her a map I've been looking at to look at possible cycling routes, terrain and whatnot. And I held down NZ and scanned to the left and saw Australia, and then nothing, and I scanned to the right, and there was nothing at all.
And for the first time, I got butterflies. Big, flappity ones with wings that shushh shut while they pretend to have a giant eye on their back end to discourage predators. There is so. much. ocean.
This may seem strange, because after all, in Santiago I'm a solid ten hours from anyone who remembers me with a gap-toothed smile or during any of the many unfortunate oh! bangs are curly, and get shorter after you cut them! events. But I could, in theory, walk to my family. It might take me three years, but I could get there.
Have you seen New Zealand? If the world's transportation network breaks down, you're not going anywhere. Just walking in giant circles for the rest of time.
This is an irrational thought. And I know this.
These are the first of many butterflies, fluttering languidly and then in panic, like moths against a lampshade. Not because of what might happen on the trip, but because of what might not. I have a set of things I want to sort out, write, dream, believe, inspire. And during the year, I often tell myself that I'm not in that space, that I don't get there because there's too much coffeetable and accoutrements and distractions and the idea that hey! I could put cardomom in these pancakes and that would be different!
And my greatest fear, giant oceans and bike mishaps aside, is to not reach that elusive space of me when I need her. Because really? I'm going to New Zealand, but more than that, I'm going to my bearshapedsphere.
I know, it's a very, Wizard-of-Oz-like moment.
Because I was always here.
T-minus six days.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Bike test kit and retro glasses (with photo!)
I spent last week at a friend's house in Maitencillo, one of the northern most towns on the litoral central. I am finally starting to understand which town is where, a feat better managed by mortals with far better geographical memory than I have. In order for me to understand how one thing is connected to the next, there is only one way for me to do it: by bike.
Which is why (along with testing out the kit) I wasn't too alarmed when the offer of a bike rack turned into bikerack pieces on the ground near C's car, and me returning home only to leave the next morning by bus. I took the bus to Viña del Mar, and from there headed out to the ocean, turning right and pedalling until I reached Maitencillo, some 60ish km away, most of it slightly uphill, but none of it terribly steep. It was a slog though, between the weight of the panniers, my own winter weight (argh! summer now) and the fact that I haven't done any long-distance cycling in a while. But I kept my pulse below my own lactic acid threshold (blablabla to all of you who don't care), which in my case is around 167, and stopped to graze a little on the way, and all was well.
I'm feeling physically more confident about the trip in NZ, though I've just looked at my planned route, and it will require me to ride more than 50 miles every day. This is tomfoolery, but I am nothing if not tomfoolish, so more on that as "plans" develop.
Maitencillo was lovely, waves crashing and barnacle-covered shells washed up on the beach, their occupants breathing in fresh ocean breezes. There were a surprisingly large number of aguas muertas (jellyfish) washed up as well, including one that looked very much like a liver. (insert joke about washing-up medical waste here).
And there were these glasses. These not-retro but actually old glasses that were made probably in the 50s out of old pisco bottles. G explained how they do it, with a string and some fuel and a bucket of cold water, which explains why the rim of the glass was a bit sharp (it had been filed, but it's not like a regular glass).
I loved the blue one so much that I think that if I'd been leaving any way but on a bike and with my panniers, they'd have searched my luggage to make sure I didn't have it with me. Though the way back was mostly slightly downhill (and a full 75 minutes shorter, yay gravity). But I wouldn't have wanted to balance and egg on a spoon or worry about a stolen glass the whole way.
Onword and eastward. My legs hate me already.
Which is why (along with testing out the kit) I wasn't too alarmed when the offer of a bike rack turned into bikerack pieces on the ground near C's car, and me returning home only to leave the next morning by bus. I took the bus to Viña del Mar, and from there headed out to the ocean, turning right and pedalling until I reached Maitencillo, some 60ish km away, most of it slightly uphill, but none of it terribly steep. It was a slog though, between the weight of the panniers, my own winter weight (argh! summer now) and the fact that I haven't done any long-distance cycling in a while. But I kept my pulse below my own lactic acid threshold (blablabla to all of you who don't care), which in my case is around 167, and stopped to graze a little on the way, and all was well.
I'm feeling physically more confident about the trip in NZ, though I've just looked at my planned route, and it will require me to ride more than 50 miles every day. This is tomfoolery, but I am nothing if not tomfoolish, so more on that as "plans" develop.
Maitencillo was lovely, waves crashing and barnacle-covered shells washed up on the beach, their occupants breathing in fresh ocean breezes. There were a surprisingly large number of aguas muertas (jellyfish) washed up as well, including one that looked very much like a liver. (insert joke about washing-up medical waste here).
And there were these glasses. These not-retro but actually old glasses that were made probably in the 50s out of old pisco bottles. G explained how they do it, with a string and some fuel and a bucket of cold water, which explains why the rim of the glass was a bit sharp (it had been filed, but it's not like a regular glass).
I loved the blue one so much that I think that if I'd been leaving any way but on a bike and with my panniers, they'd have searched my luggage to make sure I didn't have it with me. Though the way back was mostly slightly downhill (and a full 75 minutes shorter, yay gravity). But I wouldn't have wanted to balance and egg on a spoon or worry about a stolen glass the whole way.
Onword and eastward. My legs hate me already.
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