Chile, or When the Earth Bled

An earthquake is nothing less than an assault to the senses, an attack from the gods that cripples the body and numbs the mind. Making sense of the scenes that take place all around one becomes an impossible task; what was once green is now grey, where there was a square or a school there is now a pile of rubble. Walking down the streets, hours after the quake, is a surreal experience.

The pavements carpeted with broken glass and rubble constantly falling from the wounded roofs make it a mission, an unnatural ordeal. The last Saturday of February, thousands of Chileans were taken their lives away. The cities suddenly became deadly traps; roads opened up to reveal their insides and the buildings insisted on coughing up rubble for hours after the earth had shaken them to their very foundations .

Family homes, schools, banks and churches resembled Orwell’s elephant after the deadly shots. Ungracefully, slowly and with pain overcoming them, they ended up as grey cement corpses taking up roads and sometimes entire blocks. Nobody else would ever live, grow up, work or dream in these beaten monsters. The Chileans knew it, and mourned them as much as they mourned their loved ones. They were cries of despair, of an infinite sadness that tore them from inside and turned one’s chest into a mass of raw pain.

Minutes after the earth shook, eighty per cent of the country found itself in the dark. The electricity supply had either been damaged or cut by the authorities to avoid potential fires. The only source of light that the Chileans could really count on was in the sky. Candles burnt away and the batteries that gave life to thousands of electric torches were a precious, if not rare, commodity. But the moon was there for everybody and at no cost, all along. Its light bathed the scarred land, and thousands of people sought and found refuge under it. In the squares, parks, and as far away from the sea as the Andes allowed them to, countless Chileans waited to see the sun rise.

Whole towns moved away from the sea and into the mountains. Pretty soon, asking about people’s families or friends proved to be pointless. “My daughter is in el cerro, because of the aftershots.” “My children are in the park, just in case.”

Those who found themselves thanking the heavens for their good health and fortune after the disaster were left to worry for their loved ones. In Concepcion, two hours south from Santiago, the sea had hit the towns with much more violence, and the earth had open itself to reveal its rocky innards and swallow whatever it stood on its many open wounds. With telephone communications being nigh on impossible and crippled internet connections, the only window that had been left open to hear about the rest of the country was the radio.

Millions tuned in to listen to what a fistful of brave newsreaders scattered around the country had to tell them about the catastrophe and its aftermath. Round-the-clock broadcasts brought relief to millions of Chileans and provided the big news networks with the first figures to report. It was thus that we heard about the extent of the damage in the Maule and Bio-Bio regions, and also about the modest miracles that took place in the midst of the dust and tears.

An anxious listener called the station to ask for information about a circus in the Maule region. A relative of his had been working there when the earthquake struck and this person had had no news since then. A few minutes later, thanks to another listener who happened to live near the circus, half the country sighed with relief: the person in question was fine, as was everyone else in the circus. The foreman had ordered an immediate evacuation to the mountains, and there they were now. Along with dozens of horses, donkeys, tigers and elephants.

The quake destroyed towns and whole families. But it also gave way to thousands of anonymous heroes, who minutes after the earthquake made it their personal mission to help in any way they could. Some, behind a still shaky microphone or a confused computer, provided the population with the information they hungered for. They told them about the families and friends that were unreachable due to the poor communication channels, but they also gave them what they craved the most: they calmed them down. Encased in their glass boxes and armed with microphones, dozens of radio presenters told the country that everything would be alright, that the worst was over and how they could leave their hurt towns and get hold of drinking water, food and shelter, whenever they were available.

Since the survivors also needed to be supported and looked after, a great many of the Chileans who worked in the hotel industry turned into psychologists, emergency cooks and friends and family for their guests overnight. “What else can I do? They need a mother, and I know how to make my children feel good!” told me Blanca while she was making spaghetti for twenty people at the Forestal, the hostel where she worked every day and which, like many, had to double as a refuge without warning.

After a disaster of this magnitude, finding people who want to stay in the country amongst the tourist is no easy task. Thousands of travelers inundated the airport and airline offices. Unsuccessfully. Those who were most optimistic spoke about being back home by Wednesday or Thursday. Some were more realistic and resigned themselves to waiting until, at the very least, the following Monday to pack up their bags.

There was a third group of travelers, though. There were people who gave the idea of joining the rat race for an overpriced ticket a miss. Instead, they decided to roll up their sleeves and help. Sonya, an Irish girl with monosyllabic Spanish and tender eyes, managed to find out when the next bus to Concepcion left. “I’ve got nothing to do here. I was travelling anyway. If I can help, why not do it?” On Monday morning she didn’t show up for breakfast. She hadn’t said good-bye or told anyone where she would be. She didn’t need to; we all knew where she was.