Adiós Campesino

The cows have been creamed against Brazilian Blood Sucking Flies.



The Christmas Tree is well and truly dead and was chucked in the river, bucket 'n all (oh that sweet Latin Littering feeling).



The sign has been painstakingly repainted.



Acres of oregano have been cut, washed, dried and sieved into jars.



The active volcano was almost climbed (that annoying wench Mother Nature stiffed me again), this is the view from base camp (after I got up at fucking 5.30am) before we got the heart wrenching news to ‘get back in the car’ due to winds kicking people down the mountain and covering them with toxic smoke.



The cats have eaten their fill of fresh lambs blood.



The cherries have been picked. (Don’t you dare!)



The bruises have healed. And that’s my thigh not Lance Armstrong’s if you’re wondering.



The 1100 bails of hay have been safeguarded in the barn (wait until I tell you about that Allergy kick in the face).



The landscaping has been masterfully done.



The Campesino Empanada Lesson has been passed. They are Pino's and they fucking rule. I could easily kill a man (or a few children) for one right now.



The new wave of Farm Cats have made it past infancy. Awwwww.



The new-new cats indicate there is indeed a plague. And they don't look so cute, like mangled hairy Dalmation Salamanders.



The old Baige Back Gorilla himself, Toki, has been farewelled (I even started to pat him despite that old couch smell).



The gorgeous new dog, creatively named Panda, has been successfully integrated. Although when you pat him he gets a raging boner everytime. And I don't know if you've ever seen an unsheathed dog penis up close but it's fucking disgusting — like a three-day old deep fried chorizo sausage coming at ya!



The new-new former street dog (currently sans name), who is skittish and seriously malnourished due to the mistreatment by fuckwit 'city' people in Pucon, was welcomed.



And Guacho my old pal has sadly gone missing. By the time I had left no one had seen him for over 5 days meaning he has either; been stolen, ran away then got stolen, run away and got killed, run away and prefers his new place, got hit by a car on the highway, got eaten and buried by one of the other dogs, played hide and seek devastatingly well, hitch hiked to Argentina, fell in the river and froze and/or drowned to death or finally got his comeuppance from the geese. Rest in peace my little friend, unless you aren’t dead, then go fucking tear it up man!



The all important photo of me with my Chilean Grandma, Señore Irma, in Mapuche garb was taken outside of the Ruka. Although, I made the fatal mistake of letting a grubby-handed 7 year old take it, how the hell did she managed to smear it like that?



This doesn’t fit the Farewell Theme Style of this blog entry, but fuck it, I can do what I want. This guy, who has had his faced removed to avoid admitting the embarrassing fact that I can’t remember his name, strolled in for a family friend dinner thingo wearing this piece of Australian Patriotsim — in total ignorance. He couldn’t even pronounce it! Oosy oosy oosy. Give me a break. I would have offered to buy it from him as a precious piece of nostalgia if it wasn’t so damn ugly. Never EVER wear a t-shirt with foreign writing as you could well embarrass yourself. Imagine if I told him the t-shirt meant Pussy Pussy Pussy or Boners Boners Boners?



The new recruits have passed their intense hand over training period. That’s Matthew Ready (hilariously translates to Mateo Listo) and Lisa Caprice (as in the car not the dirty pole dancer). Maybe it’s just a coincidence but notice how there are TWO people replacing me?



Mateo caught me unawares and subsequently destroyed me in a spur of the moment Man Gut Pout Stand Off. I salute you and your superior Man Tank Don Mateo.



The near and dear family have been farewelled (except Grandpa, he left to do something else without saying goodbye). That’s my Grandma in plain clothes on the left, Señore Irma, on the right is her lovely daughter-in-law Anita and the one and only Carlita.



Most of the swarm of grandchildren were properly goodbye'd. That’s me, my beard, Carlita and that over-excited pocket rocket Carmilo (whom I dubbed Corporal Carmelo — long story but had to do with my dodgy pronunciation and him always wearing full army fatigues). Look at him seeking approval as he ruins another photo, although that is a pretty fucking good set of rabbit ears he’s got there. Nice work Corporal.



And now an Ode to Carlita, my little Mapuche sidekick buddy. We passed many afternoons together picking fruit for marmalade and juice. She is one of the funniest people I have ever met and a non stop giggle-athlete. She does awesome voices ranging from the speech impeded to Latin Godfather impersonations and we used to sing a robot song (in robot) together, I even taught the dear thing to beat box. Once, when I was talking, for some unknown reason, about intestinos (intestines) she broke out into an immediate ad-lib incantation called Intestino de Amor (Intestine of Love).

And if that beard and smiling child combo doesn’t get you all buttery then you aren’t really human.



I gave her the camera one day to shut her up while I was painting the front sign and she went on a rampage and this is arguably the Pièce de Résistance. Boogers and all.



Lunch table antics were always a treat. Dancing instead of sitting or making theatrics of taking soup from a spoon. My favourite move was the Ninja Face Wipe. Because she eats like a circus animal, she gets crap all over her face, if you turn your eyes for just one second she will wipe her dirty mug on something. I tallied; the tablecloth, her own clothes, the clothes of someone sitting next to her, a newspaper, the curtains, to my fucking backpack.



This is her trying to impress me while I’m chopping wood with her fresh raspberry juice moustache. And it worked. Hat’s off indeed.



Another successful Pig Chase completed. Now that's teamwork!

Adios Carlita! Que te vaya muy bien y un abrazo! Espero que encontremos otra vez!

It’s time to hang up the mighty farm pants (after a serious washing) and say good day to the life of a campesino. I am hands down 20% tougher than I was when I arrived and for that I thank my Chilean Grandparents, particularly Grandma. Man Abroad — it’s time to go (although I am thinking about a sneaky re-visit in a few weeks, but just so they can see how the beard is going).