What’s This Gonna Cost Us?

I noticed it on my first cab ride in Santiago. Four of us were packed in the back seat, hurling through the city center at night, with James in front talking to our driver, the older man at the wheel who was missing every turn, coming across every one-way street, and taking every detour imaginable it seems, keeping us far from our hostel in the Barrio Brasil.

This is it, I thought, we’re being ripped off. Just like it said in the guidebook. Katie and I whispered suspiciously to each other. Heads together, we watched our fate play out before our eyes, unable to stop it. Where on earth was he taking us?

La Moneda, the Plaza de Armas, Cerro Santa Lucia. Suddenly our driver was playing tour guide. And that’s when it first arose, an ugly sense of mistrust buried deep in my American consciousness—What’s this gonna cost us? As we began to seethe with worry, cruising every so slowly through the orange-glow of mercury streetlights, our driver pointed out more sites, accompanied by stories and anecdotes.

Turning a corner, another feeling cropped up. Could it be, we wondered, that this man might just be a genuinely nice person? A Santaguino who loves his city and wanted to show it to us? Free of charge?

We wrestled with this notion in the back seat, unsure whether or not this was a possibility we could accept. Acceptance to us would come down to the bottom line, the final fare.

But after that long ride, when it was finally time to pay, that price was fair, even low. And to top things off, our dear driver got out of the cab to give each one of us gringos, in Chile for our first time ever, a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

As walked through the hostel lobby, we exchanged bewildered glances. “He was actually just a nice guy,” we mused to each other. How sad it was, I realized then, that this postulation has become so difficult for us to believe.

I realized in Chile just how little faith I had in sincerity and generosity. The question that always haunted me, popping up in the back of my mind—What’s this gonna cost us—made me feel uglier and uglier about my culture.

But it was a hard notion to shake, even as unquestioning kindness and hospitality has been shown to me time and time again. When Kate and I arrived at the Mirador Dorotea too late to hike up to the lookout over Natales, Frida, who owns the land where the trail runs up the hill, invited us in for “once.” As she laid out the table with an assortment of teabags, a jar of instant coffee, jam, crackers, bread, and cheese, Kate uttered the question that had been racing through my own mind—What’s this gonna cost us?

The answer, as it almost always is in Chile, was of course nothing. Frida was simply happy to have us at our table to chat. She talked about her animals—it was going to be a difficult year for the lambs, who had arrived so early in the season—and showed us pictures of countless other tourists, sitting at the table where we were then warming up.

In Punta Arenas, a colleague of Dan’s invited Kate, Casey, and I to stay at her and her husband’s home for the weekend. Their two sons had grown up and were off at university or doing other things, so they were very happy to have the group of us. Invite your friends over to the house, they told us, toma cerveza, listen to the stereo. They made us real coffee—a gift one of the sons had brought back from Columbia—drove us everywhere, posed in pictures with us, and played tour guide with the same zeal I had seen in the cabbie in Santiago.

As a traveler, you’re told again and again to be careful and watch your back. A good piece of advice, and certainly one to hold onto while abroad. But how can you balance watching your back with opening your heart and mind? I didn’t know it when I left Chicago, but I came to Chile with the idea that something is usually wanted in return for whenever something is given. But as I know now, that’s an assumption that can cost an awful lot.