T A B L E_T A L K What shouldn't you miss when visiting the Big Apple? Get the lowdown on New York City in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y Mondo Weirdo Hooked on Thaipusam: An astonishing religious rite in Malaysia (06/26/98) Mondo Weirdo Going natural Wanderlust asks: What's your favorite nude beach? (06/26/98) Wide-eyed in Galápagos By Barry Lopez An award-winning writer explores the mind-stretching wonders and gut-wrenching terrors of an extraordinary land (06/25/98) USA vs. Iran (vs. Iran) By Ethan Zindler At this World Cup match, the action is in the stands (06/24/98) Embraced in Spain By Barry Yeoman A gay traveler confronts his demons in Cádiz (06/23/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		IRREDEEMABLY WEALTHY IN PATAGONIA . | . PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - We were exotic newcomers to Hernan, the local doctor's 17-year-old son whom Martha had hired to watch over the place. He greeted us with surprise that verged on wonder, asking questions as he helped unload the truck. He introduced the family that ran the farm -- the patriarch, Segundino, his wife and their 15-year-old daughter. They lived in another farmhouse about 50 meters down from ours. They smiled at us a lot and sent up fried bread, a local preparation, when we gave them a couple of fish to eat. Hernan's duties on the farm must have been rather light because he became our self-appointed fishing guide. Each day he took us to a different part of the river, often leading us over tall hills and through thick scrub. We would pause to pick tiny wild strawberries, inspect giant Patagonian beetles or watch long-beaked Bandurias feeding on worms in the next field. The river would greet us with the sound of rushing water and at its edge we would see deep pools, moving riffles and the occasional rise of a feeding trout. When we fished, Hernan watched curiously as we teased the water with our funny-looking fly rods. He worked the river's depths without a rod, just a lure and a tin can wrapped in line. His $3 contraption worked surprisingly well, though -- often better than our own, in fact. This was a land where buildings had no electricity and where horses were a privileged form of transportation. But we lived well. Too well, perhaps. The morning's fare was frugal, but we returned to the cabin each day at lunch to eat large sandwiches filled with meat and cheese. Dinners were more celebratory. They were eaten late, as the summer sun tucked itself behind the Andes for the night. We made good use of certain essentials that car camping affords -- bacon, eggs, pasta, onions, garlic and packaged soups -- all washed down with cans of beer kept cool in the creek behind the cabin. Hernan claimed that he had never eaten so well in his life. Erik and I looked forward to buying steak on our next trip into town. The river was healthy enough and received so little fishing pressure that we decided it would be OK to eat a few fish. Three pan-sized brown trout caught one morning became lunch, fried in butter and dressed with salt and lemon. They were joined by a rare, '91 Chilean Chardonnay, a single bottle of which Erik had spotted on the shelf of the supermarket in Coyhaique. We sat in that old cabin with its creaky floors and stared out the window at the blue sky and white clouds and spoke of simple things between sips and mouthfuls. A feeling of incurable, isolating wealth set in during those days. It was undeniable. Erik and I were loaded with objects that at home were of negligible significance, but stood out here like feathers on a peacock -- a portable CD player, carbon-fiber fly rods, halogen flashlights, polyester fleece jackets, a rented truck, bags of gear. Anything we did seemed to almost flaunt it, though at first it didn't feel all bad. We were only different. We simply had what we had. The feeling came when we would depart for the day, suited in neoprene waders, fishing vests and polarized sunglasses while Segundino's wife walked up the hill to feed the turkeys. It became more acute when we went through the cattle gate that marked the border of Martha and Donald's farm. I opened it for the truck to pass through, and when I went to close it, Segundino's daughter appeared on horseback, looking happy and beautiful and laughing at me a little bit, perhaps out of shyness. Her horse clopped up to the gate, she closed it and we sped down the road to find new adventures, new stories, while she returned to her chores. She laughed at me much more the next day when Hernan took me riding. I had ridden horses before and had no problem mounting the animal. But the Chilean style was different from the English style I knew. The horse wears a different bridle and is steered differently. As a result, my efforts at following Hernan resulted in a number of absurd figure-eights in front of Segundino's cabin. She sat there on the front porch laughing at the hilarity of my situation, slapping her knee at the wealthy fool who couldn't ride a horse. Our wealth didn't sit so easily for very long, though. A day later, on a trip back from town, we bumped into Martha in her beefy Toyota pickup. We were happy to see each other and she seemed glad that we were enjoying her farm. The situation had changed. Martha had "just given Segundino the sack," as she put it, and it probably wasn't a good idea to stay at the farm any longer. She wasn't happy about it. Segundino had diabetes and a heart condition. Farm work wasn't doing him any good, not to mention the fact that much of it wasn't getting done. It also didn't help Segundino's health that the only thing his family ever ate for dinner was beef and deep-fried bread. But Martha had a farm to run. Hernan told us that Segundino's only possessions were his three horses, one of which I had ridden the day before. His daughter had been forced to leave school that year due to a lack of money. She was hoping to return the next year in the hopes of finding a husband among her classmates. But that was probably uncertain now. I felt a certain tangible self-disgust rising in my throat as I walked to the creek behind the cabin, waders pulled down to my waist, to scoop out the remaining beers and bottle of wine. As I walked back, cans and bottle dripping onto my sleeves, I looked over to their cabin, the center of the unhappy news. A wisp of smoke rose out of its chimney and fought a fine mist of rain being blown by the wind. I was only a visitor to this land. I came to be a witness to its beauty and a well-fed sympathizer for its people. But I would soon return to my comfortable, ordered existence and their fate would be farther out of my way. In our shiny 4-by-4, packed once again, we left the grassy fields, closed the cattle gate for the last time and headed for a larger river closer to the ocean. Three days later, Erik and I boarded a plane bound for Santiago, returning from a fishing trip as we had so many times before, recounting over and over the ones we caught, those that got away and the ones that never told us they were there. In Santiago, Erik went back to his office. A week later, I returned to Toronto, where my CD player inches closer toward obsolescence and my fly rod tempts me with promises of the lived life when I'm rummaging in the basement. If I close my eyes, I can go back to that dream and see the mountains and feel the river between my legs. I can see the smiling, laughing face of Segundino's daughter. I wonder where she might be. SALON | June 29, 1998 Mark Schatzker is a freelance writer living in Toronto.