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 Graeme Price explores Santiago, its nightlife and its men.
Picking up in a club is never easy for me, and that’s when I’m speaking English. God help me when I’m trying to speak another language.
El Bunker is a gay club in Bellas Artes, the premiere entertainment precinct in Santiago, and the Chilean capital’s centre of queer life. Entry to the club was expensive by Chilean standards; 3000 pesos (approximately AUS $6.40), and the drinks weren’t much cheaper.
Standing by the bar, holding the least expensive beer on the menu – an overpriced can of Escudo – while watching the topless men and drag queens dancing on the platforms above, I couldn’t help but feel a little out of place. Not because of any language barrier or cultural difference – the club was like many gay locales the world over – but having spent the previous two months experiencing something of a gay drought while backpacking through Peru and Bolivia, El Bunker was an almost overwhelming oasis of homosexuality.
Suddenly someone put his hand on my shoulder, breaking me from my daydreaming, and said “Hola”.
All I could think was: Oh crap! This is the part where I have to speak Spanish.
***
Maybe it was my bad Spanish, but locals seemed to have a hard time understanding why a gringo like me would want to spend a prolonged visit in Santiago.
Nestled at the foot of the Andres, the Chilean capital is, for the most part, a transit point for Westerners who are either on the way in or out of South America, and who usually prefer cosmopolitan Buenos Aires or the Inca ruins of Peru. But if you can stand the smog, Santiago has a lot going for it.
For one, the music scene is huge, with folk, gypsy or punk bands playing every other night in any number of venues across the city. One night I was there I went to see a gypsy band, Mano Ajena, in a venue called Galpón Victor Jara, in the hip district of Barrio Brasíl. The bar was named after a Chilean folksinger who was killed by the former dictator Pinochet’s security forces, so there was a bit of red flag waving while I was there, and locals trying to engage me in conversation about the revolution. But Galpón Victor Jara had an unpretentious and friendly atmosphere, and the crowd’s energy on the dance floor was infectious.
Given its size, Santiago is a relatively (even surprisingly) safe city, and walking around at night is not a problem. While gay relationships are still taboo, affection between Chileans is pretty physical, and public displays of intimacy between men are common. You can get away with a fair bit before drawing any untoward attention.
Another of Santiago’s attractions is that the city has plenty of room for subcultures. Goths and punks abound, and almost everyone has a tattoo or a piercing. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s gay-friendly, it is home to one of the continent’s largest (and most out) gay scenes.
November 2007 saw the staging of Santiago’s second ever Pride March, an event that drew thousands of revellers into the heart of the city and received the support of the Chilean President, Michelle Bachelet. This is no small achievement in what is still a very Catholic country, and it’s a good sign for the future.
***
“This club is full of cuicas,” he whispered as he drew closer.
“Que?”
Chilean Spanish is full of slang words; chilismos, as they call them. Grasping their meaning can be difficult, even when you come with a little Spanish in hand. Chileans say they speak the worst Spanish in the world, and celebrate the fact.
As my new friend explained over the music at El Bunker, ‘cuicas’ are rich Chileans who have little indigenous blood or do their best to hide behind European-sounding surnames. Realising that my Spanish only went so far, he changed tack, leaning in to ask me if I thought his dark skin was beautiful.
It was, and I told him so.
Smiling, he motioned for me to join him on the dance floor, and swaying together, flirting, we moved into the crowd.
At the end of the song, the curtains on the stage above us drew back, revealing an elaborate technicolour living-room reminiscent of a US sitcom.
He hushed me as drag queens walked on stage and music began. Lip-synching to local songs, they performed choreographed slapstick routines straight out of an episode of I Love Lucy. As a show, it put anything we have on Commercial Road to shame.
I loved it. My new friend grinned at my excitement and held me tighter. He knew all the words, and sang them softly into my ear.
We walked out of El Bunker after the show, into the summer night, crossing a bridge over the river Mapocho to catch a taxi to his apartment. We struggled to remain discreet. Maybe it was because I was drunk, but no one around us seemed to care.
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