Australia is not bad. According to the latest ranking of US News & World Report There are only seven countries with a better quality of life than this one and, when you ask an Australian how it’s like, they always say: “Not bad.” Until this morning, a normal day seems to await its most populated city.
It’s hot in Sydney. Although compared to Chile, most of Australia is hot. The city’s business towers are closed, there is no work today, especially not here, but early on some people start arriving at one in particular. It’s Sunday and it feels like 28 degrees, even with the wind, even in the shadow of the tall buildings downtown. It’s similar to Paseo Ahumada, but done with a little more care. And money. It has skyscraping buildings and its skirts are adorned with shopping malls and bright shop windows with gift offers this Christmas. While walking, telephone boxes and Jehovah’s Witnesses appear with the same frequency, there are at least nine McDonald’s, to which they say “Maccas”, and five Burger Kings, although here they are called Hungry Jack. Right on the corner of Market and York streets is a 27-story tower with a marble facade, black window frames and it’s open. There, on the 15th floor, is the Chilean consulate.
At 7:30 a.m., the room On the first floor, three men with slightly old-fashioned Chilean accents are talking. There is something about them, not in what they say, but in the way they speak, something familiar. One carries a bag with an Australian Aboriginal flag and monkey puzzle tree landscape printed with Lautaro. He arrived in Australia in 1988, his name is Carlos (70 years old) and next to him is José Luis, who is the same age and arrived the same year. Slowly, people continue to arrive, some on buses and others on the tram that stops a few steps away. The ship glides and mixes with cars and buildings in a modern version of the trains whose tracks Omar, the last of the trio, cleaned with a brush when he arrived in 74. Sometimes Australia seemed to them a strange simulation with curious and pompous sums of money as wages. Then as today, working normally seems to be the main key to playing a video game at 25 years old. hurt per hour is the minimum you can earn.
A woman tells Omar it’s $15. “For the corn cake,” Carlos clarifies when he sees my confused face. Another man, short and old, seems busy, coming and going. He is dressed in fabric pants, a shirt and a navy blue suit, his badge says “Facilitator” and every half hour, throughout the day, someone coming to vote will say to him “Skinny! ”, affectionately, and will greet him.
The elevator hallway is blocked by an inn with three women coordinating entry and giving table numbers. In the spacious and modern space of this seven-meter-high first floor, at 8 a.m. a Christmas tree with yellow lights shines, reaching only one meter from the ceiling. The polling station is officially open and the 30 people who have already arrived approach with their passport or identity document in hand. A woman with brown hair, skin, and eyes pulls a car forward to find a better spot, checks the time on her phone, takes a baby with yellow hair, white skin, and blue eyes out of the car and calls him “son.” Meanwhile, in front of the revolving glass door outside, the small intercom pole became the focal point. selfies for voters by his two national flags hoisted at his side. The colors and shapes of the paintings that make us Chileans feel eighteen They are unable to answer any of the questions from passers-by who pass outside and wonder what is going on. Red hats and national team t-shirts adorn the bodies of some and the Australian style of loose clothing, hats, sunglasses and straight backs, that of others. Everyone moves forward in line to complete the procedure of drawing a line on the ballot.
At noon, the Chileans stay for a moment chatting next to solid blocks of stone that adorn the sidewalk in front of the consulate building. There, no one seems to care that they talk about religion and politics while they watch their compatriots enter through the screen. Two women have been selling for three hours. memories like fridge magnets with Mapuche and Chilean flags, Colo Colo t-shirts and even bottles of Alto del Carmen pisco at 65 it hurts And another entrepreneur sells the badges of Chilean first division soccer teams in the front block.
It’s Sunday and dawn is breaking, but now in Santiago. There it is 4 o’clock in the morning and here it is 6 o’clock in the afternoon. Surfers start to come out of the water for fear of sharks on the coast, cafes close and bars open. After that, even if it is not dark, in Australia it is already “night”. At the Opera, the Boy & Bear group begins to play with the people waiting on the steps, and at the consulate we have to start counting on the members, representatives and journalists who remained.
–The countdown for table nine has begun! –one of the waitresses raises her voice, crossing one of the aisles.
“The first table will start counting their votes! we shout. “The fourth table starts counting…” shouts another. The first votes look like a series of aces for Jeannette Jara and are followed by five in a row for José Antonio Kast. Timid applause from the communist command announces the end of the counting of the first table. The celebrations gain energy with the second and third victories, and so on until the last. Today, if it were up to Sydney, the next president of Chile would be Jeannette Jara, an outcome according to experts and surveys, unlikely in the country that gave us life.
Today was already Sunday and it was a strange day. As we counted the votes, just seven kilometers away, Bondi Beach became a crime scene and a, so far, developing news story. The truth is that the protagonist was red and the happiness of those of us who enjoyed it, whether it was the air conditioning or the results, did not last long.
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