Day 1
It was a really big one this year, 33 days in total, involving Chile from top to bottom, Easter Island and 3 locales in Brasil, tagged on at the end just to make it worth our while. It required 15 flights, several of which were connecting, in a country renowned for extremes of weather and over 8,000 earth tremors a year. This actually proved very useful at times. “Did you just fart?” – “No Baby, earth tremor.” “Why is the bed shaking?” – “Earth tremor.” “How many Pisco Sours did you drink last night? Your hands are shaking.” – “Only one sweetheart, must be an earth tremor.”
So it’s a Nine and a half hour flight on Cathay Pacific from Hong Kong to Sydney, with your knees tucked under your chin and an average temperature just below boiling point. They must be saving a fortune on air-conditioning and serving left-over school slops, little wonder that they are back in profit. There’s a 3 hour stopover in Syd, with the opportunity to get a decent coffee and some roughage before the Twelve and a half hour flight to Santiago on Quantas. It galls me to say it but the flight was good, comfortable and with decent food. Okay, the Stewards would make Dame Edna look like a respectable dowager but, they are good at their job. And they have all night snacks. Have you ever eaten 12 packets of Soy Rice crackers in one go, interspersed with the odd Tim Tam? Now that’s travelling in style.
We descended into Santiago from a clear blue sky, the Cordilleras tall and craggy rising from the morning mists. Is it mist? No, it’s a lake of grey/brown smog that laps against the feet of the Andes. No wonder they get taller each year, they are shrinking back in disgust. Santiago airport was a doddle and we were met by our Tour Operator, Eco-Chile, and whisked off to the Hotel Matilda, an old mansion converted into a ‘Boutique’ hotel with a Vincent price staircase and the tallest doors south of the equator. If they had built as wide as they did high, the rooms would have been great, as it was, we felt like we were in a British phone box without the adverts for ‘French lessons’.
Our guide, a young be-bearded yout called Juan Pablo, arrived and whisked four exhausted and somewhat jet-lagged dudes and dudettes on a whistle stop tour of Santiago. Due to frequent earthquakes and rampant exploitation, Santiago is a hodgepodge of old and flakey and new and flakey buildings.
We stagger around and get an approximation of our bearings, but don’t really get to appreciate anything because it is all so quick and then the staggering gets worse when we stop at the old fish market for a seafood empanada and a Pisco Sour. We wander around some more and then stop again, this time for a beer and a Colchada. Beer is beer, but I’m still unsure about what a Colchada is supposed to be although, seemingly, it’s a big deal in Chile and Juan Pablo raves about it. It looks like a Shepherds’ pie, but it contains fish, eggs, olives and pork and the potato topping is finished off with sweetcorn and about 3 teaspoons of sugar. Sugar? Why would you do that? It has the density of a good quality housebrick and the same sort of texture. I notice that Juan Pablo is having a steak sandwich. Bastardio.
By the time we finish this, we are blown up like balloons and tripping over as we fill the MTR back to the Matilda, we are incapable of waltzing. Fortunately the Vincent Price staircase comes with a very strong banister and I manage to haul my distended belly up to the room. We are in bed by 8.10 and asleep by 8.09.
Day 2
Early doors we get an email from our next guide, Filippe, to say hi, he will pick us up at 9.00, but we had made arrangements for it to be noon so, when he arrives, we send him away. He’s a good lad though and admits that it’s a company snafu and we tear off uptown to the Museo de Pre-Colombia. This is probably the best thing to see in Santiago. It’s a really cool museum and the level of artwork in the exhibits is stunning. It really goes to show what animales the Conquistadores were, rabid dogs focused only on gold when there were so many riches made from simple clay. When my time allotment is up, I am dragged out kicking and screaming like some 3 year old Chilean kid on a sugar high and we race off to the Cerro Santa Lucia.
It’s a small hill with a tiny old fort just on the edge of the town centre, however, nobody told us that they still fire the noonday gun and it goes off right above our heads as we summit. It packs a real wallop and seems strange that in a country suffering from so many earthquakes, they would risk setting one off every lunch time. Naturally, in the moments immediately after the explosion, Jon, Liz and Dori all look at me accusingly. Cheek! Once our hearts had recovered, we reached the top to look out over the stunning views. Naaaaah. From up top, Santiago is pretty scruffy, wreathed in garlands of purple smog. The Andes are just a vague outline over there, somewhere. It’s pretty disappointing.
We sprint back to the Hotel, Filippe loads us into the van and we drive through the rubbish strewn hinterland of Santiago, down several mountain ranges and into the Columbia Valley and the St Emiliana Vinyards. This is a seriously organic winery set in lovely gardens, Humming birds flit through the purple flowering sage, chickens and guinea fowl are responsible for insect control.
Our guide, Maria, is passionate about the environment and elaborates at 90 words a minute before handing us over to Sebastian, who is much more relaxed, probably pissed, because he’s in charge of the wine tasting. We are given a Sparkling, a Sauvignon Blanc, a Carmenere and something else but by now I am losing track. Each one has been paired with an appropriate cheese which really just enables you to drink more wine. They are all seriously good, from what little I can remember, and we are all hammered by the time Sebastian stops talking. One thing that I am able to recall is that Carmenere was originally a French grape and it got exported to California where it developed a rather nasty virus before being re-exported back to la Belle France, where it promptly wiped out the entire strain. Chile, somehow, has resisted this virus for which I am grateful, because this is a belter and Carmenere becomes the vin de choix for the rest of the holiday.
Filippe pours us back into the van and we drive into Valparaiso. Valpo comes with a lot of hype and, just maybe, with the light vibrating off the multi-coloured houses it might live up to it, but I’m not convinced. In the foggy Autumn, the houses look like corrugated tin shacks, which is what they are, glued precariously onto the hills overlooking the bay. A bit like Cezanne has painted a Calcutta shanty town above Glasgow docks.
Famed for its street art, I’m pretty sure that we are talking 1% Art; 2% good Graphics; 3% average Graphics and; 94% crap and vandalism. Vandalism seems to have the upper hand. Okay, there are a lot of wannabe Banksy’s in town, but most of this is just intentionally bad graffiti. I don’t think that it’s enough to have green hair, multiple piercings, a bad sense of dress and dirty nails to be an Artist, there has to be a glimmering of talent and some developed skills as well. Your work should be able to say more than “Look at me, I’m being Artistic innit”. There’s a smell of dope pervading the alleys that, as students in the 70’s, we couldn’t achieve in a closed room with a paraffin heater, a rug across the bottom of the door and toilet paper plugged in the keyhole. This to me is denial, not creativity. It’s like trying to get on Britain’s Got Talent by singing a Kanye West cover.
Due to this liberal/progressive/don’t work/just be attitude, the “Artists” of Valpo have created an edgy ghetto. Of course, it does have some beautiful spots, but not many, and the lifestyle that embraces all creatures means that the narrow cobbled streets that wind up and down the hills, are paved with 20% cobbles and 80% dogshit. This is not just an annoyance, the prevalence of eye disease amongst the Children of Valpo is likely to be higher than your average village in Tanzania. Filippe does his best to sell it and he’s pretty good, but life isn’t always easy.
One of the big attractions in Valpo are the numerous Ascensiors, a variety of rickety funiculars that carry people up and down the steeper hillsides around the town centre. Unfortunately, on the day of our arrival, the Communistas have called a National Strike of Wheeltappers and Shunters and this includes the Ascensior Drivers so they are all closed and we have to leg it. Naturally, Dori loves this, Ascensiors are for pussies and legging it is good for your heart rate. The rest of us puff and wheeze.
We visit a couple of galleries but I’m pretty much underwhelmed until, from one of the viewpoints, we look down on a huge work that takes up three buildings sideways on. It’s an enormous dancer/shaman with his feet where his head should be and yes, I’m pretty convinced that this might be Art, although it’s possible that the painters got the drawings in the wrong order. Eventually, we find our hotel, which is very nice and our bags have been delivered and it’s all quite hip in a safe middle class way.
Day 3
We are free to roam the streets of Valparaiso and we pick our way through the moraines of dog turds to see the Arts Centre in the old prison. Art in a Prison is intended to be a reclaiming process I think, instead it comes across as Art in a Prison of its own making – Valpo.
We wander through the Cemetery of Dissidents, the flotsam and jetsom of Kircudbright, Greenock and Liverpool who made their fortunes here before the Panama Canal relegated Valpo to a “Once was”. We go into the Bank of Chile, a mausoleum of money. The smell of wood polish and old bank notes, where the brass on the ancient lift glisters like gold. The Market in the main square sells pretty poor tourist tat, made in China, but the Foto coffee bar sells actual photographic film and nasty photo albums. It’s difficult to believe that anybody still purchases these, but the coffee is good and the atmosphere welcoming, which is more than can be said for the South side of town.
This starts from the Plaza Sotomayor, where there is a large memorial to Arturo Prat, hero of the Bird Poop War. Arthur lived up to his surname by attacking a large Peruvian Destroyer whilst in charge of a rowing boat with a sail. They blew his boat out of the water and Arturo died and is worshipped by Chileans as emblematic of the Chilean ideal of fighting for your principles, whatever the odds. Prat.
As we exit the square on the South side, we are immediately assailed by restaurateurs desperate to drag us into their premises with promises of exquisite local cuisine. Unfortunately, most of these premises resemble crack-dens and the desperation only increases our resolve not to enter. Eventually we enter the Plaza del Wino, where the local branch of the Freemasons Winos for Jerusalem appear to be holding a convention. To one side is the Historico Mercado Puerto de Valparaiso, (I’m not making this up), our Guide Book assures us that the old ambience is being lovingly restored and that the restoration will be complete by the time we are reading this. Unfortunately, it seems that the Valporaisons are very, very, very, slow readers. Possibly dyslexic. The scaffold appears to be rusted into perpetuity and Winos have taken up residency.
We walk on to the Iglesia de la Matriz which was reputedly sacked by Francis Drake, but it is seriously locked and one of Frank’s boys appears to be sleeping off a good nights’ pillage in the vestibule. A girl with green hair and torn fishnet stockings, obviously an Artist, suggests to us that we get out of there before the girls get mugged and Jonathon gets violated. She seems to know what she is talking about as a variety of zombies are starting to assemble in the Plaza del Wino who, if they were able to stand, might be deemed slightly threatening. We scamper back to the Plaza Sotomayor and take the Ascencior, now working, up to the safer tourist levels and more wandering through crappy Artisanal workshops. Who are they trying to kid?
Having been so negative, it’s only fair to say that in the evening, we went to the Tres Pesces restaurant for fantastic food and ambience and possibly the biggest profiterole in the World. It arrived with a nest of spun sugar on top and would have looked well, perched on Princess Eugenie’s head at Royal Ascot.
Day 4
We had a relaxed morning in Valpo before departing for the Matetic Vinyards in Santa Rosita Valley. Their La Casona Hotel is very well set up in beautiful grounds and, after a fabulous lunch with excellent wines, we did the Winery tour. This was also excellent. The Guide gave us the Chemistry lesson version and I learned a lot more about it than just the fun and hangover stuff I am familiar with.
There was more excellent food in the evening only, as the day tripping riff-raff had now gone home, we are almost alone in the dining room and at the mercy of the resident Somelier. He politely introduces himself before pointing out that the wine selection we have ordered to accompany our meal is crap, we are obviously a bunch of plebs and would we please change to his recommendation or he will have to ask us to leave. Unfortunately, for him, Mr. Somelier has not been formally introduced to Dori and Liz beforehand and, with some vehemence, he is instructed as to where he might stick his cork. The Sauvignon Blanc arrives as ordered, but Jon and I feel sorry for the lad and we change the Red, it is a win for everybody. Anyway, they are all superb and the cold starlit night is spent digesting a weeks’ worth of food and alcohol under the fluffiest duvet in all of South America.
Day 5
We wake before dawn for a packed breakfast and to meet our driver for the transfer to the airport. ‘Crisp’ is a word sometimes used for chilly mornings, this one is ‘Brittle’. So are our tempers because, after an hour and a half waiting, there is still no driver and the folks at the travel agency haven’t got into work yet. Finally, we have to commandeer a local driver who, for a not inconsiderable fee, agrees to take us to the airport, which he does with aplomb, happy in the knowledge that his kids will do well at the American College we just sponsored.
Fortunately, we catch our flight to La Serena, which is billed as a small architectural jewel of a town. The Serenans have not read the billing and, this being a Sunday, for the most part it is shut and/or up for sale.
The best bar in town burned down, possibly as a reprisal for opening on the Lord’s Day, but we later find out that it was the only place that fell down in the last earthquake before it caught fire. What a bummer, of all the potential candidates. Seemingly the only entertainment in the entire town are the vari-coloured winos ranting at the pigeons in the main square. It doesn’t take long to exhaust the opportunities there and we wander back to the hotel and the prospect of a bottle of beer at US$12 a pop. Fortunately, we stumble upon a supermarket and it’s open, we seize the day and the corner café promises to stay open until 9.00 if we promise to eat chips. As it happens, he cooks a mean “Big Hen Soup” and his Pisco Sour would charge a battery, so all is well. Just as well, as we have to be in bed by 9.30 so that we can set off at 6.30 tomorrow for a big day out.
Day 6
Our guide, Kathya, arrives and we head up the Elqui Valley, the early morning fog follows us and, at first, this is disappointing, but once we are out of the burbs and steadily climbing, the sun comes out and burns it off. The Elqui Valley is a narrow ribbon of green flanked by high red/brown mountains, very little grass grows above the irrigated fields except for hard green cactussussuses. The sky is an incredible blue, the light is strong but not hurtful. The vines are already tinged with yellow at the edges, but the Muscat grape leaves are a deep old red blood as the ribbon of cultivation winds ever upwards, the “Skinny Boy” River splashing colours through the tawny hills.
We stop at a viewpoint from where we can see the crash site of the Paihuano UFO, witnessed by all the local people in 1998 after Jorge put some mushrooms in the village empanada brunch. Before they could get up the mountain to check it out, the Army flew in helicopters and cordoned it off, declaring it to be a weather balloon or maybe a meteor. There is nothing now to show that it ever happened and we listen to the innocent laughter of the local children as they play in the schoolyard, their bald heads and big black eyes glinting in the sun as they laugh without opening their mouths while they levitate Llamas.
Further along the valley, we come to Monte Grande, a tiny village with a pretty little church and former home of Gabriela Mistra a Nobel Laureate for poetry. This girl was a bundle of fun, her “Sonnets to Death” are admired around the World. Her Father abandoned the family when she was 3 and her boyfriend topped himself when she was 20, so she might have had ‘bloke’ issues. Anyway, her next Top Ten Hit was “Desolation”, not exactly upbeat. We fancy a coffee in the local shop to cheer us up, but he hasn’t turned the boiler on yet and I’m feeling a bit of sympathy for Gabriella.
Higher up the Valley is Piso Elqui, its real name used to be something else, but a crafty Chilean President changed it to Pisco to stop the Peruvians from claiming the name as a trademark. Pisco is the National drink of both Countries and they have often gone to war over a lot less. Arturo Prat died in a war over fossilized bird poop after all. Prat.
Most of Pisco Elqui appears to be closed and our Tour Company appears to have organized a trip that cleverly encompasses every closing day, or even hour, around the entire country. We head back to Monte Grande where the kettle has finally boiled and, during the space of uno coppa, the girls buy half the Chilean annual copper output in the form of jewelry. Xi Jing Ping is going to be furious.
Lunch beckons and our orders have been forwarded to the local Restaurant Solar several hours before, that’s because no electricity is used, everything is cooked in a big silvered box on wheels that they push around the yard to stop it falling in the shade. Slow cooked is delicious but, typically heavy on the carbohydrates. Thick pea soup is guaranteed to cause me to generate copious amounts of alternative bio-fuels, useful for cooking snacks after the sun goes down. The casserole of goat is delicious but perhaps a bit heavy on a day when the temp is hitting 33degC. We stagger back to the van for the 5 minute ride to the Aba Pisco Distillery, a very old and pretty Family run establishment.
They grow the grapes, they make the wine, they distill the wine, then they distill it again so that it’s about 95% proof. This would burn out your large intestine and so, by law, they have to water it down to only 60% proof and now it only aerates your liver. Raw, it’s an acquired taste, but the National drink, Pisco Sour, a mix of Pisco, egg white, sugar and lemon juice, is a cracker.
Vicuna is just a little further down the valley and I’m not sure that letting us loose so soon after a Pisco tasting is such a good idea, but it’s a lovely town and we are reasonably well behaved.
Back to La Serena and Kathya recommends a good restaurant for dinner down on the beach. Showered and changed, we Uber it down there only to find it’s closed (Surprise, surprise!) as our Uber disappears into the night. The wonders of technology find us an alternative that might be open and it’s only 3.5km away and there are no taxis in sight. Fortunately, the goat and pea lunch is still fuelling our legs and we power walk it, arriving in a bit of a froth but hungry, which is just as well because the Mar Adentro only serves whale sized portions of everything. But it’s fresh from the dock and pretty awesome and the night is spent throwing off bed covers in an attempt to cool our overeated, overheated bodies.
Day 7
Kathya meets us and we head down the coast to Coquimbo. Coquimbo is a bit like Valpo, in fact it’s a lot like Valpo, only more of a dump. It’s pretty difficult to imagine that anyone would consider it as a potential tourist destination and, seemingly, tourists think so too and we are a bit of a novelty to the locals. There is a hill between 2 bays, only it’s more like a rubbish dump that Mother Nature created long before men arrived on the scene. At the top of the dump is a large statue of Francis Drake.
Coquimbians think Frank was a great guy. He sacked the local Cathedral, took all the gold and burnt it to the ground, however, the gold he stole had already been stolen by the Spanish from the locals and the Spanish made the locals build the church as slaves and then worship this babe in a blue cardigan who wasn’t the Goddess of anything, so the locals were rooting for Franky Boy and still are to this day. As far as the Coquimbians are concerned, Frank put Coquimbo on the map and after that, a whole bunch of English pirates dropped in for a bit of pillage and made the town what it is today – a bit like Hull on a foggy Sunday afternoon. Which, evidently, is better than being Spanish.
The main street is referred to as the Barrio Inglese and is dedicated to all the British Pirates who followed Frank, the ones who came to live and mine phosphates, copper, silver and stuff in general. The Coqs are convinced that this street is built in the British Colonial style, not realizing that we gave up adobe before Christ and corrugated iron was only ever used for cowsheds and the occasional garage. However, the Coqs are great people and we were welcomed like the prodigal Sons and I had to thank the Mayor but politely decline the keys to the City, especially as I figured that it might come with a bill for repairing it. Time has taken its toll on Coquimbo and, at some point in the recent past, the local priest decided that the whole Inglese thing had gone a bit too far and so he spent all the money that they didn’t have on a gargantuan cross on top of a hill, it’s made from concrete that would make a Chinese contractor blush, that and lots of rusty steel. It’s a monument of oppression, there is nothing proud or celebratory about it. It’s an enormous, ugly symbol of pain and death and slavery that completely dominates the slums around it. The Catholic Church should be ashamed of itself.
Our next visit is a fort which features a re-built wall and a cannon left over from Pinochets’ last armaments deal with a fascist prankster. The most exciting thing is a dead seal on the rocks below, which stinks and is being leisurely torn apart by some very lackadaisical vultures.
We head back to La Serena and visit the Japanese Gardens, sponsored by Mitsubishi steel, the last pirates to raid this coast before the Chinese moved in. (And you thought that you’d been pillaged before?!) The gardens are pleasant but massively forgettable. We check out some other stuff and decide on lunch at another restaurant that Kathya recommends. Not surprisingly, it is closed and things are getting seriously spooky.
In the evening, Kathya meets us and we drive back up the Elqui Valley to the Mamalucca Observatory. It’s pitch black by the time we arrive and there is a skim of cloud and a nearly full moon but it doesn’t seem to matter except that we can’t see the Milky Way with the naked eye, which is a shame but, the guy showing us around is so passionate about the night sky that we don’t really notice. We are a reasonable sized group and he sets up the big telescope to see the moon and we all take turns, the image is so clear and large that we can almost see the Lunar Lander. We then look at a star in Orion’s belt which, through the scope, turns out to be 3 bright stars, about a hundred small ones and an enormous gas cloud. Brilliant, literally. Then there’s a bunch of other stuff that would take a lifetime to learn and, all the while, he keeps up an incredible running commentary that sounds like he never, ever, gets bored. We finish with the big yin and step outside to a little fat tube that looks like a cut down 50 gallon drum except, he points it at the moon and takes a picture through it using my phone. It’s fantastic and I’m kind of hooked. I’ve already downloaded a stargazing app but, lordy there is just so much up there.
We are pretty peckish as we head back into town and Kathya promises that we can pick up a sandwich on the way, She’s quite the optimist this girl and, of course, everything is shut. Kathya scores 3 out of 3.
Day 8
Today is a travel day, but check out is after lunch so we leisurely pack and then take a last spin around downtown. Much to our surprise, we are getting to quite like La Serena. Granted, it seems to suffer from a 2 day after Sunday hangover, but the place is finally bustling, everybody is friendly and we can even find some stuff to buy. But we are not going to get carried away here and so head to the airport. This is fun because, although we have confirmed bookings with seat allocations back to Santiago and then North to Calama, Dori has now been bumped from the second leg. Fortunately the check-in girl has lived in Australia for 6 years and she’s a great Sheila, she gets it sorted and we are confirmed all the way. At this point we are unaware that this Shiela is the only person on the entire Latam Airlines payroll, capable of, or interested in fixing a snafu. This will prove to be unfortunate as Latam’s tagline reads, ‘Snafus ‘R Us’.
Santiago Airport is bedlam, we have 40 minutes to change planes, we have to exit the Domestic terminal to get back in, do security all over again, race to the new gate and pray that our bags are on board. At the gate there are maybe 500 guys trying to make this flight, Calama is one of the biggest mining towns in the World and these guys are all big, swarthy and beef fed. They are also very charming and offer seats to the ladies. We are met at Calama and, after the initial Armageddon of lights, chimneys, trucks, dirt and flare stacks, we cross the black desert night to San Pedro de Atacama.
Day 9
Casa del Don Tomas has pretentions at being a cool hipster hotel. It’s very nice but the morning finds us cooked medium rare and they make up for this by taking 10 minutes to get warm water to the shower head, this in a desert where water is precious. The corridors are echo chambers that resonate through the night with the sound of closing doors, dogs howl in the darkness and when I blow my nose at 3 a.m., people run from their rooms screaming “Eruptio!” By daylight we can understand why as there is a huge volcano on our doorstep.
We are bit bleary when our guide Sina loads us up for the days outing. Sina is pretty hot for a Chilean babe, she actually has boobs and a bum that don’t blend into one another, however, I’m a bit pissed off because for the first time we don’t have the bus to ourselves and there is a constant babble of Spanish, Italian and sometimes a bit of English. Nonetheless, Sina is very professional and we are English, one just has to put up with Johnny Foreigner when one has to.
We stop at a village whose name I can’t be bothered to look up, it has a bell tower, nice, and a church, closed, its roof caved in during rains last February. Rain is not supposed to happen here. Go Donald, no such thing as Global Warming. We visit the salt Flats and the lagoons famous for the high-altitude pink flamingoes. Sorry…… that should read ‘flamingo’. No… I’m telling fibs. There were at least 6. We’ve got more in Kowloon Park. Anyway, the Lagoons are great, weird and wonderful, set in the lowest corner of a vast plain that was once the bottom of the Ocean. Now it’s ringed by volcanoes and mountains hunched up against the Pacific Ocean Plate and it’s 3,000 metres above sea level. Small pools contain billions of tiny salt water shimp, enough for 6 very fat flamingoes.
We drive on and leave our lunch order at another village, for village read; 8 sheds, 1 church and 3 abandoned fields. Pretty much standard for this part of Chile. We then drive on up to about 4,000m and stop for a stretch, a look and a quick search for some oxygen. As we step from the bus, there is a desert fox lurking through the scrub and a beautiful hawk with tawny and white markings circling against a pure blue sky. Not one of us is camera quick enough for the hawk but we manage to catch a few of Mr. Fox.
As we climb over the last ridge, a family of Vicuna graze and obligingly skip across the road in front of us.
On the other side of the ridge, two perfectly blue lagoons nestle below snow dusted dormant volcanoes, their blue greens illustrate that at 4,200M these are still uplifted salty seabed. There are a few ducks scattered across the surface, but not much else can survive except for prehistoric salt water organisms.
The views are spectacular and there’s a group of people sitting in Director’s chairs to a light lunch with wine. Sitting down is a good idea as walking is an effort and has to be done at a leisurely pace, but wine? At this altitude dude? That is not a good idea unless you’ve got a bit of Sherpa in you. We manage to walk about a kilometer and are feeling pretty woozy by the time we haul ourselves back into the van and head back down to lower altitudes and a comfortable late lunch before the drive back into town.
In the evening, we decide to walk into the town centre to see if we can find anything to eat. This seems a bit risky with our current run of luck, but St Pedro continues to surprise. The town centre consists of about four streets of small adobe buildings, the streets themselves are just rutted dirt, but they are packed with every form of humanity. All colours, all races, all classes. From tattooed backpackers to blue rinse and pearls. Each house is a shop, a bar, a café or a travel agent, or any combination thereof. There are no street lights, but light and music spills from every door. It’s like Tattooine in Star Wars.
It’s the first time that we have seen life like this in Chile and it’s a bit of a shock. There’s a queue outside our chosen restaurant and it shows little sign of moving, so Dori gets online and we beetle off to another place where, after much ooing and aahing, they agree to feed us, which is a bit surprising as it’s half empty the whole time we are there. Most of the food is good, but it’s a set menu and there’s far too much of it for us mice and it’s Hong Kong prices, which is different to everywhere else we’ve been in Chile so far. As one of the foremost tourist destinations in Chile and with no surrounding supporting infrastructure, St. Pedro is pricey.
The excess of food and the fact that the cleaning lady cranks the heating up to full volume every time we leave our room, means that we are awake most of the night, which isn’t long as we have to be up at 4.30.
Day 10
At 5 o’clock, Sina arrives with the van and a bunch of other people, it’s pretty packed in there but we are all English speaking, except for Mario and Cochetina who hog the front, as is there perfumed Italian right. The van rips through the tail end of the night, even with a full moon we can’t see a thing and everybody focuses on trying to sleep. I have a feeling that this is not a bad thing as Jose is tearing round dirt road chicanes that might have us all screaming if we could see out the sides.
The moon drops and the sky eventually lightens as we waken and pull into a coral containing hundreds of cattle vans, with the occasional buffalo bus and a smattering of sheep cars. The queue for the loo is stamping and snorting, it’s minus 7degC and steam rises from the huddled herd. Boots, quilted jackets and woolly hats abound, but there are the occasional sandal and sweatshirt who look due for an early cull. Eventually Sina has the tickets and we rumble into the valley of Taito Geysers.
Steam rises in the early morning light. That’s why we came here at this ungodly hour, by mid-morning it’s warm and as the Atacama is one of the driest places on earth, the steam will dissipate. We park and, at 4,300M, amble amongst great clouds of steam emanating from vents and pools that hubble bubble all around. The water is seriously hot, so don’t touch, and the steam is full of Sulphur and Arsenic, so don’t dance in the clouds for too long or you might dissolve. It’s not as intense as New Zealand’s Rotorua, but it is still the third biggest concentration in the World after Yellowstone and somewhere in Russia, possibly Chernobyl, I’m not sure.
Anyway it’s pretty impressive and, as the sun comes over the mountain from Bolivia, the colours, sounds and the blue blue sky are gorgeous. So is Jose who, by now, has whipped up a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, cheese, ham, coffee and hot chocolate from the back of the van. We eat and become human once more. Standing round a deep crystal pool of gently steaming water, a passing guide warns us not to get too close as it is dangerous. Not as dangerous as the pool they call “The Assassin” , that one claimed three lives last year. One woman tripped and tumbled right in, her husband reached in to pull her out. She suffered 78% burns and died in hospital 3 days later. He lost his arm. Nobody asked him if it was a good trade. We ask Sina about this. “Oh yes, it happens all the time, but we don’t want to scare people so early in the morning. Sometimes, groups come with 10 people and leave with 9, nobody knows what happened. Seriously, it’s a fact.” We look at the crowds of backpackers balancing on small, slippery rocks, trying to get the best selfie and think; “ OK. Nature has its own way of thinning the herd….. And that’s a good thing.
We head back down the mountain and are grateful, now that we can see, for Jose’s driving abilities. We stop at lagoons to watch Giant Coots building their nests and Andean Geese arguing with them. One volcano amongst many is quietly steaming reminding us that they are not all asleep. Vicuna graze amongst a myriad pools that reflect the pure blue sky. A local village provides an expensive banio stop as the herd coalesces once again to photograph the rustic church, but we do find a lovely old lady knitting alpaca socks and buy a pair for Dori. We like to do what we can for the Chinese economy. We eventually manage to coax Cochetina back into the van after her 50th selfie and our last stop overlooks a beautiful deep canyon where we can hear water but can’t see it for the carpet of pampas and giant cactus and arrive back in town at 35degC by 11.30.
We decide to chill before the next trip and opt for a beer and sandwich at the Don Thomas. The Chileans eat a lot of sandwiches and it’s therefore rather surprising that they don’t have a fucking clue how to make one. 98% of them come on a hamburger bun that has the taste and consistency of wet cardboard. Add to this a generous portion of tomato, mashed avocado and mayo to whatever filling you choose and you have a creation that collapses into a soggy mush the moment you attempt to pick it up. WTF? If ever you ask a Chilean to make you a sandwich, ask for a spoon and straw as well.
At 3.30 we are off again, with a new guide Marcella. She is about 4’ tall with size 3 feet and size 11 ego. She only has an on/off button, no volume control and she runs at 79 RPM. It’s a bit taxing but she’s trying. Cesar the driver is a stoic. We head up the Valley of the Dinosaurs to the Valley of Mars before we cut across to the Valley of the Moon. There is a surfeit of Valleys and they all sound a bit harsh. Mars is pretty dramatic, lots of bumps and ridges and big cliffs. It was named by a Belgian priest whose Spanish wasn’t up to scratch, so the locals thought he was saying Valley of Death, which was okay as it was the place where 60 locals were slaughtered by the beloved Conquistadores of the Catholic faith. Hail Mary. We look into the Valley of the Moon and then into the Dinosaur one that really does look like several lines of migrating Stegasaurs got caught in a mudslide, if you use your imagination, or a couple of Pisco Sours.
Then we go descend into the Valley of the Moon, which is a huge canyon of salt flats, cliffs, mud, sand dunes and more salt. Evidently there is so much salt here that Walker’s Crisps have taken out the mining rights. Due to the February rains, the whole area is blanketed in white, sparkling across the red mud. Some of the bigger crystals, trapped in the mud, are like huge glass prisms which, if you lick a bit, already taste like Walker’s Crisps, Chilean Mud flavor.
We visit a rock formation of three outcrops, named by the Belgian priest as the 3 Mary’s, naturally. Actually it’s 2.5 Mary’s now as some clumsy tourist got too close to Mary Numero Uno and her upper torso is in a salt cellar in Santiago. We walk through the valley and it’s pretty impressive, particularly with the Andean Volcano backdrop. I keep hoping that Raquel Welch in a bearskin bikini will jump out from behind a rock, but then I remember that she must be nearly 80 now and that might not be such a great idea.
On the way back into town, Cesar pulls off road to a ridge overlooking San Pedro and the Andes behind. He serves us cheese and red wine and he is our favourite driver so far. We watch as the sunset turns the Andes blood red and then into purple haze and I turn in time to see Cesar surreptitiously palm the last bottle of red into his rucksack. No tip for Cesar.
After a shower, we head back up into Tatooine for dinner under the stars in a courtyard with a fire in the middle. It is still fucking freezing but the food is good, however, the entertainment consists of a hippie on guitar and Clement Freud on steroids tootling away on a 180 track synthesizer. It reads better than it sounds. We do not tip, one has to be firm about these things.
Day 11
Another travel day, we return across the Atacama desert to the Calama airport. Calama announces itself with a purple haze of smog and 5 miles of fly tipping. This is sad because, up to this point, we had been very impressed by the Chilean respect for the desert, not a crisp packet impaled on a cactus in 3 days. It seems that with industry and money comes despoliation, how could I have been so naïve?
We are to fly back to Santiago and then on to Puerto Montt with a one hour transfer window and we are concerned that this might not be sufficient time given the incomplete state of Santiago airport. I ask the young lady at the counter to ensure that our bags are checked right through to Puerto Montt. “No!” is the reply. “This booking is to Santiago. Your next booking to Puerto Montt is separate. You must collect your bags and re-check in before the next flight!” – “But these flights were booked through your airline, surely this is an error that can be rectified, there won’t be enough time to make the connection if we have to collect our bags. Please do what you can.” – “No!” – “But surely, in the interests of Customer Service, you could call Latam Santiago and arrange this.” – “No!” – “Why not?” And then came the classic ‘Little Britain’ response… “The computer says……….” Unfortunately, this is like a red rag to el Toro and I lose it. “Stuff the computer! The computer does what it’s told by humans! Are you are human? Do you have a heart? A soul? Or did you sell it to the computer?” – “Your bags are booked to Santiago only. The computer…….”
That word beginning with B and ending with itch is on my lips, but I hold it in, only to get the flashing eyes and sneer that says, “Fuck you gringo! I’m not backing down!” Claudia Duran, if ever you read this….. Bitch!!! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!!!
So, we miss our connecting flight and end up spending most of our day eating bad food in Santiago airport. Bitch! But we eventually land in Puerto Montt, with our bags, and meet our new guide. Victor is unusual in that he is not a child with a slightly patronizing attitude, he is a mature gentleman who really knows his stuff. We like him immediately and head off to our hotel arriving at 10.00pm, tired but happy to be there. Another snafu means that only one of the two rooms booked for us has a double bed and we look glum, but Ronald the manager smiles and says, “No problem”. I like this guy already and, when he upgrades us to a suite with a bathroom the size of Buckingham Palace, I almost kiss him. After hot chocolate and biscuits, I sink into our quadruple bed and bless the Casa Molina. Claudia Bitch who? We sleep like kings.
Day 12
We awake to a very grey day. From our windows (We have seven) we look across a huge lawn flanked by Birch and Cypress. A vast grey lake laps a grey shingle beach. A blanket of grey cloud, as thick and heavy as a Chilean knitted jumper, lies overhead. Bummer, it looks like being a dull day. During a restorative breakfast we watch giant Lapwings stalking worms across the lawn. They stand on one leg and tap the ground with the other foot, until a worm sticks his head up. “Who’s that?” – “Death. That’s who.” It seems that worms never got with the evolutionary programme, they just never learn.
Victor arrives and we head off around the lake. In the daylight, Puerto Vass is a nice little town, due to continuous earthquakes and the odd eruption, nearly all the buildings are wood framed and clad in wooden shingles. The whole area was settled by German immigrants in the 1850’s and has a real Bavarian feel. Victor explains to us that we are experiencing a good day because, although it’s cold and grey, it’s not actually raining. This part of Chile gets up to 4 metres of rain a year, but they seem to be doing pretty well out of it, the roads are good, the cars are mostly new SUV’s and many of the houses are big and shiny, even though technically they are sheds.
Victor doesn’t want to promise too much, but there’s a chance we might get some sunshine, over to the East side of the lake where we are going to visit. Out there, somewhere above the cloud blanket, is a huge volcano and it would be a shame to come all this way and not see it. The van pulls over to a lookout point and, magically, the cloud just evaporates. We are surrounded by massive green hills covered in quilts of fields that climb up to wooded summits. The lake is now cerulean, the sky even ceruleaner and over the water is a huge, perfectly formed volcano, green flanks fading to grey ash and a snowy white peak. The clarity of colours is awesome and Victor looks the most surprised of all of us. He smiles, “This never happens” and shakes his head.
We drive on and Victor tells us tales of German Settlers, Spanish Conquistadores, Trees, Birds, Earthquakes and Eruptions. At the site of one such, which only happened four years ago, he shows us a video of a giant mushroom cloud of ash that blackened out the whole sky before bursting into an Armageddon of lightning. It all looks so sweet and innocent now and greener that you would think possible.
We stop at Petrohue Falls where the upper alpine lake crashes down the valley to the lake that washes the pebbles by our hotel. The swirling river water is crystal and huge salmon wait patiently for a mate before they can spawn and die.
We climb to the upper lake and the end of the road, on the other shore the Andes poke up into the sky and, over their ridgeline is Argentina. Lunch starts with a Pisco Sour, followed by a bottle of red wine. Can it get any better? Well, a great slab of fresh, beautifully cooked, moist salmon says it can. I only hope he had a chance to spawn.
We roll on to the Osorno Volcano which has featured in many, many photos today. The road winds ever upwards and, so do we, the cloud begins to creep back in until, by the time we reach the ski station, we are looking out over a vast blanket of white sea that butts up against the Andes in the East and disappears over the Western horizon. We jump the chairlift which climbs up and above the snowline, even so, it’s surprisingly mild and the sun is almost harsh. The sky is so pure that I just gaze around with a stupid grin on my face. Naturally, Dori has to get some heart rate in and, despite the fact that I am still enjoying the effects of a Pisco lunch, I have to chase her up the last few hundred metres. Victor is game and tags along telling stories of climbers who died on the mountain and helicopters that crashed trying to bring their bodies down. It’s not possible to get to the actual summit without all the proper gear and about three months preparation but, even so, I’m feeling on top of the World. The sea of cloud with the Andes poking through is incredible.
Eventually, we head back down and drop beneath the blanket. The World is grey again except for a flash of light when a Silver Fox poses by the roadside, about as cute as it is possible for an animal to be.
It’s dark by the time we get back to the Hotel. Ronald takes our order for dinner and I take a bottle of wine up to our room where Dori is already ensconced in a bath the size of a moderate football pitch. We are surrounded by windows of black night and somewhere a screech owl calls. That was a really great day.
Day 13
The following morning, Dori and I have to be dragged from our beautiful suite. Victor piles us into the van and we drive South and take the ferry over to Chiloe Island. Chiloe is not dramatic, Chiloe is very gentle, lush and green with no big mountains, just softly rolling hills and fjords.
It’s like driving through Devon except that all the houses are brightly painted sheds. Lots of small villages, small ports, small houses, Victor fits right in. We visit the market in Ancud and he explains the varieties of fish, shellfish, seaweed and vegetables for sale. (Note:- Vegetables = Potatoes (38 varieties) & Tomatoes (5 varieties) Green stuff (0 varieties). They have mussels the size of flip-flops and garlic as big as melons. A lot of the women in the shops are knitting, it’s all Chilean wool here and they use needles made from telegraph poles, hence your average Chilean Chompa weighs about as much as 3 full grown sheep, with the meat still on, it’s no wonder the guys are all short. We manage to find a nice little acrylic jumper that the lady swears is Alpaca, I’m worried that if it is this cold in Chiloe, another 500 miles South is going to be nipple tweaking, but I just don’t have the baggage allowance for anything real.
We reach the main town of Castro and stop to look at the Cathedral, this has to be the ugliest Church in Christendom. It looks like a bad version of Cinderella’s Castle, covered in corrugated iron and painted puke yellow, bilious lilac and obscene orange. It is dramatically vile. Fortunately it is closed, surprise, surprise, and we run away, frightened to look back in case I get the heaves.
We find our hotel and check in and say a very sad farewell to Victor, what a great guy. The hotel Palafito is a shed on stilts built over the water, this is unfortunate as the boiler has broken down and it’s about 3degC in our room.
The seagulls lined up on our balcony rail and leaning into the Arctic wind look warmer than I feel, but Dori manages to appeal to the Manager and she scores a one bar electric fire. I can understand his reluctance to hand it over because one false move could reduce this designer matchbox to a patch of ash floating on the seas. Still the place is very nice and cool as well as cold. At dinner time I climb out of bed and we nip next door to the Cevicheria for a hot seafood soup before rushing back in the hope that the bed might still be warm.
Day 14
The sun is shining, allelujah! I poke my head out from under the downy as the rays warm up the room. Today’s guide, Juan Pablo, picks us up after brekkie. He is middle aged and looks like he’s been dragged backwards through a hedge, where he found his T shirt, but he has a ready smile and we pile into his SUV to drive down the island.
Chiloe is known for its large number of wooden churches, many of which have been recognised as World Heritage. Chonchi has a big one, but it is seriously into the blood and pain side of redemption and we scurry onto the ferry to Lemuy Island which has some of the nicer ones. We stop at the first one in Ichuac and it’s very pretty, but it’s closed, surprise, surprise, and the lady in the village who keeps the key has gone on the ferry to Chiloe Island for the day, of course. Aldachildo is next and Juan is mates with the key guy so we score an entry.
The reason these churches are special is that, although some of them are quite big, they are built entirely of wood, without screws or nails. There is no quarrying stone on the islands and anyway, if you made it with stone, the first earthquake would flatten it and anybody inside, so these are all the work of local shipbuilders, held together with mortis and tenon joints and wooden pegs. So in an earthquake, instead of falling down, it just shakes a lot, tips over the candles on the altar and burns to the ground. None of these churches are very old. The Jesuits were responsible for most of them and, as a result, there is not nearly so much blood and gore and they almost feel welcoming. Hey Zeus!
We stop for lunch at a farm on a ridge overlooking the inland sea with the snow capped Andes beyond. Everywhere you go in Chile, the snow capped Andes are there, on your left hand side if you are heading South. Chile is only about 40 miles wide it seems and it’s useful as it’s very difficult to get lost in the bigger scale of things. Unfortunately Juan Pablo refers to the Salmon Industry as The Enemy, he’s a profound localist, so fish is off the menu and we are presented with half a roast sheep each, boiled potatoes and tomatoes. All the produce of the Farmer/Waiter and his Wife/Cook. The meat is pretty tasty and was probably running up and down the hills yesterday but it hadn’t been a lamb for a long time, it would have given a Vegan nightmares and, even for a man who worships a well cooked chop, this is pretty heavy going. Juan Pablo, however, makes short work of his overflowing plate.
Evidently, Juan’s aversion to the Salmon Industry is due to the fact that, although it is a huge earner for Chile, it is a foreign element. The Government seems determined to outpace Norway in production and, so far, the rapid expansion has caused an awful lot of environmental damage. Three years ago, a new form of virus attacked stocks and the Industry lost about half of its fish, almost overnight, and they didn’t have any form of disposal. Someone in Government gave them permission to dump about 600,000 tonnes of infected salmon out in the Pacific. The Humboldt Current promptly carried it back to the West Coast National Parks of Chiloe and the resultant red tide wiped out Whales, Dolphins, Penguins, Sea Birds, Otters and Shellfish. Not such a great idea after all.
We manage to visit the church in Detif, but lunch has taken its toll and our attention span is compromised. We head back to Castro and Juan drops us off at the ugly Cathedral, which is now open. Dashing into a side door, so as to avoid looking at the façade again, we are shocked by the elegance and beautiful workmanship inside. The smaller churches are pretty in a ramshackle rustic manner, but this baby is gorgeous.
We walk through the town and back to our Palafito then go to a restaurant up the road that Juan has recommended. The Restaurant Cazador is a weird, funky, eclectic mix of stuff that somehow works. The Chef/Owner/Waiter is of the same design and, without a word of English, manages to be delightful. The food is superb, easily the best we have eaten in Chile and probably in our Top Ten Worldwide. Just him and a young female assistant. We are blown away and, extremely unusual for us, write a review for TripAdvisor. There will now follow 3 years of incessant pestering from TA, but sometimes you just have to give back.
Day 15
The van whips us back to Puerto Montt airport. The weather is sunny again and the ferry part is quite pleasant. Unfortunately, everybody in Chile is intent on getting you to the airport at least 4 hours before your flight, this probably has something to do with Latams’ total disregard for Customer Relations, but it means that a simple 3 hour flight requires an entire days travel. My guess is that Latam owns the airport coffee franchise. The flight to Punta Arenas is ok, but it is weird to find that in Patagonia, the clocks are one hour ahead of everywhere else in Chile, so it’s already 8pm by the time we get to our hotel and there is no time to check out the town, which looks pretty interesting. However, every cloud has a silver thingy and, while waiting for a late night bowl of soup, I discover Pisco Ruibarbo, 3 times. Every one as interesting as the fourth. Pisco and Rhubarb, there is a genius lurking somewhere close to the South Pole.
Day 16
We wake to a fantastic sunrise over Punta Arenas and the Magellan Straits, which lasts for about 20 incredible minutes. This is as close to the South Pole as Dori and I have ever been and there is a quality to the light that we have never experienced before. Our bus loads up and we head into town to pick up other passengers heading to the Hotel Las Torres del Paine. There is one mature gentleman of our age, Scott, and his twin sons Carl and Dave, They are from Wisconsin and, in true American fashion, the ice is quickly shattered. Scott rides shotgun and the boys sprawl across the backseat, they soon have esoteric chill music drifting through the van because each of them has brought not one, but two boom box speakers and Dave has his pneumatic massage gun that must weigh the best part of his luggage allowance. He admits to having only packed 2 spare pair of boxers. All of this we know before we have had a chance to introduce ourselves.
Our driver, Julio, is a great guy and happily stops at every Guanaco, CaraCara and Flamingo as we drive across the misty steppe which slowly turns from grey to green as the mist burns off to reveal a huge blue sky. At lunch time we pull into the Estancia Cerro Negro, a big sheep ranch, originally the home of the Croatian Immigrant family who now own the Hotel Las Torres also.
The house has been preserved as a very pretty and interesting Museum which we investigate before sitting down to a lunch of Salmon and beautifully cooked Lamb which had been roasting over a spit when we arrived. Needless to say, the boys can really pack it away. Me? I’m happy with a nibble of everything accompanied by Pisco Ruibarbo and a very good Carmenere. We get to see them round up some sheep and shear one, but fortunately we are spared the slaughter bit before we float on.
Hills start to appear above the seemingly endless horizon of steppe. Suddenly they are snow capped mountains. The trees are wind blasted, stunted and a wonderful red, gold and green against the yellow grass of the steppe. A giant Eagle floats off a power pole and we enter dirt roads as the mountains come closer. We are just about to ask Julio to pull over for yet another photo stop, when he swings into a viewpoint. Below us a turquoise lake, still as a mirror in which is reflected the Paine Massife. A huge cluster of peaks and spires, snow speckled, with glaciers wedged into dark crevasse. It is truly awe inspiring.
The Boys bound off down the slope like excited puppies, Scott is a little more sedate and hangs back with the grown-ups. Jon and I eventually pick up the impetus and amble down to the waters’ edge just as Dave is performing a handstand selfie. They are very intent on having a good time and produce a range of photographic experiences including dipping their phones in the lake. I’ll pass on that. The lake edge is ringed with what look like huge salt crystals but which are in fact, trombolites, a deposit of calcium carbonate formed by a bacteria and one of the oldest forms of Life on the planet. I can imagine taking my phone in for a Warranty check and being asked, “How did this trombolite get in here?”
Finally we get to the Hotel, which is a sort of hiker’s Dude Ranch. There are horses all round the place and the Staff wear neckerchiefs and peaked berets. We, the Punters, have to wear plastic wristbands to show that we are guests, particularly as we have booked the, ‘All Inclusive’. All tours, all food, all drinks. It’s going to be difficult hiking with all that free stuff, especially as they do a mean Pisco Ruibarbo, but we will just have to do our best. We are hauled off to book our 2 days of tours and then let loose in the bar before we have even got in our room. I don’t remember unpacking.
The restaurant is impressive too and, having photographed all those Guanacos on the way down here, I get the opportunity to eat one. Guanaco Carpaccio in cream and caper sauce between gulps of Carmenere, seriously? Ask for a glass and they bring you a bottle. These guys are trying to kill me with kindness. Fortunately, for all concerned, the bar closes at 10.30 and we return to our room, which is like an oven. Radiators full on in the bedroom and bathroom and underfloor heating in the dressing room/lobby. We can turn off the radiators but can’t find a switch for the floor. I open the window too but, despite the fact that it’s 2 degC outside, we lie on the bed and bake.
Day 17
Because of the clock thing, we have to wake up in the pitch dark and, even after breakfast and our pre-hike briefing, we still can’t see a thing. Slowly the light pokes through to reveal that the clear skies of yesterday are gone, mist and low cloud are the true Patagonian palette. We are warned to expect rain and cold and to dress appropriately and then our guide, Diego, leads the four of us uphill. We climb and climb and then climb some more. The tussocky hillside is dissected by streams for us to jump, patches of black ash gravel to slip up as we head towards the lower tree line. The trees themselves are short Nothofagus, a kind of Beech and they are multicoloured green, brown, red and gold with autumn. At the first stop I have to strip because although it only 3 degC, it feels like 20 degC and I am sweaty.
The sky clears a little, the clouds rise but cling tenaciously to the peaks. Distant views appear of lakes and snow clad mountains and a glorious rainbow arcs across the sky as we enter the kaleidoscope forest. There is no sound except for our breathing, all the birds have migrated North. Winter is coming and this is the last week that hiking will be permitted. Eventually, we emerge above the trees, it’s quite strange because at this point they have become quite large and then suddenly they stop. Across the immediate valley, the Paine Central Massif rises into the clouds. We can see into the central coumbe around which the massive spires of rock crowd, their shoulders formed by hanging glaciers that melt into a small lake. It seems a pity about the cloud, particularly given yesterday’s clear skies, but actually they tend to emphasise the stark beauty of the stern rock summits across which they drift, constantly hiding and then revealing.
We breath it all in and then head back, thankfully Diego brought some walking poles and I take one because the descent is a bugger on my knees. We are back at the lodge by noon with wobbly legs and I have vowed to cut back on my food intake because Chilean meals are enormous and, although they know a lot about bread (most of it bad) and potatoes, meat and fish, they have never heard of the Cabbage. Cauliflower is an exotic food eaten by foreign people, carrots and courgettes are for puffs and beans are fed to cows. Avocado and Tomatoes, however, are considered to be vegetables and are served on the side of everything. In the case of Avocado, it is not uncommon for the waiter to ask, “How much heart attack would you like with your entire roast sheep Signor?” I intend to order a cream of pumpkin soup because, although it is usually so dense that you could skate on it, there is sometimes a semblance of roughage to be found. However, to my utmost joy, I discover that the soup of today is meat and it comes in a light bouillon with a bean and a slice of carrot, as well as the obligatory 3 hundredweight of potato.
I am in heaven although, at one point, I almost abandon the wait and succumb to the inevitability of the steak, avocado and mayonnaise triple decker with side of fries. “Waiter?” – “Si Signor?” – “I ordered the daily soup.” – “Si Signor.” – “Well it’s almost tomorrow.” – “Ha ha! Signor is very funny, but what did you expect? We had to send out for a carrot!” Even so, it was worth the wait.
In the afternoon, we head off on another hike, this one is much easier but, there have been Pumas spotted in the vicinity and there is an outside chance that we might see one. Dori is absolutely convinced that we will. Ha! One of the most reclusive animals in the World, in a Landscape where the horizon never ends? We set off across the steppe, still no rain and the infamous Patagonian winds appear to have taken the day off. The walk is brisk but gentle and our Guide, Chris, stops every so often to explain the ecology, local history and culture, Gunacos and folklore.
A large rock outcrop sits up from the grassland and was once a place of shelter for the prehistoric nomadic tribes and there are petroglyphs in a shallow overhang. This is to be the focal point of the hike but, as we climb towards them in expectation, Chris’s radio crackles into life. He listens intently and then addresses the group.
“Okay. The paintings are cool, but there aren’t very many and they’re not in very good condition and someone has spotted a Puma further down the trail. So how about we have a quick shufty and then get a move on? Okay?”
There is a general consensus and we scarper up the last slope. “Hand print, Guanaco, Stick man, Spear, maybe a Rhea. Okay? Vamos!” Dori is off like a hare. We sprint along the trail and, as we round a bend, we can see a handful of guys in the distance with mega cameras. As we draw nearer, all we can see is tall grass and a stunted bush then, as we pull up to the telephotos, we follow the line of sight and can just see a sandy-brown bump, about 15 metres away. We wait and we wait, cameras clicking every time the bump stirs. It’s exciting, but hardly David Attenborough.
Suddenly, a little bundle of fluff appears, skipping through the grass and tumbles onto the brown bump. There is a collective intake of breath and the bump stirs and decides to get up and stretch. Everybody holds their breath. Mummy Puma is incredible. The fluff bundle skips off and passes under a wire fence line as Mum follows. She is powerful and beautiful. She pauses at the fence, tenses and then leaps clear over it. By now, everybody is holding breath and bladder, she looks big enough to take down the whole group should she fancy a snack. Then, in a rush, 3 more cubs are bumbling down the slope and I’m waiting for the voice over and the squeaky cartoon voices. Mum drops to the floor and all four cubs climb all over her before settling down to feed. It is pure magic and we are enthralled.
Then the cops show up. Actually it’s the Park Rangers who have raced to get there with a, “Show’s over folks! Move along now!” only in Spanish. Actually, they have a genuine concern because not only do they want to protect the animals but, Dad’s out there somewhere, there is not a Guanaco to be seen anywhere and if he finds us between him and his family, he’s just as likely to take down a tourist or two. The trail will now be closed for the next few days until the family move out of range and we are urged to hotfoot it back to the van waiting to carry us back to the lodge.
In the Bar, we have bragging rights. “What did you see today?” – Twins, “Mountains! Glaciers! Icebergs! What did you see?” – Me….. Pause for effect…. “Puma!!!” – collective gasp… “With four cubs!…. Score! We win! Pisco Ruibarbos on me!!!!!” What a truly special day.
Day 18
After breakfast, the van takes us further into the Park and our guide, Kitty, lets us stop to photo Guanacos. Not us. Guanacos? Pshaw! But we have 6 newbies with us and they want to photo Guanacos. They soon learn that we are Puma aficionados and treat us with the god-like respect that is our due. The pecking order is established.
There are numerous stops at stunning landscapes, it’s all very ‘Game of Thrones’ and ‘Lord of the Rings’ dramatically beautiful. We take a short walk to a waterfall where one huge glacial lake takes a thundering drop into another huge glacial lake and eventually arrive at a lovely hotel on another huge glacial lake. Here we are going to take a boat and sail up close to a glacier. I look out of the window and there is a vast, black pebble moraine with a river tearing round its edge. The moraine dams the lake, sitting in a valley of massive, fairy tale mountains but, just beyond the moraine is the weirdest thing ever, an iceberg! It seems to be the size and shape of a small naval destroyer, but it is an ethereal, translucent shade of blue. It is almost neon. It looks bizarre, as if somebody just photo-shopped it into the landscape and I get really excited.
We clamber down to a small dock on the fast flowing river and board a small boat that will carry us up onto the lake and transfer us to a large Catamaran. As we round the last corner, a bloody great Condor stands up on a rock and I almost lose my camera overboard. The boat drops us on the moraine and I stagger over the pebbles to photograph my first neon blue iceberg before we get on the Cat.
Once aboard, we are herded into a large cabin and the doors are locked. What?! I do not want to be shut in! I want to be up on the top deck photographing icebergs!
The boat sets of and then Eduardo comes on the microphone telling us all about the safety procedures, in English and Spanish, and the bar menu, in English and Spanish. Then Eduardina comes on telling all about the Glaciers, in English and Spanish, and Icebergs, in English and Spanish and I can see the fucking Icebergs as they disappear behind us, in English and Spanish and finally, El Capitano comes on to say it is now okay to go outside because all those nasty Icebergs are safely out of the way. Bollocks!
Actually, during all this verbiage, I manage to down a large hot coffee and my packed lunch, so that when the prison doors open, I am the first on deck. The wind hits me like a brick wall, made of ice. Okay – An ice wall. This is seriously cold. People spill out of the cabin, round the corner, stare transfixed for a split second and then fall back inside for 3 more layers and a face mask. As we head up the lake, the Grey Glacier comes into view. 2 enormous fields of blue ice, split by a huge outcrop of black granite. It is phenomenal.
Soon we are in a field of icebergs of every size and shape and all shining with this bizarre blue. Much later, one of the twins tells me that this is due to the immense pressure inside the Glacier. This pressure compacts the oxygen into a concentration and, as oxygen absorbs red light wavelengths, the only light reflected is blue. I’m going to have to Google that. Whatever! Science aside, this is seriously amazing and, as we are going to be building a Penguin exhibit in China, I am not only having a fabulous time, I am doing research! My fee just went up! This will be necessary, however, to pay for the Edward Scissorhands operation I am going to need to replace my frostbitten fingers, blackened by the continuous operation of two cameras without gloves.
Finally, as hypothermia becomes a reality, El Capitano edges away from the glacier face and we float back through the ice field and into open water. I still refuse to go back inside and so find a spot out of the wind and watch it all recede, my hat pulled down, my scarf pulled up but my eyes feasting hungrily. I did not expect to feel this exhilarated.
We stumble onto the moraine and stomp across it back to the van, There is a hanging bridge over this part of the river and Liz is desperately trying to get across before I arrive, however, fear slows her feet and I manage to leap onto it shouting, “Liz! Liz! Look down! You can see the river plunging past through the gaps in the floor!” Fortunately for her, there is a loo just at the end of the bridge and she is able to compose herself, before whacking me.
The van makes a couple of stops on the way back to the lodge and, at the last, there is a fantastic view over the lake to the Horns, gigantic grey granite columns that suddenly turn black at the tips. There are hanging glaciers and mist, clouds and shafts of sunlight piercing through.
One of the group, a young American dude, sits on a rock and contemplates the Universe. Suddenly, he jumps up, marches to the guide and asks her to take a photo of him and his girlfriend. When all is ready, he drops to one knee, pulls out a ring and asks her to marry him. Kitty bursts into tears, the girlfriend bursts into tears, all the women start to blub and Jon and I tut-tut and mutter things like, “Just you wait” Before we are beaten with sticks. Having recovered our composure the group turns to walk back to the van and at that moment, a large brown fox ambles down the trail towards us. We stop. She stops. “Is this an omen?” the groom to be remarks. Just then, the fox darts into the undergrowth and grabs a small rodent. She tosses it into the air, snaps at it, lets it go, snatches it up again before throwing it high into the air and catching and swallowing its broken body whole.
‘Maybe it is an omen”, I think, but dare not say aloud. The women still carry their sticks after all.
Back at the van, Julio has set out a spread of wine, beer, cheese, cold cuts and fruit and we toast the happy couple and the Groom drinks 3 beers and a bottle of wine. Back at the lodge, we know that nobody has seen a Puma so we just cut right in with, “Hey! These dudes got engaged today!” We win again. Hearts trumps Diamonds.
In bed that night, my sleep is disturbed by a very loud static noise. I get up and search for a radio, or a phone, or whatever is making that awful racket. But it’s not in the room. I pull back the curtain and just outside our window, there is a standpipe and the water is smashing into the ground with vehemence. I groan, pull on jeans, jumper and boots and trudge outside to turn it off. Nearby, a large white horse grazes innocently, but he can’t fool me, he must have been cropping close to the pipe and caught the handle. I’m pretty pissed with him, turn it off, stretch and look upwards. The clouds have gone and in the clear frosty air, the Milky Way stretches from black mountain horizon to horizon. It’s magical. I look at the horse, clear in the starlight and he’s looking back at me, expectantly. “Thanks”, I say, “But you could have told me to bring my camera.” There is no way I’m going back into the warmth to come back out again. I’ll just have to etch it in my memory.
Day 19
Breakfast before dawn and they load us into the van. It’s almost like they want to be rid of us and close up for the winter. Fortunately Scott and the boys are with us, so the van is soon floating to the sounds of esoteric electric cool jazz. The van is headed for the airport and then into town. The boys are on the same flight as us and try to convince us to come into town for a King Crab salad and a bottle of wine, because we have the usual four hour wait before the flight. They have hand carry and we have the sort of luggage people used to take on the Titanic. Little did we know that our voyage was just as doomed and we opted to stay at the airport.
We check in and do security, only to find the departure lounge packed and the restaurant closed. A lonely snack bar with a single girl attendant is serving a queue of about 5,000, loaves and fishes ain’t in it. This must be the miraculous empanada of our lord Hey Zeus. Everyone in the queue is brandishing their boarding ticket as, due to fog, there have been no flights out today and Latam are offering compensatory empanadas, but not to us, as we only just arrived and they are adamant that our flight is not cancelled and is on time. This mantra is repeated throughout the afternoon as more and more people crowd in.
Scott and the boys arrive, looking rather smug and not the least bit guilty about showing photos of their magnificent lunch. Outside, a fox wanders across the runway. An announcement states, in Spanish, that our flight is delayed, but not cancelled, so still no empanada for us. “Is our flight inbound?” – “Oh yes Signor. Most certainly!” Bollocks. By 6 o’clock another announcement causes a collective groan and a bolt for the doors. All flights cancelled.
The boys are off like greyhounds. With only hand luggage, they are in a taxi back to town before we can blink and Carl texts that they have secured seats on a 3 a.m. flight. We fight for our cases and crash the airline desk. At the same time, we contact our Chile Travel Agent and Dori goes online, we have a 3 fronted assault in place, confident of victory. After 4 hours of heroic effort, we have achieved zip. We cannot get a flight until 2 days later despite our Easter Island connection and the fact that everybody else seems to be getting transferred. Maybe it’s our luggage, maybe that bitch Claudia has sent word ahead. I baulk at saying it but, I get the distinct impression that it’s a case of ‘Tough Titty Gringo!” Latam are hopeless. The girls at the counter will not/do not speak English and will not consider assisting us. The Latam phone line is less than useless, even when we try phoning the USA, the guy can hardly string three words together and the computer link lets you get all the way to confirmation before giving you 25 options, all in Spanish. It’s now 10pm and the fog has turned freezing, the airport is shutting down, We are tired and shivering and concede defeat. We book a couple of rooms in a very basic B&B downtown and grab the last taxi.
Once in our rooms, none of us can sleep, just in case the phone rings and someone comes on to tell us that it was all a bad dream. But they don’t and it ain’t. Latam have fucked us good and proper this time. We know they can’t control the fog, but neither can they run an airline. Our Easter Island adventure, after 8 months of planning, has been canned, courtesy of Latam. The one message that we do get is from the boys, they made the 3 am flight. So it was possible, just not for us.
Day 20
We go to breakfast, still tired, haggard and utterly depressed. We go over what happened and none of us can figure out what we did wrong. We decide to walk to the Latam Office to see if there’s any chance that the situation has changed. We walk for miles through endless, pretty rough suburbs until we arrive, in the middle of nowhere, outside an empanada shop. Latam even lied to Google maps about their location. These people really do not want to deal with us. Exasperated, we give up, this is not going to happen. Our Travel Agent messages us with confirmation that there is no flight for us until tomorrow, no hope of an Easter resurrection. They have however, booked us into a nice hotel for the night in Punta Arenas and the 3 nights we will now have to sit in Santiago. We walk back into town.
For the whole route we have been chaperoned by enormous, healthy and very friendly, free range dogs. Each one seems to have his own patch of turf and, when we reach his boundary, he hands us over to the next guy. They sniff each others’ butts and then walk together for a block or two, just to make sure the new guy knows his duty, then salute and the last guy ambles off, job done. I feel sure that it must be run by some sort of St. Bernards’ social programme. It’s very reassuring and by now the sun is shining, although the Antarctic wind is trying to slice my face off. We stop for a hot coffee and hey, Life’s not all bad. Look at all the good things that have happened to us. The World is beautiful and it’s just a pity that Latam are in it, using up precious air. They will rot in Hell, of this I am sure, and that makes me feel all glowy inside.
Punta Arenas is actually quite cute and there are some really beautiful buildings. I think the permafrost must glue the ground together, because they don’t get earthquakes and can actually build in stone. Unfortunately, it’s Monday and, although there isn’t much to see in Punta, it’s all closed anyway. The story of our trip so far. We make it to the seafront and, even though you can’t see the South Pole, you know it’s out there.
Actually we can’t see bugger all because the tears in our eyes have iced over. We have a wonderful seafood lunch of squid, fish, King crab, shrimps, avocado and parmesan and I feel my left ventricle pop. We check into our new Hotel and it is something of an improvement. If we had a cat, it could be swung and there’s a gym, so Dori is made up. I take another turn around the town, there’s only one. Two blocks one way, turn, two blocks back. Then it’s a hot bath and cocktails in the Shackleton Bar at the other hotel over the road. Rhubarb Mojito anyone? Me please. Two. After that, it’s another blur of scallops, parmesan and Avocado and ‘Bang!’ There goes the right ventricle. Fortunately it is so cold outside that I am cryogenically frozen anyway.
Day 21
The morning sees us back at the airport, trying to interface with Latam again, but we are reminded that we are not faces, we are sheep to be herded and shorn. Anyway, they get us back to Santiago eventually and to our hotel Matilda. We walk uptown to the Barrio Listaria, it’s a cool, touristy/local spot with interesting shops and restaurants and we pop into Chipe Libre for a designer Pisco. Mine is made with Ginger Beer and hits the spot nicely. I drop a line to the Boys, to see how they are getting on and it turns out that they are just around the corner.
Before we know what has hit us, we are walking across town, with boom box accompaniment, to the Bella Vista Barrio, which is a bit new and a bit tacky but, just around the corner theTwins have lined up a really great restaurant. Table for seven? – “No problem, right here Signor.” It’s an elevated brass bed, complete with coverlet and pillows. A little gauche, but the food is terrific and the Carmenere excellent and we swap stories about what a bunch of arseholes Latam are. I try to teach them how to say ‘Arseholes’ properly, but it’s a losing battle. Americans got no class.
It’s a lot of fun and pretty exhausting, Scott heads back to his hotel and we to ours, but Carl and Dave have an all night rave lined up. But the street is where the party is at, because this is the eve of Mayday. Everybody is out, music coming from every direction and we stop to watch the Chinchinerros. These are street drum bands of about 30 members who hammer out an amazing set of rhythms, high energy and great to watch and listen to. The pavements are jumping.
Day 22
Our previous guide from Valparaiso, Filipe, is here to meet us and I have decided to re-christen him Ginger Phil. Ginger Phil is hyperactive, he just cannot sit still or be quiet. Meanwhile, Santiago has a massive hangover, the streets are deserted and our driver, Sebastien, careens through the emptiness until we are on the highway North. There is not much point in being in town today, unless you are intent on celebrating the Worker’s revolution by burning your neighbour’s bicycle, so we are heading to La Campana National Park to hike amongst the palm tree forest.
This is another spot where Charlie Darwin honed his theories. It is a prehistoric variety of palm tree, they are huge great things that you can imagine a Diplodocus biting the head off and they are interspersed with enormous cactus, many of which have a cluster of blood red flowers at the top. It is in fact, a parasite, carried in bird poop and intent on providing the cacti with a beautiful death.
Ginger Phil marches us along a trail that he describes as an easy 5km round trip. He’s lying of course, it’s 6km each way and, it is so steep in parts, that I am convinced that this is an elevational distance. It is very hot and Charlie D must have been pretty fit for someone who spent most of his life on a cruise ship. We reach the waterfall at the top of the trail and, despite my whingeing, I would like to say that it was worth it. I really would but, unfortunately, I would be lying too. Anyway, Ginger Phil has brought sandwiches, that he made himself, which we eat and surreptitiously feed to an abandoned Beagle whose big woebegone eyes set him apart as a number one moocher. Who on earth would come all this way to abandon their dog?
Then it’s back down the hill and that is about as good as it gets. We are all exhausted and not just because of the walk. Ginger Phil is on his fifth rendition of “What is wrong with the World, according to Me” and it’s getting a bit wearing, however, back at the van he declaims a rendition of “What is right with the World” by producing a bottle of red wine. We are so fagged out that just a sniff of the cork has us all wobbly and passed out in the back seats, while Ginger Phil burns Sebastien a new earhole aaaaalllll the way back. You have to love him though, he has an indestructible joy and a passion for life. If only he came with an off button.
Back at the hotel, it’s a hot shower and out for a drink and dinner. Easier said than done. Santiago is still waking up to Mayday, even though it’s now sunset. The first bar we attempt will only serve drinks if we agree to eat Chilean Sushi (maybe not) and the second bar agrees to serve drinks after I have managed to pin a waitress to the wall, but we decide to leave when I see her going into the loo with my glass. Workers of the World unite and throw off the shackles of waitressdom. At the third place, the barman takes our order, then tells us where we can sit and then sends a waitress to take our order, only she doesn’t speak English and it’s not really obvious that she speaks Spanish either and she doesn’t seem to be really clear as to why she is here in the first place. I have an idea that it might be something to do with her ample charms and the barman’s wishful thinking.
Eventually, we end up in a restaurant that seems to take its theme from the Beatles Yellow Submarine, except that everything is blue, even the lighting. The waiters all look like Popeye and there is a giant whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling and seafaring knicknacks everywhere. I expect to see Pinocchio at any moment. I’m tempted to ask for steak, but chicken out and have a surprisingly good seafood tagliatelle. Don’t judge a book by its extremely gaudy cover.
Day 23
We walk into town to see the changing of the Guard outside the Imperial Palace and I position myself on a wall for a better view. Fascist goose stepping has been out of style since Pinochet ran away, but even so there’s lots of trumpets and drums, shouting and heel clicking. The horses are beautiful and a stray dog wandering centre stage threatens to destroy the solemnity. However, while the guys outside have marched inside and we wait for the guys inside to march outside, I dunno, maybe it’s the same guys they shuffled around a bit, anyway, the Band strikes up some stirring martial music to express the dignity of the occasion. Only they break out into Abba’s “Dancing Queen”. It’s so absurd that I bark with laughter and almost fall off my wall. They follow it with “Mama Mia” and then “Fernando”, of course. I am totally cracked up and giggle my way through the rest of the morning.
We jump on the MTR all the way to the last station on the line and the Los Dominicos Artisan Market. This is a really lovely place set in the grounds of an old Convent, very peaceful and surprisingly, very little tat. There are actual Artisans at work and it’s a great place to browse, shop and chill with a cold beer and a sandwich that does not collapse into mush the second you touch it.
In the evening it’s back to Barrio Listaria so that Jon can buy some old maps and Liz and I can quaff our last bottle of Carmenere. It’s a crying shame that we missed Easter Island but Santiago has been excellent. It has a lot of bounce and style and showed us a good time.
Day 24
It’s time to get International and we fly to Sao Paulo, Brasil, then on to Salvador Bahia. Much to our surprise, Latam are able to do this without major obstacles, we arrive on time, with our bags and our driver is there to meet us. But it’s late and it’s dark and as he slows down to enter the old cobbled streets of Pelhorino (Don’t ask me why this place has so many names) the graffiti covered walls close in, the street sleepers raise a bleary eye and the ominous party drums kick in. Was this a good decision? It transpires that it was a great decision. The Casa do Amarelindo is a haven of peace, set in a maelstrom of crazy. We get into our rooms, the street sounds are mysteriously erased and a cold beer sees us into a beautiful bed.
Day 25
Wonderful fresh fruit for breakfast, possibly the finest Papaya in the World, ever. The air is crystal, beautifully blue with big frothy white clouds. Our guide Daniella arrives and we head off on a foot tour of the old town. The houses and churches are beautifully renovated and painted in glorious pastels. Although there is some dereliction, the same can be said of the people. One of the main squares is just down the street and we pause for photos and it is there that the essential dichotomy of Salvador shows itself.
Brasil is a country of ex-slaves, with an economy polarized between those who have everything and those who have less than nothing. Things used to be good and they built loads of really nice stuff, but then things got tough and it all fell into dereliction. Unesco stepped in and declared it World Heritage, but that only counts for the buildings and some intangible institutions. Nobody thought to renovate the people and, as a result, we find ourselves in a prison of charms, where poverty stricken neighbours come to scavenge. There is no blame to be attached to them, they are just trying to survive from day to day, but the results can be scary.
There are Ladies in brightly coloured traditional costumes with huge hooped skirts and magnificent turbans, but you have to check their license and the fees payable before you take a photo. They are beautiful and joyous but you know that they will slit your throat if you decline to pay. Dori asks a young boy if she can take his photo and he smiles acceptance, but then somebody who claims to be his Dad steps in and demands money with menaces. And I mean menaces. This guy follows us for three blocks, shouting and swearing, until Daniella calls the Tourist Police and a huge shouting match erupts involving half the people in the street and some guy who is miffed because we didn’t take his photo. I know enough Portuguese/Spanish to know that these are not nice words and finally the Police have to pull us apart. Daniella, profusely apologizing, leads us away.
Next stop is a food stall on another square, the Lady is all decked out in hooped skirts, white blouse and coloured turban and she is gorgeous. Unfortunately, a young street kid who seems to have lost his normalcy to glue-sniffing, is hassling her for a free lunch and will not give up, particularly when paying customers arrive. Even when she eventually gives in and hands him a free shrimp gumbo, he maintains his harangue because she didn’t give it soon enough. There is a lot more shouting before he eventually wanders away to bug someone else and Daniella is being sorry again.
We buy our snack from the Lady and she flashes us a glorious bright-eyed smile and all is well with the World again, sort of. The snack is a real Creole affair, a deep fried cassava ball split and filled with bean sauce and shrimp. What doesn’t go down the front of my shirt is pretty tasty, but it has that after taste of re-cycled engine oil.
Daniella, meanwhile, is showing us the map given to us by the hotel and points to an area of streets marked with a big yellow ‘X’. Don’t go down there. It looks pretty innocuous at first hand, but she is adamant. We look at the cable car to the waterfront. Don’t go down there. We check out the cultural Palace that looks like a huge wedding cake. Don’t go down there. We do take the elevator to the Mercado Modelo, but only go in there. Do not go down there of there. And not there either. The Mercado is fun and has some nice stuff once you have waded through a field of Gypsy Ladies who want to read your palm in Portuguese. How is that going to work? I fall in love with a mirror decorated with voodoo stuff, but Dori is not convinced and, if she’s not convinced, it doesn’t matter what I think.
We take the elevator back up the hill and 2 guys carrying huge pots on their shoulders, cram in after us and start bellyaching about Gringos. Daniella is being sorry again and we have another Brasilian standoff until the doors open and we all spill out. She is clearly upset that her countrymen seem to take exception to my innate good looks and decides that we should get in her car and drive to see some of the outer sights.
There is the Modern Art Museum, but only come here by taxi as it’s not safe to walk here. There’s a beach and a lighthouse and it’s pretty and yes you can walk here, so long as you arrive by taxi. There’s a big lake and a football stadium, whoopdedoo. There’s a very pretty bay, but don’t swim here. Another fort and lighthouse and yes you can swim here but come by cab. An old guy is selling hand painted tiles and there’ a terrific ice cream shop where everybody goes and everybody is chilled and having a great time, but don’t come after dark. And there’s a very pretty church on a hilltop where 15 guys try to sell us a free parking spot and Daniella refuses and shows her Tourism license and it all kicks off again and she’s being sorry.
Finally, we get back into the Old Town and say our goodbyes and thank her for a very interesting, if argumentative, day. She is a lovely woman, with a wealth of knowledge and a love for her town, but her life seems so hard.
Anyway, a hot shower and a Caparinha that would strip barnacles off the Titanic puts everything to rights and we find a restaurant that serves vegetables! I have a huge salad with beans and beetroot, and onion, carrot, fresh peas and……..wait for it…….. broccoli!
I love Salvador despite all the angst.
Day 26
It’s Sunday and a chill day, nothing to do but wander about a bit. The shops are all open and it actually seems busier than Saturday. We check out a couple of Churches, there are about 500 within a square mile and everybody goes. Although seemingly, everybody goes off to a black magic mass directly afterwards as it is best to cover all the bases. The first Church is so baroque and full of gold leaf that it’s difficult to find Hey Zeus in there, he’s playing hide and seek amongst the cherubs and filigree.
The second one is all blood and gore, wounds spouting ribbons of blood, nails and thorns. There doesn’t seem to be a middle way. There are some beautiful azulejos (Blue tiled frescoes) illustrating a number of scenes from Portugal and a variety of sins, but none of which include owning slaves, the slaves in fact who built this church.
We have a beer at a very politically correct place called Negro’s Bar. The bejeweled old black dude who runs the place has no problem with the name and so neither do I. And the shop next door, owned and operated by a black Momma, is chock full of Golliwog dolls made by other negroes. There is an old Latin’ Negro guitarist singing Samba rhythms and one beer leads to two and a really good African seafood stew cooked by a Momma who don’t need no hoops in her skirt to make it go big and roun’. I am at peace with Salvador, glistening in the sunshine.
We buy cool T shirts emblazoned with African gods, that I will probably never wear. And I manage to convince Dori that we should go back and buy that mirror but, it’s such a nice day, instead of taking the stuffy old elevator, we will walk it. There are no yellow crosses on this part of the map after all. We turn one corner and, as we walk 20 yards down the slope, everything changes. Very quickly. At the bottom of our square there are about a dozen guys, all spread out in their individual patches of insanity and all raving away to nobody in particular. The dereliction kicks in and the street looks abandoned apart from the guy with no pants, crawling through the detritus. It’s too late to turn back now, it would be seen as a sign of weakness and the zombies would converge.
I can see the bright glass buildings of the Business District not far away and confidently push onwards. But the offices are closed and the canyons are home only to the destitute who survive off the garbage that falls from on high. A bus flits through the streets like a ghost pirate ship, inside I see no faces. I’m not even sure that there is a driver, but I can hear music from the end of the street, towards the market and I head towards it praying that these are not Sirens leading us to our doom. We turn the corner, it is the Market! We are back amongst the living, except that it’s closed and this is a private party to which we have no invite. We decide against walking back to where we belong and climb into the stuffy, safe elevator instead. It was an exciting diversion, but not one we have any desire to repeat.
We drift back to the hotel and, for once, decide to eat in. It’s really sad that such a beautiful place should be a prison to those who come to view it. Ok, we gawk, we take our photos and we walk away, but we do inject money into the economy, although maybe we are only helping the already rich to get even richer and the trickle down to the poor is negligible. But unless the Authorities do something about it, Salvador is in danger of being a tainted jewel and its glister will fade again.
Day 27
We are flying to Iguazu to see the waterfalls, but for some reason the Latam girls at check in are adamant that we are going to Rio. It takes about 20 minutes of panic negotiations to convince them that, yes we are going to Rio, but that we are spending 2 nights in Iguazu before that happens. It takes multiple checks of itineraries, boarding passes and baggage tags before we are all convinced that we are all on the same plane, going to the same place, with the same luggage, maybe. This is flying, Latam stylee.
We get to Iguazu and, for the first time on our jollie, we are not met by a car and driver, Heavens! How absolutely plebian. We have to negotiate a taxi but, all the hotels around here are 5 star and even the taxis can hold all four of us and the Foxall’s luggage. The cab drops us at a lonely outpost at the gates of the National Park and a lovely young man provides us with coffee and cookies as we wait for the transport to the Hotel Belmond Las Cataratas.
The Belmond is the sort of hotel that one should always aspire to, except that the Receptionist has a fauning lilt to her voice that is vomit inducing. However, the Belmond is beautiful. The rooms are not big, but very well appointed and there are little men everywhere catering to your every whim, in this case a Mango Caparinha obrigado. We plan our itinerary for the next day and, after that, a doble Mango Caparinha obrigado and some food. Who needs food? I’m full of mango and nuts and olives and bacon twizzlers and we head to bed and one of those lovely little chocolate truffle balls lying innocently on my fluffy pillow.
Day 28
Out the front door while the sun is still yawning. In the half light we can now see as well as hear the falls, from the front doorstep of the hotel. The Belmond is set quite high and down the slope, over the road, through the trees, a vast wall of water is crashing ever forwards. We scamper over the road and are blown away by the scale of the little bit that we can see.
The Iguazu Falls are an enormous squashed horseshoe about 2.7 kilometres long and 82 metres high. In many places they are split into two massive steps and interspersed with wedges of jungle and sheer rock faces. They are incredible in power, beauty, magnitude, sound, colour and touch. They envelope you in water until you almost drown.
We walk along the trail on the Brasilian side, looking at the rolling thunder falling from the Argentinian side. The trail winds up and down the side of the gorge, offering glimpses as you get closer to the neck, what is called ‘The Devil’s Throat’. At this point, there is a huge step on our side and a walkway zig-zags out over it. An enormous maelstrom of water drops from our left, onto this step, swirls below our feet and tumbles over the dizzying drop to our right.
The spray buffets us, pushing us against the handrails and trying to tear away T shirts and cameras. Hats have already been stuffed into backpacks. At the end of the walkway we can look into the throat, but the spray is so dense it’s not easy to see. We can just make out the other side where huge curtains of water plummet sheer the 82 metres from the upper rim to the torrent below. It’s just as well that most cameras nowadays are waterproof, my skin is too but my lungs are overflowing as we stagger back to shelter.
Iguazu generates its own thermals, which carry the pulverized water up to make clouds. Hundreds of Vultures circle in the thermals for their early morning warm up. They spiral higher and higher while down below the air is thick with Swifts careening through the mists, feeding on the jungle bugs and seemingly crashing into the waterfall. Close up to the side of the main fall we can see them darting towards the foaming curtain and then disappearing. They nest behind the waterfall, safe from predators, but have to be able to pick their spot so as not to get smashed by the falling water or, alternatively, smash themselves into the cliff face behind. It’s incredible to watch.
We ascend the various platforms at the side of the fall until we reach the crest, the vast stretch of the river extending away, calm before its chaotic descent. It’s still early and the riff-raff are not let into the Park until 10.00, so we have the place pretty much to ourselves, except for a family of Coatis. These are a sort of anteater/wombat/lemur hybrid that look seriously cute, however, we note the plethora of warning signs displaying photos of Coati bites. Cute, but don’t feed. We head back for breakfast, drenched and disheveled and deaf, but the Belmond seems to be used to this, although eyebrows are raised when I cough and my own personal cumulonimbus issues from my throat.
After breakfast, we head back to the Concierge and book a river trip. This starts with a fairly innocuous ride through the forest and a little lecture on some of the trees. The tractor/bus stops at a clearing and the guide asks who would like to take a short walk through the jungle and down to the boat dock. 4 Gringos raise their hands, all the locals look at us as if we have just volunteered to become Jaguar bait. They are going to wait for the jeep transporter and confidently expect to never see us again. The guide looks a little forlorn, as her English is not that great, but she perseveres and we soon have her laughing. Anyway, the trail is short and pretty tame and we arrive at the dock to find that our busmates have gone without us.
We have been told that there are two types of boatride, Wet and Dry, and frankly, ‘Dry’ is a bit of a misnomer. We stuff everything of value in a locker and, clad in Patagonian Sou’Westers with a disposable plastic poncho over and a lifejacket to top it all off, in the Brasilian sun, we are now on slow pot roast. The couple in front of us are in swimsuits only and I’m convinced that they made the right choice. Finally a group of Chilean Blue Rinsers put aside their zimmer frames and are hoisted into the back of the boat and I’m thinking, “Bummer, that means they will take it really steady so as not to frighten the old girls.” Silly of me really.
This assault craft would have been right at home storming the beaches at Da Nang. The only thing in the water is the propeller as we caromb up the river, the driver slewing it from side to side to catch what little calm water is available, but banking, twisting and slamming through white water waves while the Blue Rinsers squeal with delight. We pull into a wide bay and pause where views of the Argie side are absolutely gorgeous. The cascades of white water, interspersed with jungle, like something out of a beautiful movie set.
After the pause, we manouvre into the neck of the horseshoe. It’s too dangerous to go far inside as the water is coming at us hard, from all directions and the driver sidles us over to one side and stops short of a massive curtain of water, momentarily.
He then guns the engine and, as the boat bucks and twists in the chop, he nudges us directly under. We cannot see, cannot breath, cannot move, as we are slammed from above, the water pounding us into our seats. This is a serious beating. He backs out and we all gasp for breath, those who had been holding cameras are now scabbling about in the bottom of the boat searching for them. Then, the Rinsers start clapping hands and chanting, “Agua! Agua! AGUA!!!” The driver obliges and we take another hammering. It’s not enough though and they make him go in one more time. I’m beginning to think that these girls are from the local Euthanasia Society, but they are finally satiated and we are allowed to return to the dock. Drenched, disheveled and deafened again. Despite all the precautions we are, of course, totally soaked through and head back to the Belmond wrapped in towels.
We spend the rest of the day being pampered by the pool and it’s lovely but, just before sunset, I have to go back and walk the canyon trail again. The day trippers are leaving and I almost have the place to myself, there is even more water than the morning because the Piranha river has a number of hydro dams and they have been cranking up the power to cope with the daytime surge. The hypnotism of the falling water, the exhilaration of the power unleashed, I have never experienced anything on this magnitude before. I head back for a hot shower, dinner, snooker and a restorative Caparinha or three. What I really need is to be strung up by the heels and beaten until all the water is released from my lungs. But they don’t do that at the Belmond.
Day 29
We have a late check-out and so, as the morning’s weather is still good, we decide to take a helicopter ride over the falls. I love helicopters. That bit where it takes off and the tail comes up and you swoop forwards gathering speed until suddenly it climbs up into the sky. Fabulous!
The jungle spreads out all around, but we can see encroaching fields of sugar cane and pasture. In the distance we can see the great snake of the river and the clouds rising over the falls. Then we are over them and the pilot banks and circles left and then right, it’s a wondrous sight and the only way to really grasp the overall scale. It’s only a 15 minute trip but Wow! What a ride. We get back to our rooms, shower, pack and fly to Rio.
The girls are well excited and Jon and I have our work cut out quelling the rising tide of Barry Manilow songs. By the time we get there it’s dark and we can’t really tell that we have arrived in Rio, but we find the Guesthouse Bianca on Santa Theresa Hill. It is small and charming and beautifully decorated and one of the owners, Guido, is there to meet us and he is totally stoned. I’m pretty sure that he might have the appearance of being stoned, even when he’s not, but I’m also convinced that right now, he is out of his tree. Everything is gently amusing in that far off land that might be his consciousness and conversations have a habit of drifting on forever without any real conclusion. However, he is a lovely guy, the house is fabulous and they are both a little quirky, just how we like it. We dump our bags and head off to a local bar that serves great Caparinhas and food that includes roasted cauliflower with hummus. Be still my beating bowels.
Day 30
We wake with the sun and open the shutters to a view over rooftops towards the Sugarloaf Mountain. Ok, now we are in Rio. Let’s not get too carried away, some of the rooftops are pretty ugly and somebody’s bright blue water tank wrecks any photogenic opportunities, but it’s definitely Rio.
We have breakfast on the patio and our guide, Emanuel and his driver Jonatan arrive to show us the City. Unfortunately, it soon becomes obvious that ‘Manu’ as he likes to be called, is our best friend ever. He loves us, we are going to have a truly great time together in His city. Come on guys, let’s have a group hug and take a selfie with me in the middle and one with just me and Wow, it’s like we are family already. This guy is the Donald Trump of tour guides and we are stuck with him for the next two and a half days. Bollocks!
This is the essential problem with guides. In the main, they are great and we have met some fabulous people, however, every so often you are going to find one who gets right on your tits. Once you’ve got him, you can’t get rid of him and, as he is your interface with the City and its People, he is going to influence your appreciation and I already know that, even if he is a pretty good guide, Manu is going to spoil my enjoyment of Rio. For sure I am being the prissy Englishman but he’s just OTT for my sensitivities. I bet the Septics eat him up. Anyway, I grit my teeth, soldier on and off we go.
Jon is up front riding shotgun, me and the girls in the back, but Manu is in the back back, telling us all what a great guy he is, how we are having such a wonderful time, telling Jonatan ( Over our heads) how to drive (In Portuguese) and talking on his phone (In Portuguese) and he never, ever, shuts up. It’s debilitating.
We go down to Copacabana beach and take group photos outside the Copacabana Palace hotel, then we drive to the end of the beach and take group photos looking along the beach and….. you get the picture. We got fucking hundreds and they all featured Manu with his arms in the air and an ecstatic grin on his face…. So I will stop right there. It was irritating at the time and I don’t need to irritate you more than I already have.
The sea is blue and so is the sky. The beach is, after all, pretty incredible, the Condos behind it less so, but the lush green mountains beyond them make it Rio. We drove up the mountain to Christ the Redeemer, stopping part way for stunning views over the City and watching the planes curve in over the town, over the bay and bank left in order to miss Sugarloaf, fingers crossed. We switch to the National Park bus to get near to the top and finally climb the steps to stand at Christ’s feet, along with several thousand others.
What’s to say? The views are wonderful and the Christ statue is actually rather beautiful. The Bishop of Coquimbo (Remember him?) should be sent here for a look and then sent home with a hammer and a note from the Pope to say, “Fix it you pillock!”. However, the Brazilians, for all their supposedly pious Catholicism, are not here to gaze in awe at the Redeemer, they are here in their thousands to take selfies. To pose, to pout, to stand with arms outstretched, mimicking Jesus above them. If I were a Catholic Priest, I would be walking around with a nail gun and a piece of 2 by 4 and every time somebody spread-eagled I would let them have a 4 inch nail smack through the palm of each hand. “Bless you my child. Now you know how he suffered for your sins.” Selfies are the greatest sin in a place like this.
We drive back into town for lunch and it’s great, especially great is the coldest draft beer that I’ve ever drank. Some of the City centre buildings are incredibly ornate thanks to the King of Portugal running away from Napoleon and making himself Emperor of Brasil. He left his people to look after themselves and made Rio the capital of Portugal for about 20 years. He handed over the keys to the Brits to look after his interests while he was out of station and until it was safe to go back, none of which sounds very Imperious to me.
A visit to Rio Cathedral confirms it as possibly the ugliest building in Christendom. Imagine a power station cooling tower made of dirty concrete Lego blocks in a post apocalyptic Blade Runner movie, only uglier. We also go to see some stairs that are supposed to be Art and the ‘Artist’ committed suicide by setting fire to himself on the bottom step. Manu is adamant that he was one of his best friends and I’m guessing that might be a motive for suicide, but there is no selfie of him grinning as the poor guy goes up in flames.
Day 31.
Manu is a no show. I’m just beginning to believe that there might actually be a God when he finally arrives and the drama begins. The boys stopped for breakfast at a gas station and Manu left his phone on the table and somebody swiped it. That took 15 seconds to type, whereas, Manu took 30 minutes to tell it and he tells us 3 times before he believes we have really heard him. Then, having borrowed the driver’s spare phone, he proceeds to tell the World in English and Portuguese and then in Spanish. Fortunately we are starting the day by taking the tram down Santa Teresa hill, so we get a break for the twenty minutes it takes.
The Tram is great. It rattles and bounces through the narrow streets, past dignified houses, pretty gardens and concrete monstrosities that should have been demolished at birth, until it finally clatters across an ancient aqueduct converted into an aerial tightrope for the tram to teeter across before it pulls into ToyTown Station in downtown Rio. The tram itself appears to be a very simple engineering masterpiece powered by falling carefully along some tracks, and a brake. I remain mystified as to how it goes back uphill again, unless they have discovered an anti-gravity machine. To stop people falling out, they have a long wooden pole along each side and, at each stop, the driver and the brakeman at the back have to lift the pole up to let people climb in and out. I loved it.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end and we have to get back into the car and drive to Sugarloaf Mountain. There is a cable car that goes up to the top of a smaller hill, you walk around there and take another cable car to the top of the Sugarloaf. It’s beautiful, just as most of Rio’s bigger picture is, even the Favellas are picturesque, just as long as you are far enough away.
Manu gathers us around and, with an air of mystery, asks us why we think it is called the ‘Sugarloaf’? I’m a bit puzzled at the question and answer, “Because it looks like a Loaf of Sugar? The sort that used to be made to transport it back to Europe?” Manu looks incredulous, his jaw drops and, just for a moment, he is silenced. Unfortunately, it’s only a moment, but I have spoiled his surprise by a little thing that I like to call ‘Knowledge’. I’m not going to get away with this lightly. “Group Photo!!! Grin like a serial killer!!! One more!!!”
We drop back down into town to the Confeiteria Colombo, a beautiful Deco coffee shop built in the 1800’s and finished with mirrors the size of an average house, made in Belgium and somehow shipped here. We order a light lunch, but it seems that this is also being shipped from Belgium and when it does finally arrive, it’s pretty shabby. Give me Betty’s Tea Rooms any day.
After Luncheon we pop into the Abbey of Our Lady of Montserrat, which is a Benedictine Monastery. In many ways it’s a bit like the Confeiteria, only with a shed-load more gold, but it’s not as rowdy as the Redeemer. You don’t see anybody in front of the altar, arms spread for a selfie, only the lad himself, looking a bit tortured. “Look Mum, you can see our house from here!”
From the gaudy to the tawdry, we visit the Sambadrome but, without all the people, music and costumes, you might as well be in the pit lane at Brand’s Hatch, the day after the races. There are a few old and tattered costumes on a stand and for 10 Real you can dress up for a very sad photo. What would it take to have some video, a decent sound system and a proper display? Bit of a missed opportunity I reckon, because not everybody can come to Carnival, but most tourists would love a little taste.
John has to see the Maracana Football Stadium, heaven knows why, but the least we can do is humour him in thanks for organizing the trip. He’s as happy as Larry photographing the vast, ugly, concrete shell. I suppose it’s a bit like visiting the Coliseum in Rome, only 2000 years too early. We drive back to the hotel and sadly say goodbye to Manu. Whoohoobedoobedoo!
After all the excitement, it’s time to shower, eat and then round to the local bar because they have a live band playing tonight. The band consists of a bloke on percussion, his wife on guitar and vocals and their daughter backing up both, but it’s packed with a local crowd who seem to know all the words of all the songs and it’s all Samba. We have a great night but I’m sure that there must have been drugs involved because although Liz does not need an invitation to be up and shaking it all about, it’s very unusual to see Jon creaking around a dance floor. It’s a sight I’d give anything to forget.
The rest of the Holiday was well worth remembering. So we missed Easter Island? Shit happens-Latam happens, we’ll just have to try again another time and see if it’s possible by boat maybe. And anyway, how often in Life will we get to see a live Puma and live?
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