It is my birthday. I am drinking a nice coffee and eating some nice sweet croissants (called media-lunas here). But we have a two hour wait for our next bus and I have the runs after some dodgy food the other night. Ups and downs, backs and forths.
If I may, a quick note from me on Torres del Paine, a place that gave us ups and downs as accentuated as the mountains themselves. From the giddy anticipation of getting to Puerto Natales to the deflating news that we had missed the good weather, it was all a bit of a rollercoaster- but I wouldn't change it for the world. There were points when I felt a bit like Guy Pearce's character in Prometheus- having finally reached this place I had so looked forward to seeing, it simply turned around and kicked me in the nuts. On our first day we got half as far as expected, purely because of the incredibly strong winds. I was pretty pleased with my pitching of our 'summer' tent, and even congratulated myself that it is not the tent, rather the camper which defines the quality of a shelter. I came out after dinner to find both poles completely sheared through. Surgical tape came to the rescue and the tent struggled on, lumpy and bumpy, to the Glacier up the valley, a hugely impressive sight, despite glacier-ennui (see previous blogs). The next day we got soaked. stupidly soaked. there wasn't just rain, the wind was blowing the lake onto us. That night, putting up the tent in the last available plot (seemingly the camp toilet under less busy circumstances) with numb fingers was a particular low, topped only by spending that night in it. However, the next day, miraculously, we found there were spare beds in the refugio (warm, cosy shacks around the walk) and happily set out, knowing that whatever happened a warm bed would await. Cloud was covering the leaks as we started the ascent of the French valley.
Now, I'm not a religious man, but often when I set out for walks in this weather I fantasise about the clouds shifting and sun pouring through at the climatic moment. This actually happened. At the top of the valley, the mountains revealed themselves in their glory and I was left spinning like a bearded, grubby Julie Andrews.
Seeing dawn at the final site was another high point, just to finish things off. I was utterly knackered by the end, as it seems I had been so often around Patagonia. We needed a bit of a break.
So we boarded the Navimag ferry through the fjords of Chilean Patagonia. And wow. During our three days we saw markedly different conditions: one day of misty fog and rain, one crisp, clear, cold and sunny, and one simply blazingly hot- and the landscape stunning in all. It's not a huge boat, so thank God there was a really lovely bunch of people on board to share it with. The real High points were seeing whales (including blue ones!), otters, seals and penguins whilst chilling on the deck, and singing 'ziggy stardust' to a room full of bemused Chileans (and, it turns out, bemused young Brits. The youth of today etc...). Hes did her 'version' of Roxanne, too. I was beaming with pride.
Then back to earth with a bump. Puerto Montt, at the Northern extreme of the fjords, is a reasonably nice town, but the weather was closing in. We had a week to play with before hitting the capital so we hired a car in the hope that we could see as much of the Lake District as possible. As it turned out, we mostly saw clouds and rain. On the odd occasion that the clouds lifted the scenery was majestic- imagine central France but with huge, active volcanoes dotted around. I didn't get to climb my volcano- Mt. Villarica, because of the cloud, which was a little gutting. The town from which it is accessed, Pucon, suddenly seemed like a chintzy tourist trap, stripped of its main attraction. We were left following families around brightly coloured pools and shingley beaches, everywhere packed with guesthouses, cafes and bars. It was all a bit Skeggy School Holidays. We were also put up in the WORST HOSTEL SO FAR after our first choice messed up the bookings. And when she did have room for us, turns out she also had room for mice. Nice.
Chiloe was a disappointment, too. But we should know better than to trust these guides:
The Lonely Planet: 'encounter penguins, misty seascapes and mythical lore on the archipelago of Chiloe'
Reality: 'see a pikier version of the Isle of Wight and get pick-pocketed on the archipelago of Chiloe'
They have a speciality called 'curanto', which sounds lovely. It is a big pot (or, traditionally, hole in the ground) in which shellfish, meats and vegetables are all steamed together, infusing their flavours with each other over a day or so. What you get, in fact, is a big plate of grey things with various textures and levels of dryness, and a bowl of nice soup. I couldn't help but think that in another world the soup would be the output and the 'stock' items thrown away.
We didn't get on with Chiloe.
There were high points in the lakes too, though. Hes got to see a really old tree which made her, and by proxy me, happy. And she also got to see monkey puzzle trees growing naturally in the wild in an incredibly beautiful volcanic setting. And this made me independently happy because as i say it was beautiful. I am sure on a different week we would have loved the whole area. The combination of heavy, wet, humid weather and the fact that all of Chile seemed to have descended and taken up all the good rooms just got a bit too much. I was definitely in need of a change.
When we arrived in Santiago, early on a Sunday morning and not-so-fresh off a nightbus, I was initially disappointed. We seemed to have seen all the sights on our short walk from the bus station towards our accommodation. But from there everything just got great.
Hes had booked a week's language course, and through that a Chilean home to stay in. Diego and Keka, our hosts, were the sweetest couple you could possibly meet, and made us feel instantly at home in their lovely flat. Our teacher, Angelo, was a lovely chap and we laughed as much as we learned. And Santiago- ah, Santiago- is a blissfully relaxed, cheerful, sunny city. Every day when I woke up I felt genuinely excited about the day ahead. It doesn't have a load of landmarks and must-sees, but wandering the streets was a joy. And there's a swimming pool on the adjacent mountain, in which you would think you were in the middle of the Andes but for the tops of skyscrapers showing through the trees. Oh, and there's a drink called 'terramoto' (earthquake)- a pint consisting of cheap white wine, fernet and a blob of pineapple ice cream- a challenge which I of course rose to shortly before slurring my words, getting slightly argumentative and dozing off. They even have a decent curry house.
My Spanish did improve a bit- it is consistently improving. I was very pleased with myself when I confidently intuited to a waiter that we were ready to order- friendly, like, and with a smile, so he didn't think I was being rude. I said to hes how nice it was to be able to communicate, at which point she laughed and told me I had said 'we are clever to hit the food'. She is, of course, extremely good now, and people don't waste time telling her. Even with me in earshot, of all things! When I look pleadingly at them they just tell me I need more practice. Obviously I have the look of a man who needs straight-talking, though I'd prefer a bit of polite truth-bending. Oh England, I miss your ways.
We were gutted to leave Santiago, but were headed for Valparaiso, a Port so bohemian it hurts, and a lovely place to while away a few days. One day we went to see Pablo Neruda's house on Isla Negra- the tour was a genuine delight, from an architectural perspective as much as anything, but it was matched by the glass of wine and cheese sandwich in the museum 'canteen'- ie sitting on a terrace in the sun, watching pelicans swoop over the pacific coast. Having visited his house in Santiago, too, I have now seen twice as many of his houses as poems of his I have read.
In valparaiso we tried another Chilean speciality called 'chorillana'. To my mind, it is a bit rich to lay claim to a 'dish' which is essentially the dirty cravings of a hung over fat man: chips, fried onions, scrambled egg and beef, with chili sauce. It is, of course, delicious.
From 'Valpo' we crossed the Andes back into Argentina, on what should have been a stunning bus ride but, due to delays on the Chilean side was less so. We didn't quite get the stunning sunset on the pass, but the craggy faces of the andes and winding rivers lit by the full moon still gave a pretty stunning backdrop to the journey. There was one Brit on the bus who was almost cherry red with the 'shambles' of the border crossing itself. I felt a little embarrassed, but also a little proud of my by-now deeply-rooted-laid-back-traveller-vibe.
And so, Mendoza. On the first day I overdid the wine and I had a steak which nearly made me cry. The waiter could see I was having a spiritual experience, and I think he understood. Especially as I was sat next to a girl eating a salad. He felt my pain and gave me his personal card for the next time.
The next day we went out on bikes, round various bodegas, tasting their ware. A mixture of hangover, allergies, hot sun and refilling vino levels made this trip a little difficult for me but I pushed on through, and we bought a bottle of, ahem, 'the best South American red of 2007', which I shall be drinking later, in celebration of getting even more too old for this stuff. That night we ate sushi, which I believe to be the reason for my dicky tummy, and I drank a sprite. I should know better than this and from now on it is red wine and steak until we hit Bolivia.
Or at least tonight, in Cafayate, the second centre for Argentinian wine production. It is my birthday after all.
Salud!
Zzz
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