Cavalier psychadelia

SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, REGION II, CHILE - 28th March 2010

The LPG's tiny section on SPA does the place scant justice, but that didn't stop it being (as always) the starting point following our arrival from the visual spectacular that is the Jujuy-SPA bus route. We decided to stay at Residencial Vilacoyo, which was (like basically every building in the village) adobe constructed and thus amazingly cool (in the thermal sense, for once) inside despite the pelting desert heat outdoors (see right).  With a courtyard strewn with hammocks - the best things ever, as far as I'm concerned - it was a pretty good haunt.

As with pretty much every step of our travels, we don't really have any idea how long we were going to stay, but took on day one in typically cavalier attitude with plans to check out the "psychedelic" landscape around the village and generally scout some sights.  Being the adventurous young firebrands that we apparently are, we're reluctant to just hop on a tour in order to see things... but with so much to see this provides an alternative counter-problem: deciding on what to do - especially given the time constraints - proves rather challenging.

Recommended by the LPG, and by the parts of our bodies craving exercise, we decided to rent a couple of mountain bikes for the afternoon, setting ourselves the aim of checking out the Pukará de Quitor en route to Quebrada del Diablo, before bossing about 15km back down the same gravel road in the opposite direction, past (which is basically the same as through when you're talking about SPA) the town, and down the highway to catch sunset in Valle de la Luna (Lunar Valley; named for good reason).

The pukará itself (right) was similar in many ways to the one Tom and I tore up back in Chilcara, although getting to the top involved a much bigger climb and lacked the hundreds of here's-where-someone-had-a-dump-400-years-ago memorial cacti.  However, what made this place poles apart was the view. The mesmerising mixture of colours, their shades and their depth, added what can only be described as a surreal hue to a scene that would blow off your socks in black and white alone. As illustrated:

 

Armed with a map that we later discovered had north pointing south-west (and thus explained why the old sense of direction was going haywire everywhere we went), we headed onward down the dirt track a further 3km from the pukará, through a colourful floodplain flanked by rugged red hills (right) en route to Quebrada del Diablo (the "Devil's Gorge").  Obstacles along the way, aside from the dodgy map, included the bludgeoning early afternoon heat, and a fairly significant river that we had to cross to continue down the path.  I'm all for maintaining the cavalier attitude when it comes to these sort of things, but as it rather wetly transpired, you couldn't simply "power through".

Into the quebrada itself, however, and you soon forget where you've just been.  As if carved by a rather skilled labyrinth-architect, the gorge traverses a seemingly never-ended serpentine path through the middle of the towering rock that borders the valley - each corner you round producing ever more spectacular sights.  The geographers in our Juddian crew back home would (presumably) have gone to town over the geological formations on display, but the real story was how bloody awesome a bike track this place was - a true challenge at high speed, weaving left-right-left-right through blind corners on a surface that varied from dirt to thick sand.  And wasn't half bad to look at either:

We eventually decided we had no idea how long and deep into the rocks the path would go - it didn't seem to ever end - and wanted to crack on into order to get to the Lunar Valley, on the other side of SPA, in time for sunset.  I think it basically came down to needed to cover 20km in an hour; a feat much easier said than done on mountain bikes and dirt tracks in desert heat; but off we went anyway, past the pukará, in and out of the edge of SPA, and off on a big, bad, tarmac highway towards a direction that our map would suggest was south-east, but conventional bearings would better describe as due west.

It doesn't take a genius to explain the name - the barren expanse of land in the Valle de la Luna resembles that of the Moon.  Sadly, the best example of this is a further 7km from the entrance to the national park grounds - a distance we were never going to cover in the 15-20mins till sunset, and barely had the energy to do anyway.  So we did the clever thing and cut our losses, chillaxed with some soft drinks, and used our shit hot cameras to gets some cool photography.  And then cycled all the way back to SPA in the cold and dark with hunger welling up in inside of me like magma inside Vesuvius circa AD79.   Your standard day of travels, basically.

(Getting to) the cool little town in the middle of nowhere

SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, REGION II, CHILE - 27th March 2010

Buses across Argentine/Chilean border from Salta/Jujuy to San Pedro de Atacama ("SPA") only run 3 times a week, through the day, but some sharp timing (and some top class interpretive Spanglish from yours truly in the absence of Anna's fluency) managed to snag us a couple of tickets for the early (8.30am) departure on the morning of Friday 26th.

Hyperbole is not even slightly needed when describing the ensuing bus journey.  6 months of globetrotting have involved all sorts of experiences across all sorts of landscapes on all sorts of buses, but based on visual diversity alone I defy anyone to find a journey that is quite as spectacular, in so many different ways, as the journey across the Paso de Jama mountain pass that represents the northernmost road crossing between Argentina and Chile (and features a delirium-inducing ascent up to about 4.5km above sea level in a few hours).  The constantly changing backdrop began with the artistic colours of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, as previously graced by 'Lads on tour'; rose upward into green hills and mountain pass roads, continued rising upward beyond the tree line as the green gave way to a dusty mix of reds, yellows and greys; then the road stretched dead straight into a white horizon as we drove through a salt flat at about 4000 metres a.s.l. 

The ascent on the Argentine side of the pass

The plateau atop of the Argentine side of the pass; greenery is replaced by all colours of sand

Salt flat on the horizon

Surrounded by salt

Through the salt; more sand and scrub

At 3500-4000m a.s.l., the roads get quite winding...

...and then a few minutes later they'll be dead straight for as far as the eye can see

All this was before we had even left Argentina - the formalities at Paso de Jama were uneventful but for another idiot immigration official stamping my sixth and final Argentine stamp directly on top of another one (exiting Australia, for anyone so interested).  Given they do the same thing thousands of times a day, you'd think they'd get vaguely competent at it.  But all was soon forgotten as Anna and I sampled some coca tea - coca leaves being the same bad boys that, via various steps, end up as cocaine (although apparently about a tonne of coca leaves are needed to make about 1g of the drug).  For what it's worth, its taste was unimpressive. 

The surreal 3000m gradual descent down the Chilean side - San Pedro in the far distance

Veterans of high altitude travel will know all about the effects it can have on the human body, and are probably quite aware of the best ways of mitigating the headaches, dizziness, stomach churning, fever and other symptoms that go hand it hand with going up to high altitude too quickly.   Sadly, I wasn't quite so aware that, if avoiding altitude illness was on your agenda, red meat and alcohol were standard no-no's for the night before.  I'd like to say that up at 4400m I found myself somewhat regretting the previous night's "last night in Argentina" binge on steak and Malbec red wine, but for about 15 minutes I was so delirious that the thought process needed to feel regret was, along with thought process of any kind, not happening.  And, more to the point, 10 minutes of feeling light-headed discomfort is a sacrifice worth making for an evening of great food and drink.

Anyway, SPA sits at about 2400m a.s.l., just off the northeastern tip of the great Atacama Salt Desert, and west of the towering peaks of the Andes that we earlier dissected.  Most imposing is the classically conical-shaped volcano Licancabur (right) which, at nearly 6000m in height, is visible due east from anywhere, for miles.

For a tiny town in literally the middle of nowhere, SPA is pretty damn touristy - a point proven by the veritable multitude of tour operators set up in the town offering this, that, the other, and everything in between.  However, their existence hints at why this Godforsaken no-man's-land in the middle of the desert is a must-visit location for travellers and young Chileans alike.  In a similar manner to our journey over here, the area surrounding San Pedro boasts some of the most surreal, varied, and generally awe-inspiring natural attractions of anywhere in South America - or indeed the world.  And that should we what we get to enjoy over the next few days!

Before I dash though, I'll sign off with a quote from some girl in front of us in the queue to get our passports stamped at San Pedro.

"So we're getting our Chilean passport stamps here... so where were we between here and where we got our Argentina stamps?!?"

A wise man once said, "stupidity is infinite".

Valpy: the colourful slum

VALPARAÍSO, REGION V, CHILE - 17th March 2010

Self-proclaimed as the cultural capital of Chile, Valparaíso is definitely one of a kind. Walking around shortly after we arrived night-before-last, it was a city of shadows - cobbled streets lined with dilapidated buildings with walls of corregated iron, each hidden away in another pocket of darkness carved out among the imposing hills that rise eternally upward from the city's Pacific shoreline.

Thanks to LPG's proclamations that "the bohemian among us love it" and "the shutter happy simply tremble at the city's picturesque possibilities", Anna was well in love with the place long before we arrived at its messy bus terminal, and was duly gushing with bohemian (apparently) delight in the mish-mash mess of graffiti-clad walls, dirty streets, and passajes (alleyways) meandering dubious paths up the steep hills - not to mention the sense of being somewhere "so poetic". I don't really buy into pre-determination of places, and my first impressions were of a city that may be fairly cool, but objectively speaking had dog shit on every path every 5 metres, had drunks stumbling around dark alleys whose cobbled stones were lined with broken glass bottles and general trash, where the walls, shutters, statues or anything else were covered in crappy graffiti tags, and where very second street corner stank of human urine. It was 9pm, but in many ways it felt like 3am on a Friday night in one of the shadier areas of Bristol.

With aimless post-arrival wandering achieved, dinner was another excellent affair - SaborColor was scouted (being one of the few places in the vicinity of the hostel that was actaully open), and served up a delectable platter for two featuring pork ribs, beef in some excellent sauce, speciality empanadas and vegetable skewers; washed down (in my case) with the excellent local "cerveja artesanal" - Volcanes Bock. Happy stomach.

The following day (yesterday) was Valpy's* opportunity to prove itself (only to me, of course - Anna was already fronting the Valpo Cheerleaders brigade), and to be fair it has done a pretty good job. For sure, there's still shit of every street, and the multitude of cables that run above every road have about as much visual appeal as said shit, but there's no denying that this place is absolutely out of the ordinary. Ostensibly a port town, it thirived in the late 10th century as the leading port along the Cape Horn/Pacific shipping route, particularly as the Californian Gold Rush gathered steam. Valpy's steam was fairly spectacularly wiped out in 1906, however, when a whopping earthquake decimated the city, and salt was rubbed into the raw wounds 8 years later when those crafty lads up in Panama opened up their eponymous canal. Valpy remains a port town though, and we passed a hell of a long time down at Muelle Prat watching the busy working of the container terminal shipyard.

The real story in Valpy, however, is its artistic heart. Its building may be falling to pieces, but tens of thousands of multi-coloured facades make quite an impression when lined up one behind the other rising up a dramatic hillside; their dilapidation, if anything, adds to it. And the walls are definitely covered in graffiti, but whereas last night's soujourn offered prize views of the sor tof crappy "tags" that pollute railways lines across Europe, today offered a whole different world - phenomenal murals stretching across entire walls, between street furniture, and all combined in one place to form the Museo al Cielo Abierto - "open air museum". You have to take a step back and think about what is actually going on - you are on an average street in a city, surrounded by houses and residential buildings, and here all around you is an art gallery of the highest calibre - on the walls! It is mental - a sense compounded by the ever-present stunning view over the city as you are, as always, atop of a whopping big hill that just goes up and up and up...! Amazing.

From one art form to another, and a further walk up the hill brought us to La Sebastiana - one of the many houses of Chilean poet extraordinaire and Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda. I've known of the guy since I was about 10, thanks to that good old source of all knowledge The Simpsons, but in the decade or so that has followed I'd be lying if I said I'd actually read a word of his work. Anna, on the other hand, has been known to cry when reading "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair" - Neruda's most noted work; it doesn't take a genius to conclude that she was going into La Sebastiana without quite the same objectivity as your average pleb (in this case, yours truly).

Objectively speaking though, it's gotta be said that Neruda knew how to design a house. For sure, he was clearly a rich jerk with too much money for his own good, but he spent his money on some impressively cool crap. The house - perched on a hilltop - overlooks the whole of colourful Valpy below; the living room, decked with individually chosen chairs, tables, paintings of Kings and Queens and all sorts of other junk, offers a spectacular view out to the Pacific below and, as informed by the excellent audio tour provided, was the scene of annual New Year's Eve gatherings for the best possible view of Valpy's renowned fireworks display. Better still was upstairs - the bedroom offered the same view, but in incredible panorama from the expanse of Neruda's huge bed where he and his wife (one of several) spent their time. Best of all, the top floor study room - again offering the view, but with walls adorned with photos, drawings, all kinds of random crap and - my favourite thing in the whole house - a early sixteenth century map of the Americas, featuring "the island of California", totally missing the existence of Texas, and generally adding and subtracting various landforms at will. A great piece of stash.

Dinner that night was a fairly low key affair - it probably involved meat and beer - but definitely worth mentioning was lunch at "Royal J Cruz" - a fantastic little place hidden up a little alleyway off the main street in town. The food - a traditional chorrillana - consisted of a mahoosive plate piled with fries, covered in spicy pork, fried onions and egg (conservatively described in the LPG as "mountainous"), but of real note was the place itself: every piece of it, from walls to tables to tablecloths and windows, was covered in grafittied messages, photos of patrons, scribbles, doodles - anything and everything. I've never seen anything like it, and doubt I'll ever see the like again. Perhaps a photo of it will appear on this blog one day though...

Today we went out separate ways - as always I took the opportunity to walk and walk and walk and ended up atop of the western end of the Valpy hill at the Museo del Mar Lord Cochrane. Cochrane was a British naval general who helped the Chileans oust the Spaniards back in the day, and had a big role to play in capturing Valparaíso, so is generally loved in these parts (so much so that Neruda even stuck a painting of him up in La Sebastiana). Sadly, and in total contradiction to the opening hours posting on the wall outside the entrance, the museum was closed - but all was not lost as the courtyard offered the best views of Valpy I'd yet discovered, and also randomly met an English chap called Kevin who joined me on a bit of a trek over to Iglesia Matriz - the site of four churches since 1559. The most recent of them doesn't look like much on the outside, but inside it's as impressive a place as you'd care to see - full of colour and ornately decorated chapels and altars.

Time in Valpo is short, however, and tonight it's off back to Argentina on an overnight bus to Mendoza. On reflection, Frederica, a Swiss girl staying in our hostel room, summed up the place fairly well - "a little rotten, but charming".


* Allegedly, Valparaiso's proper nickname is "Valpo" - but "Valpy" seems infinitely more appropriate for its ridiculous nature.

Overrated earthquakes

SANTIAGO, CHILE - 15th March 2010

While Anna sits typing a series of what seem fairly epic emails in response to various well-wishers, I find myself sitting on a sofa writing (in the "traditional" pen-and-paper sense of the word) a blog entry that is unlikely to appear online for a good two weeks, what with The Daily Rod currently extolling tales from Sao Paulo's concrete jungle (EDIT: turns out 2 weeks was optimistic). Nevertheless, memories are best penned when fresh, and the metronomic pitter-patter of a keyboard being incessantly barraged by fingertips is surprisingly relaxing on the mind.

So, we are in Santiago - something that was surprisingly close to not happening at all. It would be understandable to assume that this was for some earthquake-related reason, what with the world's media jumping at every opportunity to present a situation that is fully under control as a rabid cesspit of lawless carnage and terrifying destruction. Indeed, back in Bariloche when we were planning our next steps, we had no idea just how great a non-event the earthquake was in Santiago thanks to its ridiculously earthquake-proof buildings and generally über-developed infrastructure and planning - but at no stage did earthquakes feature in the impressively animated discussions that took place in our Marcopolloinn dorm room in Bariloche 4 days ago. Instead, it was made fairly clear that the capital city of the most developed country in South America was of no interest to Anna, and further proposed that my only reason for wanting to go to there (/here) was because it was the capital. The latter was a particularly interesting form of criticism - I'm not entirely sure how other people view these things, but when a country has a primate city that is also its capital and is located slap bang in the geographic middle of the country... well it seems fairly controversial to ignore it (and that's even before accounting for its history, culture and the fact that "it's a damn cool city" (SM). But of course, that's just me...

Anyway, an hour or so of discussions eventually resolved themselves and, as shaper readers will have gathered from my last blog in Valdivia, we crossed over to Chile and have now made it here.

I'm pretty damn happy we did. Our stay is short - not even 36 hours - but that was never going to be the end of the world as I remain as adament as I was in KL, Australia and New Zealand - the whole "you can't claim to 'know' a city unless you've spent several days there" view is a hunk of bullcrap that is spewed from lazy travellers who can't be bothered to spend a whole day or two walking around and soaking up their surroundings. If you're willing to walk, I have every faith that you can get right under an average sized city's skin in a good day - my 17 hours in KL is more than enough evidence to convince me of that.

Of course, I am no longer on my own so the never-ending-walk paradigm that I'd adopted through the Asia-Pacific has had to be toned down, but we still managed a good 3 and a half hours or so yesterday checking out the Palacio de Bella Artes - half Chilean art and sculptures, half photography and modern art - and getting a fair perspective of the run of the city through the main Avenieda Estado shopping street that discects Plaza de Armas, the city's main square. Not a bad effort, and more than enough to leave a positive impression of the lie of the Santiago landscape - the blend of differing barrios (neighbourhoods), each providing a slightly different offering the the overall city package, is something that works particularly nicely here and, combined with a cool mix of buildings, parks and the usual city-style paraphenalia (the Hanging Gardens of Babylon-esque Jardin Japonese being a particular eye-catcher) gives this city a character that very much meets Señor Marshall's description of "cool".

The walking around caused some tired legs, so a few hours rest were in order before a wander around the Bellavista barrio where our hostel - La Chima - is located. In search of crêpes, we stumbled across "Patio Bellavista", a relatively new development between Pio Nono and Constitucíon (the two main streets of the barrio) that essentially brings together an array of chic eatieries, cafés and generally cool places to eat or hang out, all in a nicely designed plaza area. Perpetually hungry, I got myself a traditional French ham-and-chesse crêpe (complete with what was fantastically termed, in English, "Frenchy dressing"), while Anna bailed on crêpes and instead went for a speciality ice cream cone two scoops - one of watermelon flavour, one "fried bread" flavour...

Whereas Estado had been relatively empty when we'd traversed it earlier in the day, Pio Nono was absolutely teeming come late afternoon - Santiago's "lazy Sundays" in plain evidence. We joined the club with a round of beers, but took it relatively easy as we were being taken out to dinner by Cristian - one of my Dad's colleagues from CVCI who works here in Santiago (and was also behind the potential discounted night's stay in the sweet casino-spa-hotel in Valdivia).

Throughout our time in Santiago, we had been continuously struck by how unaffected the place seemed to be from the mahoosive earthquake that struck Chile a few weeks back. 8.8 on the (new version of the) Richter scale, it was the biggest earthquake anywhere in the world since the Boxing Day tsunami of 2004, and although the focus of the damage was city of Concepción, it was over 8 on the Richter scale in Santiago and displaced the capital a little under one foot to the west. Given that magnitude of the quake, and the insane media hype about the chaos that ensued in its aftermath, you'd expect signs of earthquake-based carnage all over the place - but it couldn't be further from reality. There was basically nothing to suggest anything had happened, and judging from the attitude of the locals, no one seemed particularly perturbed by the prospect of anything more or worse. It was damn impressive - and moreso in the knowledge that for all its development, the UK would grind to an even bigger halt that it managed this winter should an 8+ earthquake hit its fragile shores.

However, the earthquake was going to have one pronounced effect on our time in Santiago, and it came mere seconds before Cristian arrived at our hostel to pick us up. Quick as a flash, everything was plunged into darkness - computers died, lights popped out, and stepping outside it was clear that everywhere in sight was experiencing a power cut. After Cristian turned on the radio, it transpired that everywhere in sight was small fries - 80% of Chile had been plunged into darkness! Dinner plans were, understandably, somewhat uprooted by this turn of events - most restaurants generally require a splattering of electricity to undertake normal service; instead Cristian drove Anna and I to his apartment where we met his wife and his 2 young sons, the latter whom had taken to lighting every candle in the house and placing them on a giant tray. With the fridge conked out as well and no one really having any idea when power would come back, there was a strong danger of some perfectly good champagne getting ruined by going warm - so we passed a couple of hours enjoying champagne and snacks and the excellent company.

Finally, somewhere in the 10.30pm region, areas of Santiago regained power and we went in hunt of anywhere that was open and serving. Where we found was not where Cristian would have wanted to take us, but what with several rounds of drink and a stomach craving food, my bife de lomo steak went down an absolute treat (again, with some rather good pisco sour - apologies to LB). By the time we were back in La Chimba power had returned, but we were out like logs.


Today has been pretty chilled - we're off on a 2-hour bus ride to Valparaiso later so spent the morning enjoying some spectacular views of Santiago (such as that above) from the top of Cerro San Cristóbal, accessed by the century-old funicular railway. Up at the top is a particularly cool chapel - small, but with some awe-inspiring carvings (see below), and, much akin to Rio de Janeiro and Cristo Redentor, a massive statue of the Virgin Mary looking down over the city (see right - the Sun being perfectly placed as a halo). Examination of the dates revealed, to my surprise, that Santiago came up with the idea first - it has stood since the 1920s, whereas Cristo Redentor was consecrated in 1931. Somewhat beside the point though - the important thing was the majesty of the statue and, even more spectacular, the open air amphitheatre underneath it where Mass would be celebrated every weekend. Overlooking the Chilean capital, surrounding by beautiful vegetation in full bloom in the shadow of the glowing white statue of the Virgin Mary, I'm fairly sure it is the coolest setting for Holy Mass you'll ever see (UPDATE: you can now judge for yourself below!).




Anyway, there are another tonne of photos that probably look fairly decent, but what with memory card viruses, pen drives going missing and general photo disasters, who knows if they'll ever be seen by anyone (UPDATE: the photos are safe, and here they are!).

Valdivia - where nothing is as it seems

VALDIVIA, REGION X, CHILE - 13th March 2010

Chile has become the fifth of South America's 13 countries to allow me passage into their territory, but it wasn't quite as plain sailing an experience as I've come to expect - but then again you rarely expect yourself to have to munch through a foot long ham salad sandwich in 90 seconds.

Rocking up at the Chilean border control after a wonderfully scenic ride from Bariloche, passing the Andean lakes and mountains that mark give this part of the world its "Lake District" name, we discovered that mere stamping of passports was only half the story at the Chilean border - these guys are judicious, it seems, when it comes to protecting their agriculture and thus X-ray all baggage entering the country, with anything food-related having to be declared. This included, it seemed, rather large ham sandwiches that had been long-term strategic purchases - bought in Bariloche specifically to appease my never-ending need for food across the 5 hours, change of buses in Osorno, and general hoopla of getting from A to B. The option of throwing the sandwich in the bin was not one that I was willing to even vaguely entertain, so I exited the bus faceplanted inside 12 inches of bread, ham and cheese - must to the amusement of the bus driver, and much to the disapproval of the Chilean customs official. The latter extended his disapproval be refusing to allow me to put any of my hand baggage on the belt until the sandwich was fully eaten - and with the rest of the bus already on the other side standing around waiting, all eyes were on me and my damn mouth. Thankfully, the bread was beautifully soft and the ham and cheese melted in the mouth, but even with this on my side, and aided by pats on the back from our bus driver who clearly appreciated by dilemma a great deal more than the stalwart customs official, it still took some outrageously large mouthfuls to chomp the whole thing down. Whether it was intended as a compliment I'm not sure (in fact, decidedly skeptical), but according to Anna "that last mouthful was the size of a meal".

Anyway, we found our way to Valdivia after a quickfire switch onto a local bus from Osorno - a switch that was almost scuppered by whacky time zones. In theory, Chile is an hour behind Argentina - so I put my clock an hour backward when we crossed the border. However, it turns out that because of last the earthquake from a few weeks back, the Chilean government have postponed the shift away from Daylight Saving Time, meaning that Chile remains 3 hours behind GMT instead of its proper 4. Almost disasterous for us, but all's well that ends well and we were safely lodged in Airesbuenos Hostel by early evening and headed out into the small town to find some grub to eat.

It was at this stage that we started to develop suspicions - suspicions that would only increase - about whether Valdivia was one giant April Fool's Day joke on us, being delivered an antisocial 3 weeks premature. Basically everywhere seemed closed - something we initially put down to being in a country with "normal" eating times (after weeks of outrageously late dinners in Brazil and Argentina) - but when we found ourselves wandering down roads that apparently didn't exist, and right past spots where our (admittedly poorly drawn) map suggested restaurants should have been (but patently were not), the whole situation began to rouse our suspicions.

Eventually we ended up in a nice little pub and I snagged my first taste of pisco - the local spirit brew that Peru and Chile both claim to have invented. Pisco sour, as I had it, is the most commonly drunk form - and went down very nicely with our classic dinner of bife de lomo (steak) and chips.

Over the last few months, I've stayed in a whole host of hostels of various quality - good, bad and ugly and most of the in between. Tucano House in Florianópolis is always gonna take some beating - its 95% approval rating on Hostelworld speaks for itself - but Airesbuenos here in Valdivia is something very special. After returning from dinner, the two of us somewhat sheepishly sat at the computer; while seemingly everyone else in the hostel was sitting around the table drinking wine and having a nice chat, we were trying to figure out what we were going to do the next day (a discounted night in a casino-spa swanky hotel was an option thanks to business contacts of my Dad). However, it wasn't a moment before the American lady who managed the place came over with a glass of wine for each of us and got talking about where we'd come from, where we were going - the usual jazz, for sure, but enough to make us comfortably join the circle of backpackers and hostel staff and sip Chilean wine well into the early hours. The scene was unlike anything else I've known in a hostel - around the table were 4 Frenchies who spoke Spanish, an Argentine with just Spanish, Anna with Spanish and English, and myself with French and English... but to top it off we were joined by the manager of the hostel (who could do all three) - a lovely Californian who, while a tad whacky, was friendly to her core and passionate about the Permaculture environmental recycling system she wanted to create at Airesbuenos. An interesting chat ensued about The result was the most incredible string of conversations that, depending on the protagonists at any given stage, seamlessly switched between all three languages. At some stage the topic turned to my Indian heritage, and my ability to cook (and how cooking was probably what I missed most travelling), and in a flash I was down to cook up some "tandoori-style" (read: standard Rodrigues nondescript concoction) chicken for lunch for everyone in the hostel!

Fast forward the best part of a day, and we're now all set to stroll down to the bus station for an evening bus to Santiago that should see us arriving there at about 9 tomorrow morning (the earthquake-induced collapse of a bridge causing a couple of hours delay to all buses). However, in the meantime we were impressively productive - after breakfast I marinaded some chicken with a random mix of whatever I could find in the kitchen, then it was off to explore Valdivia. A fairly embarrassing stop was made at the Casino-Spa-Hotel that saw me impressively crash and burn in an attempt to get free use of the casino (on the basis of knowing someone who knew someone who was important, or something to that effect), but that was soon forgotten as we strolled through the town's riverside market where an army of massive sea lions (like the critter below) sat around waiting for free bits of fish to munch on.


An attempt to find the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo saw us head over to the other side of the river after lunch (fresh local mussels fried in garlic sauce), the bridge providing a beautiful view of the town and the market that looks very much like the photo below. On the other side, however, we once again found ourselves wondering what was the deal with this town - how could nothing be where it was supposed to be?! Failing to find the museum at first attempt did bring the inadvertent reward of leading us to a cool, randomly abandoned 3-floor boat - anchored on the riverside at the end of a desolate little dead-end street with no hint of life in it (cool photos will eventually follow), but our sense of confusion with the town reached fever pitch when we found the museum - or indeed the place where all the signs pointed to - and it still wasn't there!


Half an hour of confused and aimless wandering, and eventually someone informed us of a tiny little staircase that lead to the underground gallery which, alongside some fairly cool modern art, had an awesome photographic display by a guy who's name I've now forgotten... but rest assured it was impressive. But by this stage we were fairly zonked from walking and having our minds screwed with, so headed back to Airesbuenos and kicked back with all the residents and staff in front of a fairly decent film.