Return To Santiago - Petroglyph Heads - 5 Jan 2003
Oh, no, not again ñ not Ovalle impressed
An Encanto encounter
The customer oops management is always right
Oh, no, not again ñ not Ovalle impressed
I am some times a bit mean to Hippy when we end up on dirt roads unexpectedly. Invariably there is no way of foretelling this outcome by looking at the maps that we have. This time I hold up my hand and admit entire responsibility. Iím sorry Bertha.
When we left Vicuna we had a choice of heading back down to the coast, south and then inland again or simply heading straight south to Ovalle. I figured that heading straight south would avoid a couple of toll stations (saving a pound) and be less distance (saving another 50 p). Not mean just careful [webmaster] As far as I could remember there was a reasonable network of roads at this latitude of Chile and so we could rely on decent piste all the way.
What a poltroon I am.
The first couple of K off the tarmac road out of Vicuna was reasonably good. Then it just got worse and worse and worse. Again, itís one of those ìHow bad do we let it get before we turn back?î moments. When it got pretty ropey and Bertha was despising the rocky hairpins, I figured that we must be about half way and so there was no point turning.
We cheered ourselves with the brilliant scenery. Strangely, after passing through cactus lined dry valleys, we would come round a corner to be faced by the verdant vines of the local pisco producing estates. These really were pretty cut off and it was hard to believe that the cultivation up here could be profitable. Less surprising were the herds of goats that frolicked across the road now and again.
80 km up the road (about as far as we had thought it was in total) a sign proudly announced that it was another 80 km to Ovalle. Oh, joy. The road was now more level and serviced small towns in the valley. In the centre of each town was a lovely smooth section of block paving or tarmac ñ depending on the whim of the local planner. What they had failed to do was make these stretches any longer than 50 metres. Strangely at the middle of each smooth section was a swanky house. Mayor, party official, local philanthropist. Who knows?
Between these towns, the road is obviously used for the transport of building materials and other heavy items. I can surmise this not from having seen any but from the depth of the bloody corrugations. They were pretty unrelenting. I convinced myself that a sign I had seen had told me to be careful for the next 42 Kms. This surely meant that after 42 km we were to come to a delightful sweeping perfectly smooth highway. At every new stretch of village dignitaryís frontage I assumed we were there and was again and again disappointed. And then it happened. Beautiful swooping road with constant radius bends that had me giggling all the way to Ovalle
Lonely Planet had promised us a treat near Ovalle. Petroglyphs and stuff. It seemed a likely spiritual place where the scarf could receive energy. To make the most of it we opted to rest for a day and camp out in the Valle del Encanto. Replete with powdered mash and other treats from a shopping spree in Ovalle we made our way tentatively to the park gate. Five miles of dirt track had been promised and I was not in the mood for arsing about. Thankfully the track was in top condition and the only real hazard was the garlic-breath of the man on the gate. Man, was it bad.
We had carried enough food for a couple of days and water from Ovalle. This meant that Pat had arrived at the gate seemingly with child, in the guise of a 5-litre bottle of water, wrapped in a sling of his Arab scarf around his waist. I am not sure what the guy on the gate thought of us, but it was not until we camped up that we realised that the ëcopaí of water that was a huge water tank was enough water to drown a small boat. But better safe than sorry I suppose.
We chilled....
Rose slowly the next day and went for a little stroll down valley to see some stuff. The pintographs (paintings) looked to the untrained eye more like pink marble, not impressed. The first set of petroglyphs we saw looked so much like local youths taking the pee with some graffiti that we were on the verge of dismissing the childlike cartoon drawings on people, when we realised that there was a proper little plaque proving their authenticity. Took a photo to prove the scarf had been there, though we are at present disappointed with its performance. Took a tea break, because we could and watched the other grockles scurrying about (well, as much as everyone can scurry in Latin America).
Read a little and then ventured off for the second leg of culture and the other way down the valley. It was a lovely day scrambling over rocks to see the ancient carvings. I was left wondering why they drew them. I am at least half convinced that they were done by Inca delinquents, bored on hot afternoons, and at the time the elders moaned about the degenerate youth, now people are assuming all kinds of significance on them. I suppose it keeps the archaeologists busy.
It had been a good plan to give poor Bertha a rest and ourselves, and we had no worries about other tourists stealing from the tent as a local, stray dog had adopted us and guarded our tent religious. At night we watched the flames of our campfire and enjoyed the quiet. I got a bit of a pyromaniac phase and put sticks into the fire till the end was glowing and played sparklers when them. Pat thought this was childish and then I caught him doing the same when I wasnít looking. Sometimes it is the simple things that are the best. Stuff your posh fireworks that fill the air with sulphurous haze, Iím all for writing silly messages with a lit stick.
Back to Santiago
Sensibly we decided to pay the tolls and go on tar. Back to our old hostel. No room at the inn. No problema they had an undecorated room that we could have but rather cheekily asked the same price. But it was our fault we should have booked for earlier, as we were booked into the triple room for Friday and Saturday, for the arrival of our dear friend Esther. There was a truck of overlanders coming in and we were assured that our room would be available at the latest on Saturday.
Santiago was a blur of action again. The usual thing in cities for us is the endless run of little jobs that need doing. At the end of each day we take stock and find that we have achieved very little. In all we managed to; find tyres for the bike of debatable quality (Korean) but at least tubeless and so inherently safer in a puncture situation, new road map (wonít go on about that too much!), info on national parks, place to store bike while weíre off with Esther blah, blah.
The customer oops management is always right
Our time was not without incident. On our last visit the hostel owner had encouraged us to bring Bertha in ñ we had had no success. This time, as weíd taken the panniers off and stuff, I thought Iíd give it another go and then try to blag leaving the bike in doors for a few weeks. Planks and everything arranged, I made my way tentatively up the steps. This was perhaps my mistake. I should have just whacked up there. Half way up I was going to slowly to balance and passed the point of no return as my leg dangled uselessly over a void between treads. Bertha did not oblige me by leaning my way and fell over away from me. Broken indicator, slight burn to leg, embarrassment. At the top of the step the manager of the gaff (owner away on holiday) looked down at me and said, ìwhat are you doing?î We had a bit of a heated debate about bringing the bike in. Obviously, Simon had not told his staff that this was the plan. The git at the top of the steps was making out that I was bull shitting. This is not helpful when you are picking up a 250 kg bike. I couldnít be bothered arguing and went elsewhere to store the bike.
The management further compounded our disdain for them by being unable to provide the promised room for us. We pointed out the time ago that we had booked, the fact that we had confirmed, that we were in residence so hardly likely to be one of those annoying non-turner-uppers. We chose not to take dorm beds that they could not even guarantee for more than one day anyway. We had booked a particular room because we knew it was nice and would be fine with our guest. We felt it unbecoming for a consultant doctor to have to rough it on their first night of a holiday because these guys had failed to deliver. It fell on deaf antipodean ears. Typically in the realms of backpacker hostel management, they get away with terrible management by the naivety of their young customers who put up with this kind of thing. We packed and left to find a suitable room elsewhere. They were absolutely astounded. ìAre you leaving?î ìYesî. What more could we say.
Round the corner we found a hotel for less money run by a charming Chilean family. Oh, if we could avoid backpackers and still change our books with some one along the way. Itís such a shame that so many charming people are let down by a lackadaisical approach to hotel management. We have begun to ponder the idea of running a hostel ourselves. Hippyís mum would love that! Weíd met up with some right nice folk and it was a shame to move out, but we were so porked off we didnít want to give them any more money.
We were well settled into our new gaff and awaiting Esther....................................