Chile For Christmas - Torn Canvas and Broken Poles - 27 Dec 2002
Across the Andes by Frog
Border Bore
First sights of Chile
Rocking good Christmas
Xmas Morning
From Mendoza to Santiago, the toad passes over the spine of the Andes. Weíd worried about these towering heights for some time but were pleased to hear that the pass was only about 2900 metres and weíd been over that height before without problems.
I was feeling a little down about leaving Argentina. I had got to feel a little at home, after being here for so long, with minor jaunts into Uruguay and Paraguay, the friendliness, the nice bikers, the good wine and excellent meat, the siestas, it was easy to get used to . Over the last few days I had been trying to find some faults with this country, and had been failing miserably. It has everything in the way of landscape, desert, snow capped mountains, beaches, tropical rainforest, marshland, pampas and vineyards. It has a calm but organised feel. The infrastructure is good and the prices cheap.
OK the economy has recently gone down the pan but in the 3 months we have been here the exchange rate is stable, so it looks like itís settling out. It has just refused to pay its last payment to the World Bank and I hope this does not mean more problems for this lovely country.
By the way the media anti-hype regarding demonstrations are limited to Buenos Aires only and the only ones we saw were peaceful, if a little noisy, with the drum playing and all. Maybe itís a good thing this anti publicity, otherwise this country would be heaving with other backpackers taking advantage of the cheap prices.
The only down side I could scrape up is that the women are far too thin and good looking Iím not sure that I can compete, whilst the men are nothing to write home about. Hardly fair!
I see no problem with this situation.After a series of uncomfortable nights in our stuffy windowless room in Mendoza we fancied a night chilling and so opted to camp up at Uspallata. The road was excellent and we arrived in good time passing the odd mad cyclist heading up over the mountains. For seemingly no reason at all, we had one of our classic fallings out and took it in turns to sulk in the tent. As I took my turn, I could hear Hippy chatting in Spanglish with some guy. I emerged to find a pony-tailed cyclist sporting spandex in cahoots with me missus.
I had been struggling to make myself understood for the past hour, and was beginning to feel that someone had put me into a Monty Python sketch of Life of Brian. Every word I used with an ërí in it was met by incomprehension e.g.
Me: el ruta a Santiago es bien?
Julio: el wuta? no entiendo
Me: el ruta
Julio: el wuta?
Repeat with every other like word.
I was frustrated by my own impediment. In any other circumstance I would have thought he was taking the piss, but he was making such an effort to communicate with his own pidgin English
He turned out to be a decent type and indeed extraordinary in many ways. Julio was from Chile and had been living on the coast of Argentina for many years working variously as an art teacher, assistant curator of an art gallery and as a bicycle repair man. He was on his way back to Santiago to meet one of his cousins (of which he has 80!) who might have a lead about job opportunities in Acapulco, Mexico.
He had not cycled all the way, pointing out that the flat bit across the middle of Argentina is for loonies and thereby demonstrating his own sanity. He was, however, doing the over the top section and thus may be a little mad after all. While we chatted a strong wind blew up in quite the wrong direction for cyclists heading to Chile. He fretted and we sympathised.
In the morning things were a bit calmer. Giving Julio a half hour head start we set off up the road to do the Chile border. Again, the road itself was fine and so was the weather. As we passed Julio, he seemed to be doing fine and so we simply slowed and gave him a Tour de France ìallez, allezî as we passed. By this time he must have got completely confused about our language skills.
A short way before the border there is a point where you can nip off the road and look up a valley to the snow capped lump that is Aconcagua. This involves a bit of a trundle up a gravel road (we donít like those do we?) and then a short walk up a hill. Fortunately, for once, the bike gear did not seem so much of a hindrance. The boots were good on the gravel paths and it was coats and gloves weather and so we did not feel too overdressed.
The peak did not tower over us as I had somehow expected but then again, folk at the hostel had been talking about a 20 odd km walk in and if that is in a straightish line then Aconcagua is a mighty big mountain after all. As we toddled about in our bizarre outfits, we bumped into a few folk coming down from beyond the viewpoint. I assumed that these were some of the hardy mountaineers but they did not look half as battered as I would have expected. In fact, theyíd been on a short circuit around the valley with an overnight camp.
Crossing to Chile is something of a drawn out affair. It starts about 15 km before the border where a guard in the road gives you a piece of paper to take with you to the Argy border post. The lord only knows why. There are no roads on or off and so you could only have come past this guy to get there. Funny old world.
Argentine formalities were fairly straightforward one we had been pointed in the right direction by a very nice man. I find it amazing that so many borders do not have lists of instructions on which windows to go to in order. Only really in Aquaba, Jordan (of all places) has it been completely obvious. Hippy thought we might have been queue jumping and blocking other people in but no one seemed too bothered.
Passage into Chile is via a long tunnel through the top of a mountain. A first, then, an underground border. Chilean organisation seemed pretty good. Having just bemoaned the fact that you donít get idiots guides to the border formalities, sure enough they had one. Firstly go to the police window. It did not point out that there were several of these and that two of them were reserved for folk with vehicles whereas the others were for bus passengers. I stood around at the back of a queue of black-frocked priest who were singing along to the refrain of a guitar held in that high under the armpit stance that only Latin Americans can master. Then a very nice man came along and took me by the elbow to a vacant window.
The policeman asked for documents for the bike and I waved the registration and bogus insurance at him. Not sufficient, Iíd have to go to customs first and then back to him. Iíd been told that you can go through all of these countries without a carnet de passage and so had left ours in the panniers. It would have taken a while to get the document out and on with hindsight (weíve all got a degree in that, havenít we?) it would actually have saved time if Iíd gone and got it when customs asked for one. Instead I played dumb and had to wait for ages while they filled in some strange form that no one had used in a long time.
Meanwhile, I was on watching bike duties and trying to assist a poor man attempting to paint the curb. To me it was reasonably obvious that it had just been painted as there was the massive clue of a man with yellow paint brush in hand knelt by the curb painting it. However, the other people concerned with border bureaucracy were oblivious, tramping without a care over his wet paint and walking it onto the paving slabs. This happened every 5 seconds or so and the chap, obviously pretty conscientious repainted every patch that was stood in. It was the kind of thing that would have made a Charlie Chaplin scene, thankless job of the worker bordering on comical. I tried in vain in Spanglish, to warn people as they approached but they stood in it anyway. In the end he took the sensible option and gave up to have lunch. I think what got me was the fact that no one seemed at all apologetic or appreciated that it meant that someone had to redo their work. Is it that this job is so menial that the workers are not worth consideration or is it that people are generally thoughtless when they are preoccupied by border hassles?
We had a major panic when it came to the customs/fruit and veg. inspection. We declared that we had nothing of interest which was quite true. However, the man pointed at our panniers and insisted on having a look. Luckily we had left our last onion at the campsite! He had a cursory glance rather than a full search and so it didnít take the hours to reack When editing Pat & Helenís prose of I often correct typos. Sometimes they use a word that has me stumped. Reack? No idea [webmaster] that it could have done. The policeman even came over to save me the walk and stamped my documents for me. Toll for the tunnel paid and everything was looking good. All smiles, we hopped on and waved cheerio to all the nice helpful folk.
Not so cheery was the chap at the exit gate. Although his lips were drawn over his teeth in what could be mistaken for cheery way, it was clear that this was more of a sneer. ìPapers not in order. Go back to customsî Do not pass goÖ
Heíd indicated a space on the form that was blank and I was puzzled as this was the SALIDA section i.e. leaving Chile. We were clearly ENTRADAing. As with most border forms around the world, they rarely use the correct spaces for stamping, probably because they are illiterate, which is why they are given a stamp in the first place. Oooh ya, Patís going off on a rant. In the end it turned out that the policeman had only stamped four copies out of five of the bike documents and with an extra stamp in the wrong place we were fully sorted for Chile. The man on the exit gate agreed.
There followed one of those fantastic biking roads. After a grind up the hill on the Argentinean side, the road plunged down into Chile via a long series of hairpins. Is the where the expression hair-raising comes from? Only on one of the corners did the surface go all crumbly and so we had quite a jolly hoon to say the least. Stopping for a quick bite to eat immediately introduced us to the increase in costs compared to Argy. European prices, I ask you.
Through vineyards and fruit fields, the road dragged us inexorably towards Santiago. At the assorted road toll gates we had to pay. Yet another new one. We'd quite used to being treated as first class citizens in Argentina with our own little gate to bypass tolls. Looks like weíre really going to keep the purse strings well tied.
Santiago was a bit of a hassle to get into the centre of. We finally managed to track down a hostel that had been recommended to us. It did not really look that special from the outside and the entrance corridor looked as if it could do with a bit of work. My first concern was getting the bike in and no one had considered that this would be a problem. However as the flight of stairs had a landing halfway up, the bike would have instantly grounded. The lass on reception said that there was a yard at the back but had no idea whether there was a back entry to it. She walked me through and I could see, as we went, that this was indeed a beautiful building and is being restored in phases.
The balustraded courtyard in faded fretted wood, the plasterwork on the ceilings that had obviously seen better days, the fireplaces whose mantles were room height and the hearths big enough to sleep in. Thankfully the Ozzy owners were taking their time and renovating as original rather than revamping. The rooms that were in use and finished gave a taste of what the place once was and what hopefully will be recreated. I wish them luck!
At the back there were piles of builders stuff including some planks and blocks of wood and so I reckoned I would be able to devise a ramp of sorts.
All went well until halfway up the steps the plank shot out backwards driven by the back wheel. It missed Hippy by inches and she seemed less than chuffed. Just then a car passed and ran over the plank at speed and broke it up into little pieces. I retired from the field and decided to put the bike in one of the secure parking areas down the road and pay for the privilege.
After walking around the hostel on the worn and faded floor boards that gave as you walked I was pleased that we had not pursued the plan to bring in the bike. As I had visions of getting half way down the corridor and the floor collapsing beneath the bike, and then having the task of hauling it out onto now broken boards. Not a good prospect.
The doting parents of the owners had turned up on a long holiday to see how things were going. Mum, being a mum, rallied around and did everyoneís washing up and kept the place in order. I hope the standards are maintained when mum goes home.
We had popped into Santiago to try and plan a few bits for he imminent arrival of a dear friend of ours Esther. Up until now we had run on a no plan strategy and taken things as they came. With no time limit or set route our timing philosophy had become somewhat warped. Now we had to be a little more organised. Fortunately, the metro system in Santiago carried us to the various dealers in travel with ease. In a day we managed to book flights, cruise and still had time for a bit of sight seeing before our required hasty departure north to see the Hot Rockers for Christmas on the beach.
One day and we made it all the way up to La Serena and found the big red truck in no time at all. The directions had been perfect. The only real downer was the ever-present toll booths which extracted huge wads of cash out of us. Days end and as we set up tent, Dave trundled over bearing beer and Pisco sours. Marvellous.
Christmas Eve had been a reasonably civilised affair. Couple of beers and several pisco sours on Patís behalf and a couple of bottles of wine for me. Then onto a disco which opened very late. They even had a Stranglers number in the disco collection and were persuaded to play it without too much hassle. However, even though the dance floor was packed with ravers the DJ pulled the Stranglers after two verses in favour of a bit of tango musak. Still, he did oblige a little. Perhaps his motives were to save the remote control car belonging to a random child from a good stomping. Amazingly this contrivance survived the evening unscathed.
The only real Hot Rock moment was a spontaneous strip and race down the beach to skinny dip. Youngsters, eh. What are they like? Somehow, watching a set of bottoms running into a cold sea and them coming but shivering made a comical start to Christmas day.
I had a nice bop on the dance floor and felt a little tired so we headed back to the camp. Into in tent and, crack. ìOh shitî. I broke the tent. I was obliviously far too drunk to deal with it in the dark but was relieved that although the pole had broken it had not ripped the canvas. I fell peacefully asleep knowing that I would have to deal with it in the morning. Pat understandably was none-too-chuffed. But in my head it was only a matter of timing, on another occasion it could have been him.
Surprisingly Pat was looking worse than me, I headed off in the direction of the Hot Rockers to fuel ourselves with the necessary tea. Returning to the tent I handed Pat his ibuprofen and tea, to enable him to face the day. Once the medication was underway breakfast of champagne, scrambled egg and ham, made everything right with the world. The Hot Rockers on breakfast duty had done a fine job and by 10 oíclock everyone was losing their fuzzy heads. While the others could chill we had to face the inevitable and spend Xmas morning fixing a broken tent.
The jagged edge of the broken pole had still not pierced the fabric. Now we have to take the outer tent off. This meant it had to be pulled extra taught to release it from its hole. We pull and we heard the tearing of fabric. The damage is done. As we completed its removal the rip spread. We now had a 20cm rip in the tent. At this point I rued opening that second bottle of wine. It had seemed a good idea at the time.
Pat with a grim face set off to borrow a hack saw to mend the pole with a bit of spare pole that we had for this express purpose. While I set to work mending the hole in the tent. The worst thing was that it was one of those drunken mistakes that you can hardly pretend didnít happen and you know that mending in front of the whole campsite meant that you cannot exactly keep it quiet. So I knew I would also be in for a certain amount of Mickey take, but I suppose I deserve it. Hours of cleaning the patch using sealant and gluing a patch was I think enough penance.
The day was spent in preparation for the late afternoon and early evening activities ñ mostly eating ñ as is traditional at Christmas. While Hippy did her seamstress bit, I stoned cherries, destalked strawberries etc. With the best of them. By the time everything was ready a huge pile of food was ready. Centre piece of it all was to be a sea food barbecue. Fi and Dave had been down the wharf the previous day and ordered all manner of exotica. Octopus/squid thicker than Iíve ever seen ñ inch thick slabs, clams, prawns, sardines and to crown it all a huge length of marlin weighing in a 10 kilos. Even for a group of 30 ravenous climbers it all proved too much. We never even got to eating the marlin and in they end they took it with them on ice for the next day.
Dinner was interspersed with bouts of Frisbee throwing and beach volleyball. This had got to be preferable to snowballing and sledding to my mind. Usual beach malarkey; Fi buried in sand up to neck, wrestling etc.
We were summoned back from the beach to witness the giving of presents by the Secret Santa method. This is a standard truck system whereby by the pulling of numbers out of a hat, each person is given a recipient for whom to buy a present. The recipient does not know the donor and so the buying of mad presents is not embarrassing. Santa this year was none other than Wendy the tea lady off the truck. In fact there is no tea lady on the truck. A glaring omission which was spotted and remedied by one Adam, a.k.a. Badger. While huge distances are being covered, he gets out his petrol stove and makes tea for all and sundry. Of course this has escalated to wearing a wig and apron and but for a trolley, the transformation from Badger to tea lady is perfect. So, Santa was in fact Wendy who was in fact Badger who is in fact Adam. Are you following this? Santa proved to be sleighless and so Bertha stepped into the breach to oblige. I guess that makes me one of Santaís little helpers.
As dusk drew in, the entertainment moved up a gear with displays of juggling, fire twirling (donít know the technical name but look at Egypt/Sudan photos for a demonstration of Fi doing her stuff) and to cap it all fireworks. Where would we be without fireworks?
A great day was had by all. Even the truck baby Kira gurgled mostly rather than emitting those dreadful noises that babies can. It seems that since her birth in South Africa and subsequent transatlantic flight to join the Hot Rockers, her quietest moments have been while the truck is trundling down the road. Much to the relief of the other passengers Iím sure.
Thanks Hot Rock for cheering up our Christmas. Sure beats last year when we were sat on our own in a drab hotel in Amman.