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6th-17th Dec: At over 50 degrees south, Puerto Arenas turns out to be a more interesting town than expected - like in Ireland, the friendliness of the locals makes you forget the cold outside. Very first world due to fishing and petroleum. I also make the trip to see large Magellan penguins - very cute, but if their wings were any bigger, they´d be blown off the southernmost tip of the continent by the persistant wind. The flight over the fjords and ice fields of southern Chile to Coyhaique, including Campo Hielo Norte is incredible. The Andean valleys are filled with snow, which flow from the source in massive glaciars to meet the sea in some places. Coyhaique itself is picturesque: fertile farmland and spectacular mountains which extend to the Argentinan border, where I went for lunch and horseriding on a farm with tour guides Patricia and Pepe from Cafe Ricer. It turned out to be their farm, and soon the immaculately dressed Patricia was covered in blood from boots to hair as she and the local farmers topped the tails, ears and nuts from this years lambs with typical gaucho knives. Luckily I excused myself from the activities saying I´d seen it all before on Uncle Ians farm in Oz, only better. I did participate in a little of the wine at 7 in the morning however, requiring it when Pepe extracted the slippery nuts with his teeth. Aproviete! My 2 days in Coyhaique were pretty intense, a great place to be in the summer. Getting a tip from a local at a traditional dance night (where the music - Chamamé, Rancheras and Valses - originated from Argentina, Mexico and Europe respectively) I take a local fishing ferry from Puerto Chacbuco to the Island of Chiloe, stopping at picturesque fjordian villages often unconnected by road. Those fjords do need a few Vikings though! One town uses the sheer sloping rock face as the ramp to unload cargo from the ferry. I chat to the amiable captain about ways of getting to the Galapagos Islands until he pauses, excuses himself and walks back inside the deck to steer the ship through a 70 degree turn. Apparently Chileans can get to Antarctica for $20 (dont read this Tanya). Not the most comfortable of ships (fighting for seat space to sleep) I did meet interesting Chilians and the only other gringa on the boat, Audrey from Quebec. She managed to chat to a somewhat bigoted rich spanish-chilean, who gave us a lift through the island of Chiloe to Puerto Montt with his interesting actor-businessman nephew Martwein. The stilt mounted houses, patchwork fields and amazing red woodwork are lovely. Wet weather finally catches my seemingly blessed travels. I decided to take the plane to Santiago rather than driving the further 14 hours to Santiago, and head down to the local fish markets to test of the local seafood. Filets of Atlantic (or is it Pacific?) smoked salmon for $2. The strings of smoked mussels are irresistible but my gut complains after a few days. The microrestaurant Jaladores (street sellers) haggle for my custom like pigeons over a pack of spilt ricebubbles until I´m almost senseless. What was I looking for again? I finally settle in a small restaurant (to the envy of the neighbouring shops) where I eat seafood soup and conga eel for fewer pesos than the 4 construction workers from Santiago teasing the 16 year old waitress. After a brief equivocation with the airline staff over the 7 cans of spray paint in my bag, I take to the surreal air for an hour of spectacular views over the Andes to Santiago. The lack of trees, cloud of pollution and heat make Santiago an unimpressive city until I start walking the streets and meeting people. Unfortunately both Martwein and Andree, a friend that I met in Coyhaique have issues to deal with so I follow the advice of a bloke at a student bar which could have been the Exeter in Adelaide and escape the city for the beach. |
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24th December
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The "big city" mentality is muted in Santiago and I meet many people, from the guy who invites me to the beach for 3 days of surfing, to the bar owner with whom I may yet import carven matchsticks to the homosexual in Vina Del Mar (yes I escape the city for the beach for a few hours) who "rescues" me from gypsies and wants to take me to Valpariso with him. The "moto dulce" is a fantastic drink of dried peaches, quenches the most arid of throats. Vina del Mar is a postcard style city with a polluted beach, a swimming seal and many highrises. Another South American Gold Coast. I wonder if highrises cause relief rain as the clouds come in. I am becoming more experienced with the everpresent babies and calmly accept the proffered scissors and matches at the Santiago hotel lobby. I do idly wonder where the fire escapes are though... I drag myself out of bed with 3 hours sleep and head to the airport where, along with Will and Karin from Australia, play cards (500) and drink beer while the plane is delayed for 5 hours. My spanish pays off and I catch the announcement announcing free breakfast at a nearby restaurant. There is a definate feel of isolation about being inside customs and emigration while looking at the outside world, so close through the immense glass windows. The flight to Lima, Peru is painless, but the mist/smog which shrouds Lima for 9 months of the year is daunting. After another smooth touchdown, I discover that all flights to Cuzco (Machu Pitchu) leave in the morning due to rain which blankets the 3700m town. After briefly considering the 30 hour bus ride (the bus clerk quotes a Peruvian motto is "si hay dudas, no hacerlo" - "if in doubt, don´t do it"), I find a hotel where Yma (the artistic hostel owner) shows me a hundred marvels of Lima before my plane leaves in the morning, from wrought iron exibitions, to fine artisanal fairs, to local cuisine (shampoo - a hot drink of crushed apple, pineapple, corn) to the pounding surf of the esplanade to the bars and clubs of Miraflores and Barrancas. No sleep. Everyone helps me find my way and I fall in love with the Peruvian people and the secrets of the town that gringos don´t discover because of the stories of robbery etc. I still have not had trouble in 7 months of travel.. maybe because I´m 187cm tall.. Lima does remind me of mexican movies however. The views from the flight through the cloudy valleys is obscure, so I chat to a 16 yo student and a military officer who has two families, one in Cuzco and one in Lima. Both give me contact details. The Jaladores at the airport prepare me for what is to come. Cuzco is a breathtakingly beautiful mix of Inca and Spanish arcitecture nestled between Andean peaks with cobble streets full of tourists and hard working Jaladores, especially in Gringo alley. My schoolboy rugby and the quotation of the useful "manaña, manaña" allow me to get to my hostel without eating or buying anything. Cuzcos winding streets and quirky red tiled rooves hide no end of fantastic secrets, from travel associations, to green courtyards, to local gatherings and atrium markets. Gringo owned bars cater for patrons with beer and DVD movies hankerings 24-7, while travel agents quote the same prices and locals challenge you to games of chess. The altitude makes the head light and the stomach vague, but I still manage to down a curry in a bar run by an ozzie whos mum sends over the curry powder from Melbourne.
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