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Colombia  - Ecuador - Peru  - Bolivia - Argentina - Chile - Uruguay - Europe

Continue on to Uruguay

By: Daisy Bell
Location: Chile Part 1
Date: 18th April

The clue to our first experience of Chile is in the name – blimey it was cold, but then if we will choose to cross the border in the middle of the Andes in Autumn we should have expected it. Our first day is filled with the friendliest people ever – the jolly policeman at the border, the Chilean Honda International Motocross Team (cool, shelebrities!), Fernando in the lobby of the hotel (great conversation with him until I asked if he actually worked in the hotel, to which he replied he’s unable to work due to his Psychiatric problems – ah. On return from dinner I immediately checked inside the wardrobe and behind the bathroom door for any covert Fernandage but all I found were a pair of silky, burgundy pyjamas and a husband denying all knowledge of them).

We ride to the Pacific coast to Chile’s premier port, Valparaiso, an area of which consists of corrugated metal buildings painted every colour under the sun, built haphazardly on the steep hillside (think Brighton Lanes crossed with Robin Hood’s Bay and Mystic Pizza – Charm Factor 10!). Our hotel is an old mansion with stripped wooden floors, antique furniture and one of those knitted dolls your Grandma used to have for covering the toilet roll in case (heaven forbid) someone may think one had toilet needs.

Attempt to visit the beach house & museum of Pablo Neruda, Chile’s famous poet, but then realize we’ve never actually read any of his stuff and get the fear that we may be uncovered as the cultural charlatans we are. Go for fish & chips instead. And write a poem about it in the style (possibly) of Pablo Neruda; goes something like this:

Oh fishy, fishy on my plate,
Your scales are fab and your gills are great.
With salt and vinegar on your back,
I think my lunch is right on track.

We return to Valparaiso and walk the shoes off our feet mooching around the port and bezzing up and down the endless funicular railways. We have lunch in a working fire station overlooking the HQ of the Chilean Navy (Girls / boys, if you like uniforms, THIS is the place to be!!!). On a boat trip around the harbour we see the fisherman (not in sexy uniforms) bringing the squid in, boats being repaired, seal-type beasts basking in the sun and the Navy boats bobbing around awaiting action.

The evening is spent getting lost down the little alleyways and staircases in the old town – jazz music is heard floating through the night air, emanating from the windows of the coloured houses. Various, ‘well-maintained’ fluffy cats lurk around looking for attention (which we promptly supply). We drink wine in an arty little place where the Landlord with an even artier beard plays a selection of 7” records, including theme tunes of 1970’s Argentinean police dramas and The Beatles. Hot Damn, this is the life! But my God we’re paying for it – definitely the most expensive country we’ve been to.

After speaking to the nice man at UPS, he promises us the Shock (yes, still ongoing) will be in Mendoza, Argentina by the next day. We decide to head back and get it sorted so we can head off into the wilderness down a dirt track again. On the approach back to the border, we remember what NZ biker Dave told us regarding not being allowed back into Argentina without bike insurance so he had to turn back 200km to get it sorted. We decide to take our chances…

By: Mark
Location: Chile
Date: 18th April

The UPS’d rear shock (Unpredictable Postal Service) appears to take a little longer than expected to arrive, so Mariano at the Mallorca Hostel in Mendoza kindly lets us store  some of our kit whilst we ride across into Chile for a couple of days.

Up into the Andes and after a few hours of bouncing and being sand blasted courtesy of the stupidly gusty winds, we emerge through a tunnel into the aptly named Chile.  Bank holiday traffic lines the roads and we wait for our turn to cross.  Once into the border control building we encounter two strikingly different types of border officials:

The Dictator:  With time for few words or pleasantries, this official struts, shouts and barks his way up and down the promenade, commanding traffic and people on an ongoing process.  With a uniform and stride not dissimilar to a Second World War Nazi officer, the fellow oozes loathing and contempt for all those that dare to cross the border.  Possibly not the best person to beep your horn at, give the thumbs-up and shout “Hey, Smiler” - but worth the laugh.

The Good Samaritan: An official (Oswald) that helps and guides us through the countless windows, stamps, toll payments and other such border bureaucracy that is associated with the crossing.  Chatting in broken night-school English with us, we reciprocate in broken Quito-school Spanish, until we finally get everything sorted.  Off we head, as he stands waving us off into his country.  Five minutes later, he waves us back in, as we return after being told to head back and get just one more little stamp.  Hand shakes are exchanged, windows are visited, forms are stamped and away we go for a second time, once again being waved off by our friendly Oswald.

Some facts about Chile:
Population: 15 Million.
Length: Long - 4300km.
Width: Not much - 200km on average.
Landscape: 6000m peaks of the Andes in the East, dropping to sea-level.
Money: 1GBP = 1000 pesos (approx).
Daily cost of living: Damn expensive in comparison to Argentina.

Giving Santiago a wide berth, we head for Valparaiso, once a major stopping off point for shipping heading around Cape Horn before the Panama Canal was built.  Now a port town which is still bustling and energetic but faded around the edges.  We find a hostel in an area called Concepcion, which is similar to the Brighton Lanes, but with a little less art w*nk.  Checking in, we discover we’re sharing with a group of 15 or so German bikers finishing a 5 week package trip around South America.  BMWs, KTMs and Africa Twins line the road outside as does an alarmingly high concentration of bushy moustaches.

A couple of days are spent bundling around town, walking the streets, taking a harbour tour and traveling on a couple of the many old (circa 1880s) funicular railways that dot the city.  We turn through railway gates bearing the hallmarks for Stevens & Sons of Southwark, walk past the George Garland firestation across O’Higgins square towards the Bar Ingles before we float past the Frigate Captain Prat.  Around the corner from us is the Brighton Cafe (much to the delight of Daisy) and the first restaurant we go into is owned by a mid thirties Brit.  All this, combined with the high price of living makes things seem very familiar.

A quick check of the Internet confirms the shock is in Buenos Aires and a quick call tells us it’ll be in Mendoza tomorrow.  Excellent!  Sorted!  What could ever go wrong?

Continue on to Uruguay