It is a lovely sunny Spring day in Santiago – well actually it is a foggy Spring day in Santiago but one should never allow facts to interfere with a poor story.
It was a lovely Spring day in Santiago and what do we have? Meet two middle-aged Information Systems consultants whom we shall call Bob Kuhns and Ed Goldstraw.
Bob had arrived fresh (fresh?) from an eighteen day break where he fed the plants, watered the fish and caught the cats or some combination of those actions and creatures. The Bayou had been great and New England in the Fall (Where did Americans learn the English Language) was as you would expect – colourful, chilly and expectant – expecting Winter.
Ed had been in Santiago.
Ed was scheduled to leave the day Bob arrived after a few hours handover to Bob. The penultimate day before Bob’s arrival the Project Manager said that he wanted Ed back for a couple of weeks,12 days after he (Ed) had left – this was a bit tight for Ed but what the hell, there are mountains not to climb and the Patagonia to talk about visiting so why not come back soon. In10 days in England lots of proper beer could be drunk, friends insulted etc.
The day before Bob’s arrival there had been a bit of a problem with Ed’s area of “speciality” and the Project Manager did not like the risk of upsetting the customer. Could Ed fill the twelve days between trips by staying in Chile and working. Those of you who know Ed well will realise that he is a very obliging chap or he will do anything if somebody is paying. A general purpose grovelling email is issued cancelling all the drinking at 9.45 on Thursday night, visitors for the weekend etc and.
It was time for a trip.
Well one of the duo thought that.
24 hours back in Santiago and Bob was convinced. Bob is a bit of a wine buff, so a trip to the wine growing area was Bob’s suggestion. Ed has been known to partake of the occasional glass of vino so there was hardly likely to be an argument from somebody who was desperate to escape a smog and work ridden city and (as some of you might recall) did not have possession of a driving licence.
So the favourite travel agent was contacted, ideas were exchanged and a plan formed. Hire a car, head south where the reds are grown, go to a few vineyards and head West a bit to a lake for Saturday evening, a few more vineyards in the morning and back to Santiago in the late afternoon. Hotels were mentioned by our expert Travel Agent and numbers supplied but there was no need to book. “There are lots of hotels and it is not the season.” It may be worth mentioning at this point that the Travel Agent is in Antofagusta, 1361 kilometres north of Chile’s capital, our dynamic duo were going 300 kilometres in the opposite direction.
What could go wrong; a simple plan with a fair bit of flexibility and no hassles?
Ed had taken both his guide-books to work on Thursday/Friday to ensure that he did not sound like a complete prat talking to the travel agent. On the “Gringo Bus” ½ hour after leaving the office on Friday he realised that this was a mistake. Bob also had a guide-book, conveniently located in the office. Oh, did I mention that the office is North-West of the city.
These two are not easily put off and they set off at 8.15 on Saturday morning in their (they hoped) trusty Toyota Tercel. Most of the readers will be familiar with the Tercel but, for those that are not, it is a bog standard 4 door front-wheel drive saloon with a 1600 or 1800 cc engine or whatever. It had, they believed, a spare wheel so off they went.
Navigation is one of Ed’s strong suits so he had no problem with looking at the City Centre map that they had and choosing the wrong route. However, he is not an IS man for nothing and knew that his decision must be wrong and corrected it! (For the dummies IS is Information Systems). So (after the map had expired) they are heading in the right direction on the right road towards the Pan American Highway (or Ruta 5) and they reach this road after only half an hour wasted looking at posters of Irene Chadwick.
Ah, I perceive that my readers do not know Irene Chadwick. Well according to her posters she is a brown-eyed brunette in her mid to late thirties. She is standing for a political office of some sort in the Macul district of Santiago (which she loves). This was easily discerned by looking at several thousand posters showing her name, face and a heart symbol with “Macul” in it. There is nothing else on the posters. Politics in Chile is not subtle.
The subjects of our story are two intelligent men; they know that the Pan-American Highway was a bit of fifties (or rather earlier) US imperialism that runs the length of the Americas. Oh, did I mention that they have no map. They turn away from the city on this road and off they go.
The name “Rancagua” is known. They duly pass the town after 90 kilometres of drizzle and on they go to Curico; 220 kilometres and 3 ½ hours of drizzle from the start. There have been the odd things of interest in the way. Why do Empanada Salesmen (and women) cluster together? Why do only Empanada Sales people use the “whipping in tactic”? (This consists of waving a white cloth – it must be white – in a fashion like kids do with a wet tea towel trying to inflict pain on each other, except Empanada Sales Executives do it sideways and continuously. I am sure my readers will be discerning enough to know the difference between the Empanada vendors and the doll sellers on the same road 500 kilometres north. The doll sellers use a completely different technique – using a folded or bowed piece of paper that is swung from the shoulder, whilst leaning forward, with ever bigger swings so that the last one is from a full shoulder height to the opposite shoulder height with a flourish to end. If this does not work, and I have never seen it work, the whole procedure is started again aimed at another vehicle.) Why is Asparagus only for sale between 120 and 140 kilometres south of Santiago? What is special about the area 20 kilometres south of the Asparagus experts that makes them furniture makers par excellence? These are the unanswerable questions of life.
Curico. In they go; this bold duo. Bob immediately likes Curico – so far no McDonalds, no Burger King, no KFC and no Blockbuster Video They drive round trying to find the Plaza de Armas. It is worth explaining that the Plaza de Armas is like the Plaza Mejor in Spain – the (old) centre of town. This, being Latin America, I will leave you to guess what Armas means. The reason that they are looking for the aforementioned Plaza de Armas is Bob’s belief that Tourist Information is to be found there. Curico is not a tourist town (because there is no McDonalds, no Burger King etc.). Bob buys a jumper, on account of it being Spring down here and about 10 Celsius, and they leave town 200 pesos lighter. The 200 pesos is 35 cents US and double the normal rate because they are Gringos. Oh, it is for the Traffic Wardens. Our travellers have never been sure if any of this donation ends up in the public purse and they are certainly not going to ask.
They know that the vineyards are south and off they go, missing a big one (Miguel Torres) because of roadworks. Coffee is required and they stop at a place that may be a vineyard but looks like a restaurant. They have coffee and leave.
Another bit of “non dual carriageway” road on Ruta 5 causes our suspects to miss an entrance to another big vineyard (San Pedro) so they are doing as well as expected.
A few kilometers south there is definitely a “Sala de Venta” or something pretty similar after a field of grapes. In they go and try a fairly ordinary Cabernet Sauvignon. Bob tries a Merlot and Ed tests a Chardonay. Bob decides that the Merlot is pretty good; they buy half a dozen bottles and leave. It is only afterwards that Bob confesses that he did not think that it was OK to taste half a bottle or so and leave without buying anything. Ed did not call him a whimp.
Onwards and the country changed. After 40 or 50 kilometres they turned round and headed back north. Success was assured – there were at least two more vineyards to visit.
Almost immediately they met the fish salesmen. They were all men, they stood about 30 or 40 metres apart by the side of the road and there were four of them. Bob knows a bit about fishing and was pretty certain that the fish were fresh water but there was no lake or river nearby. The salesmen each had one or two fish (of obviously all the same species) hanging off a pole. These were filleted, big fish - perhaps 10 or 15 kilograms each - so worth having (if fresh) if you were hungry, able to cook, knew what to do with them, liked fish etc.
Consider:
Why were they only trying to sell to northbound travellers? Had the people on the southbound carriageway sold their fish and gone home? Why did somebody not swap carriageways? Why was one of them two kilometres up the road? Was the first guy a stooge to get people interested? Had their boss been to the local frozen fish factory to buy the fish and set up these guys who are too thick to move? Do the fish go back in the freezer overnight? Is there a PhD thesis in this?
Bob by now is master of the Tercel and has no problem with jumping the lanes, complete with the roadworks, to get to the San Pedro vineyard. This is a big factory closed until 4.00 p.m. It is 2.50 and hunger is an important factor by then. Back to the coffee place, that sells “Saint Hortensa” vine. Lunch (pretty good) wine (OK but not good enough to try and buy some).
It had stopped drizzling as they went back to the outskirts of Curico and they penetrate the Miguel Torres establishment. The Merlot is good and some bought at $5 a bottle. One of the Cabernet Sauvignons is excellent and Bob buys all that is on display (except a couple of bottles he leaves for Ed) at $11 a bottle. Ed buys a few Sauvignon Blancs (Very Good) at $6 a bottle. Bob is not really into the namby-pamby whites but makes a gesture and buys a couple.
Bob has been restrained in testing but has had enough alcohol to make sure that he can drive properly so they decide to head for the lake. This begins with “V” and is north of a river but west of Curico. Ed thinks that the road leads out of Curico. They have seen a road a couple of kilometres south of the town labelled “Prat”. Bob seems to recall that Prat is on the route, so Prat it is.
No problemo, a nice paved road, lots of colourful flowers (it is spring) and loads of trees that they have no idea of the species. There are only small vineyards and no real opportunity to extend their credit cards or empty their wallets of the copious amounts of cash that these two meticulous planners had thought to bring with them.
After a while there did seem to be a bit of a tramac shortage and a few divides in the road that gave them choices of going to various different places that they had never heard of. What the hell, if the sun can get through the clouds head west, if not turn right. They considered trying their Spanish and asking the locals but their language skills did not run to “Can you tell me how to get to a Lake beginning with V, por favor?” Yes, they could get the dictionary out and construct a sentence that would be mispronounced a few times but finally understood. But what would they do with the answer? There was no shortage of people to ask, as there were several stretches where the road was being rebuilt. (It needed it, Bob seemed to enjoy pinging lots of big stones off the underside of the Tercel, Ed was wondering where the brake pipes were on this cheap piece of Japanese crap.)
No real problems until they find a map. This is a big, weather beaten painted jobbie by the side of the road telling them that they are leaving Region 6 and entering Region 7. It also suggests that the north of the river is Region 6. They know that the lake is north of the river. It also suggests that they are heading for Curepto, which is in the heart of the region and south-west. Needless to say, at this point there are not lots of roads heading off to other places that they have never heard of so onwards, onwards into the valley of death (sorry, I got carried away there). Anyway after about an hour they come across a river that they are clearly south of and the occasional sign still assures them that they are heading for Curepto. Ed thinks that it is a river of no relevance, except that they are unlikely to be able to cross it. However, there are lots of (well a few) signs of habitation on the other side and Bob still thinks that they may not be too far out. They have only been off the tarmac two hours, fuel is not yet a problem and they have a spare tyre (they hope).
Magic. A bridge, they cross it and immediately run into a little town.
It is called Hualane and Ed remembers that it is the last place for petrol and gas, they do not buy any. There is a sign for Vichuquen. They go there; there is no lake; Ed remembers that the lake is a few k further; they find the lake. The “lots of hotels” prove a little more difficult but after half an hour on some pretty poor roads (or pretty good dirt entrances, depending on your point of view) they find one. It looks OK and Bob declares” This looks fine to me”. Bob has been through the “Zwi Marcus School of Touring Chile” so he knows that 13 hours in the car is the norm (with five minute breaks every three hours for the whimps). However, Ed, being the sensitive soul that you recognise, interprets this as “We have been on the road for 11 hours, I have done all the driving and I am knackered” so he agrees.
However, finding a hotel is one thing, finding a hotelier is another. They wandered around (Ed ended up behind the bar), rang the bells, shouted, telephoned the numbers on the door etc. Remember these are enterprising guys. Eventually Bob rang the doorbell. Mine host appeared! They tried to book two rooms but mine host insisted on one! Upon inspection a three bedroom, one bathroom, one reception (with fireplace and logs) suite for $33 per night each was acceptable. Unfortunately they could not sub-let the third bedroom as they were the only people in this 100 bed hotel.
They spent a tiresome hour looking at the lake sampling a couple of their purchases watching the black necked swans, cormorants and a variety of martin that they did not know. (Hint for the traveller – bring the wild life books, you cannot get them in Chile except in Spanish.)
Dinner was, naturally, laid on at the time that they requested and was of a good standard – Ed’s fish was still moving and they visited the sister of Bob’s chicken in the morning. A couple more bottles of wine had obviously improved the standard of the well-seasoned travellers Spanish sufficiently to engage mine host in conversation. They learnt that there were loads of the black necked swans at the north end of the lake, but that there were no vineyards on the main route back East. (For those that have not got the map of Chile out yet, that is back the way that they came.) There were, however, some possibilities if they went North.
A fire in their lounge and another couple of bottles saw our resolute fellows off to a good nights sleep. Up with the lark at 9.00 and a good breakfast. Ed did not want to leave because it was the most tranquil place that he had been for a long time. Bob agreed that it was the most tranquil place that he had been since Tuesday. They left at 10.20.
However, they left with something new – a map. Your author could be accused of exaggeration here; they actually left with a business card that had a map on the back of it; this showed how to get where they were. This establishment was (and probably still is) the Playa Aquelarre in Aquelarre and the business card is splendid (depicting the black necked swans), nearly as splendid as the hotel.
The map clearly indicated that they go up the far (west) side of the lake. Being observant sort of chappies they had spotted that the route that they had tried up the west side the previous night was not popular; let us be frank, it was crap and no-one else was using it. The alternative, a steep climb, had the disadvantage that Bob believed that it was the main way in to town (Aquelarre) from wherever we had come from the previous evening. The road we had used previously was too rough for Chileno tourists to bring in their boats and stay at the luxurious houses round the lake or so Bob believed.
They went up the hill thinking that they would go back the way they had come. The hill kept going up. (I should explain at this point that Chile has a Coast Range of mountains that are not much more than decent size hills at 35 degrees south.) The occasional glance at a watery sun convinced them that they were going north, an occasional view of the lake reinforced this perspective and when they saw the Pacific on their left they knew that they were correct. The fact that no vehicles were seen for half an hour on a single-track mud road was of no concern, in fact it saved a lot of backing up.
It was rather a pleasant hour, only enlivened by Bob’s driving technique on hills. On a rough road when you come round a corner and are confronted by a steep rise that you fail to get up most people back down and take a run at it. Bob is made of sterner stuff – shove it in first, put your foot down and spin the front wheels all the way up. It was dry and only a hire car, after all.
The main subject of debate had been fences. Why was there a well-built fence by the side of the road set back three metres or so? Some times it was on the left, sometimes on the right, sometimes on both. The answer became apparent as they rolled down off the hill and met three horses grazing on the verge – to keep the animals on the road.
In to a village marked on the “map” and buy a bottle of tonic water. A 1 ½ litre bottle of tonic water (Ed had become a little dehydrated) for 450 pesos (80 cents) seemed OK. That was what was written on the receipt (you get receipts for everything in Chile – they are VAT receipts) but it did not stop the shopkeeper from demanding 750 pesos – which she got of course.
Ten minutes out of town, past the “airport” (on the map) and there is a superb spot for viewing the swans (over a hundred of them) so they get out of the car take some photos etc. and off they go again. A few unwanted junctions and changes of countryside later they are pretty sure that they are heading east (the sun was long gone). The last change of countryside had brought them into an area that had been completely deforested so it was not surprising to find the odd new stream. It was slightly discomforting that the stream crossed their road and in a particularly sandy stretch. A brief inspection by Ed and, yes, it is only 10 or 15 centimetres deep, back up and we can make it. They do; they are caballeros after all.
A few kilometres further and they meet another minor obstacle. This time the stream has decided that the road is the best route. Hey, these guys are experienced in these matters now so in they go. After a couple of hundred metres or so there is a decision point. The road appears to be the T bit of a T-Junction. The slight problem is that the stream is the same. There is a river flowing from right to left along the main route. Clearly, this is a point to stop and decide what to do. However, in water and sand this may not be the best point to stop. Bob is a man of action and carries straight on. Ed is a little surprised by this but obviously one or two vehicles have made it through the heavy sand on the side of the road/river. They escape the thick stuff and the grotty track becomes something resembling a road. A village is reached and they are back on a proper rock road.
Nothing happens for the next 20 k but they are entertained by a local riding down a hill on his bicycle with his purchases in a plastic back resting on the handle bars and the handles clutched in his teeth, the bike out of control and heading for the Tercel.
They reach a bigger village, it is on the map. There are signs to Lolol (also on the map). They have obviously got it sussed. They cannot work out what all the kilns are burning but they know that they are getting back to civilisation when they see a “Pare” sign. (Obviously all my readers know that this is “Stop” in Spanish but the Bin Men may not know when they read this.) The only reason for this is that the tarmac is starting.
Into Lolol they go and off towards Santa Cruz. Just coming out of town there is a steepish hill and just on the first hairpin slap bang in the middle of their carriageway is a sign held in place by large concrete blocks saying danger in 100 metres. Sure enough in 150 metres there was a similarly constructed sign in their carriageway pointing up the hill saying the same thing. It was definitely solid and dangerous. (In between there were two small rocks that could easily have been driven over.)
In to Santa Cruz, fuel up and, there being no inviting looking place for lunch, out they go to a T-Junction. At this point the map lets them down. It suggests that they go East to San Fernando. The junction is either right to some place that they have never heard off or left to someplace else that they have never heard of. They knew that Santiago was a long way North and not very far East or West. They turned right, the tarmac was good so on they went. The sun then appeared quite frequently indicating that the road direction was consistently North_West. The odd vineyard was closed but what the hell. A field of vines was passed and Ed got his hopes up when he read “Sala de Ventas” (Salesroom) on a sign that actually had written “Salida de Cammiones” (Truck exit).
Entertainment was derived from the election posters. Normally these are put up by the side of the road, hung off telegraph posts and wires etc. In Chile the wines are grown with wire supports. These are lengthy, perhaps 50 metres so the ends require buttressing. This is done by the vertical post at the end of the line being supported by a post at 50 degrees or so on the inside of the post. In one grape field every one of these buttresses had a poster on it. They hang down and fold over on themselves so you cannot see them of course. When I say every post, I mean every post, not just those along the roadside, Oh No! Down every side of the field. There were none on the telegraph posts, wires, roadside etc. Bob concluded that the candidate was in favour of increased wine subsidies and reduced electricity/telephone subsidies.
They knew that they were on the right road because they came up with several buses labelled on the back.
San Fernando
Santa Cruz
Someplace they had never heard of
Someplace else they had never heard of
Somewhere unpronounceable
Santiago
So these were obviously buses going to Santiago from San Fernando by an indirect route to pick up lots of passengers.
By now the hunt for lunch was getting serious but they kept on towards Somewhere unpronounceable (Pichilemu) but they seemed to be going more West than North and Ed (being an expert navigator) predicted, as they climbed up this large hill, that they would see the Pacific from the top. They got to the top, looked left and there were lots of hills. 5 kilometres further and look in front of them it was a different story.
In to town – nice beach, moderate lunch and off they go again at 4.00 p.m. Finding the Santiago road was no problem (they had just come in on it). The distance sign was rather unexpected - 259 kilometres. Yes folks they were 30 kilometres closer to there target than when they had started 5 hours and 40 minutes earlier.
The navigator decided that they were taking the first left - he was not going back 100 kilometres to Santa Cruz. A junction was reached 30 k out of town labelled San Antonio: left cried the navigator. I know how to get from San Antonio to Santiago says the driver. No problemo, what could go wrong?
How many San Antonio’s are there in Chile? How far was this one? How fast can you go on rock roads? Actually it was pretty straight-forward and two hours later they were at the toll on the San Antonio to Santiago road. This is a well-organised affair. The bread and tortilla sales executives are on the side that you slow down to pay. The empanada sales team are on the far side where you speed up to get going – presumably on the basis that the whipping in tactic will cause you suddenly change your mind and stop!
An hour’s tedium on the Santaigo Ring Road because, naturally, everybody goes shopping at 8.00 on Sunday and they were back.
The End.
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