Valparaiso, How Absurd You Are...

After a little headache was brought on by one too many happy hour Pisco Sours, Amaretto Sours and Mojitos at our brand new local favourite haunt, Cafe Utopia in Bellas Artes, we decided to take a little trip to the seaside to brighten our spirits and also to make the most of our last few days in Chile. After a simple enough transfer from the efficient Metro to the bus station at Universidad de Santiago, we sat on the comfortable back seats of the TURBUS for a swift hour and a half route to the seaport of Valparaiso. We passed a fairly uninspiring window view, passing smooth hills and some soil rich farmland on a rather dull day. We could have been driving through any countryside outside an urban complex.

This was to change though once we parked at our destination, clouds gathered ominously and the soft scatter of rain began to descend. Although without the aid of a spray of natural light, the city exuded an impression of containing much character by the way the box houses tilted on the hill overlooking the harbour. I couldn't quite make out the colour of the paint work and this added to the sensation of holding a photograph negative close to the eyes.

The UEA 7 a side FA Cup winners reunite for another scalp. Yes, my jeans are far too big, they were the only ones I could find in the market in Santiago.

We were recommended a little restaurant off a sinister side alley, one that I would not have felt safe walking down at all any time after sunset, called Casino J Cruz Social

http://www.capitalcultural.cl/p4_cc/site/artic/20040513/pags/20040513154823.html

which ranks amongst the most memorable dining experiences to date. The decoration was a debris of cheap collectibles from the world over within glass cabinets scrawled and signed on the panes with tip-ex by past customers. The dated floral table cloths were also blitzed with biro ink, messages from all the guests who'd eaten under the same roof in the past forty years. It was hard not to feel nostalgic about the place, and even more so when the elderly and eccentric waiter arrived and delivered us the only dish that was available by the chef, the highly regarded Chorrillana - heaps of hand cut chips (like the ones Dolly makes for me when I'm well behaved), scrambled eggs with onions and garlic and finally a liberal sprinkling of chopped pepper steak (which Matty devoured without delay).

Street art in Valparaiso

We trawled the streets for shelter, and were reduced to mild irritation on being ignored by one B&B and our other top pick being shut down for the month for renovations. This led us to a promisingly signposted hostel Pata Pata halfway up the rainbow coloured steps of Templeman. We were alarmed to find that the door was opened by a sweet smiling two year old Chilean boy who promptly ran away back into his cot. The manager greeted us seconds later and with his small lopsided beard, round trustworthy face and generous overspilling stomach, depicted the archetypal Latin man of leisure. The hostel was 'homely' in a way that felt like arriving unannouned at a friend's relatives house and asking to stay the night by mark of association. The baby boy, who loved to try and play the didgeridoo to entertain us, provided company in the television room as we attempted to avoid his angular toys scattered on the floor. He didn't appear to attach any desire to sit still and listen to my reading of the Spanish version of 'Three Little Pigs' (Los Tres Cerditos) though, which was his loss, the ungrateful swine.

In the morning, after having our prayers answered from a higher being for the wish of a clear day after the uncomfortable artillery of an overnight storm, we approached the city with a dose of positivity and anticipation in equal parts. Valparaiso is known as the 'Cultural Capital of Chile', a newly appointed UNESCO World Heritage Site and was home to the notorious Chilean poet (and considered to be one of the most influential poets of the 20th Century), Pablo Neruda. Although in the past 'Valpo' was known more for its swarm of drunken sailors, doe-eyed and ugly mouthed prostitutes and blue collar sleaze, it is now considered a jewel of the nation and commonly referred to as 'Little San Francisco'.

Chile has impressed with its reputation for a solid economy of a steady export trade (mainly copper, accounting for a third of the world's total, and wine) which is reflected by the high value, in South American terms, of its currency as well as the impressive infrastructure and general lack of visible poverty that I had assumed.

It was easy to see why this place has such luminary plaudits. The rich bohemian vibrancy is apparent from every cafe, restaurant and window sill within the Old Quarter. Houses are painted striking shades of the palette, often to compliment the pigment of the neighbouring buildings so that the streets reach a technicolour synchronicity as if a consequence of the collective brushwork sneeze of the Impressionists. Artwork of the spray canned variety is also thrashed adoringly on walls, abodes and on the ground, as wild canines stroll easily by and ignore the public clamour within the docks.

World Cup fever reaches the walls of the Allegretto Pizzerteria in Valparaiso

After Valapraiso and one final day in Santiago to sample some more ham and cheese empanadas, we set off for Peru to prepare for the Inca Trek in the coming few days. Our connection flight from Lima to Cusco was delayed, leaving us stranded in the Peruvian capital for one night before we were allowed on the next domestic flight. This, we thought, was going to be an issue as after what felt like months queuing at the LAN desk for news of a refund and overnight stay at nearby accommodation we were handed a voucher written elegantly by Maria the LAN air stewardess for the Hotel Rwanda. Thankfully we mis-read the coupon and were not actually treated to a night of genocide and Don Cheadle. Instead, the majestic Hotel Ramada, with its Spa, massage tables, delicious three course meal and spacious twin room was in order - and all free of charge.

Backpacking has never felt so relaxing and has created, I fear, a false impression for Matty. One that I'm not willing to correct just yet.

Flying past the Andes and beyond Chile

Lima Song of the Day: The Beatles - And Your Bird Can Sing
A classic from Revolver. The fab three's (Ringo doesn't count) sunny chorus managed to scale the heights of my in flight playlist (along with Avril Lavigne and Bob Dylan) to ensure that we touched down in Peru with swaying arms and tuneless humming that even the blood red stamps of immigration couldn't tarnish.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApI7YXQTVZQ

i-Pod Song of the Day: Bruce Springsteen - I'm On Fire
The Boss is at his best on this moody yet moving two minute lilt from his huge 'Born in the USA'
album. The structure of the melody urges you to follow the tracks that the freight train running through his head have passed.

http://www.brucespringsteen.net/songs/ImOnFire.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzQvGz6_fvA

¡ Vamos Chile !

Del aire al aire,
como una red vacia
iba yo entre las calles y la atmosfera,
llegando y despodiendo

From air to air, like an empty net,
I would go through the streets and the atmosphere,
Arriving and saying goodbye



Pablo Neruda

Matty found me in Auckland airport as I was hypnotised by a gloriously ill advised meal at an American fast food franchise. He marked our reunion by throwing a tennis ball at my face, which I did not have the reactions to propel to another, less hazardous direction. The LAN flight was scheduled without quarrel or delay and I even managed to pass some time attempting to serenade the Chilean air stewardess with my broken Spanish. This tactic was not successful, which was a surprise to all within ear shot, and I only managed to aggravate her with my perseverance.

On touch down we grabbed an 'official' taxi from Santiago Airport and cruised past a landscape that I had never witnessed before. The Andes, with its snow tipped peaks was the most impressive feature, piercing through a thin skin of smoky urban smog and disappearing in the thick cement of dusty urban decay and then re-appearing again once it had left my thoughts momentarily. The wide roads leading to the Bellas Artes, where we were staying, were lined with rusty tin roofed shanty towns, tired looking mules with matted manes and abandoned football pitches made up of earth and heaps of trash.

We ventured out (me with an irritable spirit due to the jet lag and dehydration from the ceverza and plane journey) and immediately navigated the salmon scales and blood soaked cleavers within the Central Mercado - fish market. After a tiring lap we settled on a restaurant exuding character from its cracked peel paint, the vociferous locals, vino tinto tainted table cloths and a small television pinned loosely on the wall emitting the Brazil versus Ivory Coast World Cup Group game. I ate my freshly caught pescado and potato salad stained with beetroot as I intermittently craned my neck to witness some dubious handballs. All the while our waiter tried tirelessly to converse with both of us in Spanish as we nodded sincerely in a very English manner.

With the Hostel Andes Owner and fan of La Roja in womb

The following day, waking at 5am and eventually bypassing the persistent questioning from our Belgian dorm mate (whose discoloured teeth and monk-like features made me wary of him from the onset), we ventured towards Plaza Aramas, in order to view the much anticipated Chile - Switzerland game. We wandered past Parisian styled streetlights and small parks similar to that of central Madrid, and stopped by for a brief watery coffee at Cafe Haiti, known locally as 'Coffee on Legs' where short skirted and thick thighed waitresses shuttle business men their thin early morning antidote (a Latin American version of Hooters, I suppose).

Since arriving in Chile it has been apparent that chauvanism still pollutes the routine of society - from men striding in front of women who are left lumbered with chores surrounding the offspring as well as the unquestionable lack of chivalry on display. The ladies here seemed to be overwhelmingly pleased when we opened doors for them and helped them to carry their luggage up the stairs of the metro station.

Chilean fans: In need of Head & Shoulders

Back to the promise of herds of supporters in the midst of the carnival spirit of soccer we entered the main square where there was a big screen showing of the Chile game. We were immediately concerned by the vast number of armoured riot police, dressed in mouldy green khakis and armed with shields, guns, tear gas and teenage mutant ninja turtle-esque body armour. The kick off was at 10am on a Monday morning so we were both mildly mystified as to the extremity of the measures taken place in order to keep the peace.

The 1-0 win sparked wild celebrations with the partisan crowd, of around ten thousand, mostly students, in the square as confetti poured on the cobbled streets and streams of paper were dispensed from high by rebellious office workers watching unsubtly from their commanding buildings overlooking the screen. Matty was almost pick pocketed for his camera but managed to heroically cling on to his photographic device, in what was otherwise a joyous atmosphere.

A few hours later we spotted a number of riot vans and louring tanks equipped with water hoses and armed guards on erect proud horses watching menacingly over a mass crowd of post-game revellers. The scene soon turned ugly as some of the fans began to hurl bricks and stones towards the vans and policemen. Matty and I hurried towards a gelata shop, Emporio La Rosa, for shelter (mostly for the heady selection of homemade ice-creams, though) and peered through the window panes onto the on going chaos that was ensuing. Once we'd devoured our helados, we tip toed back to the hostel only to be caught in the middle of a battle between civilian thugs and soldiers. Heavy rocks were thrown like grenades over our heads towards the garrison and we actually had to set camp behind an iron gate of a mechanic who rushed us into a place capable of fending off the projectiles. We watched on as a number of the hellions were arrested and one rogue was eventually handcuffed on to a police motorbike on one hand and subsequently dragged and paraded on his knees in front of a curious public. Perhaps the military / civilian tension was a glimpse into the lasting legacy left by the Pinochet led junta.

Me: How do I look?
Matty: Dirty and sleazy

Once our pulses had ebbed somewhat, we celebrated our victory from turmoil with a terramota (a dangerous concoction of wine, beer and fruit salad flavoured ice-cream) in a cavernous pub called La Piojera, where spirit soaked oak barrels played the part of tables and the distant sound of an accordion played in the background. We were even audience to a fleet footed elderly man attempted to seduce flirtatious women with a bizarre handkerchief dance. Matty was too busy attempting to befriend a seemingly dangerous indigenous magician to take notice.
The piercing blows of plastic whistles and matador flag waving football fans in clear intoxication continued to stifle the stillness of a wintry air.

After an arduous trek up to Cerro San Cristobal to view the statue of the Virgin Mary overlooking the city of Santiago (perhaps an attempt to match the infamous O Cristo Redentor, in Rio), Matty and I decided to reward our strained knee joints with a quick pastry snack at a local bakery. As I sunk my teeth into a flaky miniature croissant I noticed three teenage girls beyond us, snickering and pointing at us rather inconspicuously. After a short pause they all ventured towards us in a coy manner. It transpired that they believed that we were in a 'Rock Band' (they had numerous badges and stickers on their knapsacks of the 80's inspired band whom we were meant to be but looked nothing like) and wished to find out where we were playing that night and how long we'd be in the country for. We couldn't quite manage to correct them of their error as they dived in to embrace us, leaving us both perplexed as to what just occurred. We certainly grew to the idea of being part of the Beverly Hills elite, though, as we later toasted our newly found status with a potent flute of Pisco Sour at a local den.

Santiago Song of the Day: Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le, Viva Chile!!
The hundreds of hyper teenagers who pressed up close behind us threw confetti liberally towards the back of our heads whilst we tried to watch the Chile World Cup game at Plaza Aramas. To blend in somewhat we attempted to sing along with local football chants which we mastered after listening a few verses on repeat. I'm not sure the locals bought into this harmonious facade though.


i-Pod Song of the Day: Ryan Adams - Nuclear
It's been hard to resist mentioning Greenwich Village's leading troubled troubadour in every post, as I generally listen to his songs every day on the pod. Nuclear, from his B-sides / rarities album Demolition, has been on repeat since I landed in Bangkok. It's one of his more uplifting tunes from his earlier years and reminds me of my many visits to New York City. Did I mention that I used to live there? I'll have to tell you all about it sometime...

For some reason the only video I can find features a Smallville montage which I can only apologise for. Well, enjoy, and sorry for the video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbjZYOd48gM

When I saw her the Yankees lost to the Braves
Sentimental geek
Shut up and go to sleep