Santiago de Chile

People don't seem to have too many nice things to say about Santiago de Chile, but I liked it. The biggest problem is the pollution. What should be the stunning natural backdrop to the city instead hides behind a curtain of smog. You might not notice it right in front of you, but look anywhere in the distance and you'll see. Climbed up Cerro San Cristobal to admire the view? Never mind. I can't imagine what the Virgin Mary must make of it all.

Back down at street level, the city buzzes along without ever really feeling quite as big as it is. Little pockets of tranquility are dotted around the place - the parks and plazas, cerro Santa Lucia. Tiny bars and cafes from which the sound of laughter and the smell of cigarette smoke drift out onto the street.

Around the centre, the barrios themselves are small and compact, each with a slightly different character. I stayed in Santa Lucia on my second stop, and liked its relaxed little street of bars, restaurants and cafes. Over the river, Bellavista seems livelier and more touristy. In the west, Barrio Brasil is more bohemian, and just south of the centre, Paris Londres looks vaguely European. But overall, the city lacks the romance, dynamism and edginess of, say, Buenos Aires, and maybe that's why it gets a less favourable write up. No one travels to South America just to see Santiago, after all.

Dotted around town are a number of architecturally impressive buildings, that stand out amongst the humdrum shopping malls, arcades and ugly seventies facades. There's beauty in there somewhere, but you have to look for it.

The people are friendly (once I've tuned into the accent). And you have to admire Chileans for their courage and resilience, given that every twenty years or so their country is shaken to its roots by a terramoto. The damage is still scattered about - the Palacio de Bellas Artes, seemingly took a bit of a pounding, though luckily the roof survived.

Just for now though, things are calm again. Maybe because of the upheaval, little signs of peace seem all the more important, as Santiago slips into a beautiful autumn. It's just a shame you can never quite see far enough to truly appreciate it.

Expect the unexpected

I was pretty tired when I got back from Mendoza the other night, so lamed out and ate in the ‘restaurant’ at my pretty low-grade hotel. The starter was surprisingly good - camarones al pil pil. After two days and nights of heavy gourmet eating I plumped for chicken and chips, and it was fittingly rubbish.

I have a very early start tomorrow, and I can’t be arsed to go out. I lame out again, and walk up the six flights of stairs once more. What follows is a transcript from the notebook I take to the table with me every time I dine alone:

Prawns nowhere near as good as the other night. Worse though, they’re clearly under pressure. My beer takes twenty minutes. They forget the bread. When they eventually bring it from the warming oven it is a) burnt and b) cold.

Waiting for my main course of grilled pomfret (reineta), I am anxiously hopping about in my chair trying to attract the mozo’s attention and remind him about that second beer I ordered, back when I didn’t have a beard.

I flick through the food diary, and notice how often I begin my reviews with an assessment of a restaurant’s "promise". The lower the expectation, the better the result. I begin writing my review in my head; “I have absolutely no expectations whatsoever of my meal. Normally this would be a good thing, but not tonight: I have eaten here before”.

The waiter appears carrying a plate of food and I actually take the Lord’s name in vain, out loud. My laughter subsides shortly after he walks past to another table, but the sense of foreboding does not.

My fish arrives, dumped unceremoniously in the middle of a slightly grubby plate, with nothing else for company. Jesus H. Christ. The first mouthful stops me laughing. I must be imagining things. I try again. Nope. Heavenly.

Even a blind squirrel stumbles upon the occasional nut.

Valparaíso

Last week, in Santiago, the city was struggling to break through the smog and clouds. Today I woke and it was clear and bright. But that didn’t hep me much, since I was heading to Valparaíso for the day.

Valparaíso is an old port town on the pacific coast, said to be Chile’s most beautiful and captivating city. The low area next to the water’s edge rises sharply as the city spreads itself into the hills that fall steeply to the sea. It is a crazy, colourful, ramshackle place that completely defies comprehension.

So you can imagine I was fairly pissed off when I arrived to find the whole place shrouded in an impenetrable sea fret. I cabbed it into downtown only to find that the café recommended by my out of date Frommers has gone to that great plaza in the sky. I try the place next door. The food wasn’t great but while I was in there, the city was busy transforming itself, for by the time I re-emerged, it was as clear as a bell.

I climbed the first hill I found, and only then began to appreciate the madness of the place. At the top of Cerro Concepcion, all is calm and peaceful. You really feel the bohemianism of the place - little art studios are everywhere, people drawing and painting. Every available wall has a mural painted on it (though sadly the cock drawers have been out in force too). Looking down, you see the contrast - quaint little artists' enclave up top, crumbling port town below.

All the museums are shut so I ride the ascensor down. These old funicular railways are dotted all around town, dating from the early 19th century, to hoist the population back in the direction of their homes. For the many that can’t afford the modest fare, there are always the steps that climb alongside.

The town reminds me a lot of the old medinas in Morocco. Winding streets that all look the same, steps everywhere. The kind of place in which a map is of absolutely no use whatsoever.

Back on the level, and the sense of poverty is overwhelming. Suddenly it feels rough and edgy. One of the main plazas contains nothing but men and dogs sleeping rough. There is little to distinguish between them, and it is very sad. Everyone else walks round the outside. A lady tells me my rucksack is open, and reminds me how dangerous it is round here.

I’ve been residing in towns that, though very South American, and with their fair share of poverty, have been extremely westernised. In two days I’m flying up to Bolivia, and from then on, things are going to be very different. Valparaíso feels like a little bridge between the two. If what’s coming is half as beautiful, which I expect it is, the next few weeks should be very special. Just so long as I can see them through the mist.

An Englishman in Santiago

I’m not normally one for gawping out of aeroplane windows, but the view of the Andes flying into Santiago de Chile was spectacular. As we approached our destination, I got my first glimpse of the famous pollution. The hazy smog drapes itself over the city like a dirty old blanket.

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires I felt scared and alone. I didn’t know anyone, couldn’t communicate and for a few days I had no confidence whatsoever. But it became my home. Whenever I went away, I knew I had somewhere to come back to. I don’t anymore. The next month is all about moving, and I’m a little unsure how I feel about losing that security.

Staying in the Paris Londres neighbourhood should help me feel at home. I check into my hotel and stride out into downtown Santiago, but I’m not my usual self. There’s just a hint of trepidation and an absence of swagger. I find myself inadvertently climbing Cerro Santa Lucia, a beautiful park on a steep hill, complete with winding paths and steps and entwined lovers on every available bench.

Cerro Santa Lucia

Down the other side I stop for a coffee and make a rather nasty discovery. I cannot understand a single fucking word anyone is saying, and they can’t understand me either. Fortunately for me, espresso and muffin are pretty much universal. But little turns of phrases, things I’m used to, they’re gone. With this shadow looming over me, I suddenly find my Spanish dropping a few notches. I forget words and start stuttering like Gareth G-G-G-G-Gates.

A few blocks and I’m in Plaza de Armas. Tables are laid out for chess, and a hundred or so guys are either playing or watching. Elsewhere a big circle is watching two blokes acting out a comedy, and rows of artists are painting away and displaying their work. It reminds me of Morocco - Meknes maybe. And Salta too - people are just hanging out and taking it easy. It’s exactly the kind of place Buenos Aires needs but doesn’t have.

Plaza de Armas

I head home, regroup and start thinking about dinner. But since I left my Spanish on the wrong side of the Andes, I no longer feel confident getting in a taxi. And taking the subway becomes suddenly more daunting too, especially since I don’t have a clue where I’m going. So I opt to stay local. Which is a big mistake.

I’m right in the middle of town, which shuts down at night. I walk in circles for blocks and
blocks looking for somewhere to eat before hunger forces my hand. I plump for some Italian place that looks like a Travelodge from the outside and a Harvester from the inside.

The food is indescribably bad. I order two large gin and tonics to let my sorrows swim around in, and sit staring out of the window castigating myself. What a loser. Dining alone in the shittiest restaurant in the southern hemisphere because I was too frightened, lazy or stupid to jump in a cab and go somewhere else. Thank God I have another ten months in which to pull myself together.