This was decreed by Qantas, God of affordable 'Round the World' airfares and not by us.
If we'd had free reign we would have chosen to depart from Punta Arenas down near Tierra del Fuego, or perhaps Buenos Aires.
It was all a bit of an unknown, the end of the overland odyssey, we didn't really know where we would go and therefore end up so in some ways it made life easier to be told that we had to fly from the capital of Chile.
And here we were, after a mere hop, skip and a jump from Vina Del Mar we were standing at the bus station on Avenida O'Higgins, digesting the fact that we had reached perhaps the most significant goal of the trip.
(the rather magnificently named Bernardo O'Higgins, illegitimate son of an Irishman, was leader of the Chilean Republic in the 1800s).
Santiago. So long just the name of a city that we would reach, one way or another, at some distant point in the future was now all about us:
its humidity was moistening our shirts, its smog was polluting our lungs and its inhabitants were curiously regarding us for taking souvenir photographs of our triumphant arrival at an otherwise unremarkable bus station.
With finances seriously dwindling, we had accepted that we simply must stay in a hostel here; no wimping out and heading for a 3* hotel and no histrionic protestations that "I'm 42 and I'm not staying in that bloody shit hole".
To combat this possibility we reserved ahead and this also meant we had a fixed goal and would be spared the agony of looking for a room.
A pain we were not spared though was of dealing with a lying taxi driver.
"Hola señor, Hostelling International on Cienfuegos Street please. Do you know it?"
"Si, si"
Thirty seconds after bundling into the cab we had pulled alongside another taxi and our driver was asking the other where Cienfuegos Street was!
I suppose it was fitting that our last such journey would approach farce.
So many cab drivers have not known our requested destinations, an indictment of their professionalism and of our grasp of Spanish.
We had booked two bunks in a four bed dormitory and were pleased to note that the other two beds were vacant, if not quite so enamoured with the stained mattresses and human detritus on my pillow.
Having made our beds and scraped things as clean as they would go we went out for dinner and a short walk around our immediate surroundings.
Being Sunday, it was rather quiet but it was clean, felt safe and, judging by the few cars and people we did see, quite affluent.
We were soon back in our bunks, ever waiting for the door to open to reveal two bunk mates but it never did; not that first day nor the following two.
By a stroke of luck we'd secured a private room whilst paying dorm rates.
Breakfast was included so next morning we took our seats at the large benches and ate our fill of bread rolls and marmalade. Along with all other guests, we were checking email, facebook and the January transfer window page of the BBC football website.
Because everyone has their own devices in order to keep in contact with people back home, interaction with fellow guests is more limited than it always used to be in such places.
It's much easier to strike up a conversation with someone who is staring into space, fishing doughy bread out of their gums with their tongue than someone who is engrossed in the revelatory news that John Doe 'is going to the gym'.
There were two separate guys who were quite alone and sans iPad but with one of them looking every inch as though he was probably deranged and the other being a hirsute Brazilian in yellow flip flops, a yellow, nipple revealing, vest and the skimpiest yellow shorts imaginable, I quickly decided that neither warranted any sort of investment.
Though we were essentially just marking time until our flight on Wednesday, it obviously would have been quite remiss to spurn the opportunity to see Santiago so we set out for a wander around the city.
It's not a particularly old place, founded in 1541 by Spanish conquistadors but only really becoming significant in the 1880s when mining took off in a big way nearby.
There are some impressive old buildings here, the cathedral and main plaza was particularly appealing, but it's never likely to blow you away after nine months on the road.
In fact, the most notable aspects of the place are that nearly everyone is of European descent, it feels very much like any modern city in the world and, compared to Peru and Bolivia, it's quite expensive.
We walked around until lunchtime and then, after a delicious rice and wok veg lunch, we made for one of the city's many parks, Parque Nacional being situated on a large rocky area 2000 feet high.
There was a funicular railway to climb to the top, great views once you were there and a cable car across to other areas of the park - sounded like a fun afternoon.
The first disappointment was that the funicular was closed for maintenance and the second was that by the time we'd worked out that there was a bus to the top we had missed it.
We waited for the next one and were soon enjoying views of the sprawling city below us through the haze, the incredibly flat lands below us not really explaining why mountain bikes outnumber road bikes by at least 10:1.
It seems that the climb to where we were standing is a local proving ground for cyclists so we spent a while watching the heavily perspiring owners of various Treks and Giants arrive, turn round and speed back downhill which has done nothing if not got me thinking even more about donning the old lycra and getting out on my beast.
(note to self: buy girdle before donning lycra).
After slipping on some shiny steps beneath a large statue of the Virgin Mary, just saving myself from a potentially bone-jarring tumble by grabbing out at a handrail, we returned down to the city and yomped the whole way home through the rush hour.
Dinner was a surprisingly tasty pork steak from a backstreet bar, notable for the paucity of their drinks offer and for an apparent attempt at the world record for the largest meal consisting solely of beetroot, made by the chap at the next table.
I've never come across a bar offering just two non-alcoholic drinks before, Fanta or ginger ale (no coke, no water!) nor anyone, other than my mate Ian's mum, more obsessed with beetroot.
This chap had a bowl before him, big enough to wash both your feet in at once, full of it.
I hope he lives alone, that's all I can say.
Tuesday was our final day in the Americas, exactly nine months to the day since we landed at Newark and began this great trek.
We wanted to mark it with a bang, do something really memorable, exhilarating, sign off with a flourish as it were.
There were a couple of things standing between us and that aspiration:
We had about £20 left of our Chilean money and were determined not to withdraw any more, we were so tired that the prospect of putting in even the slightest physical effort was less appealing than sticking pins in our eyes and there seemed to be bugger all to do anyway.
The night before at dinner, in between urging at the purple spectacle on our left, we had resolved to go to a vineyard and do a wine tasting tour but this morning the prospect just didn't seem appealing enough so we canned the idea.
If the one I went on in South Africa was anything to go by, I thought we could well do without a banging headache before boarding a 14 hour flight and missing a night's sleep.
So, rather than a spectacular and tumultuous denouement it was a little more like a firework that didn't go off properly. We fizzled out, the perfect metaphor perhaps for the way our once lean and athletic frames now resemble beaten and hollow husks.
Never able to pass up an opportunity to walk ourselves to near oblivion though, we strolled up to the Central Station to regard one of the less celebrated of Gustav Eiffel's works and then took a metro all the way across town and back to Parque Nacional.
"Hang on. Weren't you there only yesterday?", I hear you ask.
Indeed! Though today there would be no lazy regarding of sweaty mountain bikers, no near-arse-over-tit moments at the feet of religious idols and no wistful gazing through 50% smog; we would simply go to one of the outdoor swimming pools and wile away our last hours alternating between baking in the sun and dips in icy cold water.
It sounds simple but, like so many aspects of this trip, it was anything but.
To cut a long and hot story short, the pool was about a mile and a half away from where the bus dropped us off, usually reached by cable car, if it, like the funicular, wasn't closed for maintenance.
We set off on foot and found that it was back the way the bus had come up. Had we realised we could have asked to be let off and saved us all this legwork.
We needn't have bothered at all as it turned out. The entrance fee of $6000 pesos each was way beyond our means so we sat outside forlornly for ten minutes while we caught our breath, every audible shriek of laughter from inside serving to slap us about the face for our folly, before we set off back for the city and home.
This is what, in modern parlance, is known as a 'fail'.
We dined at the same place as yesterday for want of anywhere better and this time opted for a saucy looking dish of rice and 'white meat'.
"White meat?", I asked.
"What? Chicken?"
"Er.............. si, si", retorted the barrel-like serving wench.
Well, it was saucy, tasty, a little bit slimy, but fine enough washed down with a can of Fanta.
(Have you poured Fanta into a glass recently and seen the colour of it? Scary!)
As I digested the last mouthful Kerry announced that she thought our meal was tripe.
"Oh, it's not that bad, in fact, I quite liked it".
"No, I mean it's tripe, it's actually tripe, 'white meat' means tripe".
Well, if you're going to feast on the lining of a cows stomach then do so accompanied by a refreshing, wind-inducing beverage of a luminous hue, that's what I say.
So, after nine of the most memorable months of our lives, it was a case of 'adios' to the Americas.
Seventeen countries across two continents that have given us:
Chile, chillies, the willies, we've been silly billies and listened to Milli Vanilli, we've climbed hills, experienced thrills, downed innumerate malarial pills and incurred credit card bills;
we've eaten carrots, seen dead parrots, religious zealots, fallen harlots, Chevvys on car lots, spent time on buses - lots!, got sore bots, spent a week on a yacht, had the trots and been oh so hot;
crossed rivers on boats, hardly worn coats, sent loved ones notes, loved the coast (the Caribbean the most), the odd host, sent stuff home in the post and made good our initial boast;
we've seen Memphis Blues, given away shoes, taken a six day cruise, got wrecked on booze, blown the odd fuse, patronised disgusting loos, stood in long queues and forsaken the news.
We've done everything we set out to do (with the single exception of seeing a condor) and these months have been everything we ever dared dream of after excitedly discussing travelling on our first date back in 2005.
It may have taken seven years to come to fruition but the important thing is that we did it.
Equally important is that I no longer have to dread lying on my death bed saying
"Bugger it! I wish I'd gone travelling when I was younger" and THAT is priceless.
Our flight to Oz was at 1335 on Wednesday, a perfect time which afforded us a leisurely breakfast, a gentle saunter to the airport by local bus and plenty of time to check-in.
A 14 hour flight should be daunting but the quality of on-board entertainment on long haul, not to mention the good food, makes it something of a pleasure.
I guess bouncing around on buses for months on end has stood us in good stead.
The only part of the flight I didn't enjoy was when the steward asked over the tannoy if there was anyone medically trained on-board which conjured up terrifying images in my mind of our pilot having been struck down by appendicitis or something and a subsequent call to ask if anyone knows how to fly a jumbo.
Crossing the international date line saw us effectively lose Thursday 17 January 2013, something we can Ill afford as we approach our dotage.
On the plus side I am in the same country as my lamb chops for the first time in a year and in four short days we will be reunited.
No comments:
Post a Comment