The next day is Saturday: oh no it isn’t. I’ve lost track of the days what with all these sun-bathing ‘groundhog’ days and it’s actually Friday. This means that we’re double booked in Rio and Buzios. We manage to get a refund for a night in the former and take a taxi with our new found chauffeur buddy Elias to the latter. Buzios is charming little town 200 kms NE of Rio, made famous by Brigitte Bardot in the 60’s when she fled here from the Brazilian paparazzi. The 3hr drive is fairly uninteresting apart from the views back to Rio from the giant bridge across the Baia de Guanabara.
The Hibiscus beach hotel is aptly named, with hundreds of the eponymous plants attracting the occasional hummingbird. Our room is up a bloody great hill and I foolishly offer to help with the luggage. God I’m unfit. The views make up for it across a pretty valley to a sliver of ocean in the distance. All the roofs are tiled in the Portuguese style but with a hint of Chinese pergoda adding to the quaintness. We walk along the trademark cobbled streets to Ossos for dinner. It takes 15 minutes but 5 of those are just to get back past reception. Luckily we manage to persuade a French restaurant to open an hour early as shortly afterwards the floodgates open. We are pleasantly trapped with some good minimalist cuisine (makes a change from over-ordering with the huge Brazilian portions) and a charming French manageress who tells us all about North Brazil as we are the only customers to brave the weather that evening.
By the next morning poor Karen has caught my dreaded lurgy and stays in bed whilst I take the kids out to explore. I decide to take our lives into my hands by hiring a sports buggy for £15 a day. This is great fun to drive and the kids love it, but it is a tad scary with the bumpy cobbles and practically perpendicular roads in places. After an invigorating spin round the peninsular we pick up Karen and zoom into town. The whole place seems very safe, almost sanitised, with some good little restaurants and quaint little shops worthy of a good browse. We bump back via two of the 14 beaches with great views of the sea, islands and fishing boats.
The weather turns on Monday and Tuesday and the battery on our buggy dies. Shortly afterwards the ignition key breaks too so I upgrade to a ‘superbuggy’ with plusher seats, flashier lights and extra va va voom. We enjoy a great lunch at the popular ‘el barco’. In fact it’s so good that we’re still there at 5pm and inadvertently save on a day’s buggy hire as the rental shop is closed by the time we stagger back. We check out Orla street where Bardot’s original house still stands along with a statue of her. As Karen pointed out, they’d need a lot more metal to make a statue of her nowadays.
The weather’s still not improving and we spend one day bombing around the peninsular without really knowing where we’re going and another at the rather chilly pool next to our new upgraded family room. Things deteriorate with the weather as Karen is still a bit groggy, Harley chunders at breakfast narrowly missing our fellow diners who flee ‘en masse’ and room service is shit. The ‘chef’/receptionist is too busy chatting up her boyfriend and we end up cold chips and ‘croque monsieur’ 2 hours later.
Finally a day of sunshine and we lounge on Brava beach. We rent beach mattresses,
but the tide comes in at an alarming rate and we have to retire to the charming greensward overlooking the rocky bay we’ve just abandoned. Unfortunately the bay is North facing so the sun sets early. That evening I tuck the family into bed (Karen included) and check out the local nightlife. Sadly there isn’t any at this time of year but I do enjoy a brace of rather good lasagna pancakes and foaming ale. I’m back by ten o’clock, so who says I’m a dirty stop out?
Flights in Brazil are expensive but we manage to sort out a good deal to Salvador. We can now spend the last day relaxing on the best beach of all Jaoa Fernandez. Not only is it easy walking distance as we’ve taken the car back, it also has beautiful white sand and a protected bay for safe kiddie swimming. I enjoy a long swim followed by caipiroscas, fresh snapper and a massage while the kids splash around in the sand and the sea at a healthy distance. I’m beginning to feel that life isn’t that tough after all.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
BRAZIL
Rio de Janeiro
Karen’s found another bargain **** hotel/apart for US$100. The only drawback is that we’re soon the only ones left on our floor that is having its first refurb. for 30 years. I catch a snippet of the Champions League Final in between the hammering. You have to feel for poor old John Terry. Oh well it’s only a sport – please hold my beer Karen while I go and jump off the balcony. Man U as well and Ronaldo had just missed – maybe next year…..
We are perfectly positioned here for some serious tanning with Copacabana 100 metres one way and Ipanema 200 metres in the other direction. I invest in some black ‘Daniel Craig as James Bond’ swimmers and rush to check out the bevy of topless beauties. I soon discover that not everyone on the beach is a supermodel by any means. This is slightly galling from a lecherous lad’s point of view, but actually quite pleasing from a 40- year-old-plus-with-growing-gut perspective. There are plenty of interesting thongs being worn to show off many buttocks of various shapes and sizes. The ‘postage stamp’ bikini tops that barely cover the nipples also intrigue me. It seems the mainly Catholic Brazilians don’t approve of nudity but are perfectly happy for three 2 inch equilateral triangles joined by string to pass itself off as a bikini.
The kids are soon playing well in the sand and sea. Although we need to keep a constant lookout due to the dangerous rips, Harley and Ruby are well aware of the dangers from Vietnam and Australia. We can relax with our ‘ dos Caipiroscas con Smirnoff e hielo, poco azucar por favor’. The bloody language has changed from Spanish to Portuguese, just as I felt I was getting somewhere, but at least I’ve mastered one sentence. The only problem with getting a phrase off pat is that the bloody waiter thinks you can speak a bit of the lingo. He then starts chattering away for a few minutes, while I smile inanely punctuating his diatribe with the odd ‘si’ or ‘no’ and hoping not to be found out. By the second or third drink the game’s up, but at least I can then wait for my drink in peace and quiet.
Ipanema is more beautiful with misty isles out to sea and giant swallow-like birds wheeling gracefully overhead. There is a younger crowd too – crowd being the operative word. For the first few days the beaches are packed and it later transpires that this is due to a festival. The feeling of busyness is accentuated by the constant stream of hawkers chanting their way down the beach selling anything from corn on the cob to toe-rings. The good news is that you can come to the beach empty handed apart from a few Reals and your every need is catered to. Ice –creams are a bit of a rip-off at 6 Reals of £2 but who cares if they keep the kids quiet for a few more minutes. Body surfing is fun but the waves here are even bigger than at Copacabana. After getting ‘dumped’ from a ‘monster’ 3-metre wave and spending the next 30 seconds swirling around under water I’m a bit more circumspect. Karen is too after the waves cheekily pop out her left breast a couple of times.
After a few sunny days on the beach we take advantage of a more overcast morning to visit Păo Asucar (Sugar Loaf). We get a good view of Rio from the midway cable car stop, but the summit is above the level of the cloud and we see little apart from circling hawks that Karen reckons are crows. Back at the foot of the ‘loaf’ we enjoy an excellent buffet lunch. On the recommendation of the English-speaking waiter (he learnt the language picking strawberries in Herefordshire in 2000) I order a meat feast and some decent Argy Malbec (Norton 2004). The waiter even points out the holy Catholic relics on the way to the toilet, not realising that when a 3-year-old says he needs the loo, he needs it quickly.
Our Cultural appetite is whetted but not sated, so the next day we book the English-speaking driver Elias for a trip to Corcovado (Christ the Redeemer). He drives us via the Tijuca National Park, a huge rainforest, to the bus that takes us to the statue itself. We stop to admire a 3-toed sloth crossing the road. By the time this fascinating beast has made it across, stopping briefly to blink cutely at Karen, who always did attract the lazy, hairy type, there’s a 3-bus tailback behind us. I’m feeling rough but luckily there’s an elevator and escalators to take us to the top. The scale of Corcovado is impressive as are the 360-degree views of Rio far below from the Maracuna football stadium past the dwarfed Sugar Loaf round to Copacabana and Ipanema. It’s a shame Mr Whinge comes back from vacation to ruin the moment. For a moment I’m envious of a glamorous couple without a care (or kids), sipping champagne – I then realise it’s only ‘Méthode Champenoise’ and don’t feel so bad. I’m further cheered when a guide is convinced I’m a Hollywood actor who one an Oscar in 2000 (George Clooney ?!). It must be the orange floral shirt – or maybe it’s just my dashing good looks…
We have lunch in the pretty hillside suburb of Santa Teresa. The place is 300 years old with attractive buildings and quaint trams and we stay for lunch. The ½ duck in plum sauce is 75 Real, which is more expensive than in Ladbroke Grove but it is worth it and the local award winning beer is equally good. On the way back we drive past a couple of ‘favellas’ or shanty towns which look much less primitive than in Asia being mainly brick not wood. Elias tells us that they are too dangerous to visit. I’m not surprised as I’ve read that 99% of the wealth in Brazil is held by 1% of the people. Clearly those living in the ‘favellas’ are the poorest section of the 99% and they presume that strangers coming onto their turf are part of the 1% and keen to disencumber themselves of their wealth.
We move swiftly on to the last part of our tour – Downtown Rio. The first stop is a weird 1960’s cathedral - a concrete monstrosity with 4 massive stained glass windows. Still it’s original and somehow appealing despite it’s ugliness. We pass the ‘Rubik’s Cube’ Petrobras building and the former Royal Palace en route to Nossa Senhora du Candelaria church. There’s no time to stop as we whizz round Praca 15 de Novembro with its old well and Aqueduct that is now a pretty cobbled street with restaurants and shops. That evening is our last in Rio (for a while anyway) and we celebrate with dinner in the excellent tapas restaurant Jobi. The fish cakes are to die for as are the spicy jumbo prawns and by the time the beers and caipiroscas have stopped flowing we’ve notched up a 300 Real bill (£100). To make matters worse they don’t take Visa, we have no cash and the kids are ready for bed. I’m trying to work out how to sort out this impasse when a friendly local metals trader called Carlos agrees to ‘cover’ my bill. I take the family back to the hotel; go to the cashpoint and return to pay the bill in cash. I try to find Carlos to buy him a beer by way of thanks, but he’s gone. The manager is happy to see me though; I’ve never seen such a huge smile so I order a Courvoisier VSOP thinking it’ll be on the house. No such luck and the bill is now 328 Reals – still I do get presented with a Jobi keying for my troubles.
Karen’s found another bargain **** hotel/apart for US$100. The only drawback is that we’re soon the only ones left on our floor that is having its first refurb. for 30 years. I catch a snippet of the Champions League Final in between the hammering. You have to feel for poor old John Terry. Oh well it’s only a sport – please hold my beer Karen while I go and jump off the balcony. Man U as well and Ronaldo had just missed – maybe next year…..
We are perfectly positioned here for some serious tanning with Copacabana 100 metres one way and Ipanema 200 metres in the other direction. I invest in some black ‘Daniel Craig as James Bond’ swimmers and rush to check out the bevy of topless beauties. I soon discover that not everyone on the beach is a supermodel by any means. This is slightly galling from a lecherous lad’s point of view, but actually quite pleasing from a 40- year-old-plus-with-growing-gut perspective. There are plenty of interesting thongs being worn to show off many buttocks of various shapes and sizes. The ‘postage stamp’ bikini tops that barely cover the nipples also intrigue me. It seems the mainly Catholic Brazilians don’t approve of nudity but are perfectly happy for three 2 inch equilateral triangles joined by string to pass itself off as a bikini.
The kids are soon playing well in the sand and sea. Although we need to keep a constant lookout due to the dangerous rips, Harley and Ruby are well aware of the dangers from Vietnam and Australia. We can relax with our ‘ dos Caipiroscas con Smirnoff e hielo, poco azucar por favor’. The bloody language has changed from Spanish to Portuguese, just as I felt I was getting somewhere, but at least I’ve mastered one sentence. The only problem with getting a phrase off pat is that the bloody waiter thinks you can speak a bit of the lingo. He then starts chattering away for a few minutes, while I smile inanely punctuating his diatribe with the odd ‘si’ or ‘no’ and hoping not to be found out. By the second or third drink the game’s up, but at least I can then wait for my drink in peace and quiet.
Ipanema is more beautiful with misty isles out to sea and giant swallow-like birds wheeling gracefully overhead. There is a younger crowd too – crowd being the operative word. For the first few days the beaches are packed and it later transpires that this is due to a festival. The feeling of busyness is accentuated by the constant stream of hawkers chanting their way down the beach selling anything from corn on the cob to toe-rings. The good news is that you can come to the beach empty handed apart from a few Reals and your every need is catered to. Ice –creams are a bit of a rip-off at 6 Reals of £2 but who cares if they keep the kids quiet for a few more minutes. Body surfing is fun but the waves here are even bigger than at Copacabana. After getting ‘dumped’ from a ‘monster’ 3-metre wave and spending the next 30 seconds swirling around under water I’m a bit more circumspect. Karen is too after the waves cheekily pop out her left breast a couple of times.
After a few sunny days on the beach we take advantage of a more overcast morning to visit Păo Asucar (Sugar Loaf). We get a good view of Rio from the midway cable car stop, but the summit is above the level of the cloud and we see little apart from circling hawks that Karen reckons are crows. Back at the foot of the ‘loaf’ we enjoy an excellent buffet lunch. On the recommendation of the English-speaking waiter (he learnt the language picking strawberries in Herefordshire in 2000) I order a meat feast and some decent Argy Malbec (Norton 2004). The waiter even points out the holy Catholic relics on the way to the toilet, not realising that when a 3-year-old says he needs the loo, he needs it quickly.
Our Cultural appetite is whetted but not sated, so the next day we book the English-speaking driver Elias for a trip to Corcovado (Christ the Redeemer). He drives us via the Tijuca National Park, a huge rainforest, to the bus that takes us to the statue itself. We stop to admire a 3-toed sloth crossing the road. By the time this fascinating beast has made it across, stopping briefly to blink cutely at Karen, who always did attract the lazy, hairy type, there’s a 3-bus tailback behind us. I’m feeling rough but luckily there’s an elevator and escalators to take us to the top. The scale of Corcovado is impressive as are the 360-degree views of Rio far below from the Maracuna football stadium past the dwarfed Sugar Loaf round to Copacabana and Ipanema. It’s a shame Mr Whinge comes back from vacation to ruin the moment. For a moment I’m envious of a glamorous couple without a care (or kids), sipping champagne – I then realise it’s only ‘Méthode Champenoise’ and don’t feel so bad. I’m further cheered when a guide is convinced I’m a Hollywood actor who one an Oscar in 2000 (George Clooney ?!). It must be the orange floral shirt – or maybe it’s just my dashing good looks…
We have lunch in the pretty hillside suburb of Santa Teresa. The place is 300 years old with attractive buildings and quaint trams and we stay for lunch. The ½ duck in plum sauce is 75 Real, which is more expensive than in Ladbroke Grove but it is worth it and the local award winning beer is equally good. On the way back we drive past a couple of ‘favellas’ or shanty towns which look much less primitive than in Asia being mainly brick not wood. Elias tells us that they are too dangerous to visit. I’m not surprised as I’ve read that 99% of the wealth in Brazil is held by 1% of the people. Clearly those living in the ‘favellas’ are the poorest section of the 99% and they presume that strangers coming onto their turf are part of the 1% and keen to disencumber themselves of their wealth.
We move swiftly on to the last part of our tour – Downtown Rio. The first stop is a weird 1960’s cathedral - a concrete monstrosity with 4 massive stained glass windows. Still it’s original and somehow appealing despite it’s ugliness. We pass the ‘Rubik’s Cube’ Petrobras building and the former Royal Palace en route to Nossa Senhora du Candelaria church. There’s no time to stop as we whizz round Praca 15 de Novembro with its old well and Aqueduct that is now a pretty cobbled street with restaurants and shops. That evening is our last in Rio (for a while anyway) and we celebrate with dinner in the excellent tapas restaurant Jobi. The fish cakes are to die for as are the spicy jumbo prawns and by the time the beers and caipiroscas have stopped flowing we’ve notched up a 300 Real bill (£100). To make matters worse they don’t take Visa, we have no cash and the kids are ready for bed. I’m trying to work out how to sort out this impasse when a friendly local metals trader called Carlos agrees to ‘cover’ my bill. I take the family back to the hotel; go to the cashpoint and return to pay the bill in cash. I try to find Carlos to buy him a beer by way of thanks, but he’s gone. The manager is happy to see me though; I’ve never seen such a huge smile so I order a Courvoisier VSOP thinking it’ll be on the house. No such luck and the bill is now 328 Reals – still I do get presented with a Jobi keying for my troubles.
Santiago the Second
Back at the good old Vittoria we try to sort out a Brazilian Airpass but to no avail. I drown my sorrows at the Chilean equivalent of a lap-dancing bar called a ‘café con piernas’ or ‘bar with legs’. Unlike in the UK the girls are actually middle aged ladies with decent pins who, instead of dancing round poles and fetching beers, serve coffee for 3x the price of Starbucks. So this is what the Chileans do for kicks – no wonder they’re so grumpy.
While Karen sorts out accommodation in Rio, I take the kids up the Cerro St Lucia. We climb up a steep rocky ‘staircase’ that is scarily slippery in places and dotted with treacherously spiky cacti. We are rewarded with a 360-degree panorama of the city and mountains behind, and even the smog seems to have lifted a bit. I cheekily set the camera to sunset mode at 1pm, as I may not get another chance of a clear shot.
That night Karen dons eye-mask and earplugs to protect against the TV and my snoring respectively. ‘I feel like Helen Keller’ she complains. It takes me a while to realize that she’s not talking about Profumo’s sexy lover, but rather the deaf and blind girl from Blue Peter. Karen may not be about to start sitting on chairs the wrong way round in the buff, but at least she’s sorted out flights and accommodation for our next stop in sunny Rio.
While Karen sorts out accommodation in Rio, I take the kids up the Cerro St Lucia. We climb up a steep rocky ‘staircase’ that is scarily slippery in places and dotted with treacherously spiky cacti. We are rewarded with a 360-degree panorama of the city and mountains behind, and even the smog seems to have lifted a bit. I cheekily set the camera to sunset mode at 1pm, as I may not get another chance of a clear shot.
That night Karen dons eye-mask and earplugs to protect against the TV and my snoring respectively. ‘I feel like Helen Keller’ she complains. It takes me a while to realize that she’s not talking about Profumo’s sexy lover, but rather the deaf and blind girl from Blue Peter. Karen may not be about to start sitting on chairs the wrong way round in the buff, but at least she’s sorted out flights and accommodation for our next stop in sunny Rio.
Valparaiso and Viña del Mar
The culture and shopping capitals of Chile respectively, lie on the coast about 2 hrs drive away. Sadly we have no map, no language, no petrol and no money and we’re heading due north instead of North West – talk about well prepared. Luckily we find a garage with a cashpoint, some air and a map and I realize my error. We can’t take the map away or buy one, so I attempt to memorize directions on windy ‘b’ roads whilst trying to explain in my fledgling Spanish, to an increasingly confused assistant, that the tap won’t turn off in the ladies loo!
We manage to find the way up twisting foothills and down again. There are no signposts, but I convince Karen that all we need to do is follow the setting sun. This just about works but the bloody sun is setting by the time we find a reasonably priced hotel. It has taken 5 hours instead of 2, but at least we’ve seen a bit of the Chilean countryside at last which makes a pleasant change from a smoggy metropolis.
We’re in Viña del Mar at the Best Western as we couldn’t find anything in the more attractive Valparaiso. There’s not much here apart from Italian restaurants and shopping malls so we indulge in both. We even invest in some cold weather gear for the kids as not only is it chilly in Chile, but also we are hoping to hit the slopes at some stage.
It’s May 15th and Ruby’s birthday. Unfortunately for her she’s already had her main present: a helicopter ride to the Franz Josep Glacier. Still she is indulged further with High School Musical paraphernalia, including the sought after ‘Wildcats’ outfit; a horse and cart ride that costs 5x the price of a taxi; her favourite sashimi for lunch; a pig cake; another restaurant for dinner where the whole place sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Spanish and a room full of balloons to add to the festive cheer.
Next we check out Valparaiso that is very pretty in a bohemian way. Houses and shacks decorate the hillsides with a variety of pastel shades. Driving is treacherous with steep gradients, potholes and a 6-point turn when we reach a dead end in front of a rather scary prison. Time for a bit of the old ‘shank’s pony’. Having enjoyed the Chilean version of Morris dancing with hankies instead of batons, we ascend the 48- degree funicular to the old historic centre. I enjoy the food here, especially the delicious wild boar and continued excellence of the locally popular Carmenère. Karen struggles more as the vegetarian option always seems to include bacon, ham or at the very least meat stock.
It’s time to head back to smogsville. Incredibly it only takes 1¼ hours as we find the quick Ruta 68 at the first attempt. We take a detour south to the recommended Pirque, but there’s not much there apart from a closed Concha y Toro HQ and some pleasant cow filled countryside where we stop for a picnic.
We manage to find the way up twisting foothills and down again. There are no signposts, but I convince Karen that all we need to do is follow the setting sun. This just about works but the bloody sun is setting by the time we find a reasonably priced hotel. It has taken 5 hours instead of 2, but at least we’ve seen a bit of the Chilean countryside at last which makes a pleasant change from a smoggy metropolis.
We’re in Viña del Mar at the Best Western as we couldn’t find anything in the more attractive Valparaiso. There’s not much here apart from Italian restaurants and shopping malls so we indulge in both. We even invest in some cold weather gear for the kids as not only is it chilly in Chile, but also we are hoping to hit the slopes at some stage.
It’s May 15th and Ruby’s birthday. Unfortunately for her she’s already had her main present: a helicopter ride to the Franz Josep Glacier. Still she is indulged further with High School Musical paraphernalia, including the sought after ‘Wildcats’ outfit; a horse and cart ride that costs 5x the price of a taxi; her favourite sashimi for lunch; a pig cake; another restaurant for dinner where the whole place sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Spanish and a room full of balloons to add to the festive cheer.
Next we check out Valparaiso that is very pretty in a bohemian way. Houses and shacks decorate the hillsides with a variety of pastel shades. Driving is treacherous with steep gradients, potholes and a 6-point turn when we reach a dead end in front of a rather scary prison. Time for a bit of the old ‘shank’s pony’. Having enjoyed the Chilean version of Morris dancing with hankies instead of batons, we ascend the 48- degree funicular to the old historic centre. I enjoy the food here, especially the delicious wild boar and continued excellence of the locally popular Carmenère. Karen struggles more as the vegetarian option always seems to include bacon, ham or at the very least meat stock.
It’s time to head back to smogsville. Incredibly it only takes 1¼ hours as we find the quick Ruta 68 at the first attempt. We take a detour south to the recommended Pirque, but there’s not much there apart from a closed Concha y Toro HQ and some pleasant cow filled countryside where we stop for a picnic.
SOUTH AMERICA
CHILE
Santiago the First
I feel excited but a bit nervous as we touch down in South America for the first time. We have no experience of this continent, no language (neither Spanish nor Portuguese) and no sleep. Interestingly we arrive in Chile’s capital 6 hours before we left New Zealand, which causes havoc with our sleeping patterns for a couple of days. Luckily check out time here is a civilised midday, so it doesn’t matter too much that the kids have been going to sleep between 3 and 4am. After the first two days in the posh ‘Crowne Plaza’, to give us a gentle introduction to a new continent, (good English spoken, comfortable rooms, reasonable massages and even ice machines), we head back to reality, and budget, at the 3-star Vittoria Hotel.
The manager here is a friendly German (actually Spanish but lived for a long time in the land of Hamburgers and Frankfurters, hence not a contradiction in terms). He gives us a great deal on a quadruple room (actually two connected doubles) for US$90 instead of US$130. He also explains some of the differences between Spanish Spanish and Chilean Spanish, but as we have no clue of either it’s way over our heads. Breakfast is shocking, but you can’t have everything…
We head out to explore on a Sunday and it’s like a ghost town. We eventually find a café open on the main square (Plaza de Armas) – a name that turns out to be a popular one for main squares in SA. The waiter very kindly helps us with our first two words of Spanish that turn out to be ‘huevos’ and ‘pochados’ (‘eggs’ and ‘poached’). I decide to add Spanish to Ruby’s homework schedule so that I can learn something at the same time. Another unknown is the currency. We eventually realise that the prices with .000 at the end are thousands of pesos rather than dollars, so everything is over twice the price we thought!
We admire the statue of the founder of Santiago, Pedro de Valdivia - in particular the unfeasibly large ‘cahunas’ of his stallion – as well as the grand cathedral and acrobatic drumming displays performed by children as well as adults. Our guidebook’s highlight, the museum of Pre-Columbian Art is a bit disappointing as half is closed off and the remainder has no real focus, just a mish-mash from all over SA. There are a few highlights such as tiny mummified babies, large wooden sculptures in human form that used to accompany the funeral processions and Coca related items, including a metal prong that makes you vomit to prepare you for the hallucinogenic experience to follow. I consider ‘half-inching’ one to avoid a hangover on my next night out!
It really could have come in handy as the following night I order a plate of cold meats and cheeses, not realising it’s meant to be shared by 2-3 people. Even the delicious Carmenère can’t wash it all down and ‘prongless’, I’m forced to take out a doggy bag and snack on the remains for the next few days.
We decide to take the funicular up St Christobel Hill. We also get a cable car to the Chilean style playground that has real steamrollers rather than plastic cars and stilt like totem poles rather than climbing frames. On the way back we enjoy splendid views of the Andes @ sunset as well as the less splendid smog that stifles the city below like an unwelcome blanket in a tropical motel. Maybe this is the cause of the general grumpiness here in Santiago, or maybe it’s a result of years of oppression under Pinochet. Whichever it is, we decide to find out if other parts of Chile suffer from the same malaise. We hire a car and head North West towards the twin tourist towns of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar.
Santiago the First
I feel excited but a bit nervous as we touch down in South America for the first time. We have no experience of this continent, no language (neither Spanish nor Portuguese) and no sleep. Interestingly we arrive in Chile’s capital 6 hours before we left New Zealand, which causes havoc with our sleeping patterns for a couple of days. Luckily check out time here is a civilised midday, so it doesn’t matter too much that the kids have been going to sleep between 3 and 4am. After the first two days in the posh ‘Crowne Plaza’, to give us a gentle introduction to a new continent, (good English spoken, comfortable rooms, reasonable massages and even ice machines), we head back to reality, and budget, at the 3-star Vittoria Hotel.
The manager here is a friendly German (actually Spanish but lived for a long time in the land of Hamburgers and Frankfurters, hence not a contradiction in terms). He gives us a great deal on a quadruple room (actually two connected doubles) for US$90 instead of US$130. He also explains some of the differences between Spanish Spanish and Chilean Spanish, but as we have no clue of either it’s way over our heads. Breakfast is shocking, but you can’t have everything…
We head out to explore on a Sunday and it’s like a ghost town. We eventually find a café open on the main square (Plaza de Armas) – a name that turns out to be a popular one for main squares in SA. The waiter very kindly helps us with our first two words of Spanish that turn out to be ‘huevos’ and ‘pochados’ (‘eggs’ and ‘poached’). I decide to add Spanish to Ruby’s homework schedule so that I can learn something at the same time. Another unknown is the currency. We eventually realise that the prices with .000 at the end are thousands of pesos rather than dollars, so everything is over twice the price we thought!
We admire the statue of the founder of Santiago, Pedro de Valdivia - in particular the unfeasibly large ‘cahunas’ of his stallion – as well as the grand cathedral and acrobatic drumming displays performed by children as well as adults. Our guidebook’s highlight, the museum of Pre-Columbian Art is a bit disappointing as half is closed off and the remainder has no real focus, just a mish-mash from all over SA. There are a few highlights such as tiny mummified babies, large wooden sculptures in human form that used to accompany the funeral processions and Coca related items, including a metal prong that makes you vomit to prepare you for the hallucinogenic experience to follow. I consider ‘half-inching’ one to avoid a hangover on my next night out!
It really could have come in handy as the following night I order a plate of cold meats and cheeses, not realising it’s meant to be shared by 2-3 people. Even the delicious Carmenère can’t wash it all down and ‘prongless’, I’m forced to take out a doggy bag and snack on the remains for the next few days.
We decide to take the funicular up St Christobel Hill. We also get a cable car to the Chilean style playground that has real steamrollers rather than plastic cars and stilt like totem poles rather than climbing frames. On the way back we enjoy splendid views of the Andes @ sunset as well as the less splendid smog that stifles the city below like an unwelcome blanket in a tropical motel. Maybe this is the cause of the general grumpiness here in Santiago, or maybe it’s a result of years of oppression under Pinochet. Whichever it is, we decide to find out if other parts of Chile suffer from the same malaise. We hire a car and head North West towards the twin tourist towns of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar.
North to Auckland
Airport security are intrigued by our food bag and ask us: ‘kint you git iny diry (dairy ie food) in Aucklind?’ We politely respond that we could but we already have some thanks and they good-humouredly let us through. We enjoy a short scenic flight over mountains and volcanoes before landing in the positively balmy 17 degrees of Auckland where the amusing steward almost convinces me to put my clock forward an hour for the North Island. We check into the snazzy Heritage hotel/apart where the only drawbacks are a scabby air-con system that hasn’t been cleaned in years and a total lack of kitchen equipment presumably designed to encourage people to order room service. We don’t fall for this cunning ruse, but rather head to the harbour for dinner overlooking an old NZ America’s Cup Yacht. I go for the budget special pork chops whilst enviously ogling Ruby and Harley’s freshly stone-grilled fillet steak – talk about spoilt….
The next day we are wandering around Sky City when we see an advert for the 192-metre 75kmh ‘freefall’ tower jump. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’ says Karen innocently and before I know it I’m ‘walking the plank’ at the top of New Zealand’s tallest building that makes the Eiffel Tower look like a bungalow. (Actually it is only 4 metres higher than the famous Parisian landmark, and I am only jumping from 2/3rds of the way up, but it’s still bloody high, believe me.) It’s actually a Base Wire jump as your back is attached to a line. The worst bit is having plucked up the courage to jump headfirst, you drop 2 storeys and are then stopped for a photo, whilst dangling, waiting for the inevitable gut-wrenching dive to earth. I was then offered a second go for free which was actually much more fun. This was possibly because the adrenaline of the first jump overpowered the fantastic sensation of freefall enjoyed second time round.
We couldn’t resist the Hop-on Hop-off city tour and enjoyed the Ecuadorian live music at Victoria Market that gave us a tantalising taste of the next leg of the trip to South America. We also stopped at the Auckland Museum for an authentic Maori music and dance show with much more besides the inevitable Haka finale. We had a chat to one of the performers afterwards who taught Harley to perfect the scary eyes and sticky out tongue. Ruby was only allowed to do scary eyes, as it is disrespectful for ladies to use tongues (Essex girls could learn a lot from the Maoris).
Coincidentally another dancer was from the same family as the Maori friend Karen was trying to track down. After several phone calls she finally got to meet Anthony who she last saw in 1990 on his honeymoon with Karen’s best friend Lucia. It was funny to hear how Karen scared the local Maori women with her craziness (some things never change), but sad to hear that Lucia had gone back to Canada with mental health problems.
I had some catching up to do of my own with 1st cousin Peter. It was good to hear his news and especially fun to hear his anecdotes about my Dad’s mischievous side. Particularly good was the one where he and Peter moved some signposts and then having told the story later that evening had to go and put them back again late at night at my Mum’s insistence. The other one involved my Dad dive-bombing the indigenous tribes whilst training pilots in North Africa during the war, upsetting the water pots delicately balanced on their heads. I think he would have got on well with Karen….
The next day we are wandering around Sky City when we see an advert for the 192-metre 75kmh ‘freefall’ tower jump. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’ says Karen innocently and before I know it I’m ‘walking the plank’ at the top of New Zealand’s tallest building that makes the Eiffel Tower look like a bungalow. (Actually it is only 4 metres higher than the famous Parisian landmark, and I am only jumping from 2/3rds of the way up, but it’s still bloody high, believe me.) It’s actually a Base Wire jump as your back is attached to a line. The worst bit is having plucked up the courage to jump headfirst, you drop 2 storeys and are then stopped for a photo, whilst dangling, waiting for the inevitable gut-wrenching dive to earth. I was then offered a second go for free which was actually much more fun. This was possibly because the adrenaline of the first jump overpowered the fantastic sensation of freefall enjoyed second time round.
We couldn’t resist the Hop-on Hop-off city tour and enjoyed the Ecuadorian live music at Victoria Market that gave us a tantalising taste of the next leg of the trip to South America. We also stopped at the Auckland Museum for an authentic Maori music and dance show with much more besides the inevitable Haka finale. We had a chat to one of the performers afterwards who taught Harley to perfect the scary eyes and sticky out tongue. Ruby was only allowed to do scary eyes, as it is disrespectful for ladies to use tongues (Essex girls could learn a lot from the Maoris).
Coincidentally another dancer was from the same family as the Maori friend Karen was trying to track down. After several phone calls she finally got to meet Anthony who she last saw in 1990 on his honeymoon with Karen’s best friend Lucia. It was funny to hear how Karen scared the local Maori women with her craziness (some things never change), but sad to hear that Lucia had gone back to Canada with mental health problems.
I had some catching up to do of my own with 1st cousin Peter. It was good to hear his news and especially fun to hear his anecdotes about my Dad’s mischievous side. Particularly good was the one where he and Peter moved some signposts and then having told the story later that evening had to go and put them back again late at night at my Mum’s insistence. The other one involved my Dad dive-bombing the indigenous tribes whilst training pilots in North Africa during the war, upsetting the water pots delicately balanced on their heads. I think he would have got on well with Karen….
Return to Christchurch
You guessed it, another long drive. This time we cross the great central mountain range that runs the length of the country. It’s the Gods’ upturned canoe from Maori legend and it sure is a big canoe. The landscape becomes less green and more barren and rocky for a while, before we drop down again into the fertile valleys on our approach back to Christchurch. With memories of sleepless nights next to a nightclub still fresh in our minds, we upgrade to the chichi Crowne Plaza. Here we meet one of Karen’s friends Chay for an evening of tag drinking. Karen does the 8-10 shift whilst I put the kids to bed, then I get tagged for the 10-1am stint. Chay is an ex-copper turned customs official and we enjoy a few beers and a bit of a chat. Luckily we narrowly avoid the nightclub, as he has to go to work the next day. (I just can’t understand these people who feel they have to all troop off miserably to work on a Monday morning!).
Smug bastard that I am, I get a deserved hangover from hell next morning, but have to get up for the planned trip to Hanmer Springs. I don’t know if it’s my head or the weather but this rave review spa town is a bit of a disappointment. We sit in the stinking sulphurous lukewarm pools, full of other people’s skin complaints, waiting for the rain to clear or at least warm up a bit. It doesn’t and to make matters worse our overpriced room is like a sitcom set from the 70’s. Make that the 50’s, as it’s not flares and flower power, but rather old over-friendly couples cordially inviting us to partake of an aperitif in the billiard room.
I’m really trying Karen’s patience with yet another ‘prostitute with tattoos’ aka scenic route, this time round more twisting ‘c’ roads to Kaikoura. Luckily this time the destination surpasses the journey with a great day out dolphin watching. We set off by boat past giant albatrosses and along a stunning coastline of green hills and snow-capped peaks contrasting against the azure sea. After half an hour we spot a gigantic ‘super pod’ of dolphins that all being well are supposed to interact with the divers who are on the ‘proper tour’ while we spectate for a cheaper price. The horn sounds and they all jump in, splashing and shouting to try to ‘connect’ with these graceful mammals. Sadly for the divers and comically for us, as soon as all the flippers touch the water, the dolphins scarper sharpish, the horn sounds again and all the divers have to drag themselves back onto the boat. This farce is repeated a dozen times but Delphinidae Annoyingbastardus won’t play ball and the divers are knackered. Meanwhile we get a bird’s eye view of the dolphin gymnastics and ‘keel riding’ over hot cocoa and biscuits. Later we drive round to a seal colony. We are warned not to go too close and Harley and I take good heed. Karen and Ruby on the other hand can’t resist and whilst slowly approaching a big old male get surprised by a close range bark from the side as another seal pops out from behind a tree. They both nearly jump out of their skins and it is hilarious to watch – from a safe distance of course. We round off the day with fresh hot crayfish and a bottle of red at a recommended roadside shack – this is the best meal in a long time and we’ve had some good ones.
We drive back at dusk to the snazzy Millennium Hotel where we have to sneak the kids in the back door as they charge a rip-off NZ$140 for each extra person in a double room regardless of age. I feel morally justified as this really is taking the piss.
Smug bastard that I am, I get a deserved hangover from hell next morning, but have to get up for the planned trip to Hanmer Springs. I don’t know if it’s my head or the weather but this rave review spa town is a bit of a disappointment. We sit in the stinking sulphurous lukewarm pools, full of other people’s skin complaints, waiting for the rain to clear or at least warm up a bit. It doesn’t and to make matters worse our overpriced room is like a sitcom set from the 70’s. Make that the 50’s, as it’s not flares and flower power, but rather old over-friendly couples cordially inviting us to partake of an aperitif in the billiard room.
I’m really trying Karen’s patience with yet another ‘prostitute with tattoos’ aka scenic route, this time round more twisting ‘c’ roads to Kaikoura. Luckily this time the destination surpasses the journey with a great day out dolphin watching. We set off by boat past giant albatrosses and along a stunning coastline of green hills and snow-capped peaks contrasting against the azure sea. After half an hour we spot a gigantic ‘super pod’ of dolphins that all being well are supposed to interact with the divers who are on the ‘proper tour’ while we spectate for a cheaper price. The horn sounds and they all jump in, splashing and shouting to try to ‘connect’ with these graceful mammals. Sadly for the divers and comically for us, as soon as all the flippers touch the water, the dolphins scarper sharpish, the horn sounds again and all the divers have to drag themselves back onto the boat. This farce is repeated a dozen times but Delphinidae Annoyingbastardus won’t play ball and the divers are knackered. Meanwhile we get a bird’s eye view of the dolphin gymnastics and ‘keel riding’ over hot cocoa and biscuits. Later we drive round to a seal colony. We are warned not to go too close and Harley and I take good heed. Karen and Ruby on the other hand can’t resist and whilst slowly approaching a big old male get surprised by a close range bark from the side as another seal pops out from behind a tree. They both nearly jump out of their skins and it is hilarious to watch – from a safe distance of course. We round off the day with fresh hot crayfish and a bottle of red at a recommended roadside shack – this is the best meal in a long time and we’ve had some good ones.
We drive back at dusk to the snazzy Millennium Hotel where we have to sneak the kids in the back door as they charge a rip-off NZ$140 for each extra person in a double room regardless of age. I feel morally justified as this really is taking the piss.
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