It´s easy for a South American virgin like myself to fall into the trap of thinking that, because they share a language, so much geography and such a looong border with each other, Chile must be quite a lot like Argentina.
Well, after a mere fortnight spent in the longest country in the world (and a good chunk of that on a boat), I hang my head and humbly apologise to the Chilean people for my foolishness.
Much of Argentina has a feeling of a work in progress, with many towns resembling campsites, and the culture similarly feels new.
From what I have seen so far, Chile is firmly established, developed, ingrained and refined and feels much older. I have just spent a few days with Richard and Jon (yes, I´m back on the You Only Live Twice Tour) in the coastal town of Valparaiso, a couple of hours drive from Santiago, and have been totally absorbed by its fascinating architecture, people, culture and well, just its Chileanness.
The city rests on the side several very step hills, necessitating an assortment of rickety little elevator cars dotted around to assist the less able-bodied citizens around the town. The buildings are crammed together higgledy-piggledy, built almost on top of one another, many teetering dangerously on the brink of sheer drops and sometimes held up by tree roots or wooden struts. They are all different styles, different materials (in one street you could have wood, brick, stone and corrugated steel) and painted in wild colours, designs and often fantastic art or graffiti.
You don´t need to plan much and can spend your days simply walking around admiring the vivacity that created such an organized mess. On one of our wanderings, slightly aggravated after having my camera deftly removed from my bag by one of Valparaiso´s less friendly inhabitants, we walked into a tiny, grimy bar for a much needed beer.
The other punters were all aging inebriates, sitting in well-worn spots for their daily dose of red wine. Now, Richard speaks pretty good Spanish. This comes in extremely handy in a negotiation with a hostel manager or a waiter, but it does mean that you can sometimes make unexpected new friends. At the next table was a sixty-something white-haired man with very few teeth, well into his second jug of merlot at 2pm on a Monday afternoon. He introduced himself as Tony Sombrero, ex-circus clown and father of 20 kids from five different wives, and offered to show us a few of his skills. The jukebox came on and suddenly he was dancing around the bar with a paper cone balanced expertly on his nose and the rest of the bar clapping along.
The barman looked deeply unimpressed, but we rewarded old Tony with another jug of red and he was so pleased he offered to make me wife number six. I have now been christened La Reina de la Inglaterra and kissed three times by a Chilean clown. Now THAT wouldn´t have happened in Argentina.
Suscribirse a:
Enviar comentarios (Atom)
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario