26 Zapallar

Holidays and short breaks
Argentina (2001)
Chile (2002)
India (2003)
World trip (2005-2006)
Libya (2008)

Pictures
1 Croydon to Arica
2 Arica, Azapa Valley
3 Arica, Panam + Codpa
4 Arica, PN Lauca
5 Calama
6 Chuquicamata
7 Salar de Atacama
8 San Pedro de Atacama
9 Tatio and Puritama
10 Santiago
11 Santiago to Pucón
12 Pucón
13 Pucón, a lazy day
14 Termas de San Luis
15 Pucón, horse ride
16 Puerto Varas
17 Ancud
18 Chiloé
19 Chiloé, pinguineria
20 Puerto Varas, casino
21 Torres del Paine
22 Torres del Paine
23 Torres del Paine
24 Torres del Paine
25 Zapallar
26 Zapallar
27 Zapallar, rodeo
28 Long trip home

Chile

Friday 29 November 2002

We’re planning to have a few lazy days in Zapallar, on the beach and by the pool. After a late breakfast we first take up a spot on the terrace to catch up on diaries; we’re now several days behind. The weather is overcast, not the hot sunny beach weather we had hoped for. We figure it will clear up later; someone Ness was talking to last night said it usually does. It’s nearly 3pm by the time we’re done! We also thought of buying some souvenirs and presents while here. Where can we get a proper poncho? I had enquired at reception who told us the nearby town of La Ligua would be good and I mentioned we’d probably take a taxi around 4pm-ish. The hotel had taken this as a definite intent and already booked a car for us.

Our taxi (grandpa in a clapped out van) takes us to a proper tabarteria in La Ligua where we provide the shopkeeper with some turista entertainment. The shop is the real deal, not a tourist outlet, and is full of ponchos, manchas, whips, spurs, saddles, sombreros and various other bits associated with huaso life and horsemanship. We leave with $93,000 worth of “honest pruck” [Footnote: Brian Kenan, in Between Extremes]; poncho for Ness, mancha, sombrero and mean-looking spurs are my acquisitions, and a picture with the owner. I feel like a real turista-fool but happy that we have found some authentic stuff. As a bonus we manage to do a Bernie in the square, which is crowded with groups of schoolchildren in uniforms being led by their teachers, something to do with the national “Teleton”. Then we drive back to the hotel. On the way up grandpa had given a lift to a younger woman (she was already in the van when he picked us up) dropping her off at the outskirts of La Ligua. It made us laugh that grandpa stopped at the railway crossing to look both ways – the track showed no signs of use for a very long time.

The sun has come out now and it actually feels warm. Back at the hotel we change into swimsuits and head for the pool. There are a few other guests scattered around the pool on sun loungers, but no-one is actually swimming in the pool. We’re undaunted and jump in, well, Ness does, I gradually wade in. The water feels cold at first but gets better once actually in. It’s a grown-ups pool but I still play “submarine” while Ness tries to do lengths. We dry off in the sunshie and have beers and picadas. After changing and showering we go for a walk along the shore and beach, aiming for the town centre. Zapallar feels very exclusive and rich. Big smart houses are dotted along the shore, set among trees and abundant colourful flowers. We pass an older man who is sat looking out over the sea. He catches up with us while we’re taking some pictures. He takes a few of us together with a shaky hand, and then we stroll on for a bit together. “There are no restaurants in Zapallar, apart from that one”, he says pointing to a building at the other end of the beach. “But you could try this one”, he says handing us a crumpled card from the L’Ermitage, a restaurant which is a short drive of town with a French owner. He tells us there are no taxis. We can tell he is thinking about something, some way to help us out, but it isn’t clear what. We take the card, thank him and walk on while he waits for his wife at another bench. We haven’t gone much further when he beckons us back. “My wife has bought a bíííg fish and I don’t like it, so why don’t you come to our home for dinner?” Just then his wife, with her friend from Buenos Aires, comes round the corner. Her English is better than his and we exchange courtesies, then I try to decline in a polite manner, which I think I managed. Afterwards we concluded that the husband was hoping to have some company while his wife and her friend chatted away over dinner.

We continue walking, up to the restaurant (which is empty) and then up the path behind the restaurant, up the hill and past very smart houses, hoping to find the town centre. It eludes us (actually, there is no “centre”), but we do find a Mercado and buy a torch to replace the one we lost – we’ll need it on the way back. Some general hilarity in the mercado when I enquire about the whereabouts of Zapallar Bernie – it turns out this is a non-Bernie town! The beachfront restaurant will have to do for dinner. Aahh… what a great spot to spend one of our last evenings in Chile. On the terrace, table pour deux, candle-lit, the beach no more than five feet away from our table, the sound of the Pacific waves breaking as background music (and jazz/Charleston and “I did it my way”) Dinner is good – congrio for Ness, razor clams and sea bass for me. We even have room for dessert (the Spanish “postre” for “dessert” has been translated into English as “prostrate” on the menu, which I can’t help explaining to Daniel, the waiter) It’s one of those evenings neither of us wants to end, but eventually we head back along the beach. The torch comes in handy. I’m a bit wary of getting mugged on the way back but have to remind myself that this is a peaceful seaside exclusive retreat, not a busy town. With full bellies and slightly sozzled heads the climb up to the hotel is quite tough but we make it into the wood-panelled bar for a final drink before crashing out. Aahh… wonderful evening.

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