This was what we had been
searching for. A chance to rest B’s ribs and have a good night’s sleep. We were
welcomed at Chita Que Lindo by a grey horse who fancied a munch on the
panniers. B led him gently away on his rope and looped it around a tree beyond
chomping distance. We delayed the unpack and pitch and, seeing another couple
bathing in the pebbled lake, were encouraged to slip into our cozzies and do
the same. We stopped at ankle depth: the water was decidedly too chilly for us.
And then a big bloke on a small Honda putt-putted alongside our bike. With a
huge smile he introduced himself as the owner, Alfredo. A convivial afternoon
in the sun chatting with this charming man added to the fabulous ambiance:
dappled light, dappled horse and dappled toes.
Alfred is a third generation
Chilean descendant from grandparents who fled WW2 and Czechoslovakia (as it was then) where his
grandfather bought this piece of land. The land was subsequently split in two
by the RN5 and the land on the other side of the highway was sold and now houses a very
grand Hotel and Casino complex. It is such a contrast to where we are camping,
back to nature with wooden picnic tables and benches, basic ablutions and a
lake. Supper was a delicious bowl of Trucker’s Soup at the Trucker’s Stop on
the highway next door to the entrance to ChitaQuelindo. “Any bikers out there?
This is the place for you”. We were guarded by a few campdogs and had a really restful
sleep. (The ribs are getting better). In fact we were so rested that after the
tent was packed away and the bike loaded up, we sat awhile in the sun sipping
our tea and gave upon the chit-chat for a while, just absorbing the peace and
quiet and natural beauty, watched over by the grazing horse. That is until I asked B “where did we sleep last
night?” Looking slightly astonished he
answered” Right there”! In my most
senior moment ever I turned to look at the blank space where the tent had been and
burst out laughing. I had been light years away from the Motorcycle Adventure Travel
Zone so the reality check back to earth was both alarming and hilarious.
The charming Alfredo presented us with a
memento flaglet when we waved farewell in the morning.
Our destination today was a Rodeo
show the other side of Santiago in Batuco. We like the challenge of riding
through big cities. We’ve ridden through most of the capital cities of Europe
and Asia, so why not Santiago. We have found most cities to be bike friendly, providing
parking above or underground, or alongside a pavement bistro/café. NOT SO in
Santiago! No motorbike allowed, no motorbike allowed. We saw the signs
everywhere. We started down an underground ramp, too late to stop, carried on,
with yellow jacketed Marshalls speaking into their walkie-talkie shoulders, No!
No! and after a few loops, pooped out on the Exit ramp. Nowhere to park. Nowhere
to even stop. We even asked a policemen when we were at a red traffic light,
No! No! No motorbikes!
“%^&*” we exclaimed to each
other and left Santiago as fast as we could.
Batuco is an almost shanty town
north of Santiago, but the sign to the Rodeo are big and bold and Professional.
It’s the run-up to the National Championship. Alfredo had warned us that the
Traditional Chilean Rodeo is not very nice. The idea is that the ‘driving’ of
cattle is now a sport of regional pride and pain. Two horses bump a cow vigorously,
squashed between their chests and front hooves, driving it into a padded cushion
until it falls over. The horse gets just as much punishment with spurs and sticks
being jabbed into its ribs by the riders. The paraphernalia that accompanies this
sport must cost a packet and the heat produced by sweating horses, riders and
anxious cow in the afternoon sun, encouraged us to leave after a few rounds. We
went, we saw and the poor cow got conquered.
If I was a horse, I know which
horse I would like to be: the dappled one munching sweet grass in the dappled
light by the pebble lake.
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