Fortified by a Cactus beer at the
Rodeo, we found a back road that circumnavigated Santiago and pointed us in the
direction of the coast and the Pacific Ocean. It was already late, having waved
farewell to lovely Alfredo and his horse, been unwelcome in Santiago, watched a
Rodeo and clocked up 180kms, so when we rounded a sharp curve and steep hill
down into the little town of Curacavi, we decided to call it a day. We bought
basic supper/breakfast provisions at a supermarket and googled a campsite. How Lucky, one right here. And this is where
the difference between ‘camping’ and ‘camping’ became apparent. One means ‘picnic’
and one means ‘pitch a tent for the night’. The one we found meant ‘picnic’. No
amount of smiling and arm waving could persuade them to have us pitch our tent
on their lawns. “Why do you want a campsite? All camping is free at the rivers”, said the nice
Gary. Before we throttled him, he mentioned that they have very nice comfortable
cabanas at a reasonable price of 15 euros. The bike was parked safe and secure
right outside the front door to our cabin under a vine bearing the tiniest
sweetest yellow grapes. Perfect for breakfast.  |
The next morning we follow route 68 to the coast
and experience the first of many roller-coaster rides that go round and round
and down, down then up, up at all angles and speeds mostly accompanied by WIND.
Wind that blows you forwards, backwards and even sideways. A northern wind is a
tailwind, but turning to the left or right around the curves is another story.
It’s head-on or a sideways whack. Fortunately the roads are wide enough to accommodate the buses and trucks that are ever present. The ride into Valparaiso is pretty damn
terrifying, so when we got to Papadu, the icecream, and a photo-shoot
of Pelicans restored our equilibrium.  |
The navigator showed a campsite (with
a tent sign) at Les Molles, which would bring our day’s ride up to 238kms. Just
about right. A few turns over passovers and ramps found us at the entrance to
the campsite: down a very steep gravel road, which got steeper as it went on
towards the reception area. For some reason I have developed a bit of an
aversion to gravel and steepness and with a pounding heart started the descent
on the back of the bike. Halfway down, my fears overcame my bravery and I screamed
“stop, stop, I have to get off”. Silly me. B can’t stop a bike halfway down a
slope!! We pulled up outside reception, on the level, and I leapt off the bike.
Shaking. Control yourself, Girl!
After a few minutes of deep breathing and with
a smile on my face I approached the lady at the desk. “Buenos, Camping, por favour”
and made the shape of a tent and pointed to the motorbike.
The reply was curt
and to the point “ No”.
I stood there, shocked and
speechless.
Not exactly the reply I had expected.
Doing a quick about turn I stepped
out of her office, stood in the parking sandpit, raised my arms skywards and in
a most unholy exaltation shouted very loudly
“I HATE *&^%^&* CHILE,
NO
PARKING,
NO CAMPING,
NO MOTORCYCLES,
I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE”.
Tantrum over,
B and I set about searching on Google for a ‘campsite near you’:
30kms away!
Perhaps!
Just as we resigned ourselves to
another hour’s ride and search, the receptionist appeared with a phone in her
hand, holding it out to me. “Hello”, I said and a male voice replied ”Hello, we
have found a site for you. It is at the end where we usually park the
campercars. Will that be alright?”
“Yes, thank you”. I gasped,
before he changed his mind. And so B rode about a kilometre down the sandy
track passing tents, landcruisers, geodesic domes and I walked. I just want to
feel the ground beneath my feet. We had a beautiful site, with a clear view of
the pounding Pacific, albeit a bit windswept. Nevermind, we lashed our guy
ropes to the fence and picnic table and watched the sunset. Peace was restored
in the Niemann Camp.
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