Hitting the desert, the pisco sours, and a moral judgment on Pablo Neruda

As Joe has gone out to watch the Man Utd match, I have a rare opportunity to get my hands on his toy - the iPad. We are in San Pedro de Atacama, a village in the middle of the desert in northern Chile, although we might as well be in Camden. The place is strewn with Brits, Americans, Germans and all manner of knitted Bob Marley hoodies and ethno-tat. Still, the surrounding landscapes are supposed to be stunning, and so we have a 4am start tomorrow to see some geysers that selfishly spout highest at sunrise. Not sure about the science behind that. We have also booked a 3-day jeep tour to take us across the salt flats to Bolivia: just us, the flamingoes and tin boxes full of altitude-sick gringos. Apparently alcohol and red meat do not mix well with crossing the high plains, so we will have to change our current lifestyle. 

A quick re-cap on Santiago, which really is a city that grows on you. There's no pressure to see such-and-such 18th century church, or museum of pre-Colombian art (we've swerved a few of those already), so you're free to wander the streets and parks guilt-free. The place is full of cyclists and has the most gorgeous public swimming pool on a peak overlooking the Andes. I felt right at home there, seeing as a) most of the Chileans were doing doggy-paddle or a typical Plumridge head-in-the-air crawl and b) I'm also almost average height for a Chilean. It also felt lovely to be staying with a family rather than in an anonymous hostel, and to be improving our Spanish. The city is rather heart-breakingly full of stray dogs - like much of South America - but of a particularly charming nature. One or two followed us round for ages, stopping with us at pedestrian crossings then trotting on ahead to scout the way. It almost made me like the little critters. Joe of course stops for a photo with any cat that hangs around long enough to be picked up. We will de-flea him in Bolivia.

From Santiago on to Valparaíso, with incredible perched houses, graffiti-decorated alleys, and views over a naval port. The reappearance of the sun may have helped my mood, but sipping pisco sour on a restaurant terrace and looking down on seagulls while a breeze ruffled the tablecloths was really perfect. It's the kind of city you can really get lost in, both literally, and metaphorically on the piscos. Joe has also mentioned our visit to (two of) Pablo Neruda's houses, Chile's most famous poet. The one by the sea in Isla Negra is absolutely beautiful. It is in his words 'narrow like Chile' and has a series of inter-linked rooms and long corridors full of ships in bottles, Easter island sculptures, astrolabes, paper mâché horses, tapestries etc. What no one mentions is that the man was clearly an absolute rat - he left two wives, and installed his mistress (eventually wife number three) in a house across the river in Santiago for some stressfree in-marital nooky. He also seems to have had rather cosy relations with a female artist called Maria, the mind boggles. Still, his poetry is rather good and his collection of shells unrivalled, so posterity forgives him.

Our Spanish meanwhile is improving, and I feel with a few more weeks' study we could have been "true proficients". Perhaps that is a convenient excuse, but it is certainly getting easier to communicate as we travel round. For a bit of linguistic fun, here are a few Spanish translations of people's names - yes, the hours just fly by in our company!!

Linda: lovely

Lisa: straight

Dolores: pains 

Mona: monkey

Clara: egg yolk

Camilla: small bed in an ambulance

Mona Lisa: straight monkey

That's all for now, am sure Bolivia will provide more than adequate fodder for our blog...