No goats in the city, sorry...
Another day, another bus to catch, and so I set off for the brief trudge back across town, pondering how the mist that had dogged my steps in Niebla the previous day had now made it into Valdivia itself, and thus how my sandals were not necessarily the most appropriate footwear, as the chilliness of the morning set in. Glorying in the short trip that allowed for a departure at a sensible time, I was there in plenty of time and got myself settled in for the 3 hours or so up to Pucon. On arrival there, I dodged past the usual throng of touts, happily assuring them that I already had a reservation and thus that I did not require any help with accommodation.
My destination there was a quiet little place called The TreeHouse. I was slightly intrigued by the place, as it was owned by two guides for Journey Latin America, one of the companies with which I had worked whilst at Trailfinders. Only one of them was in residence at the time, Sarah, a fellow Brit - her business partner (and also, I later discovered, ex-boyfriend) Cristian is Chilean. Over the course of the next couple of days, particularly one later evening of asado and wine, I got to chat with Sarah a bit more, and one of my favourite of her stories concerned the original name she had planned for the hostel - the Escape-Goat. Now, quite apart from the fact that you really have to be a native English-speaker to appreciate the truly dreadful punning humour, this turned out to have a drawback - Sarah was firmly convinced that a hostel with such a name should have at least one actual goat present, but when she mentioned this to the official handling her inquiry, he told her that he was very sorry, but the property is in the urban zone of Pucon, and the goat is most definitely a rural animal. Dogs, cats or even a couple of chickens would be permissible but not, unfortunately, a goat.
This story just serves to highlight one of the small things that keeps reminding me that I'm in Chile rather than Argentina - the bureaucracy. The Chileans appear to be absolute suckers for rules and paperwork (more legacy of the German influence, perhaps...?) such that you can expect to be given a receipt for pretty much anything. Any payment you make for a meal in a restaurant or a cafe, you must be given a receipt. When you buy a bus or train ticket, it is also a receipt. When you check into a hostel, you are given a receipt. Even the internet cafes will sometimes give you receipts. Another change would be the absence of people religiously indulging their mate addiction - in Argentina, and especially in Uruguay, it is totally normal to see people wandering around on a baking hot day fervently clasping their thermos flask of hot water and their mate cup. And there is never any problem with getting change in Chile, whereas in Argentina (especially Buenos Aires) it has to be hoarded jealously against the time you need it.
At any rate, after getting my stuff settled into my dorm at the Treehouse, I headed off for a bit of a walk around town, and to get some food and some internet time. The former was accomplished at a wonderful little establishment called Volcamburguer - the volcano theme is pretty much ever-present in Pucon, given that the town is dominated both geographically and in terms of tourist activities by the mighty Volcan Villarica - climbing this (and often sliding at least part of the way back down) is for many people their raison d'etre for coming to the town. Having had yet another proof of the Chilean tendency to add avocado and sauerkraut to anything sandwich-like, I checked my e-mails and headed back to the hostel, where I settled in with a glass of wine and a book, and had a sandwich whilst I waited for Ross.
Now the more obsessive amongst my readership may remember Ross from back in southern Brasil and my first days in Argentina, when we had basically ended up almost shadowing each other to start with and then travelled in tandem for a while. I had briefly bumped into him by the bus station in El Calafate, but it now turned out that we were not only in the same town again, but the same hostel, and in fact the same dorm. Small world. Ross was now travelling with another friend of his from home, Steve, and it turned out the two of them had been walking in Huerquehue National Park that day, so they didn't get back until relatively late. When they did, we just sat and had a drink and played cards for a while before surrendering to the inevitable and crashing out.
My destination there was a quiet little place called The TreeHouse. I was slightly intrigued by the place, as it was owned by two guides for Journey Latin America, one of the companies with which I had worked whilst at Trailfinders. Only one of them was in residence at the time, Sarah, a fellow Brit - her business partner (and also, I later discovered, ex-boyfriend) Cristian is Chilean. Over the course of the next couple of days, particularly one later evening of asado and wine, I got to chat with Sarah a bit more, and one of my favourite of her stories concerned the original name she had planned for the hostel - the Escape-Goat. Now, quite apart from the fact that you really have to be a native English-speaker to appreciate the truly dreadful punning humour, this turned out to have a drawback - Sarah was firmly convinced that a hostel with such a name should have at least one actual goat present, but when she mentioned this to the official handling her inquiry, he told her that he was very sorry, but the property is in the urban zone of Pucon, and the goat is most definitely a rural animal. Dogs, cats or even a couple of chickens would be permissible but not, unfortunately, a goat.
This story just serves to highlight one of the small things that keeps reminding me that I'm in Chile rather than Argentina - the bureaucracy. The Chileans appear to be absolute suckers for rules and paperwork (more legacy of the German influence, perhaps...?) such that you can expect to be given a receipt for pretty much anything. Any payment you make for a meal in a restaurant or a cafe, you must be given a receipt. When you buy a bus or train ticket, it is also a receipt. When you check into a hostel, you are given a receipt. Even the internet cafes will sometimes give you receipts. Another change would be the absence of people religiously indulging their mate addiction - in Argentina, and especially in Uruguay, it is totally normal to see people wandering around on a baking hot day fervently clasping their thermos flask of hot water and their mate cup. And there is never any problem with getting change in Chile, whereas in Argentina (especially Buenos Aires) it has to be hoarded jealously against the time you need it.
At any rate, after getting my stuff settled into my dorm at the Treehouse, I headed off for a bit of a walk around town, and to get some food and some internet time. The former was accomplished at a wonderful little establishment called Volcamburguer - the volcano theme is pretty much ever-present in Pucon, given that the town is dominated both geographically and in terms of tourist activities by the mighty Volcan Villarica - climbing this (and often sliding at least part of the way back down) is for many people their raison d'etre for coming to the town. Having had yet another proof of the Chilean tendency to add avocado and sauerkraut to anything sandwich-like, I checked my e-mails and headed back to the hostel, where I settled in with a glass of wine and a book, and had a sandwich whilst I waited for Ross.
Now the more obsessive amongst my readership may remember Ross from back in southern Brasil and my first days in Argentina, when we had basically ended up almost shadowing each other to start with and then travelled in tandem for a while. I had briefly bumped into him by the bus station in El Calafate, but it now turned out that we were not only in the same town again, but the same hostel, and in fact the same dorm. Small world. Ross was now travelling with another friend of his from home, Steve, and it turned out the two of them had been walking in Huerquehue National Park that day, so they didn't get back until relatively late. When they did, we just sat and had a drink and played cards for a while before surrendering to the inevitable and crashing out.
posted by Pat at 12:00 pm
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