This trip actually happened a while ago but Man Abroad is seriously under staffed at the moment so you'll have to dolmio grin and bear it. I have actually moved down south from Santiago to a Mapuche (native Chilean) farm near Pucón but I'll save that blogging magnificence for a later date. Ok, this was a little camping trip to a place maybe two hours from Santiago with seven others from the residence. A straightforward little camping trip you say? Fuck no. Enjoyable yes, but with the safety of hindsight only. The story will unravel from here. This picture is of French dude Camille, German chick Christina and myself. Also this entry uses various images taken by both Camille and Christina. I can't remember which ones and I can't be fucked working it out so this is their credit here. And please bear in mind that when I was invited to go camping THIS is the type of terrain I was envisaging we camp in.
All pretty innocent so far, I have even managed to work up a sweat enough to take some layers off.
What's that yellow thing over there? Looks like a Tonka Truck... but if it is that far away... maybe it is...
...a real fucking truck that has rolled off the edge of the cliff!
The road on the other side of the river/valley bit carved a nice looking straight line in the mountain. If you squint hard enough or click the image to zoom you will see a bus cruising along to give you a sense of scale!
Ok, looks like we are getting a little higher here. All good though, walking hard uphill 'n that.
Little bit higher again hey? Now here, pay attention to my clothes and my equipment. I am wearing tight black jeans, street sneakers, a long sleeve t-shirt under a short sleeve t-shirt, a crustily thin (but wicked) 1970's sports jacket and a sweet as hell black leather hoody. In my arms is a $10 tent from the supermarket. Attached to my city slicker back pack is a borrowed sleeping bag the size of a small roast chicken. And in the back pack are the following items: fingerless gloves from Smith Street, a scarf, tissues, an extra pair of undies and socks, 1.5 litres of the cheapest wine available AND NOTHING MORE.
Needless to say when we hit this terrain I started to shit myself, both from the nipply weather and the thought of Delia reading in the Adelaide Advertiser about another pack of gringos perishing in the Andes. Only Spanish Maria Long Hair seemed to share my doubts about our projected lifespans.
Have a fucking look at it!
Apparently THIS is the campsite we were looking for! I would have died well and truly before managing to pitch that supermarket tent. Luckily we bumped into some real (but seriously creepy) trekkers that suggested that perhaps we descend a little. Thank Christ Almighty we did. They also seemed overly keen to take group photos with us, which I assume had something to do with our lack of suitable equipment and my stunning but hideously inadequate attire.
We got down a little bit to somewhere looking like this and found some flat-ish land.
So we started setting up the three tents, a four-person tent and two x two-person tents. This is Aina trying to set up the four person tent in hard core gail force winds. That is, until it was discovered that the outer covering was fucking missing! A quick discussion and the consensus was unanimous: Fuck it, let's get back to the village. The only problem being it was a two to three hour walk and we had maybe an hour left of light. There was a road we could follow so it wouldn't have been impossible just serious dodgy with three penlight torches and cliffs.
Shortly after, we stumbled across this Wolfcreek like abandoned shanty hut. My initial reaction to the suggestion we sleep in it was: I don't fucking think so amigos. I didn't want to wake up in the night with John Jarratt chainsawing me or having rabid dogs eat out my crotch. However, options were limited and I was freezing my titties off at this point.
For maybe five minutes I saw the most amazing and fastest sunset of my life.
Here it is in all it's glory, Le Shack de Morir.
Felix the German was in charge of lighting the fire (in difficult conditions I will concede) for the chorizo dinner. Yes, he eventually got it going but took a few too many liberties with his military instructions to: Blow more, blow less, blow upside, more charcoal, too much charcoal, switch to sticks, switch back to charcoal, now alternate charcoal and sticks, blow harder, blow more but less harder and more upside, get a stick and rub it anti-clockwise in charcoal whilst blowing downside across the flames and place it facing east NOW!
I have always said chorizo tastes better served on tent pegs.
We managed (out of shear necessity) to sleep eight people across in a space that would comfortably fit four. I foolishy opted for head-to-toe meaning my precious shaved head faced the uncloseable door AND I got foot-tapped all night on the head on one side by Spanish Alvaro and, more or less, continuously roundhouse kicked by Christina who also used my feet as a pillow. I have never before (A) slept in all my clothes, (B) slept so fucking cold and (3) willingly zipped up the bag, forgoing oxygen, to retain carbon dioxide for warmth.
If I actually slept, I woke up alive. And we bailed pretty much immediately. The walk back was uneventful, except when we arrived back at the town that is divided be a river/valley thingo, there are only two bridges across that were very far apart. One we had already passed and the other a long way off. A bitch but we made it...
This amazing The Last Supper-esque photo (taken by me) is us eating a quick and hideously expensive order-first-then-we-will-rape-you-for-cash-afterwards lunch. It is here that we learned that not only was there no bus coming to take us back to Santiago today (Monday) but that there wouldn't be another until Saturday. Not sure what happened there but I am pretty sure that Germaniac Felix was to blame. So it was hitch hike or convince a local to drive us to Santiago for cash. All worked out though, some dude drove us back for not too much more than the bus price.
A sweet photo of Spanish Maria Long Hair and German Maximo (or Maxi Pad as I called him much to my private amusement). So, a perilous camping trip indeed but there are many stories in it to (exaggerate furthermore) and tell the grand children.
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