Bound to the hound

Bound to the hound

Between Bahia Ingles and Santiago is La Serena. Very much a part travelling as a couple is spending some quality apart, and so it was that I was sitting alone on a bench in the central plaza. My few items of clothing had the benefit of a washing machine for a considerable time and shaving hadn't been high on my list of priorities of late. A bloody scar still marked my forehead and for all intents and purposes I looked somewhere between a traveller and a vagrant. That seesaw was tipped firmly into the vagrant position when a stray dog approached and i was foolish enough to make the slightest eye contact with him. The game was up, in that instant he knew he'd found his rightful master and he knew we would be inseparable from here out, man and dog, dog and man. I left the the square and headed towards town and as I had expected, he followed. I went into banks, he waited outside, undeterred by the physical attempts of security guards to move him on. I went into shopping malls, libraries, cafes and each time upon my exit, was met with a wagging tail. If, for the slightest moment, he thought he'd lost me, there was instant panic on his little doggy face and a desperate search to find me followed. The thought then occurred to me, how was it all going to end? I couldn't think of a happy ending. So I told him in firm tones that he was unwanted and shooed him away. I told him he was a bad dog and he crept away with tail between his legs and the most hurt look in face. I had to be hard nosed and hold back the tears until he was out of sight.
In fact thats what I should have done, but I'm far too much of a coward. What I actually did was this. Whilst walking along the high street, Sandy happily trotted ahead a few paces, I saw my opportunity, noticed an alley to my left, and before I knew what I was doing, I darted inside. Through the shop window I could see his frantic searching but to my eternal shame I hid in the alley until he continued his search further up the street and then sloped off back the way I came, tail very much between my own legs.

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The incident

The incident
Things didn't begin well in Bahia Ingles, we arrived in the small holiday beach town just before Xmas. A fruitless search for a cheap and friendly hostel meant spending a few nights in a not cheap and (it turns out) not friendly apartment. But an apartment nonetheless close to the beach and with some good views, both in and out. A morning's snoozing on the beach was followed by a well earned siesta for me whilst fay got on with some washing in the bathroom. I quickly fell into a deep slumber, so deep, and fay so engrossed in the washing, that we were entirely unaware of some scally enjoying the view into the apartment too much, hopping a gate, through an open window and helping themselves to Fay's not inexpensive camera. Judging by the (non) response of the police, crime in Bahia Ingles is not normally on the menu, but they provided us with a certificate for insurance and to ensure there were no problems with the claim, Fay took a statement, in Spanish, from the apparently enthusiastically helpful apartment owner. A statement that was promptly submitted to the insurance company in the UK, and which was later translated as saying 'due to their own negligence in leaving a window open the burglary took place'. Grrrrrrr, some people.

There followed a couple of days on the beach, interspersed with calls to insurance companies and seafood that for Fay carried a fishy taste of resentment. The camera had been her constant companion and she took it's loss hard. Not too soon it became time to move on and so we headed to the nearby town to buy some bus tickets to Santiago. I found the Turbus office and left Fay in the library where we had been stealing some free wifi.

I had spent some time, albeit not enough, learning Spanish before I left and in Bolivia and Peru it had been steadily improving and my confidence with it. As soon as we crossed the border into Chile, I may as well have been learning Welsh. With this is mind I wanted to start somewhere easy and buying bus tickets seemed the perfect opportunity. "A que hora la ultimo bus a Santiago?" which, whilst undoubtedly not perfect Spanish, was understood and from there on the conversation went well and I was feeling pretty happy and pleased not to have made a fool out of myself in front of the queue. I paid the lady, flashed her a satisfied smile, picked up my tickets with an exaggerated flourish, then turned and walked out at full pelt, face first into the column that stood in the middle of the office. The sound was huge and I didn't realise straight away (being concust) but I had blood pouring from the gash across my forehead. There was a moment of confusion, everyone stunned, and I did the only thing any right minded man could do, and that was to run, head down, stumbling in a fog of embarrassment back to the library to greet Fay and the library staff with a manic grin and blood soaked face.

The scar is still there, like half a ligtning strike across my forehead, a constant reminder, not that I'm a gifted (if annoying) young wizard who will save the earth many times over, but that I'm a man who walks head first into brick pillars.

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Draking

Draking

'Who here's BRITISH?' a voice bellowed and startled myself and the only other two people, a German couple, sitting at the other table in the cafe. The idyllic setting for this next mini saga is Pan de Azucar, on the coast in middle Chile. It is a remote and deserted but beautiful area of coastline. It has dangerous seas, high winds and long, white, sandy beaches, interrupted by jagged hills protruding into the sea. There is a camp site on the beach and at the end of the dirt road a tiny fishing village, made up of about 5 shacks and a makeshift cafe, at which the Germans and I had until very recently been enjoying a relaxing moment of calm. Little did any of us know that this very place, the Pan de Azucar or 'Sugar Loaf' had once been the setting for a wholly forgettable and insignificant event in the life of Sir Francis Drake which, if he were still alive, no doubt even he would have entirely forgotten about. But one man hasn't, and that man is Michael Turner, inventor of that unstoppable feast of a new craze, Draking ( www.indrakeswake.co.uk ). Ruddy faced, sunburnt and mostly naked, he is the epitome of and eccentric Englishman. As far as i could see it, there was only one option in response to his question of nationality and that was to keep very very quiet, still, and try and look as non English as possible. I opted for a permanent gallic shrug and sneer in the hope he would think me French. At first my ploy appeared to have worked, maybe my tranquil cove would stay just that for some time more. He struck up a conversation with the German couple, and I was more than happy to let them struggle on, my Englishness a well hidden secret. But it couldn't last. Before I knew it I had fetched Fay, donned a life jacket and was thigh deep in treacherous sea with a naked Draker, two Germans and Fay, boarding a little motor boat. We were in search of the anchorage at which Drake had moored his boat during his voyage of piracy around South America. The story of Drake's piracy and daring at Pan de Azucar went like this:
Drake moored there many sugar loafs ago. One of his most pressing concerns was the need for fresh water. With that in mind he stopped at Pan de Azucur. He took a small boat ashore, spoke (and presumably gestured wildly) to some natives indicating his need for water. In my mind's eye the natives had a sense of humour and pointed to the sea repeatedly, enraging Drake. But the upshot of it all was that there was no fresh water, and Drake continued on his way, his appetite for risk and high sea adventures no doubt satiated. And as they would say in Private Eye, er.... that's it.