Fruit-checks – ARKS, ADAM AND AXARQUIA

(SEE PART 6 HERE)

The second of the two fruit checks took place on the border of the Atacama and Coquimbo regions. The bad thing, was that it was in the middle of the night and we were woken from our sleep, but the good news was that on this occasion we weren’t forced off the bus. For whatever reason the policemen concentrated this time on examining the luggage holds and it wasn’t long before their search paid fruit or, to be more precise, onions – a bloody-great crate of prime cooking onions. Now it was the coach driver who received the wagging finger treatment as he was asked to explain the presence of the contraband Allium bulbs. Somehow it was obvious to the carabineros that he was the guilty party and the poor chap was taken away to a little booth by the side of the road where he was interrogated for the next hour or so. Eventually, evidently chastened and downcast he was returned to us and permitted to continue driving us to Santiago…

As much as were enjoying the Chilean diet, after several weeks in the country we felt the need for a change. Having spent a great deal of time in Israel we both had passion for Middle Eastern cuisine – Jewish and Arab. So one evening when we stumbled upon a Palestinian restaurant near our hotel in Santiago we thought we’d give it a go. So long as we observed Basil Fawlty’s wise dictum; not to “mention the war” – or wars in this case – we presumed that we could relax and enjoy some fine Arab cooking. However, the meal we were served up had about as much relationship to the exquisite humus and salads of Abu Shukri in Jerusalem, or the sumptuous seafood and grilled meats of the Crusaders in Caesarea as a Birmingham balti chicken has to do with real Indian street food – i.e. not very much. The two memorable things about the meal was the fact that everything presented to us was grey in colour and utterly tasteless, from the cement-like humus and baba ganush to Dido’s choice of main course – supposedly braised, whole poussin, stuffed with cracked wheat and apricots (yes, grey apricots). But the piece de resistance for awfulness was my main course. What I was thinking when I ordered stuffed sheep’s intestine is one thing, but even allowing for my foolhardyness, nobody could have expected what was placed before me that evening – including all the other diners who used their menus to screen themselves from the revolting sight of my dish. I suppose I was anticipating something along the lines of haggis or Balkan-style stuffed “kishke”, both of which I love. But this was, as depicted in the picture below, simply a steaming hot pile of sheep intestine in all its unadulterated gory, glory – somehow stuffed with rice (dried-out grey rice in keeping with the rest of the meal). Worse still was the smell; reminiscent of compost and dirty damp towels – it made Dido come close to retching. And the fact that the head waiter stood over me, oozing pride for his establishment’s signature dish, eager to see how much I liked it made this one of the most potentially awkward dining experiences of my life. But then fate smiled on us! The intestine, having the texture of tyre rubber meant that my knife couldn’t make the slightest impression on it. The waiter slapped his head as if to chastise himself for his remissness and went back to the kitchen to get me a sharper implement. At this, without needing to utter a word to each other, we stood up, slammed more than enough money on the table to cover the bill and marched full-speed to the exit…

About halfway through our stay in Chile we decided to take a few days off and visit the lake district. We booked the train for the overnight journey from Santiago to Puerto Varas and believed we had reserved a compartment. However, we were disappointed to discover on boarding that we were in a couchette with half-dozen other people. A short time out of Santiago Dido went looking for the loo. She returned in an animated state saying that the next carriage comprised only compartments, and that they were all empty. When the porter then came to clip our tickets I asked him if it was possible to upgrade to a compartment to which he shrugged, smiled and muttered under his breath ‘perhaps’… Without thinking I reached into my pocket, and pulled out about $40.00 worth of Chilean Pesos from my wallet . Then, checking his expression and seeing that he was receptive I discreetly slipped the money into his hand. ‘Twenty minutes’ he said gesturing with his head back towards the next carriage; ‘I will prepare the first compartment for you’. And good to his word, the compartment was prepared. It was beautiful: Old British rolling stock from the age of steam, like a scene from From Russia with Love or Murder on Orient Express; only slightly faded, deep green velvet drapes and furniture and shimmering mahogany paneling. The porter had immaculately turned down the crisp Egyptian cotton sheets on the two broad bunk beds, in addition to his final touch – two expertly prepared pisco sours in old-style crystal cocktail glasses placed on the little pull out table. We were in romantic heaven, and needless to say we enjoyed one of the best nights of our trip…

(SEE PART 5 HERE)

No stay in Chile’s northernmost city of Arica is complete without an excursion to the Lauca National Park – with its fabled lakes and volcanoes. Only problem was, the park sat at 4500 meters above sea-level, and altitude sickness was likely to be a serious issue. One of the ways of militating against the worst effects of this however was to make sure one traveled up to the park in the hands of expert guides with state-of-the-art oxygen and resuscitation equipment. But sadly, our limited budget made us forget the lessons of our near-disastrous trip the previous week to Atacama Giant and we opted for the cheapest guided tour we could find. We sensed the worst when we boarded the clapped-out minibus with hard wooden benches for seats and two broken windows on the right-hand side. However, there was a big oxygen canister on a shelf above the driver, and it was only a day-trip for goodness sake, we reassured ourselves – what could go wrong on such a short trip? There were about ten of us on the bus, and by the time our vehicle had crawled up past 3.500 meters the more elderly passengers were already beginning to feel the effects of the thinning air. Dido and I at least, felt fine during the entire drive up and it was only when we disembarked at Lake Chungara that the “puna” (the colloquial term for altitude sickness) hit us both – like a brick. The only way I can explain the sensation was that when I tried to walk it felt like one of those bad dreams, when one is trying to flee from some horror or other and one’s legs won’t move. And it wasn’t just the sluggishness; it was actually quite hard to think straight. To this day, I have barely any recollection of how I managed to fill an entire roll of film with some the most spectacular shots of the entire trip – of the lake itself, the surrounding volcanoes, the herds of grazing guanaco and the incredible candlestick cacti. Even Dido, who was super fit in those days, had to lie down after a few minutes of walking around, while I found the only way I could be comfortable at all was to adopt a kind of Muslim prayer position on the ground. Meanwhile, I recall seeing people chucking-up all over the place and one other poor old American guy pass out altogether. It was then that the guide told us that the oxygen canister was empty, resulting in another member of our party – a retired GP as it turned out – having to resuscitate the American gentleman in the manner illustrated in the picture below. Eventually, we all managed to clamber back onto the bus where the guide had brewed up a kettle of coca tea. Whether or not the tea had any effect, somehow we were all still alive by the time we got back to Arica…

As I’ve implied earlier we liked most of the food we ate in Chile. While the cuisine is basic, there was a wide and exciting variety of raw material – animal and vegetable – and nearly everything was simply yet expertly prepared. This included the hamburgers, which, everywhere from Puerto-Varas in the south to Arica in the north, were always huge, freshly made prime-beef patties. Grilled over charcoal in the posher establishments, or on hotplates in the diners, they were reliably succulent and filling. The only problem I had with the Chilean hamburger was the choice of accompaniments with the burger within the bun. At first I found the ubiquitous slice of beef tomato, cos-lettuce and thick slab of avocado – yes, avocado – to be a novelty. A tasty and healthy change from cheese, bacon or salad onion say… But by the time we were in Arica the novelty – of the avocado in particular – had worn thin. I’d come to the conclusion that avocado and a beef patty just weren’t good bedfellows. They didn’t so much complement each other as vie for attention in the mouth. In simple terms, they just didn’t get on. But by removing the avocado, the burger then became somewhat plain and bare, and the local vinegary ketchup certainly didn’t help matters. Then one afternoon we were at our favourite eatery (where we’d already established a steady supply of good fresh coffee) and I asked the cook if I could have some onion with my burger in place of the avocado. First of all, he looked at me as if I were crazy, but then he shrugged his shoulders and accented. He asked me how I wanted the onion cooked? I tried to explain that I wanted it raw. More looks of incredulity and then another shrug of the shoulders…I went and sat down and waited for my burger, which came about five minutes later with an onion; with a raw onion no less; a bloody great onion, skin and all, perched precariously on top of my beef patty…

For most non-European readers of these adventure, the next two episodes will not seem surprising at all. But for us, then, the whole concept of “fruit checks”seemed like a hangover from the Pinochet era – just a way of controlling the free movement of citizens. As it happens we were wrong and fruit-checks were / are a key method in preventing the spreading of potentially lethal agricultural pests. Nevertheless, the fact that in Chile, these checks were carried out by jack-booted carabineros with all the charm of a pack of pit-bulls on an enforced vegetable-only diet merely reinforced our misconceptions and resentments. Both of our fruit-check experiences occurred on the long bus ride back south from Arica to Santiago. The reason for this was that our luxury “cama” coach journey (we were feeling a bit more flush with our budget by now) crossed several regional (state) lines and the unlicensed movement of fruit and vegetables was prohibited from one region to another. Our first check was on the Arica/Iquique border when we were all ordered off the bus while two officers searched the vehicle. We’d all been nervously standing around on the roadside for about five minutes when one of the carabineros slowly made his way down the steps of the coach. Holding up a half-eaten bunch of grapes in his right arm he glowered at us before demanding that the guilty party declare him or herself. After a few moments, during which we all exchanged anxious looks, a middle-aged man stepped forward with his head bowed in shame – like a naughty schoolboy being summoned to the front of the class by the teacher. The carabinero then read the poor man the riot act, threatening him with all sorts of sanctions and fines before eventually offering him a way to make amends – to finish the bunch of grapes then and there. This the man did, fairly gorging them down in his relief , and so allowing us to continue on our long journey…