Getting up early is always something of a hit and miss strategy for me, but I was packed and out on time with a taxi ordered for twelve bells. It’s about two minutes in a car to the airport from the hostel if you go the direct road, but that still costs four dollars.
I went into town and found the crafts place was open, so I bought a cheaper version of the wood with the local script on it, rather than the very expensive version I have already mentioned. Not that ‘cheaper’ was ‘cheap’ – it was still nearly 50 dollars US. It’s nominally a copy of one in the museum, and its creator showed me a picture of the original so I could see the resemblance. I compared the two, and found a symbol on the photograph that was not on the wood in my hands. Then I found another missing one. Then I realised loads of them are missing. But still. It gets the idea across, and if you are not moved by the idea of a lost message in a forgotten script, you are an idiot or dead.
I went to the pharmacy to try and get something for my throat, which has become quite painful, and they gave some pills which I have since decided are not really working and so tomorrow may mean another brush with the South American health service. Hopefully though a good night’s sleep might see me right. I had lunch in a cafe I had often passed but not gone into before, and it was excellent, though I could probably go to my grave a happy man if I never had any more avocado. And then it was a final stroll along the coast back to the hostel.
The taxi was 15 minutes early and the driver kept asking me was I ready as I was packing the last few bits, so the net result was that my goodbyes were very rushed and I brought the key of my room with me. I will try and post it back to them.
On my way to Easter Island I was not successful with my pleas for the exit row on the plane, so I went in this time with a new line of attack. At the check-in counter I said politely but firmly to the rather unfriendly woman that I had booked eleven flights with LAN in South America, and I wanted a free upgrade to business class in recognition. She said there was not a chance. I said that was disappointing, and the very least I would expect then was the exit row. It was duly provided.
Bar the meal I slept the whole way, though I was awake long enough after take-off to get some nice good-bye pictures from the air. Last night for some reason I mostly tossed and turned and saw nearly every hour on the clock, and so I was wrecked. We landed early, and then frustratingly there was no-one to pick me up as I had been promised, even though I was paying USD32 for the privilege, and given this is Santiago rather than Quito it’s probably entirely unnecessary anyway. Several phonecalls and an hour an half later a guy emerged with ‘Stelen Flanagan’ on a sign, and I was correct in my assumption that he was there for me.
The hostel overlooks Plaza des Armas, which I think is the main square, and which was the name of the main square in Cuzco also. The hostel itself is called Plaza des Armas Hostel. The taxi dropped me outside a two-story ornate door of metal and glass, and I went through the section that opens to find myself in a lobby of high arching ceilings and faded 1940s glamour. There was a receptionist there who directed me to the lift, and inside the lift was a man whose occupation it is to push the lift buttons for you. He didn’t seem all that happy with his lot, but he pushed number six for me all the same.
I was checked in by a guy who is probably into his 20s but not mentally free of his teens, and he showed me to my room on the fourth floor. It’s actually a small private apartment – they must have had no normal private rooms free, or maybe they don’t have any at all. The door to it is off a long hall where there are other apartments where people actually live, as far as I can tell. Inside they have managed to get four beds into the space – a double on the right, two singles on the left, and a miserable-looking single in a small loft. The main light doesn’t work, and there is a fan which makes an annoying high-pitched sound and rotates over and back but seems to have a little to no impact on the overall airflow. The kitchen area is approximately equivalent in area to a wardrobe that has been laid down on its back, and there is a decent-sized bathroom. Just inside the door is small reception area of sorts, which includes a desk that would be at home in the police chief’s office in a Raymond Chandler novel. The light in that area does work, so it’s where I sit now writing this.
Santiago is two hours ahead of Easter Island, so by the time I got checked in it was 11pm local time. I asked the young hostel chap where I might get some late food, and he had no idea. Perhaps he doesn’t eat. So I went for a wander around the square and saw that practically everywhere was closed. I went to the door of a fast food place that looked open and a woman at a till waved me in, then a man behind the counter signaled it was closed, then they started to yell at each other. I left. There was another place around the corner with lights on but they were cleaning up, so my hopes were low. But a nice man communicated to me with much pointing and nodding that I could have pizza or a sandwich. I chose the former, and it was excellent. It included asparagus, which I think is a pizza first for me.
While I was waiting I watched the TV over the door, where they were showing clips from films dubbed from English into Spanish. It might have been an ad for a movie channel or similar. So I got to hear Tom Hanks and Philip Seymore Hoffman and Leonardo DiCaprio and all the rest of them in their full South American glory, which was quite strange. Tom Hanks’ guy sounds nothing like him.
As I was sitting there watching that a transsexual chap came in, dressed in a short skirt and tights and a sort of corset. I presume he was entirely committed to the lifestyle as his actions and voice fitted the appearance, but it looked as though today had been his first crack at putting on make-up. He, or I should really say ‘she’ I suppose, sat right beside me and said occasional things in Spanish and I nodded and smiled politely. On my other side was a girl who was listening to music through the speaker on her mobile phone, an activity which points to a strongly ego-centric view of the world. I was happy to leave, but so pleased to have found something to eat that I left a tip even though it was a just essentially a chipper.
I came out and made the short journey back to the hostel, going back a different street to the one I had come and inadvertently passing some seasoned members of the oldest profession, who called at me for at least fifty yards. In the square itself a few homeless people were settling down for the night, and not very many other people around. They had closed the outer door to the hostel, and had to unlock it for me. There is nothing near the same sense of threat as Quito, but there is the same dim light and quietness, and I doubt I will be out much at night.
It’s coming up to 1am now local time and I am not remotely tired, but I should try and sleep so I can be up and about early tomorrow, hopefully in full health. Good night from Santiago.
