An ode to the Monkey Puzzle

Día 25-26: Araucania off-road, seitan-ska in Pucon and Jake gets pissed on (145km)

Chapter 4 Dale Dale Argentina (6-7/9)

Junín de los Andes to Curarrehue (ARG-CHI crossing 3) Komoot GPX (69km) 

There is a moment in the Motorcycle Diaries when Alberto and Che are crossing a fjord in the sort of dense fog that charcterises these southern regions. The scene is drenched in the magic of unchartered lands. On sighting Argentina's neighbour, Alberto, hair plastered onto forehead and waxy jacket sodden, bellows across the waters:

¡CHILEEEEE! ¡VIVA CHILE PO!

CHILEEEEE! LONG LIVE CHILE!

'Po' is the abbreviated version of the more common 'pues'. Both are used as fillers on the end of sentences and in that context, barely have a meaningful translation. 'Po' is distinctly Chilean and you won't hear it anywhere else.

Today is crystal clear sunshine and blue skies. But that doesn't stop me repeatedly screaming “¡VIVA CHILE, PO!” as a return to the long, thing country sneaks ever closer on our bumpy gravel pass.

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The Pewen or Monkey Puzzle tree is native to Chile going back 300 million years (approximately the date Tottenham last won the league). They are unique to this area of the world and hold special importance in Chilean culture. They can live to over 1000 years old, the second most mature tree in Chile after the Alerce. There even used to be a law which gave you ten years in prison for cutting one down.

Pewens deck the Argetina-Chile border like towering sentinels, keeping volcano Lanin under 24-hour vigilance.

We're waved through the Argentinian exit with a few cursory passport glances. The Chilean entrance is a different matter. A barrage of questoins from a border guard follows.

“Where are you from?  

Where are you going?  

Where are you going after that?  

How long for?  

And after that?

Will you return to Chile again after you leave?  

What make is your bike?  

What colour is it?”

Jake and I exchange a laugh. This guy is just so likeable. His questions each more useful than the last.

After relinquising such vital information, our reward? 

“Go over there and fill out a detailed migration form, thank you.” 

I’m forced to eat my apple on the spot by the next officer, presumably because with it I wield the power to raise orchards the like of which this region hath not witnessed. Or maybe it’s just protocol to make tourists eat fruit on demand and empty panniers to search through dirty underwear. Going near a bike tourer’s crammed luggage is a risky business for those who seek to retain a certain level of nasal freshness for the day. I do warn him.

After the great pains taken over our essential details, Jake has been baptized with a new surname: Hjudson. It gives a certain Scandinavian twist that may allow him to dip beneath the bureaucratic radar in future. Fortunately, the authorities will still be able to identify him because now they know his bike is blue.  

Dropping down 800m in elevation is proper fun. Flanked with auburn autumn leaves, it’s a fiery welcome back to a land with much more to give.

The sign on the road says, ‘The forest is life’. We aren’t doubting it.

The day ends with two kingfishers fluttering on the rope bridge we seek to cross to reach our campsite. 

“You barely ever see this”, a man whispers, as his partner blocks our path to take photos,

“It’s happened only once before in my lifetime.” 

When we get back to the tent, after a few local IPAs had brought out the tipsy post-ride bliss, we discover that canine ringleader Queenie and her pack have demolished all Jake’s snacks. One of the entourage wees on his tent, causing all manner of Hjudson outrage.

But the best is yet to come.

In the morning, those touring sandals - which Jake has praised beyond all reason in the preceding weeks - are just too tempting. The same perro returns and neatly pisses on his bare skinned foot. Now that was impudent.

I fall about laughing.

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Día 26 Land parcels

Curarrehue to Villarríca Komoot GPX (76km)

It was an easy morning skating down towards the farmlands surrounding Lago Villarríca. We enjoyed a rare seitan baguette in a bougie cafe in downtown Pucon as Pressure Drop by Toots and the Maytals crooned out in the midday warmth. Soft, smooth ska by Rawayana and Los Cafres followed. We allowed ourselves a little shimmer of sleepy relaxtime before the afternoon shift.

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Some British people have a stereotype for Latinamericans. They are often described as open in character, wearing hearts on sleeves and animated in conversation. A somewhat absurd generalisation considering this is a continent of over 400 million people.  

And our Chilean volcano squad from Día 16 were insistent: Chileans are a shy people. They keep themselves to themselves. Does this stem from their geographical isolation as a country locked in by sea and mountains? From 17 years of dictatorial repression? Or from the emphasis on the individual at the heart of their neoliberal economic policy?  

The latter certainly seems to play a role as we skirt 25km of Lago Villarríca’s (literally, Richtown) southern shores. The lake is a spectacular natural resource, upon whose black sand beach we had basked in the early afternoon. But almost every speck of its perimeter has been privatized, and public access has been denied. The view is mostly obstructed by high fences and barbed wire. Each to their own little corner of propiedad privada.  

Fortunately, the roadside churros were as public as you like. I had four of those. 

---

At days end we struggled down a long driveway towards a promising forest, only to be denied by a guardsman. 

“Esta es un vecindario privado, si fuera por mi, encantado les dejaría acampar aquí, pero mi jefe dice que no” 

‘This is a private neighborhood. I’d love to let you camp but the boss man says no’, 

he smiles wryly, as we gaze at the huge expanse of grass beyond his shoulder.  

Defeated by capitalists, we head back up the track. Our resolve to ride much further is diminished. Needs must. We bounce back to high spirits with a harmless trespass, hopping a padlocked gate a little further down the road. The wealthy landowner doesn't have a clue we are snuggled down in his copse.  

We will leave no trace and cause no damage. You can’t stop us. 

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