Day 11 - Curarrehue. And I get a pickup truck.

When I wake up, it’s raining. The rain changes its tempo throughout the day: sometimes it’s drizzle, sometimes it’s torrential rain, but it never lets up. This is the Lake District weather that I know and love. The show must go on, though, so I catch a bus to Curarrehue, a small Mapuche settlement near the border with Argentina. Having said that, pretty much ALL of Chile is near the border with Argentina. Curarrehue feels very much like a frontier town. On the main street, O’Higgins, people loiter in doorways and stare at you. A huaso (Chilean cowboy), dressed in the traditional woollen poncho and hat with a narrow brim, clip-clops down the street on his horse and there are more poncho-clad men walking around.

I’m looking for the Mapuche museum; there’s supposed to be an eatery attached to it which served traditional food as well. I wonder around for some time because the guidebook does not tell you how to get there and I’m like a typical man when it comes to asking for directions: I don’t like it and I won’t do it unless I absolutely have to. In the end, it’s a tossup between admitting that my homing instincts have failed me and stopping a passerby, or wandering some more in torrential rain. A kindly old woman shows me the way to the lime green municipality building on the main square – the only bit of colour in an otherwise drab settlement – and the museum is behind it, housed in a modern take on a traditional ruka dwelling.

A cheerful Mapuche woman offers to show me around; the museum’s big on written explanations of traditions and even though it doesn’t have that much in the way of exhibits, the musical instruments, wooden masks and weaving equipment is attractively arranged in the airy wooden space. I like the trutruka – made of a long hollowed-out tree branch with horse intestine wrapped tightly around it: it looks a bit like an alpine horn and is traditionally used to warn people of impending disaster, such as an earthquake.

The eatery is predictably closed; Cristian’s warned me that the chef in question is unreliable, which apparently also goes for the Mapuche Guide Association. Tree House Hostel tried working with them, so that their guests could go and learn about Mapuche culture, but the guides couldn’t be counted on to turn up or to do what they said they’d do. Which is too bad, because if I had more time, I’d like to spend time in a traditional Mapuche community and learn more about their plight. There’s an element of risk attached; police have been known to harass and even arrest foreigners who associate themselves with prominent Mapuche who lead protests in the struggle for land rights. The police slogan is ‘siempre amigo’ (‘always a friend’ or ‘a friend forever’); I bet the irony was not lost on the Chilean people during the Pinochet years.

Back in Pucón, I investigate ¡ecole!, a hostel/restaurant that has the reputation for doing the best vegetarian food. When I first came here five years ago, the vegetable lasagna was amazing; I confirm that that’s still the case. This is another part of my research I enjoy very much.

By the end of the afternoon, I have secured a vehicle for tomorrow: it’s a white Nissan pickup truck the size of a small house. I’ve never driven anything larger than my mum’s Nissan Primera, so this should be fun. It has to be either a 4WD or a pickup, though, because tomorrow I’m heading to Conguillío National Park, and regular cars can’t cope with the rough dirt road into the park, especially not after heavy rains. Luckily, Cristian’s offered to come with me, so perhaps he can drive there, and I can drive back. I drive us back to the hostel and manage to stall three times in as many minutes – something that I’ve never done even when taking driving lessons. Hugely embarrassing. Cristian doesn’t seem to be too perturbed. I’m fine once I get going, though it would be better if there were no other road users in my way, at least to start with. I like riding in the pickup, I’ve decided – I enjoy towering above most other road users. I can now understand why men who are challenged in the trouser department go for big and impressive cars. We little people have a lot to prove.

The volcano’s been playing up lately. Alberto shows me a video he shot at the top of the Villarica volcano two days ago: the crater emits the usual clouds of sulphurous smoke, but now it’s accompanied by thunderous rumbling, and a massive jet of red lava shoots out of the hole, again and again and again. I wish I’d gone up the volcano to see it when the weather was clear! I wonder how the permanent residents of Pucón feel, knowing that the earth here is very much alive and unpredictable.

More fun and games at the cash machine. I try three different ones, and none of them work, inexplicably so because my bank balance is perfectly healthy (for a change). This being my first major trip in a long time without the crutch of credit cards, it occurs to me that should one of these cash machines choose to swallow my credit card, I'll be monumentally buggered. From now on, I’ll be withdrawing money in person.

Poring over my maps of Chile and Argentina to determine my route south, I have a great idea: after I’m finished with the south, why don’t I make my way up north not via Chile, as originally planned, but via Argentina, pausing briefly in Salta before crossing over to Chile’s San Pedro de Atacama…?