Day 15 - Puerto Varas.

Dream that my mother is nagging me to get a ‘proper’ job. No, wait – that’s actually true.

A very productive morning: walk around the small downtown area in figures of eight, making sure I’ve covered every stretch of very street. Do map work. Pop into all the different bus offices and enquire about timetables. Browse the culinary delights at the Emporio Puerto Varas (though that’s not strictly work). I had no idea that such things as Sauvignon Blanc salt and rose sugar even existed and imagine recipes in which I’d use them. Get away with only some wild boar ham. Prevent myself from purchasing darling little tiny bottles of raspberry vinegar at the Vicki Johnson gourmet shop.

I try to find out which companies go south from Futaleufú (the little town at the north end of Carretera Austral) to Coyhaique, the only large town in the area, from where I plan to make my way further south into Patagonia – either by flying or via Argentina. Look through the three guidebooks I’ve got with me: my own, the Moon Handbook and Lonely Planet. The Rough Guide and the Moon Handbook have the same information: that Buses Daniela is the one to call. Am told that Buses Daniela is no longer in service. Call the Futaleufú tourist office; it’s closed. Get through to the municipality; the woman gives me the number for Buses Altamirano. Call Buses Altamirano; the woman tells me that no, they don’t run from Futa to Coyhaique, they now only run to La Junta (a godforsaken little outpost in the middle of nowhere consisting of three people, some chickens, and a hut with a corrugated iron roof). The Buses Altamirano woman tells me to call Buses Daniela. This time I have the presence of mind to ask Buses Daniela whether they know who does the Futa-Coyhaique route now. The woman tells me to call Buses Becker, who apparently have a Sunday morning service to Coyhaique. That would be ideal, giving me a whole day to explore Futa. I almost decide to go to Futa without checking with Buses Becker first, but in the end, I’m glad I did. The man tells me that yes, they run a weekly service to and from Futa but not on the weekend that I plan to be there. No reason is given.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is travel down the Carretera Austral in a nutshell. Why, oh why did Rough Guides send me here during the off-season? I wonder for the umpteenth time why I didn’t ask to do the northern half of Chile instead, where buses are frequent and reliable and where it doesn’t rain.

At the moment I’m trying to figure out whether I can do the Carretera Austral at all or whether I’ll just have to fit in Coyhaique, the armpit of Chile. Bugger the infrequent public transport. I look into all the transport options and it seems that if I get to Coyhaique from Argentina, I’ll then have to wait nearly a week to get a ride up to Futa, and vice versa.

For lunch I go to ‘Imperial 605’, a renowned gourmet spot. It’s not only closed, but it’s changed its name to ‘Almodobar’ (possibly a play on ‘Almodovar’, as in 'Pedro'). I then decide to seek out testicles. Rumour has it, ‘Ibis’ along the coastal road has them on the menu. I’m deeply disappointed when they don’t. I very much enjoyed eating testicles in a gourmet restaurant in Lithuania. I have to settle for salmon ceviche and conger eel in a scallop, prawn and king crab sauce. Very good, but a little bit short of excellent.

I follow the Heritage Route up Imperial, stopping to admire the 19th century German architecture. I very much like the coloured wooden houses here, especially the ones covered in shingles made of alerce (a hardwood from the second oldest trees on earth, whose waterproof properties meant that it was almost completely cut down). Puerto Varas is at the heart of ‘German Chile’, which shows in its cooking as well as its architecture: everywhere you’re offered strudel and kuchen. Some places claiming German roots are impostors, though: when I was here two years ago, my Swiss and Austrian friends mocked a number of places that don’t seem to know the difference between kuchen (cakes) and küchen (kitchens). Neither does the Lonely Planet guide.

I’m looking for 'Sweet Home Puerto Varas', a new hostel, and either I’m completely incapable of map reading, or the street numbers are arranged in no particular order. Stop at my favourite budget place, 'Compass del Sur' – beautiful wooden house, big rooms, incredibly friendly staff, a book exchange. I wish I were staying there, if only because I live in fear of running out of quality reading material. I’ve just finished reading “Are you there, vodka? It’s me, Chelsea”, a collection of memoirs by a Jewish stand-up comic that I picked up in Pucón, and am down to my last Frederick Forsyth novel. Whenever I'm on the road for a long time, I never take any books that I mind leaving behind or exchanging.

The sun comes out briefly, for the first time in a week, and for the first time in my life I see a perfect double rainbow against the backdrop of stormy clouds over the lake.

In the evening, I stumble across a complete gem: an eatery that’s also the first microbrewery in Puerto Varas, with really chilled out music and a really informal, homely atmosphere. It’s the kind of place where you feel you’ve popped into a friend’s house. A friend who lets you write on their walls – every available bit of space is covered with well-wishing messengers. There are even two in Russian, and now there are three: mine’s next to the Dizzy Gillespie poster. My only quibble is that the food’s a bit pricey for what it is and if I were a pedant, I’d also say that a paella Valenciana traditionally includes rabbit and chicken, but not razor clams, but I’m not, so I won’t. I don’t want to leave.

Catch up on my writing, my emails. Exchange photos with my American human rights lawyer friend Steve: he sends me his Antarctica cruise, and I send him my Easter Island ones. Am now Facebook friends with Sister Helen Prejean, an incredible Catholic nun who made anti-death penalty campaigning her life’s work and who wrote the incredible and traumatic “Dead Man Walking” and “Death of Innocents”. One of the reasons I’m banned from the States is because I technically overstayed my visa waiver by five days in order to hear her talk at an anti-death penalty convention in Santa Monica, where I got my books signed and mingled with nuns, lawyers and Hollywood do-gooders. Then she talked and I became so emotional that I wept into my salad. It was a heck of a night.

Tomorrow I will make major decisions regarding the rest of my time in Chile.