Day 21 - Punta Arenas.

Woken up at 7am by what sounds like a military marching band. It’s the neighbours’ TV. The room that’s not big enough to swing a cat in also has paper-thin walls.

Midday flight to Punta Arenas. I guess that counts as a break, because I actually get to read for half the flight. The other half is spent marking things on my Punta Arenas maps and making notes on the printout of the text I have to work on. Like many flights up and down this thin country, this one stops midway in Coyhaique. The landscape beneath us is quite incredible: Patagonia is a mass of bare mountains, sprinkled with fresh snow, lakes that are an incredible turquoise colour – like the huge one that I had to cross by boat from the town of Chile Chico last year, sandy-coloured steppe, dotted with hardy little bushes, ribbons of rivers, the odd lonely straight line indicating a dirt road…

I love this country; it’s the most incredible country I’ve ever been to and I love its cold, inhospitable parts all the more for their stark beauty. I have Isabel Allende to thank for wanting to come here in the first place: if I hadn’t read “House of the Spirits” at university and then gone on to read everything else she’d ever written, including her memoirs, then my imagination wouldn’t have been buzzing with the sensations she described – the first taste of a sea urchin on her tongue, the smell of the forest by the sea near Valparaíso, the wrenching emotional pain of having to go into exile after Pinochet’s coming to power…When I was originally asked which country I’d like to research, I didn’t hesitate in naming Chile, and for that I’m eternally grateful to Rough Guides.

There’s the part of the flight where it’s about to land in Punta Arenas, and to do so, the plane has to make an about turn over the Magellan Strait before going down really low over the water, as the airstrip is right near the sea, and even though the Magellan Strait was the calmest today I’ve ever seen it – just a flat expanse of dark blue, without the white crests of waves – I didn’t like going low over the water. When it looked like we were slowing down, I mentally willed it to make it back to dry land. My heart was hammering like mad and I was so relieved when we touched down, that my legs seemed to be made of jelly. It’s the first time in my life that I thought: “Gosh, wouldn’t it be nice to have pisco sour this evening to get over this.” I need to watch it or I’ll turn into a rotund drunk.

Last time I flew here, Nik and I had to wait for ages for public transport, but this time there are a couple of minibuses there, ready to deliver us to the guesthouses of our choice. Am the only person at Hostal Keokenk. It was advertised as being ‘just blocks from the plaza’. Eight blocks, to be precise. I didn’t have much of a choice; the other ones I called this morning either didn’t pick up or the number was wrong on their websites.

My room has no heating, but it does have cable TV; I don’t quite understand their priorities.

The afternoon is devoted to map work; pay a visit to all the bus companies (Punta Arenas doesn’t have a central bus terminal),find out phone numbers and timetables, do the same with airline offices, mark on internet cafes, museum opening hours – all that jazz. Punta Arenas is a big city that stretches along the Magellan Strait, but downtown is pretty compact. Of all Chilean big cities, this is probably my favourite: in spite of the weather, which seems to be rainy, windy and cold whenever I visit, I like its energy, the giant murals on buildings, the sculpted trees on Avenida Colón, and the city of the dead (which is conveniently located right next to my hostel). Will visit it tomorrow.

Finding a place to have dinner turns out to be a challenge: my favourite restaurant, ‘Brocolino’, seems to be closed. Ever since Mike and Pete, my fellow gourmets, have recommended it to me, it’s been an essential part of my visit to the city. And chef Hector has a sense of humour. Who else would feature ‘aphrodisiac soup’ or steak ‘in the style of Paris Hilton’? If it doesn’t open before I have to leave for Puerto Natales, I may always wonder about the Paris Hilton bit.

Next I try Remezón, a bit out of the centre, which is supposed to do really creative dishes. Same story. Beginning to give up hope of dining on anything other than a hamburger, I last try La Marmita, and hit the jackpot. Firstly, the décor is great – warm colours, really cosy, paintings of indigenous people on walls, tabletops with different grains and herbs under the glass, and even a little book exchange. Secondly, I’m followed in by a garrulous quarter of Canadian geologists (whom I first mistake for Americans because I can’t tell the difference between accents), who invite me to have dinner with them. “We’ve heard all of each other’s stories by now; let’s hear yours.”

We end up agreeing that there are many similarities between travel writing and geology – they’re also away from home for months and spend a lot of time outdoors, and they all count themselves lucky because their hobbies are also their job. They ask me for local tips and tell me that they’re moving on to La Paz afterwards to study landslides – identifying the soil/rock makeup in areas most prone to them and figuring out how to prevent them. They’re loud and funny and good company and dinner ends up lasting three hours. By the end, I’m tipsy after one very strong pisco sour (the best I’ve had in Chile so far!) and stuffed after the ceviche with coconut milk, the garlic soup (which wards off evil spirits, allegedly) and the little freebies – crackers with homemade pate and seafood dip. This is gonna be my author pick – the food is great and so is the presentation. And the chocolate and calafate berry mousse is just superb!

Too tipsy to do much writing and it’s too late. Early bedtime and an early alarm so that the writing gets done in the morning.