Strictly Amateur

Notes on leaving Chile

2011-11-06T23:08:00.009Z

Life had become to same old, same old to carry on with this blog, or so I thought. And then I decided to move to Argentina. So, the old brian may be a little rusty, but expect a few meaningless ponderings to start materializing.

When I was preparing to leave Chile, people asked me what I would miss most about the country. I don’t know what they expected, the scenery or the skiing, perhaps. The reliable economy.

My answer was always unexpected for them, and for me, unquestioned. Of course, the thing I would miss most would be La Vega, Santiago’s enormous covered market.

I took my parents to La Vega last September and was reminded how I had felt the first time I went there. It’s big, noisy, and dirty. It’s absolute chaos. We walked around, and even though it was a bank holiday and only half-awake, I kept my eye on my mother’s handbag and held her by the arm. La Vega is not for the faint-hearted.

The market covers three separate warehouses, and all the surrounding streets, with licensed and unlicensed stalls, stray dogs, and drunks. It attracts some of the most unfortunate and poor of Santiago. It is buzzing with life from dawn till evening, and maybe beyond – I’ve never ventured to find out, but the barrio houses enough gambling shops and cafés con piernas (strip bars) to make it a good bet for the dissolute.

And inside the three massive warehouses, you can find the freshest berries, the strangest cuts of meat, and any kind of herb you can think of. Santiago’s supermarkets are horrifically expensive, but for those willing to brave the various smells of La Vega, anything in season can be had dirt cheap, and still with dirt on it, more likely than not. Compared to the supermarkets’ limited stock, here you can buy fresh mint, rabbit, whole sweetbreads – even a pig’s head, if that’s your bag.

Here is where the best restaurants in Santiago buy their ingredients, and here, when you have explored, you can stuff yourself silly on fresh Colombian, Peruvian or Chilean food for a few luca (1000 pesos).

After a few visits to the same stalls, the merchants of La Vega are chatty and welcoming. The market has a sense of community the likes of which I haven’t seen anywhere else in the city.

Santiago is many things. Safe, quiet, prosperous – if you look at it one way. Another look, and you see it’s divided, repressed, and in conflict. La Vega is another thing altogether, and a great one.

Terremoto: Not the Fun Kind

2010-02-28T00:11:00.008Z

I experienced my first live Cumbia band, my first As (kebab meat in a hotdog bun) and my first earthquake last night. I have already experienced the scary side effects of the Chilean drink called earthquake (Terremoto: a mix of fortified wine, rum and pineapple sorbet) but I can now report that the real thing is just as scary, just as likely to cause injuries, and just as confusing, but without that pesky metaphysical feeling the next day.

I was waiting for a taxi with some friends in the plaza of Santiago's historic Barrio Brasil after a few hours of energetic and sweaty dancing to Cumbia music, when I felt a metro train pass, rumbling the tarmac and making the trees in the plaza shake. Then I realised, quicker than realising, that the metro had stopped running hours before - and the shaking didn't pass, it just got stronger.

Being lightly refreshed, the details are fuzzy, but I believe I shouted "Get on the ground!" at this point and threw myself into the road, away from the trees on Plaza Brasil. I lay on the undulating tarmac with my face in a puddle holding CD's hand, waiting for the ground to split, or to be crushed by a falling branch. It felt like a moment of dark, shuddering silence before the sirens started and cars sped down Avenida Brasil taking Santiaguinos back to their families, unhindered by traffic lights which had cut out along with the rest of the lights.

The main shock of the earthquake lasted for nearly two incredible minutes, and it was followed by panic as we sat up and saw the rubble fallen from the buildings around the plaza. People running away from home, towards home, gathering in the Plaza with their scared, barking dogs. My friends, a couple, kissed and hugged whilst I phoned the boy, who lives on the 15th floor of an apartment block. He was outside the block - the residents of all 22 floors had run down the stairs and gone outside in their nightclothes. I begged him to get away from the block and the phone cut out. That was the start of communication problems which are still continuing.

As people gathered in the Plaza, so did the rumours. We couldn't walk through the centre because there were fires and looting. Areas of Santiago had been flattened. Another, bigger earthquake was about to happen. An old house on the North side of Plaza Brasil had collapsed, with an entire family inside. I tried to call the boy again, to tell him to go to my house, get out of the street, but could only get an Out of Service message. I had skinned my knee and my palm diving into the road, but it didn't start to hurt until this afternoon.

We talked to locals in the park and I petted a pitbull that strained on its leash and barked with terror. All the taxis had gone, buses drove past quickly with their lights off. We waited an hour or so, thinking of what to do. AL dozed against a bollard. We would have to walk.

Walking on the traffic island to stay away from the buildings, a palm-lined, grassy strip which usually makes me feel like having a cocktail, we walked through a silent and dark Barrio Brasil. Where a few minutes before there had been open bars flashing neon lights, now everything was shuttered and the pavements were cluttered with rubble and broken glass. On the Alameda, the main street of Santiago which dissects the city from East to West, people were walking silently home.

The boy sent me messages periodically. I urged him to go to my house, a bungalow which has survived many earthquakes, rather than stay near his flimsy block. He replied saying that he was coming to get me. My companions left me to go to their home in Bellas Artes, so I walked the last stretch of the Alameda towards Plaza Italia, Santiago's psychological centre and site of many teargassings after football matches, by myself. As I came to the corner of Lastarria and Alameda I saw a building whose scaffolding had collapsed like a giant game of pick-up-sticks. As I waited for the boy to arrive, a group of young men picked up the scaffolding poles and started using them to smash the windows of the adjoining row of shops. The Carabineros (uniformed police) were hot on their heels but I can only imagine similar scenes went on in less heavily policed areas.

As they ran off, the boy called my name from the dark. I have never been so happy to see someone, and squeeze someone, in my whole life. We walked home down Vicuña MacKenna past a church with a half-collapsed tower, but with the Virgin Mary still standing in her niche, as the sun began to rise. It's almost enough to make one take up God - but he's got to answer for the apartment blocks in Barrio Maipu which weren't made to earthquake proofing regulations before that's going to happen.

Chile is located on the Ring of Fire, which sounds like the basis for a public schoolboy's hilarious curry-related joke, but is actually the area which surrounds the pacific basin and in which 90% of the world's earthquakes occur (according to Wikipedia). Chile makes up the south-east leg of the the Ring of Fire, which gives the country beautiful landscapes such as the volcanoes of the South, but also means that Chile owns the title for No. 1 largest earthquake, a 9.5 in 1960, and now the prize for No. 5 too thanks to last night's 8.8 treat (US Geological Survey).

I have been in the house all day watching the news with my housemates - every half an hour or so there is another aftershock, some worse than others. I can't imagine the strain of this kind of thing happening before internet, before mobile phones - waiting for the post every day to find out who is safe. I have spoken or written to both of my parents, my brother and sister, an uncle and many friends today. Along with shocking images of plastic-wrapped bodies being lifted from collapsed buildings and the broken relics of flyovers and motorways all over the country, Piñera, the centre-right President Elect of Chile, has been making soundbites all day, one of which bemoaned the loss of millions of pesos... once a businessman, always a businessman: thinking of the economy while the death count is 214 and rising.

Chile's aim to become a developed capitalist country is now further away than ever as much of the country's road network will have to be rebuilt along with an estimated 50,000 homes. The Huffington Post printed a list of ways to make aid donations here.

Please donate whatever you can, we lost a bottle of rum in the quake and I need an extremely stiff drink, as well as some savlon and a plaster for my knee.

REVOLVER: Open Minds and Wild Costumes: Gay Parade Chile 2009

2009-12-22T14:06:00.000Z

This year’s Gay Parade Chile: Open Mind Fest started early, with techno blasting from the speakers of the three stages by 3pm. The sun was shining and Santiago’s urban tribes were out in their full costumes – androgynous teenagers with brightly colored hair, platform boots and elaborate makeup.

Paseo Bulnes, the pedestrianised boulevard approaching the La Moneda presidential palace, was packed with over 25,000 people for the 4th annual anti-discrimination event organized by Chile’s leading gay rights group, Movement for Homosexual Integration and Liberation (MOVILH), to celebrate the International Day for Tolerance, on November 16.

Three stages pumped out a techno-heavy set from 30 different DJs over the course of the event whilst spectacular drag artists paraded up and down the Paseo and got the crowd going with energetic podium dancing in their dangerously high platforms. A drag impersonator of President Bachelet was particularly popular with the partying crowd, who fought to get their photos taken with her.

MOVILH activist Sofia Velasquez called for the presidential candidates to follow up their promises for a more equal Chile with concrete action against all discrimination. Party for Democracy (PPD) Deputy María Antonieta Saa, present at the event, took to the stage to give her support to the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transexual (LGBT) movement. The peak of the festival came with the crowd singing “Happy Birthday” to MOVILH who has been tirelessly fighting for LGBT rights in Chile for the past 18 years.

The candidates for Mr. Gay Chile 2009 were announced, followed by the award for Miss Lesbian Chile 2009, which was presented to 22-year-old María José Zárate. “I want to prove that I am a daughter, a cousin, an aunt and a person as well as being a lesbian,” said Zárate, who is a publicist from Concepción.“I want to break the stereotype that prejudiced people hold, and show that lesbians too think and feel, and that homosexuality is not just a ‘phase’ but a day-to-day life.”

The celebrations had a political aim, to bring awareness to LGBT rights and to push for approval of an anti-discrimination law as well as same-sex civil unions, but the overwhelming feeling of the day was of a relaxed, happy party as the attendees danced into the evening and the Carabineros (Chile’s uniformed police) stood peacefully on the outskirts of the crowds.

“This has been the most successful event of the four,” said MOVILH President Rolando Jiménez. “We are very happy that all these people, of all sexualities, have come together to celebrate the diversity of our country.” MOVILH helps organize events throughout the year, including the 2nd annual Chilean festival of LGBT cinema which screened films at the National Library through December 4.

MOVILH also recently ran a campaign to collect Christmas presents for underprivileged children living with HIV/AIDS. The collection drive, in its 10th year, aims to bring joy during the holiday season to children experiencing discrimination as well as family and financial difficulties due to the virus.

For additional information on MOVILH and their activities, please visit their official website: http://www.movilh.cl.

Open Mind Fest
November 16 2009
http://www.movilh.cl

Published here

REVOLVER: Not That Cuasimodo: Photos by Marco Fredes

2009-12-19T14:30:00.000Z

A unique religious festival takes place in Chile's rural areas the Sunday following Easter Sunday. Known as Quasimodo Sunday, on this day the parish priest takes communion to the ill and infirm parishioners who were unable to attend mass on Easter Sunday. Traditionally the priest was accompanied by huasos (Chilean cowboys) for protection, but over the years this ritual has grown into a costumed parade involving the whole community.

Marco Fredes’ photo exhibition of the Cuasimodo festival in the districts of Lampa, Noviciado and Colina on the outskirts of Santiago between 2003 and 2008 was on display in the Sala Joaquin Edwards Bello of Centro Cultural Estación Mapocho.

Away from the main exhibition hall, the first room of the exhibition contained about 20 photographs of the parade itself. In the background played an atmospheric soundtrack of religious chanting and the clip-clop of horses' hooves, helping to bring the black and white images to life. In these stark photos the costumed huasos perpare their horses in the early morning, riding along deserted country lanes and resting by the roadside.

Fredes’ use of black and white underlines the timelessness of the festival nicely– the shots of satin-robed men on horses carrying Chilean flags could have been taken in any decade since the colonisation of Chile, but for the asphalt roads.

The photos, although beautiful, were somewhat repetitive when it came to the images of the riders. The exhibition contained many shots of the huasos taken from a similar angle and distance. Some hard editing could have been done on this section."Vapor" (2004) was a favorite with steam rising from a horse’s flank, although Fredes’ frequent use of chiaroscuro obscured the foreground of this photo (and others) to almost complete blackness. The photos were also hung slightly too high and closely lit with spotlights that glared off the glass, resulting in an uncomfortable viewing experience.

A few photos depicted the priests’ duties inside the houses of his parishioners-- it is a shame there were not more like this. The second room contained images of a more personal nature, with a few photos showing the priests’ duties inside the houses of his parishioners. Compared to these images the previous parade photos seemed flat and cold. The priest giving communion to a weeping woman in her sickbed in "Emoción" (2003) illuminated the heart at the centre of this tradition – to bring comfort to those in need.

Fredes’ choice of subject matter is compelling, but I wonder if his exhibition really warranted five years of work. Perhaps he has a personal attachment to the festival – this is easy to understand. The latter images capture a side of the festival that could not be seen by the public, and therefore possess qualities of photo journalism as well as being beautifully shot and intense.

Cuasimodos
Photographs by Marco Fredes
23 July – 23 Aug
Sala Joaquin Edwards Bello
Centro Cultural Estación Mapocho
Exhibit photographs available at: http://www.marcofredes.com/

Published here

REVOLVER: Mestizo: An Acrobatic Journey Through the Human Psyche

2009-12-16T14:15:00.000Z

The international dance/circus collaboration group, MESTIZO, took over the Matucana 100 venue in Santiago’s Quinta Normal for ten days in September, putting on a variety of shows every day. But the main attraction was “Poleas y Polleras” (Pulleys and Skirts) from the Peruvian circus and dance company “Agárrate Catalina” — and it is spectacular.

The performance is a sequence of acrobatic dance pieces, beginning with three human marionettes. Suspended from the ceiling by thick ropes of elastic,three women in identical green skirts and white blouses dangle morbidly at the front of the stage. When they begin to dance, the elastic gives a dream-like quality to their movements, slowing and exaggerating every step. They are joined by three men who manipulate them on their elastic bonds, and even when the women try to run away they are pulled back, helpless. At one point the men agressively push them to the floor and hold them down with one foot — the expressive seed for one of the main themes of the show is planted.

The next scene takes place in a white wardrobe that has been standing onstage all along. A door opens and a pair of feet begin to seductively wiggle in the white space. Parts of the performer are revealed, and then withdrawn, as she maneuvers expertly,and unexpectedly, around the tiny space, peeking from first one door and then another into the outside world, seemingly unwilling to leave the wardrobe.

This use of an enclosed space was what first brought to my mind the Brazilian dancer and choreographer Deborah Colker. Her work also uses props that physically resrict the dancer whilst expressing similar themes of gender roles and sexual desire, and her pieces often include acrobatic aspects alongside more traditional ballet — though not nearly as much as “Poleas and Polleras”.

Well, whatever these Latin American dance companies are eating, it sure as hell does the trick. A fantastic music selection accentuates the growing atmosphere of slightly sinister intoxication as the scenes continue, with music ranging from Tom Waits to the Italian partisan song “Bella Ciao”. The latter provides a stunning accompaniment to a scene with a woman wearing a wedding dress — a wedding dress that seems to be attacking her.

From an astoundingly funny and disturbing juggling act by a gangly performer with maniacal eyes (and his toy doll), to a topless woman in a perspex box smoking and wearing a glamour wig — like an outtake from a Wong Kar Wai movie — the show is absolutely riveting.

There are plenty of extreme acrobatics to enjoy too — in one piece a couple undress whilst performing terrific stunts. In fact, the show is full of people taking off their clothes — and putting on other clothes. The stylish garments chosen for the performance even play a role in some of the scenes; for example, a red dress (which pops up throughout) hangs suspended around a vertical rope whilst an aerialist climbs, pulls it on, pouts, then decides against it, only to have to traverse and down the rope as it pursues her.

Interwoven with childhood images; a lost doll, a surreal game of musical chairs, playground bullies: the sequence of scenes come together to leave a powerful impression, which is part wonder, part unease; and completely exhilarating.

Last night I went to an art shindig at the Sheraton organised by some Canadians where we were representing the paper and the radio show. The idea was to interview artists and get their views on... y'know, arty shit, and also to drink as much free wine as humanly possible. Well, that was my idea. My dream was that there would be canapes. You know Mermaids, that classic film where Cher is the slutty single mum of Christina Ricci and Winona Ryder, and how Cher will only make them finger food? Well. I could've ended up like that if I had lived with my grandmother. The woman was obsessed with canapes, and I have inherited that obsession. I don't care about the quality, just as long as I can fit it in my mouth in one go. Iceland's Indian selection, M and S mini quiche, whatever. Freud would probably say that I have narcissistic personality disorder (eating the world in one go) and penis envy (mini kebabs) and I need to have cocaine injected into my ear – but didn't he always bloody say that? Old fart.

Once we had set up we went for a walk-through of the show. At the front were some schoolkids' exhibitions that were similar to any school-age art you have endured. Close up portraits of gothy girls and hard-hitting social subjects rendered in technicolour acrylic - and they beat by a mile some of the adult exhibitors. The place was crawling with expat WASPs done up to the nines with stiff hair and brocade dresses, 90 percent blonde, 100 percent terrifying. We were wearing the station's unflattering logo t-shirts and I had not had time for a shower that morning, so my hair was dripping with grease. The staff had seemingly been told not to apply wine or food to the journalists because every time a silver platter of canapes floated towards me they veered expertly out of arm's reach.

My favourite piece of the exhibition was an enormous rendition of some wealthy young women drinking wine in the plush living room of a posh house, smiling dementedly at their goddamn good luck at being born rich, accompanied by a horrible little lapdog. Every time I passed it there were crowds of admirers around it snapping it with their camera phones: rich old bitches taking photos of rich young bitches.

I did get to interview one artist, Carolina Garcia Huidobro, who seemed very nice and makes beautiful etchings inspired by pre-hispanic rock art. She is illustrating a new imprint of a Pablo Neruda book at the moment, out in December, which I hope I will get to go to the opening for. Maybe they'll be more liberal with the canapes there.

Later on in the evening the caterers seemed to have decided not to waste the food because I managed to nab a few minted lamb kebabs and bits of smoked salmon on brown bread. They also had some bizarre multicoloured mush piped onto inferior quality Ritz biscuits which made me regret my choice, as one can't simply follow round the canape-bearers taking handfuls. I developed quite an effective method, which was to approach each one from behind and snatch my target whilst the waiter was distracted by honking New World dowagers practising their long-vowelled Spanish on the poor buggers. I also got to 'sample' some delicious wine, but not nearly enough. The boy wasn't able to come on official paper business so I had to curb my bitching, and the thirst to be horribly naughty that is always awakened in me by posh hotels or free wine went unsated, despite the rare, glowing opportunity of a combination of the two. In heaven I will live in a posh hotel with free wine and canapes and I will be dressed in Cher's wardrobe from Mermaids – patent stilettos and polka-dot wiggle dresses.

Genital Bingo

2009-05-11T23:06:00.004+01:00

After my tramp crotch sighting the other day I was walking through Parque Forestal, home to crusties, drunks and something called the 'Pokemon' tribe that I am too old to understand, when I saw a tramp pissing against a tree. I was quite close up and could see his danglies in rather a lot of detail as he squeezed and shook, and I have to say I was gripped. It seems that unexpected genitalia have a certain fascination as, when I posted my experience on a certain well-known social networking site, my friends came up with a smorgasbord of guerrilla genital sightings of their own.

So... feel free to share your cock-in-eye tales below or just have a little thought for me - I got excessively excited this morning when I spotted a rather drunk chap weaving about with his jeans apparently at half-mast and had to speed up to get a good look in case I was missing a full house. Disappointingly he was still in control of his groin area.

Abulia: Friend to the Friendless

2009-04-29T22:11:00.011+01:00

Throughout my life I have displayed one useless but constant talent: an ability to attract drunks, tramps and loonies; and apparently the language barrier is no barrier at all to my magnetic attraction for such types.

Opposite my house, in a slightly upmarket area of Santiago, there is a convent which has a sideline finding menial work for immigrants. Every day when I leave my house for work, there is a row of them sitting on our front wall like a gang of scraggly, well, menial workers, waiting for a cleaning job to come up, listening to Latino pop on a ghetto blaster and sharing cans of beer.

Every day I would open up the gate, smile at the queue of joyless faces, and run off to the office. None of them ever said hello to me - it made me feel kind of excluded and lonely and sad. And then one day, one of them did. The crazy one. She told me all about her English friend who worked as a nanny in Santiago for three years and now every day I have to pretend I haven't seen her or endure the same story again. She's not looking for work, she's just hanging around, dressed like a toddler in primary colours, introducing herself to foreigners, over and over afuckinggain.

Halfway to work there is an area of cobbled streets called Lastarria where disgustingly rich women have allergies for lunch and then go to the salon to have a few decades of wrinkles sandpapered off. A man stands outside one of the art galleries selling dirty stuffed toys out of a shopping trolley. The man is tall, fat and bald, wears a floral headscarf and speaks in babytalk. He has a sign saying that he only sells his goods to women.

Yesterday the man approached me with a piece of paper, which I happily gave him 50 pence for. He gripped my arm and told me in his squeaky voice that a woman called Nelly Thatcher is going to come to England and destroy all of the historical buildings. I have written to The National Trust on his behalf.

The handout says:
ANTICHRIST
We do not want more rains in the hemisphere whilst we don't have our currencies

I can't translate it word for word because it is written in the style of a Spanish child with learning difficulties on acid. But it does say something about the Antichrist being funded by America, extraterrestrials driving diesel tractors in the Catholic church, and women teaching magic medicine to monkeys.

In not entirely unrelated news, I went for a walk around central Santiago on my lunch break and saw a toothless old tramp lady being helped into a pair of electric-blue French knickers by her chum. And yes, I did see her snatch.

Smoke On The Water

2009-04-23T22:09:00.005+01:00

Oh dear. I seem to have upset someone in Vina del Mar (perhaps the owners of Telepizza) with my comment that their pier was the only good thing about the rathole city - yesterday morning arsonists set fire to the pier twice (lovely pier! Beautiful pier!) and now it's going to be demolished. It makes one doubt all that is good in the world. Look at the lovely stained-glass windows. Doesn't it make you want to eat cockles with a toothpick and throw balls at coconuts?

Sorry pier. R.I.Pier.

Chic Batik

2009-04-21T20:54:00.005+01:00

Having come out here with very little idea about who I am or whether I left the oven on or not and embarked on a six-month journalism internship with the lovely, if linguistically infectious, American youths who write the paper, I have realised that I did, in fact, leave the oven on - or the spiritual equivalent - and really want to make shit out of shit, not words out of shit, or at least, not news words. Putting the 'ew' into 'news'; that's me.

For some reason I thought back to Year 9 when my art teacher was taking a 'sabbatical' (or alcohol-induced nervous breakdown, as it is more commonly known) and her hippy stand-in taught us how to do batik. I suddenly had the urge to feel the wood of a tjanting in my hand, to drip hot wax onto fabric to the sound of dolphins, and to dye stuff in buckets. And that's what I've been doing, after finding a batik equipment shop in an up-market (which means up the hill, above the smog) crafts shopping centre where the silk-draped duena raped me for all my credit card's worth.

I suppose this is the unavoidable effect of having grown up near North Oxford. I have already become one of those middle aged ladies who float about at coffee mornings talking about crafts whilst their husbands are out earning real money as a doctor/lawyer/professor. Does anyone want to marry me and fund my craft habit? Please? I can make gingernut biscuits.

Daytripping

2009-04-19T21:20:00.007+01:00

The boy and I may be the most unsuccessful tourists ever to bother leaving the old country. We don't go to world-famous museums or galleries or anything culturally rewarding like that but judge a place on how good the food is and what kind of animals they have in the zoo. I give top marks for aquariums, the boy goes for monkeys. Many tourists these days like to boycott zoos because the undeveloped world doesn't know how to treat animals (aren't we superior), but I don't give enough of a shit. It would be hypocritical: I eat unethically sourced meat from fast food restaurants. I even like the performing seals. They look pretty tasty. I regret not going to a zoo in Bolivia, I can only imagine what a treat that would be. Orangutan burgers?

We do like the seaside, primarily because of the food, so decided to go on a day trip to Vina del Mar before the winter sets in, which means it will still be sunny every day but there might be a slight chill in the air at night. The two things Chileans love to talk about most are how cold the winters are here and how dangerous Santiago is. I'm from England! From South East London! Oh, okay, East Dulwich. But even East Dulwich is more dangerous than most of Santiago, and it's certainly colder.

It didn't start well. I was late and the boy was hungover, then we had a disagreement with the girl at the ticket counter who thought that because we were foreign she couldn't serve us and used sign language to indicate that we should go to the window of her colleague who spoke English - even though we were talking to her in Spanish. Then when we went to get on the bus the conductor wouldn't allow us to buy a bottle of water before leaving. Then we didn't leave for half an hour.

Anyway, Vina del Mar is rubbish. There is nothing to do and no seafood restaurants and swimming is prohibited. It really should just jump off the pier. The pier is quite nice, actually - old-fashioned, rotten and covered in graffiti. I eventually decided that the only thing to do to recover the situation would be to go to a restaurant on the seafront, which was all shiny and professional and looked like the set of that Renault Clio ad with the incestuous orgasm, and drink a cocktail. I ordered a long island iced tea and was drunk after the first mouthful. Predictable, some might say, but somehow I didn't see it coming.

I persuaded the boy that we should stay for another, despite the passing of time, and the significant lack of financial resources thanks to my new policy of leaving my cards at home in the hope that it will stop me from spending money when I'm drunk. Instead, the best I can hope for is that I borrow money from someone who is too polite to ask for it back.

I don't know how I didn't see this one coming either; we missed the last bus back to Santiago. Between us we had just too little cash to pay for a hostel, but just enough to stay up drinking cheap wine until the first bus at 5.30 the next morning.

I would like to say that I was distraught at the idea of getting really drunk and missing work, but I had a raging thirst on and was truly excited at the prospect of making myself sick with red wine in one of Vina's dive bars. Since leaving Bolivia I've just not had enough opportunities to fuck myself up whilst stranded in dead-end towns. I've really missed it.

After our first bottle of wine the boy decided it would be tactical to eat something, so we found a pizza joint on the main street. The pizza was the kind that you get if you order in hungover agoraphobic desperation from one of those delivery leaflets that get stuck through your door every day in London; the kind that comes with two litres of coke and six spicy chicken wings and a little plastic tub of garlicky copydex. The place was as brightly lit as an operating theatre and the TVs screwed to the walls were showing live abdominal surgery. Appetising. As we were sitting there hoovering up intestine-flavoured Hawaiian pizza the guy sitting behind us got arrested out of nowhere. When we left he was sitting in a police car outside chewing on a slice of pizza and arguing with the cops.

I think we went to another bar where I proceeded to take loads of photos of a Shania Twain poster whilst the only other customer seemed to be mentally wanking over me and the boy and stayed watching us, until we crawled out at 5 to catch the bus, all moist-lipped and dripping grease down his grey cotton zip-up jacket.

We got on the first Santiago-bound bus when the driver wasn't looking: it was the wrong bus company but our return tickets had expired anyway. I had to sit on the boy's lap all the way back after a carabinero took my seat, so I kept elbowing him in his crisply uniformed side to show my annoyance at his lack of generosity - people have been disappeared in Chile for less, even foreigners.

Last weekend I went to the zoo instead. It was great, and I got the tube home in time for tea.