28.2.09. Valdivia.

Superb things about Chile, currently #1 in my list of magnificent places (apart from Tokyo, which is, of course, in a special super-league with Zanzibar and Ramsgate Harbour *cough*);

1. The grub. Ceviche Marino is probably the tastiest thing I've ever had in me gob, and I've had some pretty odd things in there. All the seafood is incredible. But how about a huge plate of roast pork (King Of Meats!), mash and gravy in the fireman's cafe for two quid?*

2. The actual, er, land. Endless breath-removing, jaw-unhinging stuff, natch, but the variety is the key. Chile stretches from a cake-slice of Antarctica, via lush, cool green stuff and spooky old Easter Island, to the cactus-throttled Atacama desert. And let's not overlook those kooky mountains!

3. The dames. Skinny blonde ice-maidens they ain't, and all the better for it. Sultry, cow-eyed rumpstrels with a decent heft to 'em - good workers, both out in the field and up in the hayloft.

4. The lack of bitterness towards British citizens engendered by a relatively recent war. To be fair, the same can be said of both Germany and Argentina. (Note to French readers - Agincourt was, like, a hundred years ago.) It helps that - from memory - we haven't had one.

5. There's a man in Chile called Daffodil Frederick. He was on the news!
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Imagine if money had pictures of nudie ladies on it. That's how good my bike is now. This week's premier (if slightly antisocial) larf - setting off innumerable car alarms with the rather, ehm, throaty exhaust.
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2.3.09. Entre Lagos, Chile.

Me - Hey! Brain! BRAIN! What shall we do this afternoon?
My Brain - Huh?
Me - S'afternoon? Do? What?
My Brain - Uhmmmm. Howzabout we ride a motorbike up a volcano we believe to be active?
Me - Well, you're the brains of the operation, so let's do exactly that.

So off we trundle. Or zip, thanks to La Fluffita's utter gloriousness and perfection. 12 miles of uphill gravel hairpins later, we arrive at a vast, empty ski-lodge with one lonely, mad-eyed staff member. He makes me a decent cup of coffee and lets me smoke where I shouldn't.

Back down the hill and I make a schoolboy error. I say - out loud - the phrase "Mmm. You are the most beautiful, trouble-free moto in Creation. This is all going extremely well". Then the clutch cable snaps. I've got a spare - two in fact - but I'm a bit hazy on how to fit it. 90 minutes of poking, thrusting, screwing and swearing later, it's on, and it works! My choice of routing for the cable is a tadge unorthodox (i.e. wrong and stupid), but it works! Never mind that three-quarters of the old one is still in there and is now zip-tied to my left front indicator. It bloody works!

*-What about the vegetables?
-How about the whoables?