24.2.09. Puerto Varas, Chile.

There's a gigantic volcano just over the lake from my bed. Easy on the eye, sure, but given that the one just down the road in Chaiten went absolutely apeshit a week ago, I'm inclined to cross my stubby little fingers and my weird, fat little toes.

Five miles from the Honda shop at lunchtime today, and all is well. Four miles from the Honda shop and the misfiring ghastliness returns, bringing me out in sympathy hives. At least I can demonstrate the fault to el mecanico. He explains to me that it's a carb problem; good, I say, easy to fix then, and cheaper than knackered piston rings. Up to a point, he says, as we can't actually do carburettors here. I develop septicaemia on the spot, complicated by hysteria of the sweetbreads, trench-foot, flop-bot, black wilt, nose-whistle, marsh gas fever and the vapours.

I had to leave Puerto Montt a little earlier than planned as the hotel was just too grimy and full of parasitic bugs, and not cheap enough to overlook both. The new one's wee but nice, like an 18th century ship's cabin. For a bloody pygmy. No - it's fine.

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To call Pims in PV an Irish pub is stretching the concept to not-being-accurate point.
1. It's in Chile - fair enough.
2. The bar staff only speak Spanish. OK.
3. It sells German style Altbier, brewed in Valdivia. Not Guinness. Um.
4. And Mexican and Dutch imports.
5. It's decorated with US license plates. Hang on.
As Pim O'Grady once said, "Begorrah, dude! Ein volk, ein reich!"
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A perceptive man - and damn me to heck 'n' back if it wasn't Somerset Maugham - once said that the chief enemy of creativity is the pram in the hall. Tickle me bandy if the same is not also true of the baby in the pub, particularly when I may already have contracted Dropsy due to carburettor problems. *
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Budweiser! King Of Beers!
Duncan Norvelle! King Of Stand-Up Comedians!
Egg! King Of Smells!
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*does not apply to 4-year-old Scoob freaks in The Bishop