Volcan Villarrica: Mutiny on the mountain

Neither of us were too pleased when the Wiggles enthusiastically started singing 'Wake Up Jeff' that Sunday morning. We'd been invited to dinner at our German friend's villa the previous evening and after a delicious Chilean meal, mulled wine and attempting to communicate to an Argentinian guy using a German picture book, we'd gone to bed far later than we should have.

After around 5 hours sleep, my one hope for staying in bed until a more respectable hour was cloud cover. Specifically clouds covering Volcan Villarrica. As it was technically Jeff whom the Wiggles were still singing to, he volunteered to wander into the lounge room to see if the volcano was visible. Despite having waited in anxious anticipation to climb it for 4 days, when he returned and started packing in a flurry I wasn't particularly enthusiastic.  

After a large group had gathered at head office, we parted with 35 000 pesos each, then squeezed into a mini van and set off for the volcano via the Conaf office where our national park entry fee was paid. Near the base of the chairlifts, there was already a line of mini vans whose occupants stood contemplating the mountain.

Apart from a couple of buildings near the base, the enormous side of the volcano was entirely barren. Reflecting the sunshine, the snow covered slope appeared invitingly conquerable; it even seemed closer than the 4-5 hour predicted climb.

Wandering amongst the group, while we suited up, our guide pointed out the fierce wind that was driving the smoke from the volcano sideways and whipping up the freshly fallen snow. At that moment we still had the option to turn around and try tomorrow or get a refund. 

Retreating at that moment would have meant missing out on ascending Villarrica altogether, so I confirmed with the guide that the wind wouldn't stop us from reaching the top. He grinned as he told me it probably wouldn't be very pleasant, but not impossible. Being time poor we chose to climb, together with a tall Spanish man in his 30s and a middle aged Dutch woman, while most of the group returned to the comfort of the van and the promise of tomorrow.

Keeping in a single file behind the first guide, we began the slow trudge up the mountain. And oh my was it going to be slow. By the time we reached the first stop to put our helmets on, my heart rate had barely increased and I could see why the walk was going to take so long. Admittedly not everyone agreed that the going was easy. When she caught up with us, the Dutch woman was already drenched in sweat and asked if we were finding the climbing difficult.

If the walking wasn't going to leave me breathless, the wind certainly was. Despite trying to cover every patch of bare skin, I could still feel the snow blasting against my checks. Above us the chairlifts groaned and squeaked as they swung in the wind. The long procession of climbers in front of us all had ice axes in hand, trying to steady themselves against the gusts.

Just past the snow line, in the narrow shelter of some exposed rock, the groups all began to gather. Some climbers were putting on their crampons, while others sat staring down into the valley. One guy off to the side was peeing, which given the wind was a decent challenge.

After a brief exchange with one of the men in the group, our guide informed us that Conaf had closed the mountain because of the wind. He suggested that we could still put on our crampons and head up to the top of the chairlift where we would wait it out in case the wind died down. So while all the other groups turned around, the three of us - we had lost the Dutch woman - continued on.

Five minutes after reaching the shelter at the top of the chairlift, our guide was ready to head back. The Spanish guy tried to delay our return, but the guide stood firm and we started back down the mountain to where we had put our crampons on. In the spot where 50 people had been crammed together just half an hour ago, there was no one, not even the Conaf official.

With rising frustration, we pointed out to the guide that the wind was subsiding and perhaps if we waited a little longer we might still have a chance of climbing Villarrica. But with barely a glance at the mountain he headed downhill.

Initially we had been instructed to walk close together but now our guide, with the Spaniard in hot pursuit, raced away leaving Jeff and myself at least 200m behind. It took a lot of shouting to get him to stop and wait for us to catch up.

Together with the Spaniard we begged the guide, to at least evaluate the changing situation or explain why we'd even started out. He refused. Turning away from our barrage of pleas and questions, our guide walked away leaving us to contemplate our next move.

We felt cheated and ripped off.

Back at the office, we demanded answers from the owner of the trekking company. Pleading innocence, he blamed Conaf for tricking us into paying the park entry fee when they knew the mountain was closed. While he graciously refunded half the fee we'd paid, that bitter feeling lingered.

That evening we returned to Santiago, the place where is all started two months earlier. This time around we barely noticed the broken footpaths and 70s era buildings as we wandered the streets on a hot, hazy day.

The following morning, we flew out of Chile.

Santiago from the Hills

When in Santiago, it's hard to forget that it's a city set at the base of the Andes. Just when you do, you look down the street between European style buildings and there on the horizon are snow capped mountains.

Santiago lacked the colour we had expected until we reached an area on the other side of the river. During the evening the brightly painted buildings are the backdrop for a thriving cafe and pub scene, but when we walked through around lunch time it was quiet.

For a better look of the city and to escape the traffic and pollution we'd decided to wander up through the Parque Metropolitano to the Virgin Mary statue at the top of the nearby Cerro San Cristobal. The dirt track that led up there seemed a little abandoned, but was lined with pretty spring flowers that covered the steep hillside.

We climbed quickly, getting a good view over Santiago, but of course it was the mountains that drew our attention. Despite the pollution it was clear enough to see the chain around the city that stretches north to Bolivia and south to the Atlantic.

From the top of the hill looking into the distance we were convinced that the some of what we thought was mountains must surely be clouds because they seemed too high compared to the others. Then slowly we spotted the snow on the tops and the jagged line of the peaks.

Down the bottom in the colourful Bario Bellavista, the late afternoon had already brought crowds to the pubs. The footpath was packed with artisans selling jewellery displayed on blankets on the ground and pedestrians wandering along the sunny street as they probably did most Saturday afternoons.

Next Stop: A unique Chilean town

Santiago de Chile

Our blind went up just in time to see the two defining geographic features of Chile, it's coastline and the Andes. On the narrow part of land in between lay the sprawl of Santiago and as we turned towards the airport it seemed like the plane had to climb a little higher to miss the peaks of the mountains directly below.

The first view of Chile

Safely on the ground, the slow process of familiarising ourselves with a new country began. Our sleep deprived brains fumbled trying to work out where on earth we were. Just outside customs we were hassled which seemed just like in Morocco but at least here, no thank you means no thank you. On the bus Jeff's Spanish was put to the test as we were short-changed by 1000 or so pesos, just like in Romania.

It's always a shock to see an area where the ground is covered in rubbish and the houses are falling apart. From the bus window we observed the street life what we hopped was the dirty and dilapidated part of Santiago while wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. And of course we knew we would stand out.

If the people of Santiago noticed us lugging our packs down their street they certainly didn't show it, which was a big relief.

The Casa Roja hostel, located in a 19th century mansion that we had found online turned out to be everything that had been promised. Elegant and classy even our room decked out in antique furniture had a beautifully crafted 4m ceiling. Opening the shuttered doors onto the Juliet balcony we watched the traffic careen along the street below.

I wouldn't describe Santiago as a beautiful town, with it's new buildings of a bland design and it's old ones were crumbling. The shop fronts seemed stuck in the 80's with dirty signs and yellow lighting. But the people seemed cheerful and friendly.

In the main square, groups of tarot card readers where revealing fortunes, while local artists sold their paintings near by. A comedian had gathered a huge group of mostly men all around him and on the other side a group of teenagers were dancing for another crowd. Just like in eastern Europe, elderly men were playing chess in the rotunda.

Down the street the shops were full of people. Oddly enough, the most popular ones were the cake decorating shops where a long queue of people waited to pick up orders. There were at least half a dozen of these lined up in a row.

Next to them, knitting wool in all colours of the rainbow lined the shelves top to bottom of the next six or so shops. These were full of mostly women, some just buying others in groups taking a class. In another area I found crafter's paradise with an arcade exclusively devoted to crafting. These were also packed with people.

We'd planned to go to bed early, but between free! WiFi! and a bottle of Chilean wine, we were already on South American time.

Next Stop: Santiago from the hills