Developed economies ahoy!

One word in bold leapt off the guide book pages regarding northern Chile: scallops. The towns of Caldera and Bahia Inglesa are small beach resorts about halfway between San Pedro de Atacama and Santiago, and are given only a brief treatment in the Rough Guide (no gratuities were accepted for mentioning this guide book by name), enough to say that they are small resorts in the location noted and are famous for scallops. It was enough for us, and we broke away from the backpacker trail to head to Caldera. There were only two other tourists in the town, sturdy young women with short haircuts, who stayed where we stayed, dined where we dined, walked where we walked. We only managed to shake them off when we strolled to Bahia Inglesa on our second day.



Upon arrival, we had one small but important problem: how do Chileños say scallops? Careful examination of restaurant boards revealed the answer: ostiones! So, lunch was ostiones and papas fritas, exceptional. Caldera otherwise had little in the way of attractions. It was too cold to swim and the beach was unappealing anyway. Many fishing boats lay dormant in the small bay and enormous pelicans swooped between them and sat on large buoys discussing whatever pelicans discuss in the tourist off-season. The waters were occasionally broken by a diving bird and further out seals frolicked, breaking the water and enticing quick grabs at the camera and then diving before a picture could be taken.



On the second day we strolled to Bahia Inglesa, six kms away across sandy dunes. There was no one there but a few stray dogs and several small groups of desperadoes assumedly seeking ostiones. It must be quite a place in summer, all beautiful curving virgin beach with calm deep blue water covered in hundreds of people. Luckily, ostiones were still available, and when eaten with a garlic sauce along with ceviche and cold beer they unleashed a tremendous feeling of well being and freedom from petty worries. We lay on the beach for a while and one of the stray dogs joined us. I went for an ice cream and entertained the stall proprietor by correctly but clumsily ordering an ice cream in Spanish, and returned to find the dog had sneakily shifted over to lie against Mel´s body. He had manipulated his weight like a sulky child and Mel couldn´t move him. After a short scuffle he slumped down about a metre away and gazed longingly at our ice cream. He got none.

That evening Mel ditched the ostiones for something lame and I ordered ostiones parmesana. Alas, this was a terrible error, the ostiones smothered in a sauce flavoured vaguely cheesily but bearing no relationship to anything you could call parmesan. Mel had a lot of trouble hiding her amusement at my chagrin and we agreed never to speak of this meal again. Mel cruelly spoke of it again several times.

We proceeded to Santiago and stayed at the Eco Hostel, where the constantly running toilets, very generous shower heads and regular mega-meaty barbecues cast significant doubt over their eco-credentials. We wandered aimlessly for a day before catching a plane to the "Paris of the South", Buenos Aires, Argentina. As the plane banked away from Chile to cross the Andes, one important question repeated in my mind: would I be able to get a decent macchiato there? What a tool.