Climbing Volcan Villarrica

I was sad to say goodbye to Santiago and the lovely people I had met, but I was ready to dust off my backpack (literally: it had been under my bed - the house cleaner, being 80 something, couldn't get down there) and get on the road again. To Pucón , south Chile.

If you've not looked at a map lately, Chile follows the spine of the Andes and so you're guaranteed to be dazzled by mountains wherever you go, especially in The Lakes District, where Pucón  lies. Something we didn't bargain for was the dozens of restaurants, coffee-houses and tour agencies competing for our attention. Pucón has been compared to Queenstown in New Zealand, and it's true that it is similar in some ways - lakeside, upmarket and an absolute magnet for families and adrenaline addicts alike.

What Queenstown doesn't have is a 3,000 metre, active volcano looming over it: an ever-smoking, ever-threatening reminder that here, despite the fancy shops, designer sunglasses, flash cars and expensive restaurants, Earth is in charge.

Volcán Villarrica, a perfect snow-capped cone which wedges Pucón against the lake of the same name, is why we were here. But the weather had other ideas. From the forecast for the next week it seemed that the Southern Hemisphere summer was drawing to an end rather quickly - and climbing the volcano in cloudy or windy weather is not an option.

So, we lay in wait, amusing ourselves with one-day treks in Parque Nacional Huerquehue, lazy afternoons in the natural aquas termales (hot springs) and meeting up with Christian, from Ecuador, who we met on the bus from Santiago (he had a gorgeous house with a swimming pool and took us to visit the waterfalls in his 4WD).

Just when we were tittering on the edge of booking our bus to Argentina, we heard a rumour that the weather forecast was looking up. Easter Sunday appeared to be perfect volcano-climbing weather, as well as perfect chocolate-scoffing temperature. We decided to wait it out. It was now or never; we had been in Pucon for five days and needed to move on.

The night before, we picked up our equipment bags for the climb: heavy mountain boots, gloves, helmet, ice axe (yikes, ice axe! Are we really going to need an ice axe?), jacket, over-trousers, a funny, wrap-around miniskirt with buckles and an piece of equipment resembling an oversized, plastic frying pan, which unlike most in our group, I had encountered before. The climb was on, at long last.

5am is a time I don't even see in my working life, but in my quest for adventure it's a part of the day I'm willing to witness. It was 6am when we gathered by the trucks and, after much throwing around of equipment, we were on the road to the foot of Volcan Villarrica.

The sun was spilling over the snow-capped peaks in the distance as we started our ascent, minus the help of the skiing chair lift (yes, people ski on South America's second most active volcano) to cut off 1.5 hours of the climb as it was Easter Sunday. The peak, with its white icing, loomed high above our heads as beads of sweat started to burst onto our foreheads. And it was only 7am.


The steep, steep climb, first over loose volcanic rock and then icy snow, seems quite surreal at times. We passed the twisted remnants of a pulverised chairlift, an unsettling reminder of the monstrous force of this gurgling vent in the Earth's crust. First struck down by the last eruption, in 1971, then shifted further down by the earthquake in 2010.

As we climbed higher, single file,we took breaks to catch our breath and simultaneously let the view steal it off us once again. The vista of mountains, lakes and other volcanoes in the background was just as breathtaking as the leg-burning hike upwards.

We stopped for lunch (at 10.30am - seems normal when you day started at 5am) and our guides fixed the rusting crampons to our boots. Never before had I walked with a pair of crampons, but they were essential as we hit the snow and ice, that was glistening in the reddening sun.
The ice axe turned out to be mainly a balancing tool for the trickier parts. Every once in a while a loud whistle or the sound of dozens of people shouting "piedraaaaa!!!" rings out: rocks, some small and some not-so-small, roll down the volcano with leg-breaking speed. We were quite happy to have overtaken the other groups and be the first on the volcano in many days.

We traversed across crevasses and narrow ridges of pure ice, gripping onto the safety rope our guides had fixed. As the ice and snow melted in the midday sun, people slipped and fell, using their ice picks to steady themselves. The last part of the climb was the toughest, both old lava and snow giving way beneath our feet. It was our own mini-Everest.

Within five hours we reached the volcano's summit, where a broad, deep crater lined with vivid yellow sulphur deposits belches a continuous stream of acrid gases. An almost constant, deep rumble emanates from within the volcano's bowels.

To top it off, Villarrica is one of very few volcanoes in the world to have a permanent liquid lava lake within its crater. The level of the lake is variable, and while it's not easy to see at the moment, due to its low level and the quantity of smoke obscuring the crater's depths, we did get to glimpse bright, incandescent patches on the surface of the lake as the lava is churned within.

A comedian in our group threw a rock into the crater, followed minutes later but an angry spewing of billowing red smoke.We all moved back from the edge, stealing nervous looks at our two guides who cast worried glances at each other, and then grinned.

When we thought it couldn't get any better, we headed to the other side of the 2,847 metre high crater for a 360-degree view of the volcano-studded region straddling the Chile-Argentina border. To the east, another perfect volcanic cone is visible: Volcán Lanín, significantly taller at 3,747m. Other volcanic peaks - Quetrupillán, Llaima - and azure lakes - Villarrica, Calafquén - are visible all around.


After admiring the gorgeous panorama and sharing some chocolate Easter eggs, it was time to make our descent. How do you get down a volcano? Not the way we had imagined, that's for sure! We kitted up in the thick, plastic miniskirt and clipped the flimsy, plastic frying pan between our legs. We weren't going to climb down Villarrica, we were going to slide down it.

I had used a "bum board" before on skiing holidays, but not on such steep, rocky terrain, and certainly not to slide down an active volcano. As we were the first to bomb down in nearly a week, we had to refind, and sometimes remake, the deep channels in the snow and ice have been carved out by other climbers. This made it even more of an adventure.

It's not often in life you get to behave like a kid, wind in your hair, heart pumping with adrenalin, screaming "wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee" all the way to the bottom!

Quiero dos terremotos, por favor

During my time in Santiago, I endured a few shakes.

Hot off the heels of enjoying the local cocktail, terremoto (meaning earthquake, since you are left with the ground (and your legs) feeling very shaky after drinking it - that's the Chilean sense of humour for you!), I lived through a real life terremoto, or as I was later corrected, a temblor.

The difference between a terremoto (earthquake) and a temblor is that a terremoto shakes the earth up and down and a temblor side to side (or so I´m told by the locals).

The first time I woke up in the middle of the night, not sure what on earth was happening. My bed was shaking and it took me a while for my eyes and brain to focus and realise the whole room was shaking. Naturally, I just lay there in fear and made no attempts to move to a safe place.

Thankfully, it soon stopped and the next morning I was sure I had dreamt it, until Megan came into my room and said she had felt the same. Apparently they don't have earthquakes in Brazil: Claudia was up dancing with excitement over breakfast shouting "terremoto, terremoto!"

Angelica correctly predicted the quake as a 5 (well, it was 5.2, I told her she needed to make her predictions more accurate in future). But then came the big one.

I was with Med and Chris for this one, in the makeshift shed-come-lounge in the back of their hostel. This one I was acutely aware of from the very beginning, as the old, heavy TV, light fittings, fridges, stools and everything else in sight was shifting to and fro. Not only was it stronger, but it lasted longer too. But again, we all just sat there, eyes wide, muscles clenched. We'd make totally useless citizens.

This one was a 7.2 at source (to put this into perspective, the earthquake that destroyed Haiti was a 7.0) and a 6.8 in Santiago. The novelty had warn off now, especially after we were told not to leave the hostel for at least an hour in case buildings were damaged and electricity cables cut.

Luckily, that was the last big one we felt, although thousands rock Chile every year.

Med also suffered a different kind of shake while in Vina del Mar with Chris: he had his big backpack stolen from the hire car, leaving it for no more than an hour outside their hostel. Thankfully, there was nothing valuable taken, but it did leave Med clothes-less for a while with the relentless task of finding items big enough to fit him in a country full of small people.

No journey is perfect. Travellers go abroad knowing that, sometimes, flights will be delayed, baggage misplaced, hotel rooms disappointing and meals underwhelming. We know that the occasional bungle and hardship is all part of the experience, along with the freedom and moments of sheer joy.

Med is back in the game, with a new backpack, a few more clothes (of various quality) and the knowledge that the people who stole his bag have t-shirts and underpants with holes in.

Escuela, escucho and Escudo

My escuela (school) was in the vibrant, bohemiam part of the city, Barrio Bellavista, near the foot of Cerro San Cristóbal - a hill with a 22m-high white statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary that looms over the highrises and rises out of the smog.

In 2011, Chile was named the ninth metropolis in the world with the fastest growth, and new, gleaming multi-storeys are shooting up, slicing up the skyline, as I write.

But Bellavista stays true to the old Santiago and it's crumbling heart: single and two-storey buildings with flat roofs, painted orange with deep blue doors or hot pink with green windows; riverbeds coloured by artistic murals and dogs lazing in the heat of the day; rusting tables and unchanging menus litter uneven walkways; and crumpled papers linger in the gutters, all that remains of the recent, student protests.

Meanwhile, standing as a reminder that this was no ordinary city in no ordinary continent, the backdrop to all of this is one of hazy, snow-capped mountains seen above a skyline of pick 'n' mix skyscrapers.

Bellavista was once the home of Chile’s Nobel Prize winning poet - Pablo Neruda - and there is now a museum, and spontaneous street art, devoted to his memory

down a peaceful cul-de-sac, lined with colourful houses.

Lessons were more fun than I had ever imagined, with our brilliant teachers Baba and Daniela breaking up taxing grammar lessons with language jokes and Chileno argot (slang). And then continuing our lessons for free over Escudo cervezas, pisco sours and the humdrum of fellow drinkers in the evenings.

Learning Chilean Spanish (and trying to translate English into Spanish in your head) helps you gain a new perspective on your own culture and language.

It reminds you just how many English words and phrases make no sense whatsoever and do not directly translate into another language. From words like "cheeky" and "posh", to phrases such as "sod's law" and "not my cup of tea". My mind was working faster than it has had to in many months and I even started to muddle the order of English words when chatting to friends.

There are also plenty of opportunities for error when learning Spanish, including mixing up words that should not be mixed up. For example, it's perfectly normal to use caliente to talk about hot foot, but it is definitely not acceptable to use caliente when you are personally hot. Especially over breakfast.

I also kept referring to Med as mi polola (my girlfriend), when I should have been saying mi pololo (my boyfriend). I'm walking through a Spanish-speaking minefield.

What's more, Chileans are notorious for speaking fast and actually quite badly. They hardly every pronounce the “s”; they skip “d” in nouns and adjectives (like estado and complicado), making the endings sound like “ao” instead of “ado"; and they pepper their speech with colorful phrases and plenty of swear words. Anyone under the age of 35 adds huevon or huevona to the end of almost every sentence. Huevon is the Chilean equivalent of dude, but literally derives from the slang word for testicles!

The Mapuche were the indigenous people living in Chile before the Spanish arrived. As the two cultures mixed, the Spanish adopted many Mapuchan words: cahuín (gossip or party), guata (belly), and malón (potluck). In class, we were taught the South American words; out of class we heard the Chilean.

I was fortunate to meet many young, Chileno people in my few weeks in Santiago and we had no trouble understanding each other, even if I still didn't have the right words. They listen to the same music, watch the same films, and spend their time on the same internet that we do. Of course, even if Chile as a whole is considered the third world, Santiago is most certainly first world. It is comprised of business people, those going to university, and people everywhere on iPhones and Macbooks (except me, I didn't even have a phone).

Yet, with all this familiarity, there was plenty of the weird and wonderful: hot dancing halls, dog houses built in the park and our daily game of 'food lottery' where we gambled with confusing menus and hoped we'd picked something relatively edible.

Many long lunches and even longer evenings in Bellavista peppered our Spanish lessons, and we followed the Chileno students to the cheapest lunch places and coolest bars. Chileans appear to have an amazing capacity for alcohol but no 'off switch'. Bellavista’s as chaotic as Soho, with live folk venues fighting for space alongside neon-lit clubs, hot dog joints, and salsa hangouts.

Then there was the karaoke after a few vinos de frutillas; I can now claim to have received a standing ovation from a room full of Chileno people - most over the age of 60.

As part of our course with Escuela Bellavista, we were taken on a (very long) tour of the Cementario de Grand Central - one of the largest and oldest graveyards in South America. 85 hectares of land in the city were set aside for the cemetery (almost 80 football fields), which features many earthquake-damaged ornate mausoleums and crypts, millions of dedications by the living and other displays surrounded by palm trees.

In this well-loved, colourfully adorned and artistically wonderful cemetery, it struck me once again how other countries deal with death with much more flamboyancy and openness than we do.

Many of Chile's past presidents and heroes are buried here, except of course Augusto Pinochet (Chile's dictator who killed and tortured thousands). Fresh flowers line endless walls stacked with small, square tombs and the rows of elaborate mausoleums influenced by Aztec and Egyptian architecture.

The tombs that fascinated me the most were flooded with flowers, Christmas decorations, various other gifts and thousands of scribblings in permanent markers.

These were the people who had been taken too soon, by car accidents or murders for example. It is thought that there souls remain here and the living should give gifts to them, in return for a favour. Some tombs are for money prosperity and job success, others had notes asking for luck in love and marriage.

As the fast Spanish words of our tour guide, Lidia, washed over me, I considered leaving my own gift and message. If these lost souls can make people rich, surely they can give me a tiny, helping hand with my Spanish?

At home in Chile

After a weekend of feasts and fiestas, moving in day had arrived.

During my two weeks of studying at Escuela Bellavista, I had arranged to move into a homestay with a lady named Angelica. I had never even clapped eyes on her, but I had her name, an address, and a terribly vague print out from Google Maps. Oh, and I also knew she spoke no English. Deep end, preparing to jump...splash!

I walked past another beautiful Catholic church in Providencia, down a leafy, sun-chinked street and stood outside what I hoped was the right apartment block. The traffic from the main street was forgotten as I said "hola" to the man selling flowers in black buckets on the side of the road, opposite.

Angelica wasn't home, but thankfully Megan - from Australia and also a student a Escuela Bellavista - was there to welcome me to the apartment and show me the ropes. The apartment was so homely, inspired by shelves full of meaningful trinkets, mismatched furniture and fabrics and a well-loved kitchen stacked with gem-coloured, glass bottles and old, rusting biscuit tins holding newly-purchased food.

Then there was my room, adorned with dusty rosary beads, a broken television set, brown and orange-striped sheets and a wooden bookcase full of forgotten treasures from past guests and old friends. As I put away my backpack under one of the beds and closed a drawer full of my clothes, I realised this was the closest thing to home I had experienced in seven months.

There were plenty of charming quirks to remind me I was so very far from home though: last minute invitations to evening meals at 11pm; numerous failed attempts to light the boiler with a match; coming home at 4am to find the Angelica and her nephew moving furniture;

misunderstandings followed by exaggerated hand gestures similar to those used by children's television presenters; and much laughter, sometimes with me, usually at me.

Breakfast was always an entertaining start to my day. Just like my grandparents do, Angelica set up the breakfast table the evening before, with two table clothes (one being the 'nice' one for the day, the other on top to catch crumbs and spills), and various old tins and jars. Every day we had pan (bread), with mantequilla (butter) and mermelada (jam). On some days there was also pate and jamón, and on one day we even had tuna, a prickly pear cactus fruit full of small pips.

But everyday, without fail, there was powdered milk for tea and coffee. I never got the hang of this, always swallowing bland lumps of milk powder as I sipped my tea. Still, it was a gesture of kindness as Angelica sat with us (Megan, Claudia (from Brazil) and I) and suffered our varying levels of bad Spanish.

That moment of peace and universal etiquette was quickly destroyed as we all then flung ourselves into various pockets of the apartment to get to school/work and then yell "hasta leugo!" or "buenas dias!" as the front door slammed.

Megan and I would then walk through the park to Escuela Bellavista, Claudia always on Brazilian time and trailing 15 minutes behind. At just 9.30am, couples, young and old, would be locked in passionate embraces on every street corner and park bench. Santiago is one of the most sexually charged cities I have ever seen. But also one of the friendliest.

Angelica is a very warm and welcoming woman who works hard to keep her modest apartment near the city centre and provide for her family.

Her son, Carlos (with his own 1 year old, gorgeous Nicolas), would come and go and spoke good English so understood my initial, broken attempts at conversation. I felt at home here but also like I was living in an almost silent world in the apartment, except for chats with lovely Megan who understood what it felt like to be living on the "outside".

I arrived with almost no Spanish at all, which made my first outing to tango lessons with Angelica, Claudia and Megan an intimidating yet, in many ways, highly motivating experience. I understood very little and it was only my ability to quickly pick up dance steps that saved me.

The dance hall was bursting with men and women speaking in a thick, Chileno trill, all dressed elegantly in what I imagine to be their Sunday best. Flutters of conversations drifted by me, settling on me in much the same as wet snow settles on warm pavements. Whoever says you can just 'be' in a country and learn the language is telling fibs, or has never heard the mumblings of Chilenos at a tango lesson.

I had many people teaching me to tango that night - proving it doesn't just take two to tango, more like seven. Most of them barely reached my chin (many Chilenos are quite short, except those with German heritage) and so the next day I had back pain from where I had awkwardly tried to make myself shorter and, therefore, a better dance partner.

On another evening, I also accompanied Angelica to a traditional, Chileno dance hall for tango, salsa (which I thankfully had danced before) and a whole collection of other dances I was equally clueless about. Various people got me up for a spin around the dance floor - I was grateful that the band was too loud to hear what anyone was saying as I was sure I wouldn't understand them if I could.

Still, I enjoyed my first tango experiences and felt even more motivated to grasp the language; I wanted to turn those evanescent, snow-like drifts of conversation into sturdy, grinning snowmen.