Tuesday, 25 December 2018
Santiago, Chile
Considering it was a 14.5hr flight (one of BA’s longest flights), it went incredibly quickly. Helped with about 8hrs dozing though. I’m one of the first to board and soon settle into my First Suite. Glad I’m not in Business as I’m convinced the seats have shrunk over the years, either that or I’ve gotten bigger (yeah, OK, I know).
There’s a baby crying in the Business section too and its noise permeates the cabin. Let’s hope that doesn’t go on all night. Babies should be banned from Business & First. If you’ve paid all that money you want a haven on tranquillity, not a creche!
Discuss.
Greeted by the stewardess with a Preston accent, it’s quite refreshing to hear a northern accent after working 4 years in London. A glass of champagne, Sir. Oh go on then, just the one…Mrs Wembley. I had to explain the origin of that phrase to some London Millennials recently, which then meant explaining who Dennis Waterman is, which then meant explaining Minder and Arthur Daley. There’ll be those of a certain age reading this, nodding and thinking of the halcyon days of British TV. The same London Millennials had to have carbon paper explained to them too!
Push back bang on time at 2200hrs and we’re soon over Poole before routing over the Atlantic towards Manaus in northern Brasil.
During the safety briefing, they play quite a good video with a cast of British film & TV stars which is very entertaining. At one point, David Walliams says, “Your glamorous cabin personnnel will now point to the exits.” Upon which, one stewardess excitedly says, “Ooh, that’s us!”
Another stewardess has a string of battery operated fairy lights wrapped around her body, getting into that Christmas spirit, except that when she walks past they reflect in the window and it looks like a UFO whizzing past outside. I take a picture of the reflection of her lights and send to my young Godchildren when I land, telling them it’s the lights of Santa’s sleigh enroute to England. They’re impressed apparently.
There are no window blinds on the Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner and it’s still dark at 0930hrs GMT by the time I ‘get out of bed’. It’s only when I go through to the galley that I realise that it’s broad daylight. Hmmm. Return to my seat and discover the windows are blacked out electronically. At the push of a button it becomes clear glass and I can see out. Discover we’re flying over the Andes (and as everyone knows, the Andes are at the end of your armies) and the ‘flight sat-nav’ tells me we’re flying over the Salar de Uyuni, the world’s largest salt flat in Bolivia. All being well, I shall be going there in a month or so. It really is impressive. It looks like snow amongst the desert brown of the surrounding area. The silvery moon is floating in the bright blue sky above and it makes quite a picture (see below).
Finally land at Santiago on time and I’m off the aircraft, through security, cross the road to the Holiday Inn Express Airport Hotel and in my bedroom within 10 minutes. That’s the way to do it.
Considering I’ve just had a 14.5hr long haul flight I feel rather refreshed so jump in a taxi to Santiago city centre. It’s obviously Ayrton Senna’s Chilean cousin’s grandfather driving as we speed down the main road to the San Cristobal Funicular. I last came to Santiago in 2005 when I toured around Chile and Easter Island, so not doing Chile on this trip. Been there, seen it, done it.
The funicular takes you up to San Cristobal park and the hills that overlook Santiago. A teleferico takes you along the ridge and back with magnificent views of Santiago in the valley surrounded by snow capped mountains in the distance.
It definitely doesn’t feel like Christmas Day, more like a sunny Sunday afternoon. Plenty of people perambulating and playing, there’s even a cycle race to the top of the hill but in 33C heat, I’ll give that a miss. The outdoor swimming pool looks tempting but I wouldn’t want to frighten the locals. My Christmas Day lunch comprises 4 churros dipped in vanilla sauce (only ‘cos they’d run out of chocolate sauce). It’s a heady existence, I tell you.
Return to the city via the funicular and walk the streets to Plaza de Armas, the main central square. Palm trees line the square which makes the festive Christmas tree look well out of place. There’s the ubiquitous groups of black African men selling fake Rolex and other tat from their woven nylon shopping bags, which may explain the presence of plenty of police. I need some Chilean pesos cash to enable me to get a taxi back to the airport but for the life of me, I can’t find an ATM. Chance upon the large covered, and ornate steelwork, market which is open, selling fish and has plenty of restaurants serving fresh fish freshly fried. Other types of fish are available. Still no ATM. With my boots on I’m heading for 6’7” and as I lollop through the market, I’m being gawped at due to my height. A waiter asks if I’m German (I’m blond (well, greying blond) and blue eyed). No. I’m not German. Turn the corner, another local looks up at me and asks if I’m German. No. I’m not German! Still can’t find an ATM so exit the market. Upon doing so, another local comes up to me gawping. Am I German? No. I’m not chuffing German! I’m British. And proud of it!
See a trio of patrolling policemen. They don’t speak English, nor I speak Spanish. But with the power of mime I ask where an ATM is. There’s one in the Metro station, so head back to Plaza de Armas. Lo and behold there are three ATMs. Yay. I can get back to the hotel now (local taxis don’t take credit cards I am told). I use my secondary credit card just in case it gets swallowed up. Except. I can’t remember the PIN, as it’s not in normal everyday use. After 3 attempts revert to my primary credit card after my credit card provider actually texts me with, ‘Having trouble remembering your PIN? Check online for a secure reminder.’ Blimey.
Cash in hand, eventually find a taxi. It’s Ayrton Senna’s Chilean cousin’s father this time. He’s way too big for his taxi. We speed and swerve through the streets. Speed and swerve. Two rotund ladies are slowly waddling across the road ahead of us as we speed and swerve. Taxi driver sounds his horn for them to get a shifty on. They take great exception to this! And. Stand. Still. Taxi driver swerves to avoid them. As he does, one of them throws her bottle of water at his windscreen as we speed past. Blimey.
Fortunately, windscreen doesn’t shatter. He shouts abuse in Spanish. I can but imagine what he’s saying. Probably the same as I would.
He drops me off at the airport taxi rank, as it’s easier than trying to get to the hotel across the road, and I nip inside to see if I can check in now for tomorrow’s flight to Punta Arenas. I can and do. One less thing to deal with tomorrow am.
As I’m walking out, a father picks his baby daughter up from the floor to put her on his shoulders. In doing so, he smashes her head on the low ceiling. There’s that short period of complete silence from her before the screams start. And an admonishing mother starts. Poor bloke.
