Thoughts written in 2001:
I suppose it was inevitable, but I have at last succumbed to a healthy (or rather unhealthy) dose of food poisoning. The last 24 hours have been fun crouched over the porcelain throne and I at last have managed to sleep through a full four hours without needing to commando crawl to the toilet. The upside of all this is that I have plenty of time on my hands to write a decent account of my stay here so far in Santiago.

My first sight of the city was after twenty hours of hemorrhoidal flying, crossing the brilliantly white shark’s teeth of the Andes, a truly monstrous stretch of mountain that quite honestly does not surprise me that it induces people to eat each other. At six and a half thousand metres above sea level, these peaks spit at any hope of a recovery for any wrecked traveller. Anyway, point is that after the plane crawled over this natural barrier, the captain announced that we had to circle a while over Santiago due to bad visibility. I looked down and dimly saw a city housing five million people through a thick and strangely brown fog. I remarked how heavy the fog seemed, and was then corrected by my giggling neighbour that this in fact was the smog that latched itself onto the eighth most polluted city in the world. Yup, ever since my arrival, I have had the joyous experience of picking the largest bogies of my life from my daily bleeding nostrils. Sodding filthy is what this place is, and there are days when visibility is reduced to just one kilometre over the skies of Santiago.

The reason for this phlegm-inducing wonder is mainly due to the armada of Micros that inhabit the city. A Micro is the term used for one of the eight thousand yellow public buses that belt around the city at a monstrous speed that makes even me grit my teeth in anxiety. In basic terms, every bus runs its own route determined by the hand-written sign that is plonked behind the windscreen. There are no (or very few) bus stops, so one has to acquire a super-bionic gift of telescopic sight to determine which bus is going in the correct direction and then one just stands at the side of the road and waves at the driver like a lunatic in the hope that he feels like picking up a Gringo. There is no bus plan or map as they run freely and according to their own desire, some owned privately and some by bus pimps that give desperate workers a bus and pay them according to the number of people they pick up and how often they manage to scoot across town. I’m sorry, did I say scoot? I meant to use the term `tear across town like a wild pig on heat’. These drivers are all banned from rally driving for excessive speed and road rage. I take my hat off and salute them, I would never be able to keep up with them, even after snorting a kilo of speed.
Santiago itself is in essence an impressive town. All of Chile is a contrast, and Santiago no exception. On the one hand you have roads and areas that show off great wealth and would make any Nouveau Riche splutter with jealousy at the pure statements of opulence that make Bel Air look like a ghetto. In contrast, you turn a corner and you think you are back in Peckham with filthy shanty-like buildings populated by the vagabond poor. The city has several odd phenomena. Most striking is its population of wild dogs that live on the streets, and the odd absence of poo along with them. The dogs are quite tame, and are found everywhere sprawled sleeping on the pavement during rush hour, oblivious to the people stepping over them. In the centre they hang around the restaurant areas like those wannabe-types who hang around flash cars on the Kings Road pretending they own them, although the dogs don’t use aftershave that stings the eyes as much.

Quite often, whilst I wait to cross a road, a dog will saunter over and sit next to me. We usually nod at each other in recognition and as though by mutual agreement, he crosses the road with me once the traffic lights change and we part our separate ways only to meet another day. To be honest, I often expect the dog to offer me a cigarette or nudge my arm when an attractive woman comes past whilst we wait. I reckon the reason that the dogs and I get on so well is because, apart from the fleas, we both look quite out of place in the city. Everyone is shorter and dark, although friendly. Whenever I am on the Metro (which incidentally puts London to shame for its cleanliness and punctuality) it is obvious that I am foreign, since everyone else is a head shorter than the average European. Although one can never truly blend in, this can be a benefit since very few people get leery with you unless they have a weapon of a sort. So far, I have had no problems whatsoever, and I may even go so far as to say I am ignored by some potential muggers. But let’s not feel too lucky, I still have another eight and a half months to go.

On a more personal level, the course is going fine, and to my amazement I have been put into the most advanced class. My colleagues are almost all American, which makes me feel like I am in Beverly Hills 90210 sometimes, listening to the usual inane comments of how the US is the central pivot of the world. I giggle each time one of them takes the wrong Micro into a really harsh neighbourhood and comes to the rapid conclusion that for the first time they are not in control of their lives, rather they are at the mercy of the knife wielding beggar who is happy to cut out their liver in exchange for a meal. It is at this point that they jolt to the realisation that no amount of Harvard or banking knowledge can help them, and they just end up wandering the streets, delirious with fear until they stumble across a taxi that charges them triple. Still, there is hope for some of them, and we have had fun skiing in the mountains and going to dancing lessons. It seems to me that most of these young Americans are simply sexually deprived, and think that their status depends on the amount they have drunk, as well as how many rejections they have notched up in the course of the night using the line `let’s go back to my place and look at my trophies’.
Speaking of my place, I have had a tremendous amount of luck with my apartment. It is by no means a Boudoir, but there is an aquarium, ADSL internet, cable TV, and three bathrooms to be shared between five of us. My room overlooks the Parque Forestal and the river. I am looking forward to the summer, as my bedroom leads directly onto a large balcony where I can bathe myself in smog and the occasional ray of sun.
There is plenty more to write about Santiago, but I feel too crap to give a proper rendition, and I get the feeling that I have written rather too much for the average reader to plod through, so I shall end it here.