Tempers Erupting

We got an overnight bus to Pucon from Valparaiso, and we got in very, very early. 

So early in fact that Helen and I were in incredibly bad moods and had a bit of a set-two on the longer than expected walk from the bus station to our hostel. Lord Vader knows what about, the colour Black Jacks turn your tongue probably (midnight blue in my opinion), but by the time we got to our hostel we were in foul moods.

Thus when we had to wait in reception for two and a half hours before anyone even acknowledged our existence, tempers were reasonably frayed. Then the real bad news came when, despite telling them in our email that we would be there at half six in the morning, we were told we couldn't get into our room until one o'clock that afternoon. Fuck sake. Fine. Fucking useless Chilean fuck.


One turned into two, two into four and finally at ten past five in the afternoon we were able to get into our room, lie down and eventually have a shower and wash our balls. 

Not happy bunnies, we went outside to lie in the sun for a while and I decided to go for a walk to look for another hostel. That I found, a place called Donde German? (literally Where's German?, so-named because apparently that is the question that German, the boss, constantly overhears being asked in reception) and the next day we moved hostels. 

The rest of that day we spent being moody and playing around with the camera, and making the massive mistake of trying to get a hot chocolate in a rich man's town. I think we literally spent thirty quid on a shot of warm galaxy. 'Twere truly tasty though.






The first thing that should be said about Pucon is that it is home to a great big fuck off volcano. It is the sort of volcano that if you asked a five-year-old to draw a volcano, it would look like that. Generic, but awe inspiring. We planned to walk up it, but in the end money and time got the best of us, and we just gazed upon it from afar.


Our time in Pucon was spent mostly riding mountain bikes around, getting lost, finding some cool waterfalls and then being so hungry that we nearly ate a small dead rodent that I found. This is a mild exaggeration but it was hard work and we were pretty hungry.



The day after our bike ride we met the wonderful couple that were, and as far as I know still are called Al and Cerise. These guys were two Englishpeoples who we spent a whole day with, culminating in eating at a reasonably famous (in the backpacking sense) vegetarian restaurant and then getting quite drunk and playing with two of the most amusing puppies in existence.


Leaving Al and Cerise, we went on our merry way to Bariloche, but first we had to have a miserable stop in Asano, where a first did occur.

We got robbed.

Prison Break (without the tattoos or the vaguely masked homoerotics)

Racing along the motorway back to Brisbane I had a feeling in my stomach reminiscent of the time that I stole a newspaper from a garage forecourt and Helen's mum had seen me, slight awkwardness of what was about to happen with a hint of, 'Well, whatcha gonna doaboudit?'.

This time however, I was to only be an accomplice in the tea-leafing and it wouldn't be Wednesday’s Guardian that I'd be stealing but a real, in nearly every sense of the word, person. Emma Louise Dagley to be precise.

Screeching up to the shop like a baby with a bayonet, we realised we had no rope or dynamite between us (having used it all making lunch), and, when all was said and done, not a gnat's cock of a real plan.

Ever the hero, I stepped up to go and grasp Emma and her stuff from the shop. This was essentially because I feared for the safety of the population of the surrounding area if Helen or Mary had been the ones going in Rambo style.

Gingerly stepping out of the car, I imagined that I was moving in black and white and slow motion, and I kept saying 'Megatron must be stopped, no matter the cost...'

My mantra only succeeded in me walking into the shop singing in my head 'You´ve got the touch! You've got the POOOOOOW-EEEEEEEEEEEERRRRR!' at the top of my mind-lungs and being totally ill-prepared for what was about to happen.

Luckily, my own stupidity allowed me to bumble through the next five minutes of Emma running away from her employers and we all joyously jumped into the car - I tell you, we were glad it wasn't a Yaris the amount of stuff Emma had, cor - and the sheer excitement of having everyone together and ready to go and have fun for the first time (for Emma at least) in six months was overwhelming.

For about three and a half minutes.

The Dagley trio then went back to business as usual, and much of the drive home was spent at either top of the range shouting or complete silence.

I used all of my Finnegan skill to disarm the situation by keeping absolutely silent. I did fart once to try and break the deadlock but I reneged on my own bravery and blamed it on Emma in the end.

But, after all was said and done ('You never walk, you never run - YOU'RE A WINNER!'), Emma was free, I was four, and we were on the road to Noosa.


A quick aside, all of this Transformers soundtrack talk has forced me to remember that I sat through a two minute teaser trailer for the next 'Transformers' (those are quotation marks of contempt by the way) 'movie' the other day. 

I solemnly swear, with my hand on my heart and my heart in my lap, that when I get the money I will find and personally kill Michael Bay with my own hands. 

I will rip off his stupid little CGI head and shit down his neck, and what´s more I'll film it, going around and around and around in a two-shot like he does in every fucking film he´s ever made. Cunt.