I'M AT: An unknown place with unknown name, Cartagena, Pacific Coast, Chile. It's musty and rubbish really, but it's not fair to judge so soon - rice and TWO fried eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning.
Well, so, it's the second time I've watched Colo Colo in a bar, and the second time they've scored four goals. Coincidence?
Three of Puerto Montt's side were shown the tarjeta roja, and they were hacking like they wanted it called off. It wasn't, and they went out of the competition. Their stadium looked, from the TV, much like Bromley Town's.
Anyway. I arrived in Cartagena on a hot bus, with fat empanadas in my belly. And it's pretty much like the guy in the Valparaíso hostel said it would be: deserted, a bit down on its luck, devoid of travellers. But he also said it's something that many don't see, and it contains something of the soul of Chile.
I checked into the place above - coercion - and decided to leave immediately, but after a couple of hours on the beach - on stretching out, a heavily pregnant dog stood and stared at me, subdued by a corner of pasty - I decided it wasn't so bad. Playa Larga is a huge stretch of sand that the waves relentlessly torment. The red flags were out. Walking on the promenade to the other beach saw me watching local kids dodge a spray of water as waves splattered against the rocks below, a sheet spray twenty foot high. And then round to Playa Chica, a neat, empty cove where beautiful oval waves lap calmly at the beach. The power of the Pacific is immense.
After the sun went down, the Heinken came out, and a guy in the bar asked me after the match who I supported, Colo Colo or Montt? The look on my face said Montt, he told me. I told him, Sir, I am from London, I support Crystal Palace - and with a raised fist, and a 'ciao amigos', the only gringo in town was gone.
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