Runnin' with the Devil

I wake up to an immediate nasal reminder of where I went to sleep. If I understood the instructions, I need to be by the boat at 0900. On my way to the bus station's taxi rank, I ask a local if he knows where the boat is. He does, and moreover, offers me a ride. The road surface is dirt, and is worn with grooves and bumps. That's all more evident on ther back of this horse and cart.

We arrive at a busy  little hotchpotch port where another boat, the Guarani, is being loaded with fruits, vegetables, beer by trains of men and boys. A guy on the back of a truck stacks the left shoulder of the each loader with two twelve-packs of 355ml beer cans, then the right shoulder with a further three packs. The loaders then march, single file, down to and across a narrow wooden plank onto the old wooden boat.

I eventually discover that my understanding had not been quite right, and that my boat leaves tomorrow. I buy my ticket and head off into Concepcion town centre looking for a hotel. After quickly growing bored of searching, I settle on the pretty enough Victoria hotel, who charge me only 50,000 pesos. This is the same negligible price that I was more than happy to pay for the nasty little prostitute's hovel of last night. That's annoying. I think I'll try to do my accomodation research in advance from now on. I generally don't research much of anything in advance, on account of believing that it detracts from the sense of adventure, but now it's just getting silly.

With some time in a new town, I begin my normal exploring process. I score an excellent meat and egg empanda, I see the park, the Mary and Jesus monument, the market, and various seemingly dead dogs, but who are actually quite alive, and are only too lazy to move in the heat. It's a pleasant, but small town, so the much of the afternoon is spent on a swing in the park, practising a chord change from in Enter Sandman.

In the evening, given little else to do, and a familiar, albeit flat, dirt track, I head out for a run. As I'm passing the statue again, I spot the back gate is open and guarded by a old man. It's possible to climb up to the plinth, and even into the statue itself. As I walk back up to the monuments entrance, I remember the slaughtered indigenous peoples. Whilst I greatly, greatly dislike the evil Catholic organisation, I have little problem enjoying their architecture and art - slave driven or otherwise. An small old man with large ears is incredibly pleased to welcome me in, and more so to learn that I'm a tourist from London.