Chile’s Capital
6-17th December. Santiago is a city layered with history stretching back to when the Spanish first arrived in 1541. Shaped by both colonial power, immigration and earthquakes etching both grandeur and scars.
Its more recent history is impossible to ignore: the 1973 military coup, years of dictatorship under Pinochet who was responsible for the disappearance, torture and execution of roughly 3,200 young people – students, activists, union members, anyone suspected of left-wing ideas—were seen as threats. Many were arrested by the military or secret police, tortured for information, and then killed in secret.
I remember hearing of this as a young child growing up in New Zealand and my sister writing a speech about them in high school. I can still recall her opening line… “Darkened cells, barred doors, metal sheeted windows and the ghastly smell of dry blood on the nail scratched walls, is evidence of life in hell! A speech that she won an award with. The sad part is that the world knew, and nobody did anything doubt it. Now it’s the slow, ongoing process of reckoning and remembrance.
Santiago Today
Now a sprawling, energetic city with modern glass towers on the Eastern side that rise beside the faded colonial buildings on the West. Leafy green neighbourhoods press up against gritty concrete, as the Andes stand to attention behind in every direction.
We arrived via the 3.5‑kilometre tunnel that bores straight through the mountain, bursting suddenly into the chaos of the city. Our first stop was a hopeful one: the driveway of a man known among Overlander’s for allowing travellers to park up for the night. Sadly, Bruce was just too big. We tried—optimistically—but hadn’t accounted for how unevenly the driveway sloped. The truck listed to one side and, before we could get properly stuck, we had to deflate the passenger side tires just to claw our way back out again.
In the end, we camped on the road outside his house instead. I wasn’t thrilled about leaving the truck anywhere in the city—every report and warning online spoke of rampant petty crime and vehicle break‑ins—but it was the only option. Making our way to a mall for a few hours, the truck was fine.
Having had a little retail therapy, it was time to leave the city for a better campsite. Climbing into the Eastern hills we settled into a simple, no‑frills campground where we stayed for three nights. Life slowed into chores and deadlines: the kids focused on school projects, Tim cleaned the truck while I did the laundry.
Manuel was still travelling with us, camping in his tent and biding his time until his flight out on December 10th.
A few hours after we arrived, Huw and Sara pulled in with Gwenda‑the‑Defender. An hour later, their friends arrived too, in an equally charming Defender driven by a quiet Swiss couple. It was such a treat to catch up with Huw and Sara—the last time we’d seen them was at the foot of Chimborazo in Ecuador. They were waiting on parts and decided to join us for the night. As evening fell, Jaxon and Manuel worked hard to coax a fire into life, and soon we were all sitting around it, roasting marshmallows after dinner, wine glasses in hand.
We, too, were waiting on parts. That broken cab‑suspension leaf from the coast had followed us inland, but luck was finally on our side. The Mercedes dealership outside Santiago—the biggest I’ve ever seen—had one in stock and sent it out to us on overnight freight. Huge relief. The only other one we’d managed to locate was in Brazil.
With Christmas approaching, Santiago was a great place to stop for a few days. We needed gifts and a little ‘retail therapy’. Jaxon had outgrown his down jacket, hunting around a mall we found a black Marmott down jacket for him. Charley needed new jeans; have had enough of seeing her live in track pants. The malls here are enormous and very modern —three levels of everything—one could get lost for days.
I’d really hoped to visit the Museum of Human Rights and Memory, so on our way out of the city we stopped by, unfortunately it was closed for renovations. There were, however, a few outdoor exhibits and a gallery dedicated to the children affected by the war in Ukraine. Even in fragments, the weight of history lingered.
Navigating a city of this scale in a truck like ours isn’t easy. In the end, we accepted that Santiago deserves more time than we could give, and promised we’d come back. Nearly a week after arriving, we set the navigation for Highway 5 and leaving the city behind.
Initially turned west toward the coast, meandering along quieter roads and checking out coastal towns as we went. The drive was relaxed, and the countryside had transformed—brown desert tones giving way to fertile, rolling green hills thick with orchards.
Finding wild or ‘free’ camping spots, though, proved tricky. One dirt road marked earlier led us nowhere useful, and we eventually pulled up beside endless rows of grapevines. Apart from a couple of vehicles stopping in the night to shine torches at us, we slept surprisingly well.
Further along the coast, the landscape reminded me so much of New Zealand it made me smile. Simple seaside towns, pleasant houses, and none of the aggressive, high‑walled, multi‑million‑dollar holiday homes. We parked at one beach and chatted with a local as he watched his kids take surf lessons. It was a grey morning with a cold southerly blowing—not exactly kite‑ or wetsuit‑friendly. He did point us toward a kiting spot supposedly an hour down the coast. Of course, we went to investigate. It turned out to be more like two and a half hours. The spot itself was beautiful, but there was no wind, and the dunes were massive, with sand so deep we didn’t dare take Bruce any further. We turned back, slipping into Sunday‑drive mode, enjoying the scenery but making very little progress despite burning plenty of diesel.
With the wind and water both too cold for kiting, we shifted plans again and headed inland toward the hills to go hiking. One park stopped us short—entry only after 8:30 a.m., tickets per person, and extra fees for camping. I’m loving Chile, but not the level of control and restriction, or how often you have to pay just to enjoy nature. We decided not to wait, swung away, and went looking for a place to camp. That turned into one of those evenings where you drive far longer than planned, but this time it paid off. We found a quiet reservoir, levelled up, shut the engine down, and called it a day.
December 17th
We didn’t get moving until noon. The further south we go, the longer the days stretch, and slowly our rhythm has shifted—bedtimes creeping later, sleep‑ins replacing those 5–6 a.m. starts. Still undecided on which route to take through the rest of the country—the coast, the mountains, or the long, flat toll road straight to Puerto Montt—we spread the maps out and weighed it all up. Timing for the O‑Trek in Torres del Paine in early March also looms in the background.
After a couple of hours of back and forth, the decision was made: blast through this region on the pricey toll road, skip the lake district and tempting coastal towns, and get ourselves down to Patagonia where we can slow right down and really explore. Boom. Decision made. We pulled up anchor, so to speak, and set sail for a couple of long, unglamorous driving days.
Starting at noon, we drove until late, stopping for a blissfully free hot shower at a gas station, refuelling, and pushing on until 9 p.m. when we found a perfect riverside spot tucked among trees, with no signs of houses, people, or passing cars. Lights out at 11:30 p.m.—another late one.
Jaxon was out of the truck by 8 a.m., rod in hand, casting into the river. No trout this morning. We carried on south, podcasts rolling to pass the time.
And now—we’re in Puerto Montt. We made it. Parked on the side of the road in an Indigenous community, hoping for a quiet night. Tomorrow we’ll restock before heading over to Chiloé Island for a few days, in search of penguins and those beautiful old wooden churches.