Following a 7hr bus journey from Bariloche across the border to Chile, we finally arrived at our destination about 8pm.

 Most travel books and bloggers are in agreement that Puerto Montt is very good for picking up provisions, getting money from banks and providing a good transport hub. They are also in unanimous agreement that the place is a bit of shit hole with an ubundance of colourful characters.

 We were well aware of this before hand and overlooked the option of staying in Puerto Varas, which is renowned for its beauty, purely on the factor that we needed to move on the following morning and there are small minibuses that run to approximately 1 km from where we needed to be. It is only for 1 night, should be fine, we will just get a hotel down by the docks next to the bus station, was the logic taken.

 Travelling over the border, although fairly straight forward, had involved a long wait at Chilean customs and seemed a bit more tiring than usual. So when we finally had checked into our hotel it was 9pm, we were all shattered.

 Another thing we encountered was additional communication issues. Everyone seemed to understand what we were saying (basic stuff), however we couldn't understand anyone's accent. Imagine the difference between chatting to the locals in Dublin then you instantly find yourself down the market in Gateshead, times it by two and you are getting close to where we were at. It would later come to fruition that we weren't the only ones that struggled communicating with the locals. About a week later, myself and Paul (from Bogata) headed to visit a neighbouring house to the farm we were staying on. The toothless gentleman we were visiting made his own homemade cider that was apparently delicious (it wasn't) and I took Paul along to assist with translation duties. We did succesfully buy some cider but I might as well have gone alone, as with the exception of the transaction conversation, neither of us had a clue what was being said during the five minutes that followed.

 Back on topic, as I said it was late, we were tired and we had the rather annoying task of getting some dinner. Trip advisor suggested a Chinese place nearby that had good reviews. Chinese restaurants are not somewhere we normally go and apart for visits to see the ledgendary Karen Wong at St Leonards about ten years ago and the occasional work lunch out to witness a non named individual work his way through ten plates from the buffet this was new territory for all of us.

 The food itself was alright, the kids ate something and we got our fill. It was good to have something different, something unsual. When we headed back it was now dark and the streets were fairly empty. We reached the block the hotel was on and ladies of night were out and about working their magic for the passing cars. Nothing was said to us, we clearly weren't their target market. We rounded the corner and another thing struck us. A couple of pink neon signs had been switched on and were either side of the hotel entrance. We had only managed to book ourselves a hotel with not one but two strip bars as next door neighbours.

 The hotel itself was nice and following a good breakfast we had spent our first night in Chile and were ready to head off to our next project. Although the night before the quality of our hotel's location could be debated, there is no question that it was top notch in the morning. We took the two minute walk (actually 10 min when you factor in massive bags, kids and a weeks worth food shopping) and we were at the bus terminus. Jessica took one for the team and had a 'solo español' conversation at the information desk and we had a departure time, stand number the works.

 Before we left there was one last minor incident where we were subject to our first (that we know of) attemped theft. I was sitting chatting to the kids at our bus stand and I heard a noise. It was a noise you hear when jackets or racksacks rub together. I looked across to my right and someone was lifting up one of the kids rucksacks and then putting it back down. I immediately jumped to my feet, a well dressed gentleman was standing beside us, he was acting as if nothing had happened, I wasn't though as I stared it him, I could tell that he knew he was rumbled. Although he was very well dressed (suit etc) the missing part of his left ear that looked like it had been bitten off, did not support my first impression.

 At the this point our bus arrived and we were off, with all our bags. Twenty minutes and we were standing by the side of the road and in theory had the simple task of our 1km walk to the farmhouse. On route to the house we met a couple of Canadian girls who would be our housemates. They seemed a bit reluctant to engage us but did say hello. They were clearly not exactly delighted with our presence and it was instantly obvious that interesting times were ahead. We did meet our host Steve shortly afterwards and was both excited to have kids on the farm and very warm and welcoming. We weren't staying with Steve though we were staying in a different house on the farm with the other 'workawayers'. I mentioned the two Canadians girls and how they didn't seem to warm to us. They were quite interesting characters, not from what they told us (they spoke little) or how they acted (they hid in their room). They were interesting in the fact of why they were here. They were antisocial and didn't seem to like people. They are the only people we have met on our journey that don't seem happy and very positive about all aspects of life. It was strange to meet a couple of dour-faced, crabbit, cliquey individuals. To engage with these type of people you normally need to:

 A. Be at work.
And B. Have a job you really don't like.

 This was going to be very interesting. Lorne