Next stop, the Chilean coastal town of Arica. Matty and I were totally knackered after an overnight bus journey that took no prisoners but, pottering around the town, our spirits were enlivened by this flamboyant dance troupe, enthusiastically executing a type of line dance in one of the main squares. The man with the whistle at the fore of the group was ostensibly the 'conductor', to whose every toot the jolly revellers responded with a new step. Obviously the choreography would have fallen into a state of total disarray without him and he bore the mark of almost unbearable responsibility as an intensely concentrated facial expression throughout the performance. This jamboree wasn't the only instance of high-jinx we experienced during our stay in Arica. Settling down for a much needed alfresco pizza on the main shopping street, two rival gangs of football hooligans began lobbing beer bottles and anything to reach at one another. This clearly wasn't an uncommon occurrence as our waitress, calmly shrugging, collected our table setting and took us inside, away from the domestic missiles flying overhead. It goes without saying that South Americans are very passionate about football and just as well that no beer is served at the football stadiums. Godness knows what carnage would ensue if alcohol was added to the mix of testosterone, machismo and team pride.
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