Halfway through the trip and everything was going swimmingly—except for one tiny problem. We were completely failing in our mission: to eat chili in Chile when it’s chilly! We checked every restaurant we visited and even scouted those we passed by. I turned to my new best friend, ChatGPT, for advice, but even she gave little hope. I also explained the mission to Jason and Victor, hoping they could somehow work their magic. They did… though in complete misunderstanding, they tossed a chili pepper (the vegetable) onto the barbecue yesterday. I didn’t want to correct them, so I thanked them graciously, trying to hide our disappointment.

I knew chili isn’t a typical Chilean dish, but I had expected to find it somewhere. After all, Chile is a Latin American country, rich with Spanish colonial architecture, vibrant rhythms, and surely, a cuisine spiced similarly to other countries in South and Central America. But no—surprisingly, the food here is rather bland. Don’t get me wrong, the meals are great but wholesome; the barbecue, for example, is fantastic, and the bread—have I mentioned how good and varied the bread is? It’s exceptional. But when it comes to spice, it’s utterly absent.

No wonder my inquiries about chili con carne (chilli with meat) were met with blank stares. Still, I had formulated an emergency backup plan—though it would be a sad one to execute. Just two blocks from our hotel in Santiago, where we would stay again on our last night, there was a Chili’s, the American restaurant chain. Surely, surely they’d have chili. But what an anticlimax it would be to order something I could easily get back home at my local mall.

Still, we had four more days to complete our mission, and we remained undeterred.

The high-protein diet continued today as Jason insisted on cooking up bacon and eggs with fried potatoes before we set off to visit his factory, just a ten-minute drive away. As an aside, I coincidentally listened to a podcast during our travels about the humble spud, and I was surprised to learn it didn’t originate in North America, as is commonly believed, but right here in the Andes. There are literally thousands of varieties, although most are not cultivated. No wonder the small purple potatoes Jason cooked up were so exceptionally good!

Refueled, we headed to the plant and spent a truly enjoyable morning meeting with Jason’s staff and reviewing the setup. It’s a great team of people, all of them excited to meet me, I think—but even more so, Andrew (as usual, he was the star!). They don’t get many visitors from the “mother ship” up north and were genuinely happy to welcome us. As I mentioned earlier, Jason built this business literally from scratch, and he should be incredibly proud of his accomplishments.

To be honest, we had too much fun with the plant guys and spent more time than planned chatting and getting to know them. I started anxiously checking my watch—we had a four-hour drive ahead of us to reach our next destination, Concon, on the Pacific coast. While I was eager to leave, it would have been rude to cut out after such warm hospitality.

So, we graciously accepted Jason’s invitation and set off for one final high-protein meal: a mile-high stack of ribs at a nearby Chilean diner. It was a fantastic experience, as this was a real, local restaurant where the Chileans themselves came to eat, and the menu was thoroughly authentic. I glanced optimistically to see if they had any chili—but, of course, they didn’t.

Google Maps offered two routes from Rancagua to Concón. The more direct option was a two-and-a-half-hour drive along the highway north to Santiago before turning west to the coast. The alternative was a four-hour, cross-country adventure along winding rural roads through farming communities. Ever the explorer, we took the first exit off the highway and headed into the fields.

To be fair, the roads were excellent—narrow in places, yes, and there were a few moments where I instinctively closed my eyes as fast-moving farm vehicles, clearly more familiar with the local driving etiquette than I was, whizzed past, leaving only the narrowest margin for error. I was thankful for Google Maps and the reassuring voice of my travel-bot, calmly re-routing me again and again. The journey would have been impossible without her, given the endless twists, turns, and sudden detours.

But what a beautiful drive it was. The snowcapped Andean peaks slowly faded in the rearview mirror as we passed through tranquil farming communities. Charming, brightly painted homes—draped in red, white, and blue Chilean flags in honor of the upcoming Independence Day—sat nestled among woodlands, along roads lined with high hedgerows. In the distance, through the bright, unseasonably warm afternoon sunshine, another mountain range began to take shape: the coastal range. Not as majestic as the Andes, but still far taller than anything I ever saw growing up in the UK, with a more lush and green topography than their taller, more rugged cousins we’d visited the day before.

As ever, Andrew was the ideal travel companion—quietly reading yet another book in the Wings of Fire series, which he absolutely loves. I still don’t understand how he can read so much in a moving car. I’d be hopelessly motion-sick!

The main challenge on these picturesque backroads, however, was figuring out where to stop—especially as the excess soda and coffee from lunch began to make their presence felt. Each little town we passed had brightly colored billboards at the edge, advertising… well, we weren’t quite sure what. A local taverna? A hardware store? A place selling washing machines? It was impossible to tell. And once inside the towns, the businesses were equally enigmatic—many of them hidden behind high fences or locked gates.

Uncertain of the welcome that awaited my Google-translated Spanish in these rural communities, I wasn’t bold enough to pull over and ask. So we drove on—through six or seven towns—repeating the same cycle of confusion and mounting urgency, the need to find a restroom growing exponentially with each passing kilometer.

Just as desperation was beginning to set in, we arrived in a slightly larger town: Chorombo. Driving along the main street, I caught sight—out of the corner of my eye—of a small, free-standing wooden structure with a simple sign that read coffee. It looked, miraculously, like a normal coffee shop. I quickly pulled off the road, and we walked back to find that it was, in fact, a real coffee shop. And it even had a bathroom. Lord have mercy!

I doubt the place got much passing trade—certainly not from Americans like us—but the family running it could not have been more welcoming. The locals sitting at the two tiny outdoor tables made room for us, while the lady behind the counter prepared our coffees and insisted we try her empanadas—ubiquitous here, and always delicious. Meanwhile, grandma worked hard to keep the granddaughter and pet dog, curious about the strangers, from straying through the garden gate and into the busy road.

I don’t know—maybe I’m just lucky—but wherever I travel, I find that people are, by and large, kind and welcoming. For a short time, this family in that small rural Chilean town made us feel like part of their little community. It was a special moment.

One aside: perhaps because we were traveling through the region that bears his name, I couldn’t help but be amused by the many roads and buildings named in honor of Libertador General Bernardo O’Higgins, the Chilean independence leader who helped free the country from Spanish rule during the Chilean War of Independence. There’s even a football team named after him—O’Higgins de Rancagua.

It was the O’Higgins part I found funny. It just doesn’t sound very Spanish, does it?

Curious, I did a bit of research. As it turns out, Bernardo O’Higgins was of Irish-Spanish descent. His family hailed from County Meath, possibly a remnant of the Spanish Armada, but were forced to flee Ireland in the 18th century after Oliver Cromwell’s conquest. A noble and honorable family, steeped in history and valor.

I I felt a bit plebeian for laughing as I turned the corner onto O’Higgins Street in the very Spanish-sounding town of Los Maitenes.

Traveling alone through O’Higgins country, unable to communicate freely, I felt a different kind of isolation from what I’d experienced in the mountains the day before. The scenery and the small communities were unquestionably lovely, but I found myself growing eager to return to a larger town—somewhere with resources easier for a foreign traveler to navigate. So we pressed on, conscious that even with the extra hour of daylight—thanks to the clocks springing forward that weekend—we would likely arrive in Concón just as the sun was setting.

Eventually, we rejoined the main highway to complete the last 30 or so miles of the journey. As we turned a corner and the Pacific Ocean shimmered into view in the late afternoon sun, I was immediately struck by a wave of déjà vu. The scene reminded me powerfully of Monterey, California, where we had lived for several years. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising—both places lie roughly the same distance from the equator, one to the north, the other to the south. But the familiar vegetation silhouetted against the ocean below, the dramatic coastal range behind, even the curves and contours of the four-lane highway winding down toward the sea—it all flooded me with a strange sense of homecoming.

The main difference, though, was that Concón and its surrounding areas were not the exclusive playground of the rich and famous. Here, the hillsides were dotted not with million-dollar mansions, but with high-rise apartment blocks and modest homes—communities of regular people. I would reflect on that often in the days to come.

The final two or three miles into Concón were the most driving fun I’ve had in ages—like Mario Kart come to life as we careened down the steep hillside, navigating sharp hairpin turns. It was the kind of road that demanded your full attention—no chance of taking your eyes off the lane, let alone your hands off the wheel to snap a photo—despite the jaw-dropping coastal panorama unfolding in front of us.

The racetrack came to an abrupt end at a traffic light, just as we exited a tunnel—only to be greeted by the unexpected sight of a large oil refinery to our right. As someone who works in the chemical industry, I understand the necessity of refined petroleum products for modern life. Still, what a blot on the landscape to place such a facility smack in the middle of that glorious coastline. (I had a similar moment of disbelief upon seeing an oil refinery in Manaus, right on the banks of the Amazon in the heart of the rainforest, during the World Cup in Brazil.)

I didn’t dwell on the refinery for long, though, because something else grabbed my attention: a street performer entertaining the drivers waiting at the light. That alone might have been unremarkable—until I noticed what he was juggling. Not pins, not balls, but large, wickedly sharp machetes. And as if that weren’t enough, he was simultaneously balancing a football (soccer ball) on his forehead. It was wildly impressive. We’d learn over the next few days that juggling at traffic lights is a fairly common sight in these coastal towns.

We were just a few minutes too late to catch the sunset. I could see it sinking behind the houses, and I raced—futilely—toward our oceanfront hotel, hoping for a glimpse before it disappeared. My urgency wasn’t helped by the fact that I couldn’t, for the life of me, find the entrance to the hotel. Eventually, I located it up a narrow side street, behind a heavy gate marked only with the tiniest of signs and a discreet call button to request access.

It wasn’t the first time on this trip that we’d encountered such serious security. Jason’s warning about the growing, if still limited, risk of crime in Chile echoed in my mind as I pressed the button and waited to be let in.

As the gate swung open—despite the curtain of nightfall—I could already tell this hotel, recommended somewhat at random (or perhaps not so randomly) by my new best friend, ChatGPT, was a winner. I couldn’t help but smile as we checked in. A small, immaculately furnished boutique hotel built into the hillside with sweeping views of the Pacific, it was clearly more suited to a romantic getaway than a father-son adventure. Maybe I’ll bring Elaine next time.

Nevertheless, the staff welcomed us warmly. The desk clerk, Carlos Elliot, spoke some English and, picking up something in my accent, asked where I was from. Naturally, I said “Scotland.” Carlos lit up and told me—enthusiastically, in his faltering English—that his great-great-grandfather, Thomas Elliot Harris (from whom he gets his name), was a Scotsman. Like many of his generation, he had left the coal mines of Scotland behind in search of a better life, finding it here in Chile, mining copper.

(Side note—I should have mentioned this in yesterday’s blog, but I was intrigued by the green hue of the rocks on some of the mountains above our fishing spot. Copper ore. Right there at the surface. So rich in concentration you could practically scoop it up! Today, Chile leads the world in copper production—so vital to the global economy that it remains immune to the current trend toward protectionist tariffs.)

We had missed the sunset, but we arrived just in time for dinner. It was just Andrew and me—and one other couple celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary. The chef, Felipe, came out from the kitchen from time to time to check on us. His English was perfect. He explained that he had spent years living in Australia. A surfer-dude at heart, he trained both as a chef and as an English teacher—skills that enabled him to work his way around the world chasing waves. But Felipe was originally from Concón, and he had just recently taken this job at the hotel so he could come home and surf these waters again.

After dinner, Andrew—exhausted from the long day’s travel—took himself off to bed. I lingered in the lounge over another glass of wine, chatting with the anniversary couple. The woman worked in the travel industry and ran a successful business organizing itineraries for women traveling solo—both Chilean women heading to exotic destinations (she was off to Southeast Asia next week with a group) and North American women coming to explore Chile. Lovely couple.

As we were chatting, Felipe walked by, clocking off after his shift. An idea shot into my mind. With his perfect English, I could finally explain—clearly and in full detail—the purpose of our mission: to eat chili, in Chile, when it’s chilly.

He understood immediately—and to my delight, he was genuinely excited by the idea. It might be tricky, he said—the hotel had a small kitchen and limited ingredients—but still, he would see what he could do.

At last… there was hope!