“Don’t push your luck” is the last thing my dad said to me as I headed north and he headed home from the Atacama Desert. I’ve reflected on this while coming to terms with the brutality inflicted on me three months after his sage advice. I’ve detailed something I’d like to forget to police, doctors and lawyers, but neglected many of my positive adventures in Latin America. Here’s a memory I’d prefer to preserve. Having spent much of the previous day longingly looking out of coach windows, and desperate to escape the last room in Chañaral, we were eager to set off early. I often welcome the immersive experiences provided by public transport but we didn’t have time for connections or delays, plus our group of four was perfectly sized for a taxi. I remember feeling relieved when the driver arrived on time but that was the extent of my expectation. As the Spanish speaker I took the front seat, even though it felt strange to make my dad squeeze in the back with my friends. I struck up conversation with the driver, keen to take the opportunity to chat to a Chilean. I quickly found out that Geraldo, who appeared to be in his fifties, wasn’t surprised that we had only come to his hometown to access the remote Sugarloaf Park. He proudly confirmed that, even though it was 30°C, we would see Humboldt penguins. I explained that I had been teaching English in Santiago where my friends joined me to travel, accompanied by my dad for the first two weeks. It wasn’t long until I felt comfortable enough with Geraldo to ask if he could pick us up for our return to Chañaral. Somehow, I got onto telling Geraldo that, as a vegetarian, I felt a slight regret about not making the most of Chile’s acclaimed gastronomy. I’d become accustomed to Chileans claiming that they do barbecues better than anyone else, but I was surprised when Geraldo invited us to dinner. Although he wasn’t the first Chilean to invite me into his home, this offer seemed exceptionally kind. Geraldo beamed with happiness when I accepted his invitation without hesitation. He assured us that he would provide an authentic feast, expressing his desire to impress my meat-eating father during his first, and probably only, trip to Latin America. Conscious that I didn’t miss out on all culinary delights, Geraldo offered to ask Valentina, his wife, if she could make a dessert of my choice. I’d been craving lemon meringue pie since tasting the exceptional Chilean variety in Valparaíso, so I asked if it was popular 950 kilometres up the coast. Geraldo’s reaction suggested it’s not easy to make but he wouldn’t accept my request for something less time-consuming. On entering Sugarloaf, we were treated to the spectacular collision of the Pacific Ocean with serene desertic mountains. Geraldo waved goodbye and we soon met a boatman who took us out to circumnavigate the penguin island. During our hike I appreciated the contrast with Brazil’s famed Sugarloaf: we had the expansive park to ourselves. Despite the impressive geography, I was slightly preoccupied with thinking about Geraldo. Did he really want to go to the effort of cooking for us? I sensed that he wouldn’t accept payment for the food but reasoned that we could cover the expense within our tip. What would Valentina think of him inviting us into their home? Again, Geraldo’s punctual arrival brought relief. His overgenerous offer hadn’t been some kind of joke and we weren’t going to be stranded. As he proudly said that Valentina was in the process of making lemon meringue pie, I felt bad that I had ever doubted Geraldo’s integrity. We all enjoyed delicious food and shared our favourite songs in Geraldo’s garage-cum-party room. I felt lucky that a stranger had befriended me and turned a small-town sojourn into a standout stopover. I know fond memories of this have stuck with my dad but I’ve questioned what prompted him to warn me to not push my luck. 6000 kilometres further north I had a stark reminder that not all strangers are well-intentioned, but I don’t want them to make me forget good-natured Geraldo.