For my last full day in Chile, I remained in Valdivia, taking in the sights and sounds of a city that had become very familiar to me. After locking the gate to my Airbnb house, I made my way along a criss-cross of streets leading to the river promenade, the Costanera. A Bavarian-styled home or two remained among small concrete offices and sprawling garages. Tall trees shaded a park wedged between two major thoroughfares. Cars, buses of every size, and bicycles flowed along the streets, and pedestrians passed each other on the sidewalks. All had a purpose, and I now felt a part of it.

The Costanera

Once on the Costanera, I followed the river to downtown. The day was glorious — blue sky, water glistening in the sunlight, temperatures in the low 70s with a slight breeze. It was a Saturday, and dozens of people had come out to enjoy a final summery day. Stray dogs padded around us with a purpose or lay sprawled on the concrete, soaking up sun. University rowers were out en masse, resembling dozens of long-bodied spiders skimming across the water. Seagulls cawed overhead, and I heard the muted, haunting blast of a train whistle. The sound came from El Valdiviano, the steam-powered tourist train I had boarded one of my first days in Valdivia; it was now making a special final tour before winter.

Making my way downtown, I passed upscale wooden homes with spacious lawns, several hotels and hostels, a restaurant or two, the bus terminal, highrise apartments and rundown one-story structures — the same buildings I had passed numerous times during my month-long stay. The buildings were so familiar to me now, but all-too-soon they would become a fading memory.

My steps along the Costanera seemed to take on an extra buoyancy. I felt like a conductor who had been preparing for a concert all month. There had been the inevitable moments of squeaky notes and despair the instruments would ever come together, but finally the moment arrives and the music soars in a perfect harmony.

Riverside artisans

At the Feria Fluvial, I stepped around artisans with their wares — scarves, hats, jewelry — spread on the ground. A red scarf with embroidered flowers caught my eye, and I bought it as a memento. Inside the market, the stalls to the left displayed cheeses, smoked fish, fruits and vegetables, and books. I donated two books — a mystery by Peter Robinson and a novel by Anne Tyler — to Mario the bookseller, and he embraced me as a fellow book lover, no matter that mine were in English.

Feria Fluvial

To the right, vendors sold all sorts of fish and seafood, lined up on beds of ice. I watched my favorite fishmonger as he rapidly filleted one fish after another. Around the corner, the sea lions waited on or near concrete decks for discarded bits of fish. To pass the time, they slipped on and off the deck, fought with each other, and dove into the water — to the delight of dozens of spectators. Beyond the market, I distributed food I could not take back with me to several homeless men sitting on benches and a couple of stray dogs. All seemed appreciative.

Mercado municipal

For lunch, I went to Picaderos in the heart of the Esmeralda district. Seated amid rustic blonde-wood decor, I ordered a delicious congrío (conger eel) soup and a glass of carménère wine. For several hours afterwards, I wandered about — crossing the Valdivia bridge for a final view of downtown, buying an alpaca sweater at the Valdivia mercado (marketplace), and taking notes on a bench in the public square. All the places I visited this day would be revisited often in writing the novel-in-progress. One must-see destination remained, the Club de la Union, set in a massive gray building on a corner of the public square. Established in 1853, the club had long been the meeting place for German expatriates, and I imagined several generations of my novel’s Schmitt family dining there. I chose it for my final meal, ordering a pisco sour and a traditional pastel de choclo, or corn pie.

As I walked home, the sun set behind the city, painting urban buildings in shadow. The next time it set, I would be far away.

Final panoramic view of Valdivia from the bridge

As mentioned at the start of this blog, I spent a month in Valdivia, Chile in part to research my novel-in-progress. Those who have followed these posts regularly have been fed bits and pieces of the story along with my travel impressions. It seems only fair now to cobble the pieces together into a cohesive summary of the novel. Since I returned, I’ve revised where revisions were necessary and have completed several more chapters. Some six chapters remain to be written, of an approximate total of thirty-six. After that — well, then comes the really hard part, trying to get it published.

My next post will be the final day in Valdivia.

Summary of the Snow Globe:

Lago Ranco, similar to (though large than) Clara’s lake

One summer day in southern Chile’s lake region, sixty-five-year-old transplanted American Clara Valle drops into a whirlpool and emerges in an enchanted city at the bottom of a lake. The first of several supernatural journeys she takes, it could be the delusions of a melancholic mind—or travel to an altered reality.

Torres del Paine, courtesy Story Travel

Soon after Clara had learned of her husband Jorge’s infidelity, she became withdrawn and increasingly troubled. Could that have precipitated the journeys she vows are real? As her condition worsens and she drifts through ghostly events in Chile’s past in search of a Mapuche Indian boy, Jorge considers committing her to a psychiatric hospital. Alarmed, Clara’s younger brother, Bill Albright, flies to Valdivia from his West Virginia home. Though Bill remembers little of Clara’s youth, he never forgot the gift Jorge gave her during their courtship—a snow globe of the Torres del Paine mountains in southern Patagonia.

Brasher doubloon, similar to one found at the bottom of the lake …

At the same time, Pamela Palmer of Idaho arrives in Valdivia to reconnect with her long-estranged daughter and a son-in-law she met only once. Through him, Pamela gets to know the wealthy rancher, Jorge Valle, his troubled wife, and her brother, Bill. Sympathetic to Clara and intrigued by her journeys, Pamela joins Bill in his quest to keep Clara out of a hospital. After a particularly upsetting episode, Clara flees to an isolated monastery in southern Patagonia. Pamela and Bill follow, and, by tracking random clues, uncover a century-old crime and its strange connection to the snow globe and Clara’s journeys.

As I wind down my posts about Chile (next stop will be the Inland Northwest, U.S.), it seems fitting to give a thumbnail look at the history of the city that hosted me for a month. As the second oldest Spanish settlement in Chile, Valdivia has a storied past. Some of it has been viewed in greater depths in previous posts. What strikes me most is the trajectory of good fortune (for some) followed by misfortune that has dogged my adopted city for centuries.

Before the chronicles:

Monkey-puzzle trees by the river, courtesy of James Brunker

Good fortune: Some archaeologists (not all) believe humans may have lived in southern Chile up to 12,000 years ago, arriving not by foot across the Bering Strait but by boat across the Pacific. Before the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors, the Huilliche Indians, connected by language to the Mapuches, lived in a large village known as Ainil on the site of present-day Valdivia. Because of its location near the ocean and alongside a network of rivers, wetlands, and canals, Ainil became an important hub for land and sea trade. Planted trees bordered thatch homes. Canoes laden with fish and shellfish plied the waters, and potatoes, quinoa and other crops grew on the surrounding plains.

Misfortune: In the mid-1500s, the Spanish conquistadors arrived.

A fledgling colony:

Pedro’s wife, Ines, in battle

Good fortune: In 1552, Pedro de Valdivia founded the city that bears his name — Spain’s southernmost settlement at the time. Streets, churches, homes and other buildings were constructed, and many well-educated settlers, including Jesuit priests, populated the region. Lucrative gold mines operated nearby, and Valdivia was awash in gold, silver, and other treasures. A 1575 earthquake damaged but did not destroy the town, which continued to flourish. It became known as the Seville of the Americas.

Misfortune: In 1599, the Huilliches and Mapuches joined forces and rebelled, destroying all cities within their territory, Valdivia included. Within five years, the last starving survivors left the ruins of Valdivia by boat. The Dutch briefly invaded, although they too were forced out by the Mapuches.

The second attempt at colonization:

Good fortune: In the mid-1600s, the Chilean government strengthened the bay to the west of Valdivia with 17 forts. The town became a fortified enclave south of independent Mapuche territory and an important base for colonizing southern Chile. Wooden homes, schools, and hospitals rose up, and the wealthiest had indigenous servants and African slaves. Much exploration of the region came about due to a centuries-long search for the riches of the fabled Enchanted City of the Caesars.

Misfortune: The fabled city was never found, and Valdivia limped along with a strong military presence. During the Chilean war for independence, Valdivia remained  faithful to the Spanish King until the English-born Lord Cochrane, commander of the newly created Navy, captured the settlement. Undoubtedly, its losing-side loyalties didn’t help the city to prosper.

German immigration:

Room in the Centro Cultural El Austral

Good fortune: In the mid-1800s, the newly independent country pushed to develop southern Chile, including the Mapuche territory, through immigration. Thousands of Germans, many of them skilled, educated, and wealthy, settled in Valdivia and the surrounding region. Shipyards were built, factories and mills (including the first steel mill in South America) sprang up. Farming, cattle-raising, and forestry spread across the land. In the first half of the twentieth century, Valdivia ranked as an important cultural, tourism, and industrial center, vying with the likes of Santiago and Valparaiso.

Misfortune: In 1960, the Valdivia Earthquake — the most powerful quake ever recorded — and its subsequent tsunami shattered the city.

After the earthquake:

Since 1960, much of Valdivia has been rebuilt and the population, at around 160,000, has doubled. Valdivia remains the most storied and one of the most important cities in southern Chile, known for its higher-education institutions, its leisurely paced lifestyle, and the natural beauty of its rivers and temperate rain forests.

Curious coda: How Valdivia became the capital of its own region

At the time of its founding, in 1552, Valdivia was Spain’s southernmost settlement in the Western Hemisphere. In spite of that distinction, when the government reorganized Chile’s regions in the 1970s, Valdivia, still reeling from the 1960 earthquake, was passed over as the capital of Los Lagos region. The honor went to Puerto Montt, a relative upstart with its 1853 founding. Valdivians fumed. In 2007, the Chilean president made a Solomonic decision to divide the lakes region in two, creating La Región de Los Ríos and establishing Valdivia as its capital.

Flag of La Region de Los Rios

Note: Some of the information for this post came from an entertaining book, Pinceladas Históricas de Valdivia, by Oscar R. Gayoso Aguilar.

As I looked east from the town of Castro on Chiloé, across the gray waters of the Gulf of Corcovado, I imagined the small town of Chaitén on the far side. It was a place I very much wanted to visit during my month in Chile. First, it is in the general region of a monastery that features in my novel-in-progress. Second, I feel an affection for the town because both it and Puerto Rico have suffered through recent disasters. Third, Chaitén lies at the gateway to the Parque Pumalin, which is linked in my mind to a woman

Parque Pumalin, courtesy Pumalin Park and Project

from Spokane. Unfortunately, getting to the town was difficult. In March, no ferries were shuttling between Castro and Chaitén: I would have had to take a bus down to Quellón on the southern tip of Chiloé or up to Puerto Montt; the ferry did not leave on a daily basis; and the ride, lasting from six to eight hours, could be delayed or cancelled due to weather conditions. I just didn’t have the time. So, with apologies to Chaitén, I’m devoting a post to what I would have found had I gone.

A rosy future:

Chaiten (Wikipedia Commons)

Founded in 1940, the town of Chaitén eventually grew to a picturesque place of some 4,000-plus residents. Fishing boats anchored in a small bay, rimmed by a rocky beach. Set back from the beach, attractive wooden homes lined a network of paved perpendicular streets. Scattered among the homes, a few hostels and small resorts and a restaurant or two catered to overnight guests. Most impressive was the town’s backdrop — a stunning series of mountains sweeping up to the sky, covered in lush forest and topped with snow. Chaitén’s location at the southern entrance to the renowned Parque Pumalin as well as its proximity to Carretera Austral (Highway 7), where the rugged road continues its journey south through Patagonia, made the town an ever-more-important tourism destination.

Until:

After the eruption (Wikipedia)

Three major volcanoes rise in the region around Chaitén: the closest, of the same name, is a mere 10 kilometers away.  In 2008, a series of low-level earthquakes and rumbling sounds concerned residents, but even the geologists didn’t realize that the Chaitén volcano was about to explode. It did, after more than 9,000 years of silence, on May 2, sending spumes of ash and steam more than 60,000 feet in the air. Ash blanketed Chaitén, converting it into an eerie ghost town. A mud flow from the eruption oozed into the Río Blanco which had skirted the town, causing it to change its course and sever Chaitén in half.

Aftermath:

Fortunately, the government had evacuated all townspeople, and no lives were lost. Unfortunately, the town itself was destroyed. The provincial capital was moved to Futalaufú, near the border with Argentina, and the government opted to rebuild several miles to the north, to the safer location of a bayside beach called Santa Bárbara. However, the government hadn’t counted of the will of the people. They wanted their town back. Slowly, they returned to the neighborhood north of the errant Río Blanco. There, homes were dug out of the ashes and repaired, water and electricity returned, ferry service resumed, and schools reopened. Today, a few hardy restaurants and lodgings cater to a growing number of visitors. A new trail leads to the rim of the volcano,  and uninhabitable ash-covered homes serve as a museum of the town’s tragedy.

For more information about Chaitén and the volcanic eruption, I recommend Chaiten: A Town in the Line of Fire  and  Chaiten: Chile’s Haunting, Mud-Ravaged Ghost Town.

Month after month, year after year, the Río Valdivia makes its unending way to the sea. Against that visually static backdrop, a variety of creatures live out their lives above, on, and below the water. These creatures need the river or the nearby oceans to survive, and humans in turn rely on them for everything from food to entertainment to poetic inspiration. The best place to view most of them is the Feria Fluvial.

Edible creatures:

With thousands of miles of coastline, Chile has more than 200 fish species, and I found many of them displayed on stands lining the riverside half of the Valdivia’s fish market. On tables fronting the river, workers fillet the fish with great speed and artistry, tossing the waste backhanded into the water. Fish for sale include jurel, reineta, róbalo, merluza (hake), corvina (similar to sea bass), congrio (an eel that tastes like a fish), and the well-known salmón. Salmon was introduced to Chile in the early 1900s, and Chile is listed as the world’s second largest producer (after Norway) of Atlantic salmon. The fish is primarily grown in lake, river, and ocean cages and net pens, and its large-scale production has raised concerns by both environmentalists and traditional fishermen.

Erizos

Other market stands hold symmetrical arrangements of small fish including anchovies and sardines; clams, mussels, and other bivalves of all sizes; and a few curiosities such as erizo (sea urchin). Shoppers eye the stands for the best specimens or visit their favorite sellers and buy fish for home or restaurant use. Tourists without a kitchen can purchase small plastic cups filled with ceviche, lime-marinated fish.

Lobos marinos:

The stars of Valdivia’s animal scene are the lobos marinos, literally translated as ‘sea wolves.’ Known in English as South American or Patagonian sea lions, they are considerably larger than their counterparts off the west coast of North America. Along the river promenade, they join together in groups of up to a dozen, sprawled on wooden piers or concrete pilings, slipping into the water or using their flippers and powerful tails to hoist themselves back up. The males can grow to 700 pounds and, with their large heads and well developed manes, are the most lionlike of the world’s eared seals. The females reach half the size of the male. Both male and female adults have a ragged orangish-brown coat, while the coat of the young is smoother and dark brown.

Sea lions provide Valdivianos with non-stop entertainment, a Sea World in the wild. Wherever the animals congregate, people gather to watch them perform. My favorite spot is the southern end of the fish market. As the filleter tosses pieces of fish into the water, the biggest sea lions, who lord over the choicest spots on the piers, position themselves to gobble fish in mid-air, while others slip, slide, and dive for their treats.

Homeless dogs:

I can make two primary observations about homeless dogs in Valdivia. First, there are many of them. Walking along the riverfront and around the downtown core, I came upon dozens of them — traveling alone or in small packs; sprawled out in sleep or scurrying to an unknown destination with great purpose; lapping at water in the river or nuzzling a real or imagined piece of food. Second, be they large German shepherd mixes or small mutts, the dogs seem to be uniformly good-natured. Some sat loyally next to me for a bit, undoubtedly hoping for a handout; others permitted me to pet them. I never saw one that snarled or bit. Though their homeless situation must be difficult, particularly in the cold and rainy winter months, they seem reasonably healthy — i.e., no mangy patches of hairless skin — and tolerably well fed — no pronounced ribs or distended bellies.

Birds:

Gull on Lago Nahuel Huapi

While the fishmongers work and the sea lions dine, dozens of birds soar overhead, waiting to swoop down for their own edible morsels. Most of the birds I saw around the Feria Fluvial were vultures and gulls, with an occasional procession of ducks in the water. Some 300 avian species live in Chile. On a river-tour along the Río Cruces, the guide pointed out a black-necked swan. Once common in a nearby nature sanctuary, the birds died off in the mid-2000s, victims of pollution from a local pulp mill, and are slowly returning to the area.

Chile’s official bird is the Andean condor. With a wingspan exceeding ten feet and weight of up to 30 pounds, it is considered the world’s largest flying bird. A member of the vulture family, it has primarily black plumage and lives some fifty years. Because of its heavy weight, the bird gravitates to places where strong winds aid it in flight. I’d like to say I saw one perched on a tree when Astrid and I crossed the Andes, but it was too far away for me to be 100% sure.

In my novel-in-progress, a large bird comes to Clara’s rescue in one of her supernatural journeys in the Andean mountains. Originally, I chose an albatross, in a nod to Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. However, albatrosses are sea birds, so I soon switched to the perhaps even more appropriate Andean condor.

Although I spent a month in Valdivia, I’ll always be a tourist, determined to explore as many tourist-brochure highlights as possible. That has taken me to squat military towers, the fish market and craft marketplace, an enclosed Foucault pendulum, a botanical garden, an historic Capuchin church, breweries, and chocolate shops. Following are a few places I haven’t written about in other posts.

Museo Histórico y Antropológico Mauricio Van de Maele:

Casa Anwandter

Located on the banks of the river on Isla de Teja, the museum is housed in the former home of German immigrant Karl Anwandter. Arriving in Valdivia in 1850, Anwandter becoming a leading industrialist and cultural figure in the city.  The second floor of the museum displays Mapuche handiwork, primarily silver pieces, pottery, and textiles, and chronicles the Spanish conquest of the region. The first floor is divided between Spanish/Chilean life in the early 19th century and furnishings and memorabilia from the German immigration to Valdivia. The house is surrounded by lovely gardens, and I’ve returned several times to sit on a bench and enjoy the tranquility.

El Museo de Arte Contemporáneo:

Riverside promenade

I noticed the art museum the first week of my stay. Located next to the Anwandter home, its glass windows rise above a riverside promenade. Standing across the river by the fish market, I saw university students crowd the promenade. The reason became clear when a parade of water enthusiasts — scull rowers, kayakers, canoeists, paddle boarders, even swimmers — filed by, an annual tradition that marks the start of the new school year at Universidad Austral. The museum occupies the former Anwandter brewery, which was destroyed during the 1960 earthquake, and is said to feature painting, sculpture, photography and multimedia installations. However, the several times I attempted to visit, it was closed.

Museo de la Exploración Philippi:

Museo Philippi

Located behind the Van de Maele Museum, this one highlights the work of the German-born naturalist Rudolph Amandus Philippi. Philippi arrived in Valdivia at the invitation of his brother and went on to become a well known botanist and zoologist. The museum focuses on Philippi and the scientific exploration of southern Chile by other naturalists, including Charles Darwin. Maps, tools, and information boards are nicely laid out in the rooms of the historic Schüller house. In the back is a small bookstore, and an outdoor cafe serves light fare when weather permits.

The above three museums are maintained by the adjacent Universidad Austral de Chile

The Yellow Tour Boat:

Transporte Fluvial Sustentable  maintains a small fleet of yellow solar-powered boats that function as river taxis in downtown Valdivia. The boats can also be rented for guided tours, which is what my daughter Astrid and I did one cloudy, drizzly afternoon. We chose to travel downriver, past old riverside homes, factories damaged by the 1960 earthquake, wetlands produced by the quake, commercial fishing boats catching sardines, primarily for export, a lumber yard spewing eucalyptus chips from its stack, and the forested Islote Haverbeck. Our captain/guide provided interesting commentary. When asked about the local economy, he ranked the main industries as lumber production, ship building, universities, and breweries, most of which we glimpsed on our tour.

Submarino O’Brian:

In 1971 the O’Brien submarine (named for a fighter in the Chilean War of Independence) was built in Scotland for the Chilean Navy. After 25 years of service, it became permanently docked in the Río Valdivia and converted into a museum. Close to 300 feet long, it weighs over 2,000 tons and is painted a menacing black. The tour expressly discourages people with claustrophobia, but I went with Astrid anyway. Descending the ladder through a narrow hole, I felt a surge of panic, but then the ship opened out and my breathing returned to normal. We took in the torpedos and their tubes, the steering mechanism and periscope, narrow bunk beds and a tiny kitchen. Two facts stood out. 1.) Eighty sailors lived in the submarine, divided into two 12-hour shifts so only 40 sailors moved about in the hideously close quarters at any one time. 2.) Four times a day the men were given fruit-laden ice cream (no sugar) to ease feelings of claustrophobia.

Not for me, thanks.

Though it wasn’t planned, I visited four different churches on four of the Sundays I was in Chile.

Iglesia de San Francisco en Valdivia

Thrust into theology:

The first Sunday, I stopped at Iglesia de San Francisco en Valdivia, a Gothic stone Roman Catholic church located in the Zona Típica. Valdivia’s oldest church, it was established in the mid-1500s to initiate missionary work in southern Chile. Over the centuries, earthquakes, fires, and Mapuche Indian uprisings forced the clergy to relocate and rebuild San Francisco several times. Established on its present site in 1786, the church features two historic stained glass windows next to the altar. Though the building has survived earthquakes and tsunamis, its outer walls have not escaped the city’s abundance of graffiti.

My intention was to give thanks for a safe journey to Valdivia, as the sailors did in centuries past after they crossed the Atlantic and reached the port of San Juan, Puerto Rico. A young woman spoke to me briefly while I sat in a pew. When I left, she approached me in the narthex. She had a friend, she said, who’d suffered a serious accident. Did I think God was punishing her friend?  Startled, I struggled to respond (in Spanish), replying I felt God was kind: though unable to change the laws of nature, God could offer her friend support. The woman seemed satisfied with my answer.

Sunday socializing:

The Lutheran church arrived in Chile with German immigrants in the mid-1800s. Originally conducted in German, most Lutheran services are now in Spanish. The Lutheran Evangelical Church in Valdivia sits around the corner from the public plaza. On a drizzly Sunday morning, I decided to attend a service.

Of a pleasant modern concrete design, the sanctuary has windows overlooking a small patio, a pipe organ, and a white screen with gold cross behind the altar. A nice woman in a red sweater welcomed me, pointing out that the pastor was not there and women in the church would be officiating, speaking about their fellow Lutheran women in Suriname. The service was informal, with several hymns, a presentation about the Suriname women and a short sermon on taking care of God’s creation, ending with an invitation to join together for a coffee social afterwards. I attended, sampling a few cookies and some fruit. No one spoke to me, and, after ten minutes of circling the tables, a smile pasted on my face, I slipped away.

The smuggled branch:

Catedral de Nahuel Huapi

Palm Sunday morning found my daughter Astrid and me in Bariloche, Argentina, standing in lovely gardens in front of the Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Nahuel Huapi. A handsome, carefully maintained, neo-Gothic church, it was built out of concrete and local white stone, with a steeple towering above the city. In the shape of the Latin cross, the temple features beautiful stained glass windows representing regional figures, including Padre Mascardi (mentioned in a previous post, The Route of the Andean Lakes, Part I). An alerce wood statue of Our Lady of Nahuel Huapi is a replica of one Mascardi transported across the Andes and set on the banks of the lake in the 1600s.

We entered the church as the Palm Sunday mass was in progress. The temple was full, with parishioners rising and responding to the priests’ words. Plant branches in a basket substituted for palm fronds. I selected one, and, the next day, took part of it with me on the return trip to Chile. At the border, officials announced that no plants, or parts of plants, could be transported across the border. Fearful of being caught, I smuggled my branch in the pages of a Roberto Ampuero novel, and did the same on my return to the U.S. I still have the branch.

A devout dog:

The  Saturday of Holy Week, I was sitting in the plaza, reading. When I looked up, I saw a stray German shepherd sleeping at my feet. He was the spitting image of Dutch, our departed shepherd from Puerto Rico. Tears came to my eyes (yes, after all these years). I wanted to pet the dog but feared frightening him.

The reincarnated Dutch

The next day, Easter Sunday, I passed Valdivia’s main Catholic church, Catedral de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, in the plaza. A simple concrete structure with a tall steeple, it was built in 1988 after the 1960 earthquake destroyed the previous one. Deciding to see if Easter mass was being celebrated, I climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered the temple. Every pew was taken. Priests and altar servers dressed jubilantly in white robes ministered in front of a gleaming white altarpiece. And there, in the midst of the pageantry — center aisle, three-quarters of the way back — lay Dutch, sprawled out in repose. “I know that dog!” I whispered to the man who had opened the temple door for me. The man nodded. “Whenever it’s cold,” he told me, “the dog comes to mass to warm up.”

I don’t know which inspired me more—the worshipping dog, or the church that let the dog worship.

A day after my trip to Termas Geométricas, I was back on a Valdivia Tours bus with the same driver/guide — along with a middle-aged couple, an aunt and her niece, all from the Santiago region — heading out in the same northeast direction from Valdivia. This time our major destination was the Reserva Biológica Huilo Huilo, a private reserve sprawled across mountains of temperate rain forest and embued with a touch of Jurassic Park.

The land of the seven lakes:

Iglesia Capuchina

Along the way, we ascended through farm and cattle country and several one-street towns before reaching Panguipulli, a small city on the banks of the large cross-shaped Lago Panguipulli. Its lovely twin-towered wooden Capuchin church, built in 1947, sits on the hilly site of a nineteenth-century German mission. Mostly wooden homes and businesses line several streets leading down to a somewhat rundown waterfront.

Panguipulli lies in the center of Chile’s seven lakes region. Four of the lakes are long and spindly, the remaining three much smaller. All are connected by a system of rivers. The southernmost lake, Lago Riñihue, outflows into the San Pedro, which becomes the Calle-Calle, Valdivia’s primary river. After the devastating 1960 earthquake, a landslide dammed Riñihue, causing it to rise 65 feet and threaten to flood Valdivia before workers were able to open up a channel and drain the excess water.

As we skirted Lago Panguipulli, I was struck by the unspoiled views of  water, forest, and craggy mountains.

Lago Panguipulli

Neltume:

Our next stop — Neltume, a tiny town of unpaved streets and modest wood homes. Due to its isolation, it remained unsettled until the late 1800s. In the 1900s, it housed forestry and logging workers, eventually becoming known for its pro-union and anti-dictatorship activism. A statue of a man with outstretched arms commemorates those who died in the struggles. Currently, Neltume is a popular destination for tourists visiting the Huilo Huilo reserve.

Huilo Huilo:

Some 250 square miles of land formerly slated for logging have been converted into the Reserva Biológica Huilo Huilo. Run for profit by a private foundation since 1999, its goals are three-fold — to conserve the temperate rain forest, to integrate the local community into the project, and to provide sustainable eco-tourism for the many visitors who flock here. The reserve offers a host of activities and excursions, from zip-lining and horseback riding to mountain biking and hiking up Volcán Mocho-Choshuenco, a double volcano connected by a glacier.

With visitors

Without visitors

Opting to hike to Salto del Huilo Huilo, a 115-foot waterfall pouring through a volcanic chasm, we encountered many others with the same idea. After descending to the banks of Río Truful for a view, we drove to Puerto Fuy for a late lunch.

Puerto Fuy:

Ferry on Lago Pirehueico

Home to about 1,000 people, Puerto Fuy lies at the westernmost edge of Lago Pirehueico, a long, sinuous body of water winding between Andean peaks. From its tiny port, a ferry traverses the lake to Puerto Pirehueico, where a narrow road takes travelers to San Martín de Los Andes in Argentina. Dining at the Puerto Fuy Restaurant, I ordered trout, which, the waiter assured me, came from the adjacent lake.

The not-so-magic mountain:

Stomachs now full, we drove back to the reserve to look at La Montaña Mágica. In point of fact, the site is neither a mountain nor, these days, magical: it is a lodge built in the shape of a steep volcanic cone, dotted with windows and spewing a waterfall. Though people still gawk at the structure, its whimsicality is now hidden under an unruly growth of vegetation. A swinging bridge links the lodge to other upscale hotels in the reserve.

Works in progress:

Unfinished buildings line the road leading to a sanctuary where the world’s southernmost deer, the endangered huemul del sur, roam freely. A raised walkway crisscrosses the grounds, and we were able to look down on dozens of deer enjoying the late afternoon sun. At this point, I half-expected to encounter a couple of dinosaurs, escapees from Jurassic Park.

Beyond, a stone building roughly shaped like a volcano houses a museum still under construction. Current exhibits include a collection of Amerindian artifacts, minerals, a carved mammoth horn, and replicas of Chilean copper and coal mines. Being the lone overseas visitor in our group, I spent what I considered a polite amount of time examining the exhibits. When I left, my Chilean fellow-travelers, lounging around outside, asked how I could stay in there so long … In the future, the upper level of the museum will house an observatory.

The unfinished nature of the reserve, due in part to its philosophy of building with local and sustainable resources, made me feel I was walking through a major U.S. National Park in the infancy of its development.

As we headed home, it dawned on me I never saw the Mocho-Choshuenco volcano, hidden by clouds throughout the day. I would not get a second chance.

Volcano somewhere behind the clouds

Booking a tour from Valdivia in the off-season is no easy task, but eventually the stars aligned and I joined Valdivia Tours early one morning for a day’s outing to the Termas Geométricas (Geometrical Hot Springs). In a region east of Valdivia, dozens of thermal springs steam up from a few of the many rivers flowing between lakes and the Andean mountains. Termas Geométricas ranks among the best and most beautiful of the bunch.

Tortillas al horno:

Two young couples from Santiago, a driver/guide, and I set out in a van, pulling off the road after an hour at a rustic wooden restaurant. Next to the restaurant, a man stood at a table near two large earthenware ovens (hornos) shaped like igloos. In one, flat rounds of bread called tortillas lay on a layer of warm ashes. Their baking completed, the man had taken several from the oven. Wiping the ashes away with a cloth, he placed them in a basket, to be sold in the restaurant. In the second oven, wood was turning into fiery coals, which, when converted to hot ashes, would bake another batch. I bought several. They have a nice taste, similar to biscuits.

Onward:

Villarrica, the lake and volcano

Our first major stop was the small historic city of Villarrica (introduced in a previous post about Villarrica). This city retains more of the feel of a traditional urban community than the resort town of Pucón on the opposite side of Lago Villarrica. Concrete lounge chairs looked out over the lake from a riverside park, and several boats were anchored near an expanse of dark-sand beach. The day was clear, and I finally got a view of Volcán Villarrica. However, the tourist season being over, few people remained to enjoy the view.

Playa Chica

Leaving the city, we headed into forested mountains to the small town of Lican Ray at the edge of another beautiful forest-bordered body of water, Lago Calafquén. Two beaches, Playa Chica, with a gorgeous view of the lake and snow-dusted mountains, and Playa Grande, for the serious bather, border a wooded peninsula jutting into the water. Paths crisscross the peninsula, but a Mapuche Indian cultural center was closed — along with a number of other tourism facilities — until next summer. Back in town, where cottagelike homes surround a spacious plaza, we had limited time to find ourselves lunch. I gulped down cazuela de vacuno (beef stew) at a wooden open-air restaurant.

Skirting the lake and ascending into mountains, we soon reached Coñaripe, a one-street village crowded in by mountains on both sides. Beyond, the road is rough and unpaved. We traveled past sheep pastures with glimpses of the lake below and a snow-tipped volcano above before entering the Villarrica National Park and the entrance to Termas Geométricas.

Termas Geométricas: 

The Termas Geométricas Hot Springs Complex was built over hot springs bubbling up in a misty rain-forested ravine in the vicinity of two volcanoes (Villarrica and Quetrupillán). Bright-red raised walkways angle up the ravine to 17 slate-bottomed pools fed from natural hot springs, terminating at the foot of a waterfall. The geometrical patterns of the walkways and pools gave rise to the complex’s name and inject a Japanese-like symmetry into the natural cliffs, ferns, and other plants that grow in wild abandon.

Each pool is identified with the temperature of the water, ranging from 35 to 45° C. (95 to 113° F.) Employees constantly check the water, and if the temperature rises above 45°, the pool is temporarily closed. There is also a cold-water pool listed at a bracing 9° C. (48° F.)

We had four hours to enjoy the springs. From the main lodge, where you can buy drinks (non-alcoholic: alcohol is not permitted) and snacks prepared in a wood stove, we were given towels and a lock with wristband key. First, we checked out all the pools. Though dozens of guests wandered the walkways, no pool had more than five or six bathers. Next, we went to one of numerous rustic red cabañas where we changed and stored clothes and valuables.

Slipping into the first pool, up to my neck in liquid heat and surrounded by lush rain forest, I felt about as close to Eden as one can get. Then it was on to another pool, different shape, different scenery. And another. By around my sixth pool, the heat was getting to me. No matter how long  I stayed out, the water began to feel oppressively hot. The cold-water pool tempted me, but, with no one to coax me on, I never screwed up the courage. I imagine one could tolerate the heat better in the winter, when snow blankets the surrounding countryside and the temperature contrast is greater.

Though my body couldn’t take too much of a good thing, my mind will often return to the idyllic beauty of Termas Geométricas.

Both Puerto Rico, where I lived for many years, and Chile have a rich Amerindian heritage. But while Puerto Rico’s Indians, the Tainos, exist only in the DNA of many islanders, the Mapuches of southern Chile are very much alive and well, a distinctive and important cultural group with a past unlike any other in the Americas.

A ruca (Mapuche home) from the Casas-Rodriguez Postcard Collection

A definition:

The Mapuches are the original inhabitants of south-central Chile and southwestern Argentina. The word ‘Mapuche’ refers collectively to several Amerindian groups who  live in the region and traditionally speak the Mapudungun language. Historically, the Spaniards used the word ‘Araucanian’ for Mapuche.

Past:

Chile’s Mapuches maintained their independence longer than any other Indians in the Americas. Some 2,000 years before Spanish colonizers reached Peru, Mapuches inhabited the valleys of central Chile. The first major invaders were the Incans, who sought to expand their southern borders. The Mapuches repelled them. A century later, the Spaniards, having vanquished the Incans, also looked to expand. The conquistadors established a settlement in Santiago and several outposts farther south (refer to my last post), but the Mapuches — clever, fierce, and resourceful — banded together with other tribes and fought back. The Spaniards eventually had to admit defeat, and for more than 200 years an independent Araucanian  territory was located between the Bío-Bío and Toltén rivers. Never subjugated by the Spaniards, the Mapuches remained independent even after the founding of the Republic of Chile. By 1883, though, all Mapuche territory became part of the new country.

Present:

In Valdivia and throughout the region, many residents reflect Mapuche Indian ancestry, and brightly patterned sweaters are common on chilly days. These are contemporary versions of a traditional Mapuche craft. Over the centuries, Mapuche artisans developed beautifully designed textile products for daily use as well as elaborate silver necklaces and head pieces for special occasions. Historical examples of these crafts are displayed in museums such as Valdivia’s Museo Histórico y Antropológico (which I’ll talk about in a future post), and shoppers can purchase contemporary items at city marketplaces.

The Mapuches are the largest group of Indians in South America. Of Chile’s 1,500,000 indigenous people, some 84% are of Mapuche ancestry. Many live in the Araucanía region, including the capital city of Temuco, and in towns and rural areas to the south—Valdivia, Lago Ranco, La Unión—down to the Chiloé archipelago.

Language:

Sign for trail on Lago Calafquen

In the 20th century, the Mapuche language and traditions declined, and the people themselves remained on the sidelines of Chile’s progress. Today, few Mapuches speak  Mapudungun fluently, but there is renewed interest in teaching the language and heritage to the younger generation.  In several places I saw signage in Spanish and Mapudungun. Many Chileans have an increased appreciation for Mapuche contributions to the country’s culture, and some Mapuches demand greater rights for the original inhabitants.

Foods:

Native foods such as corn and potatoes, long used in the Mapuche diet, remain a mainstay of Chilean dishes. Even today, boiled potatoes and fish are common dinner fare. (As an interesting aside, cooks in Chiloé have hundreds of species of potatoes from which to choose, and this small archipelago is considered the birthplace of the ubiquitous potato. For more about that, refer to Nick Rider’s Travelling Observations.) Corn, known as choclo, is featured in a hearty stew and a local tamale. Curanto remains a special-occasion meal of seafood and meat cooked in a hole in the ground using hot stones, perhaps seasoned with merkén, a condiment of smoked red chilis and coriander. All these dishes have their origins in Mapuche cuisine.

Beliefs:

Traditional Mapuches follow a female spiritual healer known as a machi. Well versed in the use of medicinal herbs, she can predict weather, interpret dreams, cure illnesses, and ward off evil. Part of her ritual is through prayer and animal sacrifice, necessary to maintain the cosmic balance between good, as represented by the serpent Tren-Tren, and evil, the sea dragon Cai-Cai. In my novel-in-progress, Clara Valle is a student of Chilean history and mythology. Knowledgeable about the Mapuche cosmology, she becomes entangled in a struggle to correct a past imbalance.

For a more extensive overview of the Mapuches, visit the South America website.