Squint your eyes on most any corner of Valdivia, and you can imagine you’re in Germany. You might see German homes that seem straight out of Bavaria, complete with sloping roofs and shutter windows; signs with German names; gothic German churches; German beer and sweet cakes known as kuchen; and people with definite Germanic features. Travel to neighboring cities — Osorno, Puerto Varas, and Fruitiller — and you’ll see the same.

How did this come about?

A bit of history:

In the mid 1800s, after Chile had gained its independence from Spain, the government sought to populate vast uninhabited tracks of land south of the Bio-Bio river,  in part to keep other countries from occupying the territory and to make inroads into Mapuche land in Araucanía. It looked for educated European immigrants with skills — farmers, tradesmen, and artisans — who could settle the land and help boost the country’s economy.

Meanwhile in Europe, revolutions within the German states left the region in turmoil, and large numbers of citizens chose to seek out safe havens abroad. Lured by Chile’s enticements, some 6,000 Germans settled in southern Chile between 1850 and 1875, many bringing their own assets.

The Chilean government encouraged these settlement through a variety of measures, including quasi-legal land grabs. One particularly zealous agent set fire to millions of acres of original forests, including those of the immense and ancient Fitzroya trees, in order to prepare the land for agriculture.

Room in the Centro Cultural El Austral

By the early 1900s, 30,000 Germans had immigrated to Chile. They greatly influenced the economy and society of cities like Valdivia. Many prosperous Germans built elegant mansions along the river; established breweries and other factories; built churches and schools; and added a cosmopolitan air to the city. Although retaining their language and customs, they considered themselves loyal Chilean citizens.

The current scene:

Former Gran Hotel Schuster (I think)

With the passage of time, the German legacy in Valdivia has become diluted, and the 1960 earthquake destroyed a number of the old homes and factories. Yet it is still here: the country’s largest brewery is run by the German Kuntsmann family; the oldest German school, Instituto Alemán Carlos Anwandter, remains a top choice for Valdivian students; and the city’s popular dock area is officially named Muelle Schuster, in honor, according to my Google sources, of a well-known local German hotelier.

Does the German-Chilean connection enter into my novel-in-progress? But of course.

An excerpt from my novel-in-progress:

However, all extended vacations eventually tarnish. As her daughter’s family eased back into their normal routines, Pamela had to entertain herself. Without a car, her outings consisted primarily of long walks to downtown Valdivia. Once there, she looked across the river, often holding an umbrella over her head, and strolled along streets lined with buildings exhausted by excessive rainfall and accumulated soot …

Now I have to follow in my character’s footsteps, taking my own long walks through the city.

Map courtesy of the Valdivia Chamber of Tourism

The heart of Valdivia spreads out from the Feria Fluvial, the fish market on the river, where tour boats ply the waters, a bridge stretches over to Isla Teja, and Valdivians pass below the gleaming-white Dreams casino-hotel highrise, its roof swooped up like a bulldozer’s blade (actually, it’s supposed to resemble a sail.)

To the Market:

My Airbnb street

Two routes take me to the market from my Airbnb home on a street near the bridge in the upper right corner of the map above. The first is a shorter but gritty main artery, Avenida Ramón Picarte, ending at the public plaza three blocks from the docks. Cars, buses, and bicycles jostle for room in the street, and pedestrians fill the sidewalks. Stained concrete buildings house the usual jumble of banks, pharmacies, eateries, car dealerships, garages, and shops selling everything from electronics to hardware.

Homes in this part of the city tend to be small, mostly of wood, stamped metal, or corrugated tin siding, with sloping tin roofs and paint faded by the smoke of wood-burning stoves and winter rains. But there are also unexpected pockets of stately old houses that survived the 1960 earthquake.

The more picturesque route takes twice as long (about 45 minutes) along the Costanera (riverside promenade) off Avenida Arturo Prat, mentioned in a previous post. The pace here is more leisurely, the homes and occasional restaurants and hotels more upscale. Racing shells often skim the water where the wide expanse of the Calle-Calle merges with the Cau-Cau in a lush corridor of forest to become the Río Valdivia. With its confluence of rivers, Valdivia has been Chile’s rowing mecca since the late 1800s, home to several prestigious teams and world-class rowers.

El Casco Urbano:

The plaza bandshell

The city’s urban core fans out for several blocks in three directions from the fish market. Tour operators hawk their adventures from kiosks along the docks, and artisans spread out their wares on the ground when weather permits. Across the street, a large building houses the city marketplace, brimming with colorful craft stalls and seafood restaurants. Shops and eateries line the streets to the public plaza, a spacious park with many old trees, wooden benches, and a bandshell. Spontaneous entertainment here is provided by performers, from flame throwers to guitarists, and pontificators.

At about this point on my long walk, I need to find a restroom. At the marketplace, I can pay 200 pesos (about 35 cents) for a neatly folded wad of toilet paper, which I take into the regularly cleaned stalls. Used paper must be put into a basket, not the toilet.

La Zona Típica:

Brightly painted entranceway

A black submarine marks the end of the Costanera, but Avenida General Lagos continues downriver through a more sedate residential neighborhood of traditional German-built homes and mansions. Some of them are rundown, sorely in need of facelifts, but others have been restored and serve as extensions of several universities located in Valdivia. A good place to turn around is the Hotel Naguilán, across from the uninhabited Islote Haverbeck.

Isla Teja:

Wishing on a lily pad

The bridge just north of the fish market connects Valdivia proper with Isla Teja, a large island surrounded by rivers and wetlands, home of the main campus of the Universidad Austral de Chile, one of the country’s top research universities. A riverside botanical garden borders the lovely grounds, and trendy bars and cafes line Avenida Los Robles. A couple of mansions and a factory have been converted into museums, and a nearby park features paths and sculptures surrounding a large lily pond.

Anyone who reaches this point in the walking tour deserves a beer, the city’s preferred beverage; a pisco sour; or a tall glass of freshly blended berries.

Lago Villarrica, as viewed from the monastery

The Town:

In 1552, at the time of Valdivia’s founding, a cohort of Pedro de Valdivia journeyed to a large inland lake and established a fort on its banks. Both became known as Villa Rica (‘rich village’) for nearby gold and silver deposits. Though the settlement suffered from the Great Earthquake of 1575 (similar in many ways to the devastating 1960 earthquake), it continued to grow until Mapuche Indian uprisings at the end of the sixteenth century destroyed all Spanish settlements in the region.

Fast forward to the mid 1800s, when an independent Chile began to resettle the land held by the Mapuches. Swiss, German, and Austrian immigrants arrived in and around Villarrica and greatly influenced its economy and culture. Today the city, with some 50,000 inhabitants, prospers through grain and dairy farming and limited forestry, but its primary revenues come from tourism.

The Lake:

Shaped a bit like a parallelogram, Lago Villarrica is 14 miles long and seven miles wide. Deep-blue in color, it is a favorite playground for boaters and for all sorts of water sports, from kayaking to fishing, in summer months. Perhaps its biggest claim to fame is its proximity to Volcán Villarrica.

The Volcano:

Villarrica is one of Chile’s most spectacular volcanoes — over 9,000 feet high, a perfect cone shape, topped by thick glaciers and towering over lush green mountains and the lake of the same name. It is also one of the country’s most active volcanoes.  Dozens of eruptions have spangled the sky over the centuries,  including the most recent in 2015, and a permanent lava lake sits in its crater. In summer months, guides lead hikers on treks to the crater, and in winter, skiers and snowboarders speed down its slopes.

The Visit to Pucón:

One drizzly morning, I decided to brave the elements and take a bus to Pucón, the other city on Lago Villarrica. Bus travel in Chile is popular—the buses are clean, comfortable, on time, and inexpensive, and roads are well-maintained. That day, the bus to Pucón was full, but I managed to get a ticket for a cancelled seat. Others weren’t so lucky: about a dozen people, more or fewer as we stopped along the way, had to stand for the three-and-a-half-hour journey. Constantly wiping condensation off the window, I looked out on lush fields and forests, thick stands of native bamboo, cows idling in pastures, small towns, and low-lying clouds.

By the time we reached Pucón, the drizzle had stopped, the sun made an appearance, and majestic mountains soared above the lake. However, the volcano was nowhere to be found, hidden somewhere behind the remaining masses of clouds.

Because of its location between the lake and the volcano, Pucón has become the sports capital of the region. Small in size, it looks more like an upscale resort town found in the U.S. than a city in Chile. Large hotels rim a wide dark-sand beach, and, even though this was a chilly off-season day, a good number of people were out to enjoy the afternoon sun. A small peninsula separates the beach from the town’s  marina. Cute shops selling everything from adventure gear to local crafts line several orderly streets leading away from the beach, and restaurants and bars provide just about any kind of food and drink you might want. Shunning these enticements for the moment, I headed to a monastery.

The Monastery:

A cross on a hill at the edge of town marks the way to Monasterio Santa Clara. Well-worn steps lead pedestrians up the hill to a white-washed stucco chapel, with low-slung red-roofed buildings on both sides. Views swoop down the hill, across the lake, and up to distant mountains. Two other visitors and I knocked on a door, and a nun answered.

The monastery, she explained, houses cloistered sisters of the Order of St. Clare (Hermanas Clarissa Capuchinas, or ‘Capuchin Poor Clares’ in English). This is the female branch of the Capuchin Order, which itself is an offshoot of the Franciscans. Established in 1959, the monastery currently has 17 nuns, mostly from Chile. Through their contemplative life, they pray for missionary work being done among the Mapuches. They provide for their needs in part by making chocolates and embroidered items for sale. I bought a small packet of fudge truffles: when I ate one later in the day, I wished I had bought a lot more!

The sister left us in the chapel, a simple, serene place of high windows, hanging lamps, arches, tile floors, wooden pews, a recessed altar, and stations-of-the-cross plaques.

Those Darn Clouds:

Returning to town, I looked around. The volcano remained hidden. Finding a restaurant with an outdoor patio, I ordered a skirt-steak sandwich (in Puerto Rico, that cut of meat was called churrasco; in parts of Chile and Argentina, it is known as entraña.) Soon afterwards, as the bus left Pucón for its journey back to Valdivia, I craned my neck one last time—no cone-shaped, snow-topped peak. Volcán Villarrica had won the game of hide-and-seek that day, but I would get another chance …

The volcano … maybe

Shipstorm (Wikipedia Commons)

In my novel-in-progress, Clara Valle studied Chilean history before she began to take her own journeys through time. How that could happen … well, no one really knows for sure, though opinions abound. Her historic travels are, without doubt, strange events. One of them occurs during a shipwreck.

A bit of history:

In the centuries before the opening of the Panama Canal, European ships en route to the western shores of the Americas or the Pacific Ocean had to navigate the Strait of Magellan or sail around Cape Horn. These ships often battled nightmarish conditions, fueled by hurricane-strength storms, sub-zero temperatures, ferocious gales, waves the size of buildings, fog-shrouded cliffs, and unseen sandbars. Over the years, hundreds of wrecks disintegrated off the coast of southern Chile from Punta Arenas to Chiloé Island; countless shipwrecked sailors froze or starved to death on the archipelago’s desolate islands; and more than a few writers recounted the misadventures in fascinating books.

For an interesting article about those times, read Where Sailing Was a Passage to Doom  by Chris Hedges. One of numerous shipwreck books, Patrick O’Brian‘s The Unknown Shore  — a precursor to the author’s famous Aubrey/Maturin series — is based on the ill-fated 1740 voyage of the HMS Wager, which wrecked off the coast of Chile’s southern Patagonia. It served me as inspiration for this particular journey.

A bit of fiction:

“When Clara opened her eyes, she lay on a pebbly beach, squashed between what looked like two bears but were actually sailors dressed in heavy outerwear that resembled bear skins. Wan light from an unseen sun delineated a narrow bay framed by massive black cliffs, rocky landslides, and skinny streams of water, all dusted in powder-sugar snow. Frigid gale-force winds ricocheted off the cliffs. In contrast to the immensity of the headlands, the shoreline where she lay seemed no bigger than a nail clipping. Heavy surf slapped at broken pieces of dinghy and barrels. Peering around a boulder, Clara saw several bodies sprawled at the far end of the beach. Near the open ocean, the grounded ship swung back and forth against a low outcrop of rocks in a futile effort to break free. Solitary birds circled overhead, their shrieks echoing against the cliffs — the only other signs of life on the desolate landscape.”

A bit of history:

Jesuit missionaries arrived on the island of Chiloé in the early 1600s for the purpose of evangelizing the Huilliche inhabitants of the region. No population was too small: not only did they reach out to those living on the isolated main island, but they also traveled with Indians in canoes to the smaller outlying islands. For more than 150 years, the Jesuits followed a yearly ‘circular mission,’ visiting each of their congregations in the archipelago for a few days and electing a layman to minister to the flock in their prolonged absence. The people erected chapels to shelter the priests in inclement weather, and communities grew up around them. The wooden churches of Chiloé were born.

Iglesia San Francisco in Castro

In 1767, Charles III, for murky reasons (most likely related to the priests’ success and independence), expelled the Jesuits from the Spanish Empire, and Franciscan priests ably continued with the pastoral work and church construction being done in Chiloé.

From humble places of worship to UNESCO World Heritage Sites:

What made the wooden churches of Chiloé so unique? In their evangelizing work, the Jesuits treated the Huilliche well, and both worked together for common goals. Three elements came into force — the Jesuits’ knowledge of 17th-century European church architecture; the Huilliches’ expertise in working with wood, as evidenced in the boats they built, and, later, the palafito homes; and nature’s abundance of beautiful timber trees. Best known is Fitzroya cupressoides, a conifer of the cypress family and largest tree species in South America, known locally as alerce. Specimens can reach over 60 meters (200 feet) in height, five meters (16 feet) in diameter, and more than 3,000 years in age, making this a most legendary tree.

In the early 1900s some 150 wooden churches dotted the Chiloé landscapes, but today only about half of them remain. Many deteriorated beyond repair, while others were repaired using modern (not traditional) methods. Sixteen have been named a World Heritage Site, and work continues with a local foundation to restore and maintain others. For great photographs and more information (in Spanish), contact Fundacion Amigos de las Iglesias de Chiloe

On the walking trail of wooden churches:

After seven and a half hours of bus riding the day before, I vowed to take no more buses until my return to Valdivia (the next day…). Nature cooperated, and the weather in Castro was remarkably sunny. The small town of Nercón is four kilometers south of Castro, and off I went to visit its church.

Iglesia Nercón 

Iglesia Nuestra Señora de Gracia de Nercón is set on a hill above the sea. It was built in the late 1800s on the grounds of the original church by people in the community. Rectangular in shape, its wood is unpainted except for the entranceway, topped by a large three-tiered tower, and crowned by a simple cross. A nicely landscaped garden fronts the church.  This being the start of off-season, it took a phone call to find the caretaker, who opened up the church and told me I could take the stairs to the bell tower — “but don’t ring the bell.” My claustrophobia and acrophobia kicked in, but I made it to the top.

The inside of the church has an arched vault which resembles an upside-down boat, something the local craftsmen would know very well how to construct. The alter is highlighted in blue paint, and columns are painted to resemble marble. Equally impressive are the many statues — beautifully carved and either painted or covered in fabric. The church has two patron saints: the Virgin de Gracia is dressed is satiny pink and white fabric, and the painted statue of the Archangel San Miguel plants the angel’s foot firmly on the body of the devil. The purple of the crucified Christ’s robe is stunning.

Iglesia Castro

Downtown Castro sits on a hill, and getting to it from the coast involves a climb. (I counted 101 steps on one angled street.) Iglesia San Francisco de Castro opened its doors to visitors at 3:30 p.m., and a couple dozen people swarmed into the entrance. Within five minutes, only one woman and I remained.

On the outside, corrugated tin painted in purple, yellow, and gold covers the wood of the church. The colors and the height of the towers at 42 meters  (138 feet) make this the most distinctive of Chiloé’s churches, but to me what was done inside is far more remarkable. Completed in 1912, its design was based on plans by an Italian architect, who envisioned stone as the primary building material. But the island had wood, not stone: the mayor at the time accepted the challenge, and instructed the carpenters to build the church in wood! The results are spectacular, an inspirational monument to what can happen when humans, God, and nature come together for good.

Wrapped in fog and lush vegetation, Chiloé Island is a brooding place of mystery and mythical creatures. Two characters in my novel-in-progress come from there — the long-suffering girlfriend and mother of the son of tour operator Pete Snyder, a man with commitment issues; and the handsome, enigmatic part-time handyman of Clara Valle’s family friend, Dr. Vicente Leandro.

In the real world, Chiloé’s true magic is found in the islanders’ woodworking skills.

An Overview

Chiloé lies 200 miles south of Valdivia, a six-hour bus ride that includes taking a ferry across the Chacao Strait: add another hour and a half to reach the largest city, Castro. One hundred eighteen miles long and 40 miles wide, it’s roughly the same size as the island of Puerto Rico, but, with 42,000 residents, has less than 2% of Puerto Rico’s population! Blustery weather and dense temperate rain forests predominate to the west, and an archipelago of small islands to the east. Both weather and water are calmer on the side facing mainland Chile, and for thousands of years Amerindians lived there,  developing impressive skills as fishermen and boat builders. With the arrival of Spaniards in the mid-1500s, Chiloé became an important strategic post at the southern end of the Spanish Empire, but the distinct culture and traditions carved out of the island’s isolation endured.

The Palafitos

Before the devastating 1960 earthquake, palafitos — homes raised on wooden pilings  along the coastal tidewaters — were common in eastern Chiloé. Today, most of the few surviving palafitos are found in Castro. A number of them have been converted into inns and hostels. Unable to resist, I stayed in the Gamboa District at the Palafito Waiwen Hostel  a comfortably rustic structure of natural wood (and home to the best hotel breakfast I’ve had in many a year).

When I arrived, the tide was out. The district had a forlorn appearance — several boats lay beached on the black sand, and the stilt houses looked decrepit. When the tide came in, however, water lapped at the pilings, the colorful homes seemed to shine, and the boats bobbed merrily.

The stilt houses originated in the 1700s. Built from the island’s abundant supply of wood, they were sturdily constructed to meet the fishermen’s needs. Ladders descended to boats, tied to the pilings. The homes tended to be two stories, with living quarters on the first floor and bedrooms on the second. In the chilly winter months, family life revolved around a wood-fueled stove, usually placed in the center of the home.

I saw one of those stoves, still common throughout Chile. Made of cast iron, they’re massive and squat and must weigh a ton. The firewood goes into a small furnace on one side and soon heats up the oven on the other side and the ‘burners,’ tiny holes on the smooth surface on top. The iron gets very hot. Not just an appliance to cook food, the stove also provides the sole source of heat for many small homes, and, by stringing up rope overhead, acts as a very effective clothes dryer. Metal stacks extend from the roofs, their smoke permeating the air, causing no small amount of pollution in winter months.

Interesting as the palafitos are, the best of the woodworking magic is yet to come. Stay tuned for my next blog!

Tide’s out.

The North Cascades, standing in for the fog-shrouded Andes

A bit of legend:

In the early 1500s, survivors of a Spanish shipwreck off the Strait of Magellan — starving, haunted by the cold and hunted by the fierce inhabitants of the region — made their way north in the shadow of the Andes Mountains. After months of struggle, they reached a land of beautiful lakes and fertile soil. Eventually, they stumbled upon a city, built by Incans [who had escaped the tyranny to the north] from the gold of a nearby mountain. Shrouded in fog and obscured by ever-changing rivers, the city remained cut off from the rest of he world. There, the survivors and their descendants lived in peace and contentment. A new Eden? Shangri-La? A Patagonian El Dorado? The European inhabitants, subjects of the Spanish King Charles V who was nicknamed the Caesar, became known as Caesars.

A bit of history:

In 1557, two crew members who had supposedly been residing in the City of the Caesars returned to civilization and recounted the supernatural wonders of the region. This set off more than two centuries of searches for the enchanted city, led by government officials, religious proselytizers, and a few crackpots. The expeditioners mapped a large portion of the Patagonian hinterland, but the city was never found.

A bit of fiction:

Never, that is, until Clara Valle, a character in my novel, stumbles upon it at the bottom of a lake.

Sources:

As with any good legend, there are many versions to this story. I read several of them. Cascada Expediciones offers an entertaining overview in its article, The Lost City of Patagonia. A more in-depth look is found in John Augustine Zahm’s 1916 travelogue, Through South America’s Southland.

I don’t want to overdo the ends-of-the-earth image (refer to the last post if you don’t know what I’m talking about), HOWEVER, the forts that once protected the city of Valdivia were known at the time as ‘los fuertes al final del mundo.’ In the mid-1600s, some seven fortifications (five of them major forts, or castillos) and ten batteries, strongholds, and watchtowers stood guard along the coast around the entrance to the Valdivia River. Today, a couple of watchtowers in Valdivia proper and the remains of three forts endure and are commonly visited. I explored two of them on my river-boat excursion and visited the third on a mini-trip to the coastal town of Niebla.

El Castillo de Niebla

A Bit of History:

Pedro de Valdivia (more about him in a future post) founded the first Chilean settlement in Santiago in 1541. Not content to stop there, he went on to found Valdivia in 1552. Neighboring hills contained rich gold veins, the Madre de Dios mine being perhaps the best known (a ragged band of these early miners make an appearance in my novel-in-progress …); land was granted to prominent Spaniards; ship-building and agricultural industries grew up; and the settlement prospered.

Until 1598, that is, when Mapuche and Huilliche Indians joined forces and destroyed Valdivia, setting fire to buildings and killing most of the settlers. For several decades, this was a no-man’s-land, ripe for roaming pirates and privateers.

In 1641, Spain and the Mapuches formed a truce, in which the Indians remained in control of their Araucanía territory, nestled between Santiago and Valdivia. The Dutch seized temporary control of Valdivia in 1643: after they left, the Spaniards quickly began repopulating the settlement. Realizing the importance of Valdivia as a first major stop for ships passing through the Straight of Magellan to reach the western coasts of the Americas (until the construction of the Panama Canal), the Spaniards were determined not to lose it again. This time around, they built forts, giving Valdivia another nickname — the American Gibraltar. The forts never had to prove themselves: when Lord Cochrane conquered the city in the War of Independence against Spain (1820), he made a surprise assault by land.

To the Fort:

For about a dollar, a micro-bus took me along the northern edge of the Valdivia River, past a coastal village and up a hill to the fort with a very long name (El Castillo de la Pura y Limpia Concepción de Montfort de Lemus). This is the largest and most intact of the three forts I visited. Raised metal walkways crisscross the grounds; though somewhat distracting from an historical perspective, they are necessary because the fort was built from local sandstone, which is very porous, and the increasing number of visitors was causing extensive erosion.

The walkways lead to ever higher levels — the parade grounds, a battery of cannons facing the entrance to the river (each fort cannon had its own name, such as San Blas, San Vicente, and Santa Bárbara), several bastions, and, on the highest point, a maritime light tower painted red and white. Former officer quarters now house a museum about Valdivia’s military history. One curious fact — the forts were built, not by slaves, but by convicts and exiles who were watched over by pardos, descendents of Africans or mixed-race Indians. Today, with bastions and cannon fire a thing of the past, the Niebla fort is perhaps best known for its spectacular coastal views.

Los Molinos

Getting a recommendation from fort officials, I took another micro-bus to Los Molinos, a small fishing community to the north. A scattering of late-season beachgoers walked in the black sand, brightly painted boats floated in the harbor, and several restaurants served — of course — seafood. The place had a lonely, slightly abandoned feel, like something out of Night of the Iguanas.

While eating way too much seafood (merluza, which is hake; clams, mussels, and sea urchins …), I chatted with a fellow older solitary traveler, from Argentina. Recently separated from his wife, he seemed, like the place, a bit melancholy. Based on the tiniest of samplings, I think it’s harder to travel alone when you’re older.

But definitely worth doing! (I’d add a happy face here if I knew how.)

Al fin del mundo / to the ends of the earth …

Aerial view of Valle Carbajal, Tierra del Fuego (which I, unfortunately, will not see)

The phrase itself conjures up romance and mystery, a lonesome, exotic, and breathtaking destination. Such a place resonates with people from all walks of life.

For example, the Argentinean winemaker, Bodega del Fin del Mundo, sends bottles of its Postales del Fin del Mundo to supermarkets thousands of miles away. The author William Golding gave his trilogy of nautical novels the title, To the Ends of the Earth, later made into a BBC miniseries of the same name. A BBC Travel column promises journeys ‘to the ends of the earth,’ inviting travelers to “venture to some of the most remote corners on the planet and find out what it’s like to live there” — an appealing enticement. The Hostal al Fin del Mundo beckons to backpackers from its location in Punta Arenas, Chile’s southernmost city. A 2014 documentary film, Al fin del mundo, is set in the lakeside community of Tolhuin, just north of Argentina’s southernmost city, Ushuaia, about a hundred miles farther south than Punta Arenas.

Barrio Esmeralda

In my novel-in-progress, tour operator Pete Snyder gets together with his ex-pat friends in a bar in Valdivia’s Esmeralda neighborhood. Known as the Bar al Fin del Mundo, its entranceway is nondescript and somewhat camouflaged. Not everyone can find it.

To go a little off-topic, Barrio Esmeralda does exist, as a downtown district where the streets come together at odd angles (not all streets in the old section of Valdivia follow the traditional Spanish design of an east-west,  north-south grid emanating from the central plaza). The district forms a mini-plaza at its core. Pubs, karaoke bars, restaurants, pastry cafes, and other shops line the plaza, and it’s a popular place for students from the city’s universities. On certain evenings in the summer, the streets leading through the plaza are closed to traffic, tables are set up, and crowds arrive to congregate in the warm weather.

Barrio Esmeralda

Two remote corners of the world:

One of my first contacts with the allure of the exotic was a 1918 memoir by the naturalist W. H. Hudson. Just the title — Far Away and Long Ago (not to be confused with the Cover Girl song, “Long Ago and Far Away”) — gives me goosebumps. Hudson wrote of his childhood as the son of an English family working on the Argentinian pampas. Perhaps not surprisingly, he wrote the memoir in England several years before he died: the pampas were, indeed, far away and long ago.

Move forward a century to a contemporary novel, Night Film by Marisha Pessl. This is a wonderful book, a haunting and inventively told thriller about the mysterious Stanislas Cordova, notorious director of dark, cult-like films. At the end of the novel, the narrator reaches the ends of the earth — a bleak, magically remote place.

As a personal postscript, when I was researching my Chile trip, I realized the final Night Film scene takes place off the island of Chiloé, not too far from Valdivia. South of Chiloé lie some 800 miles of isolated archipelagos and stark landscapes — places even closer to the ends of the earth.

One timeworn monastery:

Several characters in my novel-in-progress travel to one such place — an old, forgotten monastery half-hidden in forest near a remote Patagonian fjord. They go there to find safety in its isolation, but the monastery also holds secrets about a troubling past.

One list of GREAT THINGS TO DO IN VALDIVIA includes a ride on El Valdiviano, a steam-powered train transporting passengers to three towns along the Calle-Calle River. Unfortunately, the train only operates during summer months; fortunately, one day remained to climb aboard. I signed up.

A Bit of History

The history of trains in Chile is a bumpy one. In the 1870s, the first tracks were laid in an ambitious plan to connect Iquique in the north to Puerto Montt in the south. In the early 1900s, the line reached Puerto Montt, but its glory was short-lived. The country’s complicated terrain coupled with the rise of bus and air transportation for passengers and trucks for freight caused a decline in train use, and today most stretches of the line are abandoned.

Powered by coal and water, the Valdiviano takes passengers back to the golden years, when the railway enabled the transport of livestock, lumber, agricultural products, and passengers to the central region. Our engine, Number 620, was built in 1913 in Chile, using a Scottish design. It weighs 48,500 tons. Only 12 of its type remain, and the Valdiviano is considered a national monument. The cars came from Germany, and rumor has it that after World War II swastika emblems had to be removed from them …

Food and More Food

Once all were aboard, the train chugged between the Calle-Calle, which resembles a long lake, and hillsides of eucalyptus stands and native pines. We made three stops along the way. Huellelhue consists of one dusty street. Venders had set up shaded kiosks and sold skewered meat and other traditional fast foods, fruits and drinks, crafts and knit clothes, pies and additional sweets. Passengers flocked to the stands, looking and buying. I tried a cup of melon chunks — tasty and safe. Pishuinco is equally tiny but a bit more spread out. Similar offerings tempted us there.

We remained at the final stop, Antilhue, for two hours. This was a bigger town, with several streets crisscrossing on both sides of the train stop. All but one street were unpaved, homes mostly wooden and modest, with sloping zinc roofs, and there were a few small grocery stores, but the focal point of the afternoon was an earthen plaza surrounded by permanent stands, where meals and other fare were sold. I opted for outdoor-oven-roasted lamb, accompanied with potatoes (Chile’s main starch), and a salad of shredded lettuce and tomato.

The Cueca

As we ate, folkloric dancers — the women wearing puffy-sleeved blouses and wide skirts, the men in cowboylike hats, short jackets and spurred boots — performed the cueca, Chile’s lively national dance. It seems to symbolize a courting ritual between roosters and hens, with ample twirling of white handkerchiefs, all accompanied by voice, guitar, accordion, and tambourine. When it was time to leave, we filed out of the plaza while the master-of-ceremonies continued to introduce Chile’s cueca dancers.

In spite of my being on another side of the world and in a distant time from when I as a child would visit my grandparents in a railroad town outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, one thing doesn’t change — the urge for people near the tracks to wave and smile and wonder as the train passes by.