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Published: September 23rd 2012
You Get What You Need
I came to little-visited Chillan in Chile's south-central, rainy Bio Bio Region to visit the Saltos del Laja, billed as a little Iguazu (very little), Mexican murals (being restored), and Chillan's ski resort (hostel closed). I was a bit disappointed, but as the philosopher Mick Jagger sings, "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need." Right on, Mick! And lucky me, I was there for vived fall colors and half of my days were sunny--not bad at all!
After a 7-hour journey from Pucon, I rolled into Chillan, finally tearing myself away from Patagonia. How could anything ever match glaciers, snow-capped mountains and quaint alpine lake villages? Well, the mountains around Chillan and then Talca did have their charms, but now I understand why travelers on a time budget just head from Pucon up to Santiago or Valparaiso.
Chillan had been destroyed and rebuilt countless times, earlier from indigenous Mapuche attacks and later from earthquakes. In 1939, an 8.8 earthquake completely flattened the city. It was rebuilt in mid-20c cement--not as dreary as it sounds, at least on a
sunny day, since many were painted in fun, wild colors though somewhat faded by the abundant precipitation. Cheering things up were streets lined with autumn-festooned trees and five leafy plazas. There were also several art deco/futuristic buildings from the 1940s, and a modern, spaceship-like cathedral with a towering cross commemorating the thousands who died in that disaster.
After the 1939 quake, when the Chilean Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda was the country's ambassador to Mexico, he got Mexico to donate a school decorated by the Mexican muralists David Alfaro Siqueiros and Xavier Guerreroo. The murals were being restored after damage from central Chile's big 2010 quake, but at least I got to see a couple of gorgeous ones in the foyer. I'll catch more when I get to Mexico.
Chillan is the market town for the surrounding villages, and the covered, central mercado was a riot of colors from the produce and handicrafts (as usual, some handmade, others from China). I ate like a queen (avocados, cilantro, goat cheese) and bought yet another pair of $2 earmuffs since I'm always losing them.
There were also lots of little, greasy spoons in the
mercado, but the women promoting them were so aggressive that I retreated to a tranquil, yummy, vegetarian restaurant. These latter are so rare down here, that I feel it's my duty to support them (plus a great excuse to eat in a restaurant).
Thanks to an ancient guidebook, I found a properly affordable hospedaje (pension) that had gotten too funky to be listed in newer books. It housed workers, not travelers, bathrooms had no toilet paper, soap or towels, and my bedroom door wouldn't lock from the inside. Yet I had a room of my own and even a Spanish-channel TV that had fabulous operas and concerts from the NY Met, La Scala and other major venues. I even saw lots from the summer music festival in Fruttiar, Chile, where nothing was offered in my off-season visit the previous year. Now, how am I going to find outdated copies of guidebooks for other countries?
Saltos (Waterfalls) del Laja
Being a huge fan of waterfalls, I didn't want to miss this riff on Iguazu, where I'd spent three fabulous days following trails up, over and around the falls. Here, in this off-season, there was only
one bus a day to and from the falls--I'd have eight hours to soak up the beauty. Would this be long enough?
I boarded the full bus, but when it paused at a rather anemic set of cascades, I stayed on with everyone else. Surely, the next stop would be the real falls. Wrong! We pulled back onto the highway, and I knew I was headed an hour away to Los Angeles. Nothing to do but accept it, watch the flat scenery under the dull gray sky and breathe in and out. At Los Angeles, I caught one of the many buses back. Since the falls were small and the day cold and gloomy, I considered myself lucky to have spent several hours in warm buses.
The Rio Laja did indeed plunge 50m over a semi-circular escarpment, which after several days of rain or after the rainy season, would have been mighty impressive. However, now it was neither. The falls could not be compared to Iguazu but were certainly huge compared to anything at home on California's Mediterranean-dry central coast.
Descending the bus, I passed the usual collection of crafts stalls
and cafes blaring loud music, and followed the river as it charmingly tumbled down successive pools of rocks. Up close the falls were more impressive, thundering loudly and creating dancing rainbows of mist. A trail led up to a mirador with great views of the languid Rio Laja, the precipice and the water as it shot out over the edge. Here was incredible beauty!
Huge, graceful white herons landed in the river above to fish, and a visitor's foolish, little white dog waded into the stream to bark at them. It was nerve-wracking watching him navigate the river, sometimes falling into deep spots, just meters from the edge of the waterfall. Finally, he got out and shook himself off as if it were nothing; we all looked at each other and laughed with relief.
For hours, I watched the water fall in a myriad of forms as it plunged, bounced off rocks and fell again. Like the drops that let go on the precipice and leaped trustingly into the void, I felt myself letting go of layers and expanding into incredible peace. Falling water worked its magic, and I was so grateful I'd come.
Toward the Andes and Shangri-la
I'd hoped to stay in a hostel in the high Andes in the Valley of the Trancas to visit the Termas de Chillan with its exclusive hot springs and ski resort. However, since the hostel was closed, I opted for a day trip up the valley to the Eco-Park Shangri-la, which indeed, turned out to be heavenly.
The funky little bus was filled with locals laden with huge sacks of flour and market goods. We climbed from the flatlands, past harvested fields, small clusters of adobe houses and up toward the snow-covered Andes which soon loomed ahead. After an hour and a half, I was dropped by a side road and started walking.
The dirt road was lined with autumn-leaved and evergreen southern beech and occasional, mostly-empty holiday homes and rentals. I played with dogs who came out to bark at me, explored side roads down to creeks and chatted with woodworkers who created giant, wild creatures out of oak. I didn't plan to enter the Eco Park since I though it was expensive, so I dawdled enjoying the countryside.
After a
couple of hours, the road turned into a steep trail; I realized I was in the park and, at least in this off-season, it was free. Faster and faster I hiked upward to a promised mirador, wishing I hadn't dawdled and had brought my hiking sticks which allow me to fly. After another hour, I was above the tree line in the midst of a fantastic wasteland of black, volcanic rock with a view of a range of snow-covered mountains.
I didn't make it to the mirador as I had to turn around and run down the mountain to catch the last bus out of the valley. However, on the way down, I saw something which had eluded me for a year--a huge, red-headed Andean woodpecker. A perfect end to a very fine day!
Leaving Chillan and A Questionable Hero
Thanks to the TV, I learned that buses leaving Santiago were packed because of a long holiday weekend. My next stop was to be a mountain refuge three hours south of Santiago, probably full for the holiday. I decided to linger.
Chile takes its military heroes seriously; parks are full
autumn plaza near my pension
with bust of naval hero Arturo Pratof their statues and most city streets are named after them. This holiday celebrated the late 19c Battle of Iquique in the War of the Pacific in which Chile took lots of land from both Bolivia (cutting off its sea access) and Peru. In Santiago, I'd seen a film on the hero of Iquique, Arturo Prat, who was born near Chillan and mightily celebrated here; however, I found the story rather bizarre.
Prat was the captain of the wooden ship Esmerelda, which was battered by a Peruvian iron-clad. With his sword, he boarded the iron-clad to do hand-to-hand combat (mind you, everyone had guns by this time) and was immediately shot down. I'm sure it's supposed to be a David and Goliath tale, but it seemed a fool's errand to me. Anyway, thanks to him, the pension emptied of the loud workers who went home for the holiday, and I had the place almost to myself.
After the holiday, I traveled north a few hours to Talca, and then caught a little local bus toward the Andes. I was heading to a mountain refuge where hopefully, there would be a bed for me. As
it turned out, there was a bed, dogs and hikes; time, like the mountains, would stretch into the distance.
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The Travel Camel
Shane Dallas
Autumn Colours
Love all of those wonderfully coloured trees in so many of your photos - definitely my favourite season of the year.