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Day 192: Chile's answer to Brighton
I initially woke up at two this morning, and with my ipod turned up so as to drown out the incredibly loud snoring emanating from the seat behind me, it was another three hours before I finally drifted off again. I didn't manage to sleep for long, since at half-past six, I was haunted by one of Argentina's staple dishes, as a round of ham and cheese sandwiches were served, thankfully with coffee. Thirty minutes later, the bus pulled up in a carpark in the middle of nowhere, and everyone except me and one other guy got off the bus. There followed a bemusing tour of the city's highways as the bus seemed to be heading further and further out of town, eventually arriving at an immense bus station.
Slightly overwhelmed, I found myself in a sea of rush hour commuters, vendors, taxi drivers and buses as I tried to hunt down the ticket office, to arrange an onward journey to Valparaiso. Thankfully, this was easily arranged, and within half an hour, I was leaving the chaos of the bus station behind and was on a two hour journey to the neighbouring city.
I managed to get a bit of kip on the packed out bus, but all too soon, found that we were pulling into the station in Valparaiso, where predictably, I didn't have a clue where I was going. I'd been prewarned of the abundance of petty crime in these parts, and seeming to be the only gringo around, I warily set off in search of a hostel near the centre of town. Twenty minutes later, I stumbled across a nice little place in a converted first-floor appartment, and with only a few other people staying there, the owner was quite happy for me to put my head down for a good few hours and catch up on some sleep.
Heading into town a little later, I was rather hungry, and subsequently quite pleased when I found a little vegetarian cafe. Although the food wasn't spectacular (I had a deep-fried tofu steak and salad), it was cheap, and provided the sustenance I needed for a walk around town.
I can't help but be reminded of Brighton as I wander round Valparaiso. Not only is it two hours from the capital, and on the coast, but it's also got
a really bohemian and slightly alternative feel, with a fusion of old and modern styles bringing it to life. It's also produced a couple of famous writers and poets, and with the inspiring mixture of buildings and people, I could kind of see why. For the mostpart, the neighbourhoods of Valparaiso comprise brightly coloured houses, perched high up on mountain sides and reached by lifts, trolley cars providing public transport on the main streets, and a whole host of old buildings and monuments.
Predictably, I got quite lost, and somehow kept making an unconscious beeline for the dodgy part of the city (I found out later), where everyone seemed to want to talk to me and I didn't seem to understand anything anyone said (I sometimes find that Chilean, with all it's slang and the speed with which it's spoken, sounds more Zulu than Spanish). I'm reassured that some spanish people have trouble with it too!
I eventually escaped the unsavoury part of town where I seemed to have been going round in circles, and wandered through some of the grander plazas, down to the pier and harbour. Rather unlike Brighton pier, the 'pier' in Valparaiso is actually
more of a wharf, catering to the tourist industry in its centre with offers of boat trips and souvenir shops aplenty (ok, so that bit's not unlike Brighton). Off on either side of the pier, giant ships were being loaded up with cargo, and far off in the distance, a load of naval ships formed the horizon.
Having managed to kill a fair bit of time on my wanderings, and still quite knackered, I returned back to the hostel, armed with pasta and pesto (variation on a theme), where a few more people (three), had arrived, to be entertained by Alejandro, the hostel owner, as he played the guitar well into the evening.
Day 193: Life in colour
´What is the difference between exploring and being lost?
....The journey is the destination'. Eldon
Leaving the hostel after a rather large breakfast comprising a plate of cheese toasties, toast and scrambled eggs with ample coffee, I went in search of 'Pablo Neruda's house'. Half way up one of the many steep hills surrounding the town, I found myself in a ramshackle neighbourhood of characterful homes, some made from corrugated metal, others of brick; the majority
painted in bright colours and decorated with everything from bright murals to hubcaps! Background noise varied from the usual cars with knackered exhausts struggling past, various instruments being practiced in several of the houses, and the very musical 'gas men' who were moving at roughly the same pace as me. Whilst one guy drove a truck of gas cylinders up the road slowly, another on the back of the vehicle, 'played' the containers as if they were tin drums, to let homeowners know they were passing. As well as seeming to be an effective way of exchanging cylinders, it was actually quite tuneful and entertaining to listen to!
After a steep climb, I reached Pablo Neruda's house, which had been home to the poet and his third wife when they had lived in Valparaiso. Mirroring the city, the house was an interesting construction, with an unconventional layout, narrow wooden staircases, many nooks and crannies, brightly coloured walls, mosaics and pictures in every room. An antidote to Ikea, it's the kind of house I'd love to live in!
Back outside, I had lunch in a cafe, before going off in search of the Museo to Bellas Artes, a curate's
egg of a mission, which had me disappearing down all kinds of roads, passageways, lifts and stairs. After half an hour or so of being lost and aware that as long as I could see the sea, I'd be able to find the pier and therefore the hostel, I started to enjoy myself. I'm not sure how accurate the maps of Valparaiso are, but from my experience today, I think you'd be hard pressed to find a useful one, since distances as the crow flies may indeed me several hundred metres (in height apart), as colourful houses are mountained at the top of near vertical slopes, reached by incredibly steep roads, or one of (seemingly) hundreds of passageways, that pass between, under and over buildings like an Escher drawing. Added to this, was the awesome artwork along the way as buildings, walls and even rubbish bins, had been subjected to a lick of paint, in the form of murals, writing, grafiti, or sometimes, just a block of colour. I never did find the Museum, and later discovered that it closed four years ago, but I'd had a very interesting day all the same.
I spent the evening back at
the hostal being entertained for a second night by the owner Alejandro, an accomplished musician, playing and singing his own guitar compositions for me, his wife, two month old son, and the few other guests at the hostel. Everyone else was drinking wine, but after last weekend I thought it best that I declined. On being asked if I'd ever imbibed, I said 'yes, and that that was the problem'! At this point, the owner looked like he'd twigged and apologised and changed the subject! Given that all conversations were in spanish and therefore slightly laboured, I couldn't really interrupt and explain to him that I'd just had a heavy weekend; so now it looks like everyone in the hostel thinks that I'm a raging alcoholic! Otherwise, it was a really good night; although since I'm getting rather short of time, I'll have to move on tomorrow; back to the big city!
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