La Serena to Antofagasta

Lonely Planet says there's not much to see as you travel through the desert between La Serena and Antofagasta, suggesting that a night bus is a good idea. The guidebook can be helpful but is so wrong on this account. The entire trip was fascinating as the vastness of the Atacama Desert, the driest place in the world, unrolled around us.

We spent the first night of our trip in La Serena, where we have visited twice before, a lovely town about seven hours north of Vina del Mar. The next day we climbed out of the city and watched the ocean fog lace the top of the hills. El Parque National Bosque de Fray Jorge is located south of La Serena and is the only rainforest on Earth where it never rains. The dense camanchaca provides enough moisture for unique trees and plants to grow. Fog is a common companion to the coast of northern Chile, modulating the heat and creating moderate temperatures along the edge of this desert.

Outside of La Serana, the hills are speckled with cactus which look like cousins to the Suroro in Arizona. They shrank as our bus went inland and away from the fog, until only mesquite was left.

Even these became more sparse and disappeared.




Memorials like this are seen every few miles.


Soon the desert was "empty." Sand stretched beneath mountains molded through geological ages. Volcanic ridges rippled at their feet.

Mining in the north of Chile, especially copper mines, is what makes the Chilean economy churn. Copper prices have dropped dramatically over the last year, but there still is profit in it. We passed several operations, the only human interruptions in hours of moonscapes, and then finally arrived late in Antofagasta. The city is huge, stretching for several kilometers along the coast. Antofagasta was founded in 1869 by Bolivia to serve as its main outlet for its mining industry. Chile seized it a decade or so later, and it's still referred to as "captive province" by Bolivians. According to Wikipedia, the city receives only 4 millimeters of rain a year on average, and for forty years it never rained at all.

It was close to midnight, but the bus station and the streets were thick with crowds, car alarms, diesel fumes and barkers selling you-name-it. We dragged our suitcase through the tumult and found a room at a hotel near the station with a collection of perfume bottles behind the clerk's counter.

The next morning we just had time for breakfast and a little CNN Espanol before our bus left for Iquique. Antofagasta has tourist sections, but we wanted to keep going north. There is a Japanese garden, and rock arch off shore called El Portada de Antogasta, a pretty Plaza de Armas, but most of the city seemed industrial gray and tired. I was glad to be on my way.

La musica de los perros

My house, the second in a row of brick casitas, sits above a small canyon on the edge of a barrio called Los Romeros, a neighborhood of sandy streets that wind through a eucalyptus forest with working and middle class homes. The eucalyptus remind me so much of California, but the homes here are virtually all gated, a trend I loath in the United States. Almost every home has at least one dog who spends its life outdoors. Some never leave the enclosure, others jaunt around the streets. Most are friendly, though it's wise not to try to prove this.

There are many street dogs without owners who feed on trash and handouts, for the most part the tougher guys and gals on the prowl. It's not unusual to see one limping from an encounter with a car. Some are sick. It's estimated that there are 70,000 dogs in Valparaiso alone; where I live they number in the thousands as well.


Of course, there are exceptions. Many Chilenos have little pampered dogs like this one who get to go to the veterinaria peluqueria and sleep in the house on any bed bebe wants.

I previously wrote about the situation of dogs here and stated that they needed to be sterilized. How wonderful it was to find out yesterday that this has started in Valparaiso. Six free permanent clinics and three mobile ones have opened in the city with the goal to substantially reduce the dog population.

Dog sounds fill up the nights. From across the canyon, from our side and on our own street, we fall asleep (or not) to a cacophony of shrills and barks, high-pitched yipping, and the machine gunning of the most persistent perros. It goes on for hours until the rooster begins to crow. I'm reading a book now called Metidas de Pata, which explains blunders native English speakers make in Chile while also discussing the culture. A case in point: I recently told some people it was nice to eat them instead of meet them . . . and I really thought I knew what I was saying. I guess an appropriate metida de pata since I write of flesh eating aliens. Mabel Abad C., the author of the book, states that it mystifies foreigners why the dogs aren't brought inside at night and friends tell me they barely notice the "musica," as it's been with them all of their lives.

Security is the issue, a constant concern; crime is up. Our neighbor's car was broken into earlier this month, and almost everyone I've gotten to know here has a story of a wallet or a purse stolen. Insurance for replacement help for important papers is highly popular to have. Gringo friends were actually attacked by boys with a broken bottle in Valparaiso.

A couple of days ago a young couple were pushing their baby in a stroller, and Miel, the little bitch, went after it. We called her, hoping the people didn't think she belonged to us. "Don't bite the baby," we told her. Miel's name means honey. Once she's tried to nip you a couple of times, she becomes your friend and is sweet like her name.

Miel, chica mala

She and Pisco (whose real name, I think, is Timoteo) and Picha take their responsibilities very seriously and our street fills up at all hours as their barking announce the visitors. We appreciate their vigilence, though when the kids came to break into the car it was lo mismo como cada noche and no one went out to investigate.

New Years in Valparaiso

Valparaiso's firework display for New Years is world renowned. Every year there are several displays that run up the coast for thirty or forty kilometers from Valparaiso to Concon, the community we live in. Instead of staying home, we joined our friends Norm, Charlene and Susana to view the fireworks on the rooftop of the Shuttleworth's apartment on Cerro Placeres.

This is the Esmeralda, lit up for the night. Fifteen naval cadets are chosen each year to train on her as they sail around the world. The ship is a replica of the one on which Los Heroes fought and died in the Battle of Iquique against Peru during the War of the Pacific (against both Peru and Bolivia) in 1879.

Resentments still exist as Chile, with the aid of Great Britian, after having lost the battle won the war, and annexed a huge swath of coastline that belonged to the other two countries, taking away Bolivia's access to a seaport. At that time, nitrate was being exported from huge guano deposits in this area. Chile got the coast and the revenue from the nitrate. Chile has offered Bolivia rail access to use its ports, but Bolivia has declined. I have a norteamericana friend who moved to Bolivia with her husband about the same time we came here. I asked if they would ever consider Chile. She said no, her husband's family would never forgive them.











On the roof we had plenty of champagne (as demonstrated above by Susana) which unfortunately mixed with the sewage smells wafting off the ventilation system. If we were to be here next year, Susana tells us the place to be is in the streets where people dance all night long. Still, I enjoy smaller settings and was satisfied with the view we had of the whole bay and coastline, the feast we shared, and the way we finished our evening with quiet conversation on their balcony listening to the sounds of the city below. Norm and Charlene will be returning to Canada in two weeks; both Bill and I will miss sharing our adventures and misadventures as extranjeros here. We've made friends for life.



Charlene and me







Susana, Bill and I walked down Cerro Placeres, through the dusty plaza and the streets blowing our New Years horns, which elicited a spicy comment to my husband from an elderly senora sitting on her front steps . . . much of Chilean humor has a sexual base. We past parties set on other rooftops lit with fairy lights and vibrating with loud music. The ever present dogs wandered by as though they had their own fiestas to find. We came down to where scores of people waited on the cement strip to catch buses to the north.

It was four in the morning and thousands of cars were streaming by, along with bus after bus full to capacity. We sat on the curb, amazed at the number of people . . . a million or two? . . . who had to have been in the city. We finally squished onto a 602 which spent at least another hour going the distance it usually takes 10 minutes to cover, the conductor slamming on the brakes now and again as traffic ground to a stop. We finally got seats. A boy of perhaps 11 or 12, who had no ears, just nubs of earlobs, sat shotgun. I assumed he was the son of the conductor from his gentle glances as he checked on the boy, who finally used his jacket as a pillow and fell asleep.

We arrived in Concon with most of the bus still full; the man next to Susana sleeping so soundly she worried he would miss his stop. But he didn't wake up even when she shook him. We hopped off at our stop and walked down our street, reaching our house just as the night sky was bleaching the morning haze to gray.



We woke up around ten, took a walk, and found these revelers at the end of our street. Even the dog was sleeping it off.

Elvis Found Singing in a Small Club in Chile

My husband and I went back to El Gato en La Ventana last night. To our surprise, Elvis walked in, began to perform, and had the whole place on its feet.

There were a couple of other performances. Here's one song of a group, though I'm sorry to say I don't know what they're called. At one point, the mother of one of the members came up to the stage and sang a couple of songs.

Finally, this is Rosemary, one of the music teachers from St. Margaret's, and her daughter Blanca at our home.

Mira Ninita

I ended my blog yesterday with versus of the song Mira Ninita (again, can't do the tilda because I'm on an English keyboard). We researched it today. The song was written in 1972 by a Chilian rock band, the Los Javais. Here is a link to youtube to hear them sing the song. Please copy and paste in your browser because I can't seem to get the link to work correctly: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8cC-D8L02I Also, here are a couple short videos taken in Valparaiso:

La Magia Esta En Tu Alma

I love the murals in Santiago. The city is covered with the same kind of tagging as any urban place in America, but the level of creativity seems to be higher here. Amid what looks like gang graffiti there are message like this. Respect is to love. The magic is in your soul. I like the vampirish like creatures looking on, as though the forces of darkness were taking heed of the message. There are occasional messages on walls proclaiming: Capitalismo es muerte. Other pictures that are intricate and fanciful lace the streets. In the Bellas Artes area, near San Cristobal, the highest part of the city, and where one of Neruda's three homes is located, the mural art is taken to the highest levels, street after street, in a neighborhood full of houses where color and whimsy cry out.

Bill and I went to the immigration office today. The nicest people work there. I was told that St. Margaret's is the "most prestigious school in Chile." Yikes! Definitely not like the Title One schools I've always taught at. We panicked when the forms and procedures were explained to even get a work permit under a tourist visa. Send my teaching credentials to the consulate in San Francisco just to get a stamp and from where they have to be mailed back to Chile?) But then I finally connected with the Sra. Avril Cooper, the director of the school, who said,"Relax, relax. Our people are working on it." Okay, sounded like good advice to us. So I'm sitting in a courytard writing now at La Casa Roja instead of dealing with bureaucracy. Que beuno! (I need to find how to transform my keyboard in a Spanish one but that's a learning curve I just can't take on right now.)

We went to lunch yesterday and today at two sidewalk cafes. A cute little dog, kind of a cocker spaniel/dachshund cross showed up at our feet yesterday. Small and sad. We thought she was a puppy until we noticed she'd recently had babies. We named her "Cute Little F . . ." Amazingly, there she was again today, at least two miles away. She had to have crossed the freeway, going up the steps and across the bridge along with people traffic. She came immediately to our table, lay down, and fell asleep again. We chose not to think of it as a sign, as we're weak where in the cute little doggy area of life. And we need to get Wiley down here. He'd probably be p.o.ed to see a strange dog in what he'd rightfully think of as his place. After today, I'm not sure how much blogging I'll do. after today My job starts Monday (trying not to panic-- I left a lot of my standby teaching material at home because of weight limitations on the airplane). Our house in Vina is cute, but not the place we want to stay forever. We don't want to connect Internet up, only for the two months we'll be there. I may spend a lot of time on the weekend at the Internet place around the corner, but I could also be correcting papers. Oh yeah, i've got another novel to finish.

One last thing! Great news. Nicole, the publicity person at HarperCollins told me that a review posted by Emily Robbins, a thirteen year old reviewers from Readers Views, was picked up by Reuters and usatoday.com. I can't stop smiling!

Night is Falling in Santiago

I chose this picture, though it has nothing to do with Santiago. It does have a lot to do with being willing to venture to unfamiliar places both without and within. Thank you, Mother Eve, for taking the first bite to a realized life.

We have been in Chile for just over a day. I'm sitting in an upstairs lobby of La Caja Roja, a hostel full of mostly young people from all over the world. Loud music is blasting from downstairs. Voices of guests eating their dinners on the patio blend in, along with clinking plates and laughter. Here, it doesn't feel I'm half a world away from winter, where the bells of my school ring, and my commute is driving up a mountain road. The Germanic orderliness that the United States possesses isn't found in Chile.

Bill and I stayed at this hostel for two of the weeks we spent here in July, so coming back felt like coming home in many ways. Out on the streets of the city, though, walking among the blankets spread full of bolsas and zapatos for sell, the crazy traffic, having a poor mother sing a song for some pesos to feed her baby, the reality that I have made a commitment to a strange new life is impossible to ignore.

Ice cream is a real highlight. It's simply wonderful, very similar to gelato. Most of the pastries, on the other hand, are heavy and unappealing-- which is a good thing because I have a weakness for them. I'd rather spend my dessert calories on the helados.

Took a trip to Vina del Mar today to rent a house that we found out about back home. Outside of Santiago, it becomes desert-like, similar to the few un-watered parts of southern California that remain. We passed chapparal and chemise, vineyards in the Casablanca Valley, slums on Valparaiso's hills.

Chile is a poor country with an expanding "middle class," however you might define it, and the wealthy whose homes could be anywhere in tonier areas of the states. Our new house is where a purse being snatched won't be out of the question, but that's probably the worst of worries. I wish my work clothes had deeper pockets to hide my i.d. and what little money I'll carry. I'll travel by bus or taxi to St. Margaret's, which has a gate models on Buckingham Palace, teaching girls who go home to fine houses, mas rica que mi casa.

I've stepped out of the "garden," of what I have always known, into a world where more knowledge and experience will be gained.

I need to work on my book, but so much nicer right now to put my thoughts here.

Tags: chile, hungry, la casa roja, teaching in foreign countries, vina del mar

Maria's Casa, La Serena

After the Yo Yo, Marie's Casa (and that's what the sign said, not La Casa de Maria as the cab drivers would know it) was marvelous. Clean. Fresh. BUT COLD. This is where the really cold weather hit and nights were nippy! The computer was outside so fingers were freezing as they were typing! Plus, I caught a cold that I passed on to Bill the following week.

The picture above is of Pancho who is a shoemaker. He has a shop at the hostel. There's Bill, too. Pancho is fixing Bill's belt. Just as the Lonely Planet Guide Book says, Maria clucks and sweetly frets over all of her guests. Andres picks you up at the bus station if you let the hostel know you're coming, but its only two blocks away. Olga, the housekeeper, and I really bonded, as I did with Nichole, a German engineer and a frequent guest, who works on water issues in the region. It was very hard to say good bye because we were made to feel like we were home.

The Christian and the Barbarian Do Santiago

Here is my husband Bill, self proclaimed barbarian, playing guitar upstairs at La Casa Roja. Notice the high ceilings. The hostel was once a mansion, and Simon, the owner, has worked hard to restore the building and to provide all sorts of services for its guests, including ski trips to the Andes.

I was amazed at all the young people from England, Ireland, Australia, and Germany who are traveling around the world. It seems to be a rite of passage to finish school, or take a break during college, and to get a ticket that allows them to stop where they like, as long as they keep going in the same direction. There were VERY few Americans and Canadians, and the ones we met were generally a bit older, often teachers visiting Chile during "summer" break. I loved hearing different languages spoken as I'd walk through the halls. Snowboarders from Spain next door to our room drunkenly sang in Catalan a couple of nights. Very rowdy, but nice young men, all the same.

Most of these young people were visiting many of the countries in South America. A young woman from Israel volunteered at an animal sanctuary in Bolivia. On Bill's trip in February, he met a Danish woman who had worked at the same place whose responsibility was to walk a puma on a leash through the rain forest. Traveling from hostel to hostel, friendships are made; people meet up with each other quite frequently. Going to Bolivia seems to be must do, as well as Peru. I heard wonderful things about countries like Colombia, where I'd be hesitant to visit. A young woman from Australia said it was her favorite country and "only heard gunfire one night in my hammock."

According to the Lonely Planet Guidebook, Santiago is one of the safest big cities in South America. In certain areas, "starving students" might ask you to buy a poem that they have "written." Be aware. Take pictures, but don't be flashy as a tourist, and chances are there won't be any hassles.

The city rises on a plain up to the foothills of the Andes; the higher in elevation, the more wealthy the neighborhood. The Barrio Brasil, where we stayed, is near Santiago Central, and long ago was where the wealthy lived. Over time, it fell into decline, but now it's experiencing a revival, kind of a South of Market thing that has happened in San Francisco. I grew to love it because of the atmosphere of the neo-colonial buildings, the energy of the university students who seemed to be everywhere, the wonderful park where children played late at night, and the coffee we found in cafes.

Bill and I probably walked at least five miles a day. We'd head from La Casa Roja to Central where the Palacio De Moneda, the presidential palace, is. The financial sector and shopping areas are found here, too. I felt I was in Europe as I walked along the streets. By the way, street vendors sell wonderful sweaters, shawls, and scarves made from soft non-scratchy alpaca, as well as jewelry, often made from lapis lazuli.

We strolled down the Ahumada, a pedestrian thoroughfare full of stores, street vendors, musicians, and acrobats to the Plaza De Armas. The first day we were there, there was a gay pride celebration with a drag queen singing. Another time, there was traditional music and dancing, and the last visit we listened to the band of the Carboneros, the Chilean police.

We walked through the Mercado Central. The first building was a fish market, with restaurants. Acres of fish of all sorts. The second building had acres of fruits and vegetables. Cutting through Bellavista, we ended up at Cerro San Cristobal, the highest point in the city. This is a view of Santiago from an funicular that takes people almost to the top.


Can you see the smog? The first day I was there, I could taste it. It reminded me of growing up in southern California, but winter is the time of the year when smog gets worse. I joked that it was a southern hemisphere phenomenon where things were opposite from California. Actually, the Andes are so nearby that the cold air doesn't rise, but gets compacted in the basin. Smog settles in. Unless it rains, that is. Right before we left, a cold front came through, leaving snow in Lo Barnechea, the highest part of the city. Our last day was glorious: crisp air, bright blue skies, and I felt I could reach my arm out to touch the Andes.


(Here's a shot from the fruit market. Bill bought a kilo of kiwi for about 250 pesos, about 50 cents.)


We climbed to the top of San Cristobal. I went into the chapel and said a centering prayer while Bill waited for me. Good thing because we then rode down the mountain in a sky bucket, a long steep ride with a magnificent view which I enjoyed as I clasped my seat with an iron grip.

Then we "landed" in Provedencia and took the subway back to Barrio Brasil. Over a million people a day ride the subway in Santiago. It's a great way to travel during off-peek hours, though I practiced breathing calmly during rush hour when we were squished. BUT that brings me to one of the things I loved the most. People were unfailingly polite. I loved hearing the gently sound of "permiso" as people squeezed through others as they got off.


Graffiti was everywhere. I started to look on the it as art, but one of the biggest pleasures was turning a corner and finding wonderful murals like this. The Bellavista area, in particular, abounded with houses that were true works of art.

Bill frequently mentions that Chile is in its springtime. Chile has the highest standard of living in South America; though poverty is a still an issue, the country has recovered from it's dark era of repression and is going at full throttle to take its place as a modern democratic country.

In Front of the Refrigerator

I've been craving chocolate. Grumpiness level moderately high. Fell asleep yesterday at four p.m. and slept (almost) through until six this morning. Sure signs summer vacation is sorely needed.

Bill's hammering, putting stained glass panels above our sink. He's been painting our house white and laying paving stones and redoing the deck. Working on the house in case we decide to move. We're off to Chile later this month to see if I fall in love with the country as much as he did when he went earlier this year. I haven't put away my winter clothes. The temperature in Santiago was down to freezing last night.

If we decided to live in Chile, it won't be for at least another year, though the changes we're doing (I'm using the royal "we" here, as Bill's the craftsman) will make it hard to give up this place. I found the countdown clock for my novel HUNGRY on my HarperCollins' page this afternoon, and I only have a millions things to do before October!

I'm a fretter by nature. Will kids really like the book? Will some parents be concerned their children are reading about a girl who might have her best friend for a snack? As charming as I think Deborah is, will others feel the same way?

At my church (come on by: http://stjohnslakeportparish.googlepages.com) or at meetings in the diocese, people ask me what the book's about, and I say, "Flesh eating aliens;" no one has crossed themselves or pulled out a crucifix. So far everyone has laughed. I always add: HUNGRY is about a girl who has to struggle with the values of her home and culture and the difficulty of doing the right thing.

I'm glad we're going away. Working on preparation for the publication in Internet cafes in South America probably is the best thing that could happen to me! Plus, I'll be in a new atmosphere to start seriously writing a new book.