Art and Artistry- Valparaiso, Chile

In its heyday, the city of Valparaiso was the pride of Chile. It was one of the richest ports along the Pacific Ocean, growing fat of the wealth of merchant ships sailing around Cape Horn. The natural amphitheater shape of the coast and deep water port made the city an ideal stop-over for southern whaling ships and Chilean exporters, and gave it an excellent defensive position against maurading pirates.

The steep hills of Valparaiso were decorated with mansions built on the fortunes gained from the goods of foreign vessels that anchored in its tranquil waters. But sadly, this golden age was not to last. 

The beginning of the end came in 1906 when a powerful earthquake ripped through the city. The event was immortalized by Pablo Neruda in his poem Ode to Valparaiso:

"...the earthquake gripped you and you ran about dementedly, you broke your nails, everything shifted, the waters and the stones, the sidewalks, the sea, the night, you were asleep on the ground, jaded from your voyages, and the earth, raging, raised up its surf stormier than a south sea gale, the dust was blanketing your eyes, the flames were scorching your shoes, the sturdy homes of bankers were quivering like wounded whales, while higher up the homes of the poor were leaping into the void as if fledgling birds proving their wings, but crumpling down." 

The second and more punishing blow came in 1914. Like so many towns along America's Route 66 that withered in the hot desert sun after the opening of the interstate freeway system cut them off from commercial shipping, Valparaiso was now cut off from its life blood, not by a highway, but by the world's richest palindrome: A man, a plan, a canal; Panama.

Nowadays Valparaiso is a study in contrasts. In fact, it is perhaps those contrasting elements that make it such an interesting, confusing and vibrant city. It is a gritty seaport but it is filled with artists. It is a huge shipping center but it has some of the highest unemployment in all of Chile. It is crumbling and covered in rust but it is still breathtakingly beautiful. 

We arrived in "Valpo" by bus on a chilly, cloudy afternoon and immediately set out to find a place to stay. The city is arranged on a series of steep hills overlooking the ocean. This means that navigating the twisting streets with a 40 pound backpack is no easy task. Sidewalks widen and narrow and then suddenly end, forcing you to walk out into traffic. Roads meander left and right before dead-ending in a hundred foot cliff or else rise at a nearly vertical pitch with sharp switchbacks snaking their way up the houses above. 

Fortunately the second hostel  we stopped at,"La Bicyclette," is run by a bald, elfin Frenchman who we have dubbed "The Nicest Man in the World". (We've actually run into quite a few of those in our travels). He smiled and laughed the entire time we spoke to him. His eyes twinkled with joy as we told him we were going to stay for a few days. He practically skipped down the steep staircase to show us our apartment. That's right, apartment. No dorm rooms packed to the gills with bunkbeds and German backpackers, no cramped hostel rooms with one naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling to give the roaches some light while they tap dance all over your belongings, this was a proper flat. It had a full kitchen, livingroom and private bathroom as well a wonderful view out onto a pretty little winding street. I could have stayed there for years.

We spent the next day exploring the town. Our flat was on a hill called "Conception" which is where the Unesco World Heritage part of Valparaiso begins. This section is right next to the port and is probably one of the only world heritage sites that contains multiple brothels (this is a working seaport, remember). It is also home to some of the most striking vistas overlooking the city. Even though most of the houses are old, crumbling and tinged with rust, each one is painted a different bright color. The town, with its steep hills and valleys, looks like a giant technicolor patchwork quilt fluttering in the breeze. I doubt if even Joseph and his so called "Amazing" dreamcoat could ever match the dazzling array of hues that dot every inch of this city. Almost every where you look could be a painting.

In the late 19th and early 20th century Portenos (as the city's inhabitants call themselves) constructed a series of elevators or ascensores to schlep you up and down the steep hills. Apparently we weren't the only who got a little tired of the constant ups and downs.

We rode one of these to the top of Artilleria hill to visit the naval museum and then took a gravity assisted walk back down into town. While walking through the gritty streets you are struck by a second unique facet of this city, while the whole place looks like a painting, almost every inch of it is actually covered in paintings. I have never seen so many murals in my entire life. On the exposed walls of buildings pictures run the gamut from abstract, to impressionist to vivid realism and back again. Some of the murals are political in nature, some purely asthetic and some are just there to make you laugh.

When we got back down to the flat area near the port we ran into some living works of art. Valparaiso is a huge shipping center so shipping containers are ubiquitous. Like all great artists, Portenos work with what they have, and what they have are a lot of containers. The day we arrived was the first day of a week-long shipping container street theater festival. All over the city the giant metal boxes had been converted into mobile stages. Artists, young and old could be found performing everything from Shakespeare to modern avant-garde performance pieces.  We arrived in the central square to find to find 3 containers transformed into a giant human cuckoo clock. People on swings and ropes represented the weights and pendulums while another person turned giant wooden gears to spin the hands on the clock. We got there at precisely 4PM and the whole thing started going nuts. A band in the back ground was playing a kind of formless improvisational jam as singers repeated "tick tock" into microphones at various rhythms. People in burlap coats and tinfoil crowns slowly processed to the front of the clock and banged huge planks of wood against the ground while high above stage-hands swung open the doors of the containers. Attached to the doors were people waving their arms around shouting "Cuckoo" and "Son los quatro" (It is four o'clock). I'm not sure if it was art but it was damned interesting. 

All that walking and visual art appreciation works up an appetite, which brings me to the most satisfying kind of art, the kind you can eat. We gorged ourselves in Valparaiso. The food here is as varied as the people so I will just give you a few of the highlights. On the first day we stopped at no nonsense seafood place near the port called "Los Portenos". This place does it right. They literally shove fistfuls fresh shellfish on to your plate until it is overflowing. 

It was here that we were introduced to what would become a staple of our diet over the next few days, Camarones al Pil Pil. It is basically a ceramic bowl heated on a gas stove until it is scalding hot then filled with shrimp, butter, garlic, a little white wine and some pepper. It arrives at your table bubbling like a witches brew of un-kosher delight. 

That night we dined at our first fine dining establishment. It was called "Color Sabor". We started out with ceviche served with a shot of "Leche de Tigre" (basically the juices used to marinate the ceviche) and a grilled octopus. Molly had salmon and polenta that was divine while I had rock fish wrapped in chard with barley rissotto. Hear me now and believe me later all of you food lovers. MAKE YOUR RISOTTO WITH BARLEY. It was amazing. It had the smooth creamy consitency of arborio rice but the barley has a slightly firmer build to it. It bursts almost like caviar when you chew it.

Valpo is known throughout Chile for one dish in particular; Chorillana. It is essentially a huge plate of french fries covered with scrambled eggs, onions and chunks of stewed beef. Sound gross? Well, it wasn't. Along with Scott Majeska, (the third member of our new band "The New Rudas") we polished off about five pounds of the stuff.

As we are wont to do, we headed down to the central market to get the food of the people. After fighting our way through a cloud of tear gas that was left over from an earlier demonstration (they still haven't settled the education debate), we made it to the market. Dozens of eateries pack the second floor of the market. They all get their food from the fruit, vegetable and fish stands right downstairs so it is all extremely fresh and cheap. Molly got Machas al Parmasean which are basically clams baked with garlic, spices and cheese. I decided to dine on Caldillo de Congrio, conger eel stew. Like Camarones al Pil Pil, this stew comes out bubbling in a heated cereamic bowl, the broth is light and delicately spiced with a hint of hot peppers just to make it interesting. Large chunks of still-on-the-bone-eel are added so you have to be a little careful when you eat it, but the flavor is just wonderful. I had it four more times before we left Chile.

Caldillo de Congrio was, incidentally the favorite dish of Valparaiso's most famous resident, Pablo Neruda. On one of our last days in the city we made a pilgrimage up to his house in the hills. Dubbed "La Sebastiana" by the poet, it occupies a commanding position over the town and the port. Of all the magnificent homes I have ever been in, this is the one in which I could most see myself living. It is not large, but every inch is meticulously decorated with tiny treasures that Pablo collected from all over the world. The main living room is filled with windows and gives a 220 degree view over all of its surroundings. 

Neruda would spend his time seated in his leather recliner which he called "The Cloud" and watch the city while saluting the distant ships as they sailed out to sea. He used to tell his guests of a certain house on the neighboring hill where each day a woman would appear and sunbath naked on the roof. Although his friends would spend hours scaning the houses, searching for this damsel, she never appeared, save for the poet himself.

Sadly "La Sebastiana" would be the scene for the final, dark, chapter in Neruda's life. Having been a political activist and champion of the poor all his life, it was inevitable that Neruda, a well-known communinst, would eventually run afoul of the often conservative govenment of his country. It was here in Valparaiso that the poet,  already dying of cancer, was continually harassed by the military. Like thousands of other victims of these barbaric regimes, Neruda suffered under the hardships of conservative facist governments. After his death, despite a decree by Chilean dictator Pinochet banning a public funeral, thousands filled the streets to show their support for the poet. His house in Valparaiso was ransacked and left deserted. After the downfall of Pinochet, the new government declared the house a national monument and had it restored. It now stands proudly, high above the port of Valparaiso, watching the ships sail out to sea. It is a constant reminder of the courage and conviction it takes to speak the truth despite the consequences. It is also a monument to the fact that while an artist may be imprisoned, exiled or outlawed, his art and what it says can never be silenced.

In Vino Veritas; Mendoza, Argentina

Wine and civilization have gone hand in hand since the begining of recorded history. From those first vine tenders on the banks of the Euphrates River all the way down to the recent explosion in wine popularity (thanks in no small part to Paul Giamatti and company in the movie Sideways) mankind has always had a deep love of all things grape. Indeed, the seeds of western philosophy sprang up along side the tender green shoots in the vinyards of ancient Greece. Those pondering such imponderables as the Platonic forms, the idea of the infinite and a quaint new style of government called "democracy" must have gotten quite a bit of help from a bowl or two of sweet Hellenic Cabernet. In wine we find our most sacred religious ceremonies, our happiest celebrations and our most relaxing of idle times and of course... it just tastes so damn good.

With so much of our shared cultural heritage dependent upon wine, Molly and I thought it only right to spend a few days checking out the vineyards in the mecca of south American wines, Mendoza, Argentina. We met up with fellow oenophile Scott Majeska in the Chilean capitol of Santiago and prepared to make the long journey across the Andes.

Brad Pitt filmed "Seven Years In Tibet" just outside of Mendoza. I wonder why the Chinese government wouldn't let him shoot it in their country?

Crossing a border in South America is always a pulse quickening experience. Tales of corrupt police and bribe-hungry border officals abound. Also, anyone who has ever seen the show Locked Up Abroad knows that a South American prison is NOT a fun place to spend time. By the time we got the the border Scott had lost his immigration form that he received when he entered Chile and had no way to prove that he'd entered the country legally (besides of course the stamp in his passport and his entry visa, but these apparently were not sufficient). Fortunately, we played the "confused tourist" card like pros and we were on our way.

Mendoza is a sprawling city of wide tree-lined avenues and fountain-filled plazas. Snow-capped Andean peaks rise high in the distance lending a dramatic backdrop to the otherwise tranquil town. It also has a very European feel to it. Many Mendozans spend their days puffing away on cigarettes and drinking coffee while watching the world go by at one of the hundreds of outdoor cafes that line the city's shady boulevards. With so much lounging about, we often found ourselves asking "Don't these people have jobs?" But I guess we aren't ones to talk.

Photo credit:Scott Majeska

After finding a hostel we decided to switch over from Chilean diet of mostly seafood, to the most Argentine of all foods... grilled meat. People in Argentina eat more beef per capita than anyone else on the planet. Grilled meat restaurants or "parrillas" abound in any town in Argentina. Mendoza is no exception so finding one was quite easy. All you need to do is follow your nose. The meat here is excellent, plentiful and varied in styles. Over the course of a few days we dined on hanger steak, rib eye, sirloin, beef loin, beef ribs, beef tripe, fennel sausage, grilled chicken, pork chops and some excellent blood sausage. Argentina was on the Atkins diet before Dr. Atkins was even a gleam in old Mr. Atkins' eye.

"Sucks to your assmar"

The next day we hopped on some bikes and headed out for the vineyards to taste a sampling of Mendoza's most famous export. We rented bikes at a place called Mr. Hugo's. Before we even sat down Mr. Hugo himself was out filling our glasses with dark red Syrah, not bad for 10 am. We road down the Camino de Vino past seemingly endless fields of grapes stretching off towards the mountains. Huge trees lined the road shielding us from the hot desert sun and the smell of fresh olives perfumed the breeze as we pedaled.

Our first stop was a winery called Carinae. It's story is one that I think many people often dream about for themselves. A middle-aged French couple decided to retire and start a winery. They came to Mendoza in 2002 seaching for a suitable place. After weeks of searching they came upon a winery that had been abandoned since the 1970s. Because of the region's arid climate, bugs and mold are not a problem so the vines were still in excellent shape. This was especially good for the prospective buyers. A vine will produce grapes for about 150 years. The older it is, the fewer the grapes it produces but the higher the quality. It takes about 30 years for a newly planted vine to start producing high quality grapes. In the abandoned vineyard all of the vines were between 40 and 60 years old. Pretty much right in the sweet spot.

Another big factor in their decision to purchase the winery, which was catastrophic for the Argentine people but great for this French couple, was that in 2002 the economy of Argenina had basically collapsed. The country had defaulted on hundreds of billions of peso in forgein debt. Inflation reached a whopping 230% and the country was in despair. This meant that the French couple, spending euros, could snap up the vineyard for a song. It also meant that  exports from Argentina were suddenly very cheap so that their business promptly flourished. They now own another vineyard closer to the mountains and produce malbecs, syrahs, cabernet sauvingon and a wonderful malbec rose, along with some delicious olive oil from the trees that encircle the different plots on the vineyard. Not a bad life.

We spent a long time at Carinae tasting wines and olive oil before retreating to picnic table in the shade of some olive trees to enjoy our purchases. We ate cheese, bread, and sausages while sipping rose. Afterwards we hopped back on the bikes and were off to a few other wineries and even an outdoor beer garden. Riding through winding roads of Mendoza, past row after row of olive trees and grape vines, tipsy off of wine that came from those very vines is an experience I'll not soon forget and one that makes me thankful to be alive on such a beautiful planet.

After all that wine and biking, we really needed to relax and unwind, (no seriously it was tough). Fortunately just outside of Mendoza we found wonderful hotsprings to sooth away the pain from our weary muscles. Geothermal-heated water bubbles up into eight or nine pools of various temperatures on the side of a beautiful canyon. Lower down, cool natural spring water fills pools, waterslides and even a lazy river for children to splash around in. We spent hours moving from one pool to another soaking in the hot water, jumping into icy cold plunges and then crawling back to the steaming bath to start the whole process over again.

Before long it was time to leave Mendoza and head back for the coast of Chile. As we wound our way back through the mountains I found myself thinking about the Latin phrase "In vino veritas", in wine there is truth. This simple sentence has been with mankind for generations and resonates on many levels. The intoxicating effects of wine certainly have the power to loosen the tongue and make you say what you really mean... and sometimes alot more than you mean to say. But furthermore, wine has the power to lower our defenses and make us realize our own deepest desires. It helps us to connect with one another and share what we would otherwise keep covered up deep inside. Finally, while sipping wine among the twisting vines in Mendoza with Molly and Scott, munching on crusty bread and sweet olive oil, the hustle and bustle of the outside world seems to melt away. Here we could see what is truly important in life, good food and good friends and that, at least for me, is the greatest truth of all.

Grippin it and Rippin it---Villarrica National Park

One night, our Israeli hostel-mates came home and started chatting with us at the common table. They told us that they had been offered an opportunity by a local tour agency to go on a special hike. The hike, called the Villarrica Traverse, is incredibly popular in the summer but it had not been attempted during the winter/spring months in over 5 years. Apparently, the last group who attempted this hike during the winter had had a bit of trouble navigating through the snow, got lost, and ended up being rescued a week later in Argentina. 

Needless to say, the agencies have been a bit reluctant to try the trek again... until now. Because we are constantly looking for adventure, we eagerly agreed to go. 

We all went to the Pucon Tours agency the following day to get fitted for the gear we would need for the trek. This hike would be unlike any other hike we've done on this trip, or in our lives. This was to be our first snow hike. Additionally, this would be the first hike where we were responsible for carrying all our own gear; sleeping bags, tent, snow pants, snow gloves, gators, stove, cooking gear, and food. Not to mention the fact that we had to bring every article of clothing we own, just to be sure we would stay warm. The following morning, we were packed up and ready to hit the trail. There were 2 guides to accompany us on the trek, the two of us, and our three new Israeli friends (hereafter called the Israelis). We drove about 45 minutes outside of Pucon to the mid-way point of the Villarrica National Park. We grabbed our packs and were ready to go.

The beginning of the trail was beautiful with large groves of bamboo, moss-covered trees, and overflowing riverbeds. Wino (pronounced Weeeeno) was the first guide to start walking, so Mark and I started walking with him. After about 30 minutes of climbing around fallen trees, scrambling through a tiny path that we could barely see and getting hit in the face by quite a few branches, we stopped to rest and noticed that the Israelis and the other guide weren't with us. 

Wino went back to try to find them, and made it all the way back to the starting point, but to no avail. They were gone. Wino told us that there was another trail to the lake where we would spend the night which they must have taken, but it was much longer and harder. We silently thanked our lucky stars that we were not going that route and headed on our way.

The reason for the overflowing riverbeds soon became clear as we gained a bit of altitude. The snow showed up, at first as a pile in a shady area, but then more regularly.  Before we knew it, we were on 10 feet of snow. Walking in snow is a bit like walking in sand, except that sand acts in a very predictable way; either it is loose and soft which makes walking difficult or it is packed down hard and walking is a bit easier. With snow, however, the way it reacts to your footsteps depends on quite a few factors---how wet it is, how deep it is, and what is underneath. There are moments when you are walking on top of the snow like an elf, and then one second later you are thigh deep in wet slush, like a troll. 

 Thankfully, we had on our gators and our gore-tex boots so we stayed relatively dry. 

But at the top of the first big hill, right as we were about to cross the tree-line, Wino told us that it was time to put on our raquetas de nieve---snow shoes. 

We hiked up to the part of the trail above the tree-line, and we found ourselves with a spectacular view of Volcan Villarrica, smoking away. 

In addition to Villarrica, we could see seven or eight other volcanoes, including the volcano that had rained ash on us in Petrohue and forced us to cancel our trip to Bariloche---the infamous Volcan Puyehue. 

This volcano's wrath is far-reaching

After about 6 hours of hiking, there was still no sign of the Israelis.  Finally, we caught a glimpse of them coming over a ridge about two miles away. We saw four little specks moving across the blanket of snow. We lost sight of them for a bit and sat down to have some lunch. Then as we were finishing our food, we saw one person, alone on the ridge. He seemed to have put down his pack and was just sitting there. We knew it must be the guide, but we couldn't think of a single reason that he would have left the Israelis, unless something was seriously wrong. Wino suggested that we hike over to within shouting distance so we could find out what the problem was. Once we got close enough, Wino ascertained that everything was fine and that the Israelis were, in fact, not dead.  

Once the group got back together, we continued our snow march until 8:30 when we finally arrived at our campsite. Thankfully, our guides were able to find the only place within 10 miles where there was exposed grass and a running river. 

We quickly put up our tents, the guides cooked us some sausages and rice and we went to bed. It may have been the fact that we hiked 10 hours and that I was wearing every article of clothing I own, but I slept warm and snug all night long. 

We woke up the next morning, had some oatmeal and set off for our second day of hiking. The day before, the hike had been hard, but on the second day things got a bit more dangerous. At one point, we were hiking on the side of a hill that was atleast a 60 degree incline. I was following in Wino's footsteps and I realized very quickly that that was much better than forging my own path. I also realized that I had to learn from the mistakes he made, because I could see where his foot had slipped and he had fallen thigh-deep into the snow. My last realization was particularly important---I needed complete and total concentration or I was going to fall 400 feet to the bottom of the hill. At one point I tried to take off my hat because I was getting hot and I almost tumbled to my death. So with utter concentration, I walked the tight-rope walk of Wino's footprints to safety on the other side. And my reward was lunch. Leftover cold sausages, crumbled white bread and hunks of squishy cheese. It was delicious. 

After lunch, we started our final push toward the lake that would be our campsite that night.We stood at our lunch spot and looked out to where the guides had already walked to (they weren't big on waiting for us). Immense is the only word that even begins to describe what we saw. The guides looked like tiny specks of dust on a huge white canvas. 

Notice the people at the bottom right corner of this photo...

We watched the guides climb up a hill, and as we started to follow behind them it just seemed like we weren't making any progress. 

In fact, the hill seemed to be getting bigger. At this point, we were pretty exhausted but we had no choice but to press on. I needed a strategy. So I thought about the way you have to teach someone how to do something, with small managable steps. So I set some small goals for myself. I would walk 50 steps, then I could stop. The joy I felt as I rounded 40, 41, 42 was like mild elation, just knowing that I would be able to take a rest. And then I would set the next goal, another 50 steps, and do it again. I must have set that goal 100 times on the way up that hill, but it worked. Through sheer will-power, I made it to the top of that hill. 

We got two huge treats at the top of the hill. One, climbing a big hill means that you get to slide down the back side of the hill which was really fun. 

But the other great treat was a spectacular view of three condors gliding overhead. They were so close I thought they were coming to get us, but they just flew by, floating on the breeze. Those birds had a wing-span of at least 12 feet. They were simply majestic. 

After a few more hours of hiking, we made it to a beautiful mirador where we were able to see the lake where we would be camping that night, about a mile below where we stood. 

We slipped and slid down the hill, right back into springtime. Finally, we were below the tree-line again. We found a grassy (ish) area on the edge of a river to make camp, and got dinner started. We ate some tomato soup then pasta with tomato sauce and we were off to bed. 

The next morning, we got up to hike our final few hours to where the Pucon Tours van would pick us up. We were still in snow-shoes because the snow was not only still very deep, but it was more wet because we were at a lower altitude and it was easier to fall through. We carefully avoided being impaled by bamboo shoots, and falling into springtime rivers until we found ourselves on an actual trail, the likes of which we hadn't seen since the first 30 minutes of the trek. The sights and sounds of spring were all around us. 

After 3 days, 24 hours of hiking, 40 kilometers and thousands and thousands of vertical feet, we had reached the end of the trek. We were certainly a little banged up from the trip, but it turned out that we were stronger than we ever thought possible.