Chiloe, a tiny network of islands with a strong indigenous culture, is one of the destinations I've been looking forward to most. It wasn't as interesting as I had hoped, but that didn't stop me from staying there for ten days. I spent my first two days in Castro, the biggest "city" in the islands. I enjoyed some of the sights, like the market and palafitos (houses on stilts), but the town felt dead. Over and over again, the town's friendly residents asked "are you going Chonchi? are you visiting the national park?" Clearly Castro just wasn't the best of Chiloe -- I needed to move on. After two days, I set off for the much-praised Chonchi.

    Fate conspired against me. A storm began almost immediately after I arrived. It wasn't so bad, at least not on the first day. A tiny fishing town full of stout wooden houses, Chonchi was a place that seemed as if it should be wind-blown and storm-tossed. I was the only guest in my hostel, so the owner offered me a cozy cabin on the beach for a discount. Comfortably ensconced in my cabin with a good book and tasty food, I watched the storm rage. At high tide, the becah disappeared and the ocean lapped at my front door (thank goodness there was a back door too!) I went to bed feeling content but hoping for a sunny day. No such luck. When I went to breakfast, the sun was shining. By the time I returned, the sky was grey and the first drops of rain were falling. Another inside day.

    By the third day, more guests had arrived and the rain had stopped. Carlos, the owner my hostel, organized an exhibition to the national park. We piled into the back of his truck and bumped over dirt roads riddled with potholes and mud puddles. The sky was gray, but the landscape was beautiful. The green hills were dotted with bright yellow flowers and stately cypress trees. The ocean was never out of sight. By the time we reached the turn-off to the park, Carlos was swearing. Thanks to days of rain, the road was nearly impassible. The tops of fences and forlorn trees peered out of rain-swollen rivers. Lucky for us, none of the bridges were washed out. It was clear that we wouldn't be able to hike through the forest, so we drove to the beach instead. It was one of the most beautiful places I've been in my life -- the ocean crashed violently onto the black sand, every wave tipped by rows of white foam. In the distance misty sea cliffs loomed. I wandered along the lonely beach, waiting for Carlos to start the cookfire, blissfully unaware of the violent illness brewing in my stomach. After wolfing down two hotdogs, I realized that the discomfort in my stomach was not hunger. Hot dogs are a bad thing to eat when you're feeilng ill, especially if you're facing an hour's drive over a bumpy road. Especially if the passenger door of the pick-up only opens from the outside. I threw up twenty minutes into the drive and continued to be violently ill every thirty minutes for the next eight hours. I spent the next three days in bed feeling greatful that for the first time on this trip, I was sick someplace with heating and running water.

    By Sunday, it was time to leave. Too bad the next bus didn't leave till Tuesday. The ride to Patagonia, the southernmost region of South America, took 35 hours. I still can't believe I survived a bus ride this long. I'm a bit freaked out by my incredible ability to zone out for hours on end.

    I was tempted to write off my time in Chiloe as a waste, but as I wrote about it in my journal, my attitude changed. I didn't do the things I expected to do, but thanks to Carlos, I learned a lot about Chiloe and Chile in general. He explained that Pinochet still enjoys wide support among a majority of Chilean citizens. Although he is regarded as a vicious dictator in the US and Europe, many Chilenos attribute his strict domestic policy for their country's stability and high standard of living. Carlos also explained something that's been bothering me ever since I began my trip in Chile 4 months ago: often, when I walk into a crowded restaurant, a hostile-looking waiter turns me away, telling me that there is no food. I've interpreted this to mean "women are not welcome here," "foreigners are not welcome here," or "you, personally, are not welcome here." It turns out that lots of Chilean "restaurants" are bars operating without a license and when these waiters tell me that there is no food, they're just being honest.

    My time in Chiloe was also valuable for a tiny triumph of character. To reach my hostel, I had to walk across a beach covered with slippery rocks. Burdened with a big backpack on my back and smaller on my front, I capsized completely. I had fallen and I couldn't get up! As I was struggling to take off my luggage while lying on my side, two sailors ran down to the docks and helped me up. I laughed. Hard. They laughed with me. It seemed like such a natural reaction to the situation that I didn't even think about it. It wasn't until later that I realized that this is something I've always wanted to be able to do -- to do something embarassing and laugh it off rather than be embarassed.

~Meredith