Ciudad de Piratas

Imagine it with sails in the bay, and slightly more pirate-y.

 "There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory."
--Sir Francis Drake

There is nothing romantic about bus travel.  Chile, long ago, was crisscrossed by a rail system engineered and implemented by the British that allowed people to cross the vast distances and experience the marvelous vistas at their leisure.  However, as it is told to me, Pinochet had all the tracks ripped up and instead made way for the fleet of buses that now dominate intra-Chile travel.  Today, one must pack into an often stinky, small space and sit cramped for hours on end subject to the the mercy of drivers who neither adhere to nor seem to acknowledge timetables.  True, the buses are much better than, say, a schoolbus or the public transit in Lima.  However, the fact remains they are still just long vans that are cheaper then flying, but often not by much.

In one such bus, Ryan and I arrived in Coquimbo, which was once a harbour and hideout used by Sir Francis Drake.  Now, it is a sprawling city that starts at the coast and works its way over the hills towards the cordillera beyond.  It is the uglier, poorer sister to La Serena and its chief claim to fame is a giant cement cross that towers over the middle of the worst neighborhood in town.  It was late evening by the time we arrived, and Peter (the Slovakian) and Stacey (one of the six monthers who came with us to San Pedro and whom I also met up with in Arequipa by chance) met us at the bus station and led us the fifteen minute walk to their neighborhood.  It turns out they live virtually twenty seconds from each other.  Both Ryan and I were staying at Peter's house that night, and the four of us spent the evening having tea and chatting with Peter's very genial host family.  We then, exhausted from either teaching or bus travel, decided to turn in early (very un-Chilean of us, I know.)

Let's play "What doesn't belong?"

The next morning, Ryan and I had a late breakfast with Peter's host dad and then set out to explore Coquimbo while we awaited Peter who, like Stacey and Alex, had class that day.  We traversed the center of town and, out of curiosity, decided to climb up to the very, very conspicuous mosque that stands opposite the city from the giant cement cross in what appears to be a gesture of Islamic defiance.  The name of the mosque in Spanish roughly translates to "Muhammad's Middle Figure."  There was an aged Chilean keeping guard over the otherwise empty building who gave us a spiel about how it was a Sunni mosque, and they weren't the crazy blow-stuff-up ones.  He also informed us, before giving us a tour, that though there is a population of approximately one hundred and fifty Muslims (Palestinian Immigrants I later learned) in Coquimbo, the mosque is not a true place of worship.  It was built simply to serve as a means of "cultural exchange." If this makes no sense to you, then you are among the ranks of millions of sane people who do not inhabit Chile.   After the rather baffling encounter with the mosque, we meandered through town seeing the Plaza de Armas (there is one in every Chilean city, town, and pueblo) and the water front.  It was down by the bay that we encountered the fish market, which is by far the most amazing place I have yet visited in Chile.  Why might I write such?  Because arrayed in the incredibly odorous stalls that populate the market was the most amazing and varied assortment of fish and sea creatures I have ever seen in my life--and all are available for you immediate consumption.  Think ceviche piled high with all sorts of shellfish that have no names in English, or cups of pure crab meat that you simply attack with a fork, or an entire octopus the size of a small calf complete with beak intact.  Enormous squid lay chopped up into manageable sections that still required two hands to heft.  Thousands of scallops (ostiones) the size of baseballs sat next to quartered sharks that in life would have been large enough to swallow a small child (or average Peruvian man.)  There are food stalls and small restaurants in the middle of the market, where we would later return with Peter to lunch.  At that time, however, Ryan and I both dropped a luca and picked up a giant cup of the cooked ceviche that had, from what I could understand: fish, razor clams, scallops, piure (in English I think we would call them sea squirts), shrimp and some other unidentifiable mariscos.

Bringing in the days crab catch.

After the market, we met up with Peter at his school.  He had for a while told us how the school resembled a penitentiary, and he wasn't far off.  The three of us returned to the market and ate cheap, delicious fish sandwiches and seafood and cheese empanadas.  Finishing lunch, Peter led us out to the edge of town where the bay opened up to the sea proper and where is located the Fuerte; the remains of a small, colonial defensive structure built by the British.  Beyond the fort were enormous rocks that form the coast that turns away to the south from the city, and I was imbued with a strong urge to explore.  Thus, eschewing the beaten path, as is my want, I wandered into the cactus-riddled rocks and was soon followed by Ryan and Peter.  We discovered excellent climbing, and spent probably a good hour bouldering and needlessly imperiling our lives while the perturbed sea crashed below us, thirsting for our doom.  Bored pelicans watched on as we clambered up to their roosts while, in the distance, angry sea lions bellowed out their discontent with our presence.

The Fuerte as seen from above.

 Once thoroughly sweaty and worn out, we trudged back across the city to clean up and meet up with Stacey.  Peter had an asado at his school that night, so Stacey joined Ryan and I in taking the micro over to La Serana to reunite with Alex.  I hadn't seen him since Arequipa, and it had been since San Pedro for Ryan.  I was to stay with him the remainder of our time there, so he led us to his amazing home so I could drop my gear.  He then led us into the incredibly beautiful city of La Serena, with its Spanish architecture, immaculate streets, and tree-filled plaza.  Peter would soon join us at a place called Duna for what is fondly known as luca night, as it was the only joint on the strip in downtown La Serena not playing Reggaeton (which is, without a doubt, the most odious thing about Latin America.)  They actually had US music going, and at one point Stacey and I no doubt puzzled the Chileans with our impassioned sing-a-long to Counting Crows "Mr. Jones"  followed by an extended period of mocking the Boston accent. Peter and Stacey still had one more day of classes, so we split up early and went to our respective places of repose with plans to reunite in the mañana for a day trip to the tiny fishing village of Tongoy where another of our volunteers friends was stationed.