Peter pointed out to me after reading the chapter entitled "Ciudad de Piratas" that I had left some things out. It is worth noting here that I leave a lot of things out on a regular basis, because to chronicle the entirety of my life and its adventures, experiences and tangents, would fill a book. Which, coincidentally, I intend to write once all is said and done--should God let me live long enough to leave Calama. For the time being, I implement a technique I call "literary triage"which I believe is commonly known in learned circles as ellipsis. However, there was one particular incident that can fill a small entry of its own, and I believe Peter is correct in pointing out that I should make mention of said event.
We, being myself, Peter, and Ryan were on our way back from the small fort known as El Fuerte. There was a question about housing when our amigas Heather and Vanessa arrived over the course of the next two days and Peter knew of the existence of a hostel somewhere near the extreme edge of Coquimbo, where we where located at the time. Thus he led us down a street of run down houses that no doubt were over capacity, if the amount of clothes on the clotheslines were any indication, and right up to an ancient, rusted gate through which we could view an enormous, dilapidated house-turned-hostel that advertised itself with a small sign almost completely obscured by weeds that read "Hostel Nomad." Immediately the scene that presented itself to us was one straight out of any throw-away horror film. We hit the buzzer, were greeted by a crackly voice that inquired as to our intention (at a supposed hostel, mind you) and, once we had stated the obvious, told us to wait a moment while he came down to open the gate. We were laughing to ourselves at this point, but only as a defense mechanism.
Before long, a skinny man in shaggy clothes and long hair came loping down the path to the gate, which he unlocked and beckoned us inside. Once we were all in, he locked the gate behind us before waving up the path that led through a jungle of unattended foliage and up to a side entrance. The inside of the massive mansion was still and empty as a tomb. Peter told the man that we would like to see the rooms, and the hosteler obliged, leading us through a maze of antechambers. Everything seemed covered in dust and age, including the dilapidated pool table, the ancient and long since outdated brochures on the mantle of the fireplace, and especially the planks that made up the floor which (true to form) creaked with every step. It was not hard to imagine the foundation of the house (which we were told was an old English colonial mansion in the Victorian tradition ) behind filled with the bones of past guest/victims. On the way around to the bedrooms, we passed the office where we all peeked in to see a rifle laying across a stack of papers next to a large pickle jar filled with water and containing a single goldfish. Our eyes widened at the sight of the rifle, and Ryan nervously chuckled.
The rooms were all named after artists, and we were shown the "Dali" room that featured reproductions of his creepy paintings on the wall above the frightfully old beds that looked as though the last people to have slept in them were subjects of the Crown. We had, long ago mind you, made up our minds to seek lodging elsewhere and at that point is was simply a matter of getting to the exit without passing the office and allowing our extremely off-kilter host the opportunity to take hold of his weapon. Peter mumbled something to him about coming back later when our friends arrived and he nodded silently, following us out as we walked towards the gate. He let us out finally, and though we didn't run away, we certainly walked at a very brisk pace until we were out of the line of fire.
Peter also thought you should see this video of the giant Sea Lion that had taken up residence next to were the fisherman docked to haul in their daily catch to market.
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