The Colorful Coffee in Chiloe
March 2014
I came to Chile fully aware that it was more developed than both Peru and Bolivia. Yet, I don’t think I was fully prepared for being in that type of environment. Everything was three to five times more expensive. Instead of four dollar a night hostels, the cheapest I could find were fourteen or twenty dollars a night. A full course meal that used to cost three to five dollars was fifteen to thirty dollars.
Puerto Montt had two several story malls, including food courts and western stores such as Levis. Tap water was drinkable, toilets almost always included paper and soap, and cars actually stopped for pedestrians.
This was completely different from the urine scented streets of La Paz, with stolen drainage covers, and polluted gutters. I had gotten so used to unpaved roads, broken buildings, and aggressive traffic, that suddenly being without it seemed unnatural.
I only lingered in Puerto Montt for a day. There was something about it I didn’t particularly care for. Perhaps it was too city for me, or maybe it was the fact that there were so many other things I wanted to see in that I didn’t care to waste time. So I wandered through town and got my ear pierced. (Yes my ear pierced, which would eventually get infected and heal over.)
The first hostel I stayed in had a view of the harbor as well as the town. Sunrise was early and sunset often seemed as though it would never come. In the first few days I found myself losing track of time. Light told my body it was six but the clock read eight.
Upon leaving Puerto Montt, I headed for Chiloe, an island to the southwest with its own distinct culture, food, and traditions. Every Chilean I met in Peru and Bolivia insisted that I had to visit. The truth is I gave myself a little too much time in Chiloe and regretted not going to see more of the National Parks to the east of Puerto Montt.
The first city I visited was Ancud. It was calm, laid back, and I was able to walk around the entire city in a day. There was a fort and an underground shelter used to protect against the English coming around the horn of South America. Another area of note was a huge outdoor amphitheater that looked out upon the ocean. Fog clung to the coast, making this difficult to see.
Houses in Ancud, and most of Chiloe for that matter, embodied a very unique German influenced style. They are constructed in brightly colored wooden shingles. Unlike most places in California where the houses all have to conform to a general style and color pallet, in Chiloe every street is a rainbow. There was a royal blue house, next to hot pink, across from shocking yellow, and catty corner to vibrant green. On the next block a deep red bungaló would face a two-floor muted purple, and hug a turquoise house with brown trim, and a sky blue apartment.
When I moved on to Castro, the first thing to catch my eye was a bright yellow church with an eggplant roof. Every hour it tolled the time, blaring out a musical bell medley from hidden speakers. I thought that was so cool! In front of the church was a huge plaza filled with aging trees, street performers, and food vendors.
Houses in Castro were built along steep slopes that could compete with the streets of San Francisco. At the bottom, palafitos hang out over the water on stilts. This area is known as the Palafito. Down along the Palafito was a market selling authentic goods. Other than the wooden handicrafts, everything was something I had seen before-alpaca sweaters, alpaca ponchos, alpaca hats, alpaca, alpaca, alpaca.
During my second day in Chiloe’s capital, a friend I met on the Inca Trail came to join me. We took a boat tour around the lake, which was a lot shorter than we expected, then retreated to a coffee shop tucked in amongst the palafitos. Turns out it sold real coffee! In Chile almost all of the restaurants and hostels severed instant Nescafe coffee. It’s alright for a temporary fix, but in my book instant coffee will never completely suffice for the real thing.
We found a sunny spot on the patio across from three artists from Santiago to enjoy our coffees. After a while another man came and sat near us. He was from Castro.
The first things he did was ask my friend where he was from. Upon discovering that MG was from South Korea he started going on about how much he loves North Korea. He insisted that Americans are narrow-minded because they are unable to see the beauty of North Korea, however Chileans are able to love everyone.
Then the man told MG that he wanted Ninja shoes, the kind that separate the toe from the rest of the foot. I informed the man that Ninjas are not from Korea. To which he said that in Chile everyone assumes if a person has narrow eyes they are from China (even though he already knew MG was from Korea, and Ninjas were actually mercenaries from Japan).
The other three Chileans on the porch began to shake their heads and glance at the man out of the corner of their eyes. Just to clarify this entire conversation happened in Spanish.
The man then said, “It is the same in America, you assume anyone who has tanned skin is Mexican.”
I responded as kindly as possible, “No. Although there are some people who make assumptions like that, not everyone is like that. Since America is such a melting pot most people ask where someone is from are rather than just assuming.”
“That’s a lie,” insisted the man. “I have seen the US census. There is no place to put Chilean, only Latino.”
I sighed. “True, but the census is a government document. It does not necessarily reflect the people and how they view themselves or each other. My grandparents are from the Czech Republic but the only option on the census for them is white or of European descent. It’s the same for Native Americans. There is only one option and not a place to select which tribe they are from.”
“But you all think that black people are bad.” There seemed to be no end to this man’s misconceptions. Meanwhile, the other three Chileans continued to shake their heads in disagreement, however they did not step in to correct the man.
At this point I was already exceedingly uncomfortable and beyond insulted. I started to collect my things as I spoke. “There are areas in the US where there is a lot of anger between whites and blacks, especially in the places with a lot of painful history. However, that does NOT mean that EVERYONE shares those views. In fact most people fight against them.”
“Well here in Castro we have a huge problem with black Colombian women.” The other three Chileans guffawed but still said nothing. I picked up my bag and hung it over my shoulder as he continued to talk. “They come here to be prostitutes. Don’t go to Calle X because it is full of black Colombian prostitutes.”
Without saying another word MG and I stood to leave. One of the Chilean artists followed us inside and told the owner what had happened. He apologized profusely and offered to have the man kicked out of the shop. We thanked him but said we needed to get going anyways.
I think perhaps the saddest part of that entire discourse was the fact that the man was a teacher in a local school. What kinds of messages was he passing on to children in his care?
