A Trip to Chiloe

I press into my feet a little bit deeper, remembering how it feels to have sand between my toes. The air that rolls inland from the grey-blue ocean tastes like salt and a recent rain. Soft mosses and driftwood are scattered across the coast, and as the tide pulls in, seawater rushes into caves worn into the steep cliffside. I close my eyes and I listen to the world around me. There are no cars, no people, no chaos. Only the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, birds crying in the distance, and the soft steps of the stray dog who wandered here with me.

The Chiloé coast

The city lights seem a world away, and although the sun is still covered by a blanket of heavy grey clouds, the horizon is a lot more clear when it's not hidden behind a heavy veil of pollution. This is world does not at all resemble the random shifting and shuffling of strangers in subway cars and office buildings. Nothing reminds me of the paved pathways and wide sidewalks of the city. But here I am, in Chile, forgetting the Chile I thought I knew and finding something much, much more vast.

For the past nine months, Chile and Santiago have largely become synonymous in my head. With few exceptions, this country ended for me at the city borders, and almost everything I've learned about what it means to live here as been confined to the capital. Granted, I have learned a lot. But as I stand here on this deserted shore, I realize how little of this country I actually know.

I had wanted to come to Chiloé for a while, and as soon as I arrived, people had told me stories about the superstitions, the myths, and the mysteries of the island. When people spoke about Chiloé, it was like they were telling a ghost story: bent over, voice low, and eyes locked onto yours like they were daring you to not believe them. Obviously seeing is believing, and after buying the plane tickets, I started to do some research to get ready for my trip down south.

La Pincoya and her less
attractive sister in the back

This island is steeped in a folklore and mythology that still beats strong in the heart of chilote culture. the island even has a creation story: CaiCai-Vilu, the snake god of the sea, tried to flood the world, and TenTen-Vilu, the snake god of the land, defended his territory and saved Chiloé from being submerged by the water, although effectively cutting it off from the mainland. I read stories written by sailors across generations who swear to have seen the ghost ship, El Caleuche, in the midst of a storm moments before their ship was lost. Many today swear to hear mysterious fog horns on rainy nights or catch a quick glimpse of a mast, a sail, or a hull anchored just off the shore. In the island's capital, Castro, there is a statue of La Pincoya, the beautiful daughter of the god of the sea, dancing naked on the sand. The legend goes that when she is looking out towards the sea, there will be a good harvest for fishing that season. If not, the people need to tend their crops and hope that it is enough to last them until the fish return.

But as much as the sea defines them, so do the forests that cover the island. Each of the shops, churches, and homes are all built from wood, and when a building is destroyed by a flood, fire, storm, or any disaster, the community rallies around those affected to rebuild. Here, like several Latin American community, the concept of minga is very alive. Friends, family, and neighbors will come together to help a member of the community with the understanding that one day, the favor will be reciprocated. There is a sense of community and togetherness among each town that is fundamentally different than the isolation and individuality of Santiago. Maybe the best example of this communal bond is when a family on the island decides to move.


In Chiloé when a family decides to move, they don't just bring their children, dog, furniture, bags, etc. Instead, the entire house comes with them: walls, roof, and all. Because the houses are made of a light wood, the neighbors are able to mount the house on a platform that is then pulled by donkeys or oxen to its new location, wherever that might be. Two-story wooden homes are wheeled across towns and guided over rivers, pulled by ropes that are tied to a strange assembly of men and animals. At the end of the day, the family who moved thanks those who helped them by making curanto, a seafood and shellfish medley that is cooked in a pit.

Curanto in all of its glory

When I found out about this, I obviously wanted to see the entire process in person and maybe even try my hand at pulling houses across town. But since nobody felt the need to move houses that weekend, I settled for the next best thing: I ordered curanto in a marketplace. Note to reader: I hate seafood, and when the steaming vat of shells and fish flesh came out, I almost lost my appetite. However, the chorizo and chapalele (potato bread) were delicious, and the mussels were tolerable with a heavy dose of lime juice. I absolutely loathed the oysters, and nothing I tried made them any better. Gross. Then, just to top off the experience, I tried a bit of razor clam covered in parmesan cheese and the smallest bit of eel stew. Food is an important part of a culture, especially one as unique as Chiloé. Even if it means facing my deepest, darkest, and slimiest fears, I wanted to experience it to the very last slurp.

I had never been to a place like Chiloé, and for a very good reason: there is no place like it in the world. As a country, Chile is already cut off from the rest of the world by deserts to the north, mountains to the east, and the ocean to the west. As an island, Chiloé is even more isolated. It has been able to create, develop, and preserve an identity that has existed for thousands of years, largely unaffected by the world across the water.

And as my time in Santiago creeps closer to its end, I remember the question that brought me to Chile in the first place.

What else is out there? 

The crew on the hunt for adventure