Up and Down To Neruda’s Merry-Go-Round

Obviously, with all the gifts that were given to us at the winery, breakfast was a rather late affair, and my plan to get to Valparaíso had to wait until after lunch. Just a short two-hour ride on the bus, Chile’s colourful coastal city – known to locals just as Valpo – was a bit of unknown entity to me (short of the lychee liqueur by the same name that I used to pour in a cocktail bar). What I was thinking was: sun, sand, and sweet drinks.

And I guess I was right on two accounts – well, one and a half. When I arrived at the bus terminal, the morning sun had lifted the hill-grown chill from the air, and people were busy going about their Sunday market trading. But as I scooted up the steady incline to my hostel, it would seem that I would have to wait until Viña del Mar to get some beach, with the waterfront here being taken up by a steady flow of ships and boats into the large seagull-infested harbour.

I dropped my bags in a garishly painted room, grabbed an empanada at the corner shop, and headed down the hill. And so started the not-so-sweet part. Filled with an even bigger number of stray dogs than Bariloche, the many laneways, alleys and quaint streets are also home to an unpleasant stench of the animal kind. Not quite the accompaniment I had hoped to go with my fresh-baked pastry.

Also lining the unfortunate streets were a disproportionate number of alternative-lifestyle types – so explains the many hippie-like individuals I spied in my brief tour of the hostel – who seem to have all just made it out to see the middle of the day. I took no notice though, despite feeling like I am constantly being watched, and head to the city’s clock tower to take its adjoining Ascensor (“lift”) Concepción up .

Now this is where it gets confusing. Not only because Lonely Planet has misnamed one of these integral transportation devices, but because this apparent solution to the city’s vertical challenges is not as simple as a quick up and down. Just to make it interesting, Valpo is set around a series of hills that rise and fall with alarming randomness throughout its suburbs – don’t bother coming here if you have bad knees. Thus, when wanting to reach a particular street in town, the ordinary map is not really very helpful, and a more geographical one is non-existent.

I make it up to the top, to see an excellent view of the harbour, and find some interesting jewellery and art in the mini-markets above. I then decide to take in some more of the multi-coloured houses and complementary graffiti and stroll around so many ups and downs, that soon I am walking around completely lost. I am just glad that it is Sunday and there are not too many people or cars about.

I eventually make it back to the ascensor - which doesn’t appear to run to a timetable, rather, it moves when the controller at the top rings a bell to say that it is on the way – and pay again at the bottom. I follow the Lonely Planet guide and walk along to the next one, to see the Palacio Barburizza – home to the Museum of Bellas Artes. But when I get there, I not only realise that it is the wrong lift, but am told that the museum is no longer open, and was closed years ago when it stopped making money (well, what did they expect when it was free to get in?) Just to be sure, I take the right lift – El Peral, which just happens to be cheaper because it is run by the local council – and quickly make my way past the young boys trying to lure me into their path to steal my stuff. (They are very cunning here, wearing all the bling - ipods, cameras and the like - to make them look like tourists or richer than they are).

But the locals are rights, and it is indeed closed. I take a final spin down past the Monumento a los Héroes de Iquique masouleum, dedicated to Chilean navymen who died in the War of the Pacific, before I realise the time and know that I must hurry if I am going to get to see Pablo Neruda’s old house before it closes. Of course the taxi driver tries to screw me again, but I am getting good and somehow manage to force him to put on the meter before he launches into a recital of his favourite Neruda poem.

Luckily when I get to La Sebastiana (named after its builder Sebastian, who Neruda said was like a poet when fashioning it) it is still open, and I squeeze in as the last person. And what a way to finish the day! I am instantly attracted to the impressive design and interior, built around the view of the harbour, and fashioned to Neruda’s love for play, From his collection of paintings, furniture and trinkets to his “cloud” chair that overlooks the view, he was meticulously in collecting pieces to fill his life and house with joy. And how could one go past the circular room with its carousel horse?

My personal favourite though, is the quirky bar – stuffed full of trinkets that each have their own story – and I quickly sneak in a photo, despite the prohibition on taking them. I am pretty sure Pablo wouldn’t mind.