Day 17 - Ancud, the island of Chiloe.

In the morning, I leave Puerto Varas. At the bus station, I notice that even though I have no food, the local canines gravitate towards me in particular. I compare my reaction to those of the other passengers. When the Alsatian and another dog, whose thick fur is so matted in places that it’s got dreadlocks, come over for a bit of attention, the American girls shriek and aim half-hearted kicks in the dogs’ direction; the Chileans ignore them and I’m the only one who coos over them and rubs their bellies. I love having instant pets wherever I go.

The bus goes via Puerto Montt and then on to Pargua, where we roll onto the car ferry for the crossing to the island of Chiloé – the second largest in Latin America after Tierra del Fuego. Up on deck, I scan the waters with a practised eye, looking for signs of life. There it goes – a flipper breaks the water, then the smooth form of a seal leaps out and dives in again. Nearby a black-and-white bird’s head pops up: it’s a Magellanic penguin. How can you tell a penguin in the water from other sea birds? Other birds float on top of the water, whereas with penguins you only see their head and shoulders. No matter how many times I’ve seen wildlife in these parts, it never gets old: my heart does a little leap whenever I see an exotic creature.

In Ancud, one of two towns on the island, I check into my favourite Hostal Mundo Nuevo (Swiss-run hostel right by the waterfront) and make straight for La Pincoya, a restaurant that does particularly good salmon ceviche. Quality control is an important part of my work. The ceviche doesn’t disappoint, though I have to shoo away the waitress who seems determined to make me eat more than I planned.

Then I do the rounds: wander the streets around the main plaza, visit the rural bus terminal to check departures to various villages, check out several hostels, a campsite, compare prices and opening hours of internet cafes, try to visit the local history museum again, only to discover that it’s being renovated, stop by the tourist office to see what I can find out about Agroturismo (‘rural tourism’ where you arrange to stay with some villagers and partake in cow-milking, that kind of thing) and pause to take in the view from some cliff-top fort ruins.

There seems to be a bit of discontent among the local population, according to the graffiti. One tag artist demonstrates fluent use of English: “Fuck the system!” and another budding socialist scribbles: “El capitalismo no se discute, se le destuye.” (Capitalism shouldn’t be discussed; it should be destroyed.” Reminds me of left-wing graffiti in Andalucía. The trouble is, they never follow it up by making helpful suggestions as to what should replace capitalism.

There are lots of drunks about. And not just slightly tipsy people: so far I’ve spotted two men lying prone on the coastal walk. They’re not dead; I did look to check that they were breathing.

The Spanish built another fort on the peninsula across from the Bay of Ancud to cover all angles. Chiloe was actually one of the first parts of Chile to be conquered, but since it’s an island, it was isolated from the mainland for a very long time, resulting in a unique culture that I can’t help but be drawn towards. In the summer, lots of day-tripping gringos come here for a day tour – maybe to see the penguin colony at Puñihuíl – one of only two in Chile (and in the world) where you have the Magellanic and thee Humboldt penguins sharing a breeding ground – or to see the famous wooden churches, and they often complain that Chiloé’s nothing special. I beg to differ. This is the place where black magic is still very much believed in by the older generations, especially in the villages, and when a dense mist hangs over the island, you can almost see the creatures yourself.

“In Patagonia”, by Bruce Chatwin, describes in detail the ritual a man had to go through to become a brujo (warlock), including making a purse out of the skin of a loved one and bathing in a waterfall for forty days and forty nights. It figures that in a macho country, only men were allowed to be witches. Last year I attempted to find the warlocks’ legendary cave near the village of Quicaví and failed. The mystery and the mythology really appeals to me, since I’ve been raised on myths and legends of different countries when I was a child. I love the local creatures, such as Trauco, a repulsive little troll who lives in the forest and has an insatiable appetite for young virgins; he hypnotises them with his gaze and impregnates them. The Trauco is blamed for all unexplained pregnancies on the island.

At the fort ruins I’m surrounded by smooching couples; no doubt some of them will eventually be pointing the finger at Trauco.

Call on Britt, the American married to a Peruvian who lives and runs tours here, but he’s not at the office.

Get an email from the commissioning editor for Lonely Planet’s forthcoming guide to Eastern Europe; Jo’s asking whether I’d be interested in doing the Lithuania chapter. Just when I was starting to despair about getting turned down for every LP gig I’ve applied for! Immediately reply to the affirmative and start figuring out how I can tack it onto the end of my trans-Siberian research. Looks like I’ll be spending July at home and then be away for another three months.

The reason I wasn’t stuffing myself at lunchtime is because I knew that dinner would be at the Kurantón, and that it would be curanto – one of my favourite dishes. It comes from Polynesia originally and involves slow-cooking shellfish, meat and potato dumplings on hot rocks inside an earthen pit, covering it with giant leaves to create a kind of pressure cooker. In the countryside here they do it that way, but in town, the best you can get is curanto cooked in a cast iron pot and Kurantón is still the best place in Ancud. It’s really cool, with a proper bow-tied waiter and whimsical décor consisting of old Wanted! posters from the American west, antique telephones (by ‘antique’ I mean ones like what we had in the Soviet Union), carvings of Chilote mythological creatures…I do myself proud and manage to finish most of the dish, washing it down with the potent shellfish broth that the Chileans call ‘liquid Viagra’. Then again, Chileans think that pretty much everything that comes out of the sea improves one’s performance, up to and including sea urchins. On the wall, the slogan reads (in Spanish): “Curanto: helping people to have good sex since 1826”. I wonder if those people first had to wait for their meal to digest.

Manage to get a lot of writing done this evening, spurred on by the pisco sour I had in honour of my first LP gig. It’s a potent combination of pisco (local grape brandy), sugar syrup, egg whites, lemon juice and crushed ice, and it packs a heck of a punch. Manage to work the sex quote into the restaurant review. Maybe alcohol-fuelled writing sessions are the way to go.