Travel options were getting fewer and fewer, as the highlands of Central Asia were too cold for New Year's, while the part of the Middle East I was interested in was an impossible to win visa game (as I was thinking of either Iraq or Saudi Arabia). In order to put the cherry on Crisis 2009, I had first thought of Mount Ruwenzori strategically located on the Uganda - Congo border. It then slowly died in me, under that constant, steady rain, respectively with the impossibility (given my time frame)to climb it from the more scenic Congo side. At some point, I thought of Ecuador and the twin peaks of Cotopaxi and Chimborazo. Yet, while looking for more information on the mountains there, I realized before it was too late this would be an awfully crowded house I would never be able to enjoy. So, in a typical outburst, I sent them all to hell, including low cost carrier Air Comet I had thought to use (it actually went to hell, as it went bankrupt on December 21, 2009). Then, all of a sudden, I don't know how, a mountain I had learnt about during my school years, called in: Llullaillaco. A simple internet search revealed it: a 6720 m.a.s.l. volcano at the verge of Atacama Desert. As dry and cold as it can get. Doing a bit of research a bit, I realized it met my requirements quite fairly: it was satisfyingly high, decently remote and therefore rarely trodden by gringos or locals alike. Then, it was located on the Chile - Argentina border and its foothills had been filled with antipersonnel mines during the Pinochet years (even though most of the mines had been meanwhile cleared), which added to the area’s isolation. It clicked.

Flights were a pain, as it was already late. Any transatlantic flight around New Year's seemed to be a rip-off, while both Iberia and LAN did code-share at 'bargain' EUR 2500-3000 rates. As I was to see later on, South America had a far more dynamic price policy than Europe, with higher prices for accommodation, transport and service during the weekend or the peak season. From an economist's stand, they are smarter. Much smarter. From a tourist's stand, they stink. Big time. But so does life every other second (frustrated grin). So, after checking all possible civilian flights from anywhere in Europe to anywhere in South and Central America, I learnt of a newly introduced Turkish Airlines route: Sao Paulo. EUR 760, complimentary hotel stays in Istanbul both going and returning (new year’s) provided. 'If that goddamn mountain is not to kill you, a Sao Paulo gang is going to take care of that', as a friend joked. Well, to hell, it has to happen someday and if it has not happened in Afghanistan or Kosovo, if it is not going to happen in Iraq, I honestly prefer it to happen in a decent country and not after getting hit by a car while riding my bike in the dark hole called 'Romania'.

So, before I even knew it, I got a ticket to Sao Paulo and another one to Calama shortly afterwards. There was no "how" or "why" in the game, I just went for it following some inner impulse I cared not explain. Then it was all a Merry-go-round: waking up at 5:45 AM, getting on the bike at 6 AM, cycling to the park, chaining the bike on a fence, jogging for 45 minutes, getting on the bike again, starting the stray dogs on the way back home at around 7 AM, reading some fine social psychology on the tube to and fro work, reading stories written by folks that had climbed mountains in the area. Then finding a post written by a French guy that had gone to the top of Llullaillaco. Writing him, getting a reply: "you can do it on your own, here's the GPS route, but if you need more info, I'm going to be in Bucharest the following weekend, we can chat some more over a glass (n. of wine)." Coincidence struck, as I had just exchanged e-mails with the Operations Manager of Dole Romania. Returning from my morning jogging, getting almost flattened by a Vodafone Romania car driven by the typical retard caressing his ego by speeding up on the red light at 7 AM. Stubbornly doing more morning jogging and cycling, getting a -32C sleeping bag in the US, my favourite Viba energy bars in Germany, plenty of already familiar 'made in Romania' mockery, respectively an encouragement from an US-born, Mangalia-based acquaintance working for a South Korean holding. It then got colder all of a sudden and, during my last regular Saturday hike to Omu Peak before leaving, I slipped on some fresh snow-covered gravel on top of a rock, hit my chin on the bottom rock and was then thrown down a narrow valley that led to a 500 m. drop I knew too well. I therefore willingly rushed against the rocky wall to my right, hence smashing my shoulder and knee, but being able to stop from falling all the way. Then I stubbornly continued to the top, unwilling to let the pain shout.

There were only 3 days left. For some reason I still cannot figure out, I wanted to get on this mountain and see it, even without reaching the top. There was no thrill about it, there was no joy or satisfaction I was looking for. Just the dark and otherwise bland impulse to go. Knee bleeding, shoulder hurting and chin swollen, I packed my things, thinking more of the long hours on the plane than of the mountain I was not even half convinced I could trek up to. Furthermore, given the local guide's schedule, I would not have the time for local acclimatization, I would start straight to the mountain, which diminished my chances further. Yet - for the first time and for some strange reason again - I did not care. And it felt damn good.

So far it had been a dry and not so cold winter, allowing my daily physical exercise. And then, on the departure day, it started snowing and it kept on doing so for hours, while the wind got ever stronger, turning into a blizzard. Before long, given the all mighty Romanian drivers, traffic got jammed (after all, it was the first time winter hit Romania) and the online flight status at Bucharest airport showed delays and a few cancelations. The train to the airport was late, it then got more delay en route and the bus that was supposed to take passengers from the small station to the airport terminal was not there. When something did arrive, we realized the bus had been replaced by a minibus which could not take all passengers and luggage. One needs be reminded every now and then what a failed country looks like. So, joined by a German and a British expat, I decided to instead walk through the blizzard to the terminal. As the train conductor had answered when asked by some of the passengers when we were going to arrive at the airport: "dunno, this is Romania" and then he started laughing. Indeed, possibly together with Serbia, this is the only country I have been to where mockery and ultimate failure have turned in a way of life, where people do things hoping, wishing to fail so they can have a good laugh at themselves and the world around them afterwards.

We took off with a one hour delay generated by the anti-ice wing spraying process. I got to Istanbul and the homey feeling overwhelmed me, with all those announcements of flights going East. The following morning, after a night in the city, I got on the Sao Paulo-bound flight. One could hardly imagine a more diverse crowd: Japanese and Chinese - looking people, indigene folk, Hispanic and Portuguese faces, dark complexion youngsters, as well as the odd paper white Caucasian type. I traveled to Brazil sitting next to a gentleman that was part of an Evangelic Church group; they had gone on a trip to the Holy Land, which had included Turkey, Egypt and Israel, all of them in 2 weeks. I do not think he appreciated too much my preference for God alone as opposed to that for church (or whatever religion), as well as the book I was reading, on the situational influence that can change (supposedly good) people into evil doers.

Some turbulence over the Atlantic and our pilot's missing landing at the very last moment, the one hour delay I had started with was still there. Crowded, humid, lively, noisy and most enjoyable: that was Sao Paulo's largest airport. Finding the quiet corridor I had read about on the internet, I got a 5 hour, head on my backpack beauty sleep before getting on the flight to Santiago. A flight that somehow succeeded to depart almost one hour late due to a late transatlantic connection and to nevertheless arrive in Santiago earlier than scheduled, after providing an amazing view while crossing the Andes, including the Aconcagua. It was hard to imagine the hundreds of people climbing it that particular day. Three more hours, another flight to Calama, a strong wind stirring the dust in the desert and hence creating the already familiar and fascinating haze and I was there, feeling the heat of that dry air. Again, I was home. One hour later, after a minibus ride, I got to San Pedro de Atacama. Imagine a remote, dusty and hence picturesque village in the middle of a desert. Then artificially triple its population, add ten times as many tourists and turn every second house into a travel agency, a hotel, a restaurant or an internet cafe. The great thing about it was its location and the desert dust that prevailed. Everything else, as expected, sucked, but could be ignored after two nights' and two days' travel. The relatively strong wind made me worry about my plan of climbing the Llullaillaco. So, the next morning I started together with Christian and Nicolas across the Atacama. The desert and later on the foothills were crossed by high voltage electric wires and a maze of dirt roads serving two copper and lithium mines. Hours later, the wires were gone, but one still needed to know the right way with many subsequent crossings and forks in the road that soon turned into a trail. And then, we started going around the volcano which looked indeed surreal with its meadow-like foothills of reddish dust dotted with small rocks and yellow, dry bushes. The contrast with the very few valleys along which streams flowed was enormous, with the later's hosting dense, high green to yellow grass, as well as the odd vicuna or fox. The rest of the mountain was rather dry, with its patch of frozen snow and small glacier at over 6000 m.a.s.l., respectively with its few visible false peaks - as the real summit was not visible from this side.

Reaching the 4200 m.a.s.l. CONAF shelter, we settled there for the night and, after a walk to a 4500 m.a.s.l. almost flat, bush-covered plateau above it and also after a long and intense card game, we went to sleep under a perfectly clear sky full of stars, respectively under the already expired sign reading: "Las minas antipersonal no son un juego. No las manipules.". The morning saw us drive to the base camp, at 4600 m.a.s.l. Grass was almost history, with only rare reminders, while everything was nothing but a vast, seemingly endless sea of volcanic ash and stones, slowly going up until meeting the imposing, even if not dramatic, dark figure of the Llullaillaco. After setting camp, we went up to Camp 1 at 5300 m.a.s.l., to carry some of the equipment and to acclimatize. The air was dry, the sun - as strong as it can get and it was hot. At least until the wind started blowing; then it would all of a sudden turn chilly. The camp was made by a mere couple of small platforms that could host 3-4 tents, with no water (or ice for that matter) nearby. While returning to the base camp, I got this stubborn headache which only went away after a few hours' sleep in the base camp. The temperature dropped below zero at night, it was still around zero at 6 AM and, once the sun got up in the sky, it all of a sudden turned to over 20C. After a lazy morning, we packed the rest of the stuff and started to Camp 1, as we did not want to spend half a day in that windy place. After a 2 hour trek up a seemingly neverending, constant 30% slope, we reached the camp, set the tents and did a bit of up to 5600 m.a.s.l. and down for exercise. It was a beautiful day and the wind soon stopped blowing, with the view embracing the landscape for at least 50 km. towards Argentina. In the evening, one could see nothing but the stars and the distant lights coming from La Escondida Mine.

At around noon the following  day, we moved farther to Camp 2, located at 5800 m.a.s.l. My lack of local acclimatization started to show, as from 5700 m.a.s.l. up I began walking at a slow pace, even though my muscles showed no fatigue, but my lungs were the burden. And then, after going up to a frozen slope to get some ice to melt, respectively after returning to the tent, we realized Christian's gas stove had a piezoelectric starter that would not, ever, respectively under any circumstances, work. In the meantime, my lighter would not work either, even though I had had problems with it before and had thought to replace it when packing for Chile. A myriad of out-of-the-book solutions were brought around, discussed and subsequently tried, from using my stove's windscreen to focus the sunlight onto a napkin imbibed in white fuel, to creating a short-circuit with a 7 volt camera battery the sparks of which would (we hoped) set the gas on fire. After a dozen of such solutions, two hours had passed and, despite our having ice, we could not turn it into water, which left us with about 3 liters of drinkable liquids, and with the closest water supply being located at 4700 m.a.s.l. So, lacking any local acclimatization, if I had ever considered spending 2 nights at 5800 m. to get Russian - style acclimatization, that was out now and I had a one shot chance, the following morning. Looking at it with a clear eye, reaching the 6700 m. peak while I was slow at 5800 m. was not a realistic prospect. So, before we started playing cards for a couple of hours and subsequently going to sleep, I set my target: reaching the lakes located in the broken crater at 6200 m. That allowed both seeing whether I could do it and - if so - have a view towards the summit, which was possible from the lake, but not from the side we were on with the camp.

After a freezing night, we woke up at 5:30 AM, briefly ate something, dressed up and began trekking up. The wind was not that strong, but it was still pretty cold, at about -20C. Without any ice or snow in sight for the first hour or so made it very strange. Some two hours later we reached the ice stretching down from the crater and then I began feeling the lack of proper acclimatization in the local conditions (extremely dry air, major day - night or even day - day temperature contrasts. It took me almost one hour to do the last 80 meters of elevation and even when in the crater area, I could only slowly walk on what was almost flat a surface. The peak was there, in front of me, a rocky stump on a relatively rugged ridge and hosting another ice field at its foot, in the former crater. But that only kept my attention for a short while. The two, intense turquoise lakes hosted by the crater made a simply amazing contrast to the dark grey mountain and the myriad of other arid volcanoes around. It felt as if wonderland existed. Taking some score deep breaths, we started on the way down, packed the tent and saved a mouthful of water for everyone for the 2 hour trek down to the truck, as we still had to collect some stuff left at Camp 1. Once we reached what felt like the bottom of the valley (or rather the entirely dry, lifeless, 4700 m.a.s.l. plateau), walking in the plastic mountaineering boots seemed endless. Eventually we reached the truck, drank a liter of water each and the afternoon caught us at the CONAF shelter, playing cards (all), washing clothes (me) and cooking what else but Ravioli (Nicolas). My remark that the sky was amazingly blue, no cloud or any disturbance in sight and the sun was all powerful, was cut short: "it is like that over 280 days a year".

Going down to San Pedro the following day seemed fast with the already familiar - and welcome - Argentinian rock tunes. Upon reaching the village, I had a shower and got a bike to go out of the village, but not before checking whether I needed a visa for Bolivia (as I had planned on trekking up to Volcano Licancabur): I did, so I was looking into finding an alternative to that, accessible from Chile, or taking my chances and heading straight to the border. But, decisions aside, for the moment I decided to pedal, so I rode the bike to the Valle de la Luna. It was hot (which fit the scenery pretty well), the wind blew against me and my front wheel (which looked as if it had never been lubricated) swung from left to right, respectively back at its own will. The arid, red, sunburnt clay and salt scenery was interesting if not unique. Just like at Petra however, it was fairly interesting that these formations had been created by water which could only be found now in 0.6 liter plastic bottles sold for about USD 1.5 at the park entrance.

The view towards Licancabur Volcano, the oasis - looking San Pedro and the arid platform around was of great comfort. It was pleasant to have all the park almost only for myself, as I could not care less about seeing the sunset from the Tres Marias viewpoint, while almost everyone else seemed to want that. Instead I cycled out of the park and, after noticing the Rick Price patented chalk arrows that could only be proof of an Experience Plus tour, I headed for the Valle de la Muerte. There followed a 20 minute ride along a bumpy and sandy (at times) trail that followed a flat, dry valley bed bordered by reddish, hardened wind shaped clay cliffs. And then, just when the sun was about to set, it all opened up with sand dunes, arid cliffs, side valleys and, of course, no proof of life at all (except for the many traces of morons' sandboarding that pestered some of the dunes). Automatically almost, I propped the bike against a slope, took off my shoes and started walking barefooted up a ridge, then on and on. I did not feel the sharp stones that dotted the sand from place to place, or the hard rocks on the ridge: I was home and could feel that desert calling just like years before, in Jordan's Wadi Rum, at Pakistan's Moenjodaro or Iran's Persepolis. If my life (or the whole world for that matter) had stopped there and then, I could not have been happier. The view from the top of "my ridge" was overwhelming and captivating at the same time: there was no trace of human activity in sight, while the sky and the ground below, even though in sharp contrast, created a perfect, never-to-be-forgotten sight. This was indeed the place I had dreamt of getting to and, even though I wrote these lines the same day, before completing my journey through Chile, I was sure there could not be any other sight or place to even match it.

Getting back to the village, I found it glittering with light, crowded with gringos (from the hippie-would-bes, to romantic dinner types or dusty, tired trekkers and cyclists), respectively with restaurant waiters (that could not have looked more misplaced wearing their French style, red tabliers) inviting people to dinner. Even the idea of spending two more days in that tourist ghetto smelling like pizza, resounding like a panpipe version of 'Jingle Bells', respectively looking like a Bollywood take of Santa Claus' hometown, even that idea was too much and gave me the chills. So I remembered that Nicolas once mentioned Volcano Sairecabur and located it on the map: unfortunately both him and Christian were going away; a guide was not necessary for the trekking per se but a car and someone that knew the road to the foot of the mountain was. So I started entering (and subsequently leaving) all travel agents' offices that offered something else than freaking geyser or laguna tours. Some did not have guides available. A particularly persistent agent called all guides he knew, eventually found an available one (his sister), but could not get hold of a 4 wheel drive truck and a driver (as neither his sister, nor me could drive it). Some could not spell the name of the mountain. Some did not care or were too busy chatting. Fearing I might have to spend two days in this Christmas circus (yes, they even had two clown figures playing the drums and trumpet along the main Caracoles Street) left me with two options: 1. Stay at the relaxed hotel and read in their quiet garden or 2. Go to Calama and stay there, with the hope that the nothing-to-see-and-do tag would keep both tourist hordes and the Christmas mambo jambo away. So, rejoicing there were still options to killing myself and everyone else around me, I went to my already favourite empanada and dulce baker, got some of his superbly done stuff and a bottle of sparkling water to celebrate. And then, while walking again through the colourful crowd towards my quiet Takha Takha heaven, while smiling and saying for the twentieth time "no, gracias" to the same waiter (I reckon it would have been the one hundredth time in either Turkey or India), I entered what seemed to be a regular agency providing the typical, 7 or 12 in 1 packages: it was past 10 PM. The lady there spoke very good English (most did not), she was not pushy and she knew the details of the climb pretty well. They could arrange the tour in two days' time, and I might even get a better price (as the regular fare was for at least two) by talking to her manager the following day: "You will go on December 25, it will be like a present you make yourself!", she smiled. Yet she was lucky she did not put it "a Christmas present", as far as I am concerned. Back to the hotel, I opened the fuzzy water bottle, had some dulce de leche cakes and then, drunk of this stand alone party, I went to bed. Those idiots having chorrillanas at candle-lit tables around cheezy bonfires set in 'cute' restaurants up the street knew not what they were missing.

In the morning, while deciding to let things roll, I rented a bike and cycled to the North. While going up the slope that hosted Pukhara de Quitor, an old man approached me in Spanish asking me to take a picture for him: a retired French man that had started on this trip a few months before and still had half a year through South America, currently thinking to move on to Brazil. He had just returned from the Aconcagua and was spending his time nowadays splat between trekking / walking long distances and cycling. We shared a total lack of pleasure regarding overcrowded and sterile / sterilized places like San Pedro. Time passed and after a good hour of interesting talk, I continued my ride up the river. It was hot and there was hardly a breeze to be felt, but finding the Quebrada del Chulacao was a reward: a totally dry, narrow canyon bordered by hard clay slopes, just perfect for mountain biking. Back to the main valley and up, I reached the Inca site of Catarpe, where the amount of river stones carried up the slope to create the fortress could have rivaled anytime the sites of Byblos or Palmyra in terms of human effort.

But the time had come to check on the odds, so I returned to the village. There was nobody else interested in the Sairecabur, so I had to pay for the minimum group (two), which was however reduced after some negotiating to one and a half. But then, the pot luck agency could find no available guide, even though they had a truck. But, when we were just about to find conglomerate solutions (like using their car and the other agent's sister as guide), they found a young guide, Jorge, whose wife certainly cursed me hard for taking him away on Christmas day. So I woke up at 5 AM and started towards the Mountain of the Rain located at the verge of the desert. A huge heap of volcanic rocks, stones, sand and ash. Then another one behind the former. Then again and again.Eventually there appeared the final, carbon black heap: that was the Sairecabur, a mountain that had been partly sacrificed to the well-being of mankind, as its foothills and some of its higher plateaus had been turned into Sulphur exploitations. We reached the peak at about 10 AM. Jorge was one of the first mountain (or tourist for that matter) guides I met anywhere in the world that talked of group integrity, leadership and which was full of practical advice regarding the mountains even when there was no danger, just out of prevention. The view from the top was impressive and all-embracing, from the smoky Volcano Putana to the North, to the seemingly countless mountains to the East, in Bolivia, or to the gently descending slopes to the West, towards the Atacama. Mount Licancabur no longer bore the perfectly pyramidal shape like when seen from San Pedro, it looked now more like a pyramid the top of which had been chopped off. Upon going down, Jorge stopped, took some of the remaining food he still had, dug a small hole in the volcanic ash, put the food scraps there, covered it and then continued on: "this is how I thank the mountain for allowing us to reach the top and to go down safe and sound". It made more sense to me than many other "smart"things I have ever seen people do or pretend to do.

I had made my mind: after reaching Santiago the following day, I wanted to go to the South, leaving some little time for Valparaiso and the capital which, for some reason, did not ring the bell. With that in mind, I had an evening stroll through San Pedro. While ignoring its tourist package and filling pink cream, I had somehow started to accept the place (even though nothing more than that) as it was, with its contrasts, fake and misplaced chic restaurant scene, respectively great, down on Earth and so welcome lunch served in a poor shack by the parking lot. And then I loved the afternoon wind blowing the dust or creating small whirlpools along the tourist-filled Caracoles Street, granting the hip crowd a more... human touch.

Upon reaching Calama the following day, just like elsewhere in the country, one could not but notice the huge, Niyazov or Lenin-like statue overlooking the town: in this case however it was a statue of Virgin Mary; politics may be different, but both approach and goals are the same everywhere. Minutes later, while waiting for the flight to Santiago and looking for something to eat at the airport store, I could not ignore half of the store window's being filled with Bible-torn dwarfs, little churches and cute baby Jesuses in different colours or positions, to match one's mood and furniture. It is interesting how we humans give in so easily to world's best marketed product - religion -, being always ready to defy everyone and anyone with different views from ours in the name of a god or, even worse, of the way we look to the same god.

A 2 hour hop took me into a totally different world, a world of different sequences: "Take care if you're going to Santiago, it's a big city" said the airport guard I asked for directions to the luggage room.

An old man bathing (soap included) in the fountain centering Vicuna Mackenna park.

The first tout approaching me minutes after getting in the city centre, showing some copies of poems, then trying at all costs to start conversation, he was poor and needed money. Poverty cannot always be treated with money, amigo.

The fairly nice (if not rather common West European) building of the Museo de Bellas Artes, hosting Norton Maza's fascinating "La Avalancha del Caos", as well as a few interesting 'photoemulations' by Enrique Zamudio.

An old woman playing the guitar and singing on Paseo Estado, in a mixture of Spanish and ethnic beat, her eyes closed and her looking as if in trance.

A few children playing and swimming in the fountain dedicated to the 'glory' of Simon Bolivar centering Plaza Las Armas.

The noisy, as heterogeneous as possible crowd in the same square, from shoe polishers to beggars, trendy youth to smartly dressed businessmen, homeless to faithful, tourists to Saturday afternoon shoppers.

Architecture striking one through contrasts (and that should be something, I guess, as I was coming from Bucharest) rather than through individual structures; not even Ceausescu managed to better isolate a church or some Neoclassical building by drowning it in a sea of concrete, glass and business boxes. Yet in Santiago these contrasts seemed to naturally fill the streets, there was something normal, beautiful about them.

Crowds, the other side of the globe version of the Middle East or of the Subcontinent ones, colourful crowds that flowed along sidewalks, talking, laughing. A 'laissez faire' that was simply captivating.

Not least, an exaggerated try to prove (through a dedicated exhibition at the Precolumbian Art Museum) that the Incas had settled Chile. It was, in a way, familiar, it was similar to Romanians' invoking the Dacians or, if it all failed, the Romans, as our fathers and mothers. However, just as most Middle Age churches in Transylvania are either Catholic or Evangelic (as opposed to Orthodox or following some ancient Dacian cult), most people in Chile are nowadays Catholic and do not invoke some Inca gods. Christian that is, colourful Christmas clay figures and chocolate included.

I cannot say I liked Santiago (not that I gave it too many chances anyway). Maybe, should I have stayed longer, the Bucharest sort of love'n hate might have developed. Or maybe not. But, just like a piece of rocket technology set up in a Roman amphitheater, the city stroke me and my senses. And then, yes, I enjoyed that, the whole, without being able to say I enjoyed all pieces that made this whole.

But the wind was blowing in the right direction: South. I needed the 16 hour bus ride to Castro; first, I wanted to break away from the big city, any big city. Then, I just needed to get closer to people and roads than to airplanes and mod-cons. And it took merely an hour or so of riding the bus along the Panamericana to leave it all behind. Constantly going at 100 km. / h. between snow-caped mountains, vineyards, corn fields and orchards and watching the sun setting or rather disappearing in the mist, one cannot but enormously enjoy it. And then, one realizes that are still 1200 km. to do.

Waking up at around 7 AM, it looked as if I had got not in the South of Chile, but rather on the other side of the planet: only green in sight (endless bush, forest or grass-covered meadows and fields), smaller houses entirely made of wood, cattle, scarce clouds (not the high altitude ones blown by the wind in the Atacama, but the ones that can actually produce rain). We are all slaves to comparisons and I have to admit the first thing I thought of was that this looked pretty much like parts of Romania (especially the North of the country), but infinitely cleaner, enormously better developed infrastructure-wise and - eventually - a place where people do less ado around themselves. Then, this was just my impression as a hurried (as always) traveler riding a snob 'cama' intercity bus that was crossing the land at constant speed. Once we crossed the Canal de Chacao on to Isla Grade de Chiloe under a heavy rain, the landscape turned even greener with a lot of flowers, while houses got smaller but altogether more colourful. However, bright colours seem to fit better wooden rather than concrete structures. Under the cloudy sky above, respectively set in such green an environment, they could not have looked any better. And then, I very much appreciated their large front windows.

It is again flashes, snapshots that make up my memories of Chiloe:

Compact clouds. Rain, wind, an ocean breeze that freezes one's soul, even though local people play soccer in shorts.

A quiet, almost unnoticeable funeral ceremony at the wooden church of Achao.

An old man with a sober, wrinkle less face, sitting on the pavement in Dalcahue, selling wood carved artifacts and decorations, smiling in the sun between two rain showers.

Mid-aged local women of a Polynesian profile, carrying enormous loads of wool and other local produce to Ancud, Castro or Puerto Montt.

Island people patiently helping each other in a timeless manner. Patience, plenty of patience.

The serene, beautiful countryside scapes en route to Quemchi, respectively the stillness, silence and natural touch of the daily life there.

Having a delicious cazuela de vecuno at a small, modest family - run restaurant near Castro's bus station, where normality came as a complimentary side dish.

And again, steady rain, more greenery, more wooden houses, wind, rain and Chilotes' walking past without noticing them.

The wooden houses of Chiloe did not strike one in a particular way. They were interesting, but not at all unique; similar features could be found at old houses in Bergen, Norway or the Danube Delta, Romania. Furthermore, in the Danube Delta one could also find the 'unique' palafito structure (wooden house supported on the shore on one side, respectively on tall wooden pillars raising from the water on the other side). What made them interesting was instead the richness of colour. But what I really liked in this archipelago is the quiet, slow pace of life, as well as people's respect and patience for one another. And then, yes, that rich green scenery was captivating, just as that peace of soul was contagious. However, after two days' stay in this quiet, secluded place (which did not lack its quite big share of tourists however, even though they dissipated in the many villages), the time had come to hit the Panamericana again. Back North this time, as time had started to run short for the traveler, even in such a timeless environment, best showing the whore nature humans share.

On the bus back to Santiago, just like earlier while flying with LAN or at different hotels and hospedajes, there was an impossible to pass by sense of hospitality that blended in with a genuine respect and, yes, with a bygone era aristocratic service which was nevertheless dignified and never reached humiliation. It was simply in people's nature to help, make guests feel at home even 6 time zones away from home. They did so with care to every detail, spontaneously reacting to one's needs and always with an inner joy. The language they employed completed the image in an exquisite manner, as every second phrase contained 'senor', 'gracias', 'cavaliero' and eventually 'todo bien'. One might argue this caressed the spoiled child in us strangers. Maybe. But it was nevertheless a dash of warm colour in a world where everything is slowly turning into black, white and eventually grey standard, automated service.

The morning saw me commute between buses and bus stations back to 25C, under Santiago's sun. After crossing a range of arid hills, I got to Valparaiso. People I had met on the way, either Chileans or foreigners, had totally different opinions on the city: some could not imagine a trip to Chile without at least passing through Valparaiso, others said it was crap, as there was nothing to do and there was little left to see. From personal experience, when a place stirs such strong feelings, it means there is something there, for the human ego does not bother unless it meets a stimulus that is strong enough.

Once again, colour hit me first. A vibrant crowd filled streets and plazas bordered by an eye-opening mixture of old and new buildings that looked as if made of Lego pieces: every other house (and even parts of the same house) seemed to have been painted in a different colour (like in "absofreakinglutely different") from the neighbouring ones. Business was no longer restricted to shops and the indoors, as whole streets, entire sidewalks were virtual flea markets where one could find anything from freshly squeezed juice to notebooks, DVDs or yellow underwear of all sizes. An old couple dressed in elegant outfits of a bygone era (for us) would often step out of the tumultuous crowd and all of a sudden stop in front of a shop window, taking their time to calmly and lengthly discuss over the merchandise there. Even if Valparaiso had been nothing but a place with no historic building or material heritage at all, it would have been worth going to Chile for that alone.

I slowly made my way to the older part of the lower city that, even with the coming of contemporary cars and some new intrusions, still bore an old times' touch. Small shops selling everything, countless manufactures, from tailors' to plumbers', many bakers preparing empanadas on the spot, as well as atmospheric, old bars and small restaurants, this was Valparaiso's El Plan. As for the old buildings themselves, they ranged from some fine ones that were crumbling, to grossy or magnificent restorations, but bright colours were nearly always included in the scheme, which granted the whole place a life of its own. Plaza Sotomayor hosted a flea market where a mostly hippy and rocker crowd was selling hand made trinklets, while on a stage technicians were just testing their sound equipment for a later concert, when they played "Oye Como Va", which had everyone start moving their hands and singing all of a sudden, while some people began dancing on the beat. For one second, it felt this colourful place's energy met Chileans' outstanding energy and their joy of being alive. And one needed not more than that single second to hit happiness.

In order to get different beats and to see different faces of the city, I walked or took the 'ascensores' up and then went back down in various areas. In the upper part of the city, beautiful, smaller two or three floor properties, initially meant as houses were slowly restored. Set up in different styles, they made up superb entire quarters. However, it was rather shocking (even though nothing new in this world) to see that, almost immediately after being restored, entire streets started looking as if they had been in Prague's old quarter. With most of the newly restored houses turned into hotels, c-c-cute French style restaurants, fashion or souvenir-cum-art shops, all meant to please nobody but tourists, they were guaranteed a quick death shortly after only apparently being revived. But then, life is nothing but an endless trade off: we give some, we get some and we hope to have something left in the end of the day. As for upper Valparaiso, thankfully there still were many streets where old buildings had not been restored, or where they had been restored without turning into tourist-targeted chocolate boxes and beer cans. Even so, I for one preferred the lower part of the city, with its hustle and bustle, crazy colour scheme, noisy crowds, happy mid-aged couple serving the best out-of-the-pan cheese empanadas I had tasted, respectively with all contrasts that had managed to turn into picturesque routine in Valparaiso. And then, I enjoyed quite a lot those (signed) graffitis in the Bellavista area, where artists had covered entire old home walls with abstract or natural patterns and designs. It was yet another means of bringing the city to a new life vibe, straight into contemporaneity.

The evening saw me back in Santiago, "back to the smog" as an old Valparaiso man had been joking with an old Santiago woman on one of the ascensores I had earlier taken. Yet there seemed to be no smog this time. It was a beautiful clear sky, sunny afternoon, even though 1. I was in Santiago and 2. I was staying at a place called Residencial Londres. No rain indeed. My last day in Chile started with a one hour chat over European demographics at breakfast with a German couple traveling South to Punta Arenas, followed by a slow pace walk through the quiet, pleasant Barrio Lastaria Quarter which bore a totally different atmosphere from the Centro, with its small restaurants and art galleries. Then I started on the way home, with its 4 flight sequence.

And then, again, flashes of memory.

Flights on time in Santiago, in Asuncion, one hour delay in Sao Paulo, the same upon reaching Istanbul. There had been floods in Istanbul and riots in Tehran. Bomb threat on a US carrier flight followed by security boosts and subsequent delays in European hubs. Checking in at a hotel in Istanbul on December 31 at 11.45 PM and falling asleep by midnight. An unexpected - and welcome - day in Istanbul due to a canceled flight. Smoking waterpipe surrounded by the already familiar calm old men reading their newspapers and books while doing the same. Chai, borek and eventually a small cup of black like hell, strong like the devil and sweet like love Turkish coffee, as the saying goes. For, ay, the time had come to wake up, as Romania was rising at the horizon, fake, pretended hospitality mask on the face and mean, wicked grin behind it.

Of an obvious subjective nature as I am and we all are, I cannot say I loved Chile like countries such as Iran, Yemen or Afghanistan where my heart belongs. Beyond that however, I found this country as a timely life lesson, exactly when I was pondering on the opportunity and sense of my being polite and courteous even with people that are not, to the baker or grocer in the morning, when in my home country or elsewhere. Chile proved to me that life is what we, each individual, make of it, and one does not need go head over heels about guests (like in the Middle East for instance), to make them feel at welcome to a certain place. The 'joy of living' as the Serbs put it is mostly about the joy one shares with the others while talking nicely and helping when possible, it is not about getting drunk stone and making low end jokes about everyone, including oneself - like people in all countries in the Balkans and generally Eastern Europe I have been to proudly and excitedly do. In Romania, one of the first things a visitor learns from locals is Transylvanians' being slow, Moldavians' being poor or Southerners' being evil. This hatred cannot be balanced by all UNESCO-listed painted monasteries or former European Cultural Capitals in the world. Nobody in Chile told me that people in the islands were bad, and nobody laughed at my poor attempt of putting together a few words in Spanish, quite to the contrary, people were happy I was trying to speak their language, even though I most times failed beyond very few basic phrases. And nobody laughed or stood shocked in wonder when I greeted the shop attendant, the bus driver or the street vendor before paying for a purchase, or when I thanked them and said good bye.

For (too long) a while, we Romanians blamed the Ottoman Empire, the big powers of the day or the former Communist regime, the Others for all bad we are about. Pinochet's regime in Chile ended at pretty much the same time with Ceausescu's in Romania and yet Chileans are up and on their feet, whereas Romanians are far from doing so. Chileans only went back to where they had been before the military dictatorship and calmly, but steadily started building from there. In the meantime, we Romanians started quarreling (like always in the case of impotent nations) and turned our lives in the cheapest sort of circus available; this was the only thing we could get back to, for there was nothing else to turn back to, except for hatred. Oh, yes, and Miron Costin's words we adore to ecstasy, for they well cover our lack of will to do anything: "It is not man who rules over times, but rather times ruling over man". For that reason alone, and Chile is ages from Romania with that everlasting, contagious smile that does not turn into hysterical laughter, an experience I shall not forget very soon. And it would be a pity to ever do so.