23.03.23

In the morning, Porter and I take the Colectivo with 0% legroom to Viña del Mar, located right next to Valparaiso. The Colectivos are all lovingly decorated, a mixture of strip club with pink metallic laminated metal bars and lots of plush, a few wall tattoos of lightly dressed women and Jesus worship, mostly through depiction of the same. In addition, Reggaeton is always playing at full volume.

Arriving in Viña, it is foggy and dreary. Soulless high-rise buildings line up next to each other. The former river has shrunk to a narrow stream, probably thanks to the hungry avocado and blueberry industry (Chile is the only country on earth where the water reserves are completely privatized). The rest of the riverbed has been converted into a dusty parking lot.

The supposedly best empanadas in town according to Google reviews at Mr. Empanada turn out to be a disappointment. While drinking coffee on the large beach promenade, the sun finally appears and the fog clears.

The city's landmark, the Reloj de Flores (Flower Clock), created for the World Cup in the sixties, is unspectacular. From there, we squeeze ourselves back into the Colectivo, which takes us to the dunes of Concon. Conveniently, there is a Lider (Chilean Walmart) right across the street, where we stock up on Patagonia canned beer before climbing up the dune. When we reach the top, we have a view of the Pacific and the numerous high-rise buildings that frame the giant dune. Dolphins and pelicans can be observed from a distance. I give Porter a camera introduction and we borrow sandboards to slide down the dune. The almost dusty sand is everywhere.

The Colectivo back to Valparaiso is hopelessly overcrowded; we get on another one. Good decision. The driver looks like he just stepped out of the late seventies: mullet hairstyle, aviator sunglasses, gold chain, short-sleeved shirt with plenty of room for voluminous chest hair and a mustache. The vehicle is pleasantly empty, the open windows let the sea breeze in and we fly over the asphalt of the coastal road to atmospheric rock music with plenty of drums. The shock absorbers seem to be brand new.

Arriving at the hostel, two solo-traveling old ladies from Germany and Spain chat loudly in heavily accented English.

In the Chilean Walmart, I search for toothpaste for ages until I find out that there is a second floor. Meanwhile, Porter's attempt to leave fails; his Colectivo to the bus station is so crowded that he can't get off and therefore drives all the way to the final stop somewhere far outside. Tough luck. So he stays another night as well.