Topics

[Editor's Note:]

La Feria de las Flores

By indiekid

It was dark by the time my bus arrived in Medellín. My first impression was of lights twinkling on either side of the road, lights which reached higher and higher up the hillsides as we approached our destination. We were soon driving through what felt like an upturned bowl of stars, the mountain peaks out of sight. Little did I know that, beyond those mountains, hundreds of boxes of flowers were being packed and distributed. I did know, however, that the Feria de las Flores (Festival of the Flowers), Colombia's largest festival, was just a few days away. It was hard to miss it: every television in every city was inviting people to Medellín with a series of catchy adverts. The city's reputation, however, once centred on something very different: for two decades it was the seat of that most absolute of monarchs, Pablo Escobar.

I'm going to start with an apology: considering this is an article about a flower festival it's not particularly visual. For security I mostly kept my camera locked away, and the festival was a bit crowded for good photography anyway. I've discussed this with my editor, Jubal, and we've agreed to put the following video in as an introduction, and there's another one to watch at the end.

After a hot and cockroach-ey night at a bus station hotel I made my way south to the suburb of El Poblado. The mid-morning sun was warm and the streets a quiet, leafy green. The traffic noise was swiftly replaced by birdsong, including that of two squabbling parrots. An avocado salesman rumbled his cart from door to door and cried "Aguacate!" at intervals. I buzzed my way into my hostel and was met by the receptionist Claudia, who invited me to add my rucksack to the growing heap behind the desk. Claudia would become a fixture of my mornings in Medellín, keeping the backpackers in check accompanied by her little son and big dog. My bed was not yet ready so I joined some other backpackers for a cup of tea. I, at least, was drinking tea; they were mostly on lager, as they had been since the previous evening.

My first priority was food, so I asked Claudia where I could buy some groceries. She recommended a supermarket up the road, but I returned empty-handed. It was the trendiest and most modern supermarket I had seen for a long time; it even had self-service checkouts. To me it was just gringo products at gringo prices, so I asked Claudia where I'd find a "real" market. Surprised, she took the map she had given me earlier and added in a little circle on the very edge of the tourist area: Minorista Market. It was an easy bus ride away and I enjoyed trawling the dozens of stalls with the locals (Medellín is much more diverse than its rival, the capital Bogotá). Colombia is home to a huge variety of fruit; earlier in my trip I had encountered a fruit bowl as part of a tour and found myself unable to name any of the contents. It got me thinking that, when it comes to tropical fruit, we in the UK are limited to what can be easily refrigerated and transported. In the Minorista Market I was able to buy a variety of beautifully fresh produce. I also picked up some arepas, a kind of maize flatbread, but had to ask Claudia's help in cooking them.

It was time to start exploring. Medellín (population 2.5 million) is a long, thin city built along a river of the same name. It has a modern (but sometimes crowded) metro system which also hugs the river for much of its length. I rode it north to the Plaza Botero, home to the Rafael Uribe Uribe Palace of Culture. This imposing black and white cathedral-like building was designed by the Belgian architect Agustín Goovaerts in the 1920s, but not completed until 1982. The building's dome is off-centre as though it was intended to be twice as long; the story goes that the architect fell out with the local government during construction. Also in the plaza are sculptures by Colombia's most revered artist, Fernando Botero. Botero is widely known for making things "fat", and this is initially apparent in the human and animal figures on display in the plaza. I was told, however, that the exaggeration of certain body parts was actually Botero's ploy to draw attention to each sculpture's true focus: the bits he left in normal proportions. I'm not sure if, in image-conscious Colombia, this would have been much comfort to the models who sat for him. Its effectiveness, however, was evidenced in some of the paintings in the adjoining Museo de Antioquia. A painting of Christ, for example, shows him wearing the crown of thorns and bleeding where it has cut him. Thanks to the size of the head in comparison to the face, the blood seems to go on and on forever. It's as if Botero has given every human sin its own drop. His most famous painting, however, is of the 1993 killing of Pablo Escobar in Medellín, and you can see it by following the link below. For what it's worth, I was not personally taken with Botero and preferred the more varied and subtle style of his contemporary, Luis Alberto Acuna.

Botero's "La muerte de Pablo Escobar".

On the far side of the city centre the metro links up with a cable car network, which climbs the steep slopes on either side of the valley. It boasts some impressive murals at its stations. My journey up towards the Arví Park took me above zig-zagging streets of square brick houses. This, I realised, was what a regenerated favela, or shanty town, looks like. After ascending about 800 meters the route abruptly levelled off. All around was a beautiful and varied Andean forest. The cable car dipped and rose approximately level with the treetops; the overall sensation was one of flying (enhanced by the fact that I was the only passenger by this point). My ride ended at a very smart visitor centre, but I felt I was a bit pushed for time to actually venture into the park.

I was lucky to have a guide to Medellín in the form of John, a digital nomad from the USA. John, like many others, had made the city a semi-permanent home and knew all the good hostels and shared workspace facilities. For his work the city was perfect: modern, well outfitted with WiFi, cheap, diverse, interesting and with great weather (its nickname is the "City of Eternal Spring"). John knew when the rowdy football games were on and where the underground salsa bars were hidden. His speciality, however, was taking groups from the hostel to Carrera 70, the main party street of the city and the festival. It was lined with bars which spilled out in a mess of balloons and silletas, wooden frames holding great round signs made entirely of flowers (we'll return to them later). A stage was set up at the end of the street showcasing everything from punk music to Argentine tango.

I had promised myself a bit of a break from intensive backpacking while in Medellín. My two week stay was unstructured and I barely wrote in my diary. I chilled out, went to the concert hall and took part in a chain writing project here on Exilian. Most of my time, however, was spent at the Table. I have capitalised it here as it was a uniquely accommodating social space - for those who were confident with spoken English, at least (I was, once again, one of the weaker Spanish speakers). The atmosphere of the hostel was neatly summed up by a German friend of mine:

"Oh yes," he said, "As soon as I saw this was a 'party hostel' I knew there would be a lot of British people here."

I buried my head in my hands and hoped that the conversation would not turn to Brexit. We returned, instead, to one of our favourite topics: which of the Colombian lagers was most like urine (after a few days at the Table they all tasted equally bad). Another favourite topic was cocaine, which in Medellín flows in rivers. It was common, in the mornings, to see hung-over backpackers attempting to sell on their left-overs to avoid them "going to waste" ahead of an upcoming flight (Claudia took a dim view of this).

One night we all left the Table together and piled into taxis. We got held up at a roadblock where some police officers half-heartedly checked our passports (they did not discover that several of us had, sensibly, left them locked in the hostel). We then drove on to a popular night club, which had several busy rooms with DJs playing different versions of reggaeton music. I made many more backpacker friends in the club's large garden. There was a problem, however: everyone was very tall. This, combined with the background noise, meant that the conversation was going right over my head. Emboldened by lager and the sociable atmosphere I approached the only other short person in sight and engaged him in conversation. He was not particularly keen to chat: he turned out, in fact, to be the local drug dealer.

At about 4 am I left the club in pursuit of fried chicken. The streets of El Poblado were, as I had been promised, absolutely buzzing. I had no difficulty finding a food outlet and strolled happily down the main street, where the clubs had spilled out into a huge gathering of young Colombians. A man approached me with a big wooden tray, a common sight in the city, loaded with snacks and chewing gum. I politely waved him away but, to my surprise, he kept approaching. With a big clownish grin on his face he nudged the tray right into me and pushed me to one side with it. We laughed together at the joke but, when we parted, I realised something was amiss: he had swiped the phone from my right trouser pocket. I kept walking, humiliated, and he vanished into the crowd. It was a clever trick, but not clever enough: the phone in that pocket was a decoy, an old broken thing intended as a distraction. My real phone was tucked safely in a pouch under my shirt. Listen to your parents, folks.

I was more shaken by the incident than I cared to admit. I was frustrated at my poor judgement and the loss of my decoy phone, which I had actually planned to use as a defence against mugging. I spent the morning trying to make a new one out of an old phone case, some coins and sellotape. My story spread around the hostel as the morning wore on and the residents began to sober up. It got back to the one person I was hoping to keep it from.

"Richard!" cried Claudia as I tiptoed across the lobby, "I'm sorry but that is very stupid. I told you not to walk alone at night in El Poblado!"

I looked at my feet; there was no defence. I wondered if we backpackers are like toddlers: discovering our limits by pushing against them. The part of me that wanted to test myself against El Poblado had evaporated, and I'm glad to finally get it off my chest. I made sure my next adventure was much more tame.

~

Along with John and several others from the hostel I booked a place on a tour of Santa Elena, the township to the East of Medellín which is the true home of the Flower Festival. I had been told that the festival traces its origins to one Santa Elena resident's decision to carry his wares to market in Medellín on his back. This was an exaggeration at best: it was common for people to make this journey on foot with their loads (which could even include sick family members) on wooden chair-like frames. These frames, known as silletas, are now used exclusively to show off the region's flowers.

Our bus left Medellín and wound its way up hairpins to the relatively flat region above the city. It was a climb of around 800 meters and the temperature dropped noticeably. Our tour guide had provided each of us with a scarf and white paisa hat, the latter named after the people of the Antioquia region. I did wonder if our guide had a sense of humour: the disc-shaped hats were hopeless in windy mountain weather. On several occasions a gust caused the group to lose them en masse and have to run around in pursuit. As for the tour itself, we stopped first at a large statue of a silletero with his load and then drove on to a farm. The last part of this journey was done on foot along a dirt track with beautiful hedgerows on either side. The colonial-style farm building had been part-converted into a museum. In its expansive kitchen we sat down for a traditional meal, which included a local speciality: hot chocolate with a lump of cheese melted in it (an unpleasant and surprisingly greasy experience). The house overlooked the flower fields, where a vast number of species, from tall sunflowers to daisy-sized numbers, were displayed together (Colombia is actually the second most biodiverse country in the world). Exploring this garden was the highlight of the tour, and you can see why in the following picture.



Most of the farm's flowers had already been picked, boxed and delivered to Santa Elena's residents. They were busy spending the precious few days before the big parade attaching the flowers to their silletas in complex and beautiful designs. The catch was that each silletero would receive just one type of flower in their box. The event would start, therefore, with some frantic trading involving the whole community. This would have been going on at about the time I rolled into Medellín by bus the previous week.

My next tour was to Medellín's Comuna Trece, which translates as District 13. This impoverished part of the city was notorious for gang violence in the 20th and early 21st centuries, but is now - bizarrely - a tourist attraction. In the past couple of decades a combination of investment and grassroots community efforts have transformed the area, succeeding where violent military assaults failed. It was a focal point of the city's cocaine trade and the associated violence (Escobar's shadow looms large here), but the streets have been regenerated and are now full of dancers and artworks.

Our guide for the afternoon was Bryan, a resident who had taught himself to speak what he called "Street English" and later turned out to be a rapper. Before leading us up the hill into his neighbourhood he asked us not to give money to any of the children who would show off their dance moves to us. Giving to adult street performers, he said, would be fine, but the children should be encouraged to stay in school. Our first few stops were at pop-up street dance shows; we were evidently expected, but this was part of the fun. As we walked further the street art became progressively bigger, louder and more colourful. Some of the works were reproduced in the many eccentric souvenir shops.

We stopped at a small museum where the horror of the gang wars was brought to life. At one point the army was sent in but failed to eradicate the gangs. In the interest of claiming a victory the government secretly made deals with some of the gang leaders, so a false peace was created for a few months. As the buildings of the area became more and more damaged the street artists set to work claiming the wreckage as their own in protest. Most harrowing of all, however, was Bryan's own story of a gunfight from his childhood. He and his brother were watching from their window when a combatant backed right up their house to shelter by the wall. Seeing the boys looking out of the window, he told them to move for their own safety. They did so but, when they looked again, the man was dead.

Much of the investment in Comuna Trece has been spent on infrastructure: metro lines, a cable car and a series of public escalators traversing the steep slopes. At the top of the hill is a - relatively - big road on concrete stilts, and it was here that the tour ended. We had ice cream and enjoyed the sunset views over the city. I had time to follow the road away from the crowds to where things were quieter. Strangely quiet. Looking back along the road I could see what an engineering marvel it was and, from the footprint of the stilts, how many homes must have been demolished to make way for it. Just as I was reflecting on the ongoing costs of regeneration I abruptly reached the end of the road. It was unfinished, which explained the lack of traffic. A tall metal fence separated it from an older, dustier track.  I peeked through and saw rubbish spilling out of abandoned brick buildings. A chicken strode defiantly across the road.

Some of my friends at the hostel were heading to a party called "Gringo Mike's Big Gringo Tuesday". I turned it down as I had more important plans for the morning: a visit to the Botanical Gardens. (I was later vindicated in my decision when an Australian friend described the evening as "Just a big gringo f**kfest, to be honest".) I arrived at the ticket office early in the morning but had still failed to beat the queue. The gardens themselves were interesting but they were not what I'd come to see. They put on a special festival of their own every year,  which celebrates flowers from Colombia and beyond. These include some amazing flower sculptures, and the centrepiece this year was a wooden boat listing dangerously in a stormy sea of blue and white. I also enjoyed seeing some fat pitcher plants and the creative arrangements of tulips made by various tulip societies. It wasn't just the flowers that were beautifully decked out: many visitors had brought their highly accessorised dogs along.



The big day was nearly upon us. As a warm-up, much of the city was closed off for an enormous parade of classic cars. To my surprise this parade was led by perhaps a dozen of the city's bin lorries, polished up to perfection. Following these was a seemingly endless stream of cars, and my most vivid memory is of watching them negotiate a tricky speed bump. The next day I rose early and donned my new flowery shirt, paisa hat and garland of plastic flowers (I had acquired the latter in some nightclub or other). It was time for the cultural phenomenon which had first brought me to Medellín: the Desfile de Silleteros.

I found a good spot among the crowds lining a main road. The parade was opened by a single vintage car carrying three or four elderly people. They were dressed in white and had red scarves tied around their heads. These were some of the original silleteros who had taken part in the first parade in 1957. They were followed by a series of warm up acts: some police officers with their dogs; a terrifying armoured police vehicle (with flowers); a troupe of what I took to be Brazilian Carnaval performers. Finally the first silleteros appeared: the children who had competed in the junior category. Each carried a wooden silleta of the traditional form: a sort of stepped wooden backpack overflowing with flowers. They were chaperoned by members of the Scout Association, who kept them supplied with water and relieved them of their loads occasionally.

Next up came a lone woman, bent under the weight of her 70 Kg silleta. She carried her paisa hat in her hand because her head was busy with a strap supporting some of the weight. She had a huge grin on her face and was waving her hat to draw more and more cheering from the crowd. Every so often she span around to show off the enormous circular design on her back. It was a riot of colours and textures consisting of more flower varieties than I could possibly name. This silletera's name was María Claudia Atehortúa and she was the overall winner of the Feria de las Flores 2023.

After María came the rest of the silleteros who had competed in the emblemática category. These were the circular ones which I had grown used to and were all spectacular. There were several other categories: tradicional, which the children had been carrying; commercial in which the logos of sponsors, including Coca-Cola, were reproduced in flowers and monumental. The latter lived up to their name: wooden constructs burst out of a - usually - circular base; they were much bigger and heavier than the others. My favourite was an enormous lion's head with a mane of what looked like grasses gone to seed. The silleteros were evidently enjoying themselves, and every so often they'd put their loads down so that they could fully show them off. One man went right up to the crowd, reached in and emerged with his son in his arms; they waved to everyone together. It was a joy to watch the paraders pass by and transform from exhausted people under heavy loads to flowery, tortoise-like creatures once viewed from behind. It was a testament to both human ingenuity and human endurance. In the silleteros' six kilometre walk through the chequered streets of Medellín there was a sense of defiance, love and hope. Yet there was frailty as well: in every flower that fell from a silleta I was reminded that these beautiful artworks were temporary, and would be lost until the cycle began again for the next year's Feria.

I had time for one more adventure before leaving Medellín. I turned my nose up at the Pablo Escobar museum, which is run for profit by members of his family, and at the associated theme park and zoo. I set off instead on foot through El Pobaldo to the Museo El Castillo. This mansion was built by the architect Nel Rodríguez in the style (for some reason) of a French château. I arrived at the ornate gateway and saw a long curving driveway bordered by tall conifer trees. These, like many of the plants in the grounds, were covered in ghostly cobwebs of Spanish Moss (a sort of creeper which is neither Spanish nor moss). The whole place was reminiscent of the enchanted château in Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast. I brought my entry ticket for seventy thousand pesos: I would later learn that, back in the 1930's when the house was built, that sum would have bought me the entire property.

Inside I had a tour of the grand rooms and eclectic collection of (mostly European) oddities. My guide's use of the English language concealed a razor-sharp wit, and I'd like to share some of his descriptions with you:

"This is the only original carpet in the house which you can walk on, so please make the most of it."

"If you ask me how much the chandelier is actually worth, well I cannot tell you: my boss doesn't want me to know!"

"In this room we have a collection of seven hundred silver spoons donated to the family by a rich auntie. If you ask me why she donated them, well I can tell you: she was very rich and she had too many spoons."

I was reminded of a tour guide in Spain who had repeatedly referred to us, his audience, as his "family". A part of me had wondered if I should point out that the word isn't usually used in this context. I decided there was no need to be a killjoy and, if my new friend wanted to refer to me as family, who was I to stop him? The English language, I reasoned, belonged as much to these non-native speakers as it did to me - perhaps more so.

~

I was up early on the morning of my departure. The backpackers of the hostel - including, at last, some Colombians - were all fast asleep. Over breakfast at the Table I made one more friend: a French backpacker, who arrived, as many of us had, looking shell-shocked from their first metro journey. She asked me about safety in the area and my answer, unfortunately, got back to the one person I was hoping to keep it from.

"So, Richard," said Claudia during checkout, "You don't think El Poblado is safe?"

I thought for a moment. Of all the people I had met in Medellín, Claudia was the most proud of her city and how far it had come. In the backpacker community, however, my encounter with the pickpocket was by no means an isolated incident.

"I'm sorry, Claudia," I said, "But I don't."

Perhaps, had I stayed in Medellín longer, my assessment might have changed. Perhaps I could have given the Digital Nomad lifestyle a shot after all. The Highlands of Colombia, however, were calling me, and I couldn't miss my date with the world's tallest palm trees. I did not look back.

The seriousness of the history I've presented here was not lost on me during my visit to Medellín. My objective in this article was the juxtaposition of the old and the new; the violent and the beautiful; the cultural and the sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll. I have not presented events in chronological order and there may be factual inaccuracies - please shout if you spot them. In the interest of brevity I've omitted a lot of detail: the police officers in the parade, for example, were actually on bicycles, and had their dogs sitting to attention in little doggy side-cars. It's unexpected joys like these, especially when flowering out of hardship, that make travel worthwhile. I hope this article has motivated you to put a bag on your back, go somewhere new, and see some more of this crazy, kaleidoscopic world in which we live.


Links

Here's the promised "further watching", specifically the opening, minute 6:30 and minute 10:00 of this vlog by the Mexican backpacker Alan X El Mundo:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TiSNmmEQqIg


Editor's Note: More of indiekid's travels in the Americas can be found in his piece on travels in southern Chile, and in a two-part article on the Mexican leg of his trip with part one here and part two here.

[Editor's notes:]

The Edge of the Edge of the World

By indiekid

The Pacific beckoning over the beach.

"Have I reached the Edge of the Edge of the World?" The thought crossed my mind as I looked across a wide beach to the Pacific Ocean. In the distance I could see great breakers throwing up spray against a cliff. Beyond the breakers was nothing but ocean – nothing until New Zealand, that is. It was 2017 and I had been backpacking in Chile for about two weeks. I had left my travelling companion (my brother) far behind and I was running out of food. I realised, nevertheless, that my assessment of the beach's remoteness owed more to my own point of view than to geography. The world does not have an "edge" but my understanding of it does, and in this article I hope to push that edge back just a little further.

Perspectives

As a child I was taught that Christopher Columbus "discovered" the Americas in 1492, ignoring the 50 to 100 million people who already called them home. I'm pleased to say that this narrative has changed over the past couple of decades, but as an Englishman I can't escape the fact that my country is, typically, printed centrally on world maps. To help recreate the eye-opening nature of my journey I'd like you to humour me by opening Google Maps. Go on, it's not that difficult, even if you're reading this on a phone. Type "Chiloe" into the search bar but don't panic if you misspell it – you'll probably still end up in Chile.

You should now be looking at Gran Chiloé, the second largest island in South America and the largest of the Chiloé archipelago (I'm going to be lazy in this article and refer to it as Chiloé, since I never made it onto the smaller islands). Zoom out a little and you will notice that Chile itself is an odd shape: 4300 km long but never more than 350 km wide. Its border with Argentina is defined by the Andes mountains, which I'd like you to follow south for a little while. You will find that "mainland Chile" almost ceases to exist, breaking up into a multitude of lakes, fjords and islands. You'll see very few settlements but a host of national parks. In fact, the region is so dominated by the sea and a few pesky glaciers that these last 1000 km lack a continuous road. Residents of Punta Arenas typically fly to visit other cities. This makes the island of Chiloé the end of what I'm going to call "easily-navigable Chile", and we'll return to that idea later.

The calming presence of the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores.

To the east of Punta Arenas you'll see that South America's largest island, Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire), is shared by Chile and Argentina. It was named, somewhat foolishly, by the Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan in 1520. While navigating between it and the mainland, through the strait which now bears his name, Magellan saw smoke which turned out to come from cooking fires (he, or at least his crew, went on to circumnavigate the globe). Trace your cursor along the strait from the Atlantic side – it's easy enough for us, but for Magellan it was 570 km of very choppy sailing. He was so relieved to find a calm ocean on the far side that he named it "Pacific" – one wonders if his ability to name things improved at all later on. Before we move on, try retracing your cursor through the strait in the opposite direction. While the Atlantic side had a very clear entry point, you'll notice the Pacific side is a labyrinth – one which has claimed the lives of many sailors.

For the next part of the tour, zoom out until you see a patch of white at the bottom of your screen. That's right: it's Antarctica, about 1000 km from South America. I'm told that a change in wind direction on Tierra del Fuego can bring about a dramatic change in temperature. Not far from Argentina you'll see another large archipelago: Las Malvinas, known to the British as the Falklands. For our last stop on this tour, scroll or drag yourself to the very top of South America, to the border between Colombia and Panama. What do you notice? That's right: there's no road linking the two. The wild "Darién Gap" has never been developed; this has been a boon for wildlife but a disaster for migrants attempting to cross it. It's physically impossible to drive from North America to South America, but this does not stop people travelling the Pan-American Highway.

Before I talk about the highway I'd like to mention the wider idea of Pan-Americanism. In hindsight, the abrupt end of colonial rule in the Americas in the last few centuries provided an unusual opportunity: a chance to re-define the term "country". Are countries, and their associated borders, even necessary? My understanding of Pan-Americanism is that it was a somewhat romantic (and very socialist) effort to unite all the former Spanish colonies of South America into a single entity as part of the re-organising process. I believe the former Portuguese colony of Brazil was excluded, perhaps because of the language barrier and perhaps because its population was already greater than that of all the other countries combined. Proponents of Pan-Americanism held talks (on a variety of subjects) with leaders of countries in the North and they agreed, in principle, to build a single road running the length of the two continents. The road never saw the light of day but the idea of it remains. Adventurers make a point of following it south from Alaska, though there are now many branches and possible end points. One of them is in the south of easily-navigable Chile: on Chiloé. So although the island is not the Edge of the World, it has a pretty strong claim to being the End of the Road.

An Island and its People

Palafitos - traditional wooden fishing houses - on Chiloe.

Let's now scroll or slide back to Chiloé, pausing to admire once again the sheer length of Chile (all the more impressive when you consider that the capital, Santiago, is home to one third of its population). Chiloé is rugged, wooded and sparsely populated – home to a little over 180,000 people according to recent projections. According to legend, it was formed during a mighty battle between two elemental serpents: Trentren Vilu (Land) and Caicai Vilu (Sea). Its air of mystery is enhanced by the mists and rains which often engulf it. Chiloé, like much of Chile, experiences colder weather in general than might be expected from its latitude. This is due to the cold air brought to it by the Pacific Humboldt Current – an effect comparable to that of the Gulf Stream in the British Isles. Chiloé is sufficiently removed from the mainland to have developed its own unique flora, fauna and cultures. British travellers sometimes compare Chiloé to Scotland's Outer Hebrides, but with penguins.

According to Wikipedia Chiloé has been inhabited for over 7000 years. By the time the Spanish arrived (there's my European lens again) there were broadly two cultures living there: the Huilliche, the southernmost people of the Mapuche macroethnic group, and the Chonos, a tribe of nomadic seafarers. Many indigenous traditions survive on Chiloé, including stone and wood representations of folkloric characters. These are a colourful bunch: in addition to the aforementioned elemental serpents there's La Pincoya, the mermaid; El Caleuche, the ghost ship and Voladora, the crow-shaped messenger of the witches. Perhaps spookiest of all is the Rumpelstiltskin-like troll El Trauco who lays ambushes for unsuspecting travellers in the forest. In so doing he performs a useful social function: he acts as a scapegoat for any unexplained pregnancies on the island.

You may have noticed some similarities between the above characters and those of European folklore. This is not a coincidence: "Chilote" culture is considered one of the most egalitarian fusions of indigenous and colonial cultures anywhere in the Americas. In addition to Spaniards, Chiloé was colonised by Germans and Czechs. The colonisers were very impressed by the natives' skill in crafting boats of larch and cypress. In combining these skills with European architectural ambitions, the people of Chiloé (under the influence of the Jesuits) built some extraordinary wooden churches. These churches vary across the island but have some features are common: arched porticos; towers which seem to change shape from base to top; and objects typically made of stone, such as pillars, reproduced faithfully in wood. Sixteen of them have been designated World Heritage Sites by UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation). This, for the benefit of British readers, puts them on a par with the likes of Stonehenge. One of them – I forget which – has a painting of Christ surrounded by the aforementioned folkloric characters.

My Ancud Adventures

A view through the windows of the Convento.

My base for my week on Chiloé was Ancud, the island's second largest town. It is situated on a sheltered part of the north coast, close to the ferry port. It is a sleepy place of low wooden buildings, with a square full of stone statues of the local folkloric characters.. I enjoyed walking down to its rocky beach and visiting the weekend market, where some of the island's brightly coloured potato varieties were on display (it's possible the potato originated on Chiloé). During one of my walks I encountered a marching band of school-age children, and followed them, along with a growing crowd, to the town centre. We joined a number of other parades in the grounds of the former Convento de la Immaculada Concepción. It turned out to be the celebration of the life of a Chilota nun who had famously travelled to Germany; I was told she was a saint but, frustratingly, I've been unable to find anything about her online. The convent's museum is dedicated the island's wooden architecture, and I remember being impressed by the sheer variety of wooden joints on display.

With the help of the staff at my hostel I booked a place on a penguin-watching tour. We drove directly onto the beach at Puñihuil and boarded a small boat. The sand, sea, rocks and drizzle were all grey; the penguins' coats, I suppose, averaged to grey. The most striking animals, therefore, were the bright orange starfish, revealed on the rocks as each wave receded. Given that Chiloé is an important colony for both Humboldt and Magellanic (named after the explorer) penguins I was a little disappointed with how few we saw, but they were very cute. A second tour from Ancud took me into the forest to watch tough pangue leaves being collected for curanto. Our guide then took us back to the garden of his restaurant where this traditional dish was ready to be cooked. A number of white stones had been heating in a fire for some time, and these were placed in a pit. They were then covered first with shellfish, then chicken, pork, sausages, purple potatoes, dumplings, the pangue leaves and, finally, earth. The resulting mound steamed cheerfully for two hours, at which point it was gutted and the curanto served. The fresh shellfish, positioned at the bottom, seasoned the meal to perfection. Our host and his daughter then showed us some traditional salsa-like dancing.

The Penguins of Puñihuil.

The next day I set off early to hunt for wooden churches. I followed the Pan-American Highway for a bit then turned off for the town of Dalcahue. Before long I was picked up by another bus and arrived in the old port (the dalcas which lent their name to it were a type of ancient canoe.) I walked along the seafront and admired its handicraft stalls, in particular the woollen clothing. Striking inland (churches were often built on hills to serve as navigational aids) I soon found the beautiful Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, which was built at the end of the 19th Century on the site of a former Jesuit chapel. It was tastefully painted blue and white, with an elaborate pattern of archways at the front. The interior was calm, quiet and very much like the churches I was used to at home.

I went on to Castro, the capital and largest town of Chiloé. Facing its main plaza was the Iglesia de San Francisco, the largest wooden church on the island and the only one (as far as I'm aware) painted in vomit-inducing yellow and pink. It was closed for renovation during my visit so I took a walk to see Castro's famous palafitos. These wooden fisherman's houses were built on stilts to better withstand the island's extreme tidal ranges. Afterwards I caught one more bus to the nearby town of Chonchi, where I visited the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Rosario. This one was pretty but I was a little alarmed by the hefty pieces of wood leaning against one wall and apparently holding it up: the churches, it seems, need a lot of maintenance.

In the National Park

Curanto: from festival meal to tourist feast?

A series of national parks dominate the west coast of Chiloé; I left Ancud for Cucao, gateway to the Parque Nacional Chiloé. In true backpacker fashion I turned my nose up at the "luxury" hostel by the lake and headed towards the village in search of an alternative. I pushed open a gate and followed a long, sandy path to a series of wooden cabins by the river. Despite being equipped for large groups (each cabin was stuffed with triple bunk beds) the place seemed deserted and it took me a while to find someone to pay for a two night stay. With accommodation at last secured I crossed a bridge over the river to what passed for the village centre. The only shop had a sign in its window reading No Hay Pan (There Is No Bread). It looked like it had been there for a long time. I bought some crisps to complement my remaining pasta and lentils. I returned to my cabin and sat down under a weak electric bulb with my diary. "I feel a little lonely and unprepared," I wrote, "Here at the edge of the edge of the World."

I was not as alone as I had first assumed: in the morning I met Diego, a keen birdwatcher, and "Snorty", a sea lion who liked to chill in the river around breakfast time. My first stop of the day was a nature trail showcasing some of the endemic plants unique to Chiloé (the island is home to unusual "temperate rainforest" habitats). I found it quite disconcerting to approach a clump of vegetation which, from a distance, looked familiar, only to find every plant completely alien to me. After the nature trail I followed the beach north and, with a bit of unplanned paddling, located the start of a hike I had read about online. The sun was shining brightly on this occasion and I set off in high spirits along the bank of yet another lake. I passed a number of small wooden houses, all of which seemed to have some cute puppies, piglets or similar outside. When the path turned inland, and into the rainforest, the going became significantly harder. I was beginning to see why the website had recommended hiring a guide. I decided against trying to reach the viewpoint at the end of the hike; as I prepared to descend I was rewarded with the sight of a small brown object hanging in the air. Despite its darting into the trees I recognised it as a hummingbird – I had never seen one in the wild before.

Some of the fluffier residents of Cucao gathering to bid farewell to our correspondent.

My objective for the following day was to reach the village of Cole Cole, deep in the national park. I had to make several enquiries about getting there and found myself grumpily standing on the main road at 7:30 in the morning. I had been told to wait for a man to walk past then bring the bus around; I had already paid a rather large amount for a ride, so I hoped he would appear. Fortunately everything worked as promised, and I was soon bumping along dirt roads in a minibus. We didn't stop to pick up any other passengers, and after about half an hour we emerged onto a beach and continued driving north on it. We passed strange rock formations on either side; I couldn't see anything else because the rain was by now quite heavy. I had to admit to myself that spending all day around Cole Cole, getting rained on until the bus returned at 4pm, did not sound very appealing.

As we approached the village – I could only make out a few wooden houses – I prepared to say something to the driver in Spanish. One of the biggest parts of learning a language, especially when you're short on vocabulary, is working out how to twist the words you know into an understandable sentence. Telling the driver that I had changed my mind and, having fought so hard to reach Cole Cole, I wouldn't be getting off the bus was a new challenge for me. I managed to make myself understood but I think what I actually said translated as "I want to stay with you forever". Shortly after this resounding success we finally stopped and picked up a hoard of children. This shouldn't have come as a surprise: of course the bus serving a remote village twice a day would double as the school bus! The children had a lot more energy than I and, though they were speaking Spanish, from their appearance I guessed that they had very little Spanish ancestry (one shouldn't make judgements like this, of course, but it's hard to avoid). The children took no notice of me throughout our journey back to Cucao and I learnt an important lesson that day: no matter where you are in the world, kids on a school bus behave like kids on a school bus.

A few bus rides later I was back on the ferry to the mainland. I was sorry to be leaving Chiloé but I had a date with my brother at the "third most photogenic" volcano in the world. This, at least, was how it had been sold to us, but I still haven't worked out how "photogenicity" is actually measured (Japan's Mount Fuji apparently tops the list). On the ferry I was, ostensibly, looking out for whales, but my eye kept being drawn back to Chiloé. The island's hills rolled into the sea in a blur of grey and green; it was easy to imagine the two great serpents locked in battle for eternity. I thought of Diego, Snorty and my friends from the hostel in Ancud. I thought of curanto: once reserved for weddings and special occasions, now mostly cooked for tourists. I thought of the wooden churches and how easily they could succumb to rot, fire or earthquake. In this, at least, we can be grateful to UNESCO for supporting conservation efforts and raising awareness of "intangible cultural heritages" worldwide. It's thanks to organisations like them that we live in such an open and well-educated world; a world which goes on for ever and ever and has absolutely no "edge".

Thank you for reading this article; most names have been changed. I couldn't rely on my memory for this one so I'll include some of the websites (besides Wikipedia) I found useful below. There are likely to be a few factual inaccuracies in the text so please point them out if you see them!

Links

For Chilote folklore: https://www.chile.travel/en/blog-en-2/discover-the-fantastic-myths-and-legends-of-chiloe-a-place-full-of-mysteries/ and https://www.ancientpages.com/2022/07/10/trentren-and-caicai-the-battling-serpents-of-chilote-mythology/
For identifying penguins: https://www.americanoceans.org/facts/types-of-penguins/ (highly recommended!)
For the wooden churches: https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/971 and https://chiloepatrimoniomundial.gob.cl/las-iglesias/


Editor's notes: Pan-Americanism is a topic complex enough for many historical dissertations, but some short notes for the interested reader follow. The early South American pan-Americanists to whom indiekid refers arguably pre-date socialism in its modern sense: Bolivar's Congress of Panama which aimed to unify all the former Spanish colonies in a supranational union happened when Karl Marx was still just eight years of age and a good twenty years short of writing his most notable works. Since then, pan-Americanism has shifted somewhat chimerically between a Bolivarian revolutionary ideal transcending statehood and, notably in the form of the Monroe Doctrine and its developments by men like James G. Blaine, a very grounded foreign policy tool often driven by the United States as the hemisphere's richest country. The concept of a Pan-American highway perhaps owes more to the latter than the former, being an idea pushed first in the form of a railroad in the 1880s and then, from the 1920s, as a road highway: construction eventually began in earnest from the late 1930s onwards, though large sections, as noted in the article, were never completed.

More of indiekid's travels in the Americas can be found in a two-part article with part one here and part two here.

[The Earthwitch]

The Earthwitch

This is a story about a little girl named Mina, who lived with her brother Roy on a long and pebbly beach. To one side of the beach was the grey sea and to the other a great, crumbly cliff. Day after day Mina would walk along the beach to where the waves could almost cover it, then climb to the lower parts of the cliff. There a lot of small, thorny plants grew, and Mina liked to crouch down and explore the hidden places among them. Roy was a better climber than she, and would never let her get lost or stuck. At night he would take her hand and lead her to the upturned boat under which they slept; he always got in after she did. Mina lived happily with Roy, the beach, the sounds of the sea and Maxwell.

Maxwell would visit Mina and Roy every morning and cook fish for them on a fire. Sometimes a little sand would trickle from his fingers onto the fish. This would make him upset, but they would only laugh and pick the sand off with their fingers. Maxwell, unlike Mina and Roy, was made of stones and pebbles, and his face was a big plank of driftwood. He never said anything, but he was very kind. Roy, who had a good memory, said he was a bit like their father, which was why he ought to be called Maxwell.

One day the children sat down to wait for Maxwell as usual, but he did not come. A chilly mist blew in from the sea and they could hardly see anything. Mina's tummy rumbled. Roy grew worried, and said he should go out and look for Maxwell. At that moment, however, Maxwell arrived, walking slowly towards them and limping a little. In his hands he held – to Mina's disappointment – just one small fish, and it was still wriggling. He sat down heavily in his usual place and started to make a fire out of dry wood; Mina and Roy helped him. When the time came to light the fire Maxwell struggled: his hands were weak and he couldn't rub the sticks together fast enough. Eventually Roy took them from him and lit the fire, then placed a flat stone on it with the fish on top. He had to move his fingers quickly to avoid getting burned. Mina slid closer to Maxwell and put her hand on his knee.

"Maxwell," she said, "Are you alright?"

Maxwell didn't say anything, of course, but Mina knew he liked talking all the same. Mina didn't ask him anything else, and soon she could smell the fish cooking. All of a sudden Maxwell stood up so quickly he showered the children with sand.

"Maxwell," cried Roy, jumping to his feet, "What is it?"

Maxwell stood very still and looked inland. Mina stood up too, just behind him. She could not see the cliff and the stunted trees seemed to reach out of the mist towards them. There was a noise from the cliff life a rock falling. Something was coming towards them, and Maxwell seemed to be waiting for it. The trees trembled, then shook violently, and a dark shape burst out of them. The shape straightened up, the mist swirling angrily about it, and Mina saw that it was a woman. She had never seen a woman before, though Roy had told her about them. The woman was dressed all in black, and carried a staff and a big pack. Mina thought that she might be beautiful, though she was very pale. The woman looked at them for a moment, and did not smile.

"Greetings, children," she said, "I am the Earthwitch. What are your names?"

"I'm Roy," said Roy, carefully, "And this is my sister Mina. And this is Maxwell."

"Maxwell," the Earthwitch repeated, stepping down onto the beach, "I think that Maxwell is not very well today. Is that right, Roy?"

"That's right."

"Then perhaps I can help."

The Earthwitch walked towards them and, to Mina, seemed to grow taller with every step. The pebbles crunched under her feet. Finally she stood before Maxwell and reached out her hand. He looked down, then took it in his own. The Earthwitch led Maxwell away from the fire, then stopped and let go of his hand. He lay down with a gentle sliding noise.

"Say goodbye to Maxwell, children," said the Earthwitch, without looking at them.

"Goodbye," said Roy.

"Goodbye," said Mina.

"Sleep," said the Earthwitch, in a deep voice that made Mina's toes tingle.

There was silence for a moment. Mina and Roy could the stones of Maxwell's body, and his smiling face, but they could not see Maxwell. Mina smelled something nasty and looked towards the fire: Maxwell's last fish was still there, burnt black.

The Earthwitch stomped back to the fire and slung her pack from her shoulders. "You must be hungry," she said.

Without waiting for an answer she started rummaging in her pack and pulling things out. She picked up what looked to Mina like brown sand, then sprinkled water on it. She patted it into a cake and placed it on the stone on the fire. Then she made two more cakes and set them all cooking, with Maxwell's fish smoking on the pebbles to one side. Mina watched the Earthwitch working away at the fire; her tummy felt empty but she wasn't hungry any more. The Earthwitch scooped the three cakes onto another stone to cool down.

"Here, Mina," she said, handing her one, "And one for you, Roy."

The cake felt soft and hot in Mina's hands. She watched Roy take a big bite out of his and catch some crumbs in his hand, so she tried to do the same. She didn't like the cake and it made her mouth dry, but she didn't want to be rude.

"Try not to feel sad about Maxwell," said the Earthwitch, "He is happier now. You are lucky to have called him a friend. There are many people like Maxwell in the world, though they are very shy, and few people can see them. We call them Spirits: they are the guardians of the Earth, and the Earth itself. When they are sick, or angry, they wake up, and it is my job to help them sleep again."

"Will we ever see Maxwell again?" asked Roy.

"No. But don't worry: I will look after you." She paused for a moment, then went on quietly, "As the Earthwitch, my power flows from the Earth beneath my feet. I did not make Maxwell sleep – I merely reminded him that he could. Now, get your things. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Roy went to the boat, and while he was gone Mina played with the damp pebbles. The mist was swirling more thickly around her and the fire was dying; she could not hear the sea. Roy returned with his knife, which the Earthwitch placed carefully in her pack. Then she led the way off the beach and into the trees. She had to stoop very low to push past their branches. Mina followed the Earthwitch and Roy into the gloom, but she turned at the last moment to look back at the beach. As she watched, the mists parted to reveal a patch of grey water. On it was a boat, not unlike Mina and Roy's, and it was being paddled away by two people. They were little girls, each with hair as long and dark as Mina's own. As quickly as it had appeared, however, the boat was obscured, and Mina wondered if she had just imagined it.

*

The journey was as long and difficult as the Earthwitch had promised. After climbing up the broken cliff they entered a forest of huge trees. Mina was frightened of them at first, and of the shadows through which the Earthwitch seemed to glide. With every step she wondered when they would return to the beach and to Maxwell. If he was missing them as much as they missed him, surely he would wake up again? Mina felt confident that Maxwell was waiting for them, with fish ready to cook on the fire.

The Earthwitch was not as good at looking after Mina and Roy as Maxwell had been. When it rained at night, she stretched her spare cloak between tree branches to keep them dry. She lit campfires which stung Mina's eyes and made her cry. She remembered Maxwell putting seaweed on the top of their boat to keep out the water when it rained. They would be able to hear him at work in the darkness, and in the morning the seaweed would still be there. At least, Mina thought, she still had Roy at night, holding her in his arms. She was always tired: she had never walked so far before. Her feet hurt, and her fingernails smelt of the forest.

One morning Roy lost his temper. "How much further?" he asked.

"We will be there by nightfall," replied the Earthwitch.

Mina stopped and looked at the ground. She didn't want to walk until nightfall, but she didn't want to make the Earthwitch angry. She heard the Earthwitch coming back towards them.

"Roy," she said, "Can you carry my staff please?"

Mina did not look up, and suddenly felt the Earthwitch's strong hands under her arms. The Earthwitch lifted and cradled her with one arm under her legs and the other under her back. She was surprised, and longed to tell the Earthwitch that she didn't need to be carried, but somehow the words didn't come out. She was reminded once again of Maxwell, though when he had carried her he was gentle and kind – the Earthwitch was neither. She rocked back and forth as the Earthwitch set off again, and she could hear Roy running to keep up.

Mina blinked and it was nighttime. They were going uphill and the Earthwitch was breathing heavily. She didn't feel cold because the Earthwitch's arms and body were hot. All of a sudden, the Earthwitch stopped.

"There it is", she said, "The City."

"With lots of people?" asked Roy.

"Yes."

Suddenly Mina felt herself being lowered to the ground. Her feet were unsteady but after a moment she felt able to look at the City. She was struck first by the last orange light of the setting sun. Between her and the sun were pillars of smoke, and the smoke seemed to come from a forest in the valley below them. It was not like the forest Mina had come to know: the trees were huge and square, with no leaves. It all looked very dry and lifeless.

"They are lighting a lot of fires," said Roy.

"Those are factories," replied the Earthwitch, "Places where people make things – too many things. We will go there tomorrow, but tonight we will sleep here."

Mina did not need telling twice. As soon as she lay down she dreamt of Maxwell and the beach. In her dream, she and Roy pushed their boat out to sea, then paddled it away. Looking back, Mina could see Maxwell waving. She couldn't keep looking at him because the boat was rocking her about too much. Then it wasn't the boat rocking her, but the end of Roy's paddle, hitting her in the shoulder with every stroke. She tried to tell him to stop, but the dream was fading and her eyes were trying to open. The Earthwitch's voice drifted down to her.

"Mina," she said, "It's time to wake up."

Mina stretched and the Earthwitch stopped shaking her. It was so dark that she wasn't sure if she was really awake. Her arms felt heavy from holding the paddle for so long. She realised that she had only dreamt the paddle: her arms were just tired from the journey, the whole long journey which had brought them to this cold morning. Beside her she felt Roy standing up.

"Why do we have to get up so early?" he asked.

"You mustn't ask questions today, Roy," said the Earthwitch, firmly, "You must both be silent and stay close to me. We are going into the City. It is a dangerous place."

Without saying another word the Earthwitch led the way downhill. Roy took Mina's hand and they followed as fast as they could. They struggled to see where they were going, but as the trees thinned out they could see patches of lightening sky above them. Their path took them along the bank of a river. The river was not very nice: it was mostly mud, with a small trickle of water at its centre. Strange objects stuck out of the mud and a green slime covered everything. The smell was so bad that Mina had to hold her nose. The path continued along the river for some distance, eventually passing under some enormous shadows. Mina realised they were the shadows of the square trees she had seen the previous evening. They looked more like cliffs than trees, and she wondered if the "factories" the Earthwitch had spoken of were at the top.

"Are those..." began Roy.

"Hush!" snapped the Earthwitch, who had stopped and was looking at something in the mud.

Mina and Roy looked too. The mud was very dark here, and some animal was making a splashing noise out of sight. There were a lot of pieces of old wood in the river, and Mina recognised one as the prow of a boat. It was about the size of the rowing boat she thought she had seen at the beach. She looked up at the Earthwitch, to see if this was the object of her interest. The Earthwitch, however, was no longer looking at anything: her eyes were closed. After a moment she swept on, and Mina and Roy followed.

They were very close to the factories now, and Mina could hear strange animal noises coming from them. Then she heard words she recognised, and realised it wasn't animals but other people on the inside. She felt afraid: what if they were all like the Earthwitch? The Earthwitch was moving slowly now, and checking the way ahead. She paused where another path led away from the river and beckoned Mina and Roy onto it. It was very narrow, and the factories loomed high above their heads. Strange things, like branches, were stretched between them; there was not a plant in sight. The Earthwitch led them up the path then around a tight corner, and another. They had to walk in single file and Mina could see little more than Roy's back ahead of her; she was sure they would soon be lost.

The Earthwitch stopped abruptly at a small wooden recess in one of the factories: a door. It had an ugly piece of metal sticking out of it. She knelt down and put her ear to the ground; Mina, meanwhile, pressed herself against the factory wall and waited. At last the Earthwitch stood and let out something like a sigh.

"The Spirit is expecting us," she said.

The Earthwitch pointed the end of her staff at the doorhandle, and Mina noticed, for the first time, patterns carved into the dark wood. She could see lines and spirals, some tightly wound and some stretching the length of the staff. The more she looked the clearer they became; they were, in fact, beginning to glow. Their light turned the Earthwitch's staff red, and the doorhandle let out a sudden, loud click. The noise seemed to echo up and down the path and the Earthwitch was immediately alert. She looked left and right then pushed on the door which, to Mina's amazement, swung inwards. There was nothing but darkness on the other side.

"Inside," hissed the Earthwitch, "Quickly."

Mina didn't want to go inside but the Earthwitch was pushing her and Roy in with her whole body. A rush of cold air hit her and the door banged shut behind them. They were plunged into darkness, but their eyes soon adjusted to the red light of the Earthwitch's staff. It was strong enough to turn the smooth walls and floor the colour of blood. They were in a corridor which sloped steeply downwards. The Earthwitch took a few steps ahead.

"The City has forgotten this place," she whispered, "But the Earth has not. Come."

Mina was very aware of Roy beside her, and of the cold stone beneath her feet. The Earthwitch turned and saw that they hadn't moved.

"You are cold?" she said.

She placed her pack on the ground and rummaged inside it. As she moved, her shadow seemed to grow and shrink on the wall behind her. After a moment she pulled out the spare cloak with which she had kept the children dry in the forest. She reached over them and placed the cloak around their shoulders. Roy pulled it tight and pulled Mina close to himself in the process. The cloak was still slightly damp but Mina felt better, especially with Roy's arm around her.

"There," said the Earthwitch, smiling. She led the way down the slope and this time Mina and Roy followed. Mina thought they must look like a strange, four-legged animal.

As they descended into the cave the air grew colder, and the only sound was that of their footsteps. They rounded a corner and the Earthwitch, up ahead, gasped. Mina craned her neck to see what was happening. Two girls were fighting silently in the cave before them: they were almost see-through, and Mina wasn't sure if they were really there. They looked just like the girls in the boat at the beach. The younger girl was holding tightly to the other's arm, preventing her moving away. The struggle lasted just a few seconds, and ended with the older girl breaking free and running deeper into the cave. The younger girl held out her hand and made to follow; both faded from view.

"What was that?" asked Roy, even though he wasn't supposed to.

"Nothing," said the Earthwitch, "A message of sorts."

"I remember..." began Mina.

"Quiet!" shouted the Earthwitch, striding further into the cave, "Come and see the Spirit for yourselves."

Mina and Roy saw that the cave had widened into a huge cavern which stretched out into the darkness. They were on a ledge looking over it, and a little way ahead some steps were cut into the rock. They stood with the Earthwitch at the top of the steps. Mina was not sure if she wanted to meet the Spirit after all. Looking out, she saw big piles of metal strewn about: rusted, twisted metal of all shapes and sizes. The Earthwitch's light did not stretch far into the cavern but Mina was sure she could see smaller lights dancing amidst the metal.

Abruptly a hot wind began to blow from behind them, picking up a small piece of metal from a nearby pile. The metal began to tumble towards the centre of the cavern, and the sound of it scraping was echoed by others in the cavern. The wind picked up more and more pieces of metal; soon the whole expanse seemed to be moving and gathering in the centre. The wind grew so strong and the noise so loud that Mina buried her face in the cloak, and would have fallen but for Roy's arm. As suddenly as it had begun, the wind and noise stopped. Mina forced herself to open her eyes.

The cavern's metal had collected into a single, steep-sided pile. As Mina watched, two holes appeared near the top and seemed to glow with a red fire: eyes. With another screeching of metal a third, larger hole formed into a jagged mouth. The whole mass shuddered and resolved itself into a body and four clawed legs. It was no longer a pile but a creature, huge and terrifying. It stretched itself up to its full height, took a great  breath and roared. To Mina it was a roar of pain, imprisonment and metal pounded against metal. She wished it would stop, and wished herself away, but when the creature finished it merely stamped and roared again. Unsteadily, but with increasing speed, it heaved its writhing body into motion. It ran mindlessly and slammed into the rock wall with such force that small stones fell at Mina's feet. Mina heard the Earthwitch's voice, cold and hard, coming from behind her.

"The people of the City did this," she said, "They plunder the Earth thoughtlessly; they take everything. Now the Earth's pain has a form of its own: this, the Pain Spirit."

As she spoke, the Pain Spirit reared angrily and charged across the cavern. The ground shook again as it collided against the far wall, and it began a rhythmic pounding as though trying to break through.

"Can you make it sleep?" Roy asked.

"No," said the Earthwitch, "It wants something I cannot give, payment for the crimes committed against it: a life. I'm sorry, Roy, I know it's not right, but one of you must sacrifice yourself to the Pain Spirit. The other will stay with me, and I will teach you to be the next Earthwitch. Now, choose."

"We're not doing anything you say!" cried Roy, spinning Mina around to face the Earthwitch.

"Choose," said the Earthwitch, her grip tightening on her staff, "Please."

The Earthwitch was suddenly much taller than Mina remembered. Her staff glowed brightly and threw her shadow against the rock wall behind her. Another shadow was beside hers: it had a rectangular head and a long, thin neck.

"Maxwell!" She cried, and without thinking she and Roy flew towards him, cloak discarded.

Maxwell knelt down and spread his arms wide to meet them. Mina leapt up and hugged his stony body tightly. She felt his arm around her, and a piece of dry seaweed tickled her shoulders.

"Maxwell," said Roy beside her, "The Earthwitch... the Earthwitch..."

Roy couldn't finish because he was crying; Mina was crying too. She cried because she was happy: happy to be with Maxwell again and to be going back to the beach. Maxwell hugged them tightly, and didn't move until their tears had stopped. After a while Mina realised there was something wrong about the stillness and quiet. She remembered the Pain Spirit. She made to look over her shoulder, but Maxwell pulled her close and tapped his cheek with a long, pebbly finger. Mina knew what he wanted and stretched up to kiss him there; she tasted the salt of his face on her lips. Maxwell tapped his other cheek and Roy, too, kissed him. Then, letting go of the children, he stood up to his full height.

"Maxwell?" said the Earthwitch.

Maxwell did not look at the Earthwitch. He looked at the Pain Spirit, which was standing in the centre of the cavern, mouth and eyes agape, body heaving with every breath. Mina could see the deep red flames within it. Without warning Maxwell took a great step towards the Pain Spirit, then another, and was soon descending the steps towards the cavern floor.

"No, Maxwell!" cried Roy, starting after him.

"Don't!" cried Mina.

"Stay where you are!" shouted the Earthwitch, grabbing each of them by the shoulder.

"Let go of me!" said Roy, punching and kicking as hard as he could, "Let go!"

The Earthwitch, however, was too strong for Roy, and Mina was too transfixed to move. Maxwell was crossing the cavern quickly, and the Pain Spirit stood, tracking him with its head. Undaunted, Maxwell strode right to the Pain Spirit's feet and looked up at it. Mina was not sure if she was shouting or crying or both, but she hoped Maxwell would hear her. Somehow she knew he would not. The Pain Spirit reared up on its hind legs and opened its mouth impossibly wide. It brought its head crashing down upon Maxwell and its entire body seemed to follow in an avalanche of metal. At once Mina was hit by another burst of wind, blowing this time from the Pain Spirit itself. It flung her to the floor and it was all she could do to cover her ears and tuck her knees into her chest. The wind stopped.

Mina opened her eyes, inhaled a mouthful of dust and coughed for a few moments. The cavern was dark and quiet. From above her came the sound of loose stones falling, and the darkness was punctured here and there by shafts of daylight – the Pain Spirit had damaged the ceiling. Mina hoped that the Pain Spirit was just something she had imagined, or dreamt. Scanning the cavern, she caught sight of the Earthwitch walking in the centre of the cavern. Mina wondered how she had got there so quickly – she must have fought her way through that awful wind. Without knowing why, she started down the steps after the Earthwitch. She had to weave her way around the heaps of metal, which were much larger than she'd realised, but she no longer felt afraid. She ran, her breathing loud in her ears, and the Earthwitch soon saw her.

"You can go if you like," she said, before disappearing behind one of the piles.

"Mina!" called Roy from some way behind her, "She said we can go."

Mina ran on, convinced of something she could not put into words, and caught up with the Earthwitch.

"That was you we saw," she burst out, "And your sister. Maxwell showed us. Maxwell did it."

The Earthwitch stood for a moment, tapping at some metal with the end of her staff. "Her name was Nadia," she said, "She died here twelve years ago. I thought I knew why. Until today, I thought I knew why."

The Earthwitch sank to her knees and her pack hit the ground heavily. Dust motes, caught in a shaft of light, spiralled slowly around her head. She flung her staff away, and its clatter was joined by the sound of running feet.

"Come on!" said Roy, grabbing Mina's arm.

"No, Roy," she replied, pulling away. She walked towards the Earthwitch who, kneeling down, was hardly taller than she was. "She was very brave, your sister."

The Earthwitch looked at her for a moment, and smiled. "As brave as your Roy," she whispered.

"Is it asleep?" Roy demanded.

"Yes," said the Earthwitch, "Yes. But twelve years is too short a time. Something has gone wrong. I have to," she paused, "I have to do something."

"We'll help you," said Mina, enthusiastically, "Won't we Roy? We'll help you, and you can teach us both to be the Earthwitch. Two will be better than one!"

The Earthwitch was still hanging her head, and Mina wished she had the spare cloak to wrap around them both. "I would like that," she said, eventually.

"No," said Roy, "I don't."

"I can make it up to you, Roy," said the Earthwitch, straightening up, "I'm sorry I brought you here. I never wanted to. I'm sorry about this, and the Pain Spirit, and the awful, awful Earthwitch."

"What's your name anyway?" asked Roy, warily.

"Idil," said the Earthwitch, "My name is Idil, and my sister's name was Nadia. Roy, Mina, it's nice to meet you," she stood up, "I would like to train you both as Earthwitches, if you'll have me. But I think you should look after this."

She reached into her pack once again, and pulled out Roy's knife. She held it out to him and, after hesitating, he snatched it close to his chest. "What do you say, Roy?" she asked.

"Do you promise," he said, carefully, "That there won't be any more horrible spirits?"

"I promise. There's only this one, and when it wakes up again we'll be ready for it, won't we?"

"Yes!" cried Mina.

"Yes," said Roy, and the blade of his knife, caught in the light for a moment, flashed brilliantly.

[On Three Kings' Crag]

After contributing to 2023's chain writing I was itching to write some more. I found myself daydreaming, once again, about an earlier chain writing project. I was second in the chain on that occasion, so at the time I was writing the setting of the story was not fully fleshed out. I knew that the writer after me would need to build upon my last sentence: "I'd rather we die before they take our tongues." But who were "they"? The writer after me came up with something original, exciting and terrifying. Fast-forward to last year, however, and I remembered that I did have a spark of an idea - a different idea - for who "they" might be. In blowing on this spark I created the following story. I don't think this is really in the spirit of chain writing, so my original intention was to keep the first two sections unaltered. As my story ballooned in size, however, I realised I would have to rewrite them to be more consistent with the narration style I had chosen. It's worth noting that I was backpacking at the time, so I think the main character's preoccupation with language and culture may have been a reflection of my own. I hope you enjoy reading and I would be interested to hear your thoughts. 

On Three Kings' Crag

The North Wind raged atop Three Kings' Crag, chilling me to the bone. Having left both clouds and rain behind, my companions and I now battled to keep our footing on the treacherous path. I was close to exhaustion: the thought of being whisked off the face of the crag and hurled to join my ancestors was by now quite appealing. I held on, however, bracing my axe against the rock and putting one foot in front of the other. If my companions and I could not find the strength to throw off the storm how would we throw off our oppressors? I had promised them we would find our answer on this forsaken rock; I hoped I was right.

After what seemed like an age the dark bulk of Kelgar's Rest loomed out of the night above us. My heart leapt to see a faint light glowing from within. Kelgar's rest was the smallest of the Crag's three barrows, long since hollowed out and plundered. It was clearly occupied again. I signalled my companions to leave the path and picked my way over the rocky ground; ordinarily it would have been a simple walk to the barrow but the battle with the wind took us to the limit of our strength. With a sigh I heaved the shaft of my axe against the crude door and knocked.

"Who goes there?" asked a voice, muffled by stone.

"A friend," I replied, "Perhaps we can speak inside? We are freezing to our bones out here."

"Who knocks?"

"I am Ren. With me are Monok, Turin and Pey: three men with only one tongue between them."

The door opened and I ducked inside to find a young Southern woman, weathered beyond her years, standing in the glow of a fire. She was looking past me and I shifted awkwardly along the stone wall to allow Turin and Pey to enter. They greeted their kinswoman in their traditional way – foreheads touching – and I allowed myself a moment of pride. I had promised Turin and Pey – tongueless, scarred and loyal to the last – that we would reach Kelgar's Rest and in this, at least, we had succeeded. The woman was whispering alien words to them and they murmured in response, almost as one. With a start I realised that two small children, a boy and a girl, were staring at me from behind their mother. Caught unawares I struggled to remember my manners, and eventually decided to bow my head to them.

"Isil vai," I stammered, and they responded in kind.

With our formalities complete I looked around the barrow, our promise of shelter. Furs lined a ledge creating a seating area and there was some rudimentary cooking equipment on the floor. A haze of smoke filled the air; the barrow's walls did not allow it to fully escape. One would have to be mad to choose such a place to raise a family; mad or desperate. I was interrupted in my thoughts by Monok heaving himself through the low door and pulling it shut behind him. Turin, Pey and I joined the children on the floor, wriggling our backs to find comfort against the stones.

"I apologise," said the woman, turning to me, "I am Surimay. You are welcome to shelter with us tonight, but you'll find no food here."

"We have plenty for us all," I said.

"How can you bear," growled Monok, "To shelter in a tomb?"

"It will be our tomb before midwinter. We have nowhere else to go."

Monok had the courtesy to look abashed, and the children watched him in confusion.

"I'd rather we die," Surimay continued, "Before they take our tongues."

"What if I told you we come bearing hope?" I said.

Her expression did not change, but she looked to Turin and Pey, who nodded. "Go on," she said.

I hesitated: my plan was too far-fetched, too incredible. I had persuaded Monok, Turin and Pey to follow me but even now they seemed doubtful. If I spoke of my plan now perhaps I too would fall into doubt.

"If you'll permit me, Lima," I began, adopting the formal title for a Southern woman, "I would prefer to show you. The object of our quest lies at the Ruiner, barely an hour's journey from here. I would be grateful if you would accompany us tomorrow."

"Very well," she said, "It will be distracting for the children."

"Wonderful!" I cried, "Now, my friends, I believe we have some salted meat left?"

Our meal that night was a curious one: despite Turin and Pey's muteness they held a conversation of sorts with our hosts. Monok and I were unable to follow and, though he was used to eating in silence, I felt uncomfortable. My thoughts strayed, as they often did, to the children I might have had and the peaceful life I might have lived. I was relieved when the time came to stretch out as best we could on the barrow floor. The little girl took her brother in her arms and sang softly to him. Surimay, however, had rolled away, stiff as a board. Her silence struck me as odd: surely it was she who had taught her daughter to sing, just as her mother would once have taught her?

*

We woke to find the storm had passed and a fresh, cool wind had taken its place. The sun hung in a brilliant blue sky as we traversed the crag. Below us, mountains rolled into hills as far as the eye could see. I laughed at the sight: how smooth and inviting the landscape looked, yet how steep and difficult had our journey been! Most of my attention, however, was directed towards the children (the boy's name, I had found out, was Vin and the girl another Surimay). They ran ahead of us as we approached Ulrich's Rest, the largest of the crag's barrows, and returned, laughing, to take our hands and show it to us. Though built in the same way as Kelgar's Rest it was now only ruins: the remains of the circular wall gave the children something to climb on and hid tiny flowers among its stones. I let myself be taken in by their games; they taught me their names for the flowers and laughed again as I tried to repeat them. Eventually, with a big sigh, Monok looked at the children and pointed along the crag, towards the cliffs. Seeming to understand his meaning they agreed to continue the journey – provided Monok carried them. We set off again in high spirits.

With a start I realised Surimay was missing. Looking over my shoulder I found her trailing the party, her face hidden by a long scarf. I hung back to speak with her.

"The children have taken to the mountain," I began, "In a way I could not. Too cold and lonely for me!"

"They are happy to see our cousins," she replied, thoughtfully, "As am I. Thank you for bringing them with you."

"They were only too eager to come. It was they who guessed who you might be, when we heard rumours you were here."

"You have not come to take us to safety." It was a statement, not a question.

"Perhaps," I hesitated, "Perhaps if the children – "

"And who are you, Ren?" she interrupted, "Who are you to play games with children? To speak of hope but refuse to share it?"

"I am sorry. My father is the Lord of Komorr. I have helped him to shelter some of your people in our home." She said nothing, "We do not agree with what is being done, Surimay. You must believe me. I do not agree. My father is likely dead by now. As the four of us left Komorr it was surrounded, besieged."

"You chose not to fight?"

"It was hopeless," I sighed, "Monok would have stayed, I know he would. But we still held some hope. Here, on this crag."

The path had narrowed to a ravine, and Surimay went ahead of me. She climbed swiftly.

"Surimay?" I said, "I do not know what I will do, or think, if we find nothing at the top."

"We are close," she replied.

We emerged from the ravine in a hollow near the summit of the mountain, where sheer walls sheltered us from the wind. In the centre was the barrow of the Ruiner, a king so ancient and terrible his true name had been forgotten. The walls of the tomb were long, sharp rocks, stacked together like spearheads in a smithy; each would have required a score or more to lift. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising against my will. This was a good place to hide.

I stepped towards the barrow, hoping that my companions had not noticed my hesitation. I walked into the shadows between it and the rock wall, my heart hammering in my chest. I was looking for the entrance to a cave – it was likely to be hidden, but would its resident have viewed the barrow as deterrent enough? It was dark on the far side of the hollow and thick moss grew on the wall. Too thick. I reached out and it yielded to my touch like a curtain.

"Here!" I cried.

My voice echoed around the hollow and I thought, at first, that it was growing louder. I was wrong: as the last trace of my voice faded away another replaced it, ancient and terrible.

"Who," boomed the voice, "Who disturbs me in my home?"

My fear turned to excitement: we were the first people to hear the voice of a Scribe in generations! I looked to my companions, faltering between rock and barrow, and smiled.

"I am Ren Komorr," I said to the wall. There was no response, so I turned again to the others, "Monok, your name. Your full name."

Monok gave it, then Surimay gave hers. She also spoke for the children, Turin and Pey. We held our breath, and eventually the Scribe spoke again.

"Enter."

As I hesitated once again, Monok strode forward and clapped a big hand on my shoulder.

"A Scribe on a mountain of dead tyrants," he said, "I'll admit I thought you mad."

"Mad we are indeed," I laughed, "To consider going into this cave. I can go alone."

A quick glance showed me this would not be the case: the children, clasping their mother's hands, did not seem frightened, and Turin and Pey were already preparing torches from their supplies of firewood. Monok peeled back some of the moss as we waited.

"It is narrow," he said, "Single file."

"Take the rear. We'll keep the children in the middle."

Turin pressed a lighted torch into my hand and nodded. I led the way through the moss and into the cave.

My torch seemed to throw more shadows than light as we twisted and turned through the cave. The sound of running water grew louder as we descended, and the air grew warmer until it felt almost humid. After a short distance we entered a low cavern with a pool of water on one side. At our feet and above our heads strange plants forced their way through cracks in the rock. They grew almost straight up or down, with leathery leaves clinging tightly to a thick stem. On each stem was a fruit, like a small red apple. Behind me, I heard Surimay scold one of the children for reaching out to pick one. Her voice seemed muffled by the damp air. Against one wall we found a clue to the Scribe's way of living: a small wooden box, which contained a number of harvested fruit.

With our curiosity sated we continued into the passageway at the far end of the cavern. After a short descent it opened again into an antechamber with a heavy wooden door against the far wall. The Scribe's unearthly voice came again.

"We shall speak alone. Leave your weapon outside."

My hands shook as I leant my axe against the wall. I felt I couldn't stop, couldn't slow down. I could only nod to Monok as he took the big iron latch in his hands. He swung the door towards us and I stepped through.

The cave beyond the door was very different to the one I had left behind. Flames burnt in braziers in the walls and lit up a red-tiled floor. Scrolls were stacked against both walls: some old and crumbling, some much newer. The corridor curved sharply to the left so I could not tell how far this trove of knowledge stretched. As I was wondering if I should walk further the Scribe spoke to me.

"Ren Komorr," it said, and then appeared to wait for me to respond.

"Yes, my lord Scribe," I said, "Please accept my apologies for this intrusion. Long ago you told my ancestor of this cave. We have believed – hoped – that you did so in case we needed to find you, needed your help."

"You are mistaken."

"Without the Scribes we are desperate," I said, a lump forming in my throat, "The land knows only war; there is no justice or peace anywhere. I come on behalf – mainly on behalf – of the Southerners, who have been crushed and oppressed all this time. It started with tongues –"

"Enough," interrupted the Scribe, "The ones you call Southerners: they are the practitioners of the Aural Histories?"

"Yes, my people fear this skill may be comparable to your own." I winced at my foolishness: surely it was a mistake to compare the power of humans, any humans, to that of a Scribe. The Scribe, however, did not show any sign of offence.

"You have come to ask my help, forgetting that my people have tried to placate humanity a number of times over the centuries. You revert to violence without fail. I will not leave this place; your concerns are not mine."

"My lord –"

"My answer is no, Ren Komorr. I would, however, take the two children as my apprentices."

My head was spinning with rage and disappointment: had the creature no compassion? Why ask for the children? I had not heard of the Scribes sharing their knowledge before. A more immediate issue, however, weighed on my mind.

"What of their mother?" I stammered.

"I have no use for her."

"It is not for me to –"

"Then bring her to me!"

With the Scribe showing impatience at last I turned and pushed open the door through which I had entered. I had not thought to compose myself and as my companions rose from the ground they saw the disappointment on my face.

"It wants to speak with you," I said to Surimay.

Monok, stoic in his new role, opened the door for Surimay and she stepped quietly through. I sunk to the floor of the cave and closed my eyes. I don't know how long I sat there for, but Surimay's audience with the Scribe was certainly longer than mine. At one point, I thought I heard her singing. Monok, stronger than I, would later relate how the children sat hand in hand, impassive, as they waited for their mother to return.

Surimay opened the door with a quiet dignity and beckoned the children to their feet. I marvelled at her steadiness, her lack of emotion, as she whispered to them. Finally, after kissing each on the forehead, she stood with the children and gently pushed them towards the door. Monok frowned, disbelieving, and Surimay had to ask him twice to close the door behind the children. It was too late: silhouetted in the corridor, the children had begun to turn and saw us standing, unmoved, in the chamber, closing the door between them and their mother.

*

I remember little of the return journey. We must have passed through the cave and ravine in silence. By some instinct we paused at Ulrich's Rest and I told my friends of my conversation with the Scribe. Monok said something encouraging. As we set off again I remembered my axe, standing forgotten in the cave. Useless now. As evening drew towards us we settled down once again amongst the stones of Kelgar's Rest; Surimay did not join us. Monok was restless, and after a few minutes he made for the door.

"Monok..." I began.

"It is too easy, Ren," He said, without turning, "Too easy to be alone at times like these."

With that, he disappeared through the door of the barrow and left us in darkness. We lit the fire and waited. When Monok and Surimay returned, her eyes were red.

"Now," She said, "I hope you will forgive my poor hospitality yesterday. Tonight it is my turn to cook us a meal."

This is where I post updates from the talented freelance artists and designers who are helping me to bring the project to life. I will start with the God portraits, done by the talented Tadas Sidlauskas https://tadas0.carbonmade.com/. These are the playable characters in the game, and are not yet finished.

A selection largely from my phone so the quality is not great at present, again this will hopefully improve!

A place where I will keep details of gameplay and update the rulebook.

Updates about the project are posted here - please feel free to leave comments, questions or suggestions.

Master of Olympus is a board game which, if all goes well, I will self-publish in 2018. Players take on the role of Greek Gods and use heroes, armies and creatures to collect artefacts and conquer cities. The ancient world is represented by a hexagonal grid, and all players take their turns simultaneously as they fight to control strategic areas.

Master of Olympus was inspired by films about the Greek myths, which often include scenes where the Gods are sitting on Mount Olympus and watching the story unfold. The Gods see the story and its characters as a board game.

Find out more about how the game has evolved here: https://masterofolympus.wordpress.com/2017/05/02/first-blog-post/.