Exploring Chiloe Island by wanderlust Travel Magazine part I

Palafitos in Chiloe island.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door of the shingled building in the grounds of Centro de Ocio Hotel, I was met by a timeless scene. Smoke rose from a deep fire pit, which was being used to roast meats, fish and potatoes. A family band started playing: charismatic Amigo Alex on vocals; his multi-talented son, William, switching between a variety of wind and stringed instruments; daughter Lucero played drums.

church in Chiloe 

The songs were a mix of traditional Chilote numbers and their own compositions. On finding out that a member of our party was celebrating her birthday, Alex directed a song to her, before asking, “What does it feel like celebrating your birthday in the Republic of Chiloé?”

Chiloé certainly has its own strong identity. It is common to hear the locals say, “I am not Chilean, I am Chilote”. Incomers, whether from mainland Chile or other countries altogether, are even more passionate about it. The manager at the Centro de Ocio was typical. Born in Argentina, Nicholas had married a Chilote and had persuaded her to move back home. “I’m not from here, but it’s my island. I choose to live here. I am Chilote.”

Birds, beliefs and bluster

The Chiloé Archipelago lies a little over halfway down the coast of Chile, and is considered part of the Lake District region of northern Patagonia. The main island, a little smaller than Cornwall and Devon combined, is also called Chiloé. Sitting within the Roaring Forties, the archipelago is blasted with rain and high winds; weather so extreme that Darwin grumbled, ‘In winter the climate is detestable, and in summer it is only a little better.’

Driving through Chiloé was initially slightly disorientating. Small, green pastures were grazed by dairy cows and expanses of yellow broom flowered by the roadside. Along with the blustery weather, this gave it the feel of the Outer Hebrides or Ireland’s west coast. But it was the birdlife that indicated we were somewhere more exotic. Black-faced ibis prowled the fields, blacknecked swans glided around the estuaries and chimango caracaras sat sentinel on fence posts watching out for snacks.

The architecture was the next giveaway. Many of the older houses are made of distinctive wooden shingles, while in Chiloé’s capital, Castro, and some other waterside communities, colourful palafitos (stilt houses) grace the waterfront. Then, once you meet the people, you realise that Chiloé has its own distinctive culture, and is very different to mainland Chile.within the Roaring Forties, the archipelago is blasted with rain and high winds; weather so extreme that Darwin grumbled, ‘In winter the climate is detestable, and in summer it is only a little better.’

Driving through Chiloé was initially slightly disorientating. Small, green pastures were grazed by dairy cows and expanses of yellow broom flowered by the roadside. Along with the blustery weather, this gave it the feel of the Outer Hebrides or Ireland’s west coast. But it was the birdlife that indicated we were somewhere more exotic. Black-faced ibis prowled the fields, blacknecked swans glided around the estuaries and chimango caracaras sat sentinel on fence posts watching out for snacks.

The architecture was the next giveaway. Many of the older houses are made of distinctive wooden shingles, while in Chiloé’s capital, Castro, and some other waterside communities, colourful palafitos (stilt houses) grace the waterfront. Then, once you meet the people, you realise that Chiloé has its own distinctive culture, and is very different to mainland Chile.

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