A (Brief) Impression of Santiago
Well-documented is the great writer Jan Morris’s dislike of the term ‘Travel Writing’ often used to describe her work. Her works should be more accurately understood, as true examples of ‘Place Writing’. Having written about countries and cities including Wales, Tokyo, Spain, and Oxford, destinations are never treated passively as such. Her writing does not travel through place, rather exists within it. Read any of her work and not the care with which she allowed places to recount their own histories, narratives woven, not by her own passing through, but of features which make those places characteristically unique. Embedded within those rich descriptions are personal reflections, emphasising the degree to which Morris immerses herself in place, resulting in a subjective vulnerability to environment often missing in typical travel writing in which the author is more often than not an external observer. Taking inspiration from Morris, the following account of my time in Santiago aims to be more than descriptions, by providing contemplations sparked by my own personal experience of place.
Admittedly, three nights spent in a country’s capital are hardly enough to know a place, or to experience all it has to offer. This is especially the case if interactions were solely transactional and short-lived, in the medium of a language whose words are exhausted quickly. But even as a tourist passing through, there are certainly some impressions to be had.
A Sense of Scale
A sense of Santiago is likely dominated, more than anything, by its sprawling scale. Upon descending from the skies to the capital, its expanse is only dwarfed by the mountains that encircle it. At the centre of the Santiago Basin, a remarkably flat swathe of land formed by the intermediate depression between the Andes to the east and the Chilean Coastal range to the west, the city tucks itself between snowcapped mountains and barren, rocky outcrops with a glimpse of ocean just beyond. Evident by the varying elevations across the city, its urban growth has bulged into its surroundings, from 400m in the western areas to the Estadio San Carlos de Apoquindo of the football club Universidad Católica at 960m. The city itself has overgrown its topography, present urban development climbing the foothills of the Andean Precordillera. In comparison with the grand geographical features that surround it, the sprawl of Santiago seems a gritty and grey lichen, a pitiful human manifestation of the semi-arid climate’s thorny vegetation. Flanked by oppressive mountain ranges, comprehending the size of the metropolitan region, with its seemingly circumstantial placement, is initially daunting.
Closer to the ground, from an elevated position however, the city’s scale is undeniable. My first night in Santiago, from the vantage point of a 12th floor balcony, I caught my first glimpse of an animated city. By night the mountains to the east slowly faded to silhouettes, the murk of dusk ultimately rendering them invisible, whilst the haze of a dull glow hanging above the city became a new feature of the night’s sky. Animated and suspended by dust and light pollution, the capital’s lights flood the sprawl, stretching endlessly along its plain, apartment blocks and packed suburbs merging at the horizon, the dense cityscape in the distance now a bed of glowing embers fizzing with an animated glow. By morning, the disappearance of the mountains is reversed, their peaks dominating the skyline once more, a reminder of the city’s miniscule relevance within the landscape’s dominance.
View from 12th Floor Apartment
From the summit of Cerro San Cristóbal, however, the city can be seen within, not separate from, the valley it inhabits. Known to the indigenously as Tupahue, the hill itself was renamed after Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers owing to its understandable use as a landmark. Reaching the summit of the hill is enabled by the rust-red funicular which tows visitors up the 485m incline. Commissioned by an Italian engineer in 1922, the inaugurated by the Chilean President at the time (Arturo Alessandri) and tested by an engineer (Jorge Alessandri) who would later become another president, its historic relevance saw it declared a National Monument of Chile in 2000. The funicular itself possesses character, with two sloping carriages ascending and descending opposite sides of a single track only separated midway so that passengers might cheer, wave, and greet each other from open sides. As with all modes of transportation with singular, otherwise useless functions, the experience of riding up the hill is uniquely charming, pulling passengers along the clunking cable, above the city’s chaotic dustiness. One can only grin stupidly upon ascending the hill.
Funicular Ride
Beyond the final station of the brief funicular ride, just above vendors selling refreshments to those who decide to walk to the top, and those selling overpriced keychains to tourists not satiated by photos taken of the expansive view, the summit is claimed by Christianity, honouring the Immaculate Conceptions. A small stone church, an amphitheatre for holding masses, and a 22-metre statue of the Blessed Virgin were all mostly ignored on the Thursday I reached the summit. Present-day pilgrims seemed enamoured mostly with the grandeur of the view, but those more religious than myself, amidst the quiet of a gentle breeze, used the separation for a moment of religious reflection. They could choose worse as a sight of contemplation.
View from Cerro San Cristóbal
Across the overbearingly empty amphitheatre, the hush of visitors was disturbed only by an amplified recording of a maudlin voice singing to religious tunes. The clutter of church and amphitheatre presented a rather frustrating obstacle to the total view of the city visible from besides the huge statue. For any attending religious service atop the hill would be forgiven for the distraction such view presents. Besides, one can always see the statue from the depths of the city, its comforting presence illuminated at night. The panorama of the city is what makes the journey up the hill worth it, not its existence as a mostly ignored religious site. I would like to think that even the miserable Pope John Paul II, on his only visit to Chile, cracked a smile, like the rest of us, as he was dragged up the mountain by the charming, toy-like funicular.
Statue of Immaculate Conception
Having observed the panoramic vista in a golden afternoon light, as recommended by my host, the sheer expanse of Santiago surfaced a traveller’s exhaustion I had previously ignored in an attempt to explore as much as possible. I slipped away on the cable car stretching spine-like across the ridge of the hill, taking me to a quieter part of the designated Santiago Metropolitan Park. At this intermediate station, signage indicated the existence of a swimming pool nearby, always tempting given the heat of the afternoon. Tucked in the armpit of a wooded slope and edge of the hill, its now deserted, algae-green waters reminded me that the Southern Hemisphere is creeping reluctantly towards winter, despite any inference I might make from the temperature. Similar was the realisation of my out-of-placeness this side of the globe when, above the pastel dark of the night’s sky, dulled stars arranged themselves in constellations I did not know.
The Chilean capital’s vastness is noticeable even in comparison to the geographic features which surround it. Home to over 7 million inhabitants, equivalent to 40% of the country’s total population, it deserves to be seen from above, where the sense of its sprawl is amplified by flat basin it inhabits. It is an urban landscape which has nestled itself within its surroundings, its growth now creeping ever further up the foothills of the oppressive mountains to its east. I could only grin with a child-like wonder riding the funicular after a long day of tourism and continued to do so seeing the city stretch to the horizon. It is a city that deserves to be seen from above.
Cerro Santa Lucía
Santiago, August 27th, 1834
“… climbing the Hill of Santa Lucía, a small rocky hill that rises from the centre of the city, is a source of inexhaustible pleasure. From there the unique view is truly impressive.”
Charles Darwin
Despite the modern appearance of glass-clad skyscrapers of the city’s financial district and unimaginative, concrete apartment blocks, Darwin’s words still accurately describe the view of the city’s centre found from Cerro Santa Lucía. Known indigenously as Huélen o heuterecan, the remnant of a 15-million-year-old volcano reaching 69m above its surrounding area, is one a few natural ‘island hills’ that interrupt the basin’s otherwise level expanse. As a point of elevation at Santiago’s heart, its preservation as a park preserves alongside it reflections of the historic circumstances that have challenged the city. Its ascension, made easier now by winding footpaths tucked into the rock surface, is just as enjoyable as Darwin credits, almost two centuries later.
The hill itself first features in Santiago’s history as the location of the city’s founding. On one ledge of the rock feature, a stone statue of the conquistador Pedro de Valdivia, leader of a Spanish colonising mission from Peru commemorates the hill’s use as a base of operations, with his short-curled hair and an unimpressed gaze hidden behind a typical conquistador goatee, looks to modern-day Santiago. The plinth which raises him commemorates the camp established on the 13th of December 1541, and the (re)naming of the hill in honour of the Christian Saint celebrated by the Spaniards on that day. It is from this base, and (supposedly) on recommendation of the chiefs of the indigenous Pincunche peoples, that the land between two branches of the Mapocho river, and the small hill once named Huelén, was proclaimed the new city of Santiago del Nuevo Extremo. Scrawled across the statue in awkward graffiti bleached by sunlight, is what I can only imagine as their own interpretations of the city’s founders, led by this profoundly evil man, his legacy of the city not a shield enough to prevent inevitable critiques.
Pedro de Valdivia
On the same square besides the statue dirtied by gripes and grime, are two equally dilapidated fountains, basins filled only with leafy coppers and coppered leaves, neglected by the gardeners more concerned with preserving the park’s greenery from late summer’s browning heat. The statue seemed equally neglected the morning I visited, beyond the few visitors whose curious photos would most likely fade to the background of a broader view of the city from atop the hill, not a historical one.
At the heart of this new settlement, its functions as a site of importance are reflected by the various histories which adorn it. Threatened continuously in its early years by attacks from the indigenous peoples and natural disasters, it was used as a site of worship, to combat in prayer threats like the chicken pox outbreak of 1541. Later on in 1816 it bore the construction of a fortification ordered by the Royal Government which had seized the city from Chilean patriots fighting for the right to be the people of a new country. Upon the victory of the patriots, the fort was finished, named for a captain who died heroically in a battle miles away from the hill. Presently, the fortification lies unused except for a single cannon shot at exactly noon, an echo of a conflict which rendered Santiago the capital of a new nation, lost in the noise of the surrounding city.
On its opposite side, corpses of those considered unworthy of burial at hallowed grounds were buried in a dissident cemetery. For 50 years, those ‘disowned by the sky and the earth’ were buried before being moved to a secluded part of the city’s General Cemetery, as commemorated by a plaque dated September 1873. Removal of these bodies coincides with the extensive remodel that Cerro Santa Lucía, like Santiago itself, underwent in 1872. Under orders of Benjamin Vicuña Mackenna, the hill was decorated with fountains and lookouts and the iconic yellow and white which adorns it. A winding road across the hill now also leads to a small church which houses the tomb of Mackenna. Erected around the back is a statue of Manuel Vicuña (first Archbishop of Chile, a relation of Mackenna. Needless to say, there is a boldness to the placement of your tomb within the park you built besides a significant relative. It is a boldness not rewarded by visitors, who seemed far and few between, to the church now behind overgrown shrubbery, covered in pigeon shit. It would seem that those visitors of Santiago care little for celebrating the men whose names who adorn countless streets in even the smallest Chilean towns.
Beyond its obvious existence as a site which celebrates the histories of Santiago and the impotent legacies of the men who helped it expand from its central nucleus, it remains a joy to explore. It is a seemingly impractical place for a park, presumably only designated as such so that commemorations might be ceremoniously elevated above the city. Although some aspects of it may be ignored, it once again has a new function in the city’s history. Adorning the bare rockfaces on which lizards sunbathe, is a kinder graffiti. Amidst the messages of love and commitment with the names of couples and dates, are some entertaining responses. “Lemur + Coconut”, “Bonnie + Clyde (17.12.23)” are personal favourites, alongside the youthfully melancholic “no hay agonía mas dolorosa que la espera en silencio”, roughly translating to “there is no agony more painful than waiting in silence”. Even as a canvas upon which visitors might bemoan the evil of its founders or celebrate love and its complications, Cerro Santa Lucía lies at the centre of Santiago, a worthwhile excursion for anyone seeking a sense of the city’s layered history.
Various Love Notes
Santiagoans
Judging a city’s people according to the first interaction would be unfair, especially given the first person I interacted with beyond customs scammed me. Before arriving, the potential of being scammed by taxi drivers accustomed to preying on clueless travellers had been stressed not only by the internet, my parents, and friends, but also my host who had told me exactly where to get transport from so that I might avoid losing money. A fatigue-induced misunderstanding of clear instructions and a desire to finish my long hours of travelling resulted in my purchased receipt with a quoted price being snatched from my hand by a taxi driver as I walked out of the airport. My indifference and trust saw him lead me to a yellow and black cab, which rung true to the instructions given to me by the operator of the stand I had purchased the ticket from. Yellow and black, however, were the described colours of a driver’s jacket, not the cab.
Doubts began creeping as my receipt was stuffed deep into a dashboard compartment, and dusty taximeter ignited. By this point we had left the airport at a speed and with an agility that would have been concerning were the driver not one who had been driving for 10 years, as he told me proudly. In an effort to distract myself from swerving, overtaking, undertaking, lane merging, and car squeezing executed with an impressive carelessness, I tried my best to engage in some conversation. The only line of conversation that seemed to engage the driver was when I exclaimed there to be nothing better in the world than driving fast. Having only passed my driving test at home a fortnight prior, it was a bold move, bolstered only by the fact that my vocabulary was lacked the range that would make my lie of experience undetectable. He proceeded then to list pleasures that were in his mind equivalent to driving at the speed that would have encouraged me to clutch tightly to the roof’s grab handle had there been one in the car. The list of equivalent pleasures we settled on, to which I could only nod and agree with, included music, dancing, and women. The words to challenge or add to his list escaped me, and the car fell back to silence punctuated only by horns which I can only assume were meant as compliments aimed at the fearless driving skills on display.
Despite me having stumbled proclaimed that he was the first person I had met in Chile, and the seeming rapport cultivated by our mutual agreement of seedy pleasures, upon arrival the driver told me I couldn’t pay by card and quoted me double the amount printed on the receipt which I did not dare reach for. Having not heeded the advice of countless internet horror stories and refusing to be driven to an ATM to get cash out, I handed a sizeable chunk of the pesos I had only just exchanged at the airport to him. What I now realize as brazen, the driver asked me if that was his tip, and once again I agreed in confusion, told him it was nice to meet him, and grabbed my bags as he disappeared with the characteristic recklessness I had briefly experienced. It took me a few seconds to realize the sizeable chunk of pesos I had given him was definitely not the correct amount. To his credit, he clearly knew how to spot a foreigner, and a sucker at that.
Recounting the story to my host Eugenio, a flamboyant Italo-Chilean, he noted that my European complexion in South America would always be attractive to the wrong type of people. The only consolation he could offer was that a Bolivian girl, a native Spanish speaker, who had previously stayed with him had paid 200,000 CHP (roughly £168) for her airport transfer. This anecdote admittedly did make me feel better, and I vowed not to be as forgiving on my travels, despite an existent language barrier. Needless to say, on my way back to the airport, I got an Uber instead.
If my first encounter with one of Santiago’s inhabitants went badly, the second was ideal. Upon meeting Eugenio, he agreed to speak in Spanish with me so that I could practice, helped me expand my capability beyond the perfect present tense. Enthusiastic whenever I left or came back to the apartment, he engaged in plenty of conversation, from discussing the socio-political situation of Chile, its unequal class-based society, and the closed worldview of its people to his enjoyment of Europe and preference of Spain, where he could continue to live in youth by dancing all night, over his native Italy, which made him feel old. He also kindly asked about Wales, a country of which his only knowledge of, was of course, Princess Diana. I will forgive the obsession with the monarchy, visible only as a fridge magnet of the queen, for his excellent taste in 80s music – the voice of George Michael on repeat, audible from his room on the other side of the kitchen.
He was also curious as to why I had come to Santiago which, in his eyes, lacked the wonder and colour of Buenos Aires or the liveliness of Brazil. Unable to translate my motivation for travelling to Chile, I imaginably seemed rather strange for wanting to travel to the South of Chile on my holidays, which he would rather spend living it up at the beaches of Rio de Janeiro. Eugenio summed up Santiago’s inhabitants as laid back, without urgency to do anything too quickly. He seemed a true representation of the people he described. Our final encounter before I moved on was on his balcony as I busied myself at my laptop, organising last-minute details for the next part of my journey. He on the other hand, was about to spend the night dancing at a club nearby he pointed from the balcony. As I would be leaving the apartment early in the morning to catch a flight, he let me know that his Saturday evening would end as my Sunday morning would begin.
Told to avoid the nightlife of Santiago, I did not venture out beyond dusk. Eugenio’s stories of stabbings were enough to cement the decision I had only partially considered on advice from the same people who had warned against taxi scammers. The only nightlife I had experienced came in the form of barking dogs, shouts ranging from aggressive to joyful, and revving engines along the empty straight roads of the city’s grid-based infrastructure, all audible from bed. As a result of nights I could hear but not see, I was jealous of my host for his Saturday night plans, wanting to experience the nightlife of the city in commitment to seeing all it had to offer, to see whether its inhabitants are as effervescent as the city’s lights under which they dance. Any jealousy dissolved the instant my attempts at sleeping were interrupted by the joyful chaos of the street corner below. Chilean guitar classics belted as from a store window smoke crawled in clouds from a sizzling grill, its noise drowned by the men slamming beers well into the morning. On Saturday evenings, it seems, Santiago is indeed animated – such a terrible time to catch an early flight. On three hours of sleep, I packed my things, and left Eugenio’s place without having heard him return. I can only hope he enjoyed his night enough for both of us.
The Travaller’s Dilemma
Having spent a few days in Santiago, with little interactions beyond ordering food or speaking with my host, my limited energy for urban exploration spent, I left the city to fly south. There is much more to tell of the city and its points of interest, such as the joy of exploring Pablo Neruda’s house La Chascona or the colourful Barro Italia or being approached by a prostitute on Plaza de Armas right next to a preacher bemoaning sin. Those are words for another day, for this briefly lengthy account of my time has taken too much of it already. As a first destination, Santiago was chaotic and fun, and a great place to acclimatise to what is to come.
- D.J. Rolles, Isla de Chiloé, 25/04/2024