Frugal Traveler: Churches and Cheap Seafood Off the Coast of Chile

Seth Kugel

The Church of San Francisco in Castro.

Around dusk on my last day in Chiloé, an archipelago just off the coast of southern Chile, I finally made it to the farthest point on the island of Lemuy, winding around sheep farms on tidy dirt roads to a little town called Detif, home of one of Chiloé's traditional wooden churches, which are recognized as a World Heritage site by Unesco.

As is often the case with old churches in tiny villages, entry required finding the villager with the key. That villager, a woman named Griselda in a blue apron and not-very-recently-dyed auburn hair, turned out to run a little provisions store just across the street. As far as I could tell, it was the only business in town.

"Sorry to bother you so late," I said in Spanish, "but is it possible to see the church?"

I got the feeling she was thrilled to have a visitor, especially so late, and in the off-season. "Someone from another country is here to see the church!" she shouted to her husband as she fetched the key. She turned out to be a lovely woman and a knowledgeable resource. The head of the local church committee, she told me fishing, then a mussel farm, had upheld the economy; now it was largely pensioners, she said. (Her children were raising families elsewhere in Chiloé.)

Unlike the magnificent carved-wood interiors of other Chiloé churches I had seen, this one was homespun and whitewashed, with worn vestments of long gone priests lovingly displayed and icons of saints ready to be picked up and carried in the coming Christmas procession. Griselda told me that Mass is said once a month.

Chiloé (pronounced chill-oh-AY), which lies at about the midway point between Santiago and Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia, has long been a beloved but distant and rustic getaway, favored by Chileans and backpackers but inconvenient for vacationers from farther away or with less time to spare. A grand effort to change that is underway: with a new airport obviating the bus-and-ferry trip from the mainland, boutique hotels and hostels supplementing the already large supply of guesthouses, and even a growing availability of espresso in what was once exclusively Nescafé territory, Chiloé is looking to challenge Patagonia and the Atacama Desert as Chile's go-to escapes.

Whether that's a good thing, it's not yet the case. There's hardly any way, for example, to examine the hundreds of lodging options on the island on Trip Advisor or Booking.com or Airbnb — which is why I had gone door to door, looking for housing options in Castro, Chiloé's largest city, best known for its palafitos, houses on stilts traditionally owned by fishermen but now frequently offering beds to sleep in.

Seeing a sign for Hospedaje (Lodging) at 547 Pedro Monti Street, I rang the bell. And rang again. I was about to leave when a window popped open and 75-year-old Sergio Cárdenas poked his head out. "Just a moment," he said. "I just need to put on some pants." He showed me around his home, which was still being repaired after a fire next door earlier this year (I also later found that the bathroom lacked hot water and wouldn't pass muster with most). When I asked him if he served breakfast, and he gave me a sad look. "But I'm all alone," he said. I dropped off my bags and set out to explore the islands.

Chiloé does not offer the shock-and-awe landscapes of Atacama or Patagonia; it is a place of subtler appeal, known for those charming wooden churches, palafitos, plentiful just-off-the-boat salmon and shellfish, indigenous-influenced crafts. It also has a vaguely separatist spirit: residents often call themselves Chilotes rather than Chileans, and maintain an understated independent spirit, like Texans without the bluster.

On my first day, I took an easy bus (1,500 pesos, about $3 at 508 pesos to the dollar) from Castro's antiquated but very functional bus terminal to Chiloé National Park. It was lovely if somewhat uneventful. There are well-maintained trails to the desolately beautiful coastline and through some of its quickly changing forests, with bilingual signs explaining the changing landscape. (Entrance is officially 1,500 pesos, but I didn't see a place to pay.)

But almost as lovely was the bus ride across the island. Chiloé's landscapes are wildly uneven without being dramatic; green hills and valleys and full of sheep, reminiscent of New Zealand. (When a man on the bus told me Chiloé does not have a professional soccer team, to me the reason became obvious: there was not enough flat land anywhere for a pitch.) This time of year, there's an added splash of color: bright yellow flowers known locally as espinilla coat the landscape, great for photographs but bad for agriculture — the plant, Ulex europaeus, is actually an invasive weed the islanders could do without.

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