July 25, 2012. It has been a month since I last posted. Access to a computer has been scarce, and honestly, I haven’t felt much like writing. Sleep has been elusive, and happiness too.

Traveling hasn’t been easy lately. My companion has a strong appetite for alcohol and nightlife—everything I try to avoid. It’s caused tension, and at times, fear. There have been moments I never imagined I’d face while traveling—threats, abandonment, nights spent questioning what I was doing. We had made our way to the island of Chiloé, a place as soaked in rain as it is in myth.

The first four days were spent in Ancud, a working-class town on the island’s northern coast. Rain fell every day, often an inch or more, and the sky remained stubbornly overcast. The bus system moved at a glacial pace—two hours to go fifteen miles. But in that slow crawl, I caught glimpses of everyday life: what it means to live on this soaked, remote island.

After four days of drizzle and fog, we finally caught a break in the weather and headed south to Castro, a coastal town halfway down the island. Sunlight made a rare appearance, and I took full advantage of it—walking out to the Ten-Ten peninsula, named for the mythical land serpent in Chiloé folklore. According to legend, Ten-Ten defends humans by raising land when the sea serpent, Caicai, tries to drown the earth.

I’ve been trying to travel in a way that brings me closer to local life—taking the same slow buses, staying in modest hospedajes, stepping in the same mud and dog poop. Recommendations from fellow travelers have been more helpful than guidebooks. Books can’t adjust for your personality. And besides, they’re heavy. I’ve been working on lightening my load in more ways than one.

Hitchhiking has become part of the journey, especially in places like Chiloé where buses are unreliable and the people generous. Locals are often the ones to stop, especially in off-season, and many know what it’s like not to have a car. It’s been two months since I’ve had one, and I’m realizing just how deeply life is shaped by mobility. I hope to carry that awareness home with me.

I met a pair of folk musician brothers who offered me a ride back to Castro. As we drove, they shared stories about the indigenous people of Chiloé and the meaning behind place names—most of them in Mapuche. “Dahcahue,” they explained, means “the place where the dahcas would dock.” Dahcas were small boats used by indigenous islanders to cross from one island to another in the western archipelago.

It’s been five days now on the island—five days of soaking in the culture, the mist, the mythology, and the remnants of Spanish influence.

The micros—small local buses—are their own kind of lesson. One trip took three hours to cover twenty miles. Moss and lichen grew in the window frames. Another route, out to a peninsula, took four hours for just thirty-five miles.

We stayed with a kind woman who ran a humble hospedaje and spent her days at the stove, preparing traditional dishes. Cazuela, a hearty seafood soup, and curanto, a stew of meat, chicken, and shellfish slow-cooked over a wood-burning stove. Fresh bread greeted us each morning.

The downside? Ten rooms stacked above ours in an old, rickety wooden house. One night, a boisterous group of workers stayed up drinking and shouting well past dawn. I didn’t sleep until after 6 a.m. Still, the elm-shingled houses (tejas de alerce), the fishermen’s cottages, and the conversations from the front seat of local buses made up for it. One bus driver joked with me, asking how the “tour” was—as if bouncing along dirt roads was part of a guided experience.

The town of Ancud will stay with me—raw, rainy, and full of character. But I’m happy to be moving on to Castro.

Further south, near the town of Cucao, lies a national park cloaked in rainforest. Trails are few, but the landscape was stunning. A tea-colored rivulet wound its way through thick forest. Signs told of local trees, plants, and how indigenous communities, especially curanderas—female healers—used them to treat emotional and physical illnesses.

At a rustic cabin warmed by a wood stove, I had a hot chocolate and finally dried out after days of cold.

One conversation made me laugh harder than I had in weeks. A friend was lamenting US political campaigns, and I told him I’d rather step in dog poop. At least with dog shit, you can scrape it off your shoes.