September 5, 2012, Chile. Claudio and I found a cheap residencial—only $8 USD per person per room. I needed my own room, as I was still really sick. My birthday passed with me in bed most of the day, though I did manage to make it to a textile and weaving exhibit featuring indigenous patterns from across Chile and Peru. Interestingly, the exhibit mentioned kelim, a Turkish term for a particular flat weave. The designs were hauntingly similar to those found in Turkish carpets, especially the goddess figures with hands on hips, which also appear in northern Chilean textiles. Trade routes, perhaps? Claudio bought me a rose and a stuffed animal for my birthday—a sweet gesture.

Iquique was once a grand town during the heyday of saltpeter exports—a classic boom-and-bust economy. When the market collapsed in the 1930s, the city plummeted with it, losing its income almost overnight. There’s still a lovely old theater that once hosted international opera singers and other stars. But Iquique now feels like a ghost town, its once-stately casonas from the Gilded Age crumbling to the ground. Despite that, there’s a frenetic energy here thanks to its status as a free port. Huge cargo ships unload cars, electronics, and other consumer goods, and Chinese restaurants dot the city—a trend I noticed continuing in Arica and even Tacna, Peru.

The beaches, nourished by the Humboldt Current, are rich in sealife and birds, but also sadly strewn with trash. Many of the poorest live near or directly on the beach in makeshift huts and tents.

After days of struggling to get better, I pushed on to Arica with Claudio. Prices were a bit higher—around $24 USD for a shared room. The city has a nice paseo peatonal and several beautiful buildings, including the customs house (aduana) and the lovely church, both designed by Gustave Eiffel (yes, the same Eiffel of the Paris tower). Ironically, Chile waited until after Peru rebuilt Arica following the 1868 earthquake and tsunami before invading and seizing it—clever war tactics, I suppose.

I stayed a few extra days to have more time with Claudio. I managed to visit the Museo Zappa, which houses a significant collection of local mummies. Of the 300 excavated remains, about 47 percent were mummified. The methods changed over time, some quite advanced—removing organs and replacing them with sticks or textiles. Many had clay masks over their faces, painted with red and black pigments. Some were thought to serve as ancestral guardians; families would even bury them beneath the floor and sleep over them. Others were buried in pairs, embracing each other, or seemingly at random. Many were infants or children, laid to rest with intricate headdresses and small offerings.

Saying goodbye to Claudio was really hard. I’d lost a molar on a toffee in Iquique and needed to cross into Peru to find a good, affordable dentist—something many Chileans do as well. That, along with the recognition that I’d have to return home, gave me the push to keep moving. I cried most of the bus ride to Tacna. I was moved by women on the bus who looked at me sympathetically and seemed to offer their empathy. Once there, I found a residencial and went straight to the Hospital de la Solidaridad. I met a very competent dentist who cleaned my teeth and re-cemented my crown. All went well.

I spent the next few days visiting museums and learning more about Tacna’s history. It turns out the first major liberation struggle against Spanish rule in Peru started right here, led by a criollo named Zela. He worked minting coins and led a revolt in 1811. He was captured after just four days and imprisoned in Panama, where he died after four years. A tragic story, but an inspiration for later movements that eventually led to independence in 1821.

I also visited the home of Jorge Basadre Grohmann, a renowned Peruvian historian from Tacna. He later became a professor in Lima but returned as a leader in the 1926 plebiscite to decide whether Tacna should remain under Chilean rule. Herbert Hoover ended up playing referee when Chile and Peru couldn’t agree on the outcome. Arica was given to Chile, Tacna to Peru—another example of U.S. meddling in South American affairs.

One day, I headed to Calientes, the local hot springs, hoping to get a good soak. I waited for hours for a 30-minute bath in lukewarm water with no apparent mineral content, despite how it had been described. I wandered the small town in the midday heat looking for lunch, but the restaurants were all sold out. I finally found some pastel de choclo, a sweet corn pie.

I must say, the food in Peru is outstanding—far superior to what I’d gotten used to in Chile. The fresh vegetables and layered flavors were a welcome change from fried foods and doughy empanadas, which I’d grown tired of after four months. I overate simply because everything tasted so good. I found a juice stand in the Mercado Central where, for just $2.30 USD, I could drink a liter of freshly blended maracuyá, mango, strawberry, pineapple, and orange juice. Heaven.

I went back to the hospital to have my ear checked, as I’d been unable to hear properly for weeks. Turns out I had an inner ear infection, so I’m now on antibiotics, hoping to clear it up before heading to Arequipa—which, at 7,450 feet above sea level, is harder on the ears. I decided to rest a few more days in Tacna before going higher.