Quiet streets slip by as our bus rolls into Valdivia. The temperature has dropped, bright red moving words at the front of the bus tell me a damp 14c awaits us at the terminal. I’m glad I packed jeans in my day-pack. I glance down streets as we pass, each deserted, illuminated at points by random street-lights thats rays glitter back from the wet pavements and bitumen.
We file of the bus and stand nearby, waiting for our bags.
‘Lo máximo,’ says Sarah smiling at me and shivering a little, as much from the cool air as from anticipation. ‘Awesome. It’s exciting.’
Hoisting our backpacks, we make our way into the terminal.
‘A question. Where do the buses leave for Niebla?’ Sarah asked the bored security guard at the terminal.
He mumbles an incomprehensible response and points back over our shoulders.
We decide the information desk would be a better option, but receive the same information, only this time it is accompanied by a smile and a small map. Readjusting our backpacks, large on the back, smaller on the front, we make our way in the general direction indicated.
Fifteen minutes later, after having walked a greek ribbon through the streets, we arrive at another smaller bus terminal. There is a bus, and it is leaving for Niebla in five minutes.
~~~ 20 minutes later ~~~
‘Cabañas Turismo,’ announces the conductor. Sarah and I reach for our packs.
‘Gracias,’ we call to the driver as we exit through the back door.
The bus roars off and we are left alone in the dark wet street. The smell of wet vegetation and woodsmoke surrounds us. What a difference from the dry noisiness of Santiago.
‘Errh,’ Sarah mutters, looking at me. ‘What’s the name of our host? I know it’s Paula and I can’t remember the name of the guy!’
I rummage for my phone to look at the email she sent me earlier.
‘David,’ says Sarah. She’d beaten me to it with her iPod.
As she dials the number I return to looking at our new surrounds, refreshed and dripping from a recent shower.
‘Niebla!’ I think to myself. ‘Fog. How aptly named.’
Small cottages surround us and I see a small unpaved street lead away around a corner. Behind me some rapid, poorly pronounced Spanish tells me David has answered. It finishes as quickly as it started.
‘It’s this way,’ Sarah informs me, pointing down the street I had just looked. ‘He’ll meet us part way.’