is Tuesday. So we're going to Valparaiso. We took the bus in Pajaritos station and you see us, across the foothills to the ocean. What was not visible before, now seems out between the crossing of the country: poverty. I see the first camps piled on mountains; others, on the side of the road. But inevitably, there seems villas or not. Are a few houses clustered here and there. Poverty is widespread within just pockets. The landscape is similar to that of Salta, only the other side of the ridge. Most mountains are dry and just a couple of pimples cover some. Later, the vegetation thickens amid black clouds pass us by, really, do not you see? But suddenly, everything is cut and what was not, is. Poverty spreads its porteñas boxes stacked on each other, with the typical colors of the sea: blue, yellow, green water, red. Next to each other, blinking. And peeling walls and sunken or folded sheets and the facades of the few colonial buildings of concrete or more resistant materials fall old. Valparaíso their poverty shows mixed with an architectural anachronism that time has worn aged. And that seems to be the architectural appeal of this heritage of humanity. In the end, we asked if we took a collective or a taxi. The car, we will head off, we will leave bare, says the lady. We take a bus at the stop, ahisito ask, just, "iá? And we do. We are so confused that a woman approaches and begins to stop the buses and target and ask questions until they give us one wide left by beach where the Hostel Casaclub we go. Child C up his bags, heavy, even more than his body and sits back. Two idiots are set aside their cell phones at full speed. Looks like a mix of reggae with cumbia and quartet what they hear. Unbearable and pelotudeces letter says all the time. The city will go up and us down, we tour churches and colonial houses chipped paint or covered. Piping in the walls and friezes of all types. Angels, palm trees, braids. And stone walls and cement. And the sea that sticks every now and yonder, in some passages. It's cloudy and cold thyroid makes a standstill. We passed a bridge and the bus leaves us isolated in the harbor entrance. On the other hand, the hill. Gigantic. You have to upload it, with backpacks and shoulder bags. The elevators are broken. No, actually, at night, in the Plaza Sotomayor, we learned that no. It appeared that a French coup in the crowd and gave us a leaflet calling for people to join the State expropriate the elevators. He explained that five years ago who lived in Valparaiso. And from one year to another, began to shut down all elevators in the hills because the owners want to charge twice and the state will not let them or people are not paid directly. Then, began to close, the last year to this, closed fifteen and now there are only four functions. And people, well, can not climb. Imagine the old, are confined to the hill, not down, because if you do not have money for a taxi, after whom the rise. Or say you're right, when we went up the street with suitcases in tow, if it appeared the French made him a picket line as long as the elevator Villaseca expropriated and put it in motion. Tongue out. It's one afternoon and went up the mountain road to the hostel. Do not give more. Not give anymore. And every so often stop and watch the sea of \u200b\u200bruins of the city to lay the blue sea. We would say that is a Buenos Aires slum, tourism. Yes, that. Poverty, destruction, trade and tourism. But no sign of violence accumulated. Visible. Only a graffitis they paint the walls with lyrics that I can not I have the ability to decipher and less at this juncture. We arrived at the hostel. F with a sore throat, ready to sprout through the mouth. Since yesterday it hurts and you cough and cough and do not let you sleep. It feels very, very wrong, I can tell by his face, but is stubborn and refused to take a taxi. Now we are here. The hostel is a two-story blue box. Our room overlooking the bay from which to see the city and the ocean in a panoramic view does heal and recover all the effort.
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