Valparaiso, Chile.

There is a city on the Chilean coast, midway down that long, sinuous country, that breaks the rules set by most South American cities. Here there is no mundane grid system, no predictable central plaza. Instead the layout of the place, dictated by geography, is a labyrinth of stairways and winding roads that spread across dozens of small hills that encircle the bay. It is reminiscent of the chaos of English city planning. And the grafitti in this place, instead of scrawls on walls, has been raised to the level of art, with abstract and political murals splashing colour across the already colourful buildings. This place is Valparaiso, darling city of Pablo Neruda, my favourite poet, and my favourite city so far on our trip around South America.

As is mine and Tash´s custom now, once we had checked into the Hostel, we went to explore the city with no particular objective in mind. After wandering around for an hour or so, marvelling at how photogenic the place was, we met a man called Antonio. He told us where to take a good panoramic view of the city, and then took us on an impromptu tour of his town. He must have been about 70, and had a long ponytail and a cheeky smile. He told me he was a better poet than Neruda, and recounted the history of Valparaiso. For a moment I saw the city through his eyes. A bustling port in his youth, then the bohemian, cultural days of Neruda, then, in the 70´s, the excitement of Salvadaor Allende´s democratic, reforming socialism. Then came the dark days of Pinochet, before, in his twilight years, Antonio saw the tourists arrive. We said farewell to our guide, grateful for his kindness, and touched by his pride for his home. After just a day, Valparaiso was growing on me.

The next day we explored again. We rode up one of the steep hills - Cerro Alegre - in one of Valpo´s 15 acensores; clunky, ancient elevators that take you uphill at impossible angles. It is an ingenious way to travel, and gives you brilliant views of the outlandishly designed houses that claw for space on the cluttered hillsides. All unique, these houses are built practically on top of eachother. It looks as if the whole city has somehow fallen uphill and is as fragile as a house of cards.

Of all the houses in Valpo, however, the best is that of Pablo Neruda. It was a pleasure and a privilege to wander around the poet´s home, examining all his trinkets that were left exactly as they were when he was alive. He had a carousel horse from France, a see-through toilet door for brave (or drunk!) guests, an armchair overlooking the ocean he called "el nube" (the cloud), and ancient maps, amongst a host of other things. Every object had its place and history, and through them we got a real feel for the poet; he was a quirky, playful joker, who loved his women as passionately as a teenager, and his home like a child. The eclectic objects were brought together by the nautical theme of the house. Neruda liked to think of himself as a "land navigator!"

The hostel we stayed at was more akin to a student house than a hostel. It was a really friendly, (if a bit grubby, as student houses tend to be!) place to stay. There were only 4 travellers - ourselves and two Danish girls, Luna and Anna, the other people staying there were all permanent...a mix of students and travellers who had fallen under the spell of the place and been stuck there for months. On the second night we were all invited out with this eclectic bunch, and we went to our first nightclub of the trip. It was an absolute cheesefest, with old classic tunes and new songs like the ubiquitous "we no speak Americano", which seems to be the soundtrack of the trip, but it was great fun.

So, Valparaiso. Rough around the edges, scruffy and stunning. A city of poets, artists, travellers and vagbonds. A party town so full of energy it cancels out the sterile, bland nature of its inland neighbour, Santiago, Chile´s capital. It is a city I will miss, and a city I feel like I know, after only three days.