This article was originally published in Volume XV, January 2025
Photography by James Bowden, video by Luke Pilbeam & words by Noah Lane
During the 17th century, Spanish colonisers revived a 1528 report from Francisco César of Traplanda, the Enchanted City of the Cesars, claiming to have discovered the lost city of gold palaces and precious jewels. Reporting it as south of latitude 45 somewhere between the Andes and Chiloé, it fuelled a legend as old as the human spirit; of great wealth in distant lands, inspiring the hopes of a generation of explorers in pursuit of their dreams. Over a decade ago, I found myself on the west coast of Ireland, wide-eyed and without any of the responsibilities that life heaps upon us with age. No country has ever instilled such a broad sense of excitement and wonder; the possibilities were endless. After years of manifesting, I made the pilgrimage south, filled with similar heady notions of Chilé’s South Pacific.
Airport empanadas and enough luggage to account for a party twice our size. The first night is below zero under the mist of my own breath and the watchful eye of a two-headed Ozzy Wrong unicorn. The pastel winter sunrise a contrast to the bleak wetness of an Irish summer. Roping long period swell. Tentatively, we check the first spot alongside a carload of locals. Smiles and ‘mate’. Common friendship is established through the enigmatic Enda da Senda. If you know Ireland, you know a connection is only two degrees of separation away.
Another apricot sunrise, another left point. My early morning performance doesn’t entice the one spot checker, which is fine with me. Three hours of solitude with a pair of oyster catchers for company. Shift change and James and Luke take advantage of the apple crumble while I befriend a couple of Uruguayans. “The magic of this place is the space and abundance.” My new friend Phillipe’s statement becomes the mantra of the trip. Chevrolet decay, Cazuela and crab cakes. The post-lunch hunt reveals treasure in an empty mirror-Mexican sand bottom dream. It might share the same name as it’s better known Californian cousin but the similarities end there. A summer of serving coffee is not good training for long shore drift and runarounds. Legburn, windburn, sunburn. We marvel at our early good fortune and celebrate with scrabble.
We milk the tail end of the swell and spend a day exploring coastline with granite rock faces, a climbers dream. Wildlife in abundance. I once worked as a kayak guide chasing dolphins, but the pod we witness is bigger than any that attract throngs of tourists to Byron Bay. The wind and weather switch and we’re back into the kind of storm that’d make the North Atlantic proud. We hightail it for the Andes amid 120km/h winds and falling pine plantations. Kerrygold in Chilean; Ireland’s second greatest export. A metre of snow overnight and the novelty is overwhelming. Eight hours later and a day of closed lifts; we’re wet, tired and laughing at our naivety. A storm is a storm, regardless of sea or mountain.
We pass time with mediocrity at the name wave and the only place we’ve encountered other surfers. A cat eats from the floor of the supermarket. Mariachi blasts from the speakers. Post- storm sunshine and tattered banks at our favourite local. I buy macrame and socks in the carpark. The old lady spins wool hypnotically in front of our eyes.
After dissecting the carrot at the end of the chart we’re unexpectedly afforded the day of the trip, three days early. “North wind is no good,” becomes our second mantra. At sea, I stew on Borges’ The Garden of Forking Paths; alternate realities and non-linear time. In this universe I exist alone in an empty South Pacific lineup like La Graviere; three pelicans and a sea lion for company. In another, I’m one of hundreds of angry tradies, on a Gold Coast point. In another, a non-surfer and accountant in my hometown…An 8ft a-frame snaps me back to this reality. It might not be the Namibia-esque mirage of my dreams but I’m reminded of the gift of the newcomer, a lack of preconception and unbiased innocence. Without comparing moments to our ideals, this freedom from expectation brings a joy in simply experiencing the present. Our enchanted City of the Cesars never revealed itself, but in the end it didn’t matter.
