Maybe its just because its an island that Chiloe feels different from the mainland. There are no volcanoes, just rolling green hills dotted with old wooden huts and houses, all brightly painted and weather-beaten. Everything on Chiloe is made of wood - all the churches, boats and 'palafitos' - old fishermens homes that hover precariously above the sea on stilts.
But the pace is different too, as we found to our peril. On an afternoon trip to the National Park, we discovered that the local bus doubles up as a delivery service between farms. The driver was quite happy to stop three or four times within fifty yards to make sure every passenger was delivered to the door.
Unfortunately that meant the thirty mile journey lasted over an hour and a half, leaving us with precisely 40 minutes to 'explore' the Park before the last bus home. We walked briskly to the beach, saw the Pacific, and jogged back just in time.
If all this sounds like a rural backwater, don't underestimate the forward-thinking Chiloeans. They have an ancient local myth that warns of the dreadful 'Cuchivilu' - a half pig/half snake monster that lives in the sea. They couldn't be more vigilant of swine flu.
By now we've left the island, sleeping on overnight bus back up the Pan-American highway to Santiago. Thankfully this journey ran on time, and we've already moved on to Valparaiso - our last port of call in Chile.
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