On the way to Bolivia: via Arica, Putre and Parinacota

The most popular gringo route from Chile or Argentina to Bolivia is to go through the Atacama desert, stay at San Pedro and then do a jeep tour of the salt flats. We wanted to do it a bit differently, so we decided to fly to Arica, on the coast of Northern Chile then head up to Bolivia stopping at Putre and then Parioncota. It turned out to be such a worthwhile and interesting trip, all the more so because it was a little off the beaten track and we often had places all to ourselves.

It turned out that our impulsive decision to use some of our LAN credit and fly was a very lucky one, because all the trucks were on strike over the price of gas (petrol I should say). They were blocking all the main highways from Santiago Northwards, and holding up all the buses for over three days. So we not only saved the intended 30 hours on a bus. We saved being stuck in a bus going nowhere for three days! Yipeee.

When we stepped out of the airport, we stepped into a totally different world. Arica felt, smelt and looked so different from everything we had experienced in Chile or Argentina so far. Arica is a low key town surrounded by desert on a surf beach. The suddenly hot muggy air smelt salty with the promise of surf. It felt like summer. There were palm trees. Tropical fruits and fresh fruit juices. The streets somehow had more character. The buildings were mostly or all single story and a lot were made of home-made mud brick. The streets had a different, more chaotic but more lively feel. There were a lot more indigenous looking people then we had seen further South. It was all very new and exciting.

The beach, of course, was a let down. Sorry to be the Aussie beach snob, but I can not help it! This said, we were both craving the ocean so much that it was still a welcome sensation to dive into the waves. It was pretty cold though (you need a full wet suit all year round here to surf), so we did not stay in for long. We spent most of our time watching this very strange bird. At first it seemed like a normal enough water bird, doing the normal enough water bird activity of standing on the wet sand looking out to the horizon. Then someone walked past and scared the bird, which, normally enough flew out of harms way and landed in the surf. But that is when it got strange. It landed with its back to an oncoming wave so when the wave broke over the bird, it got totally pummeled, dumped and thrown about. Then it just let the ocean current take it back out again, only to get dumped and pummeled by another wave. Eventually the poor bird got washed up to shore, and just sat on the wet sand not moving. I thought it was dead until a dog came up, nearly pounced on it before making the bird fly away out into the surf again, to do the same thing. If it was surfing the waves I would think it were just enjoying itself, but it seemed to me that it had just given up on life. Very strange. We humans think we have a monopoly on angst, but I do not think this is the case!

While on the topic of surf, waves were a general topic of discussion between myself and a Chilano companion, that I sat next to on the plane. He was saying he would like to do a surf trip to Australia, and I politely mentioned that Chile had plenty of good surf too. Then I stoooopidly said something about Peru and Bolivia also having good surf. A total slip of the tongue. My excuse is that I had been lumping Chile and Argentina together logistically and then Peru and Bolivia, as two separate halves of our South American trip. The two countries had become one in my mind, and did not separate on my tongue quickly enough before I spat them out. He got entertainment from the slip however. ¨Don´´t say that to a Bolivian, whatever you do. They might kill you!¨, he joked. (Note: Chile took Bolivias coast away from them in a war about 100 years ago, and Bolivians have never gotten over it. The current president, Evo Morales is claiming that he will win this land back for Bolivians, and apparently many presidential candidates before him have spoken similar desires, probably just to win political points.) Big time ooops on my part.

Another digression, so back on track (not that there ever really is a track with me): Arica overall, was good to us. We enjoyed the pace, and there was excitement of a new journey in the air. But unfortunately there were also germs in the air and I got sick Damnit. We spent one extra night then we were planning to in Arica to see if my cold would clear, but I got typical Dahna impatience and we decided to head up to Putre anyhow after a couple of nights in Arica.

PUTRE:

Technically still in Chile, Putre felt more like what I imagine Bolivia to be. Not a surprise, I guess, as the border is just over 60km or so away, and as I already mentioned, this area used to be Bolivia before the war 100 years ago. Putre is a small desert town surrounded by Mountains and snow capped volcanoes. The mountains are big, the oxygen is thin and people are colourful. Women in traditional dress with long black plaits walk down the cobble stone and dirt streets, occasionally incongruously pulling mobile phones out of their brightly woven lama wool purses. We stayed in a very basic hostel, just a small room with low ceiling, a bare light bulb hanging from the roof and two very saggy very thin mattresses. On the plus side, it was cheap, there were hot showers that worked and toilets that flushed, and a sunny cement courtyard to sit in during the day, which I did plenty of. After trying to walk on our second day, it became clear that my cold was not getting any better so I spent the third day just resting while Jono went for a walk. Plus, my dreams were so good, that I just wanted to sleep and dream all day. I really think that the altitude was affecting my dreams, which were consistently wacky and vibrant. I do not normally remember my dreams, but here I was remembering them vividly. Strange. Maybe it is something to do with being closer to the gods! I know Jono, being the scientist will simply say it is due to the different level of oxygen to the brain, but...

At 3500 meters above sea level, Putre was a good stepping stone for Parinacota which is at about 4392 meters. The idea was to spend a night here to acclimatise, but because of my cold we ended up spending three. After which time, my impatience kicked in again and I wanted to keep going, even though my cold was no better, so that is what we did. I felt like an old woman panting and wheezing and stopping every few steps as we walked along the 6 km road to get from Putre back to the highway where we needed to catch a bus from. Luckily we got picked up by a couple of police officers on their way to a car accident on the highway. This seemed more than a little strange that they were headed out to a car accident but still had time to pick us up. I did not protest though.

PARINACOTA:

We LOVED Parinacota! It is a small, no scratch that, TINY pre hispanic town surrounded by the volcanoes, Altiplano planes and lakes of Lauca National park. The town was near deserted maybe ten years ago, but is being reborn now as its original indigenous inhabitants (I think they are Amara) return with the realisation that they can make a living from tourism. We stayed in the only hostel in town, which was still in construction so there were no showers and there was no kitchen, but the beds were comfortable this time AND it only cost about $4 each. PLUS, the woman who runs it cooks wholesome tasty dinners (soup and then a main course with tea) for another $4. It was hard to cook our textured vegetable protein and potato flakes on our camp stove out in the cold when we could pay $4 for a delicious homecooked meal. We were planning to stay only one night here and then do a multi day hike. But I was sick, it was cold, and the hostel was too comfortable. Even though I was sick, I somehow managed to drag my sorry self up an old volcano to stand at its summit 5096 meters above sea level and marvel at the breathtaking views. Literally breathtaking! It was not a technical climb, but it was slow going, steep and rocky. The best part was part skiing, part sliding, part falling down the steep scree slope back down. My body punished me that night though and I was up all night coughing and my throat was a cheese grater the next morning. We still managed a little day walk (which did not feel so little) to a beautiful lake which sat under two snow capped volcanoes. There were tons of birds around and these little animals that look like rabbits but have big whiskers and big long tails like a possum.

On our last night, the man that runs the hostel told us he could drive us tomorrow morning to save us walking to the highway and waving down a bus. There was a slight gap in our understanding though and we thought he was going to drop us off at another point in the national park, closer to the border. (The point that we were planning initially to walk to). However, he drove us straight to the border, which was more crowded and chaotic than any others we had experienced. There were about 20 buses all over the place in no logical order, and thousands of people. We suddenly had to think about where to hide our wallets and documents (both from people and police) and how to carry our bags so that they would not be easily stolen, and which bus we needed to get where and how, did we need to go through immigration first then look for a bus or the other way around. etc etc. It was a bit of a shock, when we had been expecting simply to watch flamingos on a lake, but we managed and we got on a bus to... La Paz in BOLIVIA.

PS. More pics to come. I can only upload at a rate of about 7 an hour, so I need to go to bed now!

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