Travels to Chile, Part 1, March 15th 2006, La Paz, Bolivia

We bought our tickets to Arica Chile, which is basically directly west of Bolivia, and indeed was once part of Bolivia, the day before, and were taking the absolute latest bus we could from La Paz. Our departure was to be at 1:00 p.m., from the main terminal. It is not far from Jojo's house, but not walking distance. We packed the night before and I brought everything I had at my hostel to Jojo's house to facilitate this, and to facilitate a quick and easy checkout the morning we were to depart.

I awoke to my watch's alarm, dressed, said my goodbyes and my will returns to the friendly people at my hostel (Hostel La Paz City to be specific, if anyone needs a recommendation) and walked with the excitement of a beginning and new horizons in my footsteps. It was, as usual, a beautiful day in La Paz.

I arrived at Jojo's with enough time to do one last internet connection, gather our things, and get a cab to the terminal. Jojo was in a similar state of preparedness but for some last minute emailing as well. I began to get a little nervous as my planned departure time passed and Jojo hadn't returned. She did get back soon after and we were only 15 minutes into my buffer zone. Did I ever tell you I like to plan? Perhaps I am even a bit compulsive about this sort of operation (mmm... word choice is coloring in my character nicely) and like to know where, when, and how, so this 15 minutes wasn't a big deal, but it got me started a bit nervously.

We gathered our bags, A backpack each, and one large duffel that had our foul weather gear, and most of my clothes. We also had some provisions in a plastic bag, to accompany our stomachs on the bus to Arica, which would be, we were told, an 8 hour trip. This plastic bag would accompany us for the entirety of our trip, reincarnated in different colors, designs, and qualities.

Jojo hailed a taxi on the corner and said he was an honest guy, something not rare, but not necessarily common. The fare was 10 Bolivianos to the terminal. But, he said, there is a demonstration today so we have to go around. And go around we did. Farther around the city than I had ever been. Into neighborhoods I had never seen, across a bridge I had only glimpsed from another bus before. Around we went. He was brave. He moved with the confidence and a sureness borne only from years of experience. He knew the limits other drivers could take in risking their cars. He understood the implications of positioning and posture. He was my favorite driver ever. We were moving when the city was at a standstill... and time was ticking, but it looked good... we would make it.

And the traffic slowed, and slowed, and stopped. We were closer, but still too far to walk. Traffic stopped in narrow lanes and streets lined with colonial buildings, mostly in disrepair. Beautiful antique buildings that looked their age but beautiful to me none the less. But my appreciation was being overtaken by my anxiety. it was 12:45, we were supposed to be there by 12:30.... no matter, nothing leaves on time in Latin America (or so Jojo told me). It was 12:55, I began to get agitated, the bus would leave without us (No Eli, they probably can't leave either, due to the traffic). Ok. ok. It was 1:10. They're gone I complained bitterly, we may as well just turn around.

What! Oh nay! So pessimistic, and I couldn't help it! This, my dream trip, to go sailing with my aunt and uncle in waters described as breathtaking and rugged. The peaks of Patagonia, tempting my on my imaginary horizon were slipping away... sliding into the smoke coming from a bus in front of us. It was not until later that I realized I am allergic to traffic! It makes me break out in hate and animosity. Boils of pessimism and a rash of negativity. I needed relief! I needed something, please, I was dying, chocking on fumes, suffocating on delay.

We moved, we were moving, the roads began to clear, it was 1:25, I began to recognize landmarks, we were near. Terminal HO! 1:30 and we were there, Jojo sprinted to the terminal as I got our bags out and our money ready, a tip (unheard of for taxi's i've heard) in my hand ready to be transfered should Jojo return triumphant... I waited as the seconds stretched my nerves... would we make it, would we embark..

Jojo's compact form came bouncing out of the terminal doors at a dead sprint, concentration drawn on her face. They were still here! Still here but leaving RIGHT NOW! We grabbed our bags and ran. I followed her bobbing auburn hair to a bus backing out of it's berth, and we jumped in, bags akimbo, breathing hard, but on board. Whew. An auspicious beginning, but a beginning none the less. We were bound for Chile, and a traveling we did go.

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The bus was what is known as "Semi-Cama" or semi sleeper. Biggish comfy seats that recline waaaaay back (now remember, so do the seats in front of you) and a bizarre leg rest that flips down. This was my first real experience with South American Bus Travel which I soon learned is the main mode of transport, and is used by all for every type and distance trip available. It was a pretty pleasant ride, the high planes of Bolivia with mountains topped in snow poking up along the horizon, and broad green plains between. Settlements pepper the landscape with old and new buildings, but mostly adobe. Every settlement has walls that seem neither to keep anything in or out, but mainly to mark space. Some are made from rocks that are strewn about the landscaper liberally, cleared from one spot and piled into barriers. Most are made from adobe though, and are attached to dwellings, occupied and abandoned.

From La Paz and El Alto (the city above La Paz, but connected to it) the landscape rises uniformly to the pass, and border with Chile. Route 11 connects La Paz and Arica, and it is a singularly beautiful road. The border check, and Pass, are adjacent to Parque Nactional Lauca, which contains (indeed, right next to the road) the highest navigable lake in the world(whatever navigable means in a lake). Unbelievable peaks rise out of the plains in solitude, round, and cone shaped, with smoothed tops, all covered in thick and fissured snow. Each peak beckoned me with a desire to jump for the bus and hike to it's peak. Long empty valleys with roaming alpaca, and spots of clear blue water stretch between each peak, and the Windigo grasped at my hairs threatening to pick me from my seat and run, with lengthening footsteps through the high planes, until I was gone, merged with that perfectly clear and pure air, whistling forever through those lonely peaks.

But it was not to be, and can only remain as a hope, or a plan to be completed in some unknown, and distant future. The bus kept on bussing, and the sun set on those mountains, casting them in orange red and purple. As we left the border and those peaks the bus began to descend into stark, empty, desert. We were passing through the desert that is northern Chile, which houses the Atacama Desert, the most arid desert on earth. Down down down we went, switching back and down, around great mounded desert hills, with deep dark valleys.

Night was deep and dark, the stars clear and sharp in the desert air. We stopped for a brief bite at a Chilean truck-stop. Jojo and snuck on a couple of beers, and drank in the new scenery and flavor on Cristal, the main beer of Chile. Every seat was full, but we stopped at what I know believe was Putre, a small, old, desert mountain town (with stone faced terraced farmland, that I hope to visit in the future as well) and picked up more passengers! It turns out the bus was to continue to Iquique, a few hours farther south that Arica, and those of us who would be departing in Arica, would be giving our seats to all the people now standing in the aisle. Now standing right next to me. Two large men, impudently encroaching on my American sense of personal space and comfort. It was 8.5 hours into what was supposed to be an 8 hour trip, and I was already uncomfortable. Jojo, sitting in the window seat was undisturbed, but I began to grow hot, fidgety, and down right unpleased. For some reason I thought buying a ticket with a seat number clearly included meant I would have the comfort afforded to me by that seat, and not have to share a portion of my head space with the belly of some unknown, and unapologetic person.

But that's just the wrong attitude, and I overcame my discomfort and eventually struck up enough of a dialogue with the belly next to me to get it to open the hatch above and get some much needed ventilation into the compartment. It worked, I cooled off, and before I knew it, we had arrived in Arica.

It was late. 11:30 p.m. to be specific and Jojo and I did the smartest thing we could think of and go across the street from the terminal to the hostel recommended to me in my guide book Lonely Planet: South America. Which is an excellent book and has been invaluable on this trip. We checked in, got in bed, and watched some American TV before we switched off, and ended the first day of what would certainly be an excellent adventure. Goodnight Bill. Goodnight Ted.