A very busy morning. Go around to talk to various tour companies and get waylaid by Señor Zarate, one of the sons of the legendary local trekking guide, Carlos Zarate. He starts explaining to me in detail the kind of tailor-made tours they do of the Colca Canyon and ends up drawing me numerous maps of trekking routes, explaining why they go to this village and not that one, and telling me that you need at least four days to explore even a part of the canyon properly. His local knowledge is impressive; he knows all the villages, the altitude of each one, the distances between them. He explains a bit about guiding in general – how under President Fujimori, it was a free-for-all: no restrictions whatsoever, fly-by-night carpetbagger companies turning up all over the place, people calling themselves guides without having any experience or knowledge…Then under García, things have become more organised; there’s now technically a minimum wage for trekking and mountain guides, roughly set prices for pack animals, etc.
“I’m a guide: that’s all I want to do,” he tells me. His brother, Carlos, does other things, like cycling tours; their services compliment each other. I decide that if I come back to Arequipa, I’d love to do some serious hiking with this wiry, enthusiastic guy who’s barely taller than me; it’s clear that he knows what he’s talking about. He’s very keen on an alternative day trip out of Arequipa, which takes in Toro Muerto and a couple of less-known villages: “You go by local bus and the people are very nice, very curious. There’s none of this: ‘You’re a gringo, so if you take a picture of me, you have to give me a sweetie or a dollar.’”
Collect my laundry. Exchange two books for one at El Lectór bookshop. Visit a couple more hostels. Pay the outstanding fee for the forthcoming jungle trip at the BBVA bank. Call my housemates again; we’re having to look for a new place to live, and it seems that the only places available for four people are way out of central Cambridge; the whole thing is stressing me out, and no doubt my housemates as well.
Go check out the local market; rumours about that it’s dangerous for tourists, but it’s all a matter of perspective. As long as you leave your gold jewellery and expensive camera behind, no one’s going to hassle you or slash your bag. I love produce markets and this is an excellent one. I wander through the rows of bright fruit, smelly chunks of meat, little eateries serving fresh juices, ceviche, grilled chunks of pork, taking in the smells, the clamour, the wandering minstrels and beggars, a weird man in African robes with a necklace made of teeth and a small skull. Not only do I not get mugged, raped or murdered, but soon I’m the proud owner of a very unhygienic-looking cheese; I’m sure it’s delicious once I scrape off the top layer. Gotta recommend this as a top spot for cheap eats and very local atmosphere.
Lunch at Cevichería Fory Fay. I’m such a creature of habit! I really feel at home in Arequipa and realise that the city’s frenetic energy reminds me of Mexico City – rough around the edges, but with an atmosphere that really grows on you.
Catch a taxi to the main bus terminals – the Terrapuerto and the Terminal Terrestre. Check out bus timetables. Have my extra bit of luggage wrapped in clingfilm and put it on a bus to Lima, to be received by my friend Mike. There seem to be lots of night buses, but unfortunately, each guidebook speaks of fatal accidents, robberies, holdups and assaults, so I’ll have to find out for sure whether it’s a good idea or not, whether there have been any improvements in the last couple of years. I just hate wasting time when I could be travelling.
Though my bus ticket to Puno is super cheap (15 soles for a six-hour ride), I actually have to pay departure tax – it’s just one of those Peruvian anomalies. I find out what an Economico bus is, as opposed to a semi-cama or cama; it means that there’s no air-con or heating, so first we’re roasting in the afternoon sun, and then freezing in the evening as it climbs to an altitude of 3,800m. There are also no toilets on board, but hey – if you need to go, the whole highway is your bathroom! The bus stops in the middle of nowhere and a bunch of people pile out to stand or squat by the side of the road. For women, wearing a skirt is handy. The driving is a bit alarming as well; our driver plays chicken with other road users, often driving on the wrong side until literally the last second, overtaking, undertaking, and sometimes forcing smaller vehicles coming towards us onto the hard shoulder to avoid us. I have a prime seat for this – top, front row. I wonder why no one’s claimed them; in Chile, those would be the first to go.
Spend much of the ride planning my day-and-a-bit in Puno, having been here before and having pumped my tour leader friends for up-to-date info and tips. Really get into “The Runner”; the main character who doesn’t care about most things reminds me of an old friend of mine.
It’s dark and cold by the time we pull into Puno and when checking out bus departures, I spot something of great interest: one of the bus companies seems to be offering trips to Puerto Maldonado, the town in the jungle that I need to get to, which I thought was only reachable by plane or by truck due to hideous roads; maybe they’ve fixed them up…Will find out for sure tomorrow.
The taxi driver is very courteous; he welcomes me to Puno, gives me tips on what to see and even waits by the entrance to my guesthouse to make sure I get in okay.
Dinner is great pizza at Machupizza – a cosy little warren of an establishment, decorated with wall hangings akin to those that I bought on the floating islands last time I was here. The pizza comes with spicy salsa and some kind of garlic sauce and it’s the cheapest meal I’ve had in Peru so far, as well as one of the best. Peruvians do pizza better than Chileans, I have to say…
Not feeling the altitude too much; get a bit breathless running up the stairs and have the hint of a dull headache, but that’s about it.
Very full day tomorrow.
Saturday 22 May 2010
Thursday 20 May 2010
Day 43 - Arequipa and onwards to Puno.
I really like the city and wish I had more time here. I’m getting adept at dodging the fleets of little yellow taxi colectivos that zoom up the streets: pedestrian crossings do not give you right of way, and neither do pedestrian traffic lights. I observe, puzzled, how the little cars pay no attention to the latter, though they do obey the sharp whistles of the traffic police. It’s a good thing that most streets are one-way! It reminds me of how people drive in Cairo – chaos on the surface, but somehow everyone figures out whose right of way it is and no one gets hurt. When Heather, Dawn and I were in a taxi in Cairo, they observed our driver’s manoeuvres with trepidation: “Watch out for the wing mirrors! Oh, wait, there aren’t any. (They’d been knocked off way before).”
I dodge the traffic all the way up Bolognesi, across the bridge over the Río Chili and up to the Recoleta monastery. There’s no one at the ticket desk, and no amount of coughing loudly gets any attention. The security guard helps me, rapping hard on the massive wooden doors and shouting, and finally I’m let in. This really is a lovely place to visit – the three cloisters are just beautiful. The first has a cactus garden in the middle, while the biggest one is filled with exuberant vegetation, including large pink flowers. The best thing, though, are the random exhibits in the various darkened halls. The Amazon hall is fantastic – the walls are decorated with maps of the missionaries’ exploration of Peru, including the Peruvian Amazon basin, where I’ll be heading in a couple of days. I like how the inscription on the Amazon part states: “Large and mysterious forest filled with fearsome tribes.”
They brought back animal trophies; the taxidermied creatures are arranged carefully according to whether they’re mammals, birds, reptiles or fish, and I study them carefully, because I hope to be seeing most of them soon. The most impressive are the vividly-coloured cock-of-the-rock birds, the giant anteater, the caiman, and an evil-looking pygmy monkey.
The other hall devoted to the Amazon contains tribal clothing; necklaces made of seeds, shells, teeth; weapons including bamboo spears with a different type of wood for the serrated tip, capes decorated with bright feathers; ceramics, ceremonial drums. Equally good is the pre-Columbian hall, with its collection of pre-Inca pottery, a deformed skull and a couple of mummies, sitting huddled in their display cases.
Am surprised that a couple of the guides (not the Rough Guide) suggest taking a cab here, when it’s only ten minutes’ walk from the centre. Bloody laziness.
Lunch is a real treat; a few days ago, I made reservations at “La Trattoria del Monasterio”, one of Gastón Acurio’s places. ‘Italian food with Areqipeño influences’ is what they call it, and as it turns out, lunchtimes are not too busy. The service is great, the beef capaccio with cheese and a spicy salsa is superb, and so is the rice with super-fresh giant prawns.
The afternoon is spent looking at hostels. Roosebelt recommended Amazing Home, just north of the centre on a quiet little plaza, and it turns out to be excellent. The owner, Alex, is a trekking guide; he showed me around ever so graciously, and even asked me what I thought of the place and what improvements he could make. The biggest vote in his favour was the testimony of a large crowd of American backpackers: “It’s the best hostel I’ve ever stayed in!” piped up one of the girls. Definitely one for the gringos, but a great choice at that. One of the hostel owners complains about the useless/malicious taxi drivers at the bus station, who mislead guests by telling them that the hostel is closed/dirty/expensive, and trying to persuade them to go stay elsewhere. Will mention that in the guide.
I’d had enough of having long hair, so I take my chances with a Peruvian hairdresser. Remembering the disaster in Mexico, I explain to the woman with a gold tooth that I normally have my hair cut like a boy and she shows me some pictures. She does a really good, thorough job, though I get a little alarmed when she whips out an old-fashioned razor used by barbers to tidy up the back of my neck. What price beauty? 15 soles (just over £3).
Try El Turko for dinner because am not quite in the mood for guinea pig – will have that in Cusco. El Turko’s always popular, with locals and tourists, and it’s nice enough, though the chicken doner kebab is dry, the honey on the baklava is watery and the staff harried. Hmm.
Have had some good news about a contra ad regarding one of the jungle lodges near Puerto Maldonado; now to sort out a flight…
I dodge the traffic all the way up Bolognesi, across the bridge over the Río Chili and up to the Recoleta monastery. There’s no one at the ticket desk, and no amount of coughing loudly gets any attention. The security guard helps me, rapping hard on the massive wooden doors and shouting, and finally I’m let in. This really is a lovely place to visit – the three cloisters are just beautiful. The first has a cactus garden in the middle, while the biggest one is filled with exuberant vegetation, including large pink flowers. The best thing, though, are the random exhibits in the various darkened halls. The Amazon hall is fantastic – the walls are decorated with maps of the missionaries’ exploration of Peru, including the Peruvian Amazon basin, where I’ll be heading in a couple of days. I like how the inscription on the Amazon part states: “Large and mysterious forest filled with fearsome tribes.”
They brought back animal trophies; the taxidermied creatures are arranged carefully according to whether they’re mammals, birds, reptiles or fish, and I study them carefully, because I hope to be seeing most of them soon. The most impressive are the vividly-coloured cock-of-the-rock birds, the giant anteater, the caiman, and an evil-looking pygmy monkey.
The other hall devoted to the Amazon contains tribal clothing; necklaces made of seeds, shells, teeth; weapons including bamboo spears with a different type of wood for the serrated tip, capes decorated with bright feathers; ceramics, ceremonial drums. Equally good is the pre-Columbian hall, with its collection of pre-Inca pottery, a deformed skull and a couple of mummies, sitting huddled in their display cases.
Am surprised that a couple of the guides (not the Rough Guide) suggest taking a cab here, when it’s only ten minutes’ walk from the centre. Bloody laziness.
Lunch is a real treat; a few days ago, I made reservations at “La Trattoria del Monasterio”, one of Gastón Acurio’s places. ‘Italian food with Areqipeño influences’ is what they call it, and as it turns out, lunchtimes are not too busy. The service is great, the beef capaccio with cheese and a spicy salsa is superb, and so is the rice with super-fresh giant prawns.
The afternoon is spent looking at hostels. Roosebelt recommended Amazing Home, just north of the centre on a quiet little plaza, and it turns out to be excellent. The owner, Alex, is a trekking guide; he showed me around ever so graciously, and even asked me what I thought of the place and what improvements he could make. The biggest vote in his favour was the testimony of a large crowd of American backpackers: “It’s the best hostel I’ve ever stayed in!” piped up one of the girls. Definitely one for the gringos, but a great choice at that. One of the hostel owners complains about the useless/malicious taxi drivers at the bus station, who mislead guests by telling them that the hostel is closed/dirty/expensive, and trying to persuade them to go stay elsewhere. Will mention that in the guide.
I’d had enough of having long hair, so I take my chances with a Peruvian hairdresser. Remembering the disaster in Mexico, I explain to the woman with a gold tooth that I normally have my hair cut like a boy and she shows me some pictures. She does a really good, thorough job, though I get a little alarmed when she whips out an old-fashioned razor used by barbers to tidy up the back of my neck. What price beauty? 15 soles (just over £3).
Try El Turko for dinner because am not quite in the mood for guinea pig – will have that in Cusco. El Turko’s always popular, with locals and tourists, and it’s nice enough, though the chicken doner kebab is dry, the honey on the baklava is watery and the staff harried. Hmm.
Have had some good news about a contra ad regarding one of the jungle lodges near Puerto Maldonado; now to sort out a flight…
Day 42 - Arequipa.
Actually, the title of this blog’s a bit of a misnomer: I’ve calculated that I’m actually travelling for 12 weeks, so that makes it 84 days, rather than ninety. I’m halfway through.
8am start after sleeping the sleep of the dead. Decide to try and see all the major sights today and leave tomorrow for the less exciting practical stuff. Start by admiring the Compañia and Santo Domingo churches near the Plaza de Armas, with their distinctive carved stone façades.
Find myself walking around some back streets south of the plaza and make a serendipitous discovery. Lured by a ‘free entrance’ sign, I find myself in a fascinating little museum that’s full of clamouring schoolchildren and is not in any of the guidebooks. It focuses on the Inca and pre-Inca desert civilisations of Peru, and there some great examples of Inca weaponry, tribal pottery, feathered ceremonial capes and – best of all – several mummies. Unlike Egyptian mummies, all of these ones are in sitting position, legs drawn up to their chests, skulls resting on bony fingers. Brilliant stuff.
My second serendipitous discovery is the Cevichería Fory Fay (that’s how Peruvian pronounce ‘forty-five’), a very local lunch spot doing seven kinds of ceviche and the world’s most humungous portions of seafood fried rice. I’m not terribly impressed with my predecessor’s choice of eateries: they’ve actually included a Johnny Coyote, a substandard burger joint, and the point is to show our readers eateries which are both cheap AND good, rather than just cheap and bog-standard.
Still on the subject of mummies: I wrap up warm and pop across the road to the museum housing Juanita the Ice Princess. Though you can’t go around by yourself, and have to go as part of a guided tour, the way they’ve organised it is excellent. First, you sit through a twenty-minute National Geographic video of how Juanita was discovered, which was in 1995 on top of the 6,380m Ampato volcano, by the local climber Carlos Zarate and American archaeologist Johan Reinhard (Johan = Juan in Spanish, hence ‘Juanita’). The video shows how she was removed from the icy hold of the mountain after days of painstaking work, and the dramatic voiceover suggests that when this chosen 12-year old girl was sacrificed to the gods of the mountains, she did in fact achieve a kind of immortality, for after five hundred years, she still speaks to us, and through her we hear the Incas.
The guide then leads us around various exhibits, showcasing the kinds of offerings that would have been buried with the child sacrifices. She explains that Juanita, given that she was wearing the Inca robes of white and red (white = divinity, red = power), she must have come from a noble family, for only being given to the gods was an honour that only the most beautiful children from exalted lineage could hope for. During their lives, they would receive the best of everything, then taken to the top of a mountain, they’d be drugged with coca infusion and killed with a single precise blow to the head. She would have gone to her death willingly, believing that she was doing it for her people. I guess it's no more bizarre to do that in the name of a higher power than to exterminate people whose beliefs clash with your own, or to ban your child from celebrating their birthday because you're not sure when Jesus's birthday was.
Finally, we get to see Juanita herself, frozen in sitting position, her hair intact on her skull, kept in a special chamber at -15 degrees Celsius. It’s an arresting sight.
Since this is one of two nights per week when the Santa Catalina monastery is open late, I opt to wander around by myself for a couple of hours, peering into nooks and crannies of this citadel, consisting of many little streets, numerous cloisters, chapels, gardens, and cells where the nuns lived. The original nuns were often daughters from rich families who kept numerous servants after allegedly giving up worldly comforts and dedicating their lives to God and led quite lavish lives until Sister Josefa Cadena put a stop to it in 1871. After that, the residents of the convent never left its walls and it was completely shut off from the rest of the world until 1970.
It’s beautiful – a real paradise for photographers. The afternoon light illuminates interesting corners of courtyards, which themselves are painted in attractive hues of terracotta, deep blue and brilliant white. They make you walk around the complex clockwise, but since I stay on for a second lap when the sun goes down, I’m rewarded with lantern-lit streets and nuns’ living quarters illuminated with candlelight.
Fellow tourists must think that something’s not right with me; my leg muscles are not as stiff as feared, but since I still find it difficult to walk up and down stairs, I’ve perfected a way of scuttling sideways, like a crab. That, and I fall out of doorways.
Meet Patrick and Annemarie for dinner. There’s some sort of protest going on in the plaza; a guy with a microphone rambles on about the death of some guy, while the people sitting behind him light candles and hold up his picture. “They killed his wife and children! No one cares!” He doesn’t say who killed them, but it makes me wonder whether the police are somehow complicit.
We feast on alpaca and ostrich at Zig Zag, recommended by Mike, and it’s very good indeed. Annemarie is off to Bolivia via Puno, while Patrick is leaving on the overnight bus to Nazca. He’s a brave man; night buses are notorious robbery targets. He wants to go to Bolivia, but it’s very difficult for Americans now: they have to get a visa, fill out tons of paperwork and show that they have enough money to cover their stay in Bolivia, which is a joke. It’s payback time for the indignities suffered by Bolivians in US consulates. Patrick and I find a juicery/ frozen yogurt place and pass the time before his bus leaves, chatting about Japan. He spent two years on a Jet program there, teaching English, and I visited my friend Subo when he did the same, so we swap our recollections of that weird and wonderful country.
My walk back is accompanied by a rousing panpipe version of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” being blasted forth from a garbage truck. I’ll file that under ‘Only In Peru’.
8am start after sleeping the sleep of the dead. Decide to try and see all the major sights today and leave tomorrow for the less exciting practical stuff. Start by admiring the Compañia and Santo Domingo churches near the Plaza de Armas, with their distinctive carved stone façades.
Find myself walking around some back streets south of the plaza and make a serendipitous discovery. Lured by a ‘free entrance’ sign, I find myself in a fascinating little museum that’s full of clamouring schoolchildren and is not in any of the guidebooks. It focuses on the Inca and pre-Inca desert civilisations of Peru, and there some great examples of Inca weaponry, tribal pottery, feathered ceremonial capes and – best of all – several mummies. Unlike Egyptian mummies, all of these ones are in sitting position, legs drawn up to their chests, skulls resting on bony fingers. Brilliant stuff.
My second serendipitous discovery is the Cevichería Fory Fay (that’s how Peruvian pronounce ‘forty-five’), a very local lunch spot doing seven kinds of ceviche and the world’s most humungous portions of seafood fried rice. I’m not terribly impressed with my predecessor’s choice of eateries: they’ve actually included a Johnny Coyote, a substandard burger joint, and the point is to show our readers eateries which are both cheap AND good, rather than just cheap and bog-standard.
Still on the subject of mummies: I wrap up warm and pop across the road to the museum housing Juanita the Ice Princess. Though you can’t go around by yourself, and have to go as part of a guided tour, the way they’ve organised it is excellent. First, you sit through a twenty-minute National Geographic video of how Juanita was discovered, which was in 1995 on top of the 6,380m Ampato volcano, by the local climber Carlos Zarate and American archaeologist Johan Reinhard (Johan = Juan in Spanish, hence ‘Juanita’). The video shows how she was removed from the icy hold of the mountain after days of painstaking work, and the dramatic voiceover suggests that when this chosen 12-year old girl was sacrificed to the gods of the mountains, she did in fact achieve a kind of immortality, for after five hundred years, she still speaks to us, and through her we hear the Incas.
The guide then leads us around various exhibits, showcasing the kinds of offerings that would have been buried with the child sacrifices. She explains that Juanita, given that she was wearing the Inca robes of white and red (white = divinity, red = power), she must have come from a noble family, for only being given to the gods was an honour that only the most beautiful children from exalted lineage could hope for. During their lives, they would receive the best of everything, then taken to the top of a mountain, they’d be drugged with coca infusion and killed with a single precise blow to the head. She would have gone to her death willingly, believing that she was doing it for her people. I guess it's no more bizarre to do that in the name of a higher power than to exterminate people whose beliefs clash with your own, or to ban your child from celebrating their birthday because you're not sure when Jesus's birthday was.
Finally, we get to see Juanita herself, frozen in sitting position, her hair intact on her skull, kept in a special chamber at -15 degrees Celsius. It’s an arresting sight.
Since this is one of two nights per week when the Santa Catalina monastery is open late, I opt to wander around by myself for a couple of hours, peering into nooks and crannies of this citadel, consisting of many little streets, numerous cloisters, chapels, gardens, and cells where the nuns lived. The original nuns were often daughters from rich families who kept numerous servants after allegedly giving up worldly comforts and dedicating their lives to God and led quite lavish lives until Sister Josefa Cadena put a stop to it in 1871. After that, the residents of the convent never left its walls and it was completely shut off from the rest of the world until 1970.
It’s beautiful – a real paradise for photographers. The afternoon light illuminates interesting corners of courtyards, which themselves are painted in attractive hues of terracotta, deep blue and brilliant white. They make you walk around the complex clockwise, but since I stay on for a second lap when the sun goes down, I’m rewarded with lantern-lit streets and nuns’ living quarters illuminated with candlelight.
Fellow tourists must think that something’s not right with me; my leg muscles are not as stiff as feared, but since I still find it difficult to walk up and down stairs, I’ve perfected a way of scuttling sideways, like a crab. That, and I fall out of doorways.
Meet Patrick and Annemarie for dinner. There’s some sort of protest going on in the plaza; a guy with a microphone rambles on about the death of some guy, while the people sitting behind him light candles and hold up his picture. “They killed his wife and children! No one cares!” He doesn’t say who killed them, but it makes me wonder whether the police are somehow complicit.
We feast on alpaca and ostrich at Zig Zag, recommended by Mike, and it’s very good indeed. Annemarie is off to Bolivia via Puno, while Patrick is leaving on the overnight bus to Nazca. He’s a brave man; night buses are notorious robbery targets. He wants to go to Bolivia, but it’s very difficult for Americans now: they have to get a visa, fill out tons of paperwork and show that they have enough money to cover their stay in Bolivia, which is a joke. It’s payback time for the indignities suffered by Bolivians in US consulates. Patrick and I find a juicery/ frozen yogurt place and pass the time before his bus leaves, chatting about Japan. He spent two years on a Jet program there, teaching English, and I visited my friend Subo when he did the same, so we swap our recollections of that weird and wonderful country.
My walk back is accompanied by a rousing panpipe version of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” being blasted forth from a garbage truck. I’ll file that under ‘Only In Peru’.
Day 39 - 41 - Colca Canyon.
I was a bit apprehensive about handing over a week’s budget for three days in the Colca Canyon, but figured that since it’s my first time in the canyon, I should explore it with people who really know it, so I gritted my teeth and signed up with Colca Trek. And how glad I am that I did!
There are eight of us: an Italian family consisting of a middle-aged couple, their grownup son and his four-year old boy, Diego; Alex the Ukrainian Canadian from Toronto, originally from Kiev; Anne-Marie, a Dutch flight attendant who’s taken four months off work to travel around South America; Patrick from the States, who works for Homeland Security and myself. Our guide, Roosevelt, turns out to be an energetic and enthusiastic young man, originally from Cabanaconde in the canyon, who knows the area very well.
“Why are you called Roosevelt? It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I was named after my uncle.”
“But why was he named Roosevelt?”
“My grandfather liked the American president.”
Roosevelt has a cousin named Clinton. “I’ll name my son ‘Obama’”, he jokes.
Our first stop is by the side of the road, where a herd of vicuñas is grazing pretty close to us. Roosevelt explains to us how the wild creatures are shorn one a year (and only twice in their lifetimes) and how only two shops in Arequipa are authorised to sell items made of vicuña wool.
Then we deviate from the path taken by most tour groups, go off the road over some hill ground and walk down to see the otherworldly rock formations – giant stone cones of volcanic origin, shaped by the fierce wind and the heavy rains. It’s a little like Bryce Canyon in the States. I wander among the giants, climb on the smaller ones, peer down into the valley below. The middle-aged Italian lady is affected by the altitude and Roosevelt has to help her back to the bus after she’s finished dry heaving. The altitude has less of an effect on me than before; it no longer feels like I’m moving through treacle, though I get breathless when I hike back up the hill to the bus too quickly. We’re above 3,500m.
We pass a bofedál - a green area with small lagoons and waterlogged soil; the vegetation here holds water all year round, and supports various birds as well as the vicuñas.
When the road climbs higher, it gets seriously cold. We stop at the Miradór de Los Volcanes – a viewpoint from where you can see all the major volcanoes in the area. Local women with weathered faces sit over their colourful woollen wares, wrapped in so many layers of clothing, they look round. The area around is covered with apachatas – rock pile offerings to the gods of the mountains, some made by locals, some by tourists. I make my own offering. If the gods are satisfied with a few rocks piled on top of each other, that’s getting off easy; back in the day, they used to sacrifice children, first drugging them with herbal concoctions and then dispatching them with a blow to the head. One of them, Juanita the Ice Princess, is in the famous museum in Arequipa, having just come back from a ‘holiday’ in Chicago.
As the road descends through the mountains, we pass some women and children dressed in colourful traditional garb, selling handicrafts by the road. The children all have baby alpacas with them – really cute white woolly creatures with huge eyes and a perpetually hacked off expression on their little faces.
Chivay, the biggest town in the Colca Canyon, is our lunch stop. The canyon is populated almost wholly by indigenous tribes, and Roosebelt draws our attention to the women’s hats – some are white and flat, while others are intricately embroidered with an eight-pointed star on the top. The former are the Coyahuas and the latter are Cabanas. Traditionally, babies’ skulls were deformed in the name of beauty, so back in the day, flat hats would’ve been worn by women with flat heads.
We’re herded into Los Portales for feeding time at the ‘gringo zoo’. The food’s decent, actually – a mix of traditional stuff like rocotos rellenos and alpaca stew and the ubiquitous nuclear yellow Inca Kola. I actually rather like it; it’s like liquid bubblegum.
There’s a wedding procession walking along one of the dirt streets; the couple at the front of it are dressed in traditional finery and the bride has money tucked into the ribbon around her hat – a very practical wedding gift.
The dirt road winds along the edge of the canyon, along a sheer drop. On the other side loom tall green mountains and the little towns are surrounded by Inca terraces. I’ve never seen anything like it. Who knows, maybe if Chile’s Mapuche were weaker, then Chile, too, would still have the remnants of ancient agricultural practises… Roosevelt confirms that the majority of the people in the canyon still live traditional lives, mainly as farmers. The canyon got electricity nine years ago, and mobile phones last year. We pass a man on a mule, talking on a mobile phone, then an elderly yet sprightly sheep herder, her face deeply wrinkled like a raisin. Roosevelt speaks to her in Quechua and then informs us that she’s eighty-five. “People here live until they’re ninety, a hundred,” he informs us. It’s a rough life, though, and I guess they carry on working out of necessity. Reminds me of the lobster fishermen on Juan Fernández, who still go out to sea when they’re in their eighties.
People here are used to walking long distances. On the other side of the canyon, there are towns connected by footpaths only, footpaths that were used during Inca times, and to go shopping in Cabanaconde, the last village reachable by motor traffic, people walk for many hours, bringing produce on their mules to sell or to barter. From the pedestrian village of Malata, it’s possible to take an old Inca Road all the way to Cusco; Roosevelt’s done it in five days. Now that would be a heck of a hike…
We see a lot of mules, and only once does someone appear on a horse that daintily picks up its feet. “It’s a Peruvian dancing horse. They were brought by the Spanish and because they lived and worked by the coast, the horses learned to walk in the sand.”
Roosevelt points out large mounds of rocks with entrances, perched high up on the side of a steep mountain. “Those are Wari tombs. Wari came before the Inca and only the priests would be buried in the hanging tombs. That way they were closer to the gods of the mountains.”
It’s dark by the time we get to Cabanaconde and have an early night in anticipation of the hike.
At 7am, Roosevelt leads us through the narrow dirt streets and along more terraced fields until we reach the start of a steep ascent into the canyon. There’s a cross at the top of the path, decorated with red wild flowers – it’s the Jesus of the mountains. “The people here go to mass on Sunday but they also make offerings to the gods of the mountains.” The vegetation reminds me of the Copper Canyon in Mexico – the cacti, the heat, the scent of flowers in the air. We stop periodically to take photos and to marvel at the canyon’s beauty as it opens up before us and as each new lookout seems to be batter than the previous one. Looking down from the path is vertigo-inducing.
As we get closer to the oasis – a lush patch of green and the turquoise of swimming pools at the bottom of reddish-yellow cliffs – we pass scores of baked gringos. I can’t believe that some tour companies do the canyon trip in one day, with people doing the hike under the scorching sun. Patrick, Alex and I beat the mules carrying our luggage down to the oasis, but only just. The last part is a very narrow path covered with scree and I’m very cautious because my knee is beginning to feel the strain of the steep descent.
The Oasis or Sangayo (‘paradise’ in Quechua) is just wonderful. Roosevelt pitches our tents and cooks our food as we frolic in the pool – each of the five properties here has one, fed by natural springs. There are other tourists here, staying in the basic grass huts. After lunch, only the non-Italians accompany Roosevelt on a short excursion; four year-old Diego has found a boy his age to play with – a rarity in this community of five families – and the rest of the family is staying with him.
A short hike out of the oasis takes us to the hanging bridge across a shallow but fast river far below. Roosevelt points out two dark birds diving into the water – rare torrent ducks: “They’re fishing for trout”, and names the various plants we see. He lived with his grandmother for six years and her knowledge of herbology was extensive. He shows us a plant that looks similar to aloe vera: “You can make very strong ropes out of this”. Then aloe vera itself, ripping off part of a leaf, letting the yellowish liquid drip down, and showing us the slimy inside: “My grandmother would use the clear liquid as eye drops.” When we come to a cluster of nopal cactuses, he scrapes some white stuff off the cactus onto his palm; on close inspection, it looks kind of like woodlice rolled in flour. He then squishes one, releasing a spurt of red onto his palm and informs us that it’s cochineal, an insect used as red food colouring and in makeup. “Twice a year, the people here harvest it and sell it to cosmetics companies.” Though locals harvest the cactus fruit (tuna or ‘prickly pear’), the nopales themselves are not eaten, unlike in Mexico, though people do make infusions out of them which are good for the digestive system.
When we see names scrawled on rocks around us, Roosevelt explains that it’s not ordinary graffiti; it’s to do with upcoming elections. He then explains the fiasco that was the previous presidential election, when the corrupt Alberto Fujimori (who fled to Japan during the last year of his presidency) decided to run for president again, was arrested in Chile and now resides in the maximum security prison that he and Vladimiro Montesinos - the Karl Rove to Fujimori’s Bush - originally had built. There’s a possibility that Keiko Fujimori may run for president this time (and win).
Back at the oasis, Roosevelt fills in the gaps in my botanical knowledge. I recognised the fig tree (and raided it), the pink peppercorn tree, the banana tree…There’s a tree sporting large white flowers, hanging down like bells; apparently the leaves, if used as an infusion in the right quantity, have a similar effect to marijuana and are used during various rituals. Too much of it leaves you blind for a couple of days. The pink peppercorns are used as mosquito repellent.
Patrick and I discover that we have a lot in common. He works in Immigration; I was denied entry to the US. I studied in Puerto Rico; he lives in Puerto Rico at the moment.
Alex uses his sophisticated phone with Google Sky Map to help us find the Southern Cross. Roosevelt points out two bright stars near it – ‘the eyes of the llama’, and I know that I’ll never forget it now.
Very early night in anticipation of a 4am start. I’m awake at 2am and can’t fall asleep. We eat breakfast in the dark and set off. Am sweating very soon and grateful for the early start; in the heat, it’d be unbearable. Gradually, Alex falls behind. Patrick is in front, and Roosevelt periodically takes the lead or goes back to check on Alex. The mules (and the Italians riding them) set off later and pass us along the way, near the top. Patrick manages to keep up with them and tells me that it nearly killed him. During yesterday’s descent, we met an eighty-something woman taking her mules to Cabanaconde; she had an enormous bundle strapped to her back and she must’ve been walking for at least five hours, but she wasn’t even breathing hard. We are all very soft compared to the people here. I make it to the top in two hours and forty-five minutes. Roosevelt’s best is one hour five minutes. There’s a marathon held in the canyon every year, with this ascent as the last stretch and last year’s winner made it in just under three hours. Amazing.
As soon as I get to the top, my leg muscles begin seizing up. I just know that tomorrow I’ll barely be able to walk. Serves me right for not stretching. A soak in the hot springs in Chivay helps a little. On the way to Chivay, we make another stop at the famous Cruz del Condor, and see one of the giant birds swoop right over our heads before riding the thermal over the mountains. One of the biggest families of condors lives here, but we’re too late in the day to see any more. We do see the world’s most enormous hummingbird, though.
On the way back to Arequipa I’m so tired, I’m in a catatonic stupor, but can’t sleep, unusually for me. Am digesting my new experience – the canyon, the mighty mountains, the faint ribbons of paths crossing them being the only sign of human existence, the people here living pretty much as they did five hundred years ago.
Roosevelt (who spells his name ‘Roosebelt’, as it turns out) offers to answer all my questions over a drink and we agree to meet at 10pm by the cathedral. I originally regret the decision because I’m ready to drop, but end up having a really good time. We go to Bar 6:16, the posters on the walls a devilish play on movie titles (‘Forrest Damned’, ‘Bad Man’, ‘The Hellfather’) and over a maracuyá sour, he tells me about other good tour companies, good places to eat and drink, his work, my work…He’s going to stay a tour guide for a few years yet, he says, and I get his contact details; he’ll be a good person to know if I come back here, which I hope I do.
There are eight of us: an Italian family consisting of a middle-aged couple, their grownup son and his four-year old boy, Diego; Alex the Ukrainian Canadian from Toronto, originally from Kiev; Anne-Marie, a Dutch flight attendant who’s taken four months off work to travel around South America; Patrick from the States, who works for Homeland Security and myself. Our guide, Roosevelt, turns out to be an energetic and enthusiastic young man, originally from Cabanaconde in the canyon, who knows the area very well.
“Why are you called Roosevelt? It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I was named after my uncle.”
“But why was he named Roosevelt?”
“My grandfather liked the American president.”
Roosevelt has a cousin named Clinton. “I’ll name my son ‘Obama’”, he jokes.
Our first stop is by the side of the road, where a herd of vicuñas is grazing pretty close to us. Roosevelt explains to us how the wild creatures are shorn one a year (and only twice in their lifetimes) and how only two shops in Arequipa are authorised to sell items made of vicuña wool.
Then we deviate from the path taken by most tour groups, go off the road over some hill ground and walk down to see the otherworldly rock formations – giant stone cones of volcanic origin, shaped by the fierce wind and the heavy rains. It’s a little like Bryce Canyon in the States. I wander among the giants, climb on the smaller ones, peer down into the valley below. The middle-aged Italian lady is affected by the altitude and Roosevelt has to help her back to the bus after she’s finished dry heaving. The altitude has less of an effect on me than before; it no longer feels like I’m moving through treacle, though I get breathless when I hike back up the hill to the bus too quickly. We’re above 3,500m.
We pass a bofedál - a green area with small lagoons and waterlogged soil; the vegetation here holds water all year round, and supports various birds as well as the vicuñas.
When the road climbs higher, it gets seriously cold. We stop at the Miradór de Los Volcanes – a viewpoint from where you can see all the major volcanoes in the area. Local women with weathered faces sit over their colourful woollen wares, wrapped in so many layers of clothing, they look round. The area around is covered with apachatas – rock pile offerings to the gods of the mountains, some made by locals, some by tourists. I make my own offering. If the gods are satisfied with a few rocks piled on top of each other, that’s getting off easy; back in the day, they used to sacrifice children, first drugging them with herbal concoctions and then dispatching them with a blow to the head. One of them, Juanita the Ice Princess, is in the famous museum in Arequipa, having just come back from a ‘holiday’ in Chicago.
As the road descends through the mountains, we pass some women and children dressed in colourful traditional garb, selling handicrafts by the road. The children all have baby alpacas with them – really cute white woolly creatures with huge eyes and a perpetually hacked off expression on their little faces.
Chivay, the biggest town in the Colca Canyon, is our lunch stop. The canyon is populated almost wholly by indigenous tribes, and Roosebelt draws our attention to the women’s hats – some are white and flat, while others are intricately embroidered with an eight-pointed star on the top. The former are the Coyahuas and the latter are Cabanas. Traditionally, babies’ skulls were deformed in the name of beauty, so back in the day, flat hats would’ve been worn by women with flat heads.
We’re herded into Los Portales for feeding time at the ‘gringo zoo’. The food’s decent, actually – a mix of traditional stuff like rocotos rellenos and alpaca stew and the ubiquitous nuclear yellow Inca Kola. I actually rather like it; it’s like liquid bubblegum.
There’s a wedding procession walking along one of the dirt streets; the couple at the front of it are dressed in traditional finery and the bride has money tucked into the ribbon around her hat – a very practical wedding gift.
The dirt road winds along the edge of the canyon, along a sheer drop. On the other side loom tall green mountains and the little towns are surrounded by Inca terraces. I’ve never seen anything like it. Who knows, maybe if Chile’s Mapuche were weaker, then Chile, too, would still have the remnants of ancient agricultural practises… Roosevelt confirms that the majority of the people in the canyon still live traditional lives, mainly as farmers. The canyon got electricity nine years ago, and mobile phones last year. We pass a man on a mule, talking on a mobile phone, then an elderly yet sprightly sheep herder, her face deeply wrinkled like a raisin. Roosevelt speaks to her in Quechua and then informs us that she’s eighty-five. “People here live until they’re ninety, a hundred,” he informs us. It’s a rough life, though, and I guess they carry on working out of necessity. Reminds me of the lobster fishermen on Juan Fernández, who still go out to sea when they’re in their eighties.
People here are used to walking long distances. On the other side of the canyon, there are towns connected by footpaths only, footpaths that were used during Inca times, and to go shopping in Cabanaconde, the last village reachable by motor traffic, people walk for many hours, bringing produce on their mules to sell or to barter. From the pedestrian village of Malata, it’s possible to take an old Inca Road all the way to Cusco; Roosevelt’s done it in five days. Now that would be a heck of a hike…
We see a lot of mules, and only once does someone appear on a horse that daintily picks up its feet. “It’s a Peruvian dancing horse. They were brought by the Spanish and because they lived and worked by the coast, the horses learned to walk in the sand.”
Roosevelt points out large mounds of rocks with entrances, perched high up on the side of a steep mountain. “Those are Wari tombs. Wari came before the Inca and only the priests would be buried in the hanging tombs. That way they were closer to the gods of the mountains.”
It’s dark by the time we get to Cabanaconde and have an early night in anticipation of the hike.
At 7am, Roosevelt leads us through the narrow dirt streets and along more terraced fields until we reach the start of a steep ascent into the canyon. There’s a cross at the top of the path, decorated with red wild flowers – it’s the Jesus of the mountains. “The people here go to mass on Sunday but they also make offerings to the gods of the mountains.” The vegetation reminds me of the Copper Canyon in Mexico – the cacti, the heat, the scent of flowers in the air. We stop periodically to take photos and to marvel at the canyon’s beauty as it opens up before us and as each new lookout seems to be batter than the previous one. Looking down from the path is vertigo-inducing.
As we get closer to the oasis – a lush patch of green and the turquoise of swimming pools at the bottom of reddish-yellow cliffs – we pass scores of baked gringos. I can’t believe that some tour companies do the canyon trip in one day, with people doing the hike under the scorching sun. Patrick, Alex and I beat the mules carrying our luggage down to the oasis, but only just. The last part is a very narrow path covered with scree and I’m very cautious because my knee is beginning to feel the strain of the steep descent.
The Oasis or Sangayo (‘paradise’ in Quechua) is just wonderful. Roosevelt pitches our tents and cooks our food as we frolic in the pool – each of the five properties here has one, fed by natural springs. There are other tourists here, staying in the basic grass huts. After lunch, only the non-Italians accompany Roosevelt on a short excursion; four year-old Diego has found a boy his age to play with – a rarity in this community of five families – and the rest of the family is staying with him.
A short hike out of the oasis takes us to the hanging bridge across a shallow but fast river far below. Roosevelt points out two dark birds diving into the water – rare torrent ducks: “They’re fishing for trout”, and names the various plants we see. He lived with his grandmother for six years and her knowledge of herbology was extensive. He shows us a plant that looks similar to aloe vera: “You can make very strong ropes out of this”. Then aloe vera itself, ripping off part of a leaf, letting the yellowish liquid drip down, and showing us the slimy inside: “My grandmother would use the clear liquid as eye drops.” When we come to a cluster of nopal cactuses, he scrapes some white stuff off the cactus onto his palm; on close inspection, it looks kind of like woodlice rolled in flour. He then squishes one, releasing a spurt of red onto his palm and informs us that it’s cochineal, an insect used as red food colouring and in makeup. “Twice a year, the people here harvest it and sell it to cosmetics companies.” Though locals harvest the cactus fruit (tuna or ‘prickly pear’), the nopales themselves are not eaten, unlike in Mexico, though people do make infusions out of them which are good for the digestive system.
When we see names scrawled on rocks around us, Roosevelt explains that it’s not ordinary graffiti; it’s to do with upcoming elections. He then explains the fiasco that was the previous presidential election, when the corrupt Alberto Fujimori (who fled to Japan during the last year of his presidency) decided to run for president again, was arrested in Chile and now resides in the maximum security prison that he and Vladimiro Montesinos - the Karl Rove to Fujimori’s Bush - originally had built. There’s a possibility that Keiko Fujimori may run for president this time (and win).
Back at the oasis, Roosevelt fills in the gaps in my botanical knowledge. I recognised the fig tree (and raided it), the pink peppercorn tree, the banana tree…There’s a tree sporting large white flowers, hanging down like bells; apparently the leaves, if used as an infusion in the right quantity, have a similar effect to marijuana and are used during various rituals. Too much of it leaves you blind for a couple of days. The pink peppercorns are used as mosquito repellent.
Patrick and I discover that we have a lot in common. He works in Immigration; I was denied entry to the US. I studied in Puerto Rico; he lives in Puerto Rico at the moment.
Alex uses his sophisticated phone with Google Sky Map to help us find the Southern Cross. Roosevelt points out two bright stars near it – ‘the eyes of the llama’, and I know that I’ll never forget it now.
Very early night in anticipation of a 4am start. I’m awake at 2am and can’t fall asleep. We eat breakfast in the dark and set off. Am sweating very soon and grateful for the early start; in the heat, it’d be unbearable. Gradually, Alex falls behind. Patrick is in front, and Roosevelt periodically takes the lead or goes back to check on Alex. The mules (and the Italians riding them) set off later and pass us along the way, near the top. Patrick manages to keep up with them and tells me that it nearly killed him. During yesterday’s descent, we met an eighty-something woman taking her mules to Cabanaconde; she had an enormous bundle strapped to her back and she must’ve been walking for at least five hours, but she wasn’t even breathing hard. We are all very soft compared to the people here. I make it to the top in two hours and forty-five minutes. Roosevelt’s best is one hour five minutes. There’s a marathon held in the canyon every year, with this ascent as the last stretch and last year’s winner made it in just under three hours. Amazing.
As soon as I get to the top, my leg muscles begin seizing up. I just know that tomorrow I’ll barely be able to walk. Serves me right for not stretching. A soak in the hot springs in Chivay helps a little. On the way to Chivay, we make another stop at the famous Cruz del Condor, and see one of the giant birds swoop right over our heads before riding the thermal over the mountains. One of the biggest families of condors lives here, but we’re too late in the day to see any more. We do see the world’s most enormous hummingbird, though.
On the way back to Arequipa I’m so tired, I’m in a catatonic stupor, but can’t sleep, unusually for me. Am digesting my new experience – the canyon, the mighty mountains, the faint ribbons of paths crossing them being the only sign of human existence, the people here living pretty much as they did five hundred years ago.
Roosevelt (who spells his name ‘Roosebelt’, as it turns out) offers to answer all my questions over a drink and we agree to meet at 10pm by the cathedral. I originally regret the decision because I’m ready to drop, but end up having a really good time. We go to Bar 6:16, the posters on the walls a devilish play on movie titles (‘Forrest Damned’, ‘Bad Man’, ‘The Hellfather’) and over a maracuyá sour, he tells me about other good tour companies, good places to eat and drink, his work, my work…He’s going to stay a tour guide for a few years yet, he says, and I get his contact details; he’ll be a good person to know if I come back here, which I hope I do.
Saturday 15 May 2010
Day 38 - Arequipa.
Surprisingly awake and rearing to go when the bus pulls into the Arica terminal at 6am. It’s a balmy morning and there’s a breeze coming from the ocean. Ignore the touts shouting out: “Arequipa!” even though that’s my next destination; I know exactly where I’m going.
Arica feels different from the rest of Chile, probably because it’s right near the border of Peru and Bolivia; there are far more indigenous faces here, and things seem more chaotic. I make for the international terminal next door and clamber into a taxi colectivo with four other women; at CH$3000, it’s slightly pricier than the bus, but it’s a lot quicker, as the driver helps you with the border formalities. We’re off to the Peruvian city of Tacna, from where I’m due to catch another bus to Arequipa.
The other passengers are Peruvian ladies coming home; they chat to me and look out for me at the border crossing, advising me where to go and watching over my luggage. The Peruvian border guard ignores the wild boar pate that I’m carrying across the border but is very interested in my mouthwash for some reason.
Beyond the border lies a wide, dusty plain dotted with what appears to be rectangular huts, woven out of some plant, and square little brick buildings which look like outhouses, but I’m not sure what they are. Near Tacna, there are fields and fields of flat-leafed cactus, which looks like it’s cultivated; maybe it’s like the nopal in Mexico.
Tacna itself is a dusty sprawl of adobe buildings in between giant sand dunes. On one of the massive sand dunes someone’s taken the trouble to lay out the town’s emblem and other designs in what looks like darker rock. You can definitely tell that you’re in a different country: the traffic is more chaotic, and the bus terminal is awash with smells of spicy food. I change my remaining pesos into soles and manage to get a bus ticket on Arequipa straight away. The nice agent even walks me across the road to the Buses Flores terminal and offers to help with my luggage, though I don’t let her; she’s my height and looks far more fragile.
As our journey through the desert progresses, I’m so glad that I’ve splurged on the posher double-decker bus with air-con rather than paying half for the clasico; the trip takes almost seven hours due to being frequently stopped by police (they check our travel documents and luggage), road works, and the fact that you really can’t speed up on long stretches of the road – though mostly empty, it winds along hairpin bends with sheer drops along the side. No wonder there are so many roadside shrines to the dead. At one point, mist comes down so thickly that you can’t see more than a few metres in front of you, and the bus slows right down, though I can see other cars dashing by in the opposite direction at higher speeds.
Much of the landscape is a moonscape – reddish hills and dusty desert, where the only sign of civilisation are electricity pylons. When we pass through a couple of little town, I notice that the designs on the giant sand dunes are actually made of a dark cactus, clearly planted especially.
Some puzzling billboards. One says: “Papa no corres, vuleve a casa.” (Daddy, don’t run away, come home.” I wonder if there are many absent fathers in Peru. Another billboard warns against having too many children: “How are you going to love them all?” This is a Catholic country, right? I wonder what alternatives they’re suggesting.
Arequipa takes me by surprise. For some reason I was expecting a sunny, chilled-out city like somewhere in Andalucía, but the first thing that hits you is the smell of diesel fumes, closely followed by the cacophony of street sounds. I take a cab to my place – Los Andes, right by the Plaza de Armas; the chatty driver gives me tips on what to see.
Am a bit light-headed, possibly because I hadn’t had a proper meal in 24 hours, so my first priority is food. I play Russian roulette by choosing a rocoto relleno, which looks like a bell pepper stuffed with meat – some of them are mild, and some are explosively spicy. Mine is so spicy that it brings tears to my eyes and I gulp air like a fish.
I make my way through the city’s chaos to get my bearings; last time I was in Peru, I was travelling with Mike, and when I travel with someone who knows the place, I tend to switch off the ‘guidebook writer mode’ and not pay much attention to where everything is. I take in the beautiful stone churches, which I’ll explore in more detail later, and the really impressive white stone convent, which takes up more than a block; here I find La Trattoria, the Gastón Acurio restaurant that my friend Pete recommended and make a reservation for my last day.
Gastón is a Peruvian culinary superstar, and his food is some of the best I’ve ever eaten; he has branches all over the place, including Spain, and now the States as well – San Francisco or New York. He makes Jamie Oliver look like a peasant. End up having dinner at another of his places – Chicha – which does traditional Arequipa food, but really, really well. Look wistfully at the wonderful-looking cocktails – different takes on the original pisco sour – and go for a chicha morada (purple corn drink) instead because we are at an altitude. Pig out on ceviche and traditional food – a posh rocoto relleno, awesome pork crackling, and something delicious and gelatinous attached to bone, which I can’t identify but which turns out to be a pig’s trotter.
The original plan was to stay in Arequipa for a couple of days, but since a three-day trek into the Colca Canyon only runs on Saturdays and Tuesdays, I have no choice but to explore the city when I return.
Arica feels different from the rest of Chile, probably because it’s right near the border of Peru and Bolivia; there are far more indigenous faces here, and things seem more chaotic. I make for the international terminal next door and clamber into a taxi colectivo with four other women; at CH$3000, it’s slightly pricier than the bus, but it’s a lot quicker, as the driver helps you with the border formalities. We’re off to the Peruvian city of Tacna, from where I’m due to catch another bus to Arequipa.
The other passengers are Peruvian ladies coming home; they chat to me and look out for me at the border crossing, advising me where to go and watching over my luggage. The Peruvian border guard ignores the wild boar pate that I’m carrying across the border but is very interested in my mouthwash for some reason.
Beyond the border lies a wide, dusty plain dotted with what appears to be rectangular huts, woven out of some plant, and square little brick buildings which look like outhouses, but I’m not sure what they are. Near Tacna, there are fields and fields of flat-leafed cactus, which looks like it’s cultivated; maybe it’s like the nopal in Mexico.
Tacna itself is a dusty sprawl of adobe buildings in between giant sand dunes. On one of the massive sand dunes someone’s taken the trouble to lay out the town’s emblem and other designs in what looks like darker rock. You can definitely tell that you’re in a different country: the traffic is more chaotic, and the bus terminal is awash with smells of spicy food. I change my remaining pesos into soles and manage to get a bus ticket on Arequipa straight away. The nice agent even walks me across the road to the Buses Flores terminal and offers to help with my luggage, though I don’t let her; she’s my height and looks far more fragile.
As our journey through the desert progresses, I’m so glad that I’ve splurged on the posher double-decker bus with air-con rather than paying half for the clasico; the trip takes almost seven hours due to being frequently stopped by police (they check our travel documents and luggage), road works, and the fact that you really can’t speed up on long stretches of the road – though mostly empty, it winds along hairpin bends with sheer drops along the side. No wonder there are so many roadside shrines to the dead. At one point, mist comes down so thickly that you can’t see more than a few metres in front of you, and the bus slows right down, though I can see other cars dashing by in the opposite direction at higher speeds.
Much of the landscape is a moonscape – reddish hills and dusty desert, where the only sign of civilisation are electricity pylons. When we pass through a couple of little town, I notice that the designs on the giant sand dunes are actually made of a dark cactus, clearly planted especially.
Some puzzling billboards. One says: “Papa no corres, vuleve a casa.” (Daddy, don’t run away, come home.” I wonder if there are many absent fathers in Peru. Another billboard warns against having too many children: “How are you going to love them all?” This is a Catholic country, right? I wonder what alternatives they’re suggesting.
Arequipa takes me by surprise. For some reason I was expecting a sunny, chilled-out city like somewhere in Andalucía, but the first thing that hits you is the smell of diesel fumes, closely followed by the cacophony of street sounds. I take a cab to my place – Los Andes, right by the Plaza de Armas; the chatty driver gives me tips on what to see.
Am a bit light-headed, possibly because I hadn’t had a proper meal in 24 hours, so my first priority is food. I play Russian roulette by choosing a rocoto relleno, which looks like a bell pepper stuffed with meat – some of them are mild, and some are explosively spicy. Mine is so spicy that it brings tears to my eyes and I gulp air like a fish.
I make my way through the city’s chaos to get my bearings; last time I was in Peru, I was travelling with Mike, and when I travel with someone who knows the place, I tend to switch off the ‘guidebook writer mode’ and not pay much attention to where everything is. I take in the beautiful stone churches, which I’ll explore in more detail later, and the really impressive white stone convent, which takes up more than a block; here I find La Trattoria, the Gastón Acurio restaurant that my friend Pete recommended and make a reservation for my last day.
Gastón is a Peruvian culinary superstar, and his food is some of the best I’ve ever eaten; he has branches all over the place, including Spain, and now the States as well – San Francisco or New York. He makes Jamie Oliver look like a peasant. End up having dinner at another of his places – Chicha – which does traditional Arequipa food, but really, really well. Look wistfully at the wonderful-looking cocktails – different takes on the original pisco sour – and go for a chicha morada (purple corn drink) instead because we are at an altitude. Pig out on ceviche and traditional food – a posh rocoto relleno, awesome pork crackling, and something delicious and gelatinous attached to bone, which I can’t identify but which turns out to be a pig’s trotter.
The original plan was to stay in Arequipa for a couple of days, but since a three-day trek into the Colca Canyon only runs on Saturdays and Tuesdays, I have no choice but to explore the city when I return.
Days 36 & 37 - San Pedro de Atacama.
Luckily, on the bus to San Pedro, we have the air-con on most of the time, so I manage to sleep, on and off. The sun begins to rise as we drive out of Antofagasta, illuminating the dirt-brown plain and the early morning mist on the equally brown mountains. A processing plant in the desert is belching black smoke. More trash everywhere. In the distance, there’s the odd dust trail left by a truck passing through. We stop for a slow freight train. The baby in the seat behind me is squalling for the umpteenth time. Change buses in Calama.
The closer we get to San Pedro, the more stunning the scenery. It’s not for everyone, but to me, the surrounding moonscape – the bare reddish mountains – is just beautiful. San Pedro is like a small green oasis in the desert, its one-storey adobe houses hidden amidst the greenery. I’m staying at Hostal Sonchek; my first choice, Takha Takha, where I stayed last time, is booked up. They all look alike, these hostels – greenery in the inside courtyards, a few benches or hammocks, some cats dotted about the place, and no-frills rooms without heating.
San Pedro is my home in the north of Chile. I really like the chilled-out vibe, the dirt streets, the good food and the incredible scenery within reach. Last time I was here, I went sandboarding, swimming in the salt lakes, I visited the highland villages and the geysers at dawn, and went stargazing. San Pedro (or the Atacama Desert) has some of the clearest skies on earth, which is why I’m deeply disappointed that on the one night I’m here, it’s cloudy and the stargazing’s cancelled. The French guy who runs it is amazing; he’s got several high-powered telescopes set out in his backyard; his explanations are very entertaining and best of all, you get to look through all the telescopes, and where there’s only one star to the naked eye, you see a cluster; you can see the craters on the moon, and I still remember the wonder I felt – the fluttering feeling in my stomach, when I first caught sight of the tiny golden Saturn with its rings clearly visible. It didn't seem real.
I pay a visit to Martin of Cosmo Andino; last time I ended up joining a couple of their tours and their reputation is still the best in a town where every other place is a tour agency or a restaurant. Even though I’m on a ‘mini-vacation’, I still enquire about any changes since last time; we gossip about mutual acquaintances, and I sign up for the 4am visit to the geysers. Even on a ‘mini-vacation’ I can’t seem to sleep in.
The mundane stuff does get done, though: I drop stuff off at the laundry; exchange “Slaves of new York” (bleak but spot-on) for “The Subtle Knife”, which I’ve read already but love; write postcards to my inmates beneath the pink peppercorn trees in the plaza and post them, and visit La Estaka – still one of the most innovative places to eat which actually has good service. When I’m persuaded to eat at La Esquina by an English-speaking tout, I’m just amazed that they’re still open in a town where everything is so competitive: even though I’m the only customer, the staff stand around talking for about five minutes without greeting me or giving me the menu, then the soup takes years to arrive, and though it’s good, I finally have to then go up to them to get their attention. Suggested tip is 10%. I think not.
When I’m waiting for my pickup at 4am, a large black dog bounds up to me and seems ecstatically happy to see me. When I walk past Takha Takha later on, I see the same dog there, and realise that it’s the puppy from two years ago; I made friends with the family of dogs who lived in the garden, and the puppies would come and sit on my lap at night when I sat in the garden to watch the stars. In fact, the entire family walked me to the bus station when I was leaving.
Can’t sleep on the way to the geysers; it’s a two-hour bumpy ride and am feeling nauseous, unusually for me. A whole fleet of minibuses is there before sunrise; cold and slightly dazed from the altitude (4500m) we wander between the fumaroles and geysers spitting out jets of boiling water like ghosts in the mist. It’s an amazing sight, caused by intense volcanic activity: underground rivers are heated up enough to spew out steam which turns to water upon hitting the cold air. We have to be careful where we walk, because there have been several cases of boiled tourist.
Coca leaf tea for breakfast, and then we move on to the hot springs. Here there are several mighty geysers which have killed several people, as well as a pool fed by the natural hot springs. I realise later that I diced with death because I didn’t stick to the safe path (I didn’t even notice that there was a path); I could’ve easily fallen through the fragile ground and become a boiled egg. The hot spring are one of the highlights of the trip; at first you’re very very cold, stripping off in sub-zero temperatures and then you plunge into wonderfully hot water! The shallow end’s the warmest; here you can’t stay in one place because every now and then, you get semi-scalded by jets of hot water. Not many people can say that they’ve had a soak in a hot tub at a height of 4500m.
We go back a roundabout way, following dirt tracks through the mountains. There’s a lot of wildlife – mostly vicuñas, the smallest of the llama family and the ones with the finest wool. A vicuña wool poncho goes for $10,000 in the States because you only get around 200g of wool from a single creature and you can’t domesticate them. They graze not far away from the road, unafraid.
We stop at a tiny highland village; normal population: 40; current population: five people, a dog and two baby llamas; you can pay to feed them milk out of a baby bottle. There’s a little whitewashed church and the adobe brick huts have thatched roofs. A local is doing a roaring trade selling grilled llama kebabs. I have to get one, of course, though the going price of CH$1700 is pretty steep. It’s tender, flavourful meat. I notice that the people who were fussing over the baby llamas a minute ago are having no trouble enjoying the llama skewers either.
For our last stop, we follow a stream along a hill overgrown with massive candelabra cacti and through thick growths of reeds. It’s a bit of a scramble down, but it’s worth it for the waterfall at the end and the view of the narrow canyon through which you can hike back all the way to San Pedro apparently – it’s only 20km.
I may have caught too much sun because my head is burning up as if I have a fever and I have a craving for ceviche. It may be a bit silly, getting Peruvian-style ceviche when Peru’s only a day away, but I don’t care. Sleep in the afternoon and then bid San Pedro farewell again, hopping on an all-nighter to Arica in the north.
The closer we get to San Pedro, the more stunning the scenery. It’s not for everyone, but to me, the surrounding moonscape – the bare reddish mountains – is just beautiful. San Pedro is like a small green oasis in the desert, its one-storey adobe houses hidden amidst the greenery. I’m staying at Hostal Sonchek; my first choice, Takha Takha, where I stayed last time, is booked up. They all look alike, these hostels – greenery in the inside courtyards, a few benches or hammocks, some cats dotted about the place, and no-frills rooms without heating.
San Pedro is my home in the north of Chile. I really like the chilled-out vibe, the dirt streets, the good food and the incredible scenery within reach. Last time I was here, I went sandboarding, swimming in the salt lakes, I visited the highland villages and the geysers at dawn, and went stargazing. San Pedro (or the Atacama Desert) has some of the clearest skies on earth, which is why I’m deeply disappointed that on the one night I’m here, it’s cloudy and the stargazing’s cancelled. The French guy who runs it is amazing; he’s got several high-powered telescopes set out in his backyard; his explanations are very entertaining and best of all, you get to look through all the telescopes, and where there’s only one star to the naked eye, you see a cluster; you can see the craters on the moon, and I still remember the wonder I felt – the fluttering feeling in my stomach, when I first caught sight of the tiny golden Saturn with its rings clearly visible. It didn't seem real.
I pay a visit to Martin of Cosmo Andino; last time I ended up joining a couple of their tours and their reputation is still the best in a town where every other place is a tour agency or a restaurant. Even though I’m on a ‘mini-vacation’, I still enquire about any changes since last time; we gossip about mutual acquaintances, and I sign up for the 4am visit to the geysers. Even on a ‘mini-vacation’ I can’t seem to sleep in.
The mundane stuff does get done, though: I drop stuff off at the laundry; exchange “Slaves of new York” (bleak but spot-on) for “The Subtle Knife”, which I’ve read already but love; write postcards to my inmates beneath the pink peppercorn trees in the plaza and post them, and visit La Estaka – still one of the most innovative places to eat which actually has good service. When I’m persuaded to eat at La Esquina by an English-speaking tout, I’m just amazed that they’re still open in a town where everything is so competitive: even though I’m the only customer, the staff stand around talking for about five minutes without greeting me or giving me the menu, then the soup takes years to arrive, and though it’s good, I finally have to then go up to them to get their attention. Suggested tip is 10%. I think not.
When I’m waiting for my pickup at 4am, a large black dog bounds up to me and seems ecstatically happy to see me. When I walk past Takha Takha later on, I see the same dog there, and realise that it’s the puppy from two years ago; I made friends with the family of dogs who lived in the garden, and the puppies would come and sit on my lap at night when I sat in the garden to watch the stars. In fact, the entire family walked me to the bus station when I was leaving.
Can’t sleep on the way to the geysers; it’s a two-hour bumpy ride and am feeling nauseous, unusually for me. A whole fleet of minibuses is there before sunrise; cold and slightly dazed from the altitude (4500m) we wander between the fumaroles and geysers spitting out jets of boiling water like ghosts in the mist. It’s an amazing sight, caused by intense volcanic activity: underground rivers are heated up enough to spew out steam which turns to water upon hitting the cold air. We have to be careful where we walk, because there have been several cases of boiled tourist.
Coca leaf tea for breakfast, and then we move on to the hot springs. Here there are several mighty geysers which have killed several people, as well as a pool fed by the natural hot springs. I realise later that I diced with death because I didn’t stick to the safe path (I didn’t even notice that there was a path); I could’ve easily fallen through the fragile ground and become a boiled egg. The hot spring are one of the highlights of the trip; at first you’re very very cold, stripping off in sub-zero temperatures and then you plunge into wonderfully hot water! The shallow end’s the warmest; here you can’t stay in one place because every now and then, you get semi-scalded by jets of hot water. Not many people can say that they’ve had a soak in a hot tub at a height of 4500m.
We go back a roundabout way, following dirt tracks through the mountains. There’s a lot of wildlife – mostly vicuñas, the smallest of the llama family and the ones with the finest wool. A vicuña wool poncho goes for $10,000 in the States because you only get around 200g of wool from a single creature and you can’t domesticate them. They graze not far away from the road, unafraid.
We stop at a tiny highland village; normal population: 40; current population: five people, a dog and two baby llamas; you can pay to feed them milk out of a baby bottle. There’s a little whitewashed church and the adobe brick huts have thatched roofs. A local is doing a roaring trade selling grilled llama kebabs. I have to get one, of course, though the going price of CH$1700 is pretty steep. It’s tender, flavourful meat. I notice that the people who were fussing over the baby llamas a minute ago are having no trouble enjoying the llama skewers either.
For our last stop, we follow a stream along a hill overgrown with massive candelabra cacti and through thick growths of reeds. It’s a bit of a scramble down, but it’s worth it for the waterfall at the end and the view of the narrow canyon through which you can hike back all the way to San Pedro apparently – it’s only 20km.
I may have caught too much sun because my head is burning up as if I have a fever and I have a craving for ceviche. It may be a bit silly, getting Peruvian-style ceviche when Peru’s only a day away, but I don’t care. Sleep in the afternoon and then bid San Pedro farewell again, hopping on an all-nighter to Arica in the north.
Thursday 13 May 2010
Days 34 & 35 - from Pucon to San Pedro de Atacama.
Catch the early morning bus from Valdivia to Pucón. The weather’s getting warmer and sunnier, the further north I travel. You can see all of the Villarica volcano. Am welcomed by Cristian’s mum and the dogs, since Cristian’s off climbing mountains in the north of Chile, in Parque Nacional Lauca.
Collect the rest of my gear, use the day to repack with a view to sending one bag of stuff to Mike’s in Lima as soon as I get to Arequipa, and to start booking accommodation in Peru. Try to make up for the relative malnutrition of the last few weeks by filling up on wholesome vegetarian food and fruit juices at Trawén and ¡ecole!.
The two friendly German girls staying at Tree House are travelling around the world for a year; they’ve just come from Peru and are keen to give me tips. They couldn’t do the most popular Inca Trail because of the mudslide, but they did the jungle one instead and tell me it was awesome. They’ve just come back from the volcano climb and tell me how brilliant it was. When they learn that I write for the Rough Guide, they chorus: “We love the Rough Guide; we’re travelling with it right now!” I modestly take credit for all the good work the Rough Guide’s ever done: “Always happy to meet our fans!” They say that having talked to other travellers travelling with either the Rough Guide or the Lonely Planet Shoestring guide, the consensus is that the LP ‘is shit’ by comparison. “One tip, though – their Getting There and Away section is better.” I take that on board.
Take the overnight bus to Santiago, having told Cristian’s mum that I’ll see her at Cristian and Sophie’s wedding in Portsmouth in July. The ride is hot and airless. One of the disadvantages of travelling by posher Tur Bus is that you have no control over climate conditions, and if the driver decides to turn up the heating and switch off the air-con, then sauna it is. On cheaper buses you can fling open a window. The fat guy next to me keeps snorting in his sleep and I keep elbowing him.
I have three hours to kill in Santiago before hopping on my 24-hour bus to Calama in the north, in order to then connect to San Pedro de Atacama. Where does a hungry Anna K go for breakfast? Why, to the fish market, of course! I've loved the Mercado Central ever since Mike introduced me to it in 2005, and I will argue with anyone who dares suggest that machas a la pamesana (razor clams baked with parmesan) washed down with hot fishy broth is not the ideal breakfast!
I squeeze into the Metro along with the morning commuters, get off at Universidad de Chile and walk up Paseo Ahumado, taking the typical morning scene: businessmen plugged into I-Pods having their shoes shined, sellers flogging copies of the latest laws or frying honey-roasted peanuts in street carts…I find a little eatery open away from the centre of the market – the centre’s for tourists – and sate my appetite for early morning seafood.
When I get back to the bus, bearing in mind that I’ve got a long bus journey ahead of me, I make sure that I’ve got Immodium within reach. True, I’ve never had food poisoning anywhere but the States and Spain, but as the saying goes, “Keep your friends close but your anti-diarrhetics closer.”
I zone in and out during the bus journey. We pass by vineyards, which are then replaced by dusty hills covered in low green bushes and studded with candelabra cacti. Pink peppercorn trees grow by the road, reminding me of my trip into the Elqui Valley, a little further north, two years ago. We went to a pisco distillery plant and that’s where I experienced my first earthquake – just a few seconds of feeling as if you’re in a dodgy lift.
Trash is everywhere. Plastic and cans are blown all over the landscape, especially when we near a city. We pass through Ovalle, La Serena, Copiapó, getting five minutes to stretch our legs and grab something to eat. I snooze, trace our progress in my Chile road atlas (I love maps!) or I read “Slaves of New York”. It’s very rare for me to be reading something for hours, uninterrupted; there’s usually too much to do and I feel guilty about taking time out. But on a bus journey like this, I can’t do much more. I’ve already gone through my guidebooks to Peru, circling all the places I need to visit on the city maps and salivating in anticipation of Peruvian street food. The preliminary work is done.
I'm stopping in San Pedro de Atacama for just under two days - to catch my breath, go star gazing and psyche myself up for the second part of my journey.
Collect the rest of my gear, use the day to repack with a view to sending one bag of stuff to Mike’s in Lima as soon as I get to Arequipa, and to start booking accommodation in Peru. Try to make up for the relative malnutrition of the last few weeks by filling up on wholesome vegetarian food and fruit juices at Trawén and ¡ecole!.
The two friendly German girls staying at Tree House are travelling around the world for a year; they’ve just come from Peru and are keen to give me tips. They couldn’t do the most popular Inca Trail because of the mudslide, but they did the jungle one instead and tell me it was awesome. They’ve just come back from the volcano climb and tell me how brilliant it was. When they learn that I write for the Rough Guide, they chorus: “We love the Rough Guide; we’re travelling with it right now!” I modestly take credit for all the good work the Rough Guide’s ever done: “Always happy to meet our fans!” They say that having talked to other travellers travelling with either the Rough Guide or the Lonely Planet Shoestring guide, the consensus is that the LP ‘is shit’ by comparison. “One tip, though – their Getting There and Away section is better.” I take that on board.
Take the overnight bus to Santiago, having told Cristian’s mum that I’ll see her at Cristian and Sophie’s wedding in Portsmouth in July. The ride is hot and airless. One of the disadvantages of travelling by posher Tur Bus is that you have no control over climate conditions, and if the driver decides to turn up the heating and switch off the air-con, then sauna it is. On cheaper buses you can fling open a window. The fat guy next to me keeps snorting in his sleep and I keep elbowing him.
I have three hours to kill in Santiago before hopping on my 24-hour bus to Calama in the north, in order to then connect to San Pedro de Atacama. Where does a hungry Anna K go for breakfast? Why, to the fish market, of course! I've loved the Mercado Central ever since Mike introduced me to it in 2005, and I will argue with anyone who dares suggest that machas a la pamesana (razor clams baked with parmesan) washed down with hot fishy broth is not the ideal breakfast!
I squeeze into the Metro along with the morning commuters, get off at Universidad de Chile and walk up Paseo Ahumado, taking the typical morning scene: businessmen plugged into I-Pods having their shoes shined, sellers flogging copies of the latest laws or frying honey-roasted peanuts in street carts…I find a little eatery open away from the centre of the market – the centre’s for tourists – and sate my appetite for early morning seafood.
When I get back to the bus, bearing in mind that I’ve got a long bus journey ahead of me, I make sure that I’ve got Immodium within reach. True, I’ve never had food poisoning anywhere but the States and Spain, but as the saying goes, “Keep your friends close but your anti-diarrhetics closer.”
I zone in and out during the bus journey. We pass by vineyards, which are then replaced by dusty hills covered in low green bushes and studded with candelabra cacti. Pink peppercorn trees grow by the road, reminding me of my trip into the Elqui Valley, a little further north, two years ago. We went to a pisco distillery plant and that’s where I experienced my first earthquake – just a few seconds of feeling as if you’re in a dodgy lift.
Trash is everywhere. Plastic and cans are blown all over the landscape, especially when we near a city. We pass through Ovalle, La Serena, Copiapó, getting five minutes to stretch our legs and grab something to eat. I snooze, trace our progress in my Chile road atlas (I love maps!) or I read “Slaves of New York”. It’s very rare for me to be reading something for hours, uninterrupted; there’s usually too much to do and I feel guilty about taking time out. But on a bus journey like this, I can’t do much more. I’ve already gone through my guidebooks to Peru, circling all the places I need to visit on the city maps and salivating in anticipation of Peruvian street food. The preliminary work is done.
I'm stopping in San Pedro de Atacama for just under two days - to catch my breath, go star gazing and psyche myself up for the second part of my journey.
Tuesday 11 May 2010
Days 32 & 33 - the Carretera Austral and beyond.
When the little Buses Becker bus pulls into the Coyhaique terminal, I’m at first dismayed to find that I’m the only passenger on board. It’s gonna be a long an eleven-hour drive to Futaleufú…But it actually works out for the best: Don Luís, the driver, invites me to ride shotgun and turns out to be a treasure trove of local information.
Buses Becker have been driving up and down the Carretera Austral for thirty years, and he himself had made about five thousand journeys, so he knows it pretty damn well. He informs me that there are weekly services to Chaitén, the town which was rendered practically uninhabitable two years ago when the nearby volcano erupted. Yes, there are people living there – about a hundred and fifty of them – because part of Chaitén was completely untouched. There are even boats directly to and from Puerto Montt (though none to the nearby Caleta Gonzalo – the gateway to Parque Pumalín) and there’s even a guesthouse and some places to eat. Good to know.
I explain my work to him, and he proceeds to educate me about the Southern Highway and its surroundings – the fauna and flora, the people, the places.
“Is it difficult to drive here?” I ask, since it’s often been described as a real driver’s challenge. “Not for me.” He also dispels the myth that you need a 4WD: “A high clearance vehicle is enough, but you have to drive slowly and carefully.” A lot of the foreigners are just not used to pitted gravel roads covered with fist-sized rocks; they go too fast and crash.
The first part out of Coyhaique is fine. It’s green, misty, and rainy. There are mountains covered in dripping vegetation on either side of the road, and we pass a waterfall known as ‘The Bride’s Veil’, just like every other waterfall in Chile. We pick up a middle-aged lady in tiny Mañihuales and stop for empanaditas – which turns out to be pretty much our only source of nutrition for the day.
The road deteriorates and becomes unpaved and bumpy, but it’s wide and there’s no traffic, so I reckon I’d happily take my chances driving here than in a busy city. Then just before we come to a turnoff to Puerto Cisnes – a village whose inhabitants work in a salmonería (salmon farm) – the road becomes a smooth ribbon of tarmac for miles.
The scenery is stupendous – trees partially disappearing into the mist, leaves changing colour everywhere, the road criss-crossing bridges over various rivers, craggy cliffs towering above us with ribbons of waterfalls cascading down…Then we hit the worst stretch of the road, at times going 15km/hour, Don Luis steering carefully, the bus bouncing over massive potholes and lumps of rock. “Landslides are common here.” The dream is to pave the entire length of the road, but it’s taking a while.
We pass signs indicating that we’re passing through Parque Nacional Queulat; there’s supposed to be a beautiful hanging glacier here but there’s no public transport into the park, so the best you can do is hop off a bus and hope that another one will come along. Which doesn’t happen with great frequency.
Don Luís points out a salmonería near the town of Puyuhuapi; it turns out that different salmon farms deal with salmon at different stages of growth; and this one is Stage 2, when the fish are still small. One stretch of road towards Puyuhuapi is the worst yet – narrow, rutted, steep, rock-strewn. We’re crowded from both sides by growths of giant nalca - wild cousin of rhubarb. I can’t look at it without remembering the time when I was ten years old and I ate my way through the rhubarb patch in the back of our garden. I couldn’t taste salt for days afterwards.
I stayed in Puyuhuapi two years ago, having met my friends Christina and Simon earlier on, just past Villa O’Higgins at the southern end, after which, our travels along the Southern Highway kept overlapping. They made it to Puyuhuapi first and helped me to sort out my room; in the summer, the town was a bustling hub of activity. Nothing is open now, and there’s nowhere to buy food. Not that I’m in any immediate danger of starvation.
“Puyuhuapi is the oldest town on the highway; it was founded in 1939 (by some Germans); the other settlements, like La Junta and Santa Lucia, are all Pinochet-era towns. La Junta (so called because it’s at the confluence of two rivers) is not as dire as I remembered – it’s actually quite large and cheerful-looking. We pick up more people, more packages. “You’re a postal service,” I tell Don Luis. “Yes, and also a taxi, a doctor, and many other things.” He clearly provides an essential service, and not just by way of transporting people. He knows everyone, brings news from loved ones along the highway, gives people lifts, shuttles packages door-to-door and dispenses medication.
“BusesBeckerBusesBeckerBusesBecker!” goes the communication system. “Adelante!” he answers. The woman on the other end clearly can’t hear, because she keeps summoning him, he keeps responding and then nothing happens. Me and the other passengers begin to giggle. We stop by some random farm along the road and he toots the horn. A little boy runs up the hill to the bus. Don Luís hands over some medication and says: “And tell your grandmother to turn up the volume; I keep answering but she can’t hear me.”
Once or twice, we get stuck behind a bunch of cows, herded off the road by ‘gauchos’. “That’s what they call them in Argentina,” Don Luís corrects me. “Here they are called ‘pobladores’ or ‘camperos’”. “Aren’t they also called ‘huasos’?” “That’s right – but that’s in Central Chile. Same work, different name.”
Past La Junta, the weather and the road improve. We speed along a wide gravel road through the fading light. Don Luis points out what looks like clouds hanging over the water – it’s steam from the thermal pools. By the time we pass the little settlement of Santa Lucia, the sun is sinking behind the mountains. There’s snow on the mountaintops and it’s getting seriously cold. As we pass by isolated houses from Puerto Ramírez on the last stretch towards Futa, dogs jump up and chase us, barking. “Look at their eyes,” Don Luís tells me. “Dogs’ eyes appear blue in the headlights; if you see reddish eyes, it’s a deer or a fox.”
The stars are incredible. Don Luís asks me if I know the Southern Cross. I do. One of my favourite places as a kid was the Moscow planetarium, and ever since, I dreamed of seeing the Southern Cross. I first saw it with my friend Mike in San Martín de Los Andes, Argentina, five years ago. It was a momentous occasion.
I ask Don Luís what he thinks of the new president. He’s in favour, but won’t expand greatly. We laugh about the current situation in the UK – an absence of a leader following the current election. I tell him that I’m concerned about the pound dropping in value, but that it’s time for a change, that thirteen years of Labour is enough. He tells me that having the centre-left in power for 21 years is more than enough. I wonder how he felt about Pinochet, but don’t ask; it’s a touchy subject, and he may have been in favour of the dictator because Pinochet really opened up this part of Chile.
Futaleufú is almost unrecognisable in the thick fog. The last time I was here, I got to know the town pretty well, even if I didn’t get a chance to go white-water rafting on the world class river of the same name. I get my ticket to the Lake District from the post office which doubles as one of the bus stations. Don Luís gives me a lift to my guesthouse, Carahue. He’s staying there also. It’s a creaky house with crooked floors, run by a nice family; it’s certainly no-frills, but at CH$5000, I’m not complaining.
I go forage for food and to do map work in the fog. I feel like I’m in the horror game, ‘Silent Hill’. Strange shadows move through the fog. It’s absolutely silent. Any minute, I expect my radio to start crackling and for monsters to come at me from the mist. Everything is closed – all the restaurants, most shops. I chance upon a Telefonica Sur outlet which doubles as an internet café and has a burger shack attached. My meal of the day is a ‘Chilean’ hamburger, meaning it’s smeared in avocado.
Early the following morning, I’m on a Transaustral bus back to the Lake District – another day-long bus ride. The original plan was to reach Pucón by late afternoon, grab the rest of my gear, catch the night bus to Santiago and then the morning bus to San Pedro de Atacama from there. Having been informed that we wouldn’t be getting into Osorno before 6.30pm, I have to rethink my plans. I’ll play it by ear; maybe it’ll still be possible to catch a bus to Pucón via Villarica, or maybe I could stay in Puerto Varas for one night, or…
We climb towards the border crossing to Esquel, Argentina; currently, the only way to get to Futa is via Argentina, and Chilean buses are not allowed to drop passengers off in Argentina. I’m thinking that there’s nothing they can do if you just have hand luggage and happen to walk off the bus and not return during one of the pit stops, but no. At the border crossing, the bus driver collects everyone’s travel documents, including my passport, and tells me that I’ll get it back at the next Chilean border crossing. My documents are held hostage.
The weather and the landscape is just super – mist hanging over sunlit water, low clouds nestling along distant mountains, frost gleaming on the grass, cows grazing in yellow fields, stretches of pampas, covered with ‘mother-in-law’s bed’ – bushes which look soft and squishy from a distance, but which are actually covered in thorns, roadside shrines to victims of motor accidents, lined with myriads of plastic bottles. I’ve noticed that in Chile as well, but haven’t discovered the significance of using recyclable materials to commemorate someone’s untimely demise.
Whenever I’m in Argentina, the weather’s always good, and today’s no exception. We speed along the massive blue expanse of Lake Nahuel Huapi; I haven’t been here for five years, but when Mike and I were here last, we went swimming in the lake, freezing even at the height of summer.
By the time we make it to Pajaritos, the border crossing into Chile, it’s clear that I’m not getting to Pucón. My plans have gone to pot along with my nutrition: all I’ve had today was a bologna sandwich and instant coffee with about seven sugars, kindly provided by Transaustral, and some smoked trout I picked up at the supermarket along the way.
In Osorno, I make the decision to spend the night in Valdivia, a but closer to Pucón, only to discover that most buses are sold out. I completely forgot that it’s Mother’s Day, and everyone’s coming home. Get the last ticket on the last bus; people are standing in the aisle. Nab the last room in Hostal Totem. It’s amazing how grateful one becomes for things like central heating and hot showers. I could just weep with joy.
Buses Becker have been driving up and down the Carretera Austral for thirty years, and he himself had made about five thousand journeys, so he knows it pretty damn well. He informs me that there are weekly services to Chaitén, the town which was rendered practically uninhabitable two years ago when the nearby volcano erupted. Yes, there are people living there – about a hundred and fifty of them – because part of Chaitén was completely untouched. There are even boats directly to and from Puerto Montt (though none to the nearby Caleta Gonzalo – the gateway to Parque Pumalín) and there’s even a guesthouse and some places to eat. Good to know.
I explain my work to him, and he proceeds to educate me about the Southern Highway and its surroundings – the fauna and flora, the people, the places.
“Is it difficult to drive here?” I ask, since it’s often been described as a real driver’s challenge. “Not for me.” He also dispels the myth that you need a 4WD: “A high clearance vehicle is enough, but you have to drive slowly and carefully.” A lot of the foreigners are just not used to pitted gravel roads covered with fist-sized rocks; they go too fast and crash.
The first part out of Coyhaique is fine. It’s green, misty, and rainy. There are mountains covered in dripping vegetation on either side of the road, and we pass a waterfall known as ‘The Bride’s Veil’, just like every other waterfall in Chile. We pick up a middle-aged lady in tiny Mañihuales and stop for empanaditas – which turns out to be pretty much our only source of nutrition for the day.
The road deteriorates and becomes unpaved and bumpy, but it’s wide and there’s no traffic, so I reckon I’d happily take my chances driving here than in a busy city. Then just before we come to a turnoff to Puerto Cisnes – a village whose inhabitants work in a salmonería (salmon farm) – the road becomes a smooth ribbon of tarmac for miles.
The scenery is stupendous – trees partially disappearing into the mist, leaves changing colour everywhere, the road criss-crossing bridges over various rivers, craggy cliffs towering above us with ribbons of waterfalls cascading down…Then we hit the worst stretch of the road, at times going 15km/hour, Don Luis steering carefully, the bus bouncing over massive potholes and lumps of rock. “Landslides are common here.” The dream is to pave the entire length of the road, but it’s taking a while.
We pass signs indicating that we’re passing through Parque Nacional Queulat; there’s supposed to be a beautiful hanging glacier here but there’s no public transport into the park, so the best you can do is hop off a bus and hope that another one will come along. Which doesn’t happen with great frequency.
Don Luís points out a salmonería near the town of Puyuhuapi; it turns out that different salmon farms deal with salmon at different stages of growth; and this one is Stage 2, when the fish are still small. One stretch of road towards Puyuhuapi is the worst yet – narrow, rutted, steep, rock-strewn. We’re crowded from both sides by growths of giant nalca - wild cousin of rhubarb. I can’t look at it without remembering the time when I was ten years old and I ate my way through the rhubarb patch in the back of our garden. I couldn’t taste salt for days afterwards.
I stayed in Puyuhuapi two years ago, having met my friends Christina and Simon earlier on, just past Villa O’Higgins at the southern end, after which, our travels along the Southern Highway kept overlapping. They made it to Puyuhuapi first and helped me to sort out my room; in the summer, the town was a bustling hub of activity. Nothing is open now, and there’s nowhere to buy food. Not that I’m in any immediate danger of starvation.
“Puyuhuapi is the oldest town on the highway; it was founded in 1939 (by some Germans); the other settlements, like La Junta and Santa Lucia, are all Pinochet-era towns. La Junta (so called because it’s at the confluence of two rivers) is not as dire as I remembered – it’s actually quite large and cheerful-looking. We pick up more people, more packages. “You’re a postal service,” I tell Don Luis. “Yes, and also a taxi, a doctor, and many other things.” He clearly provides an essential service, and not just by way of transporting people. He knows everyone, brings news from loved ones along the highway, gives people lifts, shuttles packages door-to-door and dispenses medication.
“BusesBeckerBusesBeckerBusesBecker!” goes the communication system. “Adelante!” he answers. The woman on the other end clearly can’t hear, because she keeps summoning him, he keeps responding and then nothing happens. Me and the other passengers begin to giggle. We stop by some random farm along the road and he toots the horn. A little boy runs up the hill to the bus. Don Luís hands over some medication and says: “And tell your grandmother to turn up the volume; I keep answering but she can’t hear me.”
Once or twice, we get stuck behind a bunch of cows, herded off the road by ‘gauchos’. “That’s what they call them in Argentina,” Don Luís corrects me. “Here they are called ‘pobladores’ or ‘camperos’”. “Aren’t they also called ‘huasos’?” “That’s right – but that’s in Central Chile. Same work, different name.”
Past La Junta, the weather and the road improve. We speed along a wide gravel road through the fading light. Don Luis points out what looks like clouds hanging over the water – it’s steam from the thermal pools. By the time we pass the little settlement of Santa Lucia, the sun is sinking behind the mountains. There’s snow on the mountaintops and it’s getting seriously cold. As we pass by isolated houses from Puerto Ramírez on the last stretch towards Futa, dogs jump up and chase us, barking. “Look at their eyes,” Don Luís tells me. “Dogs’ eyes appear blue in the headlights; if you see reddish eyes, it’s a deer or a fox.”
The stars are incredible. Don Luís asks me if I know the Southern Cross. I do. One of my favourite places as a kid was the Moscow planetarium, and ever since, I dreamed of seeing the Southern Cross. I first saw it with my friend Mike in San Martín de Los Andes, Argentina, five years ago. It was a momentous occasion.
I ask Don Luís what he thinks of the new president. He’s in favour, but won’t expand greatly. We laugh about the current situation in the UK – an absence of a leader following the current election. I tell him that I’m concerned about the pound dropping in value, but that it’s time for a change, that thirteen years of Labour is enough. He tells me that having the centre-left in power for 21 years is more than enough. I wonder how he felt about Pinochet, but don’t ask; it’s a touchy subject, and he may have been in favour of the dictator because Pinochet really opened up this part of Chile.
Futaleufú is almost unrecognisable in the thick fog. The last time I was here, I got to know the town pretty well, even if I didn’t get a chance to go white-water rafting on the world class river of the same name. I get my ticket to the Lake District from the post office which doubles as one of the bus stations. Don Luís gives me a lift to my guesthouse, Carahue. He’s staying there also. It’s a creaky house with crooked floors, run by a nice family; it’s certainly no-frills, but at CH$5000, I’m not complaining.
I go forage for food and to do map work in the fog. I feel like I’m in the horror game, ‘Silent Hill’. Strange shadows move through the fog. It’s absolutely silent. Any minute, I expect my radio to start crackling and for monsters to come at me from the mist. Everything is closed – all the restaurants, most shops. I chance upon a Telefonica Sur outlet which doubles as an internet café and has a burger shack attached. My meal of the day is a ‘Chilean’ hamburger, meaning it’s smeared in avocado.
Early the following morning, I’m on a Transaustral bus back to the Lake District – another day-long bus ride. The original plan was to reach Pucón by late afternoon, grab the rest of my gear, catch the night bus to Santiago and then the morning bus to San Pedro de Atacama from there. Having been informed that we wouldn’t be getting into Osorno before 6.30pm, I have to rethink my plans. I’ll play it by ear; maybe it’ll still be possible to catch a bus to Pucón via Villarica, or maybe I could stay in Puerto Varas for one night, or…
We climb towards the border crossing to Esquel, Argentina; currently, the only way to get to Futa is via Argentina, and Chilean buses are not allowed to drop passengers off in Argentina. I’m thinking that there’s nothing they can do if you just have hand luggage and happen to walk off the bus and not return during one of the pit stops, but no. At the border crossing, the bus driver collects everyone’s travel documents, including my passport, and tells me that I’ll get it back at the next Chilean border crossing. My documents are held hostage.
The weather and the landscape is just super – mist hanging over sunlit water, low clouds nestling along distant mountains, frost gleaming on the grass, cows grazing in yellow fields, stretches of pampas, covered with ‘mother-in-law’s bed’ – bushes which look soft and squishy from a distance, but which are actually covered in thorns, roadside shrines to victims of motor accidents, lined with myriads of plastic bottles. I’ve noticed that in Chile as well, but haven’t discovered the significance of using recyclable materials to commemorate someone’s untimely demise.
Whenever I’m in Argentina, the weather’s always good, and today’s no exception. We speed along the massive blue expanse of Lake Nahuel Huapi; I haven’t been here for five years, but when Mike and I were here last, we went swimming in the lake, freezing even at the height of summer.
By the time we make it to Pajaritos, the border crossing into Chile, it’s clear that I’m not getting to Pucón. My plans have gone to pot along with my nutrition: all I’ve had today was a bologna sandwich and instant coffee with about seven sugars, kindly provided by Transaustral, and some smoked trout I picked up at the supermarket along the way.
In Osorno, I make the decision to spend the night in Valdivia, a but closer to Pucón, only to discover that most buses are sold out. I completely forgot that it’s Mother’s Day, and everyone’s coming home. Get the last ticket on the last bus; people are standing in the aisle. Nab the last room in Hostal Totem. It’s amazing how grateful one becomes for things like central heating and hot showers. I could just weep with joy.
Saturday 8 May 2010
Days 30 & 31 - Coyhaique, the armpit of Chile.
I have not known cold like this for a long time. When out and about, I wear four layers, plus hat, but the lack of feeling in my fingers makes map work doubly difficult. And it’s no use saying that as a Russian, I should be used to the cold; back in Soviet times, we had central heating 24/7, as well as proper winter clothes. My room at the Hospedaje Maria Ester has no central heating, and I’m learning just how important that is in Patagonia in the autumn. I manage to steal the portable heater for a while in the evening, but when I wake up, I can actually see my breath.
Coyhaique is one of my least favourite places in Chile, and I’m not entirely sure why. The scenery outside the town is pretty spectacular, but the town itself is drab, functional and downright confusing, and the two times I’ve been here, it was cold and wet, and now it’s just cold. Also, I would cheerfully throttle whoever thought it’d be a good idea to have a central plaza in the shape of a pentagon, with ten streets radiating from it. Normally, map work is one of my favourite tasks, but I find myself wandering in circles even with a map.
The town’s one saving grace are the people. The family running my guesthouse is very welcoming and friendly, and Gaby who runs the tourist office in town is absolutely wonderful – I met her a year ago, and she’s just as super-helpful now as she was then. She clearly loves her job, and not only does she answer all my queries about practicalities and gives me restaurant tips, but she goes one step further and emails me the complete list of bus companies, phone numbers, accommodation options and prices and anything else she can think of. A real jewel. I also manage to find lots of info on the little towns south of Coyhaique which I won’t be able to visit due to time constraints this time around, but which I explored thoroughly two years ago.
Lunch at El Reloj – a place that makes Coyhaique bearable. It’s supposed to be quite a fancy restaurant since it’s part of a hotel which houses groups of wealthy North American fly-fishing enthusiasts, but I discover that the prices are actually lower than the über-touristy ‘Café Ricer’ on the plaza – where the service is lacklustre, the most exciting dishes on the menu are perpetually missing, and the soundtrack consists mostly of Olivia Newton-John songs. At El Reloj, not only do you get amusebouches (crackers with sheep’s cheese and pickles, and with cured ham and sweet onion jam), but the salmon ceviche is great and all their fish dishes are equally superb.
Make lots of phone calls. Type up a lot of work. Finish the excellent ‘Travels With My Aunt’ by Graham Greene – my first Greene novel, believe it or not, but certainly not my last! – and exchange it for ‘Black Hawk Down’.
The writing on the wall is certainly topical; “No ENDESA, Aisén sin represas!” Aisén is another name for this part of Chile, and for quite some time there has been talk of damming Patagonia’s mighty rivers in order to power the mining industry up north – which would have a devastating impact on local lives, on eco-tourism, on local sources of fresh water, on the landscape. It remains to be seen whether local protests will succeed against international interests…
I get emails from both Erratic Rock and Zoe. Ever since Zoe’s expressed an interest in widening El Chaltén’s existing recycling scheme, I’ve put her in touch with my Erratic Rock friends, who’ve managed to set up the first recycling scheme in Patagonia and who think that it’d be great if Patagonia on both sides of the border could lead Chile and Argentina in recycling. As it happens, Erratic Rock is also looking for trekking guides in El Chaltén, and it’d be great if Zoe and Leo got more work and Erratic Rock got trekking partners they could depend on! This is one of the best things about my job – the dissemination of positive ideas and sometimes helping to bring the right people together.
I cook for the first time in a month. Get a random craving for all the E-numbers in Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, but can only find the local version. Chileans seem to have an aversion to fresh milk; all I can find it the long-life stuff. My guesthouse lets me cook, but I notice the bizarre extra charges on the wall: kitchen use: CH$2000; use of microwave: CH$500; filling up water bottle from the tap: CH$200. Has the world gone mad?
The darn mini-poodle keeps me awake. It’s pretty friendly (because I fed it pasta) but it’s hard to take a creature seriously if it wears a daft knitted sweater, and its incessant yapping is not conducive to working. In the morning, I find it in bed with the lady owner. I’ve nothing against cats on beds, but feel that there’s something inherently wrong about cuddling up in bed with a little yappy beast. A big dog, maybe, but not a rat.
Speaking of dogs, I can now add ‘menaced by large, unpleasant dogs’ as yet another reason to dislike Coyhaique. I go in search of two hostels which are a bit out of town. I descend down the Piedra del Indio – a really picturesque dirt road that leads to a suspension bridge over the fast-flowing Río Simpson. Lovely autumn colours, forbidding-looking mountains in the distance, warmer weather – in short, a perfect day for good stroll. I find Hostal Kootch easily, along the first bend in the road, but Las Salamandras turns out to be a problem. I know that it’s supposed to be 2km out of town, so I cross the bridge and walk further. At a bend in the road, I spot a large dog lying down. As I walk past it, it ignores me, but then I hear barking from above, and as if given an order, the lazy dog comes at me with a threatening manner, barking furiously. Am really not looking forward having to come back this way, so I rejoice when the dirt road meets a paved road with a ‘Coyhaique’ sign. Little do I know that it means a far longer walk back to town and being menaced by new dogs pretty much every time I walk past a dwelling. They ignore the cars, but are happy to threaten pedestrians.
My friend Subo and I have an ongoing dog v. cat debate; he doesn’t like cats but loves dogs, whereas I love both, but hate certain aspects of dog behaviour. I have never ever been menaced by a kitty cat, whereas with a large dog it’s quite conceivable that should it choose to mangle me, it probably could. I hate how once one of them starts barking, it brings a whole bunch of them running, and they attack you en masse and from behind. Yet if you turn around and stomp in their direction, they flinch and cower – it’s the mixture of malice and cowardice that I can’t stand.
After two hours of zigzagging across the road to avoid dogs and traffic, running purely on adrenalin, I’m exhausted. More ceviche at El Reloj calms me down somewhat.
Back at my guesthouse, I discover that Las Salamandras was nowhere near where I thought it should be, but that I should’ve walked past it on the way back.
The map work is finished. I finalise contra ad arrangements with a Peruvian tour company, meaning that I’ll be going on a nine-day expedition into the Peruvian Amazon on the 23rd, rather than the original date of the 30th, which suits me well, though it means that I won’t be able to dilly-dally in Salta, Argentina, as I would’ve liked to – I’ll have to catch a series of buses straight to San Pedro de Atacama in order to then make it to Arequipa on the 13th.
I haven’t heard from the Inca Trail company that originally agreed to a contra ad with us, so try and track them down. They’re not picking up, but it occurs to me to try calling them later, as they might have extended lunch breaks, just like in Chile. The Inca Trail is not something that you can arrange at short notice, and it’d be extremely disappointing if they’ve let me down. Manage to get through to them in the end and speak to Joaquín, the manager. He hasn’t changed his mind; he’s just been very busy. All is well.
Finally manage to locate the correct phone number for Transaustral buses which run from Futaleufú – my next destination – to the Chilean Lake district via Argentina’s Bariloche. It’s amazing how after two years, none of the guidebooks (including my own) have the correct phone numbers, and the official Futaleufú wed page is not much use as it lists a wrong number. I find the correct number online, on the sister site of a nearby village, Palena. Go figure. The woman confirms that tomorrow’s bus will stop at the exact office where I have to buy my onward ticket. Hurray! Am almost excited about tomorrow’s ten-hour ride.
Coyhaique is one of my least favourite places in Chile, and I’m not entirely sure why. The scenery outside the town is pretty spectacular, but the town itself is drab, functional and downright confusing, and the two times I’ve been here, it was cold and wet, and now it’s just cold. Also, I would cheerfully throttle whoever thought it’d be a good idea to have a central plaza in the shape of a pentagon, with ten streets radiating from it. Normally, map work is one of my favourite tasks, but I find myself wandering in circles even with a map.
The town’s one saving grace are the people. The family running my guesthouse is very welcoming and friendly, and Gaby who runs the tourist office in town is absolutely wonderful – I met her a year ago, and she’s just as super-helpful now as she was then. She clearly loves her job, and not only does she answer all my queries about practicalities and gives me restaurant tips, but she goes one step further and emails me the complete list of bus companies, phone numbers, accommodation options and prices and anything else she can think of. A real jewel. I also manage to find lots of info on the little towns south of Coyhaique which I won’t be able to visit due to time constraints this time around, but which I explored thoroughly two years ago.
Lunch at El Reloj – a place that makes Coyhaique bearable. It’s supposed to be quite a fancy restaurant since it’s part of a hotel which houses groups of wealthy North American fly-fishing enthusiasts, but I discover that the prices are actually lower than the über-touristy ‘Café Ricer’ on the plaza – where the service is lacklustre, the most exciting dishes on the menu are perpetually missing, and the soundtrack consists mostly of Olivia Newton-John songs. At El Reloj, not only do you get amusebouches (crackers with sheep’s cheese and pickles, and with cured ham and sweet onion jam), but the salmon ceviche is great and all their fish dishes are equally superb.
Make lots of phone calls. Type up a lot of work. Finish the excellent ‘Travels With My Aunt’ by Graham Greene – my first Greene novel, believe it or not, but certainly not my last! – and exchange it for ‘Black Hawk Down’.
The writing on the wall is certainly topical; “No ENDESA, Aisén sin represas!” Aisén is another name for this part of Chile, and for quite some time there has been talk of damming Patagonia’s mighty rivers in order to power the mining industry up north – which would have a devastating impact on local lives, on eco-tourism, on local sources of fresh water, on the landscape. It remains to be seen whether local protests will succeed against international interests…
I get emails from both Erratic Rock and Zoe. Ever since Zoe’s expressed an interest in widening El Chaltén’s existing recycling scheme, I’ve put her in touch with my Erratic Rock friends, who’ve managed to set up the first recycling scheme in Patagonia and who think that it’d be great if Patagonia on both sides of the border could lead Chile and Argentina in recycling. As it happens, Erratic Rock is also looking for trekking guides in El Chaltén, and it’d be great if Zoe and Leo got more work and Erratic Rock got trekking partners they could depend on! This is one of the best things about my job – the dissemination of positive ideas and sometimes helping to bring the right people together.
I cook for the first time in a month. Get a random craving for all the E-numbers in Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, but can only find the local version. Chileans seem to have an aversion to fresh milk; all I can find it the long-life stuff. My guesthouse lets me cook, but I notice the bizarre extra charges on the wall: kitchen use: CH$2000; use of microwave: CH$500; filling up water bottle from the tap: CH$200. Has the world gone mad?
The darn mini-poodle keeps me awake. It’s pretty friendly (because I fed it pasta) but it’s hard to take a creature seriously if it wears a daft knitted sweater, and its incessant yapping is not conducive to working. In the morning, I find it in bed with the lady owner. I’ve nothing against cats on beds, but feel that there’s something inherently wrong about cuddling up in bed with a little yappy beast. A big dog, maybe, but not a rat.
Speaking of dogs, I can now add ‘menaced by large, unpleasant dogs’ as yet another reason to dislike Coyhaique. I go in search of two hostels which are a bit out of town. I descend down the Piedra del Indio – a really picturesque dirt road that leads to a suspension bridge over the fast-flowing Río Simpson. Lovely autumn colours, forbidding-looking mountains in the distance, warmer weather – in short, a perfect day for good stroll. I find Hostal Kootch easily, along the first bend in the road, but Las Salamandras turns out to be a problem. I know that it’s supposed to be 2km out of town, so I cross the bridge and walk further. At a bend in the road, I spot a large dog lying down. As I walk past it, it ignores me, but then I hear barking from above, and as if given an order, the lazy dog comes at me with a threatening manner, barking furiously. Am really not looking forward having to come back this way, so I rejoice when the dirt road meets a paved road with a ‘Coyhaique’ sign. Little do I know that it means a far longer walk back to town and being menaced by new dogs pretty much every time I walk past a dwelling. They ignore the cars, but are happy to threaten pedestrians.
My friend Subo and I have an ongoing dog v. cat debate; he doesn’t like cats but loves dogs, whereas I love both, but hate certain aspects of dog behaviour. I have never ever been menaced by a kitty cat, whereas with a large dog it’s quite conceivable that should it choose to mangle me, it probably could. I hate how once one of them starts barking, it brings a whole bunch of them running, and they attack you en masse and from behind. Yet if you turn around and stomp in their direction, they flinch and cower – it’s the mixture of malice and cowardice that I can’t stand.
After two hours of zigzagging across the road to avoid dogs and traffic, running purely on adrenalin, I’m exhausted. More ceviche at El Reloj calms me down somewhat.
Back at my guesthouse, I discover that Las Salamandras was nowhere near where I thought it should be, but that I should’ve walked past it on the way back.
The map work is finished. I finalise contra ad arrangements with a Peruvian tour company, meaning that I’ll be going on a nine-day expedition into the Peruvian Amazon on the 23rd, rather than the original date of the 30th, which suits me well, though it means that I won’t be able to dilly-dally in Salta, Argentina, as I would’ve liked to – I’ll have to catch a series of buses straight to San Pedro de Atacama in order to then make it to Arequipa on the 13th.
I haven’t heard from the Inca Trail company that originally agreed to a contra ad with us, so try and track them down. They’re not picking up, but it occurs to me to try calling them later, as they might have extended lunch breaks, just like in Chile. The Inca Trail is not something that you can arrange at short notice, and it’d be extremely disappointing if they’ve let me down. Manage to get through to them in the end and speak to Joaquín, the manager. He hasn’t changed his mind; he’s just been very busy. All is well.
Finally manage to locate the correct phone number for Transaustral buses which run from Futaleufú – my next destination – to the Chilean Lake district via Argentina’s Bariloche. It’s amazing how after two years, none of the guidebooks (including my own) have the correct phone numbers, and the official Futaleufú wed page is not much use as it lists a wrong number. I find the correct number online, on the sister site of a nearby village, Palena. Go figure. The woman confirms that tomorrow’s bus will stop at the exact office where I have to buy my onward ticket. Hurray! Am almost excited about tomorrow’s ten-hour ride.
Wednesday 5 May 2010
Days 28 & 29 - to 'Condom River' and Coyhaique.
Morning spent in search of provisions. Normally El Calafate is good for things like smoked trout and venison, but the best I can get is venison pate. I do manage to find some superb ice cream, though. What I don’t understand is why Argentina manages to consistently produce quality ice cream, whereas Chile for the most part only stocks Nestle crap. Trade the whiny ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ for some Russian science fiction, though I know how difficult it’ll be to trade a non-English book down the road. Catch up on correspondence.
Get prime seat on the double-decker bus: top floor, front row. Next to me are two English girls who are too post to wear the usual backpacker uniform of Gortex and hiking boots. One keeps talking to someone back home on her mobile: “No, I don’t want a job in Barcelona. I want to spend the year travelling.” I get nostalgic for my early backpacking days, when mobiles didn’t exist and when I didn’t travel with a laptop. Admittedly, I travel with it only because I have to work, and am noticing that more and more backpackers have laptops also, just for the heck of it. Of course it’s very convenient to be able to tap into wi-fi networks and be in constant communication with everyone you know, but I don’t like the fact that the world seems to be getting smaller and smaller. Give it a couple of years, and it’ll be cheap to use one’s mobile in any part of the world, and I can just imagine hordes of backpackers spending all the time not just Facebooking each other but also spending all their time chatting to people across the globe.
There’s practically no traffic at all on the road running through the pampas, but we keep getting stopped by the police. We pass three police checkpoints in as many hours and every time they get on board and check our IDs. I wonder what they’re looking for. Maybe there are some dangerous criminals on the run…The last time the police check the bus, they pinch a bottle of Coke from the cooler.
Everyone watches the ‘The Blind Side’, followed by a Russian pirate copy of the atrocious ‘Tooth Fairy’. I watch the sunset. I never get tired of the spectacular light show above the pampas.
We switch buses in Río Gallegos. Last time I was here, I remember leaving a half-finished book on a bus, so am guarding my belongings extra-jealously.
Infrequent stops in dark towns seemingly in the middle of nowhere. At one bus station, I spot a curious mural – a naked woman emerging from the waves, with the following inscription: “Conta hasta diez. No a aborto.” I get the bit against abortion, but I don’t understand at what point or why you would count to ten. Before having unprotected sex? Before deciding to have an abortion?
A German-sounding traveller chats to me. He’s travelling for a year with his girlfriend. When I tell him that I’m a travel writer, he responds: “So would I be the millionth person to tell you that you have a dream job?” I explain that he’s seeing the less glamorous side of it – my having to get off at 4am in one of Argentina’s least appealing cities only to catch my connection to one of Chile’s least appealing cities.
‘Condom River’ is an apt nickname for Comodoro Rivadavia, from what I manage to see at 4am. The bus station is grotty and full of assorted drunks and tramps because it’s warm and open all night. I check the schedule board and get a nasty sense of foreboding: only one company has departures for Coyhaique, and it doesn’t give a time, it just says: check at the office. The office is closed. I wonder if I’m doomed to be stuck in ‘Condom River’ and whether I should perhaps have checked that the Coyhaique connection is still running in May. Quickly come up with Plan B. I can’t afford to hang around, so if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll just catch the best bus towards Bariloche in the Argentine Lake District.
Luckily (or not, depending on how you look at it) the bus to Coyhaique is running. Another nine hours of pampas, lakes with flamingos, dirt-and-gravel roads with stones that ricochet off the bottom of the bus…I pass out for half of it because I haven’t slept much at night.
It’s snowing at the Chile border crossing, but after we cross the border and descend towards Coyhaique, the weather improves. The autumn colours are as lovely here as in Patagonia. It’s a shame that I happen to loathe Coyhaique, the Armpit of Chile, because the area around it is actually really beautiful.
Manage to find a room at a minute’s notice, and what’s even better, I now have a ticket out of town! My bus is due to depart for Futaleufú along the Carretera Austral on Saturday morning, so all I’ll have to do then is find onward transportation there and I should be on target to reach Arequipa, Peru, on the 13th. So far, so good.
Get prime seat on the double-decker bus: top floor, front row. Next to me are two English girls who are too post to wear the usual backpacker uniform of Gortex and hiking boots. One keeps talking to someone back home on her mobile: “No, I don’t want a job in Barcelona. I want to spend the year travelling.” I get nostalgic for my early backpacking days, when mobiles didn’t exist and when I didn’t travel with a laptop. Admittedly, I travel with it only because I have to work, and am noticing that more and more backpackers have laptops also, just for the heck of it. Of course it’s very convenient to be able to tap into wi-fi networks and be in constant communication with everyone you know, but I don’t like the fact that the world seems to be getting smaller and smaller. Give it a couple of years, and it’ll be cheap to use one’s mobile in any part of the world, and I can just imagine hordes of backpackers spending all the time not just Facebooking each other but also spending all their time chatting to people across the globe.
There’s practically no traffic at all on the road running through the pampas, but we keep getting stopped by the police. We pass three police checkpoints in as many hours and every time they get on board and check our IDs. I wonder what they’re looking for. Maybe there are some dangerous criminals on the run…The last time the police check the bus, they pinch a bottle of Coke from the cooler.
Everyone watches the ‘The Blind Side’, followed by a Russian pirate copy of the atrocious ‘Tooth Fairy’. I watch the sunset. I never get tired of the spectacular light show above the pampas.
We switch buses in Río Gallegos. Last time I was here, I remember leaving a half-finished book on a bus, so am guarding my belongings extra-jealously.
Infrequent stops in dark towns seemingly in the middle of nowhere. At one bus station, I spot a curious mural – a naked woman emerging from the waves, with the following inscription: “Conta hasta diez. No a aborto.” I get the bit against abortion, but I don’t understand at what point or why you would count to ten. Before having unprotected sex? Before deciding to have an abortion?
A German-sounding traveller chats to me. He’s travelling for a year with his girlfriend. When I tell him that I’m a travel writer, he responds: “So would I be the millionth person to tell you that you have a dream job?” I explain that he’s seeing the less glamorous side of it – my having to get off at 4am in one of Argentina’s least appealing cities only to catch my connection to one of Chile’s least appealing cities.
‘Condom River’ is an apt nickname for Comodoro Rivadavia, from what I manage to see at 4am. The bus station is grotty and full of assorted drunks and tramps because it’s warm and open all night. I check the schedule board and get a nasty sense of foreboding: only one company has departures for Coyhaique, and it doesn’t give a time, it just says: check at the office. The office is closed. I wonder if I’m doomed to be stuck in ‘Condom River’ and whether I should perhaps have checked that the Coyhaique connection is still running in May. Quickly come up with Plan B. I can’t afford to hang around, so if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll just catch the best bus towards Bariloche in the Argentine Lake District.
Luckily (or not, depending on how you look at it) the bus to Coyhaique is running. Another nine hours of pampas, lakes with flamingos, dirt-and-gravel roads with stones that ricochet off the bottom of the bus…I pass out for half of it because I haven’t slept much at night.
It’s snowing at the Chile border crossing, but after we cross the border and descend towards Coyhaique, the weather improves. The autumn colours are as lovely here as in Patagonia. It’s a shame that I happen to loathe Coyhaique, the Armpit of Chile, because the area around it is actually really beautiful.
Manage to find a room at a minute’s notice, and what’s even better, I now have a ticket out of town! My bus is due to depart for Futaleufú along the Carretera Austral on Saturday morning, so all I’ll have to do then is find onward transportation there and I should be on target to reach Arequipa, Peru, on the 13th. So far, so good.
Tuesday 4 May 2010
Day 27 - El Chalten.
7am start. The bus to El Chaltén takes us through the same spectacular scenery – wide open plains, guanacos silhouetted against the crimson sunrise, bare mountains in the distance coloured maroon by the first rays, the pale wide ribbon of a glacial river…
We stop at the Estancia La Leona, an isolated farm on the banks of a river whose claim to fame is that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid stayed there for three weeks in 1905, while on the run from the law in the United States.
Some fellow passengers crowd around the tame guanaco, not yet fully grown, but almost llama-sized. It seems happy to be petted and has the softest fur on its head, and the biggest eyes, framed with long eyelashes. It nuzzles me with its soft lips and then half-snorts, half-sneezes at a Swiss girl.
In El Chaltén, Zoe is waiting to pick me up. It’s rainy and windy, so we go to her place for a cup of coca leaf tea first. She’s a Brit who married an Argentinian from Córdoba and they both work here as mountain guides. In fact, the last time I was here – on New Year’s eve 2008, was the day I went hiking with them and Leo proposed to her. They were married twelve days later by the Lago del Desierto and had a post-wedding barbecue; Zoe shows me the photos.
El Chaltén is like a ghost town at this time of year, though you still get a few backpackers. I make a note of the changes: a bus station has now opened, an international airport is in the pipeline and there’s talk of making a proper border crossing between El Chaltén and Chile’s Villa O’Higgins, which is currently the end of the Carretera Austral. Two years ago, I did the crossing by boat and on foot – across Lago del Desierto, then a seven-hour hike, followed by another boat to Villa O’Higgins. It was still exciting and still off the beaten track. They're thinking of making a proper road where there's now a hiking tral and putting bigger boats on both lakes, capable of carrying vehicles. More business for the two little towns, but at what cost?
We catch up on gossip about mutual friends, I tell Zoe about Carla’s agency in Natales and offer to put them in touch with one another, and since Zoe is part of El Chaltén’s environmental committee, she’s interested in Erratic Rock’s recycling scheme and suggests that maybe the two can work together if El Chaltén can somehow send their glass over to Chile, maybe with a willing bus company…There’s no help for recycling from the local municipality, yet rubbish disposal is a problem. I ask Zoe about the border crossing logistics, because that's actually part of my research; I'd have loved to do the boat-hike-boat again, but at this time of year it's impossible; there's one weather-dependent boat per week, or perhaps in May they stop altogether.
After lunch, Zoe shows me the new building where they’ll be moving by next season- they’ll actually have a proper office which’ll raise their profile, and they’re saving up for a minibus so that they can drive visitors to the start of a popular hiking trail themselves, rather than pay other companies to do it. Zoe and I go for a short walk to the nearby waterfall. Even though this town of 400 people has no cinema, only one paved road and not much in the way of conveniences (out of season, at least), the setting is spectacular: they’re at the base of the Fitz Roy mountain range, surrounded by jagged peaks that are covered with freshly-fallen snow, and they get to see all this natural beauty every day. It really feels like autumn: the beech trees are all spectacular shades of yellow and red, and once the wind dies down, it’s good hiking weather – cold and crisp. It reminds me that the last proper autumn I saw was in Japan, five years ago.
It’s a good day trip. I finish off the day with the biggest, bloodiest steak yet at ‘Casimiro Bigua’, anticipating living on sandwiches for the next two days, until I get to Coyhaique, Chile. So, tomorrow I’ll catch a bus to Comodoro Rivadavia, getting there at 4.25am, and then catch the 8am bus to Coyhaique, making it around 30 hours’ travel in total.
We stop at the Estancia La Leona, an isolated farm on the banks of a river whose claim to fame is that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid stayed there for three weeks in 1905, while on the run from the law in the United States.
Some fellow passengers crowd around the tame guanaco, not yet fully grown, but almost llama-sized. It seems happy to be petted and has the softest fur on its head, and the biggest eyes, framed with long eyelashes. It nuzzles me with its soft lips and then half-snorts, half-sneezes at a Swiss girl.
In El Chaltén, Zoe is waiting to pick me up. It’s rainy and windy, so we go to her place for a cup of coca leaf tea first. She’s a Brit who married an Argentinian from Córdoba and they both work here as mountain guides. In fact, the last time I was here – on New Year’s eve 2008, was the day I went hiking with them and Leo proposed to her. They were married twelve days later by the Lago del Desierto and had a post-wedding barbecue; Zoe shows me the photos.
El Chaltén is like a ghost town at this time of year, though you still get a few backpackers. I make a note of the changes: a bus station has now opened, an international airport is in the pipeline and there’s talk of making a proper border crossing between El Chaltén and Chile’s Villa O’Higgins, which is currently the end of the Carretera Austral. Two years ago, I did the crossing by boat and on foot – across Lago del Desierto, then a seven-hour hike, followed by another boat to Villa O’Higgins. It was still exciting and still off the beaten track. They're thinking of making a proper road where there's now a hiking tral and putting bigger boats on both lakes, capable of carrying vehicles. More business for the two little towns, but at what cost?
We catch up on gossip about mutual friends, I tell Zoe about Carla’s agency in Natales and offer to put them in touch with one another, and since Zoe is part of El Chaltén’s environmental committee, she’s interested in Erratic Rock’s recycling scheme and suggests that maybe the two can work together if El Chaltén can somehow send their glass over to Chile, maybe with a willing bus company…There’s no help for recycling from the local municipality, yet rubbish disposal is a problem. I ask Zoe about the border crossing logistics, because that's actually part of my research; I'd have loved to do the boat-hike-boat again, but at this time of year it's impossible; there's one weather-dependent boat per week, or perhaps in May they stop altogether.
After lunch, Zoe shows me the new building where they’ll be moving by next season- they’ll actually have a proper office which’ll raise their profile, and they’re saving up for a minibus so that they can drive visitors to the start of a popular hiking trail themselves, rather than pay other companies to do it. Zoe and I go for a short walk to the nearby waterfall. Even though this town of 400 people has no cinema, only one paved road and not much in the way of conveniences (out of season, at least), the setting is spectacular: they’re at the base of the Fitz Roy mountain range, surrounded by jagged peaks that are covered with freshly-fallen snow, and they get to see all this natural beauty every day. It really feels like autumn: the beech trees are all spectacular shades of yellow and red, and once the wind dies down, it’s good hiking weather – cold and crisp. It reminds me that the last proper autumn I saw was in Japan, five years ago.
It’s a good day trip. I finish off the day with the biggest, bloodiest steak yet at ‘Casimiro Bigua’, anticipating living on sandwiches for the next two days, until I get to Coyhaique, Chile. So, tomorrow I’ll catch a bus to Comodoro Rivadavia, getting there at 4.25am, and then catch the 8am bus to Coyhaique, making it around 30 hours’ travel in total.
Day 26 - El Calafate.
6am start, and that’s after four hours of sleep. The problem with sleeping in ‘the cave’ is that it’s right next door to the kitchen, and the three obnoxious British lads kept making a racket for hours after the party.
Give Bill all the food left over from the hike, lest my contraband raisins and almonds be confiscated at the Argentina border. Chilean border guards are more strict; last time, when I got off the bus at Los Antiguos – Argentina’s cherry capital – and purchased a kilo of cherries before trying to walk across the border to Chile Chico, the border guards pinched my dried chilli flakes (brought all the way from the UK), even though there’s no way they’d contaminate the local fruit and veg, and gave me the choice of either eating the cherries or throwing them. So I methodically ate my way through a kilo of the best cherries I’ve had since my Soviet childhood.
The border crossing is uneventful; it seems to have gotten simpler since last time - there’s no paperwork to fill in and they don’t check our luggage at all.
Argentina is brighter, but there’s snow on the ground. I’m completely unprepared for the cold: my fleece-lined trousers and four top layers offer little protection from the icy blasts of wind.
The road to El Calafate runs mostly through the pampas that stretch as far as the eye can see – flat plains, covered with hardy tufts of grass and dark bushes. When I was banned from the United States in 2005, I was absolutely devastated, because roaming the wide open spaces of the Midwest was an addiction that I sated on an annual basis. Then I came to Chile and Argentina and I fell in love with the seemingly limitless wilderness there, the feeling of space and freedom you get when you take in the pampas. I can imagine galloping through them for days without seeing a single soul.
The sunrise is spectacular, with the dark clouds seemingly lit with red flames from underneath. The bus stops suddenly so that we can have a look at the two condors that have landed near the road. These ones are quite old: there are white feathers in their wings. On the ground, they look like what they are - huge vultures – but in flight, they are magnificent. One of my favourite childhood books was ‘Captain Grant’s Children’ by Jules Verne; after finding a partially-dissolved message in a bottle, a motley crew of adventurers set off from Britain to find a shipwrecked boat captain – the father of two teenagers. Their adventures take them across Patagonia, and one of the teenagers is knocked unconscious and carried off by a condor. That actually isn’t possible, because their feet are like chicken feet: they can’t grip or carry anything heavy.
We pull into El Calafate, a tourist hub on the banks of a massive glacial lake. I’ve been here before, and I’ve already visited the Perito Moreno Glacier, so this is purely a business stop. I’m here to catch the bus to the less glamorous Comodoro Rivadavia (or ‘Condom River’, as two of my friends call it), in order to catch a twice-weekly bus to Coyhaique in Chile, which in turn will take me up the Carretera Austral. However, since I’m here with a day to spare, I’ll make a day trip to El Chaltén, hiking centre extraordinaire and home to my friend Zoe. But today is purely for rest and catching up on my notes and correspondence.
Check in into Hostal Buenos Aires, then hit the main drag for late lunch. Settle on the old classic: ‘Casimiro Bigua’ – a posh steak house. There’s no better lunch than grilled sweetbreads and lamb intestines. The portion is so big that I shan’t have to eat dinner. Find a bank (luckily here there’s no danger of cards being swallowed because they’re never inserted all the way into the machine), get some pesos, buy a bus ticket to ‘Condom River’, confirm El Chaltén departures. Even though I don’t have to write about Calafate, I’m still in research mode and keep an eye out for any changes since last year. Am hoping I’ll get to cover half of the country guide to Chile again, so this will all be useful.
The rest of the day is spent typing, putting my notes in order, Skyping family members to try and persuade them to forge my signature on the postal vote (they won’t) and to hear about the Gordon Brown gaffe, Skyping Subo for a catch-up chat, and doing a Skype/video call to Mike in Lima. Remind myself that this is the kind of stuff I used to read about in Soviet science fiction novels. Mike happens to have a guest over – Captain Carlos, with whom I was rather smitten two years ago – and who will be leaving on his ten-year around the world odyssey before I make it to Lima. It’s the same tanned face, though there’s more grey in his moustache now. Chat to him briefly.
Early night to make up for last night and because the bus to El Chaltén departs early. There are two buses to El Chaltén and they both leave for, and depart El Chaltén at exactly the same time. What’s the logic here? Why not stagger the departures?
Give Bill all the food left over from the hike, lest my contraband raisins and almonds be confiscated at the Argentina border. Chilean border guards are more strict; last time, when I got off the bus at Los Antiguos – Argentina’s cherry capital – and purchased a kilo of cherries before trying to walk across the border to Chile Chico, the border guards pinched my dried chilli flakes (brought all the way from the UK), even though there’s no way they’d contaminate the local fruit and veg, and gave me the choice of either eating the cherries or throwing them. So I methodically ate my way through a kilo of the best cherries I’ve had since my Soviet childhood.
The border crossing is uneventful; it seems to have gotten simpler since last time - there’s no paperwork to fill in and they don’t check our luggage at all.
Argentina is brighter, but there’s snow on the ground. I’m completely unprepared for the cold: my fleece-lined trousers and four top layers offer little protection from the icy blasts of wind.
The road to El Calafate runs mostly through the pampas that stretch as far as the eye can see – flat plains, covered with hardy tufts of grass and dark bushes. When I was banned from the United States in 2005, I was absolutely devastated, because roaming the wide open spaces of the Midwest was an addiction that I sated on an annual basis. Then I came to Chile and Argentina and I fell in love with the seemingly limitless wilderness there, the feeling of space and freedom you get when you take in the pampas. I can imagine galloping through them for days without seeing a single soul.
The sunrise is spectacular, with the dark clouds seemingly lit with red flames from underneath. The bus stops suddenly so that we can have a look at the two condors that have landed near the road. These ones are quite old: there are white feathers in their wings. On the ground, they look like what they are - huge vultures – but in flight, they are magnificent. One of my favourite childhood books was ‘Captain Grant’s Children’ by Jules Verne; after finding a partially-dissolved message in a bottle, a motley crew of adventurers set off from Britain to find a shipwrecked boat captain – the father of two teenagers. Their adventures take them across Patagonia, and one of the teenagers is knocked unconscious and carried off by a condor. That actually isn’t possible, because their feet are like chicken feet: they can’t grip or carry anything heavy.
We pull into El Calafate, a tourist hub on the banks of a massive glacial lake. I’ve been here before, and I’ve already visited the Perito Moreno Glacier, so this is purely a business stop. I’m here to catch the bus to the less glamorous Comodoro Rivadavia (or ‘Condom River’, as two of my friends call it), in order to catch a twice-weekly bus to Coyhaique in Chile, which in turn will take me up the Carretera Austral. However, since I’m here with a day to spare, I’ll make a day trip to El Chaltén, hiking centre extraordinaire and home to my friend Zoe. But today is purely for rest and catching up on my notes and correspondence.
Check in into Hostal Buenos Aires, then hit the main drag for late lunch. Settle on the old classic: ‘Casimiro Bigua’ – a posh steak house. There’s no better lunch than grilled sweetbreads and lamb intestines. The portion is so big that I shan’t have to eat dinner. Find a bank (luckily here there’s no danger of cards being swallowed because they’re never inserted all the way into the machine), get some pesos, buy a bus ticket to ‘Condom River’, confirm El Chaltén departures. Even though I don’t have to write about Calafate, I’m still in research mode and keep an eye out for any changes since last year. Am hoping I’ll get to cover half of the country guide to Chile again, so this will all be useful.
The rest of the day is spent typing, putting my notes in order, Skyping family members to try and persuade them to forge my signature on the postal vote (they won’t) and to hear about the Gordon Brown gaffe, Skyping Subo for a catch-up chat, and doing a Skype/video call to Mike in Lima. Remind myself that this is the kind of stuff I used to read about in Soviet science fiction novels. Mike happens to have a guest over – Captain Carlos, with whom I was rather smitten two years ago – and who will be leaving on his ten-year around the world odyssey before I make it to Lima. It’s the same tanned face, though there’s more grey in his moustache now. Chat to him briefly.
Early night to make up for last night and because the bus to El Chaltén departs early. There are two buses to El Chaltén and they both leave for, and depart El Chaltén at exactly the same time. What’s the logic here? Why not stagger the departures?
Monday 3 May 2010
Day 25 - Puerto Natales.
Creaky with post-hiking stiffness, though not affected as badly as last time, when my body pretty much shut down the moment I came back to Natales.
The weather’s bloody dreadful – alternating between sunny moments and longer stretches of gale-force wind and horizontal sheets of rain. I have no choice but to venture out and do my map work during the calm spells.
Take a stroll along the stormy waters of Last Hope Sound. The snow-capped mountains are mostly obscured by the low clouds and the wind whips up large waves. Two of my friends own copies of a genuine A.K. – a photo of the Sound taken during spectacularly good weather two years ago; Heather’s copy is poster-sized and framed and has pride of place in her living room. Just as I thought – I’m unlikely to have the opportunity to take that photo again.
Nor do I get the opportunity to bollock Fantastico Sur about the rat fiasco in the park; I shall have to send them a strongly-worded email instead. Most places are inexplicably closed on a Saturday; turns out that it’s the Chilean version of Labour Day, which is a problem because I need to find wine for tonight’s party in honour of the guys from Erratic Rock, who are heading off on their travels during the low season. Eventually manage to find a poxy little shop that sells booze.
Bill gives me a couple of recommendations regarding hostels and I go check them out as part of my rounds. He asks me to tell them that he recommended them: “There’s so much animosity in this town! No one wants other people to succeed.” So I go to try and spread a little goodwill. Erratic Rock is still the best hostel, but luckily there are quite a few more decent ones for the guidebook.
After lunch I head to Base Camp, the gear-rental-place-soon-to-become-a-pub next door to Erratic Rock, where they hold talks on Torres del Paine every day at 3pm. It may be off-season, but there are still some guys heading into the park. They’ll have to walk in, because the catamaran stopped running at the end of April.
The talk is done by a little fella called Nacho, who first discussed the logistics – transportation into the park, walking times between campsites – and then moves on to packing. I listen intently, because it’s still not my forte. He tells us an anecdote about his first time camping, buying way too much food, not having his gear in waterproof bags and putting a ‘waterproof cover’ on his rucksack, only to discover that it’s a big sham: they’re bloody useless and he found that his sleeping bag was wet, his change of clothes was wet, and everything was covered in sugar from the pack of sugar he brought with him. His advice? Make sure everything’s in waterproof bags. Have one change of clothes to hike in, and a dry one for night time only. You’ll get wet during the day, and don’t bother wearing Goretex because you’ll sweat like crazy and you’ll need it in the evening to keep your dry set dry. Find a hiking buddy if possible to split food/cooking equipment with. If you have to cross a stream, don’t leap from rock to rock, because that’s a sure way of ending up in the water/with broken ankle; wade in with your boots on but unbuckle your rucksack, so if anything happens, you can untangle yourself from it. Wrap all your food because of mice (and rats!).
Most of this I knew, and I’d add that it’s perfectly okay to cross streams using hiking poles to assist you from rock to rock, as my legs are too short and I can’t jump very far. Impressed with the talk because it really does cover everything our readers will need to know about the park.
Write it up. Go drop off laundry. Go pick up bus tickets to Argentina from Carla. Have a tea break with Bill in the kitchen with Macy Gray the cat on my lap; get introduced to Bruce – a cartographer who does hiking maps of Patagonia and who runs a shelter for homeless dogs and cats in Punta Arenas. We discuss volunteer work there; he gets more support from foreigners than from his Chilean friends, who are just not too bothered about animal welfare. A lot of people keep a dog for couple of years while it’s still young, then get tired of looking after it and just put it out onto the street. They take in this kind of dog - with no street smarts – rather than healthy strays, and sponsor a neutering program. Bruce offers me a tour, but I have to keep moving, so I offer to put in a few days as a volunteer next time.
“Do you have a card?”
“I certainly do,” and I produce my Rough Guides business card. I love having them. Saying “Here’s my card” never gets old for me. He gives me a hiking map of Cabo Froward – the southernmost tip of Chile (not counting the Tierra del Fuego island). Ever since it’s become part of the Sendero de Chile, it’s become easier to do, but it’s still a serious multi-day hike with a couple of streams to swim across. Next time…
Check out 'Baguales' for dinner - it's the new microbrewery/Tex-Mex joint on the square, run by a Californian-Chilean combo. I don't get a chance to taste their dark beer, because they've run out. However, the food's just what a hungry hiker will want to go for - large plates of quesadillas, rice and beans, guacamole, Buffalo wings...The food gets my vote.
Mingle with locals, mountain guides, underfoot cats and children, and hostel guests at the party in the evening. A local reggae band kicks off after spending about seven years setting up their equipment. They’re not half bad. Soon everyone’s dancing and singing along with Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” and “No Woman, No Cry”. I get nostalgic for Jamaica – the Sunday nights at Rae Town, the ghetto behind the Tower Street Prison, everyone swaying to the oldies in a haze of marijuana smoke, myself dancing with a Red Stripe beer in one hand, and a joint in another…
The weather’s bloody dreadful – alternating between sunny moments and longer stretches of gale-force wind and horizontal sheets of rain. I have no choice but to venture out and do my map work during the calm spells.
Take a stroll along the stormy waters of Last Hope Sound. The snow-capped mountains are mostly obscured by the low clouds and the wind whips up large waves. Two of my friends own copies of a genuine A.K. – a photo of the Sound taken during spectacularly good weather two years ago; Heather’s copy is poster-sized and framed and has pride of place in her living room. Just as I thought – I’m unlikely to have the opportunity to take that photo again.
Nor do I get the opportunity to bollock Fantastico Sur about the rat fiasco in the park; I shall have to send them a strongly-worded email instead. Most places are inexplicably closed on a Saturday; turns out that it’s the Chilean version of Labour Day, which is a problem because I need to find wine for tonight’s party in honour of the guys from Erratic Rock, who are heading off on their travels during the low season. Eventually manage to find a poxy little shop that sells booze.
Bill gives me a couple of recommendations regarding hostels and I go check them out as part of my rounds. He asks me to tell them that he recommended them: “There’s so much animosity in this town! No one wants other people to succeed.” So I go to try and spread a little goodwill. Erratic Rock is still the best hostel, but luckily there are quite a few more decent ones for the guidebook.
After lunch I head to Base Camp, the gear-rental-place-soon-to-become-a-pub next door to Erratic Rock, where they hold talks on Torres del Paine every day at 3pm. It may be off-season, but there are still some guys heading into the park. They’ll have to walk in, because the catamaran stopped running at the end of April.
The talk is done by a little fella called Nacho, who first discussed the logistics – transportation into the park, walking times between campsites – and then moves on to packing. I listen intently, because it’s still not my forte. He tells us an anecdote about his first time camping, buying way too much food, not having his gear in waterproof bags and putting a ‘waterproof cover’ on his rucksack, only to discover that it’s a big sham: they’re bloody useless and he found that his sleeping bag was wet, his change of clothes was wet, and everything was covered in sugar from the pack of sugar he brought with him. His advice? Make sure everything’s in waterproof bags. Have one change of clothes to hike in, and a dry one for night time only. You’ll get wet during the day, and don’t bother wearing Goretex because you’ll sweat like crazy and you’ll need it in the evening to keep your dry set dry. Find a hiking buddy if possible to split food/cooking equipment with. If you have to cross a stream, don’t leap from rock to rock, because that’s a sure way of ending up in the water/with broken ankle; wade in with your boots on but unbuckle your rucksack, so if anything happens, you can untangle yourself from it. Wrap all your food because of mice (and rats!).
Most of this I knew, and I’d add that it’s perfectly okay to cross streams using hiking poles to assist you from rock to rock, as my legs are too short and I can’t jump very far. Impressed with the talk because it really does cover everything our readers will need to know about the park.
Write it up. Go drop off laundry. Go pick up bus tickets to Argentina from Carla. Have a tea break with Bill in the kitchen with Macy Gray the cat on my lap; get introduced to Bruce – a cartographer who does hiking maps of Patagonia and who runs a shelter for homeless dogs and cats in Punta Arenas. We discuss volunteer work there; he gets more support from foreigners than from his Chilean friends, who are just not too bothered about animal welfare. A lot of people keep a dog for couple of years while it’s still young, then get tired of looking after it and just put it out onto the street. They take in this kind of dog - with no street smarts – rather than healthy strays, and sponsor a neutering program. Bruce offers me a tour, but I have to keep moving, so I offer to put in a few days as a volunteer next time.
“Do you have a card?”
“I certainly do,” and I produce my Rough Guides business card. I love having them. Saying “Here’s my card” never gets old for me. He gives me a hiking map of Cabo Froward – the southernmost tip of Chile (not counting the Tierra del Fuego island). Ever since it’s become part of the Sendero de Chile, it’s become easier to do, but it’s still a serious multi-day hike with a couple of streams to swim across. Next time…
Check out 'Baguales' for dinner - it's the new microbrewery/Tex-Mex joint on the square, run by a Californian-Chilean combo. I don't get a chance to taste their dark beer, because they've run out. However, the food's just what a hungry hiker will want to go for - large plates of quesadillas, rice and beans, guacamole, Buffalo wings...The food gets my vote.
Mingle with locals, mountain guides, underfoot cats and children, and hostel guests at the party in the evening. A local reggae band kicks off after spending about seven years setting up their equipment. They’re not half bad. Soon everyone’s dancing and singing along with Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” and “No Woman, No Cry”. I get nostalgic for Jamaica – the Sunday nights at Rae Town, the ghetto behind the Tower Street Prison, everyone swaying to the oldies in a haze of marijuana smoke, myself dancing with a Red Stripe beer in one hand, and a joint in another…
Saturday 1 May 2010
Days 23 and 24 - Into the wild (Torres del Paine).
“There’s a rat in the kitchen
What are you gonna do…” goes the UB40 song. Only the rat isn’t in the kitchen; it just ran along my back on the bunk bed. I’m wide awake at 4.07am, wondering if the rat will now attempt to snuggle with me inside the sleeping bag for extra comfort. Maybe it’ll decide to nibble on my face!
Am having the worst night of the journey so far. At around 7pm, I staggered into the Refugio Los Cuernos, only to be met with blank stares from a staff member, leaning on the bar of the dark kitchen. Any thoughts of a nice hot meal evaporated instantly. The whole place was dark and the only other visible guest was a guy studying his Torres del Paine map and eating sandwiches. Another guy eventually showed me to a dark dorm room down the hall and gave me a bare bunk on which I laid my sleeping bag. Two cocooned forms were already lying prone on other bunks, asleep at that hour.
I dejectedly munched my way through my sandwiches, but as I warmed myself by the wood-heated stove, as my clothes gradually dried and my stiff muscles loosened up, I perked up a bit and spent the evening reading. The lights kept coming on and off, the staff pointedly ignored their two guests and I thought that I’d been to far cheerier cemeteries than that. What a contrast with the last time, two years ago, when I was here at the height of summer. I managed to do my knee in on the Valle Francés, the middle part of the ‘W’ circuit, which takes in the three highlights of the Torres del Paine National Park, and from Valle Francés I limped painfully for over three hours to the refugio (basic hostel) to camp, be served a delicious meal by friendly staff and then be plied with coca leaf tea by a bunch of Germans I’d met on the Navimag earlier. (The coca tea had no effect on the pain whatsoever, by the way).
By the time I'm ready to go to bed, just before 10pm, having been up since 6am and needing an early start the following day, the two cocoons came alive and out climbed two English girls. They later barged into the dorm at midnight, and without any regard for me or the guy who was also asleep by then, they turned on the light and proceeded to make a racket, talking and laughing, for what seemed like an age. Then just after 4am, the rat that I’d spotted darting under my bed earlier had decided to make my acquaintance.
The day starts auspiciously enough, with an early power breakfast at Erratic Rock (since most people who stay here are here for the great outdoors, Bill and co. always make breakfast for people leaving early for the park), even though there are fewer people around the table and the most common topic of summer conversation – “Are you doing the Circuit or the ‘W’”? – is absent; it’s the very end of the season, and the back half of the park is already closed due to snowfall, so it’s the ‘W’ or nothing.
Then a bus ride to Torres del Paine – two and a half hours along a bumpy gravel road through some of the most spectacular country ever. The sky at sunrise looks like it’s on fire, the rays violently breaking through the churned-up leaden clouds. The bus windscreen has a giant crack across it and what looks like a little bullet hole – all caused by the road surface. We hear the loud rattling of stoned against the bottom of the bus as it speeds through the great plains, covered with hardy tufts of prairie grass. More wildlife than I’ve ever seen on the way to the park before – large herds of guanacos (wild cousins of llamas) grazing everywhere, leaping out of the road to let us pass; flocks of ñandú (small ostriches), and when Laguna Amarga appears before us – a shallow lake of impossible turquoise, even on a cloudy day, ringed with salt and dotted with flamingos, we see the mountains behind it, shrouded with fine mist on which a rainbow is playing. Fantastic.
I don’t get off at the first stop; that’s for those hiking from east to west. It’s actually easier to do it the other way, because then you’re going downhill for steep parts of the middle section. On our way to catch the catamaran to Paine Grande Lodge, I see not just one condor, but many – close by and circling above something; some are even coming in to land. Both my previous times, I only saw tiny specks in the distance.
Since we have time to kill before the catamaran departure, myself, a British guy and a French girl decide to take a stroll up to a scenic viewpoint nearby to check out a waterfall. As we’re walking, a sudden gust of wind takes us by surprise, because its force stops us in our tracks, and then shoves us backwards. Turning our backs to it doesn’t help; it churns up a hailstorm of gravel from the path and it feels like we’re pelted with shrapnel. It stings, even through padded clothing and the French girl’s leggings are soon riddled with holes. After a couple of seconds of this, we have the sense to drop to the ground in a nearby ditch to avoid being dragged. Our hair is full or pebbles and dirt. I finally understand what Patagonian wind is.
I’ve been to the park twice: once for the ‘W’ and the last time to do the ‘Circuit’ with my friend Nikolai. We were lucky with the weather; when the time came to cross the famous John Garner Pass – the highest point in the park – we did so without a hitch. Now I understand why some people get stuck there for days, waiting for the wind at the top of the pass to abate; the pass is exposed and people have died there, blown off into oblivion.
The wind is stirring up mini-tornadoes of water vapour on the surface of the lake when we take the catamaran across. It’s a bouncy, exhilarating ride along the pale blue, glacial waters. It makes such a difference, being in a large, sturdy craft; when I took a little speedboat across the Beagle Channel. The waves were much bigger, the tarpaulin covering the front of the boat was coming undone, we were being hit with icy spray and holding on for our lives, knowing the capsizing meant death. On the catamaran, I practise the boat equivalent of a sport we invented in Jamaica – ‘bus surfing’ – which involved standing up in public buses as the crazy drivers took the corners at high speed, and seeing if we could keep our balance without grabbing onto the rails.
There’s a guy with a bandaged head and a badly-gashed knee sipping coffee. He’s a local guide who’s been unlucky; the same gust of wind that blew us over dragged him along until he split his head on a rock. The two gay Americans he’s leading have bandaged him up.
I set off from Paine Grande towards Los Cuernos. I did the Glacier Grey leg last year, and from what I’ve been told, there’s nothing new and the refugio has just been closed, so am doing the ‘U’ rather than the ‘W’. I still don’t understand how my backpack can weigh as much as it does, given that all I’ve got in there is a sleeping bag, camera, food, some clothes and a couple of books, but it’s significantly lighter than last year. “You’re a good hiker, but you can’t pack for shit”, was Nikolai’s assessment of me last time and I tried to take only the essentials this time around.
The trail towards the halfway point – Campamento Italiano – is a nice one: it winds up and down gentle hills, over small streams, through groves of native trees which are now a mass of yellow and red. Autumn is definitely here. There’s a little bit of drizzle, and some strong gusts of wind; I feel like I’m finally hiking in ‘proper’ Patagonian conditions; the first time, the weather was unseasonably hot and sunny and the second, it was also good, though it snowed one night. I’m finally battling the elements and I shout my challenge into the wind.
Some jackass hiker has left - not just one piece of litter, but an entire bag of it, all neatly tied up - by the side of the trail. I pick it up. A curse on both their houses.
I was originally planning to go all the way up Valle Francés and make it all the way to Los Cuernos in one day (about 9 hours of hiking in total), but quickly realise that it’s an impossibility because the days are so much shorter now and hiking in the dark, even with a torch, can be a bit perilous. I pass only two little groups of hikers by the time I reach Italiano, whereas in the summer you can hardly move without bumping shoulders with other people.
My knee is beginning to play up. I don’t want to push it too hard, because this is just a light warm-up before the Inca Trail. In any case, at Italiano it becomes apparent that going up would be pointless, as it’s raining steadily now and the mountains are shrouded in fog. I carry on towards Los Cuernos, negotiating steep descents, and then climbing back up through dense vegetation. As the rain increases, it becomes a case of mind over matter. There’s nowhere to shelter from the rain, nowhere to rest. As I finally find myself on the stony shore of icy Lake Nordenskjold, I’m glad because I’m nearly there. I reach the refugio in the rapidly fading light and collapse in a dishevelled heap.
Then there’s the rat issue.
As I lie awake in the musty, not-too-clean room, I imagine drawing myself up to my full height of five-foot-nothing and throwing my weight around in the morning: “Don’t you know who I am?! Do you think it’s acceptable to charge CH$19,000 for a bare bunk in a rat-infested room? I want to speak to the manager!”
I hadn’t actually paid, and I decide that I’ll refuse to, because while I myself didn’t do anything girly like screech and jump up on my bed when woken by a rat, I was less than impressed and I know that that’ll be the case with our readers. In the end, it turns out that I don’t even have to refuse to pay; am up before daybreak and gone way before any of the staff deign to wake up. Will have words with Fantastico Sur, the owners of the refugio. Am not too bothered about the rodents themselves, but am concerned about the deadly Hanta virus, carried by rodents.
It’s a very wet slog towards my destination, Refugio Las Torres, from where I catch the bus back to Puerto Natales; there are several hills to negotiate, up and down, up and down, slipping on pebbles, pushing through wet tree branches. I don’t meet a single person. If something happens to me, they may find my body only days later, half-eaten by pumas and condors. When I hiked with Nikolai, even though I drove him nuts by tasting all kinds of unfamiliar berries that grew alongside the path and he threatened to leave me for dead if I poisoned myself, I knew that if something happened, he’d carry me to safety (or at least get help).
When I come to the part that I feared – a large stream that needs to bee negotiated by jumping from rock to rock – I’m glad to see that the water level is pretty low and hiking poles make it easy to cross, even though there’s still water sloshing in my boots. I’m a bit disappointed that I didn’t have to strip naked and ford the stream while carrying my rucksack above my head.
More stream crossings. More pauses to drink directly from the steams, coming directly from the glaciers – I can see a myriad little waterfalls running down the sides of the mountains. More pauses to admire the vast yellow-and-red growths of trees that cover the foothills. Then finally, I’m on a treeless, grassy hill, and cross a suspension bridge across an angry mass of churning muddy waters before arriving at Refugio Las Torres.
The staff here have a much better attitude; I dry off by the fire and have my first pichanga – chips with bits of meat and chorizo – the best thing ever after a hike.
You can’t even see the famous Las Torres; Nikolai and I saw them last time, but now they’re completely obscured by the mist and rain.
Back in Natales, I have enough energy to drag myself to the office where Carla, who used to do bookings for Erratic Rock, has now got her own office – a one-stop-shop for anything and everything you need while you’re here or want to go to Argentine Patagonia – activities, bus tickets, hostels – she’s the only one in town to do it all, so I ask her to sort out my bus tickets to Argentina.
Then I treat myself to dinner at Afrigonia, the fusion African-Patagonian place. Awesome ceviche with mango and seafood curry with spicy rice with almonds. Perfect end to the day.
What are you gonna do…” goes the UB40 song. Only the rat isn’t in the kitchen; it just ran along my back on the bunk bed. I’m wide awake at 4.07am, wondering if the rat will now attempt to snuggle with me inside the sleeping bag for extra comfort. Maybe it’ll decide to nibble on my face!
Am having the worst night of the journey so far. At around 7pm, I staggered into the Refugio Los Cuernos, only to be met with blank stares from a staff member, leaning on the bar of the dark kitchen. Any thoughts of a nice hot meal evaporated instantly. The whole place was dark and the only other visible guest was a guy studying his Torres del Paine map and eating sandwiches. Another guy eventually showed me to a dark dorm room down the hall and gave me a bare bunk on which I laid my sleeping bag. Two cocooned forms were already lying prone on other bunks, asleep at that hour.
I dejectedly munched my way through my sandwiches, but as I warmed myself by the wood-heated stove, as my clothes gradually dried and my stiff muscles loosened up, I perked up a bit and spent the evening reading. The lights kept coming on and off, the staff pointedly ignored their two guests and I thought that I’d been to far cheerier cemeteries than that. What a contrast with the last time, two years ago, when I was here at the height of summer. I managed to do my knee in on the Valle Francés, the middle part of the ‘W’ circuit, which takes in the three highlights of the Torres del Paine National Park, and from Valle Francés I limped painfully for over three hours to the refugio (basic hostel) to camp, be served a delicious meal by friendly staff and then be plied with coca leaf tea by a bunch of Germans I’d met on the Navimag earlier. (The coca tea had no effect on the pain whatsoever, by the way).
By the time I'm ready to go to bed, just before 10pm, having been up since 6am and needing an early start the following day, the two cocoons came alive and out climbed two English girls. They later barged into the dorm at midnight, and without any regard for me or the guy who was also asleep by then, they turned on the light and proceeded to make a racket, talking and laughing, for what seemed like an age. Then just after 4am, the rat that I’d spotted darting under my bed earlier had decided to make my acquaintance.
The day starts auspiciously enough, with an early power breakfast at Erratic Rock (since most people who stay here are here for the great outdoors, Bill and co. always make breakfast for people leaving early for the park), even though there are fewer people around the table and the most common topic of summer conversation – “Are you doing the Circuit or the ‘W’”? – is absent; it’s the very end of the season, and the back half of the park is already closed due to snowfall, so it’s the ‘W’ or nothing.
Then a bus ride to Torres del Paine – two and a half hours along a bumpy gravel road through some of the most spectacular country ever. The sky at sunrise looks like it’s on fire, the rays violently breaking through the churned-up leaden clouds. The bus windscreen has a giant crack across it and what looks like a little bullet hole – all caused by the road surface. We hear the loud rattling of stoned against the bottom of the bus as it speeds through the great plains, covered with hardy tufts of prairie grass. More wildlife than I’ve ever seen on the way to the park before – large herds of guanacos (wild cousins of llamas) grazing everywhere, leaping out of the road to let us pass; flocks of ñandú (small ostriches), and when Laguna Amarga appears before us – a shallow lake of impossible turquoise, even on a cloudy day, ringed with salt and dotted with flamingos, we see the mountains behind it, shrouded with fine mist on which a rainbow is playing. Fantastic.
I don’t get off at the first stop; that’s for those hiking from east to west. It’s actually easier to do it the other way, because then you’re going downhill for steep parts of the middle section. On our way to catch the catamaran to Paine Grande Lodge, I see not just one condor, but many – close by and circling above something; some are even coming in to land. Both my previous times, I only saw tiny specks in the distance.
Since we have time to kill before the catamaran departure, myself, a British guy and a French girl decide to take a stroll up to a scenic viewpoint nearby to check out a waterfall. As we’re walking, a sudden gust of wind takes us by surprise, because its force stops us in our tracks, and then shoves us backwards. Turning our backs to it doesn’t help; it churns up a hailstorm of gravel from the path and it feels like we’re pelted with shrapnel. It stings, even through padded clothing and the French girl’s leggings are soon riddled with holes. After a couple of seconds of this, we have the sense to drop to the ground in a nearby ditch to avoid being dragged. Our hair is full or pebbles and dirt. I finally understand what Patagonian wind is.
I’ve been to the park twice: once for the ‘W’ and the last time to do the ‘Circuit’ with my friend Nikolai. We were lucky with the weather; when the time came to cross the famous John Garner Pass – the highest point in the park – we did so without a hitch. Now I understand why some people get stuck there for days, waiting for the wind at the top of the pass to abate; the pass is exposed and people have died there, blown off into oblivion.
The wind is stirring up mini-tornadoes of water vapour on the surface of the lake when we take the catamaran across. It’s a bouncy, exhilarating ride along the pale blue, glacial waters. It makes such a difference, being in a large, sturdy craft; when I took a little speedboat across the Beagle Channel. The waves were much bigger, the tarpaulin covering the front of the boat was coming undone, we were being hit with icy spray and holding on for our lives, knowing the capsizing meant death. On the catamaran, I practise the boat equivalent of a sport we invented in Jamaica – ‘bus surfing’ – which involved standing up in public buses as the crazy drivers took the corners at high speed, and seeing if we could keep our balance without grabbing onto the rails.
There’s a guy with a bandaged head and a badly-gashed knee sipping coffee. He’s a local guide who’s been unlucky; the same gust of wind that blew us over dragged him along until he split his head on a rock. The two gay Americans he’s leading have bandaged him up.
I set off from Paine Grande towards Los Cuernos. I did the Glacier Grey leg last year, and from what I’ve been told, there’s nothing new and the refugio has just been closed, so am doing the ‘U’ rather than the ‘W’. I still don’t understand how my backpack can weigh as much as it does, given that all I’ve got in there is a sleeping bag, camera, food, some clothes and a couple of books, but it’s significantly lighter than last year. “You’re a good hiker, but you can’t pack for shit”, was Nikolai’s assessment of me last time and I tried to take only the essentials this time around.
The trail towards the halfway point – Campamento Italiano – is a nice one: it winds up and down gentle hills, over small streams, through groves of native trees which are now a mass of yellow and red. Autumn is definitely here. There’s a little bit of drizzle, and some strong gusts of wind; I feel like I’m finally hiking in ‘proper’ Patagonian conditions; the first time, the weather was unseasonably hot and sunny and the second, it was also good, though it snowed one night. I’m finally battling the elements and I shout my challenge into the wind.
Some jackass hiker has left - not just one piece of litter, but an entire bag of it, all neatly tied up - by the side of the trail. I pick it up. A curse on both their houses.
I was originally planning to go all the way up Valle Francés and make it all the way to Los Cuernos in one day (about 9 hours of hiking in total), but quickly realise that it’s an impossibility because the days are so much shorter now and hiking in the dark, even with a torch, can be a bit perilous. I pass only two little groups of hikers by the time I reach Italiano, whereas in the summer you can hardly move without bumping shoulders with other people.
My knee is beginning to play up. I don’t want to push it too hard, because this is just a light warm-up before the Inca Trail. In any case, at Italiano it becomes apparent that going up would be pointless, as it’s raining steadily now and the mountains are shrouded in fog. I carry on towards Los Cuernos, negotiating steep descents, and then climbing back up through dense vegetation. As the rain increases, it becomes a case of mind over matter. There’s nowhere to shelter from the rain, nowhere to rest. As I finally find myself on the stony shore of icy Lake Nordenskjold, I’m glad because I’m nearly there. I reach the refugio in the rapidly fading light and collapse in a dishevelled heap.
Then there’s the rat issue.
As I lie awake in the musty, not-too-clean room, I imagine drawing myself up to my full height of five-foot-nothing and throwing my weight around in the morning: “Don’t you know who I am?! Do you think it’s acceptable to charge CH$19,000 for a bare bunk in a rat-infested room? I want to speak to the manager!”
I hadn’t actually paid, and I decide that I’ll refuse to, because while I myself didn’t do anything girly like screech and jump up on my bed when woken by a rat, I was less than impressed and I know that that’ll be the case with our readers. In the end, it turns out that I don’t even have to refuse to pay; am up before daybreak and gone way before any of the staff deign to wake up. Will have words with Fantastico Sur, the owners of the refugio. Am not too bothered about the rodents themselves, but am concerned about the deadly Hanta virus, carried by rodents.
It’s a very wet slog towards my destination, Refugio Las Torres, from where I catch the bus back to Puerto Natales; there are several hills to negotiate, up and down, up and down, slipping on pebbles, pushing through wet tree branches. I don’t meet a single person. If something happens to me, they may find my body only days later, half-eaten by pumas and condors. When I hiked with Nikolai, even though I drove him nuts by tasting all kinds of unfamiliar berries that grew alongside the path and he threatened to leave me for dead if I poisoned myself, I knew that if something happened, he’d carry me to safety (or at least get help).
When I come to the part that I feared – a large stream that needs to bee negotiated by jumping from rock to rock – I’m glad to see that the water level is pretty low and hiking poles make it easy to cross, even though there’s still water sloshing in my boots. I’m a bit disappointed that I didn’t have to strip naked and ford the stream while carrying my rucksack above my head.
More stream crossings. More pauses to drink directly from the steams, coming directly from the glaciers – I can see a myriad little waterfalls running down the sides of the mountains. More pauses to admire the vast yellow-and-red growths of trees that cover the foothills. Then finally, I’m on a treeless, grassy hill, and cross a suspension bridge across an angry mass of churning muddy waters before arriving at Refugio Las Torres.
The staff here have a much better attitude; I dry off by the fire and have my first pichanga – chips with bits of meat and chorizo – the best thing ever after a hike.
You can’t even see the famous Las Torres; Nikolai and I saw them last time, but now they’re completely obscured by the mist and rain.
Back in Natales, I have enough energy to drag myself to the office where Carla, who used to do bookings for Erratic Rock, has now got her own office – a one-stop-shop for anything and everything you need while you’re here or want to go to Argentine Patagonia – activities, bus tickets, hostels – she’s the only one in town to do it all, so I ask her to sort out my bus tickets to Argentina.
Then I treat myself to dinner at Afrigonia, the fusion African-Patagonian place. Awesome ceviche with mango and seafood curry with spicy rice with almonds. Perfect end to the day.
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