24: Run Llama Run – The Year of Living Differently – Argentina …

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Run Llama Run

TAFI DEL VALLE to CAFAYATE, ARGENTINA – 14 February, 2003
I left Tafi del Valle and kissed cool, Alplne weather goodbye. The route to Cafayate was as I had previously described going to Amaicha del Valle and from there, the surrounding areas turned semi-arid, brown, dry and dusty. The whole place continued to be spotted with candalabro cactuses, called cardones, posing in various amusing contortions, heeding Madonna’s advice of ‘don’t-just-stand-there, let’s-get-to-it, strike-a-pose-there’s-nothing-to-it, vogue’.

Cafayate was one dusty, hot little town, set amongst mountains. Similar to Mendoza, Cafayate is also famous of its wine production and is surrounded by fields of vineyards as well.

I hid from the sun until late afternoon before venturing to walk along Route 40 to try and get out of town to better view the mountains. Route 40 was the famous highway that, at about 3500km long, nearly crossed the entire length of Argentina.

From the map I was issued at the tourist office, there was an El Molino, 3km off the highway, which from the symbol, appeared to be an archaeological site and I decided to walk there just for the sake of walking.

The sun was in my face when I veered left off the highway. I passed by numerous vineyards and later, bare, dry grounds spotted with your garden variety of prickly, desert flora. Although not as high as Tafi del Valle, at 1660m, the sun in Cafayate still boasted harsh rays.

Behind me, I could see gorgeously red mountain ranges with strips of beige and orange. As the sun was shining right at them, the view was perfect. That was Quebrada de Los Conchas along Route 68.

An hour later, not unexpected, I couldn’t find any archaeological site whatsoever and after a nonchalant shrug, I returned to Cafayate. Well, at least, the walk had touched up on my fading Brazilian tan.

CAFAYATE, ARGENTINA – 15 February, 2003
By 10am, the heat was already intolerable. I bought some pastries and found a shady spot in the plaza to sit and eat. I was onto my second pastry when I heard a crack and a crash. Not more than five metres from me, a whole HUGE branch of a big tree, previously some six metres above ground, had broken off and crashed onto the plaza, taking along branches from other neighbouring trees. An utter mess.

Upon inspection later, nosy as I am, I realised the branch was of the type with thousands of spikes and thorns. Oh no. Imagine if I had chosen to sit under THAT tree. No one would be updating this article anymore.

Then, I met THE GUY to marry in Argentina. As soon as he set eyes on me, he couldn’t stop giggling and smiling. I squatted alongside him and started chatting him up. He was playing with two coins and I asked if they were for me. “NNNNNOOOOO,” still giggling, still smiling.

One coin rolled under the car. He asked for my help to retrieve it, still giggling, still smiling. I retrieved it but “NNNNOOOOO,” the coins were still not for me.

“Me voy (I go),” he told me, still giggling, still smiling. “Para donde? (To where?)” “Mi casa (My house).” “Voy contigo (I go with you.),” I suggested. “NNNNOOOOOO,” horrified but still giggling, still smiling. Playing hard-to-get.

Oh, my heart totally melted. His angelic eyes, his impish grin, his adorable dimples. My ANGEL!!! He is Ezekiel. He is four. Sound the wedding bells.

I made a slow walk to a tiny hill 2km away, Cerro Santa Teresita. At the top was an altar which provided shelter from the sun. Gracias, Santa Teresita. From there, we were offered a view of Cafayate and the mountains all around.

I somehow became the photographer for three families as they each sought me out for their ‘top-of-the-world’ shots.

On my way down, I met a guy called Nelson who was a ceramic-potter. He chatted with me and upon learning that I wanted to walk to Rio Colorado, 5km away, tomorrow, he suggested coming with me. Sure, why not? He said 7am. 7am!!!!! Unless it was to catch a bus, I had not woken up so early in a LONG time. But I guess it was necessary to beat the heat. OK.

I had booked for an excursion to visit Quebrada de Los Conchas in the late afternoon and this was one of the best things I had done in Argentina.

If I had written that the mountain scenery from Mendoza to Chile, passing Puente del Inca was GORGEOUS, then, I am sorry, but this one TAKES THE CAKE, man.

The view along this route was ASTOUNDING, BREATHTAKING, STUPEFYING, MARVELLOUS, IMPRESSIVE, SPECTACULAR, etc… and yes, I am using the Thesaurus to help churn out these adjectives. Otherwise, I would have to resort to SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS.

The various oddly sculpted mountain formations are of red, ochre, yellow, beige, orange, coral, sienna, brown, grey, hint of lavendar, etc… a sea of wondrous colours. When I am back to the civilised world and doing stupid things like buying lipstick named Sienna or Terracotta, I will surely remember this incredible route.

Wind and water had eroded and twisted the mountains into structures with names like ‘Los Castillos’ (The Castles, they looked like…), ‘El Sapo’ (The Frog, it looked like…), ‘El Obelisco’ (The Obelisk, make a guess…), etc… But those other poor nameless ones were equally jaw-dropping. My head was turning here and there and everywhere to savour the views.

The ‘Anfiteatro’ (Amphitheatre) was a narrow gorge between two walls before opening up into a theatre of sorts with very high walls. We were leaving this place, when a lady, thinking that she was alone with her family, started to sing in the middle of the ‘theatre’. She sang a familiar little opera tune, starting and ending with ‘MMMaaaaaa-ah—RRRRIIII-y-YAAA’, probably titled ‘Maria’.

Her rich, moving voice resonated in the ‘theatre’. All of us stood in silence. I closed my eyes and indeed, I soared into the sky with her voice. I seriously felt as if I was floating. My eyes brimmed with tears when I re-opened them. This was so special. She had a gift and unwittingly, she had shared it with all of us that afternoon in this amazing place.

After spending some time climbing into and out of ‘La Garganta del Diablo’ (another ‘The Devil’s Throat’), we headed back. A pity the sun had started to set by now, for there were some other sites we drove by just now without stopping, meaning to stop by later. Still, my guide drove us off-road at one point and told us to walk in the desert.

The moon was almost full (it would be full tomorrow), so it was more or less bright enough to navigate but some small cacti and thorny bushes were not so easy to avoid. We kept getting lanced.

We arrived at ‘Las Ventanas’ (The Windows) and the almost-full moon could be seen beyond the windows. How wonderful! It was so beautiful to be out here in the desert at night with the moon and the stars above.

CAFAYATE to ANGASTACO, ARGENTINA – 16 February, 2003
The early morning sun was hidden behind clouds and it was indeed a very nice, cool walk to Rio Colorado.

The river was just a trickle but I was not keen to hike further out to the waterfalls. So, Nelson and I sat under a tree and enjoyed the tranquility and the view. We had arrived at the edge of the mountain range around Cafayate.

I learnt from Nelson that one group of Indians that used to settle here were called Calchaqui, hence the area here was named ‘El Valle Calchaqui’. They were here even before the Incas arrived. There were some traces of their settlement nearby. For example, on some rocks there were holes which the Indians used to pound maize. They resisted the colonization of the Spanish bravely but many died as they were brought to Buenos Aires to build the city there. I believe the race is now extinct.

Today was Sunday and soon, many families, armed with picnic baskets, came trotting by to find good spots by the river for a picnic. Nice.

I wanted to head to Cachi, a little town further north but to get there, I had to first go to Angastaco, spend a night there and catch the 5:30am bus to Cachi and this was what I did. The bus to Angastaco was the oldest, dustiest, broken-looking bus I had been on since China.

Though the sun had set, because of the full moon, I could still make out the shapes of more fantastic rock formations. There were many ‘Las Flechas’ (The Arrows) for they were all sharp and pointing in one direction at an angle, with a vengeance, like arrows. So amazing.

Unfortunately for me, Angastaco was having a festival that night. Not another folk-loric festival, I feared. No, this was worse. After the folk-loric bit ended by 10pm or so, the plaza was blasted with loud, throbbing Cumbia, continuous, repetitive, ‘happy’ Cumbia. My WORST nightmare!

As you already know my sentiments on this, I hate Cumbia. The repetitive bass POM-pom-POM-pom remained indifferent as the cheesy songs changed from one to another, with a highly-excitable DJ-sort screaming and shouting delirious nonsense in between. I feared this would be another ‘until-daybreak’ party and I was proven right.

ANGASTACO to CACHI, ARGENTINA – 17 February, 2003
I did not sleep at all. By 5am, I grumbly headed out to the plaza to check out the party. To my surprise, the plaza was deserted!! Yet, the HORRIBLE Cumbia was still blaring away from the plaza’s loudspeakers. If I had a bazooka with me, I would have blasted the loudspeakers away. I could not believe that there was no one in the plaza and yet, the party music was carrying on and on.

The two Buenos Aires girls in my room, also going to Cachi, told me the party was held in a house, not in the plaza. OK, fine but if it was held in a house, why not just blast the music in that house? Why keep the entire town awake with stupid stupid stupid Cumbia? Get me out of Angastaco.

The route to Cachi was along the beautiful Valle Calchaqui but I could not vouch for it for I was catching up on my sleep.

Cachi was an even smaller, even dustier little desert town, at 2280m. Nearby were peaks like Nevado de Cachi which had altitudes of above 6300m. Cachi was very quiet, tranquil and time seemed to stand still here. It retained an authentic colonial flavour. I read that people here died of old age because there was nothing else to die of.

Too hot. Too sleepy. I slept a great deal in Cachi, I am afraid, but while not sleeping, I walked around town, to a little peak nearby and a miniscule archaeological site, to amuse myself.

The houses were mainly painted white or beige. Many were made of adobe, or mud. There were little iron lamps outside the houses. Some windows, doors and street signs were made of the lightweight wood from dried-up cactuses.

I was also spotting more ‘gauchos’ in this part of my trip. These were Argentinian cowboys, who wore black, flattish hats and sometimes, colourfully weaved belts. Yeah, they rode horses occasionally too.

CACHI to SALTA, ARGENTINA – 18 February, 2003
The route from Cachi to Salta was along another legendarily beautiful highway. We passed by Parque Nacional de Cardones which was a flattish area entirely grown with candelabro cactuses. Then, after the highest peak, Piedra del Molino, about 3600m, I was suddenly looking down at a very winding road through green mountains. It was another surreal scene. I love being above the clouds. The winding route, Cuesta de Obispo, had many treacherous curves downhill and we had to go slow.

By the time we reached the bottom of the mountains, along Quebrada de Escoipe, the vegetation had changed from grassy shrubs to tall, sub-tropical trees and we soon turned into Salta.

Salta was a rather pleasant and unassuming city. I like it. Not in-your-face beautiful but pleasant enough. The city has a very cosy feel, with a hill, a huge park and a pleasant plaza. And now that we are at the northern bit of Argentina, the locals here are predominantly Indian-looking.

SALTA, ARGENTINA – 19 February, 2003
There had been a whole bunch of sights suggested by the tourist office but no, after so many hot, dusty, giddy, windy roads lately, I just wanted to take it easy in Salta today.

I ended up shopping for books, and if I may add, in Spanish, to practise later in my life if I ever become more proficient.

I had actually been attempting to read a book in Spanish the last few days – Historias de Cronopios y de Famas (Stories of the Cronopios and the Famas) by another Buenos Aires genius Julio Cortazar.

Whenever I mentioned to other Argentinians that I was struggling with this book, they all agreed it would be very, very, VERY tough for me.

Well, tough as it is, it is such a sweet book, I just have to share it with you. Allow me to attempt to translate two of my favourite little stories (amongst the very few that I managed to complete). If they sound whimsical, it is not due to bad translation. If they sound like bad translation, it is due to bad translation… it’s me.

Travels – by Julio Cortazar, translated by me, with BIG apologies to fans.

When the Famas travel, their customs to spend a night in a city are the following: One Fama goes to the hotel and ascertains cautiously the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets and the colour of the carpets. The second goes to the commissariat and declares all the assets of the three, like the inventory of the contents in their suitcases. The third Fama goes to the hospital and copies the list of doctors and their specialties.

Upon finishing these tasks diligently, the travellers reunite at the main plaza of the city, inform one another about their observations and enter a cafe to drink an aperitif. But before, they hold hands and dance in a circle. This dance is given the name ‘Happiness of the Famas’.

When the Cronopios travel, they find hotels full, trains that have already left, that it rains like cats and dogs, and the taxis do not want to take them or charge them very high prices. The Cronopios are not disheartened because they believe firmly that these things happen to all, and at the hour of sleeping, they tell one another, “The beautiful city, the very beautiful city.” And they dream all night that in the city, there are great fiestas and that they are invited. The next day, they wake up very contented and this is how the Cronopios travel.

The Esperanzas, sedentary, leave travelling to the men, and are like statues that people come to see, for they cannot be bothered.

Business – by Julio Cortazar, translated by me, with even BIGGER apologies to fans.

The Famas had set up a factory of garden hoses and employed many Cronopios to do the rolling and storage. As soon as the Cronopios were at the place of work, they became very, very happy. There were green, red, blue, yellow and violet garden hoses. They were transparent and upon testing them, one could see running water with all the bubbles and at times, a surprised insect. The Cronopios started to shout and wanted to dance ‘tregua’ and dance ‘catala’ instead of working. The Famas were furious with them and applied the following articles 21, 22 and 23 of the internal rules to avoid a repetition of these bad jobs.

However, the Famas are very careless, the Cronopios waited for favourable circumstances and carried many garden hoses off in a car. When they met a little girl, they cut a piece of the blue garden hose and gave it to her so that she could jump with the garden hose. So, in all the street-corners, one started to see lovely blue and transparent bubbles, with a little girl inside like a squirrel in a cage. The parents of the little girl aspired to take away the garden hose in order to water the garden, but one knew that the astute Cronopios had punctured the hoses such that water would drop out from them and serve no purpose. In the end, the parents became tired and the little girl went back to the street-corner and jumped and jumped.

With the yellow garden hoses, the Cronopios adorned diverse monuments, and with the green garden hoses, they made traps of African type in the middle of the pathway, in order to see how the Esperanzas fell one by one. All around the fallen Esperanzas, the Cronopios danced ‘tregua’ and danced ‘catala’, and the Esperanzas reproached them for their action, saying: “Cruel Cronopios bloody. Cruel!”

The Cronopios, who desired no harm to the Esperanzas, helped them up and gave them pieces of the red garden hoses. So the Esperanzas could go to their houses and complete the most intense of their yearnings: to water their green gardens with red garden hoses.

The Famas closed the factory and gave a banquet full of funereal speeches, with waiters serving the fish in great whispers. And they did not invite any Cronopio, and only those Esperanzas who had not fallen in the traps in the pathway, because the others who did were left with pieces of garden hoses and the Famas were angry with these Esperanzas.

Now, don’t they leave you slightly stupefied but grinning?

SALTA, ARGENTINA – 20 February, 2003
I signed up for a day-tour to visit the areas north of Salta. The morning today was, however, rainy and cloudy. The other tourists in my tour were Tom and Jenny from France.

My guide, Billy, wanted to do the route the reverse direction so that we would arrive at Purmamarca in the morning and be able to see the Seven-Colours Mountain with the sun shining right at them. He hoped that we would get the sun by then.

We took the scenic mountainous route, Route 9, also called the Cornisa (all the roads along this region seemed to have fancy names), to San Salvador de Jujuy, the capital of Jujuy Province. The vegetation here was luscious, sub-tropical thick forests, dripping with ferns and climbers again. This was a really old route used by the Indians and had apparently existed for a thousand years.

Along the route, there were shrines set up for ’saint-like’ heroes, one of them being Gauchito Gil, to pray for safe journeys. Sometimes, the drivers left things like spare tyres, bottles of water, extra stuff they did not need, for the next driver who might need them.

Soon, we arrived at Purmamarca but alas, the sun still remained behind the clouds and we could not get the brilliance of the colours of the Seven-Colours Mountain so famous in all the postcards. Purmamarca was the little Andean town set right against the mountain, all the houses were of the adobe sort. Very photogenic.

We climbed further up from 2000+m to 4000+m in the following section of the route. Here, Billy thought that we would see the sun once we cleared the cloud-layer and reach altiplano. To our surprise, after clearing the cloud-layer, there was ANOTHER cloud-layer above the altiplano. Now, this was impossible to clear and so, the elusive sun remained hidden from us.

The altiplano was a plateau at around 4000m and it was flattish desert all the way. In the distance, we could see the white colour of the salt-pan. Approaching the salt-pan, known as Salinas Grande, I could see from the windscreen of the car, one side was entirely grey with a brewing storm and the other was slightly cloudy but with pockets of blue sky.

There were workers working on the salt-pan but due to the coming storm, all had cleared out. So, we arrived to an abandoned salt mining site. The salt-pan was full of hexagon shapes on the plain. The edges of the hexagon shapes were crumbles of raw salt crystals. There were some blue pools of water where salt crystals were formed and where the mining was done.

I had expected strong harsh rays famous of the altiplano sun and blinding whiteness reflected from the salt pans and had prepared to slather myself with sunscreen, but not today, honey. There was nothing bright here. Instead, we managed a few photos before being pelted by the storm and raged by the strong, cold wind, and had to scramble into the car and flee.

Billy strongly recommended us to visit Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia which was five times the size of Salinas Grande and even more spectacular. Yes, I KNOW… but I cannot go to Bolivia. Sigh…. Here’s the wound. Here’s the salt-pan. Now rub.

We passed by several llamas on the rest of the desert altiplano before reaching a very sorry-looking, desolate mining town San Antonio de Los Cobres for lunch. We were all more or less suffering slightly now from the altitude now. Well, here at the restaurant, they served coca tea and so we ordered them to fortify ourselves. I even bought a tiny little toy-llama. So kitsch, I love it.

On our way down, we passed another shrine but this one for Pachamama (Mother Earth). The Indians who passed by here would leave their bottles of alcohol that they were drinking, some coca leaves, cigarettes, etc… to worship Pachamama. One type of bottles read: PURE ALCOHOL 96%. Gosh, mere mortals use 90% alcohol to disinfect wounds. But 96%??!? Imagine drinking that!

We crossed the railway track of the famous ‘Tren a las Nubes’ several times on our way back to Salta along Quebrada del Toro. This railway track was used more often by regular cargo trains which carried gas and fuel to export to Chile.

Up until now, all the produce from North-east Argentina could not be exported through the ports of Chile. All had to be brought to the Buenos Aires port, on the Atlantic side, although they were physically closer to the ports of Chile. Billy explained that soon this would change and it would be easier to export products out across the Pacific Ocean to Asia and Russia. Would Dulce de Leche be one of the products?

Dulce de Leche? Billy then proceeded to reveal the secret of making Dulce de Leche.

Boil a pot of water slowly and put the can of sweet condensed milk inside without opening the can. This is called Bano Maria (Maria’s Bath). Keep the can in the pot of slowly-boiling water for two to three hours and it will become Dulce de Leche.

Oh, my saviour!

SALTA, ARGENTINA to SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, CHILE – 21 February, 2003
I would cross back to Chile today, after a 12-hour trip through the altiplano. Today, there was no annoying second layer of clouds and so it was brilliantly white and beautifully ’salty’ as we cut right across the Salinas Grande. Oh, it was gorgeous!

For lunch, we stopped in the middle of NOWHERE. There was just a restaurant and a gas-pump here. It was not even a village. I had made friends with the guy sitting next to me, Juan from Salta and the guys sitting behind me, Jakob from Germany and Asier from Spain. Jakob and Juan were heading to Arica to go to Peru and Asier would get off with me at San Pedro de Atacama.

We cleared the Argentinian customs in the middle of another NOWHERE and had another four hours or so of altiplano to clear. To my extreme delight, besides llamas, I started to spot a few vicunas too! I was stabbing the window and going “Vicunas!…. Vicunas!… Vicunas!”

Vicunas are the rarest of the four types from the llama family here in South America.

The llamas were rather common, mostly domesticated and used for carrying loads and sadly, so tame that some were brought down to lower towns (too hot for them) for tourist photography. The alpacas were slightly smaller, just as woolly and mostly reared for their wool.

The guanacos were wild and brownish in colour. The vicunas, also wild, were the smallest of the four and its colour is the sort of brown that looks almost gold. Wool from vicunas was the softest and most precious of all and because of it, they had been killed off for many, many years. Hence, they were the rarest now.

And they looked the most elegant, delicate, feathery and graceful of all.

We finally reached San Pedro de Atacama at 7pm and we had to open up all our baggage for inspection at the Chilean Customs. Going to Punta Arenas, no one checked our bags. Going to Puerto Natales, the Customs went through hand luggages only. Now, here, everything had to be inspected because we were closer to Bolivia (I guess, cocaine trafficking was feared, even having a few coca leaves was prohibited). It was a long, tedious affair.

We were more or less packed back into the bus when a Customs officer came out with a pine. Besides drugs, the Chilean Customs were picky about fruits, plants, seeds, animals and some dairy products too. He sternly announced that he found it on the floor inside the office, so it had to belong to one of our baggages. Confess or everyone’s bags would have to be searched again.

Soon (I don’t know how), a whole plastic bag of pines was discovered and a senora finally said it was hers. She was led into the office and we had no idea what happened to her after that. Back on the bus, Juan threatened to turn me in for smuggling an animal across into Chile, my little llama.

A change in country, a change in currency and a change in ‘language’? Nah, I will keep my Argentinian Spanish for now. It’s the altiplano, please. Need… oxy… gen… nou… rish… brain.

SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, CHILE – 22 February, 2003
At 4am, Asier and I were picked up by our tour to go to El Tatio’s Geysers. The geysers were best seen in the early morning at sunrise and as it was more than two hours away on harsh road conditions, we had to leave at 4am.

Despite the very bumpy road, I slept all the way until we arrived at the geysers at 4500m, at 6:30am. Gosh, it was TERRIBLY COLD. My thermometer, which I brought along for my year-long trip to know how much I was suffering at each place, showed -5° Celcius! Now was THE ONE TIME to use my pretty scarf from Chiloe and I left it in the hostel.

We walked around the geysers and heard bubbling, hissing sounds everywhere. A guy told me an egg could be cooked in one second with the water here. Some areas were fragile and could break right through. Apparently, some tourists had fallen through and died. As the sun rose, more and more hot boiling water from the various geysers sprouted into the sky. Some holes were really deep. Others were very colourful, stained from the various mineral deposits. To obtain some warmth, we risked being burnt by standing amongst the sprays of some geysers.

It was so so so wonderful here. I loved it very much but was too cold to fully appreciate it then. My toes were thoroughly numb and I was wearing my boots too.

We were brought to a thermal pool and now, at 5° Celcius, it was ‘warm’ enough to strip into our swimming gear for a quick dip. Then, we headed back to San Pedro de Atacama, making various stops here and there to view llamas, vizcachas (looked like a rabbit but with a long tail) and flamingoes.

Asier would leave for Santiago this evening but I signed up for a second tour leaving in the afternoon for Salar de Atacama. Yeah, a long day of sight-seeing for me today.

The various stops along the route to Salar de Atacama were very perplexing for all of us tourists had that ‘why-are-we-here?’ look.

For me, the Salar de Atacama was very different from the Salinas Grande in Argentina. In Salinas Grande, the grounds were flat and white with rough crystals forming hexagon shapes all around. In Salar de Atacama, the salt-pan ground was uneven, dried up and brown, all the crystals were huge, jagged, lumpy rocks. It was impossible to walk on them and a path had been flattened out for us to walk across the salar. The flamingoes, which I had come to see, were unfortunately slurping up the acidic lake miles away, tiny little dots in the distance. Then, we stayed for sunset.

Wow, I was awake to see the sunrise and the sunset on the same day today.

SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA to ARICA, CHILE – 23 February, 2003
A day to laze around San Pedro de Atacama. The sun had finished updating my Brazilian tan by now. But wait, it might have surpassed it… but I still had not reached the heights of altiplano tan yet.

San Pedro was also a very tiny desert town, with rows of adobe houses, mostly painted white. Many had brown adobe ‘paint’ dripping from the roof.

While it could be charming, I felt it a tad pretentious as many restaurants were converted into really fancy theme restaurants, with cave-like seats and pretend-geoglyphs on the walls, all for the sake of tourism. I guess, it could not be helped. It was also hippie-land. Bob Marley wannabes, tie-dyes, multiple trinkets, and that wind instrument from Australia – didgeridoo, were popularly featured here.

Off to Arica on the night bus.

ARICA, CHILE – 24 February, 2003
Off the night bus and as you know my bus-sleeping history, on to a bed for half a day to catch up on my sleep.

Arica had a rather decadent feel of a port town and it being a border town too (with Peru), made it a lot seedier and somewhat amusing. All border towns are amusing. I felt a nice, trashy vibe here and I liked its unpretentiousness but being near to Peru, I must stay alert.

Perhaps because it is a port town, Arica is consumer goods heaven. There were many, many, many ‘CENTRO COMERCIAL’ or covered shopping centres selling all sorts of consumer goods like notebooks, towels, plastic flowers, shoes, clothes, bags, hair-curlers, plush toys, shampoo… Even away from these centres, along the streets, there were loads of shops selling these cheesy household items.

I was also delighted to see many ‘Chifa’s. When I was in Peru three years ago, one could see ‘Chifa’s which were Chinese restaurants everywhere. Why ‘Chifa’? No one could tell me then. Here’s my two-cents: In Mandarin, to ‘eat rice’ or ‘have a meal’ is ‘Chi Fan’. So, perhaps, it became twisted to become ‘Chifa’ to represent Chinese restaurants.

In Buenos Aires’ Chinese neighbourhood in Belgrano, yes, there were Chinese restaurants but since then, I had not seen ONE Chinese restaurant in Argentina and Chile. And so, Arica, with spill-over influence from Peru, has ‘Chifa’s.

I had dinner at one and it was REAL Chinese food.

ARICA to PARQUE NACIONAL LAUCA, CHILE – 25 February, 2003
Today, the tour to Parque Nacional Lauca would ferry us from sea-level to 4500+m. All tour vans were required to carry oxygen masks to resuscitate any dying tourists.

For me, having ascended to and descended from the altiplano several times the last few days, I was alright. The tour made many stops along the way to spot some geoglyphs on the hills, visit adobe churches in tiny towns and the odd ruins, so the ascent was done slowly. Later for breakfast, we were all served coca tea. Todo bien.

The ground turned very barren after we reached a certain altitude but somehow, beyond 4000m, the entire place turned green again. Here, apparently, due to their microclimate, it actually rained pretty frequently. So, the grounds were covered with a type of green moss and had many shrubs all over. Gosh, I had expected dry, desert altiplano I saw coming from Salta to San Pedro but yet again, the altiplano here was different.

Because of the greenery, we spotted many, many vicunas, guanacos, alpacas and llamas. Paradise! We finally reached Lago Chungara, which at 4515m, was the highest lake in the world. The Parinacota volcano was set against the lake, just dying to be photographed. Behind the lake, was Bolivia – unattainable to me.

I was previously at Lago Titicaca in Peru. It was 3800+m and was touted as the highest navigable lake in the world. Then, I had vaguely wondered which was the highest lake and apparently, I just found out now. There were some flamingoes in the distance and soon, it started to rain slush.

We visited a few bleak, isolated miniscule towns on our way down, Parinocato (4300+m) and Putre (3500+m). How do they survive here in winter? Drink 96% PURE ALCOHOL.

Questions?
If you want more information about this area you can email the author or check out our South America Insiders page.

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