The Atacama

Arica, Chile is a surprisingly clean, orderly city near the border of Peru on the Pacific Coast. Immediately, we noticed a difference from Bolivia and Peru...the drivers seemed to understand the concept of traffic laws.  No endless and annoying honking.  No heart ing the throat, white nuckle driving...no screams emanating from the Little Red Truck. The roads were good.  We had no hotel reservations, as we intended to go on to the next town that evening.  But realizing it was 200 miles up the road, we called it quits for the day.  Observation:  In Chile, the wine is half the cost, and gasoline is double the cost.  Unfortunately, the Little Red Truck does not run on wine.

We set out early the next morning for Antofagasta, a large city of 250,000+ about 465 miles down the road.  The trek took us inland on the Pan Am up above the coast in the Altiplano, in the desolate Atacama Desert.  We leterally have been driving in the desert since entering Peru days ago, but the Atacama took us to the top of the food chain for deserts...nothing grows here...nothing.  Two hundred miles later, we intered the town of Iquique, a venue I have visited before on a paragliding trip.  It was fun seeing the places I've flown, but this is not the time of year to fly here, as the winds are too strong...besides, Jim is intent on keeping us on the move.  From Iquique, we chose to deviate from the Pan Am and follow the coast for the rest of the day, thinking that it would releave some of the monotony of the drive.  

We cruised into Antofagasta at dusk and realized that our GPS could not help us find the hotel. It would not regognize the address. Antofagasta is an elongated city along the coast, and of course, all Latin American countries save loads of money by not putting up ANY street signs.  Yes, that means we got hopelessly lost again and returned to our most expensive navigational tool, a taxi.  

Coastal Chile is supported by one major economic engine...mining.  First, Nitrates in the 1800's and now, copper.  Coastal towns are drab, and dirty.  We observe the dominance of the mining comanies everywhere, and every hamlet seems to be a "company town".  As we proceeded south from Antofagasta the next day, we alternated between the coast and rising over the coastal mountains to the Altiplano and back several times, each involving altitude changes of 7,000 feet in elevation.  Another 300+ miles later, we settle for the day in the town of Copiapo...yes, a drab, working class mining town.  Copper is King.  The restaurant we visited for dinner was titled "Bavaria", but when I asked about the Schnitzel (sp?), they thought I was crazy.  There were 31 patrons in the restaurant, 30 men and one woman, and even her gender was in question...had we stumbled onto Chile's first gay eatery?  Or, is this such a rough town that women just don't go out at night?  Who knows...

Tomorrow, 500 miles or so to Santiago, leaving the Atacama about half way along the trial.

Titicaca and Beyond

So, We headed inland toward the town of Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca.  This was a diversion from the Pan American Highway, but Jim and I felt that we would regret not visiting the high country of Peru and Bolivia.  We arrived at Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca at dusk.  Unfortunately, our GPS was on strike, and we were forced to figure out the city on our own...which was of course was an impossible task.  To make matters worse, Puno was in party mode, as most cities on this continent are at this time of year, and the central area of the city had closed off streets for stages and other festivities.  As we explored the center of the city, we found ourselves down a one was street that was blocked off for a stage concert.  As we stopped, I accidentally killed the engine, and as our luck would have it, the ignition problem returned and the the truck would not start.  We pushed the LRT to a 12 point reverse and solicited the help of four teenagers to push the LRT fast enough to start by compresion.  It worked, and we were on our way, down the wrong way, of a one way street.  By this time, we were again desperate. We overcame our pride and stopped a  3 wheel cab to lead us to a hotel we picked out from the Lonely Planet guidebook.  By this time, I was feeling sick with a fever, and unspeakable intestinal trouble.  We gratefully checked into the hotel and I faded into bed, heavily medicated, while Jim fended for himself for diner.  Puno is pretty much a dumpy town, so we left early in the morning for greener pastures...the goal, La Paz, Bolivia, via Copacabana.

The border crossing was easy, by our historical standards, and two hours of formalities later, we were on our way in Bolivia, along the shores of Titicaca.  The customs agent politely asked us to move the Little Red Truck past the chain, because he was closing the international border for lunch.

Copacabana was terrific...a quaint beautiful little villiage on the shores of the lake, filled with locals doing  their best to party in the middle of the day.  We are still a little confused about why every city is partying, but we suspect is still has something to do with Carnival.  Nevertheless, we are happy to see everyone else happy.  We see more angelos (95% Euros) here than anywhere else in South America...mostly the backpacker set.  After a nice lunch, we set off for La Paz.  This involved a four hour drive that included a ferry ride across a narrow Titicaca inlet, and a spectacular view of an enormous Bolivian snowcapped mountain range.  Again, we arrived in at our day's destination in the evening.  Attempting not to bore you with another tale of confusion and desperation, just let me say that two more hours of unbelievable congestion, road rage, fear and frustration later, we followed a highly paid taxi driver to our hotel in central La Paz.

We gratefully left La Paz early the next morning, With the goal of driving the Altiplano to the coast of Chile.  As we drove southwest, we worried about runing out of gas, as there are literally no gas stations along the way for our route.  We were amazed at the geography....we could have been in the Great Basin of the USA, but we were traveling most of the day above 13,000 feet in elevation.  Instead of seeing cattle grazing in the Bolivian version of sagebrush, we encountered herds of Llamas and sheep.

As we rose in elevation, we were surprised to reach the Chilean border.  Before us, was an enormous snowcappped mountain, which forced us to stop numerous times for photo ops.  The boarder crossing was again relatively easy, with us making friends with the Chilean customs agent, who turned out to be most interested in where we came from. "I am Mormon, he said, and you are from Utah...I hope to make it to General Conference in SLC this year", he said.  I quickly took the oportunity to endear oursevles to him by finding common ground, and we shared eceastical experiences with him.  I'm sure this greased the skids, and we were happily on our way.  The border of Chile is a whopping 15,380 ft above sea level.  Several lakes are present near the border, and we see pink flamingoes feeding in the shallows...pink flamingoes at 15,000ft?  Yes, weve seen it before in Patagonia...go figure.

From what seemed like the top of the world to us on a hellaciously bad road, we eventually started to decend to the coast.  Worring about running out of gas, we coasted where we could, but the decent was too steep, and we had to use the gears to control our speed.  Over the course of the next four hours, the scenery went from "Great Basin", with 20,000 foot volcanoes, to the Sahara, as we decended to the coast, and the Aticama Desert, the driest place on earth.

 In Arica at dusk,  we settled into a modest hotel to begin our trek down the coast of Chile.

Down the Peruvian Coast

We traveled 330 miles yesterday along contrasting views of sand dunes and barren, desolate, coastal mountains.  Even more contrasting and seemingly out of place, are the occasional narrow river valleys where large muddy rivers flowed west from the Andes into the sea.  These valleys are lush with rice fields and olive trees.  We stopped to sample the olives for sale in barrels, like pickles, on the side of the road...not bad...reminiscent of Morrocco last year.

At the end of the day, the road swung east toward the Andes, and Arequipa, a city of 750,000, nestled in a broad valley beneath tall volcanoes of 18,000+ft.  Our GPS worked wonders all day, and as we entered the labarynth of the city, she directed us to a right hand turn that would deliver us to a hotel in the historic center, near the Plaza De Armas. Consistent with our luck, the road was closed for construction, and things went downhill from there.  Not recognizing one way streets, the GPS tried repeatedly to kill us.  Hopelessly lost, we ultimately pulled over and gave up.  Like in scene from a religious movie, we happened to look up, and with angels singing, we saw the lights of a hotel a half block away.  We followed the heavenly shaft of light to the lobby, and Jim secured a room in what turned out to be a terrific botique hotel for $45.

Daily Police Report:  Stopped twice for no reason at all.  "Where are you going...Papers please?", they would ask...to our relief and good fortune, they let us go, likely their pity outweighed their greed.

Shakedown and Shaken Up, or On the Lam in Peru

We are amazed at the stark, barren desert landscape of Western Peru. Our goal today was to beeline it 500 miles to Lima, so we got an early start on the day.  There is nothing to entertain us along the way, and the highway allows us to average 60mph. As we travel south, we notice the differences in the Peruvian scene fromColombia and Ecuador...a marked increase in poverty, and lack development...truly, nature's bounty has not spread this far south.  

The events of this otherwise long, boring drive were significant to us, and validated the stories we read and were told prior to the trip.  Aside from the Cop in Honduras that was in on the border crossing scam perpetrated on me weeks ago, we have been treated honestly, fairly and respectfully by police n all other Latin American countries.  However, it's a different story in Peru.  We were pulled over three times for little or no reason, while the cops looked for any reason to give us a citation...i.e., we weren't driving with our headlights on...in broad daylight!  The first cop asked for money immediately...we played stupid and told him we didn't understand the infraction.  After several minutes of confusing conversation, he stopped rubbing his greasy fingers together repeating, mooney, mooney, and let us go.

The second shakedown happened at a toll station.  The cop was fixated on our papers, and asked for our proof of insurance.  The officials at the border did not say anything about the necessity of Peruvian insurance, so we did not pursue it.  Evidently, Peru does not offer temporary auto insurance for travelers, as other countries.  One must buy a one year polcy for $500US.  Obviously, travelers do not do this, and the police know it, and use this to prey on foreigners.  We argued, asked questions, played stupid, stalled, and finally, Jim turned angry at the Cop when pulled us behind the truck and stated that he needed $300US for the infraction.  We were not going to pay this, and he was obviously not going to let us go.  We ultimately settled for $50US equivalent in Soles, and he ripped up the ticket.

We felt like we were raped.  As I was furious in Honduras, Jim was equally bitter at the corruption of the Peruvian police.  

As we approached within 35 miles of Lima, late that evening in a small town, we were again pulled over by the Police.  This time they immediately cited us for the burned out light that hovers over the rear liscense plate.  Then, for the same issue of no Peruvian insurance.  These cops were even more assertive than the two previous crooks, and it was obvious we were in for a rough time.  Standing on the edge of the busy highway, they motioned us to follow them to a more secluded spot for the shakedown.  As we followed, we noticed that the road forked and they took the left fork, pulling over safely to the side.  Furious at knowing what awaited us, Jim looked at the GPS and noticed it directing us to the right fork.  The decision was obvious...we took the right fork, leaving the SOB Cops to watch us depart down the Freight Truck Only route into Lima.  We were delighted to leave the Cops in the dust and took satisfaction in bolting from the corrupt law enforcement system of Peru.  At the same time, we were angry and discouraged for the treatment we were getting, and were fearful of a very, very, long and stressfull drive through this country.

The reward of a night at the JW Marriott in Miraflorez, an upscale neighborhood in Lima put an end to the abuse of the day.  As much as we sought to experience the true nature of the countries we visited, it was cathartic to retreat to a little bit of America at the Marriott to and recover from the events of the day.

At Large in Peru

Exiting Ecuador, we decended from the mountains to a dusty, dirty, little border town, Macara.  This low elevation community was hot and we were immediately besieged by mosquitoes.  We surveyed the surroundings and became worried that we would not find any suitable accomodations.  A shopkeeper directed us to a hotel that was surprisingly clean and cheap.  What a relief, after another long day battling trucks on steep mountain roads.

To our surprise, the border crossing was very casual and relatively easy.  Brief visits to the migration office of both countries, the police station, and then the Peruvian Aduana (Customs)and we were set to jet.  The ernest gentleman at the Aduana pecked on the computer with one finger, and called for assistance numerous times for help to operate the copy machine before asking Jim if he did everything correctly.  Meanwhile, I took pictures of the crossing to the dismay of the police, who must have thought I was from the CIA.

Our goal was to travel to the City of Chiclayo, about 300 miles south.  Almost emmediately, we noticed a change in the topography, and soon transitioned from the beautiful mountains to the dry scrub, similar to West Texas, to the stark, barren, sand desert similar to the Sahara.  There has always been a noticble change in topography after entering new countries, but this change was startling.

We lost a couple of hours floundering in a couple of cities looking for an ATM, as we had no Peruvian currency, Soles.  To our embarrassment, we came to a highway toll booth with no money, and in desperation, produced a US $5 bill.  They looked at it with curiosity, and after a whille, decided to make the exchange, but rejected the bill as too old...for hells sake, all of our US bill were old and we were at a standoff...traffic was backing up behind us, and knowing they would accept US currency, decided to just sit there until they did something.  We ultimately won and were on our way.  

In Chiclayo, we dined on shrimp and octopus kabobs, excited to continue down the Peruvian Pacific coastline.

Cuenca

During coffee at he Quito hotel, we set our goal for the day; first and foremost, to find our way out of the city, and then travel about 280 miles south to the town of Cuenca.  The coffee was too good to be hasty, so we hung around for the third cup.  South Americans are generally not privy to the concept of the bottomless coffee cup, so as to avoid further glares from the waiter, we took our leave to the streets of Quito Centro Historico.  Fourty five minutes later, we were still touring Quito Centro Historico, desperate to find the one passage to the Pan Am Highway.  After a quick move into the regional bus station, we spotted the only apparent avenue to the one street that would end our suffering.  It would require us to masquerade as a bus and pull through the bus loading dock, sandwiched between two big green busses loading for immediate departure.  Well, if you act like you belong there, you generally can get away with it, so we returned the stares of the bus passengers with smug confidence, and avoided eye contact with busline officials.  We soon made a clean break from the station onto the right highway entrance  and were on our way south on the Pan Am.  

The route took us up similar terrain as the previous couple of days...steep, windey, slow mountain road, between 9,000 and 11,000+ feet in elevation, averaging just over 40 MPH.

A few hours into the day, south of Riobamba, we found ouselves stopped in traffic just outside of the town of "I Can't Even Spell It".  Yes, it was day 3 of the 4 day Carnival celebration, and thousands of people were jamming all transportation arteries into and out of the town.  For the next three hours, we travelled all of one mile.  After the first hour, Jim left the Little Red Truck, out of boredom, to take a walk and to witness on foot this extraordinary gathering taking place, while I plotted the death of every driver that agressively edged infrond of me.  As I previously mentioned, some of the odd forms of entertainment for the revelers was to throw buckets of water over each other and to squirt unsuspecting people with streams of soapy foam, shot from big aeresol cans.  As I inched along in the quagmire of cars, trucks, and busses, I made the fatal mistake of making eye contact with a group of teens in the back of a pickup.  Before I could react or defend myself, I took a direct and unprovoked hit  of soapy foam in the head through the window for what was all of a few seconds, but what seemed like minutes...I took it like a man, acting as though nothing had happened, and not to let the unrully teens have their satisfaction.  After regaining my eyesight and my dignity, I decided that such an act would never again go unavenged.  I purchased one of the aeresol cans from one of the street vendors weaving in and around the stalled traffic.  I was heretofore determined to return all future acts of aggression toward me.  Even thoughts of preemptive strikes filled my thoughts, ala the tactics of the Bush Administration. Nevertheless, I was now properly armed to defend myself and return firepower from all future perpetrators. 

Meanwhile, Jim was nowhere to be found and had been gone for about an hour.  An aggressive racetrack type move to advance in the line allowed the LRT to begin moving forward at a brisk walking speed.  I was worried about Jim, and knowing he was a pacifist at heart, he would not be properly armed with an aeresol can of soapy foam.

As the LRT slowly picked up steam, I moved through town alone.  Ultimately, I advanced to the far edge of town and finally found a place to pull over in an abandoned gas station lot.  I parked, locked the truck and climbed to the top of the camper shell to wait for Jim to find his way out of town.  As I sat there, I heard a commotion coming from the road as about a dozen fellows piled out of two trucks in the middle of the road.  They began yelling, waiving their arms, and working themselves into a frenzy over an incident that I could not decipher the origin.  The mayhem increased, as the croud began arming themselves with sticks the size of baseball bats and rocks.  They began beating on each other in a circle that resembled a rugby scrum.  Slowly the scrum moved my way, and withing seconds, the full scale brawl was on the side of the truck, so close that I had to lift my legs to avoid being pulled into the scrum.  The brawl was in perpetual motion, and quickly moved to the far end of the lot, giving me time to breath.  I was rightfully scared, but equally upset that I locked my iPad in the truck with it's video capability...how many people on my block have a video of a Ecuadorian brawl?

To my chagrin,  the mob changed direction and moved back toward my direction.  In seconds, they were back upon me and the truck and throwing baseball sized rocks and chunks of concrete at each other, one whizzing inchesWe awoke to more rain at the Quito hotel.  After coffee that had a bit of a chocolate finish to it, we established our first goal..to find our way out of the City.  We relied on the hotel proprietor for directions..."easy", she said, a statement backed up by her son standing nearby.  Fourty five minutes, and two tours of the City later, we were finally back on the Pan Am Highway heading south.  You see, what she didn't tell us, was that the correct route out of the city was marked by a sign that was 50 percent destroyed, effectively indecipherable. Stressed by 9:30am, we repeated much the same kind of drive as the day before, up and down on slow, windey mountain roads between 9,000 and 11,400 ft in elevation.

At the first opportunity, I pulled over into a vacant gas station lot and waited for Jim to make his way out of the city.  I locked the truck and climbed on top of the camper shell for a birds eye view of the mayhem.  Suddenly, directly to the side of me an incident occurred between two truckloads of people in the street...about a dozen people jumping from the backs of the respective trucks yelling, waiving their arms, and working themselves up into a frenzy.  It only took seconds for me to realize that I was witnessing the beginnings of a public brawl that ultimately would last a good 15 minutes.  The two sides grabbed whatever weapons (no aereso cans), sticks, boards the size of baseball bats, and rocks, and began beating each other.  They moved like a Rugby scrum from the road directly toward the truck ,until they were literally under my dangling feet.  Yes, I was scared, but I was equally upset that I haad locked my iPad in the cab of the truck...yes, the iPad with video capability.  The scum was so close, I literally lifted my feet to avoid becoming one of the participants.  

 past my nose, another just missing the headlight and grill.  If it were not for the semi heroic effort of a lone armed soldier, I don't know how the brawl would have ended.  Ultimately it did end, and Jim shortly caught up to the truck on foot, with stories of his own, some involving attacks of soapy foam from aeresol cans.  It seems that as he doubled back to find the LRT, he took the wrong fork in the road and totally lost me.  In the end, all was well, and we cut back into the slow moving line of traffic and proceeded on our way.

Needless to say, we were way behind schedule, and arrived into Cuenca about 10pm.  Without a GPS, we opted for the time tested technique of hailing a cab, asking for a hotel recommendation form the cabbie, and following with the LRT until arrival.  The hotel was 5 Star, and one of the top five hotels hotel stays of my life.  We earned it.  Note:  the photo above of people walking on the stroot has nothiing to do with this blog entry.  it merely appeared from nowhere, and i don't know how to remove it without destroying the entry.

Crossing the Equator

After retreaving Jim' passport (yes, Jim's passport, to my relief and Jim's horror) at the bus terminal in Pasto, we were off toward the Ecuador Frontier.  To our chagrin, the GPS doesn't seem to work for Ecuador so we knew we were in for an interesting navigational experience.  I keep trying to describe the mountainous terrain we are traveling through, with both its astounding beauty and driving difficulty; I'm sure I miserably fail in my attempts to give an accurate picture.  We are in awe and frustrated at the same time.  Driving to the boorder, we spent most of our time at 10,000 feet and above.  Contrary to our US western environment, people thrive here at this altitude.  The weather is similar to that of San Fransisco...a bit wet, cool, and very, very green.  

The border crossing went surprisingly well, compared to our gut wrenching experiences in Central America.  No Coyotes... with professional immigration and customs officials on both sides.  The only glitch was being taken by the money changer on the street when I changed my Colombian Pesos for dollars.  He pulled out a huge wad of dollars and quickly calculated the exchange.  It was later that I realized he pulled a fast one on me and shorted me 20 bucks.  They use US dollars in Ecuador and we discovered where all those Susan B. Anthony dollar coins went to that we all refused to use back home.

A few observations about Ecuador:  1)  We immediately noticed that the drivers are slower and seem safer here; 2) the roads are better; 3)  the people look different than the Colombians...shorter, darker, more indio looking; 4) the highway tolls are much cheaper, $1 a pop.

We were warned that  there was some major holiday bieng celebrated in these parts and that we might find slow traffic.  A four day affair that likely has something to do with Carnival, we surmised.  That proved to be an understatement, as every town larger than a village was teeming with folks from all parts ready to live large.  People dressed in their best tradional garb, drums, music of all kinds, and hordes of vehicles clogging every street, bringing traffic to a halt.  They seem to be fixated on throwing water on each other with small buckets, after being gleefully squirted with some sort of soapy, foamy stream from aerosol  cans. As the Little Red Truck crawled past the revelers I rolled down my window to get a closer look and took a full shot of foam in the head.  With the texture of shaving cream, it stung my eyes like soap.  I could have jumped from the truck and settled the score, but I let them have their little victory.

Our goal was Quito, about 300 miles from Pasto...a long, long day.  We never intended to travel at night, but we are finding that 200 to 300 miles a day in these mountains requires driving into the night, with 10-13 hour days common. It took 2 hours in bumper to bumpper traffic to drive past the town of Otavalo,

a medium sized community know for its world class Saturday market.  A quick glance at the calendar revealed we were one day off.  We neared Quito, the capital of Ecuadore with a population of millions about 9pm, decending to 9,000 feet in dense fog.  We knew the metropolis was there...we just couldn't see it.  After initially passing it, we doubled back on the Pan Am and entered the city, not knowing how to find our hotel.  The proven technique of hailing a cab and then following it to the hotel worked again, and we finally settled in to our amazing botique hotel in the center of the historical district at 10pm.  With no resaurants open at this hour, our proprietor took pity on us and made us a cheese sandwich.  There is no heat in any buildings in Quito, so we were glad for the down comforters supplied.