Under the volcano

We arrived in Arica, in the far North of Chile, at around 7pm. The flight from Santiago lasted only 3 hours or so, but it felt longer due to the absence of electronic entertainment of any kind. The plane was a an ancient Airbus model circa. 1990, with a linoleum aisle down the centre of the bird that was about 4 feet wide. Remember when you could go to the bathroom anytime, without getting blocked by passengers or meal carts? I now have indisputable proof that this existed at one time. The bad news is that SKY Airlines has squeezed an extra 4-6 rows of available seating in the length of the fuselage. The safety instructions, however, were original and vintage. So the diagrams of recommended “crash position” were fully incongruous with the reality of the seating. The passenger in front of me was basically sitting in my lap, with only a slab of 30 year old foam separating us. So, the concept of bending forward and putting my head on my knees, would only be possible if a pack of Saudis with surgical bone saws were around to assist.

We didn’t know much about Arica when we arrived. Truus had mentioned something about “Carnival” being on. Didn’t think much about it until we connected with a young Chilean family who were in town for Carnival celebrations. Carnival is a 3 day fiesta of drinking, dancing, parades, more drinking, and much carrying on. Our new best-friends-de-jour gave us lots of very useful information about Chile and her history. They filled in a lot of blanks on cuss-words  in the graffiti we were seeing, and why the people of Chile are so fed up.

They had been to the parade on Saturday. In the middle of the celebrations, one group of women dancers stopped and switched things up. First a group of female dancers broke into their rendition of the “You are the rapist – you are the problem” female anthem, directed at men in general and the authorities in particular. Later, a group of women started marching with their fists raised and one hand over one eye. With the weekly protests across Chile against the government, the police have taken to firing rubber bullets randomly at anyone around the protests. Many protesters and journalists have been blinded by these actions. The authorities admitted that a photojournalist (aged 19) was blinded in both eyes due to a security officer firing at him at close range. It’s a sad situation. Our friends, of course, draw inspiration from this occurrence. They describe the current mood with pride – “It’s as if the Chilean people are finally waking up after 30 years of slumber.”

We went into town on the Sunday to catch the closing day’s events. The previous night’s fiesta had lasted until 5:30am. We got to town about noon, and were told the parade would start at 12:30pm. Around 1:30ish (roughly on-time for Chile), the dancers and musicians started to assemble. It was a colourful collection of indigenous peoples from Chile, Peru, Bolivia, and more. Folks come from all over South America to Arica to take part. Very joyful and celebratory. Pity we couldn’t stay longer to enjoy the events.

Truus and I had to head off towards a place called Putre, a little village in the middle of the Andes, very close to the Bolivian border. We arrived Sunday late from Arica. It was a slow, twisty climb through the Andes to get here, through fog and truly treacherous mountain roads. We’re at about 12K-13K feet of elevation, and I basically we feel like we stayed at the fiesta in Arica and woke up with an an all-day hangover.

The people here look very different from the majority of the folks in Santiago. Santiago is full of people with very light-skin and generally having Euro-Spanish features. Here in the North, the people are very dark with indigenous features.

Took a drive today further in the direction of Bolivia to look at a glacial lake Truus found in this area. Truus got some truly remarkable pictures of mountains, snow-capped volcanoes, lava fields, and alpacas/lamas galore. The drive there and back was actually better than the destination. Our intention was to walk around the lake. I wouldn’t call it a senior moment, but the sound of our own wheezing combined with near paralysis brought on by altitude (let’s blame it on that), convinced us to shorten the walk. I think we lasted something approximating what our good friend Gus MacPherson would consider a sufficient opportunity to do his necessary tri-daily biological transaction al fresco in the months of January and February. We agreed that discretion was the better part of valour, and headed back to Putre.

Tomorrow we have arranged with a local tour operator to drive us 2+ hours to tour another place of interest here – National Park las Vicunas. It’s an all day tour, so who knows what awaits.

The people here are beyond friendly. When we were talking to the tour operator in broken Spanish/English, his two young daughters came running from their residence at the back to storefront. The youngest daughter, age 5, came tearing around the corner at me like a demon. I bent down to say hello and she jumped into my arms and gave me a massive hug. Spent the next 15 minutes playing with his daughters and their collection of plastic dinosaurs while Truus was arranging the trip and haggling over the price.

This place gives you beautiful scenery, but even more of these kinds of unexpected moments of pure joy.

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