A Small Note To Travellers

The delay in recent posts is because I have spent much of the last week trying to use my credit card to pay for things again. For future reference: when you come to the end of your trip and you are in a country where everything is so cheap, don’t rely on your credit card working.

Unfortunately it seems Bolivia is still working from a manual system that is controlled by a third party “Enlace”. These guys apparently act for Mastercard and Visa here, although my bank in Australia hadn’t heard of them nor had them listed in their directory. Anyways, long story short, if a transaction is to go through, Enlace must given an over-the-phone authorisation so that money can be returned to businesses as per usual.

The only hook for me was that apparently each time I tried to get this going, I was told there was no connection to my bank – the National Australia Bank – and they could not approve my spendings. Not so great when your available cash is not so available. And not so great when all your bank can offer is a bypass authorisation to this process (which was not acceptable to the store-owners) or a phone number in America (which did not connect).

I guess I can only be happy that less than 24 hours after getting a cash advance on my card, it was stolen. Goodbye problems – for now.

Braving Bolivia

Having scoffed down a street-side “milanesa” (supposed to be a breaded filet, but it was more like a hamburger) I got on the bus to Sucre and instantly realised that we had been conned into a cama price, despite only having just enough room for my legs (heaven help my travelling partner Alistair who is over six foot).

The bus driver was still outside spruiking our departure, trying to fill the last remaining seats – one of which happens to be next to me. Of course I prayed that he had no luck, but this is Bolivia, and my little white-girl Australian wishes don’t mean anything at all here. (And so starts the worst bus ride in the world).

Never mind the Death Road, this was Death itself. Once we got driving, fluoro lights blinded us throughout the night, and the driver made sure that even the passing cars could hear his horrible Bolivian music. Not only just the seats, but the aisles were crowded with people and their parcels – which had been stuffed into whatever space they could find above and below. The familiar horse blanket smell of my tour returned in full force, and I clamoured to spray enough perfume on my clothes to overpower it.

Our first stop was after only a few hours for a “baño” (toilet) break, but we ended up staying much longer than the usual 15 minutes, with the drivers sitting down to eat dinner and chat with their other driver friends. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all between Uyuni and Potosi and when we arrived at the highest city in the world – 4060m above sea – it was not only my heart that was agitated. Here we were told to get off with everyone else, who were staying in town to make the passage down the infamous silver mines, despite paying for an onward ticket to Sucre. Of course I questioned the driver further, as to the location of our next bus, and he mumbled something about it being around the corner. But was 130am, pitch black and my lungs could hardly breathe from the altitude and the diesel fumes that were being pumped out of our bus. I was in no mood for being fobbed off.

So I stood my ground and asked him again firmly, proving that my Spanish was not as bad as he thought it was, to which I was told to get back on the bus. Still not sure what was happening, Alistair and I were taken around the corner, where the bus stopped again. It is here that I asked the only other person with us, a young Bolivian guy, where he was going and what was happening. He politely told me he lives in Sucre and that a bus will come along eventually, but that it might take a few hours. I then probed further and asked how much he had paid to get there, to which he gave me a figure more than half ours.

I am livid at this stage, having been lied to about the price and the timing of our journey, and instantly thump on the driver’s door to demand some answers. I still don’t get any, but when bus passes a half an hour later, we are pushed through to the front, probably given someone else’s seats.

Aboard, we are greeted with an even more potent stench than before – matured over several hours no doubt – but fortunately no lights or music. I slowly drift in and out of consciousness, each time praying for the two hours to pass quickly, but it is almost 5am before we reach the terminal in Sucre, and my hopes of getting an early connection to Santa Cruz are immediately dashed when I find the terminal all closed-up except for the many waiting passengers. And I am further crushed when I see that no buses will leave until the afternoon.

So stumbling up the hill and around the corner with Alistair, I go to the closest hostel, and check in for a hot shower and a few hours sleep. Waking up a short while later, I go to buy my bus ticket out and join Alistair for a walk into town. But there’s really not much to see here – in a town of only 200,000 – bar a few closed museums and churches. And with Sunday siesta in full swing, sampling some chocolate is all that I have to fill in my time.

It is then that I call my friend in Santa Cruz to explain I won’t be arriving for her party that night, to which she tells me about the cheap flights here. And it is with this glimmer of light, that I jump online to book a ticket. But this doesn’t work, with only international flights appearing, so I head to the office in town to purchase one there. But they are closed too, any given Sunday, and I am told that I must go out to the airport itself - which I do with much urgency.

Once there, I am told there is one available in an hour or so, if I don’t mind going via La Paz rather than direct, and that they will reserve my ticket while I collect my bag and passport. So I haul my arse into a taxi, paying the high tariff just to get out of here, but when I return it seems things aren’t so easy after all. The group of French in front of me are politely informed that there are no phone lines out of the airport at the moment, and that the credit card machine won’t work. Of course nothing changes in the time it takes them to scrape together enough cash – there being no ATMs here either – and I am left with only one option. Suddenly it seems there is another seat on the direct plane, and I am told to take another expensive taxi to the their office in a downtown supermarket to pay there.

I quickly do this, but it is the same story there - there is no line out, and I must pay in cash. But time and money has gotten the better of me, having already missed the bus I tentatively booked, and being a low cash position for the next week, I cannot afford to pay in Bolivanos. And so I must return to the airport again, just to collect my bags and tell them that I can’t fly.

Once there, I try to arrange a payment in Santa Cruz, but it won’t work, and it seems I am stuck here until tomorrow, when hopefully, I will find a machine that works. Completely crestfallen, and not wanting to get back on the dreaded Death Bus, I walk back out the front of the airport where a sign stares back at me: “Sonrisa – estas in Sucre!”…Smile – you are in Sucre!

I think not.

(The next day I did of course get on a flight...but no, I wasn't game enough to eat the pork-laced empanada on board)

Salty Sonrisa**

It is an early awakening, to catch the sunrise over the salt flats, which at 530am are freezing but mercifully close to our hotel. We drive to the centre of it all and continue to brave the cold until we can no longer push the buttons on our cameras, taking shots of its immense whiteness. At about 40m thick at its deepest, and taking in about 12,000sqkm, the Salar de Uyuni is truly impressive (and I shall be voting for it in the upcoming new 7 Wonders of the World competition).

Formed many years ago – about 40,000 – when prehistoric Lake Minchin dried up, leaving two smaller lakes, and two salt deserts, it provides the best blank canvas for taking distorted perspective shots. But before we can start on those, we huddle around one of the salt-brick tables that have been erected beside the Isla Pescado – a cactus-laden oasis in the middle of it all – and attempt to warm our insides with cake, yoghurt and coffee.

It takes a while for the sun to rise sufficiently for us to take our photos, but eventually we are able to stay out long enough to fool around with the perspective, taking shots of ourselves standing on Pringles packets and each other. And, after sitting more hours than I would like to count in a car for the last few days, we are happy to almost smell Uyuni on the other side. Bolivia, here I come!

**(“sonrisa” = smile)

Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

After going to bed at 830pm I had half expected to wake up early, but when I hear Sean coming back in from the bathroom, and ask him the time, 130am doesn’t really sound so good. Not particularly when my heart was pounding through my chest at an alarming speed. I decided that it was probably best to get up and get some fresh in air in the hope that some more oxygen might calm it down. But all that greets me on the other side is darkness and the cold.

In fits and starts, I spend the night alternating my broken sleep with walks outside, paracetamol and water, and music on my iPod. Finally, after three scary awakenings, it is morning and breakfast is being served. It is not much – just some stale bread, jam, coffee, tea and a flask of lukewarm water – but it is enough to get us all going for the day.

But obviously our driver Jesus has other ideas, and seems very content to be locked up in the warmth of the family’s kitchen, forgetting almost completely about us. We wait patiently for him, trying not to shiver in the cold, realising that this is actually his family. Our car is then loaded up with him, our stuff, empty bottles, his cousin and everything but the kitchen sink, and we finally head off - the last to leave from our ‘resting’ place.

Our first stop is Arbol de Piedra - strange rock formations formed in the sand by volcanic eruptions. I ask Jesus when we will get to the hotel at the Salt Flats and he says six o’clock, but I can’t understand why when it is only 150km away. But when smoke starts appearing in the front passenger seat and we all have to get out while Jesus and his cousin fiddle under the 4WD, it starts to make sense. Luckily two other tour groups are behind us, on the same route, and they stop to keep us company.

I instantly recognise the English couple from my hostel and I chat to them about the quality of their experience so far (they did the smart thing and checked the tourist office’s comments book before booking). But it is much the same story - no sleep, no real guidance from their tour person, and plain pasta and soup for dinner. I guess it is all a pretty hit and miss experience.

It’s an even rockier ride to the next Laguna Onda, where more bashing of the vehicles’ underneath goes on. Desert mechanics seems to only have two fixes: either that, or pouring water on it, and it is not long before Jesus has stopped again to blow up the tyre by hand. Oh brother!

The next few lagoons, Laguna Heidonda and Laguna Chiarcota, pass by much like the others, our fatigue for them has already arrived, so that when we get to Laguna Cañapa we are all glad to have lunch as a distraction. Getting back on our trail, and car trouble plagues us again, this time the brakes don’t seem to be working and when our tyre gets stuck going uphill, we end up sliding backwards into a rock edge. From his seat in the back, Sean says we were lucky it didn’t roll.

Thankfully though, it’s nothing serious, but it is not too long before the back wheel needs to be changed completely, and the ‘road less travelled’ tactics of our 19 year old driver start to wear thin. It becomes a running joke with the other groups we bump into, with each meeting requiring a list of our new problems.

Frankly I have no idea how Jesus keeps track of where we are going ‘cos we just seem to drift through endless amounts of barren landscape. But our final stop in San Juan de Rosario arrives before we make the last 2 hours to our ‘hotel’ at the salt flats. In the dying light of the day, we pass by the cactus-laden hills and some sad-looking quinoa crops and I can’t help but wonder why farmers here haven’t realised that rocky soil doesn’t grow much. (Except wine of course!)

Finally the Hotel de Sal arrives with its warm insides and hot showers (although the solar-powered lights don’t go on until 7pm, and then get turned off at 9pm, with no warning). We settle down for a dinner of soup, and, well, Spam. Calling it that is perhaps even being too kind. It was totally inedible and tasted rather like cat food, so, after sharing a bottle of wine, and playing a few games of Uno, it is another early night for us - with another early rise ahead to see the sunrise over the flats.

Four Wheel Driving With Jesus

Having left sunny Santiago behind, I strangely enough relished the idea of being on a bus for 24 hours, travelling the San Pedro de Atacama. Located in the northern-eastern part of Chile, it is the gateway town into Bolivia’s natural wonders. That is, a tiny (less than 5000 people) adobe town full of tour companies and souvenir shops. I did of course partake in both, and booked myself on a three-day 4WD trip to Uyuni.

It is the first of many early starts when I arrive at the office the next morning at 7am. Our group, consisting of two Spanish girls Mar and Kristina, and English boy Alistair, and an Irish man Sean, haul our bags on top of the van and pile inside to gather heat. But it is a bit of a false start when we are made to wait outside the chilly border crossing office for over half an hour. Sean is quick to point out that this is nothing compared to his last two and a half hour wait, and the five hours he spent the time before, but I still think it should have been on the itinerary.

Quintin, our first driver, then continues down the road on a silent climb to a 4300m height. The drone from the engine is so loud that even my iPod can’t out blast it. I watch as tufts of grasses stick up like tee-pees from the red brown dirt, and touches of snow cover the tops of the two mountains beside us, daring the blue sky to melt it. We then stop at the Bolivian side of the border, strangely quite a distance into their country, to get our stamps. Their puny flag flies above the office, barely holding its own against the fierce wind.

But luckily for us, tea, coffee and breakfast is served straight away, warming us up from the bastardly breeze cutting through us. It is here that we also say goodbye to our spacious van, and cram ourselves into a rather aging Land Cruiser to head towards the entrance of the national park. We make a pit-stop here for the toilet and to get our carbon-copy entry papers, which despite your passport stamps and various logbook entries, you still have to keep with you as proof of a legal visit.

It is not too long before our first stop - Laguna Blanca – arrives. Mostly covered over in ice, which beams the sun back into our eyes, it is a pretty impressive sight in the middle of nowhere. It seems Nature never gets it wrong with her colours, mixing white with blue, brown and green in perfect harmony. Laguna Verde follows, but is not as green as its name might suggest because there is no wind. Apparently, so Jesus (pronunced “He-sus”) our second driver tells us, its presence brings up the colour - although I am yet to confirm that scientifically.

It is here, at just over 4000m, I start feeling a little dizzy, and so ask to have some of the coca leaves that are being smooshed into Jesus’ cheeks. Tasting a little like bitter green tea, they are meant to help with the effects of altitude sickness, which, for a person like me who is allergic to the medicinal drugs, is the only way around my drowsiness. But another relief comes soon, in the form of hot springs, which are so sweet compared to the bitter cold.

Next up are the stinky geysers, spewing out their steam from grey and orange pools that happen to match my jumper. Lying along a nearby fault line, they are formed when water contained in underground reservoirs is heated up by volcanic activity – in this case, from the Volcano Ollague – causing it to boil and steam out of the earth. Our final stop for the day is at the Laguna Colorado – a ‘red’ lagoon that is coloured by the algae it contains, which the many flamingos feed on. It is here that we also get up close to the llama-like animals “vicuñas” that are protected in the park due to their scarcity.

We then make our way to our homestay/hostel, which is located a few hundred metres from the waters eddge and I try to go to the toilet. But it seems there are some renovations are going on – that is, lots of cement and dirt on the floor, but from what I can see, there is nothing new happening. Still fighting the intolerable cold, we sit down to eat our lunch of boiled vegetables, tomato, cucumber and eggs. I really have no idea where this combination comes from, but it quickly disappeared into our cold stomachs, lining them for our afternoon nap.

But what we don’t realise, until we take our stuff to our room, is that the only heat our bedroom has ever seen, is perhaps a few drops of sweat when it was first haphazardly built. I scratch at the plaster, knowing for sure that it is still wet. After a few sighs, we all end up snoozing off minor headaches. After all, there’s nothing left today but dinner.

Viña Del Mar

The next morning arrives a little too early for me, the night being full of the drunken hippies making ridiculous amounts of noise and mess. But with my bus going back to Sanitago later in the afternoon, I force myself to take one last trip up the lifts to see the ‘Gallery in the Sky’ – an open-air display of art. But call me stupid, or call me blind, because I once again find myself stumbling around, finding nothing.

The streets in town still aren’t really busy, despite being a Monday, but lots of students are moving around, hopefully doing something. Wanting to make the most of the coastline, I decided to take the train to Viña Del Mar, but it seems you need a card to travel, and they are a little too expensive for just one trip. So I jump on a minibus and let the warm sun melt the chill in the air as I make my way there.

I watch as a young boy hangs from the front door of our ride, shouting out our destination and trying to get more passengers for his driver. He can’t be more than 15 years old, and I wonder if this will be the start of a career, or just a way of avoiding school. We zoom along at break-neck pace and in no time at all, I am thrown me out at the main square where I walk up to the Palacio Vergara.

I think that it must be seniors’ day though, because the grounds have been filled with bus-loads of them who are moving about slowly. The main building is of course closed, being the first day of the week, but there is a strangely modern amphitheatre behind, that fills in some more time.

Known for its plants and greenery, Viña is dotted with plant pots and trees, but it is also home to a fair share of tin-shaking beggars who line the river crossing (well, that’s what it looks like on the map, but actually there is no water below, just a crude dusty carpark). Horse and carts follow me up the 12 blocks to the main stretch of beach and as I turn onto the waterfront, I instantly think of Port Melbourne and St Kilda.

High-rise apartment blocks wait silently for the summer again, with a handful of markets stalls and a wooden boardwalk winding a path along the back of the sand. I soon stop to grab some lunch, realising that there is not much else to see here, and think that a nice salad and some reading might calm my tired nerves. But the first place I visit, despite its extensive menu, only has ham and cheese toasties, cakes, and ice cream on offer, so I am forced to move further up after only one drink.

Aptly named “Enjoy Viña Del Mar”, the next restaurant is probably the only place that you will do such, this time of the year. Its slick stainless steel and white décor makes it stand out from its position on a tiny inlet, and I order what turns out to be the biggest latte I have ever had. I gladly let it run down my throat as I read my book in the sun and consider that some places are probably only best when enjoyed in warmth.

Up and Down To Neruda’s Merry-Go-Round

Obviously, with all the gifts that were given to us at the winery, breakfast was a rather late affair, and my plan to get to Valparaíso had to wait until after lunch. Just a short two-hour ride on the bus, Chile’s colourful coastal city – known to locals just as Valpo – was a bit of unknown entity to me (short of the lychee liqueur by the same name that I used to pour in a cocktail bar). What I was thinking was: sun, sand, and sweet drinks.

And I guess I was right on two accounts – well, one and a half. When I arrived at the bus terminal, the morning sun had lifted the hill-grown chill from the air, and people were busy going about their Sunday market trading. But as I scooted up the steady incline to my hostel, it would seem that I would have to wait until Viña del Mar to get some beach, with the waterfront here being taken up by a steady flow of ships and boats into the large seagull-infested harbour.

I dropped my bags in a garishly painted room, grabbed an empanada at the corner shop, and headed down the hill. And so started the not-so-sweet part. Filled with an even bigger number of stray dogs than Bariloche, the many laneways, alleys and quaint streets are also home to an unpleasant stench of the animal kind. Not quite the accompaniment I had hoped to go with my fresh-baked pastry.

Also lining the unfortunate streets were a disproportionate number of alternative-lifestyle types – so explains the many hippie-like individuals I spied in my brief tour of the hostel – who seem to have all just made it out to see the middle of the day. I took no notice though, despite feeling like I am constantly being watched, and head to the city’s clock tower to take its adjoining Ascensor (“lift”) Concepción up .

Now this is where it gets confusing. Not only because Lonely Planet has misnamed one of these integral transportation devices, but because this apparent solution to the city’s vertical challenges is not as simple as a quick up and down. Just to make it interesting, Valpo is set around a series of hills that rise and fall with alarming randomness throughout its suburbs – don’t bother coming here if you have bad knees. Thus, when wanting to reach a particular street in town, the ordinary map is not really very helpful, and a more geographical one is non-existent.

I make it up to the top, to see an excellent view of the harbour, and find some interesting jewellery and art in the mini-markets above. I then decide to take in some more of the multi-coloured houses and complementary graffiti and stroll around so many ups and downs, that soon I am walking around completely lost. I am just glad that it is Sunday and there are not too many people or cars about.

I eventually make it back to the ascensor - which doesn’t appear to run to a timetable, rather, it moves when the controller at the top rings a bell to say that it is on the way – and pay again at the bottom. I follow the Lonely Planet guide and walk along to the next one, to see the Palacio Barburizza – home to the Museum of Bellas Artes. But when I get there, I not only realise that it is the wrong lift, but am told that the museum is no longer open, and was closed years ago when it stopped making money (well, what did they expect when it was free to get in?) Just to be sure, I take the right lift – El Peral, which just happens to be cheaper because it is run by the local council – and quickly make my way past the young boys trying to lure me into their path to steal my stuff. (They are very cunning here, wearing all the bling - ipods, cameras and the like - to make them look like tourists or richer than they are).

But the locals are rights, and it is indeed closed. I take a final spin down past the Monumento a los Héroes de Iquique masouleum, dedicated to Chilean navymen who died in the War of the Pacific, before I realise the time and know that I must hurry if I am going to get to see Pablo Neruda’s old house before it closes. Of course the taxi driver tries to screw me again, but I am getting good and somehow manage to force him to put on the meter before he launches into a recital of his favourite Neruda poem.

Luckily when I get to La Sebastiana (named after its builder Sebastian, who Neruda said was like a poet when fashioning it) it is still open, and I squeeze in as the last person. And what a way to finish the day! I am instantly attracted to the impressive design and interior, built around the view of the harbour, and fashioned to Neruda’s love for play, From his collection of paintings, furniture and trinkets to his “cloud” chair that overlooks the view, he was meticulously in collecting pieces to fill his life and house with joy. And how could one go past the circular room with its carousel horse?

My personal favourite though, is the quirky bar – stuffed full of trinkets that each have their own story – and I quickly sneak in a photo, despite the prohibition on taking them. I am pretty sure Pablo wouldn’t mind.