Arica—we found it eventually

My first trip outside of Bolivia for some time started at the handsome bus station on the outskirts of La Paz. As the bus drew out we passed a small grass patch where scores of women and small children were camped out. Every year, they make the trip down from north Potosi to beg in the run up to Christmas.

It must be cold, dangerous and extremely unpleasant for the women and small children sleeping in a small grass patch by a main road. How desperate must their normal lives be to warrant this annual trip from home to a makeshift refugee camp?

Our Chilean bus bounced us through El Alto into Sajama National Park. It’s a vast desolate area punctuated by the Platonic ideal of a towering volcano. Sadly, it was cloudy and I was asleep but I am told it looks great.

Past Bolivian customs, we entered a tract of no-man’s land. To the surprise of everyone, the government has actually implemented a law preventing the import of vehicles more than five years’ old. As a result, there are hundreds of used cars waiting in limbo loaded on trucks. The truck drivers have been stuck in this cold, wet, desolate place for three weeks waiting for the government to relent.

After a three hours wait, we were through the shambolic Chilean border control. For drama, the setting could not be beaten: customs is set by a lake, where flamingoes flash past, across the lake a powerful electrical storm cloaked and lit up a mountain, while the range behind was perfectly snow-topped. It was also cold, windy and soul-sappingly tedious.

Eventually, we crossed into Chile’s Parque Nacional Luaca. It was a lovely drive past full of endless vicuna, the llama’s cute but shy little cousin. Past the rivers and lakes of the park, we descended from the altiplano and into the desert.

Northern Chile is a scene of utter desiccation. There are places around here that have never recorded any rainfall. Ever. It’s amazing that even the cacti can survive.

After what felt like a short lifetime we arrived at Arica. Plonked between the desert and the sea, it has all the immediate charm of a cross between Watford and Miami. On the positive side, it was deliciously warm, on the coast and it was not a bus.

There are doubtless lots of fresh and exciting sides to Arica (the fish, for example), however, the locals’ taste in music is not one of them. I can’t remember the last time I heard Right Said Fred twice in one day. 1992, probably.

We arrived on Saturday night to find the town was quiet. Its citizens, in their often unflatteringly tight-fitting clothing, were smiley, friendly and relaxed. Even the taxi drivers seemed honest.

After La Paz, it was confusing to find the traffic stopping for us, even Chilean chavs would patiently wait if we innocently stood anywhere near a zebra crossing. What nice people.