Feet like clown shoes

My sunburn was developing magnificently. By now it felt as if I was wearing scalding-hot socks, and my bright-red feet and ankles had swollen impressively. I wondered when I would see my ankles again, not that I missed them particularly but it was strange not to see them there any longer.

Given that my main reason for coming here was to surf, my preposterous new feet were a disaster. Instead, we took a taxi to the top of the El Morro headland, which overlooks the town, and looked down at the town—surrounded entirely by desert and sea.

It was here, in the 1929 War of the Pacific, that Bolivia lost its link to the ocean, something that it has been going on about endlessly ever since. Chile has won pretty much ever battle and argument between the two countries before and since; its people are better organised and better educated, while its governments have consistently been less governed by self-interest. As a rule, however, the Bolivians tend to prefer to blame the Brits for their crucial lost sea connection.

Any sort of lower body movement severely limited, we went to the Maracuya restaurant, which is hoisted on stilts over the sea, and had a drink. The setting is wonderful but they are determined to cover their lovely fish in showy, gloopy sauces. We discovered you can actually taste the glorious fresh fish if you order from the simpler express menu.

As we sat over the surf, red-headed vultures wheeled around outside threatening to fly in through the glassless windows and join us.

I really don’t like beaches

As we were by the sea, I felt the weight of the expectation to go to the beach. I’m not a fan: beaches are uncomfortable, uncomfortably hot and there’s nothing to do—unless it’s a surf beach. It wasn’t.

Fortunately, I am not uncomfortable looking like a stereotypical Englishman. While Susi, under the vast parasol, read something mildly improving while wearing a sun hat, huge sunnies and a cardie; I moped about in a cricket hat, getting fried and wishing I was in the bar.

Looking for something to do, I took my pasty body and sunburnt feet for a run down the beach. Like Southend, there’s a decrepit pier here. Gangs of kids in wet suit and flippers were throwing themselves and their bodyboards off into the surf below. They looked like the reprobate younger brothers of Dogtown and Z-Boys.

For a while I was chased by an aggressive sausage dog, which in turn was chased by its embarrassed teenage owner. I feared for my ankles and her bikini. A little further up another dog was being operated on by apparently normal beach goers. Perhaps this is how they deal with unruly dogs here.

There was a further element of danger to running here. All along the beach brown-and-white striped diaphanous jellyfish had been washed up. I was keen to avoid a sunburnt foot-full.

There are lots of things about Chile I like, for instance, they were holding a beach 7s rugby tournament. Also, things work: a lack of sparks from a plug means it functions properly rather than the reverse, as in Bolivia.

However, cocktails makers here are as cack-handed as Bolivia. It takes a special ineptness not to be able to make a Cuba Libre. I forced it down and thought of Chilean vineyards.

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.