To be read upon arrival.

Written March 8, 2012

*Note: up to this point the stories have been written in the second-person view to include the reader in the story in the hopes that he or she understands that this story could happen to anyone, including themselves. The author will now switch to the first person, because I feel that things were getting very convoluted, confusing, and this shit’s gotten personal, or shall I say, I don’t feel that the experiences I’ve been presented with would necessarily render the same sentiments from everyone. In other words, it’s my story now, but I’m sharing.*

"This computer is at your service to carry out research, work, and use the internet, but not to play games." Looks like I'm in the green light to type in this cold church on the outer limits of La Paz. Compañero chileno and I have been graciously given a place to stay in the church’s “guest house” so to say. It is a division of the Scalabrini churches (I’m not really sure how to put it) but essentially, in various countries and in various cities around the world, the churches of this order have lodging for migrants, seafarers, refugees, and displaced persons. Apparently we fall into one of these broad categories thanks to Padre Aldo.

My final days in Conce were full of farewell. I’ve made some lifelong friends in this city, and more than enough stories to reminisce with over a few beers. It was 10:45 when I closed the gate and hopped on a micro to la Ruta de Itata, installing myself in the same spot I’d been so many times before, restarting the journey, but now staying on the northward route.

I must interrupt at this moment to fill in a gap. The plan days before had been to leave on Monday but a message arrived Sunday afternoon from Compañero saying something to the tune of “I’m hungover from a week’s worth of drinking. Can we leave Tuesday?” put on a bit of delay. On “recuperate from hangover Monday” I received another text with a bit of surprising news, “Hey I’m in Viña del Mar, tell me when you get here”. Haha! Oh that sonofabitch! All the same, to say I wasn’t looking forward to a bit of solo hitching would be a lie.

 Just like all the times before I was picked up in about 45 minutes and taken to Chillàn, however, this time Santiago proved to be a bit more of a challenge. The minutes turned to hours as I tanned and eventually burned the underside of my forearm in attempt to hook a big one.

After a few hours a fellow backpacker came by and animatedly shook my hand, introducing himself as F. nickname Lagarto. “Nobody’s going to stop here buddy. There’s a weigh station just a bit ahead, c’mon, let’s go check her out”.

And it was closed, leaving us in the middle of the Panamericana where there was no chance in hell that anyone way going to stop from 120 just to shoot the shit with a few transients like us. So walk it was, to the fruit packing factory, the sugar mill, and a roadside restaurant; no luck in any part. And then it hit, salvation came in the form of a red Toyota with its front wheels stuck in a ditch. A group of people had gathered to try a hand at removing it and we got dirty as well, attempting to use a few 2x4’s to gain traction. Eventually a truck came by and with a bit of cord and torque, the problem was fixed. A kind old shop owner gave us a liter of coke to sip on for our efforts and while we talked with her we noticed the truck beginning to leave. We sprung at the chance to ask for a ride and the driver agreed to take us to the nearest COPEC service station. Moments after arriving we were gifted a ride from a trucker low on sleep providing us with the job of conversing while we lumbered with a heavy glass load up to Santiago.

The conversation ranged from trucker culture (boys you tell the boss you drive a Fuller’s flat bed and they hire you like that) to  syncronity (there I was at the COPEC needing something to keep me awake and lo and behold, you young chaps crossed my path) to being clinically dead (I was in a tunnel and I felt God’s embrace around me an d I’ll tell ya boys, I didn’t want to go back to living, then I woke up with my wife’s arms around me).

We arrived at Santiago around midnight, a perfect time to be robbed and murdered in the streets if any, but we had already sorted out things beforehand. Ligarto was a seasoned traveler and while I never trusted anyone with 100% confidence, I had contacts in Santiago if anything was to fall through. I should mention now that Ligarto is a street performer, AKA, he juggles and does other circus tricks in the crosswalk during red lights to earn change from motorists. Believe it or not, it’s a rather common profession in Chile among the youth (any they earn a relatively stable living). Ligarto had told me of a place for the night and as we hopped micro after micro without paying it became apparent that he really knew how to work the system. A short walk through Bella Vista and a right turn after the cemetery we arrived at our lodging for the night: La Maquina. The place was filled with people from all over Latin America practicing street tricks, anarchist punk propaganda, and even a family selling artisan crafts. I was definitely the odd man out with my harmonica, but at least I could hold my own with the music hailing from Hermosa. That night I slept on top of my bag over a mattress that had seen much better days than nights.

In the morning Ligarto gave me the directions to head off to Viña and after playing gringo with the bus driver (What? I have to pay with a card? I don’t have a card. Can I pay with coins? I have coins. Excuse me miss can you swipe your card twice and then I can pay you back in coins…Yea kid just get in back!) I was on my way to the 68 off to the beach. My first ride came from a Brazilian gone Chilean who let me know that I was his first hitchhiker. I’m pretty sure I left a good impression as we laughed the whole way to the pay station. From there a trucker obsessed with Apache gear took me close enough where I only had to pay the small microbus fee to enter Viña. It was around 5 in the afternoon when Compañero picked me up from the COPEC and we entered our contact’s digs at the Viña del Mar Naval Academy. We even got a salute.

After a super late start we finally got back to our roots around 2 in the afternoon and were on our way out of the most bohemian city Chile has to offer. Ride, ride, and ride back to the 5, good ol Panamericana…but crap is there an onramp anywhere close? We paid little mind as we were occupied snacking on blackberries, grapes, and figs that were just within reach. We found a ride from probably the most unlikely of people, a divorced mother who had birthed a pair of backpackers herself. Apparently we had a purpose to serve as well, she was deathly afraid of tunnels and sure enough we had to spelunk a good one of about 5 minutes in length. The moment we entered she began talking, not necessarily to us either. Our drop-off point once again was rather lackluster, a highway interchange once again kilometers away from any city exit. So walk it was until we came upon a few roadside stands selling sweet baked goods to buses and other highway goers.

After a day of rather short rides and frustrating walks we saw our luck pull up in a Kenworth, a good ‘Merican made international supercab. 20,000 switches, a double bunk, DVD player blasting Van Halen, and stories about the “real truckers” of northern Chile that pass through spirits on dark desert nights.

“I was passing through the Atacama Salt Flats one night and was dead tired, but DEAD tired, ya know. I was about to pull over when from behind I hear this voice ‘faster, faster…c’mon, go, go…’. I turned on the cabin lights, look behind…nothing! I continue driving and the voices still come from behind ‘let’s go, keep going…go, go, go’ and it’s at that time that I hit a service station and tell a buddy to hop on in. He doesn’t believe me of course but I tell ya, the moment we get on the highway the voice comes back. My buddy looks at me and says ‘drop me off here man, you go the rest of the way’. You may hear voices in your own head you know, but shit man, we both heard the voice!”

…and all the way to La Serena. Luckily a former contact from CouchSurfing, the infamous (and incapacitated) E was able to put us up for the night at his parents place. They were much too kind and as soon as we arrived they had a plate of eggs and sausage ready for our overly fruit filled bellies (that we later paid for). Staying with E was much too comfortable and we indulged on a homemade beef cazuela the next day, leaving at a much too leisurely 5 in the afternoon, getting to the COPEC at 7.

Due to the bad water in Antofagasta and the desert north, we prepared ourselves and scavenged a few bottles to fill, cursing the weight that it added to our packs. I had been eyeing a truck from the exit but it seemed he had bigger problems with some repairs so I left him alone. I gave a lazy thumb and he honked back, “nice guy” I thought turning back.

HONK HONK! What the? And a head poked out the window motioning me to come over.

“Hey, are you on the way to Antofagasta? Any progress would help.”

“Antofagasta, shit man I’m on the way to Arica! Throw your packs in through the window this door’s a piece of shit and won’t open!”

Chama was only a few years older than us and all too good humored.

“Haha! Charqui? That’s your name? Well shit Charqui play the harmonica I’m bored and this desert night is getting me all weird.”

So we played a bit of midnight Atacama blues with some improvised lyrics to pass nothing but fading lines on the highway. Compañero and I shared the top bunk of the cab that night, enjoying each other’s toe aroma and the snores from below. He treated us to a good trucker’s breakfast before we passed Chañaral and into the even more nothingless north. Brown of brown of brown of rocky brown passed us by on our endless haul towards La Negra, a town composed of an ominous concrete factory coughing it’s contaminating halitosis over the sands. Here we left Chama as he took his cargo of beer to the thirsty Chileans in the furthest regions north and began to thumb (with a good amount of competition)  towards Calama.

We had heard about rains in the desert region from various rides, all of which said that any road north or south from Calama was in ruins and we had little chance of getting a ride from that point on. Well, we still had to see the condition of the routes for ourselves, and even then how much rain could it possibly be? Well, as was expected, the competition of girls hitching from the service station at La Negra beat us outright, this provoked us to split up and cover more fishing ground. Compañero snagged a ride that could only take him and, once again, I was left to tan. It wasn’t until 3 hours later that a truck working in the copper mines picked me up. The cabin was full of bottled water and milk boxes, proof that this guy had taken advantage of the spilled cargo we had seen a way back down the 5. He was kind enough to give me a carton when we arrived in Calama with the setting sun.

We found the house of our couchsurfing host D, another English teacher working in the mines, getting paid loads more than I ever did in Conce, living in a 3 room apartment to himself, and not paying a dime for utilities. His salary was all gravy. We made the most of the night starting with a few 12 packs of Becker and then hitting one of the clubs to see some Calameñas. We hit the sack with the rising sun, and spent Sunday avoiding the desert sun.

As was now customary, we left Monday afternoon at a relaxed 3 in the afternoon, walking to the end of the city where we had though a service center would be…but wasn’t. Somehow we were stuck with luck (again) and a lazy thumb got us a ride to our desired destination of Chiu Chiu. This town of no more than 400 is exactly what San Pedro de Atacama was probably like except it hadn’t been tarnished by fake hippies with dreadlocks sucking the town’s culture dry for the sake of tourism. The dirt streets and adobe walls of the homes of this town were accented by the folk who didn’t mind spending hours conversing with us outsiders. We put the tent up behind the rural health center and enjoyed a peaceful night while the sheep, geese, dogs, and llamas made sure we were well serenaded.

Waking up at 8 the next morning wasn’t necessarily a bad start but the fact that most trucks left with the sunrise didn’t mean that we were necessarily doing well. But damnit, once again, as we were walking toward the exit goofing around and snapping a photo of some ruins left by Acatameñans a good half millennia ago, Hector in his red pickup saw our thumbs and pulled over. I lost the ro-sham-bo and had to throw my pack in the truck bed with a gasoline barrel, now adding to the filth that had accumulated when I also had to put my pack in the bed of the copper hauling truck 3 days before. Thus, my pack soon smelled of a penny soaked in turpentine. Hector’s job was to check the conditions of the roads and after dropping off the barrel at the power generator for the entire town of Ollague (our desired destination)  we decided to accompany him on a route very few people with cars even were able to traverse, RutaA-15B. Hector told us that this route was normally run by Bolivian thieves at night passing cars over the border where the Chilean authorities had no jurisdiction.

We returned to Ollague shortly after and met up the A, from couchsurfing, who knew that in a town of less than 100 we would find a place to crash. If one has ever wanted to know what living in the wild west was like, all that’s needed is to visit this town. In the center sit various rusting trains from the 70’s surrounded by authentic water towers, rail switches, and even a desolate station. The dusty roads give the effect that a high-noon standoff is just waiting for a tumbleweed to pass and for 6 shooters to break the silence. The people here don’t pay a dime for any utilities and are provided with such services as a free internet room, armadillo shaped ampetheatre, and gym. We spent two nights here, climbing (about a quarter of the way) up volcanoes and looking down the silent tracks towards Bolivia. The family that was graciously hosting us showed the true colors of Chilean hospitality and when it was time to leave they loaded us with enough bread and cheese for days.

The stories we heard from the Chileans before entering Bolivia certainly set us on a bit of an edge. “They’ll rob you at any chance you get, so walk on in front of another to keep an eye on those crafty Bolivians. The world is completely different over there.”

We got our exit stamps from the youth we had played soccer with our first night and said goodbye to Dalì, the giant St. Bernard that loved to cover our recently washed pants with slobber.

We caught a ride to the border (spot in the middle of the tracks where Chile apparently became Bolivia) and waited to see if we could catch another to the Bolivian entry point. A boy approached me with a bit of a worried look on his face.

“Hey you coming from Chile?”

“Yep, onward to Bolivia”

“Ahhh nice, nice. Hey are there dogs over there?”

“Well yea there’s a St. Bernard and a few other mutts, but don’t worry they’re all friendly!”

“Ahhhh yeaaaa, right. Any Labradors?”

“Hmm maybe, I’m not really the type to know dog races”

“Ah, ya. Well, see ya.” and walked nervously off to pick up his pack.

“So what did he want?” asked Compañero approaching.

“Oh just to know about the dogs. I told him it was all right, they’re all friendly and stuff.”

“Haha! Weon! Don’t you realize what he was asking? He wanted to know if there were any drug sniffers over there! Look at his pack, he’s loaded!”

And so my innocence won a few good laughs as we beat the buses walking into Bolivia.

Due to the fact that Avaroa station was even smaller than Ollague, I wasn’t able to buy my Bolivian passport and I was able to enjoy the liberty of being a nobody for the train ride into Uyuni. While it wasn’t necessarily my wish to pay for transport, the fact that NOT ONE CAR passed the station the entire 5 hours we were there waiting for the train, assuaged my hitching soul. The ride, surrounded by altiplano thunderstorms, of supposedly 4 hours took more than 7 and we arrived at the stroke of 12 to Uyuni station. A quick pass through the town and we realized that no place for a secure tent pitch was possible. As such we returned to the station where many others had already set up camp for the night and a security guard motioned us to the waiting room. The dimly lit room was eery and as I situated myself in my bag I fingered my switchblade scanning the room for a good 2 hours before I realized that I was being overly apprehensive and drifted off to sleep, awaking a few times as the train passed and as other shadowy figured drifted in and out of the room. When we finally awoke for good we were the last ones to exit.

The day was spent being touristy and cursing diplomatic policy as I exchanged a total of $146US on a “gringo specialty” visa. While I had no problem attempting to hitch out to the Salar de Uyuni, Compañero once again put on his tourist face and convinced me that we needed to save time, so we talked down the tour operators to 100Bolivianos to take us out to the salt. An incredibly awesome and surreal place and experience that was only tarnished by the huge quantity of 4x4s bringing abnoxiously loud tourists from around the world. But that’s what you get with the price right?

There were other Chileans in our vehicle that we befriended and decided to meet up in the plaza and share a few drinks. While we were brushing our teeth during the wait a few Bolivians enjoying themselves came over to meet us and as chance would have it, one was a couchsurfer I had petitioned earlier. Things seemed to be going really well as the already quite drunk Luis left and returned with 24 cans, inviting us to indulge in public. Our Chilean compatriots soon showed up and we spent the majority of the evening playing music, being entertained by the overly drunk Luis, and laughing whenever the street dogs barked at my dancing  (the racist mutt only growled when I was groovin’). As it started to rain we moved to the gazebo, while we weren’t necessarily making a huge rukus, it wasn’t necessarily the most quiet of ho-downs either. Out of the rain we heard a shout “Hey, are you guys drinking up there!”…buzz kill.

“No, no officer  just…”

“Ok, where are you from, and empty your cans”

Up until this point things were still relatively friendly. We’d probably lose our current brews but no harm no foul… that was until Luis hit the scene.

“Heshhhh! Heshhh policia! If shaa wants to detain mehhh take me! Right naaaw!”

Compañero has a habit of being more serious the more plastered he becomes and was quick to react and take Luis’s shoulder to go for a walk while the police officer left. Upon the shloshed’s return so too returned 3 police to take the quite uncontrollable Luis away, yet leaving us untouched. While us Chileans conversed for a good while lamenting the rather unfair treatment of the national while we got off scott-free Luis arrived from the rain, bloody drool hanging from a puffy face.

“They hit me here and here and here…” he said much more solemnly, his drunken jubilance had all left. “The bastards…the bastards… but let’s drink smmm more shall wesh?”

This ton of bricks hit everyone and our mission was now to take the very childish Luis back home before any more damage was brough upon him. The process took about an hour complete with attempts on his part to return and ours to flee. We passed another few hours telling stories of the trip and the Chileans asking why I would ever give up a life in Hermosa (the gringas! The gringas!)