(old) Tell me why I don’t like borders. Tell me why.

because my battery was dead no photos this one is courtesy of flickr user Emi ♫ and used under CC license with much thanks

If you’ve been reading along (first I should say thank you, and second apologise for the huge lag between posts), you know I hate border crossings. It’s not the bureaucracy but the touts and scams that drive me nuts. Ever since the horrible crossing between Ecuador and Peru that dread has just gotten worse. My new plan to counteract the dread and disorientation has been 1. make sure you’ve not spent hours getting to the border, 2. get a good night’s sleep before hand and 3. exchange as little money as possible when you get there. Waking up today, I’d already broken the first two of these new rules. It was almost impossible to get much rest on the train. Between the uncomfortable seats and constant early morning stops, I think there were only about 3 hours of actual sleep. So once the sun was streaming in the windows, I decided to stop the charade of sleep. Adrian was in a similar grumpy frame of mind. But we consoled ourselves that we were heading to Argentina – not know for its pushy touts and tourist scams. Perhaps this time it would be different.

We still had an hour or so before our arrival at Villazon – the Bolivian border town – so we headed to the dining car for breakfast. It was included in the price of our first class ticket and I suppose was where the extra money went. But I can’t say it was worth it. Breakfast was eggs, breads and crackers and café con leche. Better than nothing and it helped pass the time until we pulled into the station relatively on time – perhaps our German friend from Santa Cruz had already brought the Bolivan Rail Service up to German efficiency standards. The platform was packed. Most appeared to be touts selling overpriced bus tickets to groggy tourists. A little bit of research in Uyuni had revealed that most (maybe even all) of these tickets were horrendously overpriced and that the same tickets were available just across the border for far less. So we barreled through the crowd, swatting the pamphlets that were thrust in our face and went to fetch our baggage. Here we had to fight with the locals. We could see our bags within reach but weren’t allowed to grab them without handing our tickets to the baggage handler who ignored us until he had helped every local first. When every local was gone, he turned his attention to us. We pointing to the two bags in front but he ignored us and he went looking in the baggage car coming out empty handed with a shrug until I once again pointed to the two in front and began to pick them up. I thought he was going to slap my hand for touching the bags before he had checked the tickets. And then went through the whole performance of cross referencing every number on our tickets with the tags on the bags. I guess with our lack of sleep we looked kinda shifty or something. Or perhaps he was just trying to save us from the touts because most of them had left to chase the other gringos down the street. We hopped into a cab and for $2 we were let off metres from the border post.

The street was lined with money bureaus and we backtracked to the nearest one and converted our Bolivianos into pesos. The rate was almost the real rate and it looked real after our quick examination (gently used, water marks security bands etc.) So far, so good. With cash in hand we retraced our steps to the border and joined the line up of gringos waiting to get stamped out of Bolivia. There were no locals waiting and there wasn’t another line up for Bolivans or Argentines which was a bit odd. The line wasn’t moving very fast and some pushy gringos thought they could bypass the rest of us by heading directly into the office. Now, nothing upsets a Canadian or a Brit more than ignoring a perfectly good line up (or queue if you prefer). We’re folks that pride ourselves on the orderly nature of a line up and would go to war to defend it. There were three Brits in front of us, about to join Adrian and I in our battle against the interlopers. However, bloodshed was avoided when an official with shiny boots and a gun headed them off and waved them to the back of the line. The tourists didn’t give up and pretending not to understand the official’s Spanish tried to continue into the office. But the Border guy dragged them to the end of the line which was now ten people longer than when they arrived. The three girls laughed and celebrated the victory with us. The line suddenly sped up and we were soon at the counter getting stamped out. Even better, the line slowed to a trickle as soon as we were done and the pushy wannabe queue jumpers had barely moved. Now that’s my sort of travel karma.

We walked with the girls across the bridge to the Argentinean border. There was an old rail bridge that ran parallel to us, left over from the days when the Bolivian train used to continue on into Argentina. It was fenced off but it wasn’t deserted. No, this was the way the Bolivians and Argentineans apparently crossed the border. There was a steady stream of locals carrying huge bags hopping the chain link fence and crossing the border without showing their papers. It looked rather illegal but since there were watchful border guards everywhere I guess it was fine. As we got close to the shiny new Argentina border post, I have to admit getting a bit nervous. I don’t know whether it was lack of sleep or excitement over stepping into Argentina but the heart was definitely thumping a little faster and harder. Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown – Would we be forced to produce proof of exit? Would we have to pay some outrageous entrance fee? Or would they want to tax our electronics as imports? All these questions were going through my mind. And all for nothing. The crossing was painless and even the customs guy waved us through without searching our bags once he saw Adrian’s Canadian flag, proclaiming his love for Canada in perfect English. Okay, perhaps I’ll stop teasing Adrian (the immigrant) for the stereotypical flag on his backpack.

But the easy part was behind us. Now we had to go catch a bus to Salta. Rather than take a taxi I believed the guide book which seemed to indicate that the walk was a short one. Short only if you’re not carrying 25kg in luggage on your back after sleeping upright on a train. As we got close to the bus station, I was lagging behind Adrian and when I eventually caught up to him, he was already in line to buy tickets for the bus. He was trying to purchase the tickets with his non-existent Spanish. The ticket man was asking for 60 pesos for the tickets which appeared to say 30 on them. So I asked him again. The chaos of the lineup and the ayudantes telling us to hurry because the bus was leaving made it hard to hear, and now it sounded like he said 80. So I asked him to repeat it and he said 180 for the 2 of us. Behind us the ayudante grabbed our bags and was throwing them on the bus. I chased the bags while Adrian paid for the tickets. The bus was now beginning to pull away but before we could get on the baggage guy now wanted 2 pesos before he’d give us our claim tickets. I gave him a nasty look and asked him why and he told me to give him the money unless we wanted to miss the bus. So we had no choice but to give him the cash. And it got worse when we got on the bus. I looked at the tickets and discovered that this "direct" bus trip was in fact two bus trips on two different companies. And worse, the price on the tickets read 30 pesos for the first and 24 pesos for the other for a total of 54 pesos not 90. Scammed in our first hour in Argentina. It was a shock after Bolivia where we’d had a few moments with touts but had mostly been left alone and untouched as we traveled through the country. It was one of the reasons we’d loved it so much – cheap and hassle free. Now here we were in Argentina and people were demanding cash bribes from us and skimming money from our bus tickets. Wow, Argentina you have changed.

The gringo sitting across the aisle from us asked me what was wrong. I told him what had happened and he looked at his ticket. He’d paid 60 but was upset that he’d been over charged 54. But when he heard what we’d paid, he started asking other people on the bus what they’d paid. Apparently we’d all been charged different prices. Some Americans paid 75 others 70 but we’d gotten ripped off the most. Dmitri (yes, he was Greek) immediately called over the ayudante to complain. The ayudante was sympathetic and told us to complain when we got to Salta where we could get our money back. Dmitri was adamant that we all do that particularly when the ayudante told us the price should have been 25 for the first half of the trip and 24 for the second half. But to me, it didn’t make sense – the company in Salta would be a different from the one that sold us the tickets and probably weren’t even aware that this other company was reselling their tickets. There was no way we’d be getting our money back. But now I had 4 hours to stew until we had to change buses. Actually it was 5 hours because we were stopped at a customs check just outside of town because another passenger apparently had enough gold on her to raise the alarm. We were forced to wait for an hour while they questioned her and charged her an import fee. During this break, the South Africa couple behind us tried to make us feel better. They had just been in Argentina for 3 months and this was the first scam they’d encountered. But I wasn’t worried about Argentina I was just angry that we’d gotten ripped off at another border.

When we finally got to Jujuy, the other bus was already there. We had just enough time to grab our bags and put them on the new bus not before being asked for another 2 pesos from yet another baggage guy who had just lifting our bags one foot off the ground and on to the bus. Once again I refused to pay and luckily this guy gave us our bags without demanding the money. I was commenting on the cash grab, when the South Africans informed me that in Argentina it was customary to tip the baggage man (although the refusal to give us the ticket until we’d paid was unheard of – it was a tip after all). Oops, I almost felt bad but then I remembered that some joker had already gotten an extra 70 pesos out of us today and we had to recoup it somehow.

This second bus was nicer than the first and arrived in Salta on time. We immediately went to the Flecha Bus office to make our complaint. As predicted it was the El Quicacena company we should have complained to but the fact that they were selling tickets for Flecha bus was enough to anger the Flecha bus attendant, let alone that they were ripping people off in their name. We filled out a complaint form but since it was the weekend we couldn’t get much further. They gave us a formal receipt and the number of the head office. They were very nice and apologetic which was enough to make us feel better but I knew I wouldn’t be calling the number and wouldn’t be getting our money back. The amount we lost wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things – about $20 I think – and we wouldn’t have paid it, if we didn’t think that was the price for 7 hours on the bus. Plus, just having someone who appeared to care about a customer complaint was enough to make us feel better.

Now it was time to find the hostel. We needed a shower and to relax. Lucky the hostel was close to the bus station and even luckier that there was room available, albeit one with shared bath. The hostel was great. It was a converted house and it felt just as welcoming. The staff were super nice and made us feel very welcome. We jumped into the (hot water! high pressure!) shower and washed away the crankiness of the day. We’d survived another border crossing.

(old) It’s all about perspective.

The alarms went off at 4:30am. There was no shower but there was a good breakfast with eggs. Well, that’s Adrian’s definition of a good breakfast not mine. I hate eggs and these tasted really eggy but compared to the instant coffee and bread from yesterday it was an improvement. It was still pitch black when we loaded our gear back on the roof of the jeep and then raced across the salt flats trying to beat the sun. The rays were just peeking above the horizon when Amigo stopped the jeep. We got out and since the sun was still a few minutes from making its appearance we got to take in our surroundings. First, it was fricken (and you know I wanted to write something other than fricken) freezing – as in see your breath, stamp your feet to keep warm, sort of freezing. Once we got over the shock of the cold, we realized we were at a place where they were harvesting the salt from the salt flats. Wow, because it’s such a touristy thing to do I’d forgotten that they weren’t just a pretty place but a livelihood for locals. So how did they harvest it? Well, they had some sort of machine that cut the surface salt into blocks which they let dry out and then stacked for the trucks to pick up and take to the salt processing place. Or so Adrian found out using his amazing non-verbal Spanish abilities – I really don’t know how he does it.

I found myself wishing the sun would rise faster and distracted myself by taking pictures of the vast white landscape. This time I didn’t distract myself by taking up Amigo’s invitation to taste one of the blocks of salt. And eventually the sun slowly peeked over the horizon. Was getting up that early worth it? A sunrise is always pretty but the cold made it hard to appreciate. A sunrise only last a few minutes and in this case as soon as it was up we all huddled back in the jeep and joined the long line of vehicles heading towards the horizon. After our solitary day of rock sighting, we were back on the tourist train. The next “station” in this case was the Isla de Pescado (fish island). I asked Amigo why it was called that – as it had been a long time since there were any fish near by. He told me that the real name was actually Xqkyrtsqsfd, or something like that. (Okay that wasn’t the real name but it was in Quechua so that’s as good as I can do) but some tourists had remarked that it was shaped like a fish and the much easier to remember Isla de Pescado stuck. The island was indeed an island in the salt flats a hill rising out of the immense white expanse (photo above). It was covered in ancient cacti and coral rocks, a reminder of the time there was actual water in the area. We all followed the path up to the top of the island. There was a natural arch in the old coral rock, a plethora of giant cacti, as well as an area where the local Quechua folks performed some sort of rite but now appeared to be a dumping place for people’s extra visa and passport photos. The view was more white salt flat vastness so I decided to head down. I saw Amigo at the bottom and decided to finally ask his name. I told him I’d forgotten it and he was gracious enough to let me know what it was. Drum roll please…. “Me llama… Ruben”. Finally, mystery solved. When the others came back down I let them know. And we all breathed a sigh of relief and then promptly started using his name every time we spoke to him. I’m sure he was annoyed and confused by the sudden popularity of his first name.

Back in the jeep we headed out to the middle of the salt flats for some fun with perspective. Well that was my goal. Ever since I read another blogger’s account of their salt flat trip, I had been eager to take my own weird playing with perspective photos. It’s possible because of the featureless landscape. The others had no clue what I was trying to do as I posed Adrian standing metres behind the only prop we had – a water bottle. It wasn’t as easy as I thought but I eventually figured it out. Soon the others got into it and they all took turns “standing” on top of the water bottle while I snapped away on their cameras. I wish we had other things but either no one wanted to admit a stash of toys in their packs or we were all just too old and boring. After that we explored the small building made out a salt which, judging by the bottles and other things left in front was some sort of chapel. There was even a small table and chair made out of salt but it didn’t look up to anyone sitting on it.

But that small building was nothing compared to our next stop. By request, Ruben let us off at the salt hotel. It wasn’t just a building made out of salt, but everything inside. Ruben let us know that it was free to visit but that we should purchase something inside as a donation, since it was a private establishment. Inside Adrian found giant bars of Dairy Milk chocolate for sale and would have bought the entire stock if I hadn’t stopped him. With our “entrance fee” paid we began exploring the hotel. The table, the chairs, the beds, the bar, everything was made out of salt blocks. Pretty cool but also a little weird. But not as weird as the “museum” which was really a collection of salt sculptures from Quechua mythological figures, to a copy of Big Ben. Told you it was weird. Outside, a small wading pool had been cut out of the salt but at this temperature I can’t imagine it got much use. But it was worth it if only for the chocolate even if it did cost a small fortune.

After the salt hotel, we stopped one more time at a little town just on the edge of the salt flats. And by town I mean a collection of souvenir stalls and some high-end hotels. I headed straight to a display of alpaca wool hats and gloves and picked out some for both Adrian and I, not as souvenirs but as necessities. And cheap necessities too, at only $3 each. Finally my head and hands were warm after the 3 freezing days. The rest of the gang bought more than their fill and then it was back to the jeep and on our way to Uyuni. But now I had a request. I wanted to stop at the Uyuni train cemetery. It was exactly what it sounded like, a cemetery full of old decaying and rusting old locomotives. That’s right more decay. I think it was a bit out of the way but if we could see it on our way into town then there was no reason for Adrian and I to stay in town and we could immediately (try) to head to Argentina. I don’t think the others were as enthused by the detour but when we got there, Adrian and I didn’t care. Amongst the wind-blown rubbish were hundreds of rusting train parts and probably just as many tourists climbing over them. My camera battery was flashing red but it lasted just long enough to get enough shots to make me happy (although I could have taken more). I’m sure the others were happy that my battery died because when we made our way back to the jeep, they were already waiting.

And then it was into Uyuni. Thanks to the early hour it was barely noon. But that gave all of us time to figure out our onward travel plans. Tony was going to stick around for a night. While Kai, Anna and Bart were all trying to head out that day. And we were, well originally we had said that if we couldn’t shower in the morning we’d stay the night in Uyuni but now that we were in the town even feeling gross and icky wasn’t enough of a reason to stick around. So we decided to let the availability of train tickets decide our fate. Ruben dropped us off at the train station and then took the rest to the ATM, promising to come back for us. The station was empty as was the ticket office. Eventually a man appeared to tell us that there were plenty of tickets available for tonight’s train. So that was decided we were heading to Argentina tonight. We opted for first class tickets figuring that a bit of comfort after the last four days and within 5 minutes we were booked in. Now it was time to wait for the others to come back.

As we were standing in the shade outside the station, we saw some familiar faces across the street. It was Stuart and Max from Santa Cruz. I went running down the street after them to say hello. They had just arrived and were shopping around for a cheap salt flat tour. I told them that the one-day tour would be enough. But our reunion was cut short by the return of the jeep. We said goodbye (once again) to the lads and climbed back into the jeep for the short ride to the bus company offices. While the others bought their tickets to La Paz and Tony checked into his hostel, Ruben unloaded all of our luggage. When all that was done we thanked him, gave him his tip and said goodbye. We may not have been able to remember his name, but we really did appreciate everything.

Then it was just us without the guide. We decided to stick together and have lunch in the main square. We followed the others with our big bags (they had been able to check their’s at bus company) to the first tables we saw. They were in the sun and, of course now that I’d bought woolly hats and mittens it was baking. The menu was a bit of a shock. The prices were more like Chile than Bolivia and after Adrian and I had told the others how cheap Bolivia we were going to have to literally eat our words. But it was food and drinks not cooked by Ruben and that was worth it. (Sorry Ruben). After lunch the others went out to explore the town while Adrian and I stayed put, and getting a chance to chat to Stuart and Max who passed by as well as two British girls at the table next to us. We started to talk about food we missed and when one of the girls mentioned Cadbury’s chocolate I gave her the rest of the giant Dairy Milk we had and immediately became their best friends. Travel karma.

Adrian and I realized the café was actually part of a hostel and he asked if we could use their shower. They charged us $2 but it was the best $2 we spent and now we were ready to take the overnight train, except it wasn’t leaving for another 8 hours. We were sick of schlepping our bags around so we headed to the train station to ask if we could leave them there. The station master told us he wasn’t supposed to but told us he didn’t mind helping us out. We assumed he was dropping a hint so we gave him a small tip and just hoped our bags would be there when we got back. Then it was time to join the rest of the group. Adrian and I had decided that we wanted to try the infamous Minuteman Pizza that so many people had raved about and the others said they’d join us. Adrian went off to use the internet and said he’d join us shortly. But as the rest of us were searching for the pizza place which wasn’t sign posted I realized he’d never find it. I waited for 20 minutes and then went out to find him wandering the streets looking lost. After dinner and an exchange of emails, Anna, Bart and Kai went to catch their buses while Tony, Adrian and I went back to the internet. It was time to do some research to prepare for crossing the border – like buses from the border, places to stay in Salta, and most importantly the exchange rate between the Boliviano and the Argentinean peso. That helped pass the time until it was time to catch the train and for Tony to head to bed.

With no sun beating down on us it had turned cold again and the waiting room was not heated. Nor was there anywhere to sit. As the people piled in it warmed up and the luggage room was officially opened. Phew our luggage was still there. And almost on time the train arrived and we headed out. I failed to notice any difference between the first class seats and second class. The seats were far less comfortable than bus seats and there were no blankets. There was however a TV playing a really bad Bolivian talent show, really loud. From our perspective, the TV was a minus but the Bolivians in our car seemed to love it. But we were so tired that we soon fell (almost) asleep.

Desperately seeking Uyuni

If there’s anything I’ve learned in the last 7 months of traveling, it’s that you have to be flexible and patient. Things don’t happen they way they do back home whether it’s a bus trip that takes twice as long as scheduled or dealing with taxi drivers. The best way to deal with everything is to just relax. Over the next three days, I had to learn this lesson all over again.

Our last stop in Bolivia was supposed to be Uyuni, a small town that’s the jumping off point for tours of the famous Bolivian salt flats. After a good scrub and a good meal last night we booked our bus tickets to Uyuni. After she sold us our tickets, the clerk warned us that the bus hadn’t been running the last few days because of a blockade. Apparently, the entire town of Uyuni was blocked off by protesting locals so no buses were getting in or out. When I asked her when she thought the blockade would be cleared she said Mañana. Adrian and I crossed our fingers and hoped she meant that literally (meaning tomorrow) but prepared ourselves if she meant it the typically Latin way (meaning some vague time in the future) Of course, the next morning after we had packed all our gear up, the clerk notified us that there would be no buses to Uyuni today, the blockade was still up. We checked back into our room for another night and hoped that tomorrow would be our day. Just in case we discussed a plan B.

The next morning, the buses were still not running. Bored of Potosi (and maybe wanting to put as much distance between us and Julio) we decided to get out of town and head to Oruro. There was a train to Potosi from there and we hoped perhaps that it would get in, even if the buses couldn’t. Oruro was a big town and hopefully, there’d be some more information about the blockade and something to do while we waited. It was also fairly close to Potosi so we were able to catch a bus that got us into town early afternoon.

Oruro was not very impressive, actually it was ugly, particularly after Sucre and Potosi. It looked like a huge jumble of bad wiring and dusty cement blocks. We bypassed the hostel across from the equally ugly bus terminal and headed to a small hotel downtown. The hotel was full of convention delegates but the super nice owner had a room with shared bath still available. We checked in and told her that we were trying to get to Uyuni. She hadn’t heard about the blockade but wasn’t surprised because they happen all the time. She handed us a train schedule and pointed out that one was scheduled to leave tomorrow. We followed her directions to the train station only to find a room full of empty chairs. A lone clerk came out from a backroom. Before we were able to complete our request he pointed to a notice board. There were no trains due to the blockade at Uyuni. Great.

We caught a bus to the bus station and confirmed that there were no buses to Uyuni. We had just a handful of days left to stay in the country and the one place we wanted to visit was closed. Do we go back to Sucre? Maybe but we’d have to find a place to stay. What were our other options? La Paz? Too far. We looked around at the different schedules and found a bus going to Iquique, Chile. That would solve our visa issue and with just a slight detour we could still do our salt flat tour starting at Chilean end rather than from Uyuni. That would send us back to Bolivia with a new visa and down into Argentina. That wasn’t our original plan but the other option was staying in Oruro. There were 5 different bus companies all going across the border the next day and all around the same time. So we planned to come back tomorrow and buy tickets for whatever bus was leaving first.

There was really nothing to see in Oruro. The main attraction was the carnival but that wasn’t on until February. The woman at the hotel told us we’d have to come back to see it. And as much as I wished we could, I knew we’d be long gone by then. Instead we headed out to the most highly recommended restaurant in the city. It was a posh place with linen tablecloths and bow-tied waiters ready to attend to our every whim. Adrian order the che’'s speciality which turned out to be the biggest plate of lamb ever while I stuck with rice and chicken. It was tasty but our choice of beer spoiled it a bit. Adrian had spotted an unfamiliar brand he had to try. But on first taste we realized it was more of a sweet malt drink than beer. Imagine sweet guiness and you’ll have an idea of what it tasted like.

The next morning we had breakfast at the hotel. It was a simple continental one but the bread was fresh baked with real butter, the sweet bread came with dulce de leche, and there was juice and real coffee with real milk. And it was included in the cost of our room. We still had some time before the buses to Chile were leaving so we headed to the internet café to find out a bit about the new country and city we were heading too. Our first shock was the prices. In Bolivia we would think twice before spending $20 on a room but in Chile it looked like we were going to have to spend that much each. I hoped that was just my bad math and picked out some cheaper options close to each other for us to check out when we got into Iquique.

Even taking our time we arrived with lots of time to kill. We bought our tickets for the 11 oclock bus and then found two seats to read and wait. As we were sitting there, a German couple approached us. They had been to the train station already trying to get tickets to uyuni and were turned away. They only had three weeks to try and squeeze in a salt flat tour, and northern argentina and were a little panicked. They asked us what we were doing. I told them about our plan to do the salt flat tour in reverse hoping that the blockade would be over by the time our tour arrived in Uyuni. But we also let them know that Sucre was really nice if they wanted to visit another city and wait. They thought for a moment and decided to take the bus with us. They bought their tickets then headed back to their hostel to get their bags. I hoped that it was going to be worth it since we had no idea what Iquique was going to be like.

Bastien and Anita turned up with their bags and some provisions for the 8 hour bus ride. They had bought some beers and a jealous Adrian took off to get his own supplies. I reminded him that the bus may not have a toilet which scared the couple but didn’t stop Adrian. With beers in hand we boarded the bus and began our border run. There was a toilet and it worked. And the roads were some of the nicest ones in Bolivia. So far so good. I was even optimistic that we might make it to Iquique before dark. That didn’t last long once the bus turned off the highway and onto a sandy road through the desert. The driver barely slowed down sending huge plumes of dust over the bus. In an attempt to keep the dust out of the bus (and our lungs), we all closed our windows and the ayudante locked the bathroom door much to Adrian’s chagrin. He squirmed with his very full beer bladder for 30 minutes before I told him to just ask the ayudante for the key. It worked and he was able to enjoy the ride to the border.

I had no idea which border we were at. Once we left the highway, the map I was following was useless. We were at some minor border post just before immigration, the bus stopped to let us off to exchange money. Adrian bought a minimal amount of Chilean pesos and then got back on board. Just a few minutes down the road was a shiny new immigration building. In the midst of the Bolivian desert it stood out and quickly reminded us that we were leaving the third world for first world Chile. The building held both Chilean and Bolivian immigration so it was easy. The only hiccup was the customs inspectors. Chile has a very strict import policy. All grains, fruits, veg, dairy and meat were forbidden. They xrayed all luggage and the mostly indigenous passengers were a bit confused. Many of them had their quinoa and bread as well as other grocercies they were carrying with them. When we’d all been thoroughly checked and stamped we were allowed back on the bus.

The difference between Bolivia and Chile were immediate. Although the landscape looked the same, on this side of the border the roads were paved. Notice I didn't say well-paved however, the endless construction signaled that would soon be fixed and take more than a few hours off the trip. Unfortunately, at the moment the road was a little treacherous and at one point we had to stop when we came upon a crash. There was a bus overturned on the side of the road. As we got closer we saw that there had been a collision with a truck. There were no emergency officials and all the passengers appeared to be okay as they stood at the side of the road waiting for someone to pick them up. They climbed on a truck ahead of us to the nearest town while we were waved through the accident zone to continue our journey. I noticed that our driver reduced his speed after that. Well I thought it was because of that, as we chugged along it became apparent that the bus was having issues. The driver plodded on though the mountains getting us to the highway where he alternated between trying to make up some time and stopping to work on the bus. We may have been in a new country but it was the same old story when it came to buses.

Around 9pm the bus got to Iquique, or so I thought. It was a big sprawling town full of stoplights and modern buildings. But in fact this was Alto Hospicio, the suburbs of Iquique. I only realized where we were when the bus reached a cliff. Two kilometers down a steep series of switchbacks lay Iquique all bright lights and tall buildings that hugged the coast of the Pacific. It was an amazing sight but as the bus got to the city the awe of the lights changed to a turned up nose. The city looked grotty and rundown. Unlike old Bolivian towns which were just the victim of ugly architecture and building materials, Iquique looked rundown. The buildings were better built but were now grotty giving the town a very seedy feeling. In the midst of this the bus pulled over on a street and let us off. We had no clue where we were. The Germans managed to find a cab to take them to the hostel in town they picked out. We were headed in the opposite direction so we said goodbye and wished them luck. Now it was our turn to find a taxi. We lugged our bags to a busier road where we eventually flagged down a free taxi to take us to Cavancha beach where the hostels we had chosen were located. It was a good choice, as we got out of the centre of town, the homeless people disappeared replaced with landscaped lawns and palm trees. Our first choice of hostel was booked up. They recommended another place 4 blocks away but we couldn’t find it ending up at a small hotel described as a surfers’ hangout in our guidebook. It wasn’t great but it would do so we dumped our bags, grabbed a quick bite to eat across the street before heading to bed. It didn’t matter about the accommodation, all that mattered was we had escaped from Bolivia, for now at least.