Breaking Borders: San Pedro to Arequipa

The overnight coach left San Pedro around 8pm on the Wednesday. Destination Arica, 25km this side of the border with Peru. Our bus was very basic. It didn't appear to have been prepped. There were no blankets and, initially, no conductor. The driver had to help load the bags into the trunk. About an hour and a half into the journey, at a town called Calama, a large number of men, and the conductor (although he did very little during the journey) got onto the bus. We deduced that these people were miners, returning home after a stint of work in the open cast copper mine just north of the town. They quickly fell asleep, but not before one kind man had swapped seats, so that Chris and I (we had not been able to buy adjacent seats) could sit together.

We arrived into Arica around 5am on the Thursday. Our first priority was to buy tea, and a large piece of heavy, bread pudding style cake from a breakfast booth in the bus station, before purchasing what we thought was a station exit ticket. After a few enquiries, we found out that the collectivos that would take us to the border were located in another station a few metres up the road. Once there, we were approached by a taxi driver who offered to take us across the border for 3,500 pesos. We then (on his instruction) purchased the correct exit ticket, and were ushered into his cab, along with three other unsuspecting victims...sorry, passengers. He took our passports and promptly disappeared for ten minutes. It was at this point that I thought, "What if he doesn't bring them back?" We had read up about how the crossing works, and were expecting the process to involve a taxi driver taking us across the border, but it did require some trust that this was a legitimate person offering the service. It did help that there were other people involved and that he looked trustworthy, if a bit gruff, grumpy and monosyllabic. It was 5 O'clock in the morning though - I wasn't feeling too hot myself. He came back, luckily clutching our documents.

We began our drive to the border in a vehicle in which nothing on the dashboard appeared to be working, including the speedo. It was still dark, and again, I thought, "In theory he could be taking us anywhere. It could be like 'Walkabout' (I would be Jenny Agutter of course). He might take us into the wilderness and dump us, to rely on the kindness and expertise of the natives to enable us to survive". Luckily he dropped us at the border, so this was not necessary. We queued outside (it was chilly) for about an hour. Sensibly, exit (from Chile) and entry (into Peru) are alongside each other here, at post office style booths. As I entered Peru, I was asked by the male border official if I was married - Chris was just about to leave Chile at the adjacent booth, so I just pointed at him to indicate my status. This caused some amusement, and much winking, and ring finger pointing, and raising of eyebrows, but it broke the ice, and the nervous atmosphere.

When the formalities were over, the taxi driver was waiting for us at the other side of the building. After putting our watches back two hours, we piled into the car again, and he drove us to Tacna, where we were handed over to another man who, after directing us to the money changing tables (replete with embroidered table cloths, plastic flowers and fabric pachamama style dolls), rushed us to the bus station in the hope of getting us onto the 6.15. We didn't make it, as it was 6.05 when we left the station, but he continued to liaise with the bus company, and arranged our passage on the next bus an hour later. We had time to spare, so had breakfast - fried egg sandwiches and juice, again in a station cafe, where we were approached by a man wearing a now familiar outfit (remember the queue for O'Higgins Park in Santiago) - a blonde, wool-braided wig, false eyelashes, rouge, and a flowery dress with stuffed boobs and bum. He addressed us with "Que lindos chicos" and tried to palm us off with some chewing gum. We resisted.

Our bus journey was uneventful, although long and tortuous, with sheer drops and barren, hilly scenery. In the occasional town, rows of stalls selling miscellaneous items and street food meant that we had regular visitors to the bus - ladies with baskets of homemade cakes and pastries containing a thousand calories each, and dulce de leche. We arrived in Arequipa mid afternoon, and took a 'deluxe' taxi from inside the station to our hotel. The traffic was horrific which meant we drove slowly enough to notice a whole road full of men with sewing machines out on the streets. We vowed to return, to have the broken straps on our rucksack mended. On arrival, our hotel was lovely - the interior decor reminiscent of the Santa Catalina Monastery around the corner, with internal courtyards, rooftop balcony gardens, terracotta floors, and potted cacti decorating the public areas. We later discovered that it had originally been a monastery. Our room was huge, with an almost double width, castle thick, wooden bathroom door, a large walk in shower with net venting to the internal courtyard, and a large (extra wide) comfy bed. Such luxury to be clean and to relax after such a long eventful journey from one country to another. In the early evening we walked to the Plaza de Armas where the cathedral was lit up. The male voice choir were inside, practising for the weekend services. We then had tea, on a street where I had eaten before when visiting alone, three years earlier.

The next day, Friday, we went by local yellow taxi (Chris' choice, because he likes the fun of the fair) to the station, to purchase our bus tickets to Cusco. We just survived the trip - the driver had his rosary, his statue of Jesus, and his brass medallion of the Virgin Mary, just in case. Another taxi, safer this time, took us to where we could get our bag mended. After lunch I took Chris to see the Santa Catalina monastery, a trip down a very peaceful memory lane for me, complete with hummingbirds flitting around as we drank a cup of tea in the cafe! Then, a return trip to the Plaza de Armas where we saw yet another parade - this time all teenagers, in fancy embroidered costumes. In the evening, we had dinner at a rather nice restaurant. We sat outside in a small courtyard and I had the best Pisco Sour of our trip, fixed by Kevin, our initially quite formal, but eventually chatty waiter. Perhaps he needed to make his first Pisco to warm up.

Next up. "Not another bus trip!" To Cusco and Picaflor House.Read more