Tacky in Tacna
Stepping off the air-conned bus was a bit of a shock. The bus station thermometer showed 38 degrees centigrade, and as we gathered our luggage from the bowels of the bus we were assailed on all sides by touts shouting “Arica, taxi, colectivo, taxi, colectivo, Arica, ARICA, ARICA!!!!”. Okay, steady on now, can’t you see we’re bus lagged??!!!!
Avoiding these persistent touts was well hard this time around, particularly since we felt sluggish after the journey, we were laden with bags and the heat was all-draining on our senses. But we made the relative safety of the inside of the terminal and Eug set off to find the best way to traverse the streets to the international bus terminal without taking a wrong turn (and losing more fluid) or finding ourselves in a seething mass of ticket touts.
Route found, we set off and warded most of the touts away with some pigeon Spanish about already having a ticket. We aimed for a counter that displayed a bus company name and proudly announced ‘Tacna – Arica – Tacna’, thinking that we’d made it safely to where we could buy a ticket and get out of this steaming pot of bodies, bags and hassle. Oh no! As soon as the money was handed over (too much in our opinion, but we were past caring by now), we found we’d got ourselves a taxi rather than a bus.
Now, we’ve had a few adventures and come through them unscathed, but there’s something about getting into cabs ( a very beat up old American Chevrolet) after having a very dodgy experience at a ‘bus station’ and feeling safe. There seems to be some comfort in at least being around other passengers when making a journey, and our sense of unease wasn’t helped by the fact that once our luggage had been heaved into the back and we’d been deposited on the back seats (no working windows, another sauna!), our driver promptly p···ed off back into the terminal.
Em had had enough by now! “Right, this is it!!” she exclaimed as she peeled her legs from the seat and got out of the Chevy. Slamming the door behind her (which partly opened the stuck window, good move), she marched across the car lot and back into the terminal in search of the fixer and the driver. Five minutes later, by which time she’d reappeared briefly at the terminal entrance being waved dismissively away (and having none of it!!!!), she appeared again, and figuratively was dragging the driver by his ear back to the Chevy. Safely ensconsed in what was now the equivalence of a jacket potato thrown in the fire, off we went, still not feeling entirely safe sat in the back of this dilapidated Chevy and also aware that our driver wasn’t in the best of moods either.
Tacna disappeared in a cloud of dust, and soon we were racing (80 mph) through the emptiest desert yet along a road as straight as an arrow which disappeared from time to time in what appeared to be huge lakes but turned out merely to be tricks of the heat mirage. The incredible expanse of the Atacama desert, the driest place in the world, held no bounds or proper horizons, and the thin haze that hung solemnly over the shimmering oranges and yellows of the desert sand only added to our sense of unease. All he had to do was pull in to the side of the road, order us out and we’d be vulture meat within an hour. And there was no shortage of these huge red crested beasts circling high above us on the thermals, effortlessly spying on potential prey, waiting for their moment.
Thoughts of a forced mutiny evaporated like the imaginary lakes we saw all around us as the border with Chile approached like some bizarre edifice to beaurocracy in the middle of absolutely nowehere. Boy, what a great place to work! Our driver had cooled off a little by now (at that speed with the windows wide open it was likely that at least some sweat would evaporate!), and he helpfully (we’re being kind here!) hauled our luggage from the back of the Chevy and dumped it on the road. Okay, what now we wondered as he drove off towards Chile, without us?
First it was the bag search on the Peruvian side, and when they found no Inca artifacts we were able to proceed. Mind you, nobody checked the locked side pockets nor the whole rucksack that remained on Em’s back the whole way through this very hot and slightly tedious experience, which seemed to make the whole episode absolutely pointless. But, always with a mind on being courteous, especially in these situations, we gratefully said thanks and dripped our way to passport control. Beyond here our Chevy was waiting, and we entered no man’s land, a 500 metre stretch of desert between the two border controls. (Mind you, looking around, you could call the whole of the Atacama no man’s land!).
Out we were flung again, this time for a much longer queue to get our papers sorted for Chile. Bag checks this side were by x-ray scanner, which was great since we were fed up with having to open bags that were too crammed full of stuff to want to be closed again.
And then back in the Chevy, for the final time. Hey, we’re in Chile (not that it looks any different to Peru in these parts, still lots of sand and imaginary lakes), and a very short drive later we’re entering Arica, Chile’s northernmost city, and by the Pacific. Knowing we’d be taken to the international taxi, bus and colectivo terminal, we braced ourselves for another ‘Tacna experience’ with the touts. We were to be surprised……
Tags: Peruvian tales
mihai