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It seems it has become my job to write posts about busses. I have written about busses in China, Thailand, Turkey, and now South America. As you probably know if you have read our previous posts, the Devil’s bus company, Todo Turismo, chucked us in the middle of Bolivia at 3:00 in the morning with no immediate way out. After our fight with them, which got us absolutely nowhere, we decided that we would skip La Paz entirely and hop a couple busses through Chile to Peru, a task much easier said than done. Joining us on our excursion were Simon and Bluesy, a couple of Oxford guys doing a South American tour and a Frenchman who we think is named Stephan but aren’t quite sure because he rarely if ever talked. Our plan consisted of hopping a bus from Oruro to Iquique, Chile then getting another to Arica, Chile, another to Tacna, Peru, another to Arequipa, Peru, and finally a last to Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca.

Our first task would be to find a way out of the dreary mining town of Oruro, so a contingent headed over to the bus station as the sun was rising around 7:00 am. Unfortunately for us the first bus out of Oruro wasn’t until 11:30. We managed to stage a sit-in in the Todo Turismo office until this time. The employees were not happy since they had planned on forcing us all into cabs and leaving at 3:00, but Simon and Dad made it clear we weren’t going anywhere. The employees just played cards while we hatched our escape plan, ate the Oreos we were supposed to receive on the bus, did internet research on their computer, and continued to question why they had abandoned us in this unseemly town.

When the appointed hour arrived, we hopped on the bus to Iquique and bade a bitter and not so sweet farewell to the challenged country of Bolivia. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t the most pleasant of busses. (Bolivian busses are not known for their comfort.) It had little leg room, and I swear the bus driver must have been drunk or just out of Bolivian driver’s ed. He dodged and weaved on the mostly unpaved roads and we struggled to keep our Oreos down. Four hours later in the middle of the desert, we made yet another unpleasant border crossing, which took quite some time due to Chile’s super strict customs restrictions.

We finally arrived in our first stop, Iquique, at 9 pm. We immediately booked a bus to Arica and went out to find some food. The best place we found was a pizza parlor that was open late. The rest of the town was already closed for the night. We ate heartily due to the fact we had eaten nothing earlier in the day, watched some of the Copa America Cup, and waited for our 1:00 am departure.

We left the pizza place around 12:30 and started to make our way to the pickup point…not the actual bus station but a hole in the wall across from the central market. A street sweeper warned the us the way we had chosen to walk was “peligro” so we changed our route. It was eerie wandering through the silent, graffitti-ridden, Chilean streets, but we had little choice in the matter and figured if nothing else, there was safety in numbers. Our motley crew arrived early with high hopes for our first real Chilean bus. When we boarded, however, we were utterly disappointed. We had heard Chile had some of the world’s best busses, but this one was more like a Greyhound from the 50’s that had at one time or another been abandoned in the middle of the desert only to be found again and put back into service. Fortunately we managed to sleep through the majority of this bus ride and awoke around 6:00 am to another sunrise and the sight of the Arica bus station. From here we attempted to find a ticket to Tacna across the Peruvian border, a difficult task. Everyone had a different story. One misguided desk worker trying to sell us a ticket all the way through even told us that the ride from Arequipa to Puno was only one hour (it turned out to be closer to seven).

We found a nice tourist information guy who hooked us up with some cars to take us to the Chile-Peru border. These colectivos cost $6 for each of us (more expensive than a lot of bus tickets) and were mostly old 1980’s Chrysler K cars, something I never knew existed but my vintage ’80’s parents found funny. Our driver was really nice and guided us through one of the oddest border crossings we’ve encountered. It involved being dropped off by the colectivo on one side, waiting in a long line and then getting stamped out of Chile, getting back in the taxi and waiting in another line and getting stamped into Peru. Once in Tacna, yet another dreary desert town, we split up with Stephan, who had booked the expensive bus from Arica, and took a local bus with Simon and Bluesy to Arequipa.

As soon as we got on the bus, we noticed something strange. There was a woman spreading clothes all over the bus and spraying them with some liquid from a bottle. An old man sitting in the back started placing bags on the overhead shelves in the front and middle of the bus, creating a perimeter around us. We started moving his bags back towards the back of the bus where he was sitting. As soon as we were finished doing this he moved them right back. Suspecting a thieving scheme in the works, we confronted him and asked “Why are you putting your bags here?” He responded, “My wife!” We then moved the bags once again, and this time he didn’t try and move them back.

This bus, although brand new and equipped with TVs, was full of locals doing weird things. We decided we would be better off to keep our eyes open and stay awake the entire ride just to be sure none of our bags walked away. This turned out to be a good strategy because every 10 minutes or so the bus would stop and a long line of salespeople would board. They would walk up and down the aisle displaying their goods, usually bizarre food items and warm drinks. The steward showed three movies–Benchwarmers, Firewall, and Assault on Precinct 13–which helped us stay awake during the 6 hour ride. We arrived in Arequipa with all our possessions in tact but were tired and sick of busses (we had been on them for almost 2 whole days). Here we split up with Simon and Bluesy; they continued on to Puno while we decided to take a rest and stop over in Arequipa for the night (don’t worry…we would run into them again in Cusco). We were finished with busses for the moment, but our plagued relationship with these giant pieces of steel would all too soon resume.

Technorati Tags: Bolivia, bus, Bus travel, Chile, Family travel, Peru, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW

The salt flats of Bolivia are world-renowned and nary a traveler to this part of the world can resist the urge to visit them. Assuming you don’t want to risk certain death by driving yourself through this forbidding terrain, there are two options for doing so: 1) a quick half-day trip from the southern Bolivian town of Uyuni or a 3-day tour ending in Uyuni from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile. The 3-day version (the reverse of which is also popular) includes the Eduardo Averoa Nature Reserve, a pristine mountain wilderness punctuated by mineral-stained, multicolored lakes, steaming volcanoes, and mysterious rock formations and populated by flamingos, Andean fox, and herds of perhaps the world’s most adorable animal—the vicuna.

Taking this tour was perhaps the most difficult decision of the trip for us. We knew the scenery would be magnificent and the experience unforgettable…BUT the potential hazards involved were many. Here’s what my Rough Guide had to say:

Bear in mind that wind-chill temperatures can drop to anything from -25 C to -40 C and that you should bring sun block and sunglasses to counter the very real possibility of snow blindness, as well as a good sleeping bag and plenty of warm clothing.
It’s difficult to recommend any particular agency: all offer pretty much identical tours, but are prone to the same problems—late departures, dangerous (and often drunk) drivers, insufficient food prepared in unsanitary conditions, inadequate accommodation and vehicle breakdowns are all possibilities no matter which company you choose…Despite all the hassles and potential pitfalls, however, these tours are well worth the trouble.” The Rough Guide to South America, 2004 edition, p. 259

You’ve gotta love this kind of endorsement: “You’ve absolutely got to go, but we’re not responsible if you die along the way.” Fortunately in the three years since the Rough Guide was published a few more tour companies have come onto the scene. Based on recommendations from fellow travelers and dozens of reviews in the San Pedro de Atacama Tourist Information Office, we felt confident that Estrella del Sur offered safe, sober drivers and decent food. Our problem would be the cold.

Anyone close to me knows my wintertime mantra, which slips out any time I experience the slightest chill: “I hate the cold.” My distaste for low temperatures was a big factor in setting our itinerary to follow the sun and also made our packing much easier. Never encountering winter meant we didn’t need to pack bulky parkas, hats, gloves, and snowpants. It did mean, however, that we were sorely underequipped for the altiplano where we would sleep in a primitive shelter with no heat in temperatures well below freezing. We stocked up on a few woven essentials in Argentina, but I wasn’t confident they were enough to prevent us from turning into human popsicles in the Bolivian wilderness. Ever the optimist, Tom assured me our motley assemblage of clothing layers when combined with rented sleeping bags and wool blankets would keep us alive.

The only thing now preventing us from going was fear: not of freezing or dying but of bad parenting. If a meteor should strike, an earthquake hit, or aliens descend from on high, we would be the parents who had hauled young children into one of the world’s harshest environments so they could see some pretty birdies and take some cool pictures. I emailed another RTW family from Belgium who had made the trek one month earlier and they assured me that their two children—ages 8 and 10—had not only survived the excursion but loved it as well. We were sold. We booked with Estrella del Sur, bought some oxygen tanks in case anyone contracted altitude sickness (we’d be ascending to 5,200 meters or 17,000 feet), cleaned out the town’s supply of 5-gallon water bottles, and hoped for good weather.

The Estrella del Sur bus arrived at our hotel just a few minutes after 8:00 am on the first day of our tour. So much for late depatures. We picked up the 12 other travelers—all twentysomething Canadians and Europeans–who would be our companions for the next 3 days and were on our way. After about an hour we reached the most primitive and yet strangely efficient border post we’ve encountered in our 23 land border crossings. We forked over $2 each—an illegal yet common charge assessed by third world immigration officials—and in exchange got computer coded tourist cards and stamps in our passports.

While we waited for the rest of the group to be processed, we each absorbed the barren, surreal setting in our own way: Tom grabbed his camera and began snapping pictures, Dax checked out the ramshackle government buildings, McKane wandered over to inspect the carcass of an abandoned bus, Kieran and Asher trampled through a pile of snow which soaked through their sandals into their socks and soon were both yelling, “My feet are freezing!” and I jumped up and down in a futile effort to stay warm. Estrella del Sur earned big bonus points with the entire group when they set up a table boasting a hearty breakfast of ham and cheese sandwiches and a variety of warm drinks including coffee, hot chocolate (always our choice), and the local favorite coca tea (it does wonders for altitude sickness—just don’t take a drug test for two weeks).

While we shivered and ate, our 4×4 drivers, who would also be our guides and cooks for the next 3 days, loaded our gear onto the roofs of their Land Cruisers. Our driver was Simon, a round-faced, gap-toothed, 31-year-old Bolivian who spoke as much as English as we do Spanish and consistently greeted us with, “Vamos, amigos!” Simon proved to be everything the guide books warned us he would not: sober, cautious, friendly, and a master chef.

We knew that we were lucky to have Simon and even luckier to have Estrella del Sur when we pulled away from the border post. There we left a group of freezing, angry travelers whose company had abandoned them in this bleakest of venues. The bus that had been promised to take them down to San Pedro had yet to materialize and for all we know, they could still be there today…waiting.

Over the next three days we witnessed a mindboggling variety of landscapes and spent quality bonding time with a few dozen fellow travelers. Together we shivered away our first night in the shelter (where we awoke to ice inside our rooms and struggled to keep our noses from getting frostbitten), chatted away our second night in the Salt Hotel (yes, it was really made of salt blocks—the kids licked the walls to be sure), and scarfed Simon’s most excellent pancakes at Fish Island after watching the sun rise over the Salt Flats on our third day. I could write an entire book describing the many things we saw and did, but once again I’ll let Tom’s pictures do the talking. (We took over 350 in the flats alone, so he’s devoting an entire post to it.)

For those considering a similar tour, please, please, please use Estrella del Sur. Of the five Bolivian companies operating in San Pedro de Atacama, they were the only one to receive positive ratings across the board. Cordillera received mixed reviews, but one of their drivers fell asleep at the wheel while guiding a group we hung out with the first night. Another group (we don’t know which company they used) got so fed up with their driver’s drunkenness that they begged him to stop and “sleep it off.” Instead of heeding their advice, he threw their luggage off the roof and left them in the wilderness. Ouch.

Estrella del Sur has no idea I’m writng this, nor did they offer us any discounts or special treatment. They simply delivered on all their promises and through careful preparation and prudent hiring eliminated all of the problems that seem to plague other companies. The fact that they had a hot lunch waiting for us in Uyuni when we arrived was just icing on the cake!

Technorati Tags: Adventure Travel, Bolivia, Chile, Family travel, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, Salar de Uyuni, Salt Flats

Our adventure crossing the big, bad, desolate Andes ended when we were deposited on the outskirts of San Pedro de Atacama. After deleting Chile from our itinerary due to expense, we were wooed back by this burgeoning yet still rustic town. Situated in the notoriously arid Atacama desert, San Pedro is surrounded in all directions by spectacular scenery–salt flats, flamingo-filled lakes, and lunar landscapes to the south, the world’s highest geyser field to the north, volcano-ridden mountain ranges to the east and west, and some of the planet’s most revealing, star-filled skies overhead. Given this impressive natural setting, the dusty, quiet town has become a backpackers’ mecca, though the prices ($10 for a hostel bed and another $10 for a fixed price dinner) force most to break their budgets.

Many friends and readers have assured us that given the right information, Chile doesn’t need to be expensive for travelers. We believe them, but San Pedro breaks all the rules. Travelers here are without options; the restaurants all offer the same menu and the hostels and hotels all charge the same rates depending on the level of luxury. Bike rentals cost the same in every shop that offers them and each tour agency sells the same standard tours at the same fixed prices. The good news is nobody cares: San Pedro’s charms far outweigh its limitations.

We were immediately charmed by the carefully raked dirt roads–no asphalt here–and welcomed by the town dogs. The touts at the bus stop told us our chosen abode, the glorious Hotel Altiplanico, was a 20-minute walk from the center of town and recommended we take a cab. The only problem was there were no cabs. We didn’t mind. The moon was high, the air was crisp, and we were exhilarated to be off the Air Supply bus. Packs in tow we crossed the pepper-tree lined town square, ambled past five blocks of low-slung adobe storefronts, and promptly found ourselves out of town. Streetlights lit our way for the next quarter mile but we had to rely on the moon and our guide dogs–Joseph Stalin and John Kennedy (don’t ask)–to navigate the last few hundred feet. The managers of the Altiplanico were a little confused as to why the dogs had shown up with us and had a hard time getting them off the grounds.

I chose the Altiplanico for one simple reason: I hate the cold. And San Pedro gets really cold at night. By paying a little more, we got a glamorous, resort-like setting complete with in-room heat, a luxury in the Andean highlands. I immediately fired up the heaters and snuggled into our authentic adobe dwelling complete with thatched roof and devoid of TV so guests can truly relax and enjoy the rustic setting.

A visit to San Pedro for most is a collection of day trips to outlying areas. We knew we would be taking the king of all tours, the 3-day trek across the Bolivian border to the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve and Salar de Uyuni, so we decided to limit ourselves to one, the sunset tour of the Valley La Luna, or Valley of the Moon. We jumped for joy when a 14-seater van showed up piloted by a young Chilean with perfect English and a warm smile. He told us we had the van and him to ourselves so we could explore the valley at our leisure and on our own time. The only rule was we had to make it to the top of the sand dune in time to catch the sun as it set behind the Andes and illuminated the Cordilleras in a magical spectrum of golds, oranges, and pinks.

The first thing Sergio told us was how lucky we were. While we had been clouded in in Salta, San Pedro had likewise suffered the effects of lack of sunshine. The normally captivating landscape had been obscured from tourists’ view by the weather, and many had been forced to move on without getting a chance to witness its splendor. As the final clouds cleared the Andes the previous day, they dropped the snow that hampered our efforts to cross. While the white stuff had been a problem from above, on the ground in San Pedro it lent a magical, softening air to the rugged peaks. “We only get snow on the mountains only once a year,” Sergio explained. Truly this scene had been prepared just for us (or so I like to think).

Sergio was a repository of geological knowledge and taught us everything there is to know about this particular Chilean countryside. Since it was once an ocean, many millions of years ago, the earth is still laden with salt and as a result little can grow here. Add to the inhospitable soil an almost complete lack of rain (San Pedro averages 40 millimeters per year), and you’ve got one harsh backdrop for life.

Our favorite part of the tour was the hike through a valley canyon, which had once been cut by a river. The upper part of the path was surrounded by sand dunes and Kieran and Asher rolled themselves silly down each one. While they were smitten by the sand, the rest of us were awed by the canyon walls, which began to crack as the sun lowered on the horizon. Formed almost entirely of crystallized salt, the rocklike structures expand and contract with the changing temperatures. Our visit was timed just right for the afternoon contraction. We must have spent a good 15 minutes just listening and marveling that the walls were not going to come crashing down on us in the wake of all the noise.

We got the little kids to move on with promises of an even bigger sand dune to roll down and headed off for our sunset viewing point. The uphill hike at our new altitude of 8,000 feet was taxing on our sea level lungs, but the sunset proved a fitting reward. Tom captured it better with his camera than I can with words.

We spent two more days in San Pedro booking our Bolivia tour and gearing up for it. We rented the town’s only bike with a child seat and took turns riding back and forth from the Altiplanico for supplies. We found a great open air pizza and pasta restaurant where patrons dine clad in stocking caps, gloves, and parkas while huddled around a central fire. The owner was shocked when we told him we were from Georgia, a place he knew as near Russia, and just laughed when he realized we meant the North American version.

Fortuitously for us, our last day in San Pedro was also the town’s annual festival day. Dedicated to its patron saints, Peter and Paul, the celebration began in the morning with a parade and continued on through the day with speeches by priests, musical tributes by colorfully clad bands, and a spirited throwing of confetti throughout the dusty streets. Frankly I was surprised that go-go boots, frilly miniskirts, and silver lame were the costume of choice for religious tribute, but who am I to question such a vibrant, devoted people? I’m just glad they so graciously open their town to travelers. Maybe I should look for some of those boots when I get home…just to spice things up a bit around the ATL and, of course, to remember Chile.

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Technorati Tags: Andes, Chile, Family travel, Atacama Desert, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, San Pedro de Atacama, Valle de la Luna

While we were in China we found the only way to escape the smog was go to go above it. We took a 12-hour bus ride into the foothills of the Himalayas and spent a few days at China’s Yellowstone, Jiuzhaigou. This was the highest elevation we had been to prior to arriving in South America. The hotel we stayed at was just shy of 9,000 feet while the park rose to more than 12,000 feet . We took it as a good sign that all of us acclimatized well and the thin air had a minimal effect on us. We knew, however, that crossing the Andes was going to test us even more. Our bus from Salta, Argentina would take us up to 15,000 feet, higher than any mountain in the continental US, before we settled back down to the town of San Pedro de Atacama, Chile at a much more reasonable 8,000 feet. We would only be at maximum altitude for a couple of hours if everything went as planned. In San Pedro we would spend three days preparing our lungs and bodies for the even higher altitudes of 15,000 to 17,000 feet we would encounter on our three-day journey into Bolivia.

The day of our scheduled departure from Salta our bus was canceled. Snowfall had closed the pass to Chile; on the previous day a bus traveling all the way from Peru had become stuck and the police had intervened to save the passengers from freezing to death. Fortunately they opened the pass the following day, but our journey got off to an inauspicious start. As we loaded the bus however there was a slight problem. The postponed bus had caused them to shuffle the seats around leaving us with two single seats next to strangers and two sets of doubles. This had happened to us before on our flight from Paris to Istanbul when we were given six non-adjacent seats due to a paperwork error in South Africa. Kieran was not happy to be sitting next to a stranger, with his closest family member being Anne who was wedged in between two French women in the row directly across from him. He stood in his seat screaming and refused to buckle up for takeoff. The flight attendants tried to get him to sit down and Anne and I pleaded with him, but he would have none of it. Anne asked multiple people to trade seats so she could sit next to her screaming child, but shockingly all initially refused. Finally after many more minutes of 7-year-old ranting, one of the French women agreed to sit next to her friend and let Anne have the aisle so she could reach across and hold Kieran’s hand. I had visions of something similar happening on our trans-Andean bus, so Anne and I took the two single seats. Anne had asked the Paraguayan lady next to her multiple times if she would take one of our single seats so the family could stay together, but she flatly refused. When I boarded I asked her again. This time she asked if instead she could break up Kieran and Dax, effectively splitting our family into four seating groups, so she could sit across from her friends rather than directly in front of them. I looked at her bewildered and of course refused. In retrospect, sitting next to a screaming Kieran would have been justice since she proceeded to babble loudly with her friends for the next two hours interrupting the sleep of absolutely everyone else on the bus.

We spent most of the morning on the long climb up the mountains. Two Argentine women in front of Anne were affected by the combination of motion and altitude and began vomiting into blue plastic bags provided by the conductor. One of the poor women proceed to heave and hurl for the next five hours. Fortunately, McKane slept through most of the regurgitations, as the sound and smell alone would have inspired the same behavior in him.

As the bus climbed into the thinner air, we could feel our chests tighten and our breathing become shallow and rapid. The conductor decided to drive home the effect by playing and replaying an Air Supply tape for the next three hours. We did get one break from the bus and early ’80’s pop when we stopped for lunch at a usual bus cafe. These cafeterias can be found throughout the world and offer the same giant plastic tables, hundreds of waitrons, and bland food to weary bus passengers given no choice in the matter. The lack of oxygen left us with little appetite so we went outside to examine the dry and barren landscape that surrounded us. At this altitude the bright sunlight caused the rock formations and volcanic cones to appear much sharper and brighter than they did from below highlighting how parched and lifeless everything looked. Outside of the Arctic and Antarctica this has to be one of the least hospitable places on earth.

After our lunch we boarded the bus and took off for the pass. As we drove, snow began to cover the rocks. This snow never became the thick blanket I have come to expect from climbing the Rockies and Tetons in the American West. Instead it appeared to be only a light sprinkling here and there. I wondered what had been so bad the day before to cause the closure. I didn’t need to wonder long. As we neared the pass, we had to stop for a traffic jam. I got out with our driver to investigate. The sun had slipped behind some clouds and the heat it had given us at lunchtime was quickly dissipating. In a place where temperature shifts of 50 degrees are common, the little bit of snow on the road had melted in the early afternoon sun only to freeze into a sheet of ice in the shade. A diesel had jackknifed and traffic was backed up both behind and in front of him. It took about an hour to get the semi to one side of the road, thus allowing the accumulation of cars, busses, and trucks to pass on the other side. During this time the temperature continued to fall. I was cold and out of breath when I returned to the bus.

We continued on and encountered at least four more trouble spots during our final climb. On some we were able to make it over the ice, but on others we left the road and clung to the dirt or service roads beside the highway. More than once we wondered if we would end up spending the night in the bus, freezing and waiting for the sun to melt the roadways the following day.

Fortunately we cleared each obstacle though we saw carcasses of busses and trucks that had not been as lucky in former attempts. The many delays left us above 14,000 feet much longer than we had expected and our bodies felt the effects. Drowsy, short of breath, and aching in the head we traversed the Andes not in a single climb but rather with a series of climbs and descents spread out over 100 kilometers.

In contrast our descent into Chile was rapid. During this nearly straight decline the sun began to set. The mountains behind us with their frosting of snow glowed in the light of the setting sun. If I had had any breath left, I would have said the view took it away, but my lungs were still being squeezed by the increased internal pressure and lack of oxygen. The rest of the family found their relief in sleep, all of them exhausted by our daylong encounter with the Andes. With many 14,000+ feet days ahead, it looked like these mountains would be a new kind of challenge for us.

Technorati Tags: andes, Argentina, bus, Bus travel, chile