The next day we said goodbye to Bolivia, a country that truely surprised us with its beautiful landscapes and people, and caught a bus to Arica (in Chile´s very north) to catch up with Diego and to meet his parents.
We had a great time with the Salgado Zolezzi's, eating tons of seafood and meat, the best olives I've ever tasted and drinking lots of Pisco Sours.
Hmmm, somehow all these things just apply to me, since Rich was spending vast periods of time on the toilet with his farewell present from Bolivia.... He still had fun though and this were his highlights of our time in Arica:
We had been in Bolivia for six weeks and in that six weeks I had carefully, fastidiously, methodically, compulsively avoided any food that might have made me sick, whereas Charly stuffed her cute little face with anything that moved... and there was a lot of stuff that moved! In some instances I went hungry. For me that was ok, a small price to pay. Because to me, there is nothing more painful, unnecessary, humiliating or abstract than vomiting. A bizarre reminder that we are not too far removed from everything else on the planet, which still lives in trees: even if we do have iPhones and YouTube.
At the end of six weeks, we had made it. Bolivia was by far the most likely place where we were going to get sick. A place of bare necessity, a place where they irrigate their fruit and vegetables with raw sewerage water. But I made it. A mild case of scurvy, but I made it.... Only to get knocked over by a goddamn virus from goddamn gringos in the goddamn jungle of Rurrenabaque. A virus.... my arch nemesis. I had considered viruses but the solution was less than practical: locking myself in a hyperbaric chamber - eating nothing but low-fibre foods and drinking only milk, to then urinate in the empty bottles for collection. Howard Hughes figured it out, but Charly vetoed the idea.
The problems began in the jungle: the morning of the wretched jungle walk. My symptoms had progressed from simple diarrhoea to tortuous stomach cramps - which I had never previously felt the likes of. The kind of cramps that feel like your crapping a disgruntled backwards-facing porcupine which keeps trying to dig its way back into you. Three days later, no change and we were on a bus bound for Chilé. The bus ride was to be expected: long, uneventful and playing a hyper-violent movie. Every four or five minutes, my intestines would try and evict the porcupine - doubling me over. Nobody gets out of Bolivia unscathed.
The border came slowy and was a sharp contrast to the barren-hostile frontier we had crossed to get in. I wondered if there was a burnt out school bus nearby bellowing steam? We all had to dismount to drag our heavy bags inside to get them x-rayed. Inside the terminal was below freezing, so once the all-clear was given, I grabbed my bag and went back through the same door we had walked through, to get back on the warm bus. I was met by the bus driver, fumbling around with documents as he gruffly explained that we had to go back in and exit through the roped-off area, one meter to our right. We were confused, no one was allowed back on the bus. But why? Everyone had now x-rayed their bags and was now waiting outside in a lose pack in the frigid air: a meter from the warm bus. As I leant on the bus, while watching everyone jitter with cold and feeling my porcupine do the moonwalk, I considered how pointless my earlier effort was, of bashing people out of the way to get through the process quicker to get back on the warm bus. Efficiency is condemned here, I reflected.
The bus driver appeared from one of the back rooms and shuffled his stumpy frame back on the bus. He closed th door then start the engine, turned the lights on, drove the 1.5 meters across the border, turned the lights off along with the engine, exited and signalled that it was ok to come back on. I didn't want to point out the perplexing fact that the front door was in Chilé but the luggage bay was still in Bolivia. What did this mean for our luggage? I thought. To the Bolivian driver this was mearly a bizarre border ritual which he took part in twice daily - not really quite sure what the purpose was. To the Chilean border officers watching, this was the evidence that a border with Bolivia was neccissary.
The bus arrived in our destination: the Chilean coastal town of Arica. We were met by Charly's Chilean brother's parents. A very nice gesture of hospitality to meet us at the bus stop in the middle of the night, especially after such a long journey. It was particularlly comforting to be welcomed by Diego's father, who bears a striking resemblance to the Australian theatrical genius Rolf Harris.
Driving through the city, I was overwhelmed with the familiar sites of civilization: McDonalds, Subway, paved roads, traffic lights etc... We went back to Diego's parent’s house and the porcupine was obviously knackered as well, allowing me to sleep.
The next morning, Diego had arrived. I really do like this man. Brutally honest and not affraid to tell you that you are dumb, so I was particulary happy to find him staring at me from the bottom of the bed when I was waking up.
All five of us went to the local markets, where it was pleasant to see that the abattoirs were not woven in with the fruit markets as it was in Bolivia - much easier to enjoy a fruit cocktail without the sight of a half de-gloved, decapitated cow’s head gauntly staring at you. Without warning, the bastard inhabitant of my upper intestine woke up - bending me over and making me drool a little. It was day number five of this crap and now time to try and fix it. I semi-knew what I needed and wanted to go to a General Practitioner to get the shot but the only place open was the local emergency room. Initially, I said no to the idea of going to hospital because; even though I complain about heaps of stuff, I still would never normally go to hospital for stomach cramps. Never.... But three people were insisting and one was telling me how much of a princess I was (Charly). A majority of compassion was obtained (3:1), so we went. Because my Spanish was still pretty poor, I treated the doctor to an in-depth, theatrical demonstration - charged with wavy hand gestures and crass noises with my mouth and armpit to describe my condition. It was easier than I thought to describe the porcupine.
I was given my medicine and off we went.
That night Charly, Diego, Rolf Harris, Diego's friend and I went out for some typical Chilean seafood. Chileans know their seafood and can give you a detailed taste-analysis of each type of fish with a thorough strategy for an accompanying wine... or hard liquor. The dinner went as planned; food was served, chopped, chewed and digested. It came time for us to leave and all of a sudden, as if a bomb was about to explode, Rolf Harris stood up rigidly and slapped the shit out of the table with his left hand - launching a spoon across the other side of the room. Blurting something about it's too late! We were stunned. We didn't know what this meant. How many glasses of wine did this Geezer have? No way to quantitatively know.
We all stood up, exited and made our way to the car. While leaving, Rolf Harris was waving his out-stretched index finger around and pushing his jaw out forward like a menacing Robert De Niro, gesturing he had some kind of criticism to throw at somebody. The waiter was standing at the door to see us out and Just as I thought Rolf Harris was going to unleash something - approaching the waiter within kissing distance, index finger still outstretched, defiant and effect. Rolf Harris let out a bellowing exhale, giggled and gave the man a big hug.
Outside, the fresh air slapped the balance out of Rolf Harris’ knees. Diego was holding him upright, which was amazing because Diego himself was swaying in the wind as well and together they wobbled their way to the car. Rolf Harris insisted he was 'good to go' or good to drive. Everyone else immediately challenged his statement - particularly Diego who snatched the keys off Rolf, giggling his arse off, to then say, "No! I'll drive!" I knew I was the only one in our group who could still properly pronounce consonants, but I didn't want to drive: being on the other side of the road, different road rules and a car full of pirates. I was now holding Diego and Rolf Harris up. I momentarily let go of Diego, causing him to wobble. He ultimately came to his senses and flanged the keys at me and said with resolve, "we all die if I drive." Well, with that kind of prophecy, I had to drive.
Diego's friend sat in the front with me, which was good because Diego and Rolf Harris were in no mood for giving out directions. 30 minutes later we arrived at a beach illuminated by the bright moon where suddenly, Rolf Harris began to give off tremendous heat, as if his metabolism had shifted gears - tearing his shirt open, both hands scratching his chest and belly feverishly and growling at the ocean. It took all of our strength to stop the 1.6m monster from torpedoing himself into the Pacific. We convinced him that he was in fact 64 years old and it was 1am and freezing. He gnarled at the comments and slowly backed down with his body heat dissipating and breathing returning to normal. We then left quickly and quietly.
We drove around the city for another 20 minutes and at one stage, while we were driving on an empty highway, without warning, Rolf Harris jolted in his seat seemingly overcome with the acute need to flee - opening the door and hanging his legs outside the car, making a galloping motion to match the speed of the car: 80km/hour. He then, howled at the moon and tried to eject himself out of the car, only being held back by the seatbelt. I brought the large 4x4 to a skidding halt on the shoulder of the highway. Everyone thought he needed to purge his guts but all he wanted was his freedom: to run like a strange, stout werewolf under the fantastically bright Chilean full moon. We eventually made it to the top of a mountain over-looking the coastal city below. Rolf Harris finally succumbed to both the booze and his age, falling asleep in the back of the car - violently twitching every so often, in deep sleep, dreaming of chasing down some scantily-clad blonde American girls, to finally fulfil his insatiable lust for virgin blood. We enjoyed the view over the arid coast line and then went home.
Diego's parents had planned to take us around the city for a tour, while Diego slept off his hangover. The first stop was the mountain lookout where we had been the night before.
Leaning out over the edge with the Pacific Ocean breeze on our faces - looking out over the ocean, Diego's mother was surprised when I mentioned we had already visited the lookout. Rolf Harris, who was heavily leaning on the ledge, still in the depth of a very nasty hangover, sharply lifted his head with this revelation looking stunned but passively staredout to sea. Had he completely forgotten? I wonderd. Would he be in trouble if Diego's mum found out what a mess her husband was last night? Most probably, I thought. Diego's mum looked at her husband - who was trying his hardest to not look stunned. She then swivelled her head in my direction and gave me a look, as if asking with her eyes, "what else do you know?" Luckily, a pelican flew by and Charly pointed out how gracious it flew. Rolf Harris picked up the tactic and made a move to the museum behind us. Every single tourist attraction we visited that day, we had visited the night before. Charly and I felt it was best not to mention it. For us, a pleasant reinforcement from the night before. For Rolf Harris, a bizarre, déjà vu after-taste, things just not adding up. Cold sweaty palms, fragmented flashbacks and probably wondering why his chest was so goddamn itchy.
Two day had passed, Diego had already left for Santiago and it was now time for us to leave Chilé to do the Peru job. Because Arica is so close to the border, Rolph Harris was kind enough to come home from his work as a Geography Professor to give us a lift to the frontier. We thanked him thoroughly, hugged and said goodbye. As we hugged, I could feel coarse-bristly hairs protruding through his this cotton shirt on the small of his back. I could tell it was still a full moon.
(Disclaimer: Any similarity to person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)
A few more photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/Arica?authuser=0&feat=directlink
