The highway to Putre

We drove north from Arica and turned east when we came to Chile highway 11. It was a very leisurely five hour drive up to Putre, where we'd spend the night to acclimatize better for the high mountains. It's winter in Chile now, so there weren't a lot of other tourists on the road. We took our time getting there, as we didn't have anywhere particular to be and there was a lot to see along the way.

Arica is at sea level, Putre is about 10,000 feet, and Parque Lauca around 14,000. All this elevation change happens inside of about 100 miles, the width of Chile.
The drive started out through desert. We could tell we were getting further from the city as the layers of garbage along the sides of the road began to diminish.

We stopped and squinted at the hills to see the Lluta geoglyphs, large animal and human figures left behind by the natives 1,000 years ago, and promised by the book. We did not have any luck. The road headed up through more desert and dirt. The little car struggled to climb the steep inclines, sometimes giving real trouble when I attempted to pass a large truck. The highway is Bolivia's link to the coast, and the road was basically us in our tiny lil Peugeot and Bolivian big rigs either coming or going. I could floor the gas and have nothing happen, and I've never spent so much time in second and third gear.

At a small restaurant we stopped for water, and I admired the Homer Simpson bathroom sign. Ah, culture. They also told us we should see their petting zoo.

They had a bunch of bunnies, a few llamas, a formerly abused and now rescued donkey, some chickens and roosters, and some other critters. Most of them were going to become sandwiches at some point, but they sure were cute, and the guy who walked us through seemed kind enough. So the animals at least had a happy-ish if brief life.

This is one of the best things about traveling I think. The distance between North American city dwellers and our food especially is very great. It seems people in other cultures live a lot closer to the earth, not like granola hippy love the trees earth, but animal nature. Not only do they eat animals, but they kill them first. It's a little sad to think the cute bunny's going in a stew, but then what else are you going to eat in the desert? It's not like there's a Publix over the next sand dune. It seems like there's a lot less BS when you know where you stand in relation to other living things, and I like that.

On up the road, steep switchbacks, more large trucks, scenery. We stopped at the Restaurante Zapahuira for lunch, had our first mate de coca (tea made with coca leaves). I dumped sugar in mine like a good Georgia boy and it was pretty good, tasted like tea. No buzz though.

At Zapahuira, the truckers and restaurant people were watching E! on satellite television. The show was greatest celebrity oops or something. Britney with no panties, drunken Hasselhoff, everything about Paris Hilton. It was a little embarrassing to be the only Americans in the room. Greatest country on earth and this is what we export. Awesome.

I forget what we ate, but it was good. The food in Chile is very comfort-y. Did I say like British food, but tastes good, before? That's a pretty good description.

Moving along, we stopped at an Incan fortification off the road, a Pukara. Terraced and stacked stone walls on a hilltop. I started to head down another "road" but after large rocks started scraping the underside of the car, we turned around. The sign explaining what was down the track for some reason was further along and Allison translated... "corral." So I don't think we missed anything by skipping the ancient cattle pen or whatever.

Everything was red and brown, and the sky was very blue, with high clouds.

Finally we pulled over at the Putre overlook.


Then down a road to the town's greenish valley and our second choice lodging, the Hotel Vicuna, built as a miner's camp. We'd tried to get a room in town, but noone had answered the phone, which we'd eventually realize is pretty common.

The native lady (Aymara I think) at the desk admired Allison's flowery coat and told her about how much she liked to sew and showed off the very classy looking business suit she was wearing. She had made it herself.

Ten minutes after we arrived, there came three large tour buses full of Spanish and Argentinian teenagers on some kind of cultural tour. The hotel people told us we'd better hurry up and shower before the kids got into their rooms.

The room was nice enough, and when we got the space heater working it at least provided some placebo warmth against the mountain cold.

We walked through the beautiful cemetery, very small, old and new graves, mounds topped with crosses, flowers, old coffee cans, and bottles of liquor. There's always a soccer field next to the graveyard in these towns.

The town is about 200 yards from the hotel and we walked in to check it out. I saw some sheep coming backlit out of the sunset. "Neato! sheep!" like I'd never seen sheep before, and snapped a picture. They had little dangly yarn puffballs in their ears, I guess as a brand. Immediately after snapping that picture, I saw the shepherd on a horse at top of a little rise. It was a perfect silhouette, with sheep spilling out below him. I wanted that picture too. But he immediately went nuts. Screaming in Spanish about having to ask permission and pay him for the photo of his sheep. He scowled and cursed. Al and I were both shocked and kinda scared. I raised my hands and "sorry, sorry, sorry," kept walking. The lady walking in front of us looked back and smirked. Do not take photos of the natives. Or of their sheep. Ask first, even if you don't see them. Seriously.

The town was... a small moutain town. Plaster, or adobe, whatever they call it here, dry, dusty, vague animal smell, stray dogs, Seventh Day Adventist church, coupla gringo tourism hotels and restaurants.

We stopped in at Kuchui bar for a drink. Some European travelers showed up but kept to themselves. Then an older couple, the woman in a wheelchair. That would be very difficult in this area. We saw them again a few more times. Everywhere we went was pretty empty and we saw the same people over and over. It is the off season, after all.

Back to the hotel for the included dinner. Because of the students, they put us in the bar at the hotel. The closed bar. Then they shut the door. No music. Just me and Al staring at each other in an empty room. A little weird. People kept poking their heads in and apologizing for disturbing us. We say "No, no, come in, it's fine," but they'd have already left. The waiter was very effeminate, and had a lip piercing. That was unexpected.

The kids had taken over the two working Internet computers, so we just went to bed after dinner. Drums and flute played all night, sounding like it was right outside our little bungalow, but not. We couldn't figure out where it was coming from, and didn't want to walk the freezing 50 yards outside to the main building to find out. It was very cold, but many blankets were toasty.
Eventually we fell asleep.