We've travelled from south to north Chile, gone back into Argentina through Mendoza, travelled north, finally ended up in Bolivia.
We've met more amazing people than we can count, had to say "hasta la proxima" more times than we would like, and have always wanted it to be true.
Santiago, capital of Chile, is a lovely city, huge, cosmopolitan, poluted, lovely. We were lucky to meet probably some of the nicest people on either side of the Atlantic, Stephi and Gustavo, together with the most beautiful little thing you've ever seen, Amelia Leonor, their 11month daughter. We were taken into their home, watched the view from the 30th floor, ate sopaipilla, shared stories, most of all learned about this strip thin country, carrying mountains and volcanoes on its back.
No matter where you go, you find amazing people, though this seems obvious, it isn't. Chileans, argentinians, paraguayans, brazilians, students, truckers, mothers, daughters.
We've slept in houses with girls with blue hair, listened to Franky play the violin, watched Tango and found Flamenco on the other side of the ocean.
The truck driver's life is hard. They have to spend days, weeks, sometimes months away from their house, perhaps passing by the city they live in, without being able to stop and say hello to their wife and kids. Countless stories. Desires of travelling the world "but here it's hard to make a buck" and here I am, 23 years old, and asking them for a free ride. I try to supress the thought, enjoy it while you can, accept that life works different if you're born in a different place. It doesn't really though.
On the way up north to Bolivia, we stop of to have some dinner. Javi goes outside for a cigarette. I go out to join him and he says "I think these girls are ...you know....." I look round, there's three girls, probably around the age of 13, laughing. "Ofcourse they're not prostitutes! They're too young, look at them!". Cefe comes out, the truck driver that's giving us a lift up north, and without having heard any of our conversation, looks at the girls and says "Sad isn't it?". After the shock wears off, I find myself wondering at my own naiveness; what a minute ago seemed impossible, suddenly becomes obvious. I have a strong urge to shout at them "go home!" I'm angry, although I'm not sure whether it's at the girls, the men (mostly truckers), myself, or just life. Cefe said "tomorrow they'll buy themselves some new shoes or something..."
The border crossing into Bolivia was bad. Probably my lowest point, ironically, on the highest altitude we've been on so far. Altitude sickness, migraine, 4 days of sleeping on trucks, not showering, not much eating, plus the bizarest little town I've ever set eyes on. 4000m above sea level, it's in the middle of nowhere, on top of the world, dusty and confusing. I'm trying to take it all in, but my head is spinning. Everyone smells of coca leaves "chew some, you'll feel better" Javi says. I look at him with an expression that indicates clearly that I do not want to ingest anything, especially not coca leaves (we've spent the last 12 hours in a truck with Daniel, who has kept himself awake for about 48 hours by coqueando, chewing the coca leaves, and the smell, the spitting and the drooling-your mouth goes numb- is the last thing I want right now)
I panic, we go to a farmacy, I buy some pills. The farmacist says I should probably go to the hospital. I'm convinced I'm dying. Javi looks around at the town we're in, and tries to make me see reason, that going to the hospital here is not the best idea, that we should cross the border and make our way to lower altitudes. Finaly I'm convinced. At the border I get rejected, told I need a visa to cross. I've been sobbing for a while now, the pain in my head growing, although the dizzines and confusion are slowly diminishing. They're being replaced however with a strong urge to vomit (don't know what as I hadn't eaten anything all day.)
To cut the drama short, I take some more painkillers, make my way to the consulate, get the visa. We cross the border, get on a bus, and make our way to Tupiza "a favourite on the gringo trail". We've finaly slept in a bed, had some proper food, and have a plan.
After entering Bolivia and witnessing the amazingness that is the traditional andean outfit, I've decided that I'm going to adopt the style, long black plaits and bowler hat.
