Arica to Arequipa

The Linger Loco!

Chapter 10: Arica to Arequipa

We arrive at Arica bus station with the Crystal Girls still

heavily on our minds. Si keeps rattling on about how we

need to find the correct bus to the city of Arequipa, a

World Cultural Heritage site in southern Peru, but all I can

think about are those eight perfectly formed backsides

wiggling down the beach. Seeing Arequipa on a sign above

a small kiosk, we approach a guy slouched over the counter.

He looks exhausted and I can tell from his red puffy face

and swollen eyes that he had a few too many beers last

night.

I step up to the counter, and smile. ‘Hola, a que hora

autobus a Arequipa, por favor?’

‘Diez minutos,’ the guy replies, glancing down at his

chunky gold watch.

‘Ten minutes! OK, dos boletos, por favor.’

The guy sighs and lifts his heavy weight off the counter.

He scribbles something on a piece of paper and asks for

forty US dollars.

‘Say again,’ I frown, my legs quivering at the thought of

forty dollars laid out in front of me. ‘This dude is having a

laugh!’

Si nods and unzips his money belt. ‘Hmm, it does sound

expensive. Maybe the roads aren’t too good.’

‘Yeah, that’s true, and I guess it is six-hours from Tacna

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in Peru, plus the journey from here to…hey, hold the friggin

phones!’

‘What?’

‘I thought that Canadian couple yesterday said there

wasn’t a direct bus to Arequipa?’

‘Oh yeah, maybe they got it wrong. They were travelling

in the opposite direction, remember.’

We reluctantly hand over the cash and the guy whistles

over to a small frail man smoking a cigarette out the back.

The guy mumbles something to the fat bloke at the counter

and waves us out of the bus station.

‘Where are we going?’ Si asks, throwing his rucksack

over his shoulder.

‘No idea.’

Trying desperately to keep up with the little man who

moves with surprising speed, I notice many more people

walking in the same direction, all carrying bags and wheeling

suit cases behind them. I assume we must be going to

another bus station, and after a few minutes we turn right

through some gates and enter a busy car park. The guy

leads us over to a small taxi office and we wait outside. A

woman sat on a large box next to us, nurses a tiny baby

that is no more than a few weeks old. The baby looks surreal

with its full head of hair that sticks up in an Elvis style

quiff. I’ve never seen anything like it before and we both

pull faces at the wee tot, as it looks at us with big watery

eyes and dribbles down its chin.

Si smiles and rests his feet on top of my rucksack. ‘Well,

call me a prick, but I don’t think we’re getting a bus out of

here.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can sense it. I can feel it in my bones.’

‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘How come that never happens to me?’

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‘What never happens to you?’

‘Sensing things in my bones?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Hey, maybe there isn’t a bus to the border at all. Maybe

you have to get a taxi to Tacna in Peru and then a connecting

bus from there.’

‘As long as we get there, I don’t give a fuck,’ Si laughs.

‘They can put me in a wheelbarrow and I’ll be happy.’

All of a sudden we’re waved into the office and a moody

woman working behind a messy desk asks for our passports.

After filling out a form we’re rushed over to a large

red saloon car, where we greet a man with a moustache

who is wearing big TV style glasses and resembles the

Military Dictator General Pinochet. He throws our luggage

into the boot and signals for us to get inside. It smells fresh

and the interior is clean with cream leather seats. A small

Chilean flag swings from the rear view mirror and the sunshine

streams through the windows. The driver peers over

his shoulder, and smiles.

‘Now this was worth the wait,’ Si laughs, stroking the

leather upholstery, ‘our very own chauffeur driven car. I

don’t mind paying a bit extra for this, do you?’

‘Nope, this is going to be fun!’

Just as I’m about to rest my eyes, the back door swings

open and two huge middle-aged women climb into the

back. Their presence and the size of their butt cheeks surprise

me, as I slide across the seat and squash up against

Si. An old man and a young kid climb in the front.

‘What the fuck?’ I cry, feeling my ribs crack under the

pressure.

We both twist our necks and nod a hello to the two

women. They smile back and snuggle in. It’s all very cosy

and extremely hot inside the car now. There’s way too

much body heat. The ladies are from Lima in Peru, and

have been living in Chile for over a year. They’re making

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the long journey back home overland. I nearly ask them if

they’d thought about getting the plane, but I have to stop

myself after considering the possibility that their fat asses

might not fit in the seats. The driver cranks the car into

gear and we pull out onto the main road. This is going to

be one hell of a long journey; so much for a relaxed chauffeur

driven ride.

We quickly head to the outskirts of Arica, and towards

the enormous sand dunes that rise like mountains above

the small houses. Bright white sand dominates the landscape

and there’s not a patch of grass in sight. Even the

football pitch is sand – it’s everywhere! It covers the roofs

of the houses like snow, and I try to imagine the sand

stretching for thousands of miles across the harsh terrain

of the Atacama Desert. The driver has his window down to

compensate for the lack of air-con, and every so often I

taste sand in my mouth. The calm blue ocean sits on the

horizon and meets the desert head on. I just want to whip

off my shorts and dive in. The driver turns off the main

road and drives down a smaller street tailing off into a

residential area. People sit in the shade outside their houses;

the men are stripped to the waist and the women wear little

more than a bikini top and a pair of shorts. The driver

turns left down another street and parks up outside a small

house. He leaps out of the car and runs inside. Moments

later he dashes out of the door with a lunchbox in his

hand. A woman stands in the doorway and waves. For

fuck’s sake, dude, it’s like an oven inside this car.

‘Vamos!’ I cry.

The two fat ladies nod vigorously as they sweat like buffaloes

beside me. The driver says something in Spanish

that sounds like an apology and speeds off back onto the

main road. A green sign appears up ahead with “PERUBOLIVIA”

written on it in big white letters. I try to reach

for my camera, but it’s too late. Fortunately, the journey

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along the highway doesn’t take long and we quickly arrive

at the Chile border crossing. The driver parks up right outside

the immigration building, and we all fall out of the car

and spend the next few minutes rearranging our postures

and waking up our dead legs. Despite the journey being a

little uncomfortable, I’m excited to be metres away from

Peru, home to the Inca Empire and a country I had longed

to visit. We grab our rucksacks out of the boot and follow

the driver to the end of a lengthy queue that weaves

around a pillar. We wait patiently and talk about the journey

ahead and about how much we’re dying to see a llama.

Eventually reaching the window of the immigration office,

we step forward and hand over our passports to a guy in uniform.

He flicks through Si’s passport and finds his departure

declaration form, and studying it for a few seconds he

stamps an empty page. Then he picks up my passport and

proceeds to flick through the pages, but he can’t seem to

find the declaration form. The driver is standing beside us

both and quickly speaks to the customs officer in Spanish.

The officer looks at me and points to Si’s departure form.

I frantically search through my money belt, but it’s not

there. Si calls me a “disorganized twat”, which I think is a

little harsh, but from the response I’m getting from the

driver and officer, it seems to be quite a serious matter. I

shrug and try to show the guy that I’ve genuinely lost it.

The queue is building up fast and the people standing

behind look hot and frustrated. Amazingly, the customs

officer seems to be in a good mood, and quickly slides

another form over the desk. I hastily fill out the correct

boxes, but the pressure of everyone waiting for me doesn’t

really help the situation and I struggle to remember my

date of birth. I slide the form back to the officer at the exact

moment a salty drop of sweat runs into my eyes. He

stamps my passport and slides it back to me.

The driver looks annoyed, so we speedily toss our ruck-

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sacks through the x-ray machine and wait for him to fetch

the car. Contorting our bodies, we squeeze inside the car

again and drive for about ten minutes across no man’s

land. Looking out of the window I’m surprised to see people

living at the roadside in small wooden shacks, and I’m

intrigued to know how they ended up here, and whether

they’re Chilean or Peruvian, or neither or both. There’s

absolutely no vegetation for miles around, and I wonder

how they can survive out here in such a hostile environment.

We arrive at Peruvian immigration and follow the

same procedure. It’s much more relaxed here and I get my

passport stamped without any problem. I carefully fold up

my new declaration form and sandwich it inside my passport.

Within seconds we’re back in the car, squashed and

speeding down a modern road through the hot desert.

We arrive in Tacna around midday. It’s a hot commercial

centre that is regularly visited by Chileans, who travel

here to grab cheap medical treatment and to pay peanuts

for a root canal. The driver seems to know where he’s

going, as he dodges between the traffic and flies onto

Avenue Callao then left up past the Plaza de Armas and

the impressive Cathedral, which none other than

Alexandre Gustave Eiffel designed. We finally reach the

bus station and the driver swings into a car park. Tossing

the luggage out of the boot, the ladies quickly gather their

belongings and smile sweetly before waddling off to catch

their bus to the capital city of Lima. The old guy and his

grandson disappear without a word and we’re left standing

with the driver.

‘Tienes Boletos?’ I smile, wondering if he has our bus

tickets for Arequipa.

He nods and gestures for us to follow him inside the terminal.

We race after the guy and he purchases two tickets

for a bus leaving in forty-five minutes. He hands Si the

tickets and walks out of the terminal. Feeling a little con-

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fused, we stand in the hot dark bus station and try to

ignore the curious eyes of the people around us.

‘Bollocks!’ Si yells, peering down at the ticket. ‘The bus

to Arequipa only cost a few quid. We paid that fat bastard

in Arica way too much! We should’ve listened to that

Canadian couple who shared our Rocket.’

Feeling a little cheated we head through a gate and find

our ancient chariot on the tarmac with ‘Flores’ written

down the side. We climb aboard.

For six long hours we’re thrown from side-to-side along a

winding road that climbs high into the mountains.

Crossing the Andes from Argentina to Chile had been a

walk in the park compared to this journey, and we sit back

and enjoy the ride as we head into the clouds. We’re the

only white people on the bus, which gives cause for much

interest from our fellow passengers; particularly the young

Peruvian kids. Likewise, their appearances fascinate me

with dark complexions and awesome black eyes. Some of

the women are dressed traditionally in bowler hats and

puffy skirts, and a woman boards the bus in one small

remote settlement with a basket of live shrimps. We eat

fresh corn on the cob with a slice of cheese and shoot pictures

out of the window.

Penetrating deeper into the wilds of South America, the

sensation of entering a strange new world excites me

beyond belief. We have finally arrived in Peru and have

begun our perilous journey traversing the Trans-Oceanic

Highway to Brazil, an adventure that will lead us over the

Andes to the lost Inca City of Machu Picchu and through

the very heart of the Madre de Dios in the Amazon.

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* * *

We arrive in Arequipa a few hours after sunset. The bus

ride through the southern cordilleras of the Peruvian

Andes was truly breathtaking. For most of the journey

there was barren landscape for miles around, and then all

of a sudden we’d pass through valleys with beautiful green

meadows and cattle munching on lush green grass. On a

number of occasions as we traversed the narrow mountain

roads, the bus felt close to tipping over the edge and tumbling

into the steep valley below. For obvious reasons this

took some getting used to, but after a while we simply

accepted our fate and watched the movie. This was made

even easier by the bus driver’s choice of film, a surreal

1960′s classic called ‘The Savage Innocents’ starring

Anthony Quinn and Peter O’Toole.

Slipping on my tracksuit top we exit the bus station and

walk into the dimly lit streets of Arequipa. Cars rush by on

the busy main road and before we’ve had a chance to look

at the map, a small yellow Suzuki taxi pulls up close to the

curb and a guy wearing a brown patterned jumper beeps

his horn. I give him the thumbs up and he jumps out of the

car.

‘Hostel Regis, por favor.’

He nods his head and squeezes our rucksacks onto the

backseat of the miniature car. Chris piles in after them and

laughs as he fights to see over the top of his rucksack.

Sliding into the front seat next to the driver, he revs the

engine a few times and we speed off through the heavy

flow of traffic. We join a long line of identical yellow

Suzuki taxis, and brace ourselves as the driver joins the

race and nips in and out of spaces.

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I point at the car. ‘Fast, rápido!’

The guy laughs and hits the steering wheel. ‘Japan,

Suzuki!’

Arriving speedily at the hostel, we pay the driver and

watch as he accelerates down the cobbled street with his

bright red taillights illuminating the street and his oversized

car ariel wobbling from side-to-side. We ring the bell

and hear a buzz as the door catch is released. Pushing our

way through the old narrow wooden door, we struggle

with our rucksacks up a steep flight of stone steps. The old

Colonial building is impressive, and it feels like we’re

walking around a museum at night. We cross a large terrace

with tables and umbrellas, and see a young Peruvian

guy standing behind a reception desk with a short boyish

hair cut. We walk over to him and enter a cosy reception

area. The room has a French style with shutters on the

windows and large classical paintings hanging on the

walls. Spotting a cowboy hat swinging from a hat stand, I

feel compelled to flip it on top of my head.

‘Pow, pow!’ I smile, shooting Chris and the guy behind

reception with invisible Colt 45′s.

They laugh falsely and pretend to be shot. We both

spend a few minutes taking turns trying the hat on, but the

guy declines. He seems a little shy – either that or he’s just

bored of backpackers messing around with the hat and

pretending to shoot him all of the time, which would be

understandable. We scribble down our names, our passport

numbers and country of origin in a large registration

book, and then follow the young guy back across the terrace

to a room on the far side. He swings the door open and we

dump our bags in the corner of the small windowless room.

There are two beds and a beautiful painting on the wall of a

bright orange sun setting behind a volcano. A large antique

wardrobe stands in front of an adjoining door. He hands us

the key and we lock ourselves in and pass out.

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I awake the following morning to shards of bright sunlight

penetrating through the gaps in the doorframe. I blink a

few times and look over at Chris lying on his bed with his

arms crossed like he’s some kind of fucking vampire.

Unbolting the door, I step out of the room and stretch my

arms above my head and rub my face. Wandering across

the terrace, I spy a spiral staircase and decide to explore.

Jogging to the top, I find myself on a flat roof high above

the city, and I gasp in awe at one of the most beautiful

views I’ve ever seen. The impressive El Misti volcano

reaches into the sky and an ocean of red tiled roofs are

scattered in front of me. Dead centre, I can see the towers

of the grand Cathedral on Plaza de Armas. I head back to

the room and find Chris bent over like an old man in his

pants.

‘Close the bleeding door when you go wandering off, will

ya!’ he snaps, scratching his backside. ‘I woke up with

some backpacker peering in at me from the terrace.’

We slowly get ready and head out into the cobbled

streets. Considering it’s not much after eight o’clock in the

morning, Arequipa is bustling with local Peruvians going

about their business. We head through a maze of narrow

back streets and make our way towards the entrance of the

Mercado San Camilo. The atmosphere inside the indoor

market is amazing with stalls piled high with fresh cheese,

dried meat and an enormous variety of colourful fruit and

vegetables. There are no tourists about, and it feels like

we’ve stepped back in time. We pass a row of stalls selling

fruit juice and we watch as a woman quickly slices up a

papaya, a pineapple, an orange and a whole carrot and

throws them into a blender. It tastes absolutely delicious

with vitamins exploding out of our ears. Taking one last

look around the market, we buy some rolls and a wedge of

goat’s cheese for lunch, and study some strange looking

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roots and herbs and a stall of dried pigs faces before wandering

back out into the street.

Finding our way to the impressive Plaza de Armas, we

stumble across an enormous Military procession and a

brass band outside the huge Cathedral. The soldiers take

huge goose steps, and are followed closely by a parade of

stocky, dark skinned Peruvian men wearing business suits,

who march in the same comedy style. They come to a halt

in front of an official building at the head of the plaza.

Someone important appears on a balcony and watches the

parade from above. I notice men with rifles positioned on

the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and I can sense

these sharp shooters have already clocked that I have a

camera in my hand and not a gun. I feel incredibly uneasy

knowing that if the mood took them they could take me

out on a whim.

‘Hey, Chris, I wonder if the dude standing on the balcony

is the president of Peru.’

A woman standing in front of us spins around and stares

at us both. I lower my head and realise I’ve just interrupted

a minutes’ silence. It’s deeply surreal to be stood in such an

enormous space with so many people without any sound,

and it makes me realise the extent of the noise and chaos

we humans create with our busy little lives. A lone trumpet

marks the end of the sixty seconds and we watch as a soldier

raises the Peruvian flag above our heads. The brass band

kicks into life, and the army of military soldiers and men

in suits exit the plaza in the same comedy marching style

as before. We sit down on a bench, and just as we’re about

to eat a goat’s cheese sandwich an old man with a photo

album slides up to us. We smile and study his information

about sights of interest around the city, including a picture

he took of the main Cathedral collapsing during the 2001

earthquake. I’m not a great fan of tours, but I like the guys

relaxed manner and ridiculously cheap prices, so we agree

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for him to take us on a two-hour trip around the city. We

climb into his battered taxi and get whisked away to all of

the major tourist spots and beautiful viewpoints around

Arequipa. It’s a fun day and we end it by sharing our fruit

and cheese with the guy on a tranquil riverbank beneath

an impressive iron bridge, which none other than Eiffel

designed. He certainly was a very busy man!

Communicating through the phrasebook we learn

Rodriguez is a trained engineer, who had been forced to

turn his hand to taxi driver and tour guide due to lack of

work, just like many of his friends. This explains the hundreds

of Suzuki taxis in the city. It reminds me of conversations

I’d had with skilled guys of a similar age working

in manual warehouse jobs in England, and I realise how

the ever-changing economics of the world affects people in

much the same way everywhere. He had considered moving

to the capital of Lima a few years ago in a bid to find

work, but he likes his lifestyle in the beautiful Arequipa

too much so he decided to stay. Dropping us off in the

main Plaza, we thank our new friend and return to the hostel

feeling completely exhausted.

Happy to spend the evening chilling out around the hostel,

we buy a few bottles of beer from the shop and relax in the

room with the door open. Around nine o’clock, our exciting

game of noughts and crosses is disturbed by female

voices coming from the adjoining room. We sit very still

and can clearly hear two girls with southern Irish accents.

They natter away like two old washerwomen over the garden

fence. Chris tiptoes around the room and listens at the

locked door behind the wardrobe. The walls are so thin it

almost sounds like we’re in the same room. Intrigued to

hear the gossip, we breathe slowly and earwig into their

conversation.

‘Is that why you came away then, Claire?’

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‘Absolutely, I had to get away. Martin was doing my head

in.’

‘How long were you together?’

‘About three years. It was a load of bullshit, Shauna, I tell

ya, a waste of fucking time.’

‘Did you love him?’

‘I suppose I did, but I loved his best friend too, mind…’

Shauna squeals. ‘You didn’t?’

‘I did. I’m a woman with needs so I am.’

Chris clasps his hand over his mouth to stop himself

laughing.

‘Weren’t you worried your fella would find out?’

‘No, Declan was his best mate. He wasn’t gonna tell him,

and I certainly wasn’t. We had sex while he was asleep in

front of the TV just before we came away.’

‘What are you like, Claire?’ Shauna screams. ‘And I

thought you were such a good Catholic girl when I first

met you.’

‘I am a good Catholic girl, but when it suits me!’

Seeing Chris pressing his face up close to a crack in the

doorframe, he spins around and looks ecstatic.

‘What is it?’ I hiss with excitement.

‘Shush….’ he grins, pressing a finger to his lips.

Desperate to see what’s going on, I tiptoe behind him and

peer through a crack lower down the doorframe. Chris

looks angry when I bump into him, and we jostle in

silence as we try to find a comfortable position. Closing

one eye, I peer through the gap and see a large girl with

brown curly hair stood over by the window. She has a blue

towel around her waist, and is wearing a black bra that

supports her enormous breasts. I breathe slowly like I’m

hunting a deer in the forest. Her friend comes into view, a

thinner girl with short blonde hair, and I’m ecstatic to see

that she too is stripped down to her bra and knickers.

Chris grabs my arm excitedly, and we cover our mouths to

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muffle any sound of laughter. The girl with the large

breasts whips off her towel and begins brushing her hair.

She’s wearing a thong, and she turns around and we get a

full view of her large white butt cheeks.

‘So, what do you think I should do about that guy from

Holland we met the other day?’

‘Shag him,’ Claire laughs, pulling her hair back in a

ponytail.

‘Do you think I should?’

‘He was cute, go for it, girl! You haven’t had sex for ages

and ages, have you?’

‘Not since I split with Johnny.’

The blonde girl looks sad, and the girl with the large

breasts reaches out and hugs her friend. Overwhelmed

with excitement as we watch two girls embracing each

other in their underwear, I shift position and accidentally

slip on the polished wood floor. I grab onto Chris to keep

stable, but he too loses his balance and we collapse in a

heap.

‘What the fuck was that?’ one of the girls cries.

‘It came from behind that door. Hey, you fucking pervert!

You’d better not be spying on us!’

With wide eyes we lie very still. I want to laugh so much,

but I try really hard to contain myself.

‘I’ll bet it’s that French guy who was here

yesterday…fucking weirdo…perv!’

Hearing the sound of furniture being dragged across the

room, it suddenly bangs up against the door. We clamber

to our feet and climb quietly into our beds. The girls continue

to talk in a low whisper and I lie very still until

morning.

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