My O.E. to South America
Glenn Mason-Riseborough (16/02/2003)
In the summer of 1997/98 I went with three friends—Steve Duhs, Matt Gatland, and Scott Wyatt—on a 3 month backpacking and mountain climbing expedition to Chile, Argentina, and Bolivia. It made such an impression on me that I felt that I had to write a bit about my experiences.
Our plan was to have a bit of a post-graduation celebratory holiday. Matt had just finished his degree in Engineering; Scott had just finished his two degrees in Biology and Commerce; I had just finished my degree in Mathematics; and Steve, well, he was still working on his business degree after making a few abortive starts in different areas. Both Matt and Scott were wanting to enjoy their last bit of freedom before going out into the real world and looking for jobs. Back then we were all sports-mad, and most weekends one or another of us would dream up some crazy scheme to test our fitness and/or sanity. So, of course, climbing some of the highest mountains in the world was the next logical step.
Our trip started out as it was destined to continue. We were to fly out of the Auckland Airport on the night of the 25th of November 1997. I was late getting to the airport and the others checked in before me. While doing so, some throwaway comments about explosives were made, and the next thing they knew the police had surrounded them and, in the middle of the airport, their bags were emptied and thoroughly examined. I got to the airport just in time to join the amused onlookers and my brother-in-law, Vict, kindly recorded the proceedings for posterity on video. The police eventually finished with their checks, and after a few stern warnings finally allowed us to proceed. The only problem was that when we got to the gate it had already been locked for the night since we were on the last flight. Eventually we managed to find an official who unlocked it for us, and by sprinting we were able to get to the plane just as everyone else was boarding.
We arrived in Santiago, Chile at about midnight after a long flight with a stopover in Buenos Aires, Argentina. So, after months of preparing we had finally arrived, and we were about to put into action all our plans. But, the only problem was that we had no idea how to leave the airport, and even if we did, we had no idea where to go. Buses into the city centre had stopped running for the night and, even though we had the phone numbers of some friends of friends, we dared not wake them up and ask them for help. So, for the next six hours we sat in the semi-darkened airport dozing and planning and packing and repacking our bags. We had managed to get some sponsorship deals from some food and clothing companies (thanks Sanitarium, Chesdale, Bivouac, Kathmandu, and the NZ Sock Company), and we had boxes of breakfast cereal and processed cheese, not to mention all of our brand-new climbing gear, that were not the easiest things to carry around the cities and on buses. Matt was adamant that we needed to cut down on weight, and he set about cutting out unneeded sections of his (borrowed) Lonely Planet guidebook.
But the sun eventually rose, and we caught a bus into the city centre. We then phoned our friend and rescuer Moya Bawden, who said she would pick us up in her car. By that time we were getting hungry so we bought some food from one of the roadside shops. That evening, safely resting at Moya's house, my stomach started feeling a little queasy, and, without going into graphic detail, for the next 24 hours I set up residence next to Moya's toilet. Needless to say after that I was a little more careful about the food I consumed.
Meanwhile, the other guys were organising our trip to our first challenge -- Aconcagua. Aconcagua, which is the highest mountain in the world outside the Himalayas, is north-east of Santiago just over the border into Argentina. It is the ideal mountain to climb for those of us who, while enjoying a challenge, are not all that experienced at more technical climbing (Scott was fairly experienced - having taught mountain safety at a number of snow schools, but Matt and I were relatively inexperienced - only having climbed a few times on New Zealand mountains). It is pretty much just a hard slog up long gravelly paths to a peak at almost 7000 metres above sea level. Obviously this means that near the top the oxygen is getting relatively scarce, and placing one foot in front of the other gets progressively more difficult. We had found out that if we got into the Aconcagua park before the 1st of December, we did not have to pay the entrance fee of US$80 each. Of course, this is an incentive to any poor student, so we quickly caught a bus to Mendoza, a city in Argentina that is the usual starting point for expeditions to Aconcagua. Fortunately, by the time we caught the bus my stomach had mostly settled down, but my physical and mental state was far from normal and I recall little of the next few days. While I rather dazedly sat outside in the heat and looked after the baggage, the others rushed around buying the necessary supplies - fuel for our cookers and a few weeks of food. We then caught a taxi to Puente Del Inca, a small village at the foot of Aconcagua, staying the night there at the climbers lodge.
On the morning of the 29th of November we left Puente Del Inca on foot, carrying on our backs all the supplies that we needed to keep us alive for the planned maximum of three weeks. Included amongst the bare necessities we carried Matt’s rugby ball, which we intended to play with on the summit, and Steve’s New Zealand flag. Most other climbers use mules to carry their equipment up the two day hike to base camp, but we scorned this luxury, claiming that as hard New Zealanders we didn't need any of that (and as poor students we couldn't afford it). Needless to say I suffered fairly badly after my unplanned intimacy with the toilet bowl just a couple of days earlier. I was lagging far behind the others, and after setting up camp early for the night, I again found myself unable to keep any food down. On the second day I was again lagging far behind, and in my daze I must have taken a wrong path, ending up alone on the wrong side of a river as night approached. I crossed the river, and feeling too tired, I took off my wet clothes, got in my sleeping bag, ate some cold food, and fell asleep. Fortunately it was a clear night, since the other guys had all the tents and cooking equipment. Waking up early the next morning I started my search for the other guys and within an hour I came across their tents as they were just emerging for breakfast. It turned out that they had spent most of the night looking for me, and had even recruited some other climbers to help. We spent the third night together, but by the fourth day I was even more weak as I was hardly able to eat anything, and I only walked a couple of hours before bedding down again. There were people walking past occasionally, and I asked an Aussie to tell the other guys not to expect me that night. The other guys spent the fourth night at Plaza de Mulas, the base camp, while I again spent the night in my sleeping bag in the open. I also spent the fifth night alone, just walking a couple of hours before feeling too exhausted. >As I was nearing base camp on the sixth day, I met Scott hurrying back down. Apparently he was suffering from altitude sickness, after they had spent the morning carrying supplies up to the next camp at around 5100 metres. He said that he would meet us again at the lodge in Puente Del Inca, but we were to find out later, he got a bus to Buenos Aires and caught an early flight home.
I spent the sixth night at base camp with Steve and Matt, but, ever in a hurry, they decided to go on without me, and early the next morning they continued on up the mountain. I spent the next three days and nights resting in our tent at base camp. I started to eat properly again, and with rest and food I was feeling a lot better. On the ninth day I went for a walk for a few hours further up the mountain, and I was starting to feel really good, and thinking that I would try to summit. On the afternoon of the tenth day Matt got back to base camp. He said he had got up to about 6200 metres, but his feet had been feeling numb (he had had a prior experience with frostbite in New Zealand), so he decided not to continue. He said that Steve had decided to continue on alone. The next afternoon Steve returned, having just failed to reach the summit. He said that he was maybe an hour or so away, but it was getting late, and he didn’t want to be caught out in the dark. On the assumption that Scott was at Puente Del Inca, we decided to head back down the mountain to regroup and make plans, seeing that we had all failed to summit. So, the three of us spent the eleventh night at base camp, before heading back down the mountain still carrying a couple of weeks supply of food. It took two days to get back down, spending the twelfth night at Confluencia, a mid-point camp between Puente Del Inca and base camp.
So, almost two weeks after leaving Puente Del Inca with high hopes of success, we arrived back broken and smelly men. Scott had left a note saying that he had gone off on his own, so, since we were down to only three, we decided we needed to change our plans. We had originally planned that after Aconcagua we would go up north, climbing other mountains such as Ojos Del Salado, but we decided instead to travel south to Patagonia. That night we slept under the shelter of the local eatery, after washing our clothes and ourselves and playing football with the locals. The next morning we caught a bus back to Santiago, stayed the night at Moya’s house, and then caught another bus south to Puerto Montt.
On the afternoon of the 13th of December we arrived in Puerto Montt, a small port town of about 90,000 people. It was good coming down from altitude, and the combination of a pleasant sea breeze and richer oxygen was refreshing. We decided to treat ourselves and booked ourselves on a 4-day boat ride that took us south to Puerto Natales (cost: Chile$85,000, or NZ$340). The boat didn’t leave until the 15th, so we spent the next two nights at a hostel, relaxing and sightseeing around the town. With Christmas fast approaching, the seasonal decorations were out in force, and, after enjoying the solitude and basics of living for the past couple of weeks on a mountain, it was something of a letdown to be besieged on all sides by crass consumerism. But the up side to Puerto Montt was the fish markets, the cultural markets, and walking along the beaches.
We boarded the boat around 4 pm on the 15th and it left about an hour later. Our boat, the Puerto Eden, was a cargo ship that had been converted to also carry around 160 passengers – some in private cabins and some in bunkrooms. We opted for the cheaper approach, which, while crowded and basic, was clean and comfortable. It was built in 1971, had two diesel engines with 3000 hp, and a cruising speed of about 11 knots. The boat trip was enjoyable, and certainly worth it, but by no means spectacular. The scenery was beautiful as we travelled south through the fjords, but more often than not the coastline was too far away to make out in great detail. The high points were detours to pass by a couple of glaciers, the amazing sunrises and sunsets, and the numerous sightings of whales, dolphins and porpoises swimming by the ship. There was also entertainment from passing by a recently grounded rival cargo ship, and the mandatory (by law) stop by an island to allow the natives to come aboard and sell us their wares. Shipboard entertainment was basic but par for the course, with a party on the final night, and videos screening a few times every day. A low point was going through the Golfo de Penas, which had largish waves of about 6 metres – someone on the upper deck vomited on me, I went below deck to clean up and I promptly followed the precedent. For a few hours the seasickness was fairly unpleasant.
The boat docked at Puerto Natales at about 8 pm on the 18th, and, after disembarking we set about trying to find cheap transport to Torres Del Paine, a national park that we wanted to spend a bit of time in. On the boat we had met up with Phil, a New Zealander and Martin, an American, and the combination was a bad one. Both Matt and Phil were unwilling to pay the standard bus fair to the park entrance, and the five of us must have walked around the whole town trying to find a cheaper option than the standard one on offer by the travel companies. Eventually, after a few hours we got a deal in which we got a 20% discount if we found 11 passengers. We went to the local pub where most of the boat passengers were hanging out, and by about 1 am had found enough willing bodies. One problem solved, but a more pressing concern was now accommodation. Our solution was to walk out of town for a bit, jump a fence and set up our tents in a secluded spot in a field – not the done thing, but who would know? Well, as it turned out the police soon knew about it. We woke the next morning to discover that we had camped on police ground, and as we emerged from our tents a policeman stopped by to question us. All of a sudden we all forgot our Spanish (both Martin and Phil were fairly fluent), and after some time of struggling to make himself understood, the policeman eventually gave up and went away.
We quickly stocked up on a couple of weeks supply of food and got out of town, using our bargain bus deal to get to Torres Del Paine National Park. Our first hike was a two night out and back trail through the bush to a lake. For the most part the five of us stuck together, though Phil was by far the fastest and I was by far the slowest, and often there would be a few hours difference between us. My excuse, and I stick to it, was that the scenery was so incredible that I had frequent stops in which I would just stand and take it all in for 15 or 30 minutes! Because of our differences in approach we decided the wise thing to do would be to split up for a time and do the main trail separately. Phil, who was travelling on his own, took off and we didn’t see him again. Matt, Steve and Martin took one of our tents and I took the other, agreeing to meet back at Puerto Natales about a week later. This week was one of the highlights of my whole time in South America, as I travelled on my own taking in the awesome beauty of the park. Often I spent most of the day not seeing anyone at all, and I was able to walk when I wanted and where I wanted, often taking detours off the paths to check out hidden sights. The scenery was truly amazing – the mountains, lakes, rivers, glaciers, waterfalls, bush and wildlife. There were guanaco (like llamas) and zorro gris (grey foxes), and there were supposed to be pumas, although I never saw any. Torres Del Paine has got to be seen to be believed. I spent Christmas night with a Tasmanian couple and their two children – we were the only ones at the campsite that night. I planned to arrive back at Puerto Natales a day earlier than arranged, so that I could spend a bit of time exploring the town. But, by an amazing coincidence the three other guys opted for a shortcut on a boat across a lake rather than walking an extra day or so around it, and we all caught the same bus out of the park.
We arrived back at Puerto Natales on the evening of the 27th, deciding to pay to stay the night in a hostel rather than camp out with the police again. The four of us caught a bus the next day to Punta Arenas, which is the southernmost city in the world, with a population of about 100,000. After dinner I went for a walk around the city – it was so far south that it didn’t get dark until after 11 pm. The next day, the 29th, Matt, Steve and I said goodbye to Martin as we started to head back up north again, catching a bus to Osorno. During the 30-hour bus ride we crossed over briefly into Argentina, and we stopped for dinner in a township overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. We stayed in Osorno for a few hours, having a quick look around, before catching our next bus to Santiago. We arrived at Santiago on the morning of the 31st of December, to find that Moya and her family were away until the 7th of January, so we had her house and her maid, Miriam, to ourselves over New Year!
Another surprise was in store for us, as a few hours after we arrived Scott walked in. Feeling better, he had decided to rejoin us and had caught a plane back to Santiago. He had first gone back to Aconcagua to climb it alone, but because it was mid-season by that time it was too crowded and unpleasant. The four of us spent a quiet New Year’s at Moya’s house, all feeling too tired to be bothered going into the city centre to celebrate.
We continued our journey north on New Year’s Day. Steve, Matt, and I had got bus tickets the previous day so we journeyed by bus, but Scott was unable to get tickets so he flew directly to Arica, the northernmost city in Chile. Our bus trip to Arica was a long one, travelling mostly through the Atacama Desert, with only a brief 20 minute stop at one city (Antofagasta or Iquique, I’m not sure which). For most of the trip we passed through lifeless sandy/dirty plains and hills, with just occasional green ribbons as rivers wound their way to the sea. We also struggled to keep up with the change in temperature – after coming from the cooler mountainous areas, we were suddenly sweltering in the hot dry desert. We all opted to defy local convention and wore shorts instead of trousers. Cactus fences were a notable feature in some areas. In other areas we observed huge pieces of advertising (often political, since the election had just occurred) on the hills, made up of hundreds of painted rocks.
We arrived in Arica in the evening of the 2nd, so, all told it had taken us about four and a half days to travel the length of Chile by bus (including our one day stopover in Santiago). Scott’s plane had arrived a few hours earlier, and we were to meet him in the central park. While waiting for him a couple of friendly locals introduced themselves and thoughtfully asked us if we were interested in purchasing any drugs. We politely declined. After meeting Scott we bought a couple of weeks supply of food and arranged a bus to Putre. The plan was to get a ride from there to Lauca National Park to climb the Parinacottas, a couple of mountains on the border between Chile and Bolivia. At this stage I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do the mountain climb with the other three. I had a recurring ankle injury that was playing up, and I was worried that if I went over on it I would be stuck in a dangerous situation on a mountain. Putting off making a decision, I decided to go to Putre with the others. Our bus was supposed to leave at 10 pm, but just before midnight we were informed that the road had collapsed because of flooding, and no one had any idea when a bus would be leaving. Manana (tomorrow) was the general consensus, supposedly 7 am. Once again stingy with money, and seeing as we were hopefully leaving in about 6 hours, we spent the night on park benches in the middle of the city. At one point a policeman politely asked us to move along, so we walked a couple of blocks to the next park. Surprisingly, since we had all slept rather badly, we were late getting to the bus stop. When we realised how close we were cutting it, Steve dumped his pack and ran, whilst the rest of us hailed a taxi and struggled to fit four overflowing packs and three hefty climbers into it. After some moments of panic we all arrived in time for the bus, and it got us safely to Putre about midday.
Putre was definitely the other side of Chile, after having previously only visited main centres. It is a small rundown town – population about 1000 and with no more than maybe four or five roads running in each direction, at an altitude of about 3500 metres. The dwellings are shacks built on and around the ruins of old buildings. Life forms: dogs appeared to outnumber humans, even despite the military barracks at the end of the village (apparently the town was originally founded as a defence against the Indians). Surprisingly, there was a disproportionately high number of ‘supermecados’ (grocery stores) and hostels – I think it serves as a starting point for visitors to Lauca National Park, and while I was there I met up with maybe half a dozen other backpackers. We stayed at a hostel the night, and the next morning, the 4th, Steve, Matt and Scott left for Lauca National Park. I had decided not to go with them, so we arranged to meet in La Paz, Bolivia in about three weeks. I was to find out when we met up again that they were unable to summit because it was the wrong time of year for climbing and there were daily lightning storms. The mornings were fine and they were able to climb, but every day by mid afternoon the storms came up and all they could do was huddle in their tents and hope that they weren’t hit by lightning. They all admitted that it was the most scared they had ever been in their lives.
But now that I was on my own I decided to change my approach to travelling. I decided to slow down and spend a bit more time visiting the main attractions in each city, rather than bussing in and bussing out again on the same day. With this in mind I thought I’d backtrack to Arica, and do a bit of sightseeing there, before heading into Bolivia. Seeing as it was a Sunday and there were no buses back to Arica, I stayed another night in Putre, spending the day relaxing and planning my itinerary. Since the other guys had taken both our tents (they refused to sleep three in a tent again), I was forced to stick to towns with hostels. So I decided the best plan was, after leaving Arica, first head to La Paz then do a small circuit to Oruro, Potosi, Sucre and Cochabamba before returning to La Paz to meet the others. With this schedule I could spend about three or four days in each centre, visiting the main attractions and maybe doing day trips out into the countryside. The vague plan after La Paz was to visit the Amazon in Bolivia before heading up via Lake Titicaca to Peru, visiting Cuzco, Machu Picchu, Nazca, and finally flying out of Lima. So much for the best laid plans …
Before leaving Putre I had to photocopy the relevant sections of our single Lonely Planet guidebook, and leave the book with the hostel for the others to pick up after conquering their mountain. Photocopying was a mission in itself – the only two ‘proper’ buildings in town were the phone company building and the bank, and the bank had the only photocopier. Fortunately, when the bank opened on Monday, the staff there were very friendly. Unfortunately, in my minimal Spanish it was very difficult to explain what I was wanting. What is ‘photocopier’ in Spanish? I had no idea (and my dictionary didn't either), and I spent about ten minutes miming photocopier actions and saying whirr…whirr. Finally they caught on, and I gave them a list of what pages I needed copied. The security guard (complete with baton and gun), disappeared into the back room, and emerged about ten minutes later with a thick pile of paper. For some unknown reason he had photocopied each page about half a dozen times, but hadn’t copied all the pages I needed. I finally worked out that he had thought that 515 - 520 mean pages 515 and 520, not 515 to 520. We all had a laugh, and decided that the best idea was to allow me to go out the back and do the photocopying myself. A few minutes later it was all done, and with much smiling and thanking I left the bank.
I caught the bus back to Arica that afternoon. But once again the floods caused us problems and a washed-out road meant that we had to wait about three hours before another bus turned up on the other side. We all filed across the collapsed road, boarded the bus, and resumed our trip, arriving in Arica in the evening of the 5th of January.
In Arica it hit me that I was on my own in a foreign country, barely able to understand and speak the local language. But as they say the true test of intelligence is how one reacts in new situations, and I endeavoured to meet the challenge. I found myself a hostel and then set about working out a schedule. Arica, the city where is supposedly never rains, is a mass of humanity precariously clumped together in the northern part of the Atacama desert. It has been called ‘one bleak, comfortless, miserable, sandy waste.’ Its existence is in part due to the fact that most of Bolivia’s exports pass through its ports, and it is a trade and duty-free zone. They survive by piping in water, and the only greenery around is in small, carefully tended and watered parks. In the surrounding areas there are also a number of ancient rock-paintings, and an archaeological museum. Because of the fact that it never rains, many of Arica’s houses do not have proper roofs. My hostel was not unusual in that in some areas the roof was simply a woven flax-like mat – there simply to keep out the heat of the sun, but underneath it was all the comforts of modernity, like a television and electric lights.
… ok, I still haven't finished this - the one-paragraph summary is below:
I went into Bolivia, did a bit of travelling around there, and was caught in a bus crash that killed 12 people. I stayed in hospital for a while before returning to New Zealand from La Paz a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned. Scott went back south to Mt Osorno, climbed for a bit and came home about the same time I did. Matt and Steve went up north through Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia, got hijacked by gunpoint and came home.