Days 23-25: Slowing Down in Arica

Slowing Down in Arica

Days 23 – 25

January 20 – 22

Arica, Chile

My time in Arequipa was short.  Arriving from Cabanaconde, I had just enough daylight to find a decent place for dinner, and I slept the rest of the night away in a run-down motel near the bus station.  I didn’t have any burning desires to explore the last of the “top three tourist cities” in Peru; my sights were set on Chile now.  A 7:00 AM bus took me on a six hour journey to Tacna, the southernmost city in Peru.  And a one hour colectivo taxi trip with four Chileans finished the journey from Tacna to Arica, the northernmost city in Chile.  To contrast the last two-and-a-half weeks of my traveling, Arica was a beach town.  I was back at sea level; breathing seemed surprisingly easy.  

Along the way, I watched the terrain transform from green to tan, from mountains to desert, and from rainy grey to sunny blue skies.  Although I did make one mistake on the journey: I chose my seat at the very front on the second floor of the bus, where a large window display allowed me to see everything the driver sees, but with eight feet and a solid floor separating me from any control over the situation.  Peruvian roads are not for the faint of heart, and Peruvian bus drivers are not the most graceful motorists I’ve seen. 

 

A front row seat on the bus has it's perks.

Arriving in Arica, I immediately became a millionaire, which isn’t a spectacular feat.  Anyone with $1,650 to their name qualifies as a millionaire with the exchange rates over here.  I changed all of my Peruvian Soles for Chilean Pesos and found my way to the small hostel district.  Most other people in the hostels were South Americans here for a weekend beach vacation in Arica, one of the nation’s top surfing destinations.  Prices were considerably higher in Chile than Peru, so I shopped around for a hostel.

Whilst exploring, I found myself entranced by the sound of drums; they drew me in.  The sounds of crowds manifested, and I turned a corner to find locals standing shoulder-to-shoulder, row-upon-row, watching a parade of color and dancing go by.  I joined their ranks and witnessed my first Carnival in Arica, a festival of music and dancing that happens every weekend.  It was blind fortune that I arrived on a Saturday.  

Every weekend is Carnival in Arica.

The streets were crowded with Chilean in colorful clothing dancing to the beat of drums.

I followed the parade in the streets until I spotted a massive Chilean flag flying atop a morro that overlooked the coastline.  My broken Spanish netted me the directions to the top, where the terrain afforded me the view I desired.  Multiple Chilean flags (in addition to the massive one), decorated the summit, commemorating the war-torn history of the region that eventually put this strategic port under Chilean rule.  The sun was beginning to settle across the ocean, and the vultures were circling for their last prey of the day.  Taking advantage of the sweeping currents of the cliff side, many of them passed by the windward western side, adding an aerial display to the varicolored evening.  

On the way to the Morro of Arica.

The Chilean flag looks an awful lot like the Texan flag. 

The sunset was enhanced by the dozens of vultures flying nearby.

One of the many docks leading into Arica, an important Chilean port city.

With the evening twilight fading, I descended back to the city where the drums and dancing still raved.  I resisted the desire to return to the celebration in favor of actually finding a place for the night.  As I stepped down one dimly lit street, I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.  My first thoughts were to blame my clumsiness, but then there was a rattle of windows, a swaying of a utility pole, and a flickering of the only streetlight in sight.  Having lived so far from the Ring of Fire for so long, I had forgotten what an earthquake felt like, and it caught me off guard.  The excitement subsided as the earth returned to stillness.  

The next morning, I wandered in search of a decent breakfast for a decent price.  The included breakfast at the hostel was insufficient to appease my voracious morning hunger, and I gravitated towards the docks where a slew of local vendors were ready to feed the returning fishermen.  In addition to a meal, I was treated to a zoological display.  On one particular dock, fish were being decapitated, scaled, filleted, and packaged for transport to the nearby market.  To expedite the process, remains of fish were merely thrown back into the ocean, half of which landed on a part of the dock beneath these workers.  Garrisons of gulls and pelicans patrolled the nearby skies, landing on the dock frequently and with no fear of humans.  But chief amongst the oceanic benefactors of human labor were the sea lions, ruthlessly protecting their territory on the central dock.  

Pelicans were abundant on this dock, and had no fear of humans.

The port was colored with the fisherman's boats.

The sea lions held their dominant place on the dock, feeding from the fishermen.

 

The dock's crane lifted on of the boats from the water to clean barnacles from the hull.

With nearly perfect weather, amazing sea food, and an unpopulous yet pristine beach, I was tempted to stay in Arica longer than the three days I allowed myself.  My remaining time was spent exploring the beaches, napping under palm trees, and practicing Spanish with locals.  On the evening of my third night, I boarded a night bus with a direct route to San Pedro de Atacama, the nearest township to the driest desert in the world.  

Some of the graffiti art on the bay's concrete beachhead. 
"He has the whole world in his hands"

"You will never be like the stars."