Northern Exposure

John McCarthy has a high time in Chile’s Lauca National Park

Last year Brian Keenan and John McCarthy travelled with Journey Latin America to Chile to fulfil an ambition contemplated while they were both held captives in the Lebanon.

Arica, Chile’s northernmost town, looks as though it might be overwhelmed at any moment by the surrounding desert. Although humidity here on the coast allows lush flowers like bougainvillaea and hibiscus to flourish you cannot ignore the desolate and threatening aspect of the brown hills that rise up just beyond the narrow coastal strip.

Arica is a peaceful place though; a regional trading centre, near the borders with Peru and Bolivia and a popular holiday resort. It wasn’t always peaceful - in fact it wasn’t always Chilean. Until the War of the Pacific it was a Peruvian port. On June 7th 1880 Chilean troops, reportedly inspired with large measures of alcohol fortified with gun powder, overran the Peruvian positions on the Morro, the headland overlooking the town. From this vantage point now a simple yet rather moving museum, one can see Arica laid out before you.

There is the busy port and some great looking beaches. However Arica, despite the appeal of beaches and its tranquillity, has a major drawback: a ghastly and overwhelming stench from fish processing plants.

Breathing more freely we headed up the Azapa valley en route to Lauca National Park 100 miles inland and some l0,000 feet up. Initially the valley was nothing more than a rocky river bed with little oases and olive trees, fruits, vegetables and corn. There are a number of small homesteads, some built from flimsy packing cases with the desert coming right up to the door.

At intervals, high up on the brown valley sides, are geoglyphs figures carved in the rock or marked out by stones. They are believed to date from 1000-1400 AD and are thought to have marked stopping places on caravan routes between the fishing communities on the coast and the farmers of the altiplano, further inland and higher up.

The dirt road went up and up, sweeping across ridges between mighty, empty valleys. We stopped to walk across a salt encrusted flat, the surface much firmer than it looked. As we drove along the salt and sand crystals sparkled and, for the first time, I saw a mirage.

To start with there was no vegetation save for one tree marking a shrine for a motor accident victim - but as we climbed further at around 3000 feet, cactus started appearing. Higher still, as the temperature dropped, there was more plantlife and the cacti got bigger and covered whole valley sides.

We stopped for lunch at Tignamar. The old town was washed away in 1973 by a great flood. The church dated from 1884 and was all that remained beyond some desolate little mud brick structures. The modern villages, based around post conquistadors churches, are a bit spooky. They are very neat, laid out on a grid pattern and surrounded by cultivated terraces but there just aren’t many people. Many families, especially the young ones, have moved to Arica or other cities so most of the places we stopped to look at had the atmosphere of a ghost town. It was a relief when one turned a corner and found a family chatting round their front door.

This was a very special journey, exciting and exotic. Due to the micro climates and rocks any turn could bring a dramatic change of view. Just a couple of miles from one of the neat villages with its terraces of cultivation we would find ourselves crossing barren valleys where the mineral laden rocks would sparkle yellow, red, green and blue, then we’d drive into a wall of the heavy fog - the Camanchaca - to emerge again in a dense glade of eucalyptus trees.

We followed a main road, the C11, once an Inca trail, to our overnight destination, Putre. Our hotel, formerly a dormitory for gold miners, was fairly spartan and we had a truly awful supper but the rooms were fine and after ten hours on the road we were ready for bed. But I could not sleep. Every time I nodded off I seemed to come round with a start, breathing heavily. It was very frightening and I decided it was very definitely time to stop smoking; altitude sickness l knew could be very dangerous.

The next morning we headed higher again All was shrouded in mist to start with but we saw the curious little vizcacha rabbits and one vicuna. There were many alpacas and smaller llamas. There were a number of farmers tending the herds as this was the lambing season. There were so few people on the road it was always a bit of a shock to come across a couple of farmers chatting by a herd. They must walk so many miles over this rough terrain tending their animals.

The clouds parted to give us views across Lake Chungará to Parinacota, a snowcapped volcano gleaming bright in the sunshine. There was a sense of magic as the clouds moved across the sky causing mountains to appear and disappear moment by moment. The altitude, as well as the scenery, takes your breath away. As l walked, puffing hard, along the flat shore of the lake I had a strong feeling that the many rare birds here were all laughing at the unaclimatised gringo.

There was no doubt about the laughter later on when we went with a park ranger to see a thermal spring. I went close to the edge to feel the warm water but stood on scum not rock. I went in up to my knee. Brian and our guides wanted to help me - I think - but they were all helpless with mirth. I tried to take it well.

Driving back to Arica we used a main road and, going down hill of course, we covered the ground much faster than we had on the way up. Yet time and time again we sat in the back gasping as another impossibly steep drop opened up before us and, after hours of this, when you think you have seen all the barren mountain landscape imaginable there is the big one, a sheer drop of 2400 feet to the Lluta valley, Arica’s other garden.

After the sights of the past two days; the extraordinary terrain, coyotes, climates, views and remote villages, this green, fertile and flat valley with its vast walls of light brown cliff, that had seemed so alien when we arrived, was now positively normal homely and welcoming. This had been our first two days in the region. What, I wondered, would we meet over the next two months?