We awake much earlier the morning than yesterday. Breakfast is typical and meager. I speak with the day manager, Sandra, to see if she can offer any help with planning our excursion to Putre. She speaks some enlist but seems to prefer if I speak Spanish. Reluctantly, I do.
She says that we really have three options for getting to and traveling around Putre: first, we take a public bus but that limits our time and flexibility; second, we can go with a tour operator but that is very expensive - about $400 US per person for two days and one night; or third, we can rent a car. She says that Putre and Lauca are very easy to reach by car. Plus she knows a car rental agency that offers very reasonable rates - about $40 US a day, including tax and insurance. I ask her to make a call. They agency has a car available. I ask her to reserve it for us.n I also ask her to call the lodge in Putre to make sure they have a room for us for two nights. They do.
Before picking up the car, we go to the SkyAirlines office on the pedestrian street and purchase tickets for our return flight on Thursday to Santiago. We then check out of the hostel (where we made a reservation for Wednesday night when we come back to Arica) and take a taxi to the car rental office.
The rental office (Ghama) is located in the basement ("subteraneo" as Sandra termed it) of a rundown shopping mall (shopping center Pacifico) next to the bus station. The woman in the office speaks no English. She speaks Chilean spanish at a rate that is often impenetrable. She hustles us out of the office and shows us several cars. As we soon realize, each car has something wrong with it. But it is up to us to find out what that "something" is. One has a flat spare tire, another a filthy interior with a dented exterior. We finally settle on one of the least damaged cars. I sign the rental agreement. It is in Spanish. Frankly, I have no idea what I am signing. I confirm with her that the rate is about $40 a day and includes tax and insurance. Again, I have no idea what the terms of the insurance are.
Our car, as well as all the other rental cars we looked at, has no gasoline. The gas indicator is on 'E'. There is a gas station about a block from the mall. We fill up the tank. It costs over $60 dollars. We are on our way.
The road follows a valley - the Lluta Valley - for the first hour.
The valley floor is green, carpeted with farms and vineyards, and framed by steep, dune-like hills. Nothing grows on these hills.
A few ancient geoglyphs punctuate the grey mountains.
We stop in the valley town of Poconchile for lunch. (We had tried to stop at Eco-Truly, a Hari Krishna farm, for vegetarian lunch but no one was around. The only sign of life: dozens of cats.)
After Poconchile the road begins to climb. Except for some candelabra cacti there is no vegetation. Everything is a shade of grey.
Once we reached a certain high altitude, the road straightens out. The land is still mainly an austere grey brown but now we are traveling on a plateau. We stop at a pukara - an ancient fortress - along the road.
There are several areas along the road where they are working on the fallen rock areas. These delays are brief. Mostly we wait with trucks, no cars, before they wave us onward.
We reach Putre at about 3:30 in the afternoon. Putre is a 3,500 meter high mountain town of about 2,000 inhabitants.
We are staying at a six-room inn, the Terrace Lodge, run by an Italian couple, Flavio and his wife Patrizia The inn has only been open a few years. Our room is spacious and has its own bath. The rate is 31,000 pesos a night - about $65 US.
I go into town while Ross rests up. His head cold(?), sinuses (?) and/or allergies (?) are still bothering him. He can barely breathe through his nose. The center of town is only a few blocks walk from the lodge. I go to the tourist information office right on the main square. I ask about Parque Lauca. They also assure me that it is easily accessible. There are no local guides that speak English (except Flavio, and he is busy the next day). They give me a map of the area.
Both of us return to the town square at sunset. The air hockey tables have been dismantled. We are hoping for a sunset color show. But as the sun tucks itself in among the peak, no spectacular display emerges. Disappointed, we head to dinner.
There are only three restaurants in town. Tonight we go to Kuchu Marka. When we enter, most of the tables have small 'reserved' signs. We wonder why? But they find a small table in one of the two front rooms. Behind the front rooms is a bar room followed by a large, open room. I have to watch my head as I move about the restaurant. All the ceilings are low. The restaurant also smells of kerosene.
Shortly after we sit down, highway workers start to saunter into the bar and into the back room. Soon, more and more workers enter. The bar and back room are filled with road workers. Maybe 50? The flow of workers continues.
Then, a German tour group fill up the rest of the tables in the front rooms. Maybe 50 of them. We are stunned. There didn't appear to be that many tourists in the town. Where are they coming from?
We order chicken with a quinoa coating. It is presented on large platters of small chicken pieces. They restaurant is noisy. Our waitress loses sight of us. We finally get our check.
As we walk back to the lodge, the stars seem to light the way. They're luminous in the dark mountain sky.
Luckily, our room has a portable heater. Unfortunately, we did not turn it on before we left. The room is cold.
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