Arica and Tacna, Peru

Traditional Dancer from Los Diablos, Dancing Fraternity from Bolivia

We hadn't planned on going to Arica when we left home, but in Iquique we decided to go as far north as time allowed. It took five hours on the bus, a snap after our other marathon rides, while we passed more behemoth mines and an oasis or two where melons and olives grew. The bus climbed a steep grade until a sheer drop of at least a thousand feet was below us and then crossed the top of a desolate mesa that stretched for several kilometers. We climbed even higher before making an ear popping plunge to sea level and the city of Arica.

I was glad I had a novel to read (Nancy Kress' Probability Sun) along the way. I looked out the window below us for as long as I could stand it, but when the bus raced around a curve I diverted my eyes and went back to the literary comfort of the possibilty of all of space-time unraveling.

Arica lies just south of the Peruvian border. Russ, a Kiwi who with his wife runs the Sunny Days Hostel, told us that there are two or three rain showers a year at the the end of February which lasts for fifteen or twenty minutes, the entire precipitation for the year. The city's slogan is "The City of Eternal Spring," though it felt like eternal summer while we were there. But that was a good thing. We spent a couple of wonderfully lazy days walking in the morning and then coming back for a siesta of reading and the best naps of summer. The evenings were paradise, warm but with the ocean breeze flowing onshore.

We arrived on the first night of Carvinal Fuerza del Sol by happenstance. We soon learned that dancing fraternities whose participants, mostly indiginous Aymaras from Chile, Peru and Bolivia, compete for the equivalent of 10,000 dollars worth of prizes. Most groups consist of children and adults. They practice every night in their hometowns as precision and creativity are highly valued. Each group had a band and the drums beat like hearts as they wound through the streets, finally ending at the Plaza de Armas where the judging stands were located.

This is the first group we came upon. Many of the people dancing here are elderly and we wondered at their endurance as their costumes seemed to be very heavy. They kept this pace for hours. Even with frequent cups of water, it had to take stamina:

Young children often danced in the front, followed by a drum major (for lack of a better term) and group of pretty young women in short frilly dresses that chanted things like: We're from Tacna, and we're the best. Watch us win the prize. Woooo! as they shimmied down the streets in high heels. Sometimes there were young men dressed in modified conquistador costumes with bells attached to their legs that went ching-ching-ching as they paraded after the young women. A group of mature dancers, usually the largest contingent, was the focal point of the dance, and finally the band would appear with the drum and horn section blasting away, their music mingling with the bands in front and behind them. The farther away from the parade we got, even miles away at our hostel, the beat could still be felt and the music floated to us in a wave of cacophony.

The costumes cost millions of pesos (or their equivalent in soles or bolivianos). Carnivals are held all over the region and the fraternities tour from town to town. This carnival was a family affair, unlike what I imagine Fat Tuesday is like on Bourbon Street. I saw no one drunk and children were out until the early morning hours. There were stands for refreshments, an artisan market, and a dry multi-level fmunicipal fountain and an old train engine that the children climbed on with little supervision.

This young woman charmed us into buying a calendar we didn't need to help support her group.

The Aymara are one of the biggest indigenous cultures in the Americas, consisting of over two million people. Traditional beliefs include a concept of time in which the past is in front of them and the future behind. It is their culture that the coca irradication the United States has pursued in Bolivia has affected the most, devestating their way of life. For them, the coca plant is a mild stimulant that helps them deal with cold, hunger and high altitudes. Bill and I have had matte from the coca plant a few times. I don't get any more of a "high" from it than I do with a cup of English Breakfast tea.

These are quiet people and as I looked at their faces as they danced, or saw women during the day with their long braids, bowler hats--a large shipment of these hats came from England in the 1920s. They were too small and so given to the Aymara's who have worn them ever since-- and colorful skirts, they seemed like the most beautiful people on Earth. I know I'm projecting, but they just appeared to be so connected with each other, and part of something in a way I've never felt as a norteamericana.

The Plaza de Armas in Arica is located beneath El Morro, a huge rock that looms over the city. The plaza is full of palm trees (beware the yeco birds that nest in them), dancing fountains and has an expansive space that sets off the cathedral and the Aduana de Arica, the former custom's office, now a museum. Both buildings are made of cast iron designed and prefabricated by Eiffel in Paris. Arica has been destroyed by both earthquake and tidal waves more than once. Peruvian officials ordered these buildings to withstand disasters, and they have done so. Unfortunately for Peru, Chile wrestled Arica away in the decisive battle of the War of the Pacific in 1880 and the town has been a part of Chile ever since.

Iglesia San Marcos



Interior detail of spiral staircase, Aduana de Arica

This young man from the Chilean Army asked to have his picture taken with us.

We enjoyed our time at the hostel, as we always do. I love the blend of languages and accents. It's a common practice for young people, mostly English, Australians and Germans, but also some French to take at least a year off after college (for some before entering) to travel the world. It's expected by the culture and supported by parents at least in encouragement, if not financially. Many young women travel alone, blithely traveling through places like Bolivia that have proven difficult for many of the older tourist we've met. We meet very few people from the United States.

At Sunny Days, we met a young Australian woman named Ann who lives in Cochabamba, Bolivia working with young men aged 16 to 25 who are learning to transition from institutional life in the hope they won't return to living on the streets. Another Aussie couple, two sweethearts who had just earned their teaching certificate, arrived on our last day to rest before they completed their journey to central Peru where they would also be working with street children for several months.

Found at a flea market in Arica

Perhaps if we had known we'd end up in Arica, we might have brought warmer clothes and made a trip to Parque National Lauca, though we might have had to drink a lot of coca matte as it's over 17,000 feet. I fell asleep one night listening to the young people talk about the altitude pills they'd brought with them (I didn't even know they existed) and their excitement about seeing vicunas, flamingos and bathing in thermal pools. We decided instead to go to the town of Putre, near the park, at a mere 10,000 feet, but once we made up our mind we werer told there was no public transportation on the day we needed to go.

So Tacna, Peru was our next choice. We wanted to go on a train with an open wagon and springboard seats for passengers. It left every Monday. We woke up early; at 6 a.m. the music from the carnival was still going strong as it drifted across town to us. At the railway station, it turned out that, yes, the train went on Mondays, but not on our particular Monday. We ended up taking a bus, disappointed because we were looking forward to the train trip more than the city.

We filled out the customs cards in pencil, which turned out to be VERY BAD. The Chilean border guards were grumpy with us. A woman lent us her pen while we were at the border for new cards. Once in Tacna, we got a cab from the bus station to a mercado Russ suggested we visit. We walked up and down the street bombarded by young men thrusting optomitrist cards at us. We seemed to have landed at eye glass central, had I known I'd have brought my presciption. In the midst of this chaos, we heard a friendly voice. The same woman who had helped us earlier was there with her two daughters and her mother. She told us her name was Gema and that she made false teeth, crowns and bridges in her own lab at home in Arica.

The flat tax for anything bought in Chile, including food, is 19%, so many Aricanos come to Tacna for deals. Gema's mom was in search of silver jewelry and she was looking for supplies for her lab. After shopping and a visit to friends, a trip was planned for Bolivia the next day to go to the dentist. They were headed to the mercado too, which we had mananged to walk past three times.

Later Gema and her family took us to the cathedral. Before they left us there, they told us more than once not to pay more than two and a half soles for a taxi ride. Gema gave us her email address, and with her farewell beso said to contact her the next time we were Arica, we always would have a place to stay.

Madonnas are especially sorrowful in South America

We sat for awhile in the cathedral because it was cool and wondered if the arch next to us really would be seismicaly safe as the sign beneath it was promising. We then crossed over to the plaza above and several young men came rushing at us with shoeshine boxes. Bill said yes. Two boys got close to me insisting my sneakers (with the toe beginning to peal off of one of them) needed to be cleaned. I kept saying No, but they wouldn't stop pestering. Finally, I used my "teacher voice," NO! and they ran off.

Less than a minute later, they came back and quietly sat at my feet. One of them kept touching my shoe and the other one complimented my bag that I had an iron grip on. When Bill's shoes were done, his shoe shiner said, Okay, five, ten dollar American. Bill gave him a little over a dollar in soles. As we walked off, the young man still was scolding us.

We had lunch and then walked back to the bus station. A colectivo driver followed us across the street into the station, hounding us to have him take us back to Chile for 4,000 pesos. We knew that the standard fare was 1,500 and just kept walking. The guy could win a prize for persistance, which is a polite way of saying her was a pain in the ass. He kept up with us until it we went through a gate where a bus for Chile was waiting.