The international airport of La Paz is located on a plateau above the city, requiring travelers to climb out as if from a pit. It’s called El Alto, which translates to “The High One.” Fittingly named, as it stands at an impressive altitude of 4,061.5 meters above sea level, making it the highest international airport in the world. However, its name actually comes from the neighboring town of the same name, a sort of extension of La Paz atop the mountain. Here, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant symptoms of altitude sickness. The nausea subsided almost completely after stepping out of the airport building into the fresh air and drinking water. I spent my time before boarding walking in circles around the tiny airport garden, as there were no places to sit.
From La Paz to Santiago de Chile, my next destination, it’s a six-hour flight. However, barely an hour after takeoff and leaving Bolivia’s airspace, the plane landed somewhere in the Atacama Desert, most likely in Calama, for customs inspection and passport control—actually a formal entry into the country. And here my adventures began anew.
A customs officer pulled out a souvenir I had purchased earlier in Peru—a cabeza, a tropical fruit, painted to resemble the head —from my hand luggage. He shook it, and the sound of dry seeds rattling inside was clearly audible. “You can’t bring seeds,” he said. The attempts to convince him that the seeds were old and would never sprout were unsuccessful. “But it’s such a beautiful souvenir,” I pleaded, “it’s a shame to part with it.” He found a solution: “If you want, I can cut an opening in it, remove the seeds, and then everything will be fine.” I eagerly agreed. He took out a small knife, carefully made a hole at the bottom of the fruit, shook out every last seed, and returned the cabeza to me. I ran back to the plane, which had been patiently waiting for me all this time.
Back in my seat, I caught my breath and began waiting for dinner—after all, it was a six-hour flight. But there was no sign of dinner, either figuratively or literally. When I asked the flight attendant why no food was being served, she said, “This is a domestic flight, and meals are not provided on domestic flights.” So that’s why they built an airport in the desert!
And so, I arrived in Santiago, empty-bellied. So, after checking in, the first thing I did was asking how to get to the vegetarian restaurant El Huerto (“The Garden”), which I had read about somewhere. Learning from the hosts that it was just a 20-minute walk, I decided to go on foot. Half an hour later, I asked a passerby how much farther I had to go. “About 20 minutes,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, another passerby assured me I was very close. And they were right. It turned out to be about an hour’s walk, but it appeared to be a pleasant walk, taking in the sights along the way and snapping photos.
It gave me the chance to explore two beautiful streets of the city, Avenida Libertador O’Higgins and Avenida Providencia, the latter featuring a stunning illuminated fountain.
The next day, I wandered tirelessly through the center of Santiago, a beautiful modern city founded by conquistador Pedro de Valdivia in 1541. I strolled along its paseos (pedestrian streets) and squares—Plaza de Armas and Plaza de La Constitución—and watched people of a long-forgotten profession, shoe shiners, at their work. I had a proper meal (only the second one on the entire journey) at El Naturista, an affordable and delicious vegetarian restaurant that attracts massive lunchtime crowds from nearby offices. The streets were full with picturesque stands selling colorful tropical fruits, but memories of a Peruvian salad and its aftermath held me back from further culinary experiments, despite the temptation.
Due to frequent earthquakes, only a handful of buildings constructed before the 19th century remain in the city, leaving little trace of its history and only a modest amount of the charm associated with colonial architecture. However, what does remain is quite impressive, despite the prevalence of neoclassical buildings, which I don’t particularly favor. In early 2010, construction was completed on the tallest building in South America—the 62-story skyscraper Gran Torre Costanera.
Not far from my accommodation there was a beautifully designed Neptune fountain, beyond which began a 300-meter climb to the viewpoint at the summit of the Santa Lucia Hill, now a forest park. From there, the entire city could be seen, unobscured by skyscrapers.
Close to the fountain there was the Centro de Exposición y Venta de Arte Indígena, exhibiting and selling folk art, where I bought some great souvenirs (my beloved ceramics, which I carried by the pounds from South America). The seller shared the history of the local indigenous tribe, adding that our peoples have similar fates. He then had to explain to his young assistant who I was and what that meant.
The next morning, I was flying to Easter Island. Once again, there was a not-so-pleasant adventure, at least, the last one.
Despite setting my alarm, I woke up just when I should have already been on my way to the airport. After rushing out of the hotel, I started desperately searching for a taxi. Minutes passed, and hope began to fade. At 8 o’clock, with only half an hour before the take-off—exactly the amount of time needed to get to the airport—and all hope gone, I accidentally looked up at the clock tower and couldn’t believe my eyes: the time was only seven o’clock, and not eight! After checking with a passerby that the clock was correct (my watch had stopped by then, and as you may remember, my phone had been stolen in Ecuador), I relaxed and calmly headed to the subway station soon finding myself eating the worst breakfast of my life at the airport.
At the airport in Anakena, the only town on Easter Island, I was greeted by the owner of the small hotel I had booked. In keeping with local tradition, he placed a garland of bright local flowers around my neck and took me to the hotel. It was the beginning of winter in the Southern Hemisphere, but the weather was such that booking a hotel without air conditioning turned out to be a mistake.
This island, which the locals call Rapa Nui, has the population of about eight thousand people, of which only 3,500 consider themselves Rapa Nui (in 1877, a year before Chile annexed the island, there were only 111 inhabitants).
I had three full days there, so I immediately started booking tours, with two half-day excursions on one of the days. And these were three days of wonderful immersion in a dream come true, when I, hardly believing my eyes, examined and photographed moai, the stone statues I had read so much about in Thor Heyerdahl’s writings, wandered the hills of one of the most remote islands in the world, and swam in the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean. No words can describe what I felt. Participants in our FB-groups, those who are infected by the same bug, will understand me. This was, without a doubt, the apotheosis of the trip. One of the peaks and, perhaps, the main one.
On the last day, while waiting for my flight, I walked around the surroundings of Anakena, swam at the tiny city beach with sharp rocks lurking just below the water’s surface, consumed a vegetarian taco prepared especially for me by the girls from a Mexican restaurant who got in to my vegetarian situation, and was taken to the airport, once again adorned with a garland, this time a farewell one.
On the day of my departure from Chile, I had just enough time for going on a tour to a famous vineyard, buying there a bottle of a sweet late-harvest wine, and making another visit to the El Naturista restaurant.
