Wild Woila: A Delightful Change of Scenery

11 Nov 2002

I'd had my fill of the desert, but was keen for more mountains, so I hightailed it south. There wasn't much to see on the way so I took one bus all the way to Santiago, 1600km and 20 hours down the Panamericana. After the horror of my last long bus trip into the Amazon, I splurged on a premium class ticket. This was a revelation - who knew buses could be so plush?! There were only 24 seats, three to a row, each as wide a business class airline seat. They even brought meals around! The seats didn't quite lie flat, but came close, and I managed a rough approximation of sleep. The scenery was monotonous - flat, featureless desert, although it perked up a bit on the outskirts of Santiago, where there is a thriving horticulture industry.

A huge portion of Chilenos live in Santiago, a bustling, dirty city of 5 million. Sticking with the theme, the buses in Santiago were a terror: big, boxy, diesel belching monsters that would roar down the city blocks, racing each other to get to the next stop. I wasn't inclined to spend very long there, but on my planned day of departure I felt like death warmed over - the dreaded gastro was back with a vengeance. The hostel manager looked me over and gently suggested that perhaps I might like to see a doctor. Having been sick on and off for some weeks, I took his advice and coughed up for an English speaking doctor at an expensive private hospital. He gave me some antibiotics and said not to go climbing any mountains ...

[As an aside, public transport is a sensitive subject for Chilenos. During my second visit in 2007 I witnessed the Transantiago fiasco: the left-wing government made a hash of nationalising the public transport system. Routes were much longer, wait times were inordinate, and the clean new buses were too big to fit around the tight corners downtown. (There is a fascinating podcast on it here - trigger warning for Hayekian libertarian views!) More recently, a protest over increased fares snowballed into widespread discontent, resulting in a re-write of the Pinochet-era constitution and a radical left-wing president.]

The antibiotics worked their magic and I was soon another 750km south in the Pucon, the tourist mecca of the Lakes District, a land of snow-capped volcanoes, verdant beech forests and gushing rivers. In other words: Wanaka. I had hoped to do some decent treks, but El Nino had dumped unseasonably late snow that blocked the high trails. Despite that, there was plenty to do, and with high rivers rafting looked like a good option.

I discovered that it was much easier to make friends with the locals in Chile and Argentina. I presume it's because there was much less distance between us in terms of wealth, culture and privilege - and they can afford to be tourists in their own right! I shared my dormitory with two Chilenos: Jorge, a importer-exporter who split his time between working in Indonesia and snowboarding down volcanoes in Chile; and Carlos, a recent tourism graduate who was looking for a job. Carlos was keen to improve his English and I spent a memorable/exasperating evening helping him to pronounce ship, sheep, cheap and chip. There is no 'sh' sound in Spanish, and each vowel has only one pronunciation, as opposed to the English 'e' which has at least a dozen!

Jorge was more keen on drinking and describing his exploits in the outdoors, and with women. He got me thoroughly drunk, the downside of which was the early morning wake up call informing me that, despite initial doubts, my rafting trip was going ahead after all. But it wasn't just rafting - it was hydrospeeding. Hydrospeeding is slightly mad. You put on not one but two wetsuits, with extra padding on the lower legs, hook your arms into a modified boogie board, then jump in the river and hold on for dear life. The guide said in no uncertain terms that I was to follow him exactly, else risk getting swept into class 5 rapids and never come out again. For someone who was seriously hungover (and maybe even still a little drunk), this did not sound like a terribly good idea. But the guides were pumped because it was the first run for the season, and I was the only punter so didn't feel like I could bail. The river did a good job of waking me up, but my stomach, still recovered from gastro, did not appreciate the turmoil of being swept through rapids, waves coming from every direction. Even if I had been in top form, it would have been terrifying. I stuck it out for a fair while, but eventually collapsed in a thankful heap in the safety raft.

Holding on for dear life

Three keen guides, and one hungover punter

Jorge wanted to snowboard down the nearby Volcan Villarrica and, even though he had plenty of experience, park regulations required he go with a climbing guide. He asked me along and, carefully forgetting the admonitions of the doctor in Santiago, I jumped at the opportunity. Starting from the ski resort at 1500m altitude we eschewed the chairlift and slogged our way up the heavily blanketed slopes. It was very straightforward except just below the summit where we donned our crampons and used our ice tools to clamber over a small shelf. Tame, but exciting for newbies. The summit, at 2847m, gave expansive views over the lakes and forests far below, pierced by any number of other volcanoes. The really cool thing, though, was the fact that Villarrica is active, with a plume of sulphurous steam pouring out of the crater. We had a painful chemistry lesson when the sulphur reacted with the moisture in our eyes and nostrils and formed sulphuric acid. Yowee! Jorge strapped on his snowboard and was soon making fresh tracks. The rest of us learned to glissade, but quickly discovered that we could just sit back on our bums, hold our legs up, and sliiiiide!!! Our Swiss mountain guide disapproved of such juvenile behaviour, but we had an absolute blast tobogganing back to the snowline.

Volcan Villarrica

Our climbing group on the summit

My first mountaineering triumph

Jorge before snowboarding away

View across the Lakes District

To round off my time in Pucon I opted for something a little more tranquilo, going for a day walk in the nearby Parque Nacional Huerquehue. This was a fine introduction to the stunning beauty of the Gondwanan landscape - if you've walked in South Island New Zealand you'll know the vibe. Perhaps I'd been a bit rash in going hard while recovering from my lengthy bout of gastro, but I'd gotten away with it and was having a ball. I felt like I'd found my sweet spot: outdooring adventuring in southern Chile was working out very nicely indeed.