Lonquimay, Day 1

My bus to the small town of Malalcahuello, on the Chilean Andes, only left at 11 am, for which I was thankful after having gone to sleep so late the evening before. I once again left a bag of stuff at the hotel (with my stove, since I was not going to be able to use it, and running stuff), had breakfast, and was off.

It was less than two hours to the border. In South America, you usually have to go through 2 borders: the one of the country you are leaving, where they check your papers to make sure you got in legally and did not stay longer than the allowed time; and the one of the country you are going into, which is the one North-Americans are most familiar with. I've always wondered though, in a case such as this one where there is a half hour ride between the two, when you've been stamped out of one country but have not yet arrived at the next, legally, where are you? Do you even exist in that sense? If a crime is commited in that space, for example, who has jurisdiction? Can a trial even be held or is this a legal black hole?

It took about 3 hours to go through it all, with bags needing to be checked and papers filled and everything. Less than an hour after the formalities were done, I was dropped off in little Malalcahuello, the entry point to the Reserva that I wanted to visit, and where I was hoping to get info so I could spend the evening planning out my route and then get going early the next day. I wanted to see who else was doing the trek.





But it was difficult to find anyone in this little town. Not only was it Sunday, but it was election day. Everyone was riveted to their television sets, waiting for the results. Voting being mandatory here (you get a fine if you don't vote, we should do that in Canada!), it makes people more involved somehow, more interested. And that meant there was no one to be seen outside.

I must have walked around the town for an hour, going to places where camping was allowed that were now closed and fenced off, going to hostals that no longer existed, until a lady offered me a bed in one of the home's spare bedrooms, and that is where I stayed. The other options were staying in cabins, which are not really affordable for a backpacker. In the evening, I went to chat with the carabineros, to get info on the park, but it was difficult, everything was closed, and all they did was try to scare me off. So I left it to the next day.



I have to say a word about the house where I stayed. It is the crookedest thing I have ever seen, with easily a 30 to 40 centimetre difference between the doorways and the centre of the rooms (I thought of David and Laurent here, who would have freaked and would have immediately wanted to repair everything). My bed was just as saggy and I felt the mattress enveloped more than it held me. I lay in it laughing my head off. The house is owned by an old lady with 14 daughters, who are all in their fifties and sixties and many of whom I met, and life centres around the huge, warm kitchen, which is where I spent a lot of my time there. They make do making bread and such that they sell, having a little store, chickens, goats. These small towns are not easy economically, and people do the best they can.

I slept like a log!