a fold in the map 1

Our hotel was a steep climb up a hill along the bank of the lake. We sussed out prices for cars and took it easy after a long bus journey; we ate chocolate and had a bad dinner in a Germanesque restaurant – there is something here that seems Germanic – the sausages, the chocolate, the well constructed timber balconies; the people are a little more reserved too. The next day, after renting a car, we set off on what was supposed to be a day trip into Chile. The plan was to see a new project for a thermal baths built in the mountains over the border, and hopefully return the next day through San Martin. This reality was: 4 days travelling, camping 2 nights, a flight to the border coming back, a rally across the Andes on a dirt track in the pitch dark with one headlight, an overnight stay in no man´s land, a completely destroyed car, and a peculiar suspicion that we had met a devil.

It started smoothly as we made our way to the border, with condors hovering above us the whole way, and alpacas jumping out of the way of the car. The crossing was funny, particularly on the Chilean side; there were three windows we had to present ourselves at, police, customs and vehicle registration I think, all of whom taking a keen interest in where we were from. We were firmly on Chilean soil by 3pm. Across the border you arrive directly into Villarica national park, named after one of the many volcanoes in the area, all calmly exhaling thick black smoke from time to time. The first thing you notice as you cross the border is the richness of green, thick Cavan ditches alongside the roads, cattle feeding in thick deep grass, but the trees tell you you´re not in Ireland anymore – huge trees towering over the road, dripping with long ropes of ivy, branches spilling into the ground and becoming roots again, dead trees half fallen on others. The clouds that form over the pacific come inland but only to a point, and on this side of the mountains it lashes. We wound our way down a ridiculous zigzag until we got to the park warden´s house, where there was a sign saying –back in 5 minutes– which sounded improbable. After a quick snoop around, though, two ranch hand looking characters with John Deere caps and beer breath appeared from the house, saying they were the wardens. This sounded, and smelt, unlikely, but they were good help in any case; we even gave them a lift into town. Two hours driving later and not out of the national park, we realised that this would be a longer trip than planned.

We camped outside Pucon with a Jewish guy who had a meditation centre and that night we headed out to Los Pozones, a thermal bath that was open till 3am. This place was incredible, you arrive at it from a hill and you see a series of pools in the moonlight, all dimly lit, steam rising from each one, up through the valley. We spent 2, maybe 3 hours there, it was impossible to sense the time passing. We were mostly on our own, the odd visitor passed by, appearing briefly and disappearing in the mist. I sat and held my girlfriend and looked at the stars and felt the heat of the earth and it felt good.

Seeing that it would take us much longer than expected to find the project I was looking for, we stopped in Pucón for breakfast and bought tickets for our journey later on through Chile. The dogs are all insane in Pucón, travelling in packs and barking at anything doglike (which includes most things). This is probably a result of the constantly erupting volcano looming over the city of which the people seem to have a resigned acceptance. This is a country that recently suffered the 5^th largest recorded earthquake (8.8, February 2010), and regularly faces tsunami warnings along the coast (which, given the skinniness of Chile, is the entire country). But the dogs live in a constant state of madness, torn between a loyalty to their masters and a desire to flee to the hills. Getting things organised, we headed off to look for the termas geometricas, a renovation of other hot springs in the area, and a project that had won national architectural prizes and international acclaim. After literally lapping the volcano we arrived at a road leading up to the hot baths. 17km up the hill you arrive at a dip in the road from which steam rises, directly from the ground. There are a number of natural baths, but the geometricas is the best, an incredible scheme of timber bridges and walkways, painted a gorgeous red, through a huge cleft in the mountain from which hot water rises. A few minutes here and you allow yourself think that this is really one of the magic places on the earth. We couldn’t resist it. We stayed for hours, and talked about how strange the planet is, opening up to show us how deep it is, and how small we are. The volcano gave out belches of smoke above us, and the water bubbled beneath.

The guys in the baths were great too, giving us a lovely broth when we finished and showing us the best way to get back across the border – our options were to 1. go back around the volcano and across where we made the pass the first time, 2. take a dodgy road over the mountains on the condition that we have a 4x4, or 3. wait for the next day to take a ferry over a lake to the border near San Martin. Faced with the hassle of adding another day onto our trip, we went to a police station in Coñaripe, where we talked with a sergeant who said that if we wanted to cross today we could take the mountain road to Liquiñe, that it is eminently passable – in fact he would even call the border to let us know we were coming. The border closes at 8pm he said, but it was half six and it was a hour´s drive. Super we thought, get to the border at 8, into San Martin at 9 or so, and we´ll have the day trekking. Such was the idea. But as we make our way to Liquiñe, after a benign caution – road works sign, we find ourselves behind trucks and steamrollers that are literally laying the road in front of us. We managed somehow to get around them, onto the dirt track and after a half an hour at 20km/h we made it to the border just past eight. There was a small building, a flag and a barrier blocking the way to a dark path up the mountain. There was no light on in the building; I remember thinking when I went to the door that if they answer, then all will be ok. They answered, but all was not ok. Normal procedure with border crossing is to leave one territory and enter another but, crossing the Andes, normal procedures don’t apply. After 20 minutes of questions, stamping and registering the details of the car, Carabinero Loyola (I’ll never forget his name - the Jesuit, just following orders) told us that the Argentinean border crossing is located 60km over the mountain, and that floods and the earthquake have left the path with some complications, but as we have been stamped out of Chile, we were to leave. There was no recourse to sleep in the car and leave in the morning. We had complained that it was the cops in the first place that told us to take this path, this pissed him off. It was now 9pm and pitch-black outside. Ewa wasn’t looking forward to it, and I didn’t feel positive about the affair, but we had no choice; Loyola´s peon raised the barrier and we made our way into the blackness ahead.