Saltos Del Laja: Un Cuento (Saltos Del Laja: A Story)

Those pictures, the one's filled with a picturesque waterfall and various themes on the same sunset, also come with a story, and here, for your enjoyment, it is.

Kenzie, Corey and I decided to take the hour and a half long bus ride to a waterfall near Chillan, called Saltos del Laja (the verb saltar means to jump, hence the water is jumping from the top of a cliff, the river's abortive suicide attempt which ultimately fails, but I digress...). We all live close to each other, and so we met up and walked to the bus terminal, bought our tickets, and passed the hour until the bus left browsing the neighboring Jumbo. The bus left at 4pm.

The plan: board said bus, disembark at Saltos, trek up the falls, snap photos, maybe get lunch and browse the little shops, flag down a returning bus, return to Chillan after a couple hours of fun.

Reality: 4pm. The bus left on schedule, the trip went smoothly, and the driver dropped us off on the side of the road.

Saltos is not a town. It is a hostel sitting up on a hill, a little restaurant, a row of touristy craft-vending kiosks, a public restroom down a little hill shaded by trees (which is completely un-alarming under a blaze of friendly sun), and a little bus information booth (closed by 7). So. According to Corey (our guide and resident expert, having been to Saltos once already) we have but to hop the next bus to Chillan passing through this little stretch of tourism. Facil (easy).

We crossed the bridge over the river (the same that attempted suicide and lived to float on beneath us), pausing in the middle, waiting for the large log truck to pass so we could feel the earth shudder in an unsettling and thrilling way as the bridge shakes. And we walked down, and then walked up, on little earthen stairs, little wooden stairs, paths with steep grades, and paved stretches, snapping pictures of the falls.

It is quite amazing. Fairly small, but wide and tall enough to pretend, with a bit of a squint and a hint of imagination, that Niagara Falls is roaring in front of you. The wideness is what strikes me. In Oregon I have been to waterfalls--tall impressive waterfalls--but they are not like this. Pictures speak louder than the words my brain can't produce at the moment.

Amazing as it is, after a half hour (it is now 6), we were ready to leave. We browsed the kiosks, including an artist dabbing paint on panes of glass, little portraits of the falls for sale. There were many souvenirs that could also be found in Chillan in the mercado, the only difference being the words "Saltos del Laja" scribbled in pen in the corners. There have been no buses yet. Worry is still far from our minds.

We finished gazing at the livelihoods of various Chileans, and caught a seat on the wooden fence by the "bus stop" (a wide swath of dirt surrounding the two-lane blacktop). The first bus to stop was headed for a small town (the name escapes me at present), and we smiled away the few people who boarded, and waited patiently, taking photos of the sinking sun and chattering nothings to pass the time. The second bus continued on to Concepcion, with the three of us kicking around dirt, discussing various places in Chile. Seven has come and gone. The lady manning the small bus booth has hopped the bus to Concepcion.

By eight, little flutters began to form in the stomach region. The sun sank lower. The vendors packed up their wares and left. We waited. Bus after bus continued passing, none bound for Chillan. Eventually, we started flagging down each one, asking when the next bus to Chillan would show up. "diez minutos atrás (Ten minutes more)," assured each driver. Ten minutes slid by and no bus. At 9pm, a bus driver told us to hop on and he would take us to the autopista (highway) so we could have a better chance of finding a bus. By this time, I can read a clear scream of anxiety in the eyes of Kenzie. Corey, having traveled to China by himself, without knowing the language, seemed calm. I was also surprisingly unaffected by the passing buses. I was preparing to spend a night in a little plywood bus stop, shaking with the passing of each truck. It was cold and in between buses, we walked around in tight circles or little patrols back and forth in front of the shelter. The bus stop was situated in such a way that the main road lay in front of us, and a smaller one behind. We were assured multiple times that the bus we wanted would appear on the autopista. Nevertheless I ran to the second bus stop behind us every time a possible bus appeared on that road. Just in case.

We finally decided to make a choice. We could return to the hostel and hope they were still open and had rooms, and that we had enough money between us to stay the night. Or we could cross the autopista and take a bus to Los Angeles, and hope to find a bus to Chillan at the bus terminal there. Kenzie decided to try for Los Angeles (we saw at least 10 buses headed for Los Angeles in the past hour). As we were crossing the highway, Corey called our professor Florencia to ask her advice. She suggested waiting where we were for a bus to Chillan. We turned around and went back.

Finally at 10:30 or so, we saw a bus coming up the smaller road behind us. Once again, I ran over to the other bus stop and flagged it down. The sign, flashing in holy-grail light under a street light, read "Chillan," and full choral arrangements burst from the clouds and trees and stars. Salvation was upon us. We got on-board, being sure to ask if the bus was in fact going to Chillan (in case hallucinogens somehow seeped into our consciousnesses by some unknown means). The driver gave us a funny look and nodded. We collapsed into open seats in the rear. We caught the bus at the right time, because before we reached the terminal in Chillan, the bus had filled, including standing room. And an hour and a half later, midnight, we arrived in Chillan and walked home.

The end.