Chile III: Destination Sandbox

Lots of people tell us “Come back anytime”, but our friend’s Dad and his Chilean wife sounded as if they meant it. True or not, we arrived in Villarrica for a second time and were immediately welcomed with “strong handshakes” by the guy who sold newspapers on the supermarket corner. That first evening there was a party on so we couldn’t be late. Our German hosts were a chef and the adventure motorcycle tour operator who’d given us such valuable road information on the way down. In their garden overlooking a misty valley and the ever-bashful volcano, the gathering was an international one. There were two American farmers: one who spoke of the trials and tribulations of bringing blueberries to market from the bottom of the world, while the other bemoaned the size limits imposed by Ferrero Rocher on his hazelnut crop. An outgoing New Zealander had been exporting venison from his Patagonian ranch for over two decades and a couple had just arrived from their German enclave in Romania for their annual six-month summer stay. My most interesting conversation was with a former East German political prisoner whose escape attempts from the DDR became so frequent that the East German authorities, fed-up with paying his, and his parents’, bed and board, finally (and I assume gratefully) sold them to the West. Joining us in the “just-passing-through” group was an Englishman who, by way of the Cayman Islands, was now renovating an old mill in France, and a couple travelling from Rio to Santiago in a van.

Several days and another no-name red liquor-fuelled party later, we staggered onto the back of Bolívar, convinced we’d never survive the upcoming summer social whirl. Leaving town, our friend the newspaperman passed, waving frantically from a van and inexplicably yelling “Geronimo-o-o-!”, putting the final stamp of approval on what we agreed was a surprisingly successful visit. Riding north, we were looking forward to a different kind of landscape and the warmth it would bring. For all their European sophistication, these wooden southern towns continue to feel like outposts in a still-to-be-discovered world, which in a way they are. But behind the new homes with their wide decks and emerald lawns is Patagonia’s original population. Poorly protected under black tarps, and not so sheltered by plywood and pallets, they co-exist in the background, eking out a living behind hedgerows and along abandoned railway lines. A third world island in a first world lake.

Up through Los Angeles and Talca, the air grew balmy and the arid mountains brown and scrubby.  Parks with sandy paths supplied much-needed shade and colourful patios played Cuban music. Slowly the Spanish influence was re-emerging. I have to admit, we were missing the trappings of colonial rule: the family gatherings in the plazas at night and gilded cathedrals with their battered Christs bleeding onto white linen in glass coffins. The Spanish hadn’t liked Chile’s southern weather any more than we did. This, and the Mapuche people, had kept them from venturing further south than the Bío Bío River, somewhere between Concepción and Temuco. The Mapuche had made it quite clear they weren’t going to take up gold-mining without pay and the Spaniards came to accept that neither their vines nor their tapas had any intention of growing on either dripping slope or rugged coast. When murmurings surfaced of a Catalan rebellion back home it was the last straw. The would-be conquerors gave up on this “poor and dangerous place”.

Back in Santiago during a state workers’ strike, we were stopped by a large protest taking place in the centre. The very streets we needed to be on were closed by police barricades and we were boiling and bad-tempered in our bike gear. Stuck on one corner for so long, Fran finally told me to get off and he walked the bike around on the sidewalk until we reached the other side. We stayed just long enough to have Bolívar serviced and left for the coast. The Los Vilos beach was nothing to write home about but the road north had rare hills turned cool green and yellow by the ocean air, and Bolívar crested them effortlessly. Down below, the deep blue body of the Pacific was edged with a white ribbon as waves reached their long journey’s end.

The Atacama Desert begins (or ends) near La Serena though you wouldn’t know it from the sprawl that began several kilometres south. Opting for the historical centre instead of the high-rise beach strip, our hotel was old Mexico personified. Drinking a cold beer in the courtyard that first night, two Brazilian bikers parked beside Bolívar and wanted to chat, but their English was as non-existent as our Portuguese. Not to worry, they called their English neighbour in Brazil, then handed the phone to Fran who summarized our travels to date. The neighbour then returned to the Brazilians and passed on our story, and so on. It was the most bizarre conversation. They invited us to Florianopolis; what a pity Brazil is already behind us.

Shortly after La Serena the Pan American Hwy headed inland and it was very, very empty. The few names on the map were small settlements, if at all. Fran had wanted to see the La Silla observatory but reservations had to be made months in advance. Since we rarely know what we’re doing two days hence, we knew a visit was out of the question, but when the signs appeared, we decided to go and at least have a look. Turning off onto a small road in the direction of the wild, beige yonder, I looked back at the main highway and briefly wondered if we were mad. Apart from an encounter with a couple of donkeys, we drove through miles and miles of sandy nothing. The road wound all the way up the mountain in the distance but we were stopped by a set of gates before reaching it. A guard came out of his hut on the other side, and when we waved, he smiled and waved back. It was great, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Desert and barren mountains surrounded Copiapó as it sat like a great grey puddle at the road’s end. We were now 800km north of Santiago and our rear tire needed to be replaced. Bought in Royal Enfield in Mendoza, it hadn’t lasted even two months. Those Argentinians went down further in our estimation when the mechanics in Copiapó found that our chain, also bought in Mendoza, wasn’t looking too healthy either. That’s what happens when you buy in a country that has no money – cheap Chinese imitations sold at first world prices. We felt sick at the thought of what might have happened on the road ahead: a broken chain and no gas stations, no garages, no nothing.  Our second piece of good luck came in the form of suitable replacement, in old, dusty packaging, found after a search in the storeroom upstairs. For a mining town Copiapó was pleasant, with a lush and blooming plaza. The hotel was fine too and didn’t charge the resident tax, which was a nice change. They made up for it though with an extra fee for paying in Chilean pesos. You almost have to laugh at the absurdity of it all, penalized for paying in the local currency. Just when you think you’ve seen it all, you haven’t.

We drove on, back to the coast along the Ruta del Desierto. I will never get over the wonder of seeing the desert meet the ocean. And just when you’re breathlessly embracing the splendour of the landscape you’ve temporarily become a part of, you find yourself in……well, Chañaral. A godforsaken spot, rundown, grubby and oddly unsettling. Even odder, there was no room at the inn, not even those with rusted bars on the doors and windows (due to a surplus of visiting copper miners, as it turned out). After declining a dark space with a bathroom that left me shuddering, a small hostal gave us their last (sleeps six!) room. He charged us only for two and a free instant coffee was included the next morning. (It really is the little things that make the difference.) Outside, no tourists strolled the crumbling malecon and the fenced-off mirador, though accessible through a crack, was better off left out-of-bounds. In the blurred distance, the mountains looked as isolated as those on the moon.

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We’d been in the desert for several days now and the more north we drove, the emptier it became. Sometimes huge power lines were planted in the sand, stretching towards the horizon only to abruptly turn right and disappear along a track to an unseen mine. At intervals the road widened, providing a layby for truckers to stop and rest. These were usually empty, except for wisps of trash tumbling across the tarmac, and turkey vultures who waited with the patience of those who’ve been there forever. “Why don’t you stay awhile…..” they whispered, “so we can eat”. The day we left for Antofagasta there was no gas until 178km in. The good news was this station looked like a busy little first sign of civilization, plenty of cars and big trucks. The bad news was nobody was pumping. The electricity had gone out three hours earlier and its return date was unknown. The next fuelling opportunity was La Negra, almost 200 km away. Doing some quick mental calculations, Fran filled the tank from our spare cans and off we went, leaving behind a hazy tableau of still and silent bodies, waiting in a place where time has no meaning.  

In spite of Fran’s reassurances, I silently kept track of the miles, noted the strength of the wind and did my best to remember that the fuel gage needle was filed under “F” for fiction. At the 1310km mile marker, we unexpectedly found ourselves at the “Mano del Desierto” sculpture.  It was just us, the huge hand and down the track a little guy sitting on a cooler full of ice cream. The strip of highway below seemed almost an afterthought. Further on was the dirtiest pit stop on earth: the La Negra industrial complex. But it had gas, beautiful, glorious gas.  It also had a copper smelter refinery puffing black smoke, a cement plant raining down grey powder and a lithium concentrate processing facility doing whatever it is lithium concentrate processing entails. An attempt had been made by the gas station owner to distract from the mantle of contamination (real or imagined) that descended upon his customers on disembarking, and a small garden next to the convenience store displayed gasping shrubs as they fought their way out of ashen shrouds. Alive admittedly, though not feeling very well.

The best thing about Antofagasta was its name. We weren’t in the greatest area but we did have the greatest view, watching the sun sink into the Pacific, then cast a pink glow over the barrios that flowed up the sand mountain like pixelated water. Our seafront’s beautiful views were spoiled by the sad tents of the homeless, a line of dilapidated buildings and that Latin version of Soviet working-class apartment blocks. Anywhere else in the world, this would have been prime real estate.

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In spite of it being on everybody-above-the-age-of-19’s bucket list, we really liked San Pedro de Atacama. It was approached by a dramatic drive through red boulders and along the edge of the great Valle de la Luna. The town was warm and dusty with white adobe buildings, a small church and not too many visitors as they were out all day on tours.  We explored the Valley of the Moon, having it almost entirely to ourselves, and the surrounding villages and countryside. Driving a bumpy, gravel road to a lagoon to view the flamingos, we were refused entry at the “gate” because we’d no advance reservations. We were also not allowed to buy tickets, so that was that. We didn’t care. ‘Seen one flamingo, you’ve seen ‘em all. Driving day after day through this part of Chile had reignited the old flame of excitement that had dampened down to pilot-light status in the soaking wet south. In the Valle de Arcoiris we crossed multiple streams, entered hidden canyons, made tracks in the sand where no tracks existed, and generally felt like we were the last people left on earth.

It was 700km to Arica. We wanted to drive it in three stages but places to stop were few and far between, so we planned two stints with one long day. Our early start was foiled by a puncture before we even left the hotel. The old guy who fixed it kept stopping to chat with neighbours who dropped by so we lost two and a half hours. Fuelling later in Calama, we weren’t to know it would be the last chance to fill-up until Pozo Almonte, 332km away. It was a godawful lonely journey, with only roadside altars to keep us company, and it was getting harder to stay awake. By the time we staggered into the first gas station in Pozo, we’d driven 430km with nothing but an unexpected customs check and a distant oasis to break the gritty monotony. Heading towards a free pump on the right, Fran abruptly changed course, only to aim for a third option seconds later. “What the hell…?” But I knew what was happening. Over 400km of white line fever had turned Pancho’s brain to mush. “Here we go again” I sighed, as poor ole Bolí momentarily stood still in indecision, wobbled, then leaned to the left and all three of us simply fell over. Oh, the shame, the mortification….and oh the acceptance, for falling off was becoming the hallmark of Bolívar’s Travels.

There was precious little traffic again the next day, mainly pick-ups with work logos on the side. The gas stations remained absent for 265km. There were plenty of cemeteries, short distances from the asphalt, all with cluttered black spiked crosses and little melancholy picket fences. But if we’d paid our dues in the desert, then the road through the mountains was our just reward. It was wondrous, breathtaking. We rode the sweeping downhills with leaping hearts and mouths agape, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the edge. And at the bottom, a mysterious valley, devoid of vegetation, not even a green fuzz to blemish the smooth slopes. A more barren place we’ve never seen.

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Bolívar had taken us the entire 1,000km that made up the length of the Atacama desert. It ended in Arica. I once knew a boy from a wealthy family here, and now that I saw it for myself, I was bewildered. It seemed so small, and nothing like the image I hadn’t known I had. It didn’t even appear prosperous until the night revealed the lights stretching far out towards the ocean. But the wild beauty as well as the country ended here. Leaving for the border we passed trash, poorly constructed chipboard homes and sterile apartment blocks; a grey and dreadful place, shackled by dank coastal fog.

Chile was moody, and Chile hadn’t made it easy. “If you want to know me” she said with a sniff “come and live with me”, so we did.  For two months. There were times when she didn’t like us any more than we liked her, and it was touch and go. But, as with any worthwhile relationship, perseverance wins out, even if it comes with a pout.  When we look back on our time there, we’re glad we hadn’t flounced out, left the party early, or stormed back east over the mountains in a huff. Because in the end she came through. “See?” she said triumphantly, “I kept the best for last”. And as to whether she meant her top last or her bottom last, that’s up to the individual traveller to decide.