No Sleep Till San Pedro (Part 1)

Back in Salta, the guy at the car rental company was starting to lose patience. Having just returned the car, I was now comtemplating the future. More than an hour had passed circling his office like a classic time-waster.

"Seriously, what is it you want? Hiking? Adventure? Historical ruins? Archeaological sites?"

"I don´t know really. What do you think?"

This went on for some time. None of the options struck me as being non-negotiable must-dos. Besides, having just completed the Cafayate-Cachi circuit, finding a follow-on was never going to be easy. Perhaps this was my calling to Bolivia - time to move on, John, catch a bus, cross the border, off you go. Suddenly, I perked up.

"What´s that?" I asked, pointing my finger at a black-and-white poster at the doorway to his back office.

"That´s the Atacama desert."

"Where is it?"

"It´s in Chile."

"I know, but how far is it?"

"You´ll need the car for 5 days minimum, and a special permit to drive across the border." Obviously he didn´t realise that, from Tierra del Fuego, I was already familiar with this rigmarole.

"Sort out the papers, mate."

Just like that, what a few days earlier had been a 50/50 half-hearted possibility turned into 100% action. Bolivia can wait. All that was needed was a quick trip to the supermarket to procure all necessary supplies: one bottle of mineral water, two packs of Philip Morris, a family-sized pack of Lays crisps, one gargantuan salami sauasage, one pack of Cheezy Puffs and one pack of barbeque flavoured wrinkled crisps.

According to National Geographic, the Atacama Desert is the driest desert in the world. It didn´t rain there at all between 1570 and 1971. To NASA scientists, it is the perfect soil sample to replicate the surface of Mars. To hardcore adventurers, it is one of the "4 Deserts" that must be conquered, alongside Sahara, Gobi and Antartica.

My plan of action was to first drive north and spend a night in the Argentinian town of Purmamarca, then set off the next morning for the long, cross-border drive into the desert, finishing up in the oasis village of San Pedro de Atacama.

Instead of taking the motorway north all the way, I somehow found myself on a rather delightful scenic route.

 It was a hot, humid day in the province of Jujuy (pronounced Hoo-Hooi), but not the ghastly Hong Kong sort of heat. More like the frisky British (early June) sort, the type that makes you want to spend your lunch hour lying flat in a park. The type that was to blame for my extremely disappointing `desmond` 2-2 degree at university. Brought back a flood of memories of missed lectures, early nineties sounds, and afternoons on the golf course.

Even the goats got a bit frisky

By 4pm, lush pastures had transformed into arid mountains, as I arrived at my intended stopover, Purmamarca, famed for the Rock of Seven Colours and also a UNESCO World Heritage site. A quick look at my packet of Lays family-sized crisps, which had now inflated into a helium balloon, informed me that i was now at altitude. This is where the left turn is that sets you off on the westerly direction of Paso de Jama, the border pass. (See map)

The thought process behind the decision to move on went soemthing like this. Fuck it, let´s just go and see what happens.

From the left turn, the zig-zag climb started in 4th gear, down to 3rd, before it was 2nd all the way. Having already conquered the clouds (3,400 metres, see previous post) two days earlier, I paid little attention to the heavy breathing, dizziness, and ear-aches, focusing instead on overtaking an articulated lorry that didn´t seem to want to let me pass.

Eventually i made it to the peak, a height of 4170 metres. To put this into altitude perspective, it is short of half way to the Everest. (8840 metres.) Stupidly, I ran up the hill to see how far I could go, it couldn´t have been more than 50 metres before I was completely out of breath and about to collapse with exhaustion.

Could have turned back at this point but the same thought process ruled. Plus, it was downhill now, and as all my senses quickly returned with the availability of oxygen, I commenced the long straight, stopping for twenty minutes for a few sunset photos at the Argentinian Salt Flats.

By the time I reached the lonely border post of Paso de Jama (4,400 metres), it was 8:30pm, completely dark, and the temperature was 6 degrees accompanied by those ghastly two words - wind chill.