No Sleep Till San Pedro (Part 3)

Chile, as I have already mentioned several times in earlier posts, is in every sense a ´first world´country. So you can imagine my surprise when I arrived at almost midnight in San Pedro de Atacama to find no hotels, no convenience stores, no petrol station and, most bizaarely of all, no customs and immigration office. If you wanted to, you could smuggle in a dozen or so refugees from Sudan every night.

Incidentally, Sudan is exactly where I thought I had arrived at as I drove past rows and rows of ghetto shacks looking for anything that resembled a hotel. Other than a few limping tramps, the entire town seemed to be under curfew. The roads, if you could call them that, were pumelling the car.

In total, I drove up and down San Pedro four times, at walking pace, cold, exhausted, and scared about the obvious fact that I had just illegally entered a sovereign state. Things would have been very different had I known that, from a distance in the warmth of their log cabin, a bunch of Chilean border police had been observing me, and laughing. Bastards. Four times i went past them in different directions at 2 miles per hour and they didn´t do anything. Eventually they got off their arses and pulled me over next to a football pitch. Back at the log cabin, when they found one person who could speak English, the questioning began.

Where are you from?
Hong Kong.
This is Hong Kong passport?
Nationality Ireland.
You are here alone?
Yes.
Why are you here?
I thought it was a tourist destination.
This is a rented car?
Yes.
Where is the car from?
Salta.
You drove all the way from Salta?
Yes.
(cue laughter)
How long you stay for?
I´ll probably leave as soon as the sun comes up.
Why did you not stop for immigration and customs.
I had no idea this was it.

45 more minutes of my life was wasted getting the passport stamped and the car authorised. Then came the car check. Not for hard drugs or smuggled Thai girls.

Did you bring any fruit, vegetables or meat with you?

My heart stopped; then it started pounding. Chile is so paranoid about food-related diseases spreading from its poorer neighbours to the point where food smuggling is an arrestable offence. It was late, I was tired, I panicked.

"No." Apart from that child´s arm of a salami sausage sitting on the front seat.

He checked the boot, the spare tyre compartment, the back seat, the glove box. He didn´t check the plastic bag on the front seat. Crisps, which lay on top, are apparently ok. He didn´t see the sausage.

Now it was my turn to question him. Do you know where I can find a hotel?

Hostel?
No, hotel.
Hostel?
No. hotel.
Hostel?

Eyes closed, the will to live long lost.

Ok, hostel.