24th April

Ah hah! Here we are at last. I've been to the gym, had a beer, dinner, glass of wine, have another here just looking at me tantalisingly ... done everything a good friend of mine told me to to get my finger out and write the last chapter in the story .... so here goes!

Last time, we were about to leave Enquelga to go north to the salt lake, the Salar de Surire - a giant salt lake covered in flamingos about 15,000 feet in the air. What stopped the water running downhill I wondered? Anyway, a kind local at Enquelga gave us details of the only route open to us, but which involved a small detour through Bolivia (but that was OK because the border was unmanned and no-one would notice) and also around a lake that had rather thoughtlessly developed across the road. On the way we stopped at a wonderful but abandoned village, Isluga. Locals had left it some time before because there wasn't enough work in the area. It is now used as a ceremonial village for celebrations only. We photographed the very attractive church and its attendant lamas, and pressed on.

The road deteriorated but the instructions were good. David was driving and somehow got it into his head that it was very important to get to Bolivia without using 4WD. This involved driving as fast as possible regardless of the terrain - 'monstering it' I believe is the technical term. On the last uphill bit, slowing down would have meant needing another gear beyond 1st that just wasn't there. It was all very well for David, he had the steering wheel to hang on to - Romi and I, on the other hand, didn't. Now I like a good bounce around a vehicle, as much as the next person .. off the roof, the doors and occasionally the windscreen but after an hour or so, Romi and I started to question David's imperative. It was no good - he was fixated - a man possessed, determined that the car was going to do what HE wanted it to .. he WAS going to win ... bugger the ruts! He came out of his trance when we got to the top of the hill and found ourselves infront of a sign that said "Pelligro (danger) - Campo Minados" It took no translation - Mines. Hmm .. best not stop for a pee, we thought, and drove merrily on. The minefield wasn't large but, we found out later on, was a relic of an earlier war when Chile and Argentina had ganged up on Bolivia.

At last we arrived at the Salar. Our highpoint of the journey. We knew it would be fantastic ... and it was. It was quite stunning. 

Imagine the deepest almost midnight blue sky directly above you, fading to a turquoise on the horizon ... you are surrounded by snow capped mountains ... the ones behind you are close and 'in your face' whilst those in front are distant and yet still massive and quite powerful. In the middle distance is a huge expanse of flatness, appearing white and blindingly bright at first but graduating to water shimmering with heat haze, reflecting the mountains in the distance. 17,000 acres of vibrant turquoise and green water with patchy streaks of very bright white - salt patches. The sense of peace, calm and total isolation was surreal and almost overwhelming: outside the wind, you could hear the silence - it was so quiet it almost hurt my ears. We drove past a camp site that was on the edge of a pool of that was somehow separated from the rest of the lake. It's colour was magnificent electric or even ice cold blue - but the water bubbled and steamed with hot spring activity. First impressions suggested that that would be a great place to camp: when we got to the water's edge we realised that camping would be fine if we were sulphur based life forms - the smell of rotten eggs coming from the pool was .. shall we say .. striking! As indeed was the wind, that was cold enough to want to keep your thermals very close to those bits and pieces that like the warm but disappear upwards at the slightest hint of cold, despite the water being almost scalding. We moved on.

We were heading for the CONAF refugio that we knew was somewhere on the lake's edge. Sure enough we found it but the only people in, were a couple of rabbit-like creatures that took a liking to Romi and her cheese biscuits: she had them eating out of her hand. By this time, I was beginning to feel manky - headache, fatigue and nausea. I put it down to my cheap sun glasses or too much sun but had it in my head it could have been simple tiredness or, more likely altitude sickness. Hmm. After an hour of feeding the bunnies, we spotted the tell-tail trail of dust in the distance. It turned out to be the people who ran the refugio, plus a couple of others who were hitching a lift. They were expecting us. The people in Enquelga had radioed ahead to tell the Salar refugio to expect us - they were worried we wouldn't make it - as if! But what nice, decent chappies they were. 

Then we had a happy half hour whilst, having explained that we wanted to continue north into the Lauca National Park, one of our new found friends explained to us in Spanish in words of less than one syllable that all roads north were impassable because the River Lauca had flooded and washed them all out. What could be simpler? Possibly telling people who would listen? Oh no .. don't be daft! That was David and me he was talking to! The poor man was faced by two quite determined idiot blokes who had had their egos quite wonderfully flattered by local incredulity at where they had managed to drive, who were just NOT going to take "no" for an answer. How many ways do you think you can communicate - "impassable in a land vehicle - you need a boat and you haven't got one"? Well, we made him tell us in every way he could think of and some new and interesting ways his language possibly hadn't hitherto stretched to: we made him wave his arms around, draw pictures in the air, point to the map, draw on the map ... twice ... and then as a final attempt to get his message across, draw in the sand (you could almost hear him saying "look you dumb f*****s, you stupid English tourists .. read my lips you ain't going north!). David and Romi clocked about then. I wasn't so sure ... so I asked him if he'd crossed the river himself ... after he'd picked up his jaw from the floor, he pointed to where he lived, just up the road ... "NO I HAVEN'T CROSSED THE RIVER ... I'VE JUST BEEN TELLING YOU FOR HALF AN HOUR ITS UNCROSSABLE!!!" I got the message.

So we resolved to stay at the refugio that night and turn back the next day. Our friend suggested we took a tour around the lake which seemed like a loverly and quite perfect touristy thing to do and so we set off but with a warning echoing in our heads - "drive through the MIDDLE of puddles", they said, "beware the edges". Shortly after leaving the refugio, we came to the Carabineros (local police) who flagged us in. He (there was only one) asked us where we going and noted our vehicle registration and description, and our passport numbers and then let us go.

"Beware the edges" we thought as we drove ... well that would have been fine, had it not been for the fact (that I have neglected to mention) that the car had become peculiarly sensitive to water - three molecules anywhere near the electrics and we stalled, which had happened enough over the previous few days to make me wonder if the car had feline sympathies. Anyway, David was therefore treading a fine line between careering headlong into water and risking parking unintentionally in the middle of it, or easing the off-side wheel nearer the edge of the puddle and the dry. But the dry was not necessarily as hard under wheel as the wet. Have you ever been in a car that has hit deep mud at a reasonable speed? I only ask because you need to imagine this but I can't think of any combination of letters that, if pronounced, would make a suitably descriptive noise. How about SPLURGE? Followed by "ooops".

Well we had specialised in doing things properly in our four wheel driving - so why should getting stuck be any exception? We were cross axled with the off side front and near side rear wheels spinning gayly in mud with the other two wheels taking the weight of the vehicle (cars don't move very well in that condition) and both axles and the chassis nestled comfortably on/in the sand. Technical term: we were up to our b******s in shite! Ooops. How far were we from help? A long way. We reckoned on perhaps 20km. We spent the next three hours farting about trying to unstick ourselves using every trick we knew: we dug (we had a spade) we chocked (we had chocks) we bailed water from around the wheels (Romi was valiant with her coffee cup) we jacked onto a large piece of ply we had picked up on the way in case of such emergencies and even tried to drive it off the jack. No way hose. The nearest rock was hours walk away (we were at the lakes edge where only really nasty prickly grassey stuff grew) and the chains we'd been given for the tyres by the hire company were knackered (doh - of course they were).

We gave up at 5ish and resigned to walk back to the carabineros next morning and beg for help .... again. This was becoming a habit. [You think I'm making this up don't you - well I'm not!!! This is how it happened]. No probs, we had food, tents and kit for sleeping in temperatures up to -5 degrees C. So we set to to erect the two man tent for me (big enough for two Chileans but only one normal sized English person) and the four man Quasar (comfortable for two). As this is all going on, the headache, weakness and nausea that I'd been feeling all day all started to come to a head: DM was feeling really manky and anyone that knows DM knows that manky means really not well at all. David knows DM and also understands altitude sickness: when poorly at altitude the only way forward is down. Ooops again. David is not so happy. David's feeling of mild discomfort is made all the more interesting when Romi cries "where's the 4th pole?" as she's unpacking the Quasar. After some deliberation and head scratching, the only thing that was resolved was that the Quasar was un-erectable due to 25% of its pole capacity having gone AWOL. Improvise, Adapt and Overcome was becoming an overworn and somewhat tiresome phrase, that I decided not to repeat as I made my way to the lop sided vehicle to rest: one of us had to sleep in the car and, given the apparent physical condition of all of us at the time, David was the obvious choice since he appeared to be strongest. So we cooked a humourless dinner of rice out of a pack with none of the exciting additives we had so carefully deliberated over in the supermarket a few days before. DM and R squeezed ourselves into the two man, leaving David (what a star and downright hero) to bend himself into the vehicle for what was one of longest, coldest and most uncomfortable nights I have ever spent in a tent. My sleeping bag has a draw cord around the hood: I looked like Kenny from Southpark with the cord drawn so tight around my head you could only just see my mouth and nothing else! David, on the other hand had somehow got himself wedged between the two front seats at a kind of zig zag diagonal across the car: this might not be so bad but remember the car was some 30 degrees off horizontal at the time making the whole experience that much more challenging.

Dawn arrived ... at last. We got up. David did not sleep - he was suffering from the altitude too: inability to sleep is a symptom (being zigzagged from the front seat to the rear in vehicle that was listing starboard at 30 degrees didn't help).

D&R walked off about 7 am to find help. I stayed behind to clear up and mind the shop. Instead, (I don't do clearing up very well when there are big boy toys to play with) I climbed the hill behind us and found some rocks, one of which I carried down to the car (remember the car pushing and battery carrying of earlier on at altitude: this was lots higher - CARRYING ROCKS!!!! Sooo stupid). Anyways I did, thinking it would be helpful for putting under a tyre: I was determined to get the car out and go and get D&R before they had to walk too far in the outrageous heat. I spent two happy hours thereafter conceiving of all sorts of ways to get the car out, none of which came even close! Then, the cavalry arrived, a bit earlier than I'd expected. Imagine this:

Desert. Mountains all round a salt lake. Road running the edge of the lake. Dumb f**k tourist 4WD stuck in the quicksand in the foreground with equally dumbf**k tourist up to his nipples in mud trying (very happily) to get it out. In the middle distance a vehicle appears. It gets closer. It's a police vehicle. It stops and out pours 4 policemen and D&R. It is followed by a local on a push bike and a dog. D&R approach with huge grins - the cavalry had been out looking for us (because we'd checked in at the Carabineros and hadn't arrived at our stated destination) but in the wrong place and the police station was only 10 km rather than our estimated 20.

Fine and really rather good. But imagine this. You've arrived at the police and told your story. The forces are mobilised. Six of you squash into a police car. The police dog wants to come too but is booted back into the police station. You all set off with the police in party mood. The police dog starts chasing anyway. You pass an Aymaran settlement: a gentlemen at the sprightly age of a 80+ appears on a bicycle, with no brakes, wanting a lift. There's no room so the cyclist continues in chase anyway (remember this is dirt / stone track). The policemen are entertained by the scenario and start singing "Help, I need somebody ... " and "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away ...".!!!! Hah bl**dy hah. And, to cap it all, they'd brought a video camera and another still camera to record the event!

Surreal or what?!!! A bunch of Chilean policemen who speak no English singing "Help" and "Yesterday" being chased by an 80+ year old gentleman on a bike with no brakes and a dog!!!! ........... for 10 kilometres!!!!! ITS TRUE, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED!!!!

The police were quite incredible - they had the right kit and skills to get us out: I won't explain it but see the photos. Suffice it to say, when off roading you need a high lift jack or an eight foot scaffold pole and a wooden crate!

We were out, much to all of our relief. We didn't fancy any more adventures so we simply followed the police back to Bolivian border and the minefield (they weren't worried about us crossing the border - it was the drugs runners they were after ... sigh ... minefields, drugs runners ... these are the times when you really appreciate the bliss of ignorance) and tracked back to Enquelga - never has such a remote place seem like such luxury and such a return to civilisation!

Next day, we decided to have an easy day and to climb a hill to our adventure's maximum height achieved - 4400m (14,500 feet) from 3800m (12,500 feet). Well I won't go on but every two or three steps I had to stop to catch my breath. I am reasonably fit but this was crazy - it was not a big hill, that I could have easily summitted without stopping at home but this was VERY different. The views into Bolivia were great and made the whole day worthwhile. As we came down, I waved goodbye to the hill (as you do) with a feeling of self satisfaction and smugness - Romi, on the other hand said "good riddance!". Gives you an idea of how much she enjoyed the climb! We were in bed at 8!

Morning saw the start of the drive down. We were aiming at Pica, an oasis town in the Atacama desert - the driest place on earth. It sits between the Alti Plano (and the Andes) and the coast and there are some people who live there who have never seen rain. On the way, we stopped for lunch in a town with the weirdest church - it was made of corrugated iron and had a normal churchy type door at one end but was completely open to the elements at the other. Anyway, the reason for mentioning lunch was that the woman who served us - fat, old and wearing slippers - brought with her an extra lunch guest with the bread. He was introduced to us as Mr C Roach. We weren't so keen on him joining us so Madame brushed Mr Roach to the floor and stamped on him! We looked at each other, shrugged and Romi said "well that was the first roach we'd SEEN .... ".

We drove on through the desert - David's watch registered 45 degrees. That'll be hot then. We arrived in Pica. It was odd coming across a green, lush town in the middle of such dryness. Pica and its smaller neighbour, Mamilla, supply much of the fruit for the region so it was rich in citrus fruit trees and the like. We found a hotel that had a pool and comfy beds and relaxed. Had dinner out - Lama was on the specials menu but was 'off' because of the floods. Shame. Steak instead, followed by bed - sleep was interrupted by dogs running races across the roof and an unquenchable thirst because the water went off at some point before I got thirsty!

Next day, the great god of cars decided that we'd not been paying enough attention to its subject that we'd hired. We drove the car to the hotel from its night time resting place - no more than 50 feet. We loaded up and prepared to kick some dust into the desert ... once again we were treated to the anticlimax of the engine only managing a faint click when we turned the key. This time, the lack of enthusiasm from the car was met with a resigned grope for the bonnet release and a practised eye at staring at wires and bits of useless metal: we knew our way around by now. It turned out that the battery had moved and the negative terminal was shorting out on the bodywork - but since that terminal is connected to the bodywork anyway, we couldn't figure why this should cause a problem. We decided to award it Chilean vehicle dispensation and put it down to side effects of being so close to aliens.

Accordingly, we went to Cerro Pintados, a hillside in the heart of the desert adorned with 355 geoglyphs (drawings on the hill) that date from between 500 and 1450 AD. The images are supposed to be of animals and people and are supposed to indicate the presence of water, indicate trade routes blah blah blah but actually all the pictures were of space ships, aliens and satellites. Well that's what we thought anyway. Nearby, we met a man who lives alone (bar two cats and a dog) in a shack on land that used to be a nitrate mine. He has lived there for most of his life and since 1972ish, had been there alone since the mine closed, surviving on selling cold drinks and artefacts from the mine to tourists. His niece visits occasionally - is that the definition of lonely? Whoa - too much for my head to deal with. By the way, David's watch hit 50 degrees here, 41 degree in the shade. Tsssssssss. We had lunch with lizards.

Then we mozied back on up into the hills, to Mamina, 9,000 feet up. Another volcanic spring town. There we had the most amazing hot baths in very thick, heavy, hot spring water. For first timers, 5 minutes was the recommended maximum time in the water - 10 minutes for old timers. I lasted 7 minutes before I had to get out. There was a chill-out area where the three of us collapsed for a good 15 minutes trying to regain our strength. A very weird sensation - just like having been in a sauna too long but very concentrated. I simply couldn't move. We went on to a spring where an Inca princess had recovered her eyesight having splashed her eyes with the water: we therefore did the same. I now don't wear my glasses (those of you with keen memories will recall that that has diddly-squat to do with the spring - I don't wear them now because a piece of the local pond life had stolen them whilst I slumbered on the bus from La Serena to Iquique!).

Then, the morning after David and I had drunk three bottles of wine at £3.20 a bottle over dinner (we analysed Romi, the clinical psychologist - this seemed to become more tenable as the wine went down, as did my Spanish as I ordered more!) came the crowning moment - the mud bath! Oh joy! If you've never sat in your shorts and covered yourself in stinking black mud, which you've then let bake dry in the hot sun and which you've also hurled in a mud fight at your friends, then you've simply never lived!

And my friends, that is pretty much that. We left Mamina and drove back to Iquique, handed back the car, shortly after which I jumped on a plane and 27 hours later arrived back in sunny Sheffield. Sigh.

I shall finish with this though. A few days after my return I got an email from David telling me that he had got the 'squitters' shortly after I'd left, responding to me telling him I'd got home to find my electricity had gone off and the contents of my fridge and freezer had gone mushy and that I too had become a touch squitty. I only tell you this because David got caught short over lunch that day and, having rushed to the loo, discovered there was no paper. Adopting the principles of Improvise, Adapt and Overcome, he called for help - thinking that the words for paper would be much the same in English and Spanish he called for "papas". Sadly, "papas" in Spanish means "potatoes". What would you do if you heard a strange man in the toilet call for potatoes?

Adios - until next time ....

Dan.

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