Today, I woke up in a sugar-sand desert with the ocean outside my window. The sun weighs down hot and heavy, sending temperatures into well over 30 degrees Celsius. The familiar rhythm of reggaeton filters in from the hallway, and I know better than to think I can fall back asleep again. I pull open the curtain and face Chile head on. Another day, another... well, who knows?
Since starting my six-week journey through the country, I've met a number of incredible people doing equally incredible things. I've been sunburned, bitten by bedbugs, and eaten too many dinners made up of a green apple and a cereal bar. Honestly, it shocks me that it's only been seven days since I've been back in the southern hemisphere. If laundry loads and bank balances could tell the time, they would beg me to slow down and rethink my most recent life style choices. But unfortunately, one week down means five more to go, and there is a lot of country left. This is the road so far:
Iquique
I picked this city as a starting point mainly out of convenience. Arica, to the north, was inaccessible, and although they have mummies, Brendan Fraser already gave me my fill of kings turned corpses way back in the nineties.
But the beauty and energy of Iquique came as a pleasant surprise. The boardwalk was colorful and alive, the cold ocean water took the edge away from a biting and blistering sun, and evening runs with a sunset background took my breath away. On my second night, I quite literally ran into a parade celebrating the city's Incan heritage, and the night started off with two-hours of singing, dancing, and blaring instruments.
San Pedro de Atacama
Gringos pay a high price to see the crowning jewel of the North, and white faces slathered in sunblock washed through the clay streets of the city's center. But my hostel was far from the bustling tourists, and our asado only had the full moon as our witness. It was here that I met other travelers from the Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Ireland, Australia, and the U.S. all on journeys that seem to put mine to shame. Most were working their way up from Santiago into the mountains of Peru and salt flats of Bolivia, but I've never been one to follow the road most travelled.
The landscape was beyond beautiful, and the sunset blossomed in ripe oranges and plum purples across the desert canvas. I looked out over El Valle de la Luna and floated face-up in Las Lagunas de Cejar. Rising out of the salty water felt like a rite of passage: I have been baptized by the Atacama, and it's red mark sets me apart as yet another traveler who has seen what the North has to offer.
Caldera
The only other English speakers rode out in a cloud of kicked-up sand just hours after I arrived. A lunch of fried empanadas and a quick conversation of t.v. shows added our names to an ever-growing list of people and places left somewhere between the checkered lines on a map. Time to practice the art of one-day friendships and being alone, and there's no place like a small beach town to do that. Judging by my skin's shade of red, I'm putting in a good amount of practice time.
Fifteen minutes away, cafes and churro stands line a beautiful white beach named Bahia Inglesa. Inspired by the Little Mermaid, I climbed up onto a rock jutting into the ocean and let the salty water whip through my flowing brown hair... all before dropping my phone in the water. The lack of photos is evidence of a failed attempt at intensive rice recovery.
Next Stop: La Serena
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