I celebrated my arrival in Chile by sampling as much of the local red wine as I could. It is rather good and ridiculously cheap - a dangerous combination. This lasted around a week, spent in
La Casa Roja hostel, which should be called La Casa Vino Tinto as there were about 100 empty bottles of wine in the kitchen every morning.
I had to make a plan to escape La Casa Roja (like Hotel California - you can check out but you can never leave), so a day later I was sitting on a small tour bus with 3 Irish girls I had met, on a 10 day tour of northern Chile.
The route took us up through La Serena, Bahia Inglese, Antofagasta and into the
Atacama desert to San Pedro de Atacama. Now for those non desert experts, the Atacama is the driest place on the planet, indeed it makes Death Valley look like Ballynahinch. It is also situated at around 2500 meters above sea level which means that the lovely dry air which they have is rather difficult to inhale in the needed quantities. I first realised this after I decided to challenge the townīs youth to a game of football with an English bloke from our bus. After 45 seconds of genteel kickabout I was lying on my back, wheezing with visions of the local padre being called to read me my last rights. What a way to go. I survived, was helped to my feet and ashamedly slunk away from the kids who were still running round like mice on speed.
The Atacama was stunning. One evening we drove up to a salt lagoon. It was surrounded by lofty mountains and some semi-active volcanoes. The lagoons themselves were inundated with fluorescent flamingos and nature did conspire to send us a sunset, the likes of which I have never seen, Iīm sure a trained artistīs eye would have been able to pick out about 300 distinct colours ranging from the lightest yellow, through gold, to pink, purple, scarlet, turquoise, navy blue and black. The moon was nearly full and just around the time the sun finally disappeared behind a mountain, a flock (or should that be a chorus line) of flamingos did an airshow like fly-by just meters above our heads.
After the Atacama we turned around and headed south to Pisco d'Elqui where we went horse riding with a mad Chilean Gaucho, climbing up tracks which I would have refused if I had been the horse. On the descent he asks if we want to zig zag down the hill or just take the [f**king steep] direct route. In a moment of insanity (hey, I've been to the Curragh and my great granddad was once on a horse) I say Vamanos and careen down the scree covered hill side. The horse is making unnerving noises and I am pitched forward at 45 degrees, but I reckon the horse has done this before, cos I certainly havenīt. We slip, we slide, we skid, we rock, we roll, we bond. I was sure the horse couldn't sense my utter fear and hoped he thought that I was a direct descendant of Eddie Macken. Whatever it was, we make it down in one piece and carry on along the track as if weīd been doing this all our lives. I feel like wrapping my arms around the horseīs neck, but abstain in case the Gaucho decides to confiscate my steed.
We all survive the 10 days, although we arrive back in Santiago absolutely knackered. The tour guide tells us that we have actually covered 4500km in the 10 days. My bum & back already knew this and I spent the following 3 days lying in bed, playing table tennis (if it was pool in Asia, the table tennis is the hostel sport of choice in south America) and refamiliarising myself with the local beverages.
20 days in Chile and it was time to move on. Destination - Mendoza, Argentina.
