24th April
Ah hah! Here we are at last. Done everything a good friend of mine told me to do 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. A kind local gave us details of the only route open to us, which involved a small detour through Bolivia (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.
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. He came out of his trance when we got to the top of the hill and found ourselves in front of a sign that said "Pelligro (danger) - Campo Minados". It took no translation - Mines. Best not stop for a pee, we thought, and drove merrily on.
At last we arrived at the Salar. Our highpoint of the journey. Imagine the deepest almost-midnight blue sky directly above you, fading to a turquoise on the horizon; surrounded by snow-capped mountains; those in front distant and yet still massive and quite powerful. In the middle distance, a huge expanse of flatness, appearing white and blindingly bright at first but graduating to water shimmering with heat haze, reflecting the mountains. 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.
By this time I was beginning to feel manky - headache, fatigue and nausea. Altitude sickness. David knows DM and also understands altitude sickness: when poorly at altitude the only way forward is down. David is not so happy. His feeling of mild discomfort is made all the more interesting when Romi cries "where's the 4th pole?" as she's unpacking the tent. After some deliberation, the only thing that was resolved was that the tent was un-erectable due to 25% of its pole capacity having gone AWOL.
So we cooked a humourless dinner of rice out of a pack. I looked like Kenny from South Park with the draw cord of my sleeping bag drawn so tight around my head you could only just see my mouth. David had somehow got himself wedged between the two front seats at a kind of zig-zag diagonal across the car - which might not be so bad but remember the car was some 30 degrees off horizontal at the time.
Dawn arrived. D&R walked off about 7am to find help. I stayed behind and (I don't do clearing up very well when there are big-boy toys to play with) climbed the hill behind us and found some rocks. 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. Desert. Mountains all round a salt lake. Dumb tourist 4WD stuck in the quicksand in the foreground with equally dumb tourist up to his nipples in mud trying 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.
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. You pass an Aymaran settlement: a gentleman at the sprightly age of 80+ appears on a bicycle with no brakes, wanting a lift. There's no room so the cyclist continues in chase anyway. The policemen are entertained and start singing "Help, I need somebody..." and "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."
A bunch of Chilean policemen who speak no English, singing Beatles songs, being chased by an 80+ year-old gentleman on a bike with no brakes and a dog. For 10 kilometres. IT'S TRUE, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED!
Next day, we decided to have an easy day and climb a hill to our adventure's maximum height - 4,400m (14,500 feet) from 3,800m. Every two or three steps I had to stop to catch my breath. I am reasonably fit but this was crazy. The views into Bolivia were great and made the whole day worthwhile. As we came down, I waved goodbye to the hill with a feeling of self-satisfaction. Romi, on the other hand, said "good riddance!"
Morning saw the start of the drive down to Pica, an oasis town in the Atacama desert - the driest place on earth. On the way, we stopped for lunch in a town with the weirdest church - made of corrugated iron. The woman who served us 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. Romi said "well that was the first roach we'd SEEN..."
David's watch hit 50 degrees here, 41 degrees in the shade. We found a hotel with a pool and comfy beds and relaxed. Then, the morning after David and I had drunk three bottles of wine at £3.20 a bottle over dinner, 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, drove back to Iquique, handed back the car, and 27 hours later I arrived back in sunny Sheffield. Sigh.
I shall finish with this though. David got caught short over lunch one 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.