Over The Hill

Under the cover of darkness, I fled my final Argentinian city. I had been warned that this route was spectacular but as the sun came up to bath the mountains that I had watched the sun set over a few days before, it dawned on me (pun intended) that this was going to actually be a pleasurable bus journey. In fact it was to be a literally breathtaking bus journey. After winding into the foot of the Andes the roads twisted and turned through imposing canyons, riddled with cacti that stood to attention in the morning sun. The road began to climb into what seemed to be an impossible route. There were mountains here there and everywhere, and not a pass or valley in sight; but we weren't to go through the mountains, we were going over them. The road became an almost coiled snake as it zigzagged back and forth up the mountain until the world was spread below us in a tapestry of overlapping and descending creases, rippling into the horizon. Finally after what felt like an age of undisturbed ascent we reached the top. Around every twist and turn of the road the landscape was breathtaking. Literally. The serpentlike road's kiss was not entirely without sting, as the drowsey nausea of the altitude reared its ugly head putting most of the bus to sleep. In spite of the drowsey caresses of sleep calling to me, and the pretty much constant breathlessness I didn't want to miss any of this.

We descended into a baby salt flat driving straight through the middle where a road had been laid over the immensely flat salt, which would, many years ago, have been a great expanse of water. Water: something that I truly wished I had purchased along with some fruit instead of spending my last 12 pesos on beer. However hindsight is a wonderful thing and at the time it seemed almost heathen to not compliment my last all you can eat steakathon with a delicious glass of cerveza.

As we descended I really did feel the effects of the altitude, when the bus plummeted down through the clouds towards San Pedro and my ears felt like they were going to explode. After piling off the bus into the immigration and promising that we were not smuggling turnips, baby monkeys or semen (they even had a picture of a jar labelled 'semen' to make sure that we understood) into Chile we were in San Pedro de Atacama. At first impressions the town that was described as "a cool backpacker haven" in the guidebooks looked more like something out of Desperado, however when we turned the corner we were presented with an impressive little set of mudbuildings crammed with hostels, bars and restaurants all within 30 seconds walk. The hostel was ridiculously basic to say the least and were told that the outside showers were as sporadic and unpredictable as Hugo Chavez on a bad day. For those of you who don't get that last one, they didn't work that well.

After Rhys, a Welsh guy who I met in Mendoza, and I checked in, we were cheerfully greeted, and presented with beer, by two fellow hostel residents (Alex and Dr Mike). As the evening passed we sat around the fire under the stars, played some guitar and had a singsong. It was bitterly cold but San Pedro felt like the kind of place where wayward travellers could have some fun adventures. And that we were about to find out was to be proven correct.