Habla Espinaca?

There is a place only about an hour and a half by bus outside of Calama, close to the Bolivian border, known as San Pedro de Atacama. What was once simply another colonial pueblo on the frontier of the Spanish empire has, over many years, become a tourist magnet. San Pedro is world renowned for its proximity to many of the worlds most fascinating and perplexing natural wonders such as volcanic geysers, vast salt flats where flamingos flock to breed, and other-worldly landscapes where giant sand dunes afford idiots the opportunity to strap snowboards to their feet and pretend to have fun as sand gets in every possible orifice while speeding some thirty miles an hour downhill.

In such a place, there are always tourists and adventures, and over the years San Pedro has become sort of a "gringo paradise"--as the locals I interact with in Calama are quick to point out. Ryan and I had been told since day one that the only thing to do in Calama was go to San Pedro. So we did.
For a frame of reference, it cost less for a one-way bus ticket to San Pedro then it does for me to take a radio taxi home from the mall. The downside is that San Pedro has all the same problems that other tourist destinations suffer from: namely high prices and overcrowding. Knowing this ahead of time, Ryan and I went on Thursday night to the supermarket (Unimart!) and bought a bunch of cheap chow, pasta, fruit, and the like, so that we cold eat in the hostel and not be beholden to gringo-tailored meal prices. We also did a little internet research and found an inexpensive hostel that was available. Ryan called the place and spoke to the owner, Roberto, who welcomed us and offered to pick us up from the bus stop when we got into town.

That Friday afternoon, once Ryan had finished with his debate team coaching, we took a colectivo (which is sort of like a taxi that follows a set route for a set price of 500 pesos) to the Frontera del Norte "bus station" where we boarded a bus and headed out. After lots of ear-popping due to the increasing altitude, we arrived in the dusty bus stop just outside the little town. In moments, Roberto showed up in a ancient van to pick us, and his mother, up. We piled in the back along with the supplies Roberto's mother had picked up in Calama (no doubt at the Unimart) and were shuttled to Hostel Iquisa.

The hostel was small, but perfect. The rooms are arranged around a courtyard-type common area with tables for eating and hammocks for lounging. There was a grill as well, but we didn't make use of it. As we arrived, a group of other travelers had gathered to cook and eat dinner and we were invited to join. Within an hour of arriving, we were already part of a new, impromptu family. There was Alvero, our new Chilean friend who is from Vina del Mar and speaks great English, having lived in New Zealand. Then there was a polish mother (who spoke polish, German, English, and Spanish--all perfectly) with her 5 year old daughter, a young french woman name Amelie, and a tattooed Brazilian fellow. Also staying the night was a very humorous Isreali who spoke deliberate and limited Spanish.

Ryan and I became fast friends with Alvero and that night we sallied forth to check out San Pedro at night. The place is littered with restaurants and cafes complete with hawkers who, during the day at least, try every they can to get you to eat at their nondescript joint. At night though, things are more tranquilo and we found a great place with an outdoor area complete with fires pits (as the nights are quite frigid) and a small group of interesting people to talk with. Alvero convinced us to get pisco sours, which are the drink de jour in Chile, consisting of pisco (which is a liquor made out of the parts of grapes left over after pressing wine), egg white, sugar, and lime or lemon juice. People seem to love them, but I find them far too tart to be refreshing, far to sweet to finish, and pisco just tastes like watered down rubbing alcohol.

We stayed until the others around the fire were leaving to go to a party somewhere, and they invited us to join, but as it cost money we politely declined. San Pedro is expensive enough as it is since it is necessary to purchase water. Walking back to the hostel, we kept switching between languages with Alvero and he accidentally said, at some point, "habla en espinaca (spinach)" . Thus we had our running joke for the weekend.

In the morning, Ryan and I rented mountain bikes from the hostel and rode out to the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) which is in the heart of the desert and distinctive for its salt formations, lunar like landscapes, and stretches of sand blasted by the sun into glass. Leaving San Pedro we picked up a trio of vagrant mutts that followed us, relentlessly, for miles into the desert. I threw rocks at them, but they were undeterred. Finally, as we turned off the main highway, oncoming traffic helped dissuade the beasts from their pursuit.

Valle de la Luna was incredible, and the spectacular sights were earned by us through toil. Heading into the valley meant first an incredible uphill battle under the strongest sun in the world in the driest air known to man. The altitude made it hard to breath, and the moisture-less air made it impossible to sweat. We had each brought a five litre jug of water apiece (to which we had added fresh lime for maximum refreshment) and it seemed like we were chugging aqua and reapplying sunscreen every fifteen minutes. At one point, the heat started to make Ryan go mad, and he may very well have suffered minor sun stroke. However, we found a shade in time, and after resting and eating some food, he was good as new.

We rode for a total of five hours that day, and for more then forty kilometers. The ride out of the valley was must easier, as it was nearly all downhill. At one point we picked up dangerous amounts of speed and, I'm embarrassed to say, I couldn't handle on of the sharper turns and ended up skidding offroad. My front tire hit the loose sand and before I knew it I was moving, but without a bike. It happened in a split second and I think I must have simply been launched over the handle bars as I flew for a good five feet before sliding uncomfortably to a stop in the rocky sand. I came away relatively unharmed, with only scraps on my left leg and the palms of my hands. I'm happy no one saw it happen though, as Ryan was far ahead and already around the bend when I ate dirt.

At the bottom of the hill, after I'd let my adrenaline settle, we poked around and found a network of caves that we had been tipped off to by Alvero the night before. I had a flashlight with me, and we crawled around the tunnel like caves for a while admiring the darkness and the odd salt formations.

The ride home was long, as we were both brutally exhausted, and by the time we made it back to the hostel neither of us had any energy left. Ryan fell asleep around 7:30 and was gone for the next twelve hours. I stayed awake for a while, reading and admiring the cool night air. It was a good time for meditation and I was able to catch up on my scripture reading. One is never so struck by the nature of an Almighty God then when in the presence of something as vast an incomprehensible as the desert, or the ocean, or the dark heavens with their multitude of stars.

We had thought to explore another of San Pedro's wonders on Sunday, but as we were both worn to the born and out of cash (tours and most of the attractions have a sizable fee) we caught an midafternoon bus home to Calama. Ryan and I are resolved to return, probably after our first stipend payment. San Pedro is so close, and so packed with adventure, that we really have no choice. At that moment though, waiting for the bus, I felt oddly dispossessed. There I was, waiting to leave San Pedro to go home. Yet home meant Calama, which is yet just as foreign and unfamiliar a place as San Pedro. Thankfully though, Calama holds a family that at least tolerates me, and I was welcomed home to tea and empenadas and a host of excited questions.