The time to celebrate my birthday was drawing near and, like every weekend that has come since my arrival in the vast wilderness of the Atacama desert on the 13th of April, I was desperate to escape Calama for better vistas. That opportunity arose in the form of a second Gringo reunion (the first being some weeks before in the coastal hamlet of Taltal) that was to take place over a long weekend in the oasis town of San Pedro de Atacama. I had been before to "Gringolandia", but as recounted, had left many deeds undone and many sights unseen. Thus, the night of the 24th saw Heather, Mike, and Vanessa reuniting with Ryan and I in Calama. Peter, Alex, Matt, and three new Gringas were to join us the next day.The others of our group finally got to experience what Ryan and I have been suffering through now for nearly three months, and there were a good deal of jokes about sand, rocks, and the dryness. At one point, Ryan picked up a guitar at the hostel and began to compose an ode.
"Calama, you took everything I had. You wanted more. You took my saliva. You took my mucus. You dried me out. Oh, oh, oh....Calama."
On the other hand, the weather was gorgeous over the weekend and San Pedro really looked about as beautiful as it could have. We had booked the same hostel Ryan and I had used the first time, called Iquisa, and packed the place out. It was almost our own private lodging for three nights, with a handful of interlopers mingled in for good measure. However, because Roberto (the owner) was not present the entire time, there was some confusion as to who had a bed and where, resulting in Matt and the new friend he had brought along (the delightful Mexicana, Monjuith) having to spend the weekend in a different hostel nearby as well as some bed sharing between those of us left in Iquisa. These problems were minor in my opinion given that fact that the whole town was booked up and we had brought eleven people along.
The bulk of us arrived on Friday in the early afternoon and walked to the hostel while kicking a soccer ball back and forth, which made Peter a bit indignant because he is convinced that all we do in the desert is kick rocks, not balls. The following days and nights were filled to the brim with activity and celebration, for not only was it my birthday on Sunday, but Vanessa's as well on the preceding Saturday. The festivities began immediately on Friday with a trip into town to watch the Chile versus Spain match (which I correctly predicted the outcome of HERE.) We found a small restaurant that offered us ten percent off the bill as a group, along with free pisco sours. The had a large flat screen inside showing the game in HD, which contrasted starkly with the bare, plywood tables. While inside, we were met by a separate group of English Opens Doors volunteers from Iquique, whom I had never met. Ryan and I were goaded into telling the story of our "incident". All the while, the Iquique volunteers nodded knowingly and afterward offered their own tales of attack and theft.
After the game we went searching through the myriad of tour providers in town for cheap options, finding a company that would take us sandboarding that night under the full moon for a discounted group rate, and even throw in snacks and pisco if we wanted. I, up until that point, had not possessed the desire to sandboard, as it is like snowboarding, which is a sport I failed at, and furthermore, involves sand, a substance notorious for its getting-into-every-orifice properties. Yet, I figured if we were going to willfully trudge up sand dunes and then tumble down them in the name of fun, we might as well do it at night under a full moon so that it would be harder to see me busting my butt (and head) repeatedly. Also, I was eager to experience the desert landscape illuminated in the cold blue of a full moon. The experience was excellent, and I actually managed to accomplish a run without falling by the end. However, the spills I did take left me loaded down with a few kilos of sand in my scalp and ears that remained for days, despite repeated washings. Sandboarding is, in my opinion, a one time experience as it took nearly fifteen exhausting minutes to hike up the dune for a measly thirty seconds or so of downhill action. I think I only managed five runs total. The most dangerous part of the trip turned out to be our return in the van, as the driver was clearly drunk and continued to play the same awful techno song over, and over. At one point, almost to our return destination, the van approached a shallow river and the driver stopped. Then, inexplicably, he turned on the windshield wipers for a few minutes, cut them off, and then proceeded across the river. Needless to say, we moved onto a different tour company the following day. Returning to the hostel, as it was now past midnight, we toasted to Vanessa turning twenty two, she being the youngest of our group of 8 month volunteers.
Saturday we awoke late. Alex, along with another American staying in the hostel, left the group to go on the bike ride through the Valle de la luna that had nearly killed Ryan and I on our first trip. The remainder of us went into town to book a tour that would take us out to see the lakes in the great salt flat known as the Salar de Atacama where we would swim and watch the sunset. We lunched in town on the always cheap, always satisfying combo of pollo y papas fritas and later met up with Matt and Monjuith. At three o'clock, we piled into a bus with an incredible guide named Eric, whose sense of humor was somewhere on the funny scale between fifth grade and grandpa (though all in English, to his credit.) The lagunas were simply incredible. The first stop was Laguna Céjar which is second only to the Dead Sea in salt density, meaning you float like a cork and it is impossible to sink. We were all able to stand straight up and lift our hands in the air as though on a flat surface, despite the bottom being a good sixty meters below us. Because of the density of the water, all the heat sinks, meaning the surface of the water is freezing and you have to stir up the heat from below you so as not to get hypothermia. A few bright pink and white flamingos flitted overhead as we swam.
The next stop was the Ojos del Salar, which are two perfectly round lakes that resemble eyes. There is some not particularly interesting reason as to their existence that I do not feel the need to recount here. Our final destination was a vast, shallow salt lake whose name escapes me, where we watched the sunset and wadded out into the inches deep water where salt deposits had forced jagged white islands. Because the lake is huge and incredibly shallow there were many none-to-clever jokes about Jesus and walking on water, etc. I mentioned Peter as well, but was greeted with blanks looks."Peter? You know, Saint Peter. San Pedro. The person who this whole place is named after!"
The sunset was absolutely incredible and was closely rivaled by the full moon rising over the volcano minutes later.
Mmmm. That's good salt.Upon our return, the group went into town to eat, but I wasn't interested in spending a lot of money, so Alex and I left them to grab cheap grub from the Bolivian feria on the outskirts of town. You can't beat a meaty empanada and grilled meat on a stick. By the time the others returned to the hostel it was nearly midnight. I was relaxing in a hammock when, at the stroke of twelve, the girls led the group in a rendition of the Happy Birthday song. Thus began my first birthday abroad.
We woke early on Sunday to take a tour to the Termas de Puritama, which are a series of natural pools in a river of thermal water that flows up from underground near the volcano that provides the heat. The water was delightfully warm and an indescribably clear, bluish green tinted color, and the entire area was lined in pompous grass bushes. We had to pay a hefty entrance fee, but it was worth it. A few of us explored the river discovering waterfalls that formed natural jacuzzis at their base. We had two hours in the termas and then it was out into the bitter cold wind as we scrambled to get dressed and then climb out of the canyon at the base of which the river is located.
For our return into San Pedro, the tour company took us halfway back to where the road began a long, steep downhill stretch. At the top, we debused and were given bikes. Having taken a spill going downhill in La Valle de la luna the previous trip, I was admittedly apprehensive about flying at even greater speeds for longer distances. However, the ride proved invigorating and I managed to avoid injury (mostly by riding the brakes), and to see the small green dot of San Pedro grow in the distance as you speed headlong towards it was worth the fear of death.That afternoon the members of the group that had not visited Valle de la luna decided to take a trip out to see the sunset, while Ryan, Alex, and I opted to stay behind to prepare an asado (nominally in honor of my birth.) We collected money from everyone (including the two other Americans staying in the hostel) and went about buying the necessary materials. There is only one market in San Pedro that sells meat, and most of what they had smelled rotten. We ended up with chicken, pork, and chorizo along with a mix of vegetables to skewer and grill and the last bag of charcoal left in the store. The grocer was incredibly rude and if anyone reads this before going to San Pedro, I urge you not to give Tienda Sol your business.
Ryan, Alex, and I along with our two new friends (both students at Arizona who had just finished a study abroad program) returned to the hostel and set about chopping vegetables, salting meat, and trying to get the grill started. The charcoal was old and obstinant, and we had no lighter fluid. Shortly into the process Peter and Mike returned saying the tour to Valle de la luna had been a bust because all the vans in town were booked already. They joined in on the developing circus of trying to start the grill and soon we had burned nearly every piece of wood we could find in the hostel to no avail. The ancient parents of Roberto (the owner) laughed at our futile attempts before finally taking pity on us and stepping in to help. As we watched with open mouths and dumbfounded expressions, Roberto's mother produced a hair dryer and began to blast the coals with hot air. In minutes, the grill was lit and ready to use. By the time the girls returned from shopping, we had a right proper feast going.
JFM approves of this birthday asado.Heather and I got back to my house around six o'clock on Monday night to find the remains of a birthday asasdo for Ximena, my host mom. My whole family was there and soon Ryan and Mike joined us for even more meat and celebration. We sang Happy Birthday and had a cake that served to commemorate mine, my mom's, and Mike's birthdays (Mike's being that following Wednesday.) My aunt could not pronounce Heather's name so she decided to simply call her Maria, and she kept forgetting Mike and thus called him Flaco (meaning skinny.) There were a lot of absurd Chinese jokes inspired by Heather's presence, but she handled them like a champ. By some late hour, I was finally abed, fully exhausted from the whole experience and likewise sad to have to wake up and go teach the next morning. The entire weekend proved to be unforgettable, and I'm hard pressed to imagine any further birthdays even coming close to being as awesome.
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