(Getting to) the cool little town in the middle of nowhere

SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, REGION II, CHILE - 27th March 2010

Buses across Argentine/Chilean border from Salta/Jujuy to San Pedro de Atacama ("SPA") only run 3 times a week, through the day, but some sharp timing (and some top class interpretive Spanglish from yours truly in the absence of Anna's fluency) managed to snag us a couple of tickets for the early (8.30am) departure on the morning of Friday 26th.

Hyperbole is not even slightly needed when describing the ensuing bus journey.  6 months of globetrotting have involved all sorts of experiences across all sorts of landscapes on all sorts of buses, but based on visual diversity alone I defy anyone to find a journey that is quite as spectacular, in so many different ways, as the journey across the Paso de Jama mountain pass that represents the northernmost road crossing between Argentina and Chile (and features a delirium-inducing ascent up to about 4.5km above sea level in a few hours).  The constantly changing backdrop began with the artistic colours of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, as previously graced by 'Lads on tour'; rose upward into green hills and mountain pass roads, continued rising upward beyond the tree line as the green gave way to a dusty mix of reds, yellows and greys; then the road stretched dead straight into a white horizon as we drove through a salt flat at about 4000 metres a.s.l. 

The ascent on the Argentine side of the pass

The plateau atop of the Argentine side of the pass; greenery is replaced by all colours of sand

Salt flat on the horizon

Surrounded by salt

Through the salt; more sand and scrub

At 3500-4000m a.s.l., the roads get quite winding...

...and then a few minutes later they'll be dead straight for as far as the eye can see

All this was before we had even left Argentina - the formalities at Paso de Jama were uneventful but for another idiot immigration official stamping my sixth and final Argentine stamp directly on top of another one (exiting Australia, for anyone so interested).  Given they do the same thing thousands of times a day, you'd think they'd get vaguely competent at it.  But all was soon forgotten as Anna and I sampled some coca tea - coca leaves being the same bad boys that, via various steps, end up as cocaine (although apparently about a tonne of coca leaves are needed to make about 1g of the drug).  For what it's worth, its taste was unimpressive. 

The surreal 3000m gradual descent down the Chilean side - San Pedro in the far distance

Veterans of high altitude travel will know all about the effects it can have on the human body, and are probably quite aware of the best ways of mitigating the headaches, dizziness, stomach churning, fever and other symptoms that go hand it hand with going up to high altitude too quickly.   Sadly, I wasn't quite so aware that, if avoiding altitude illness was on your agenda, red meat and alcohol were standard no-no's for the night before.  I'd like to say that up at 4400m I found myself somewhat regretting the previous night's "last night in Argentina" binge on steak and Malbec red wine, but for about 15 minutes I was so delirious that the thought process needed to feel regret was, along with thought process of any kind, not happening.  And, more to the point, 10 minutes of feeling light-headed discomfort is a sacrifice worth making for an evening of great food and drink.

Anyway, SPA sits at about 2400m a.s.l., just off the northeastern tip of the great Atacama Salt Desert, and west of the towering peaks of the Andes that we earlier dissected.  Most imposing is the classically conical-shaped volcano Licancabur (right) which, at nearly 6000m in height, is visible due east from anywhere, for miles.

For a tiny town in literally the middle of nowhere, SPA is pretty damn touristy - a point proven by the veritable multitude of tour operators set up in the town offering this, that, the other, and everything in between.  However, their existence hints at why this Godforsaken no-man's-land in the middle of the desert is a must-visit location for travellers and young Chileans alike.  In a similar manner to our journey over here, the area surrounding San Pedro boasts some of the most surreal, varied, and generally awe-inspiring natural attractions of anywhere in South America - or indeed the world.  And that should we what we get to enjoy over the next few days!

Before I dash though, I'll sign off with a quote from some girl in front of us in the queue to get our passports stamped at San Pedro.

"So we're getting our Chilean passport stamps here... so where were we between here and where we got our Argentina stamps?!?"

A wise man once said, "stupidity is infinite".

Hot pools and colossal scrambled eggs

MENDOZA, ARGENTINA - 20th March 2010

After the wine, bike and and steak festivities of Thursday, we awoke yesterday to the greeting of grey skies and rain - prompting not-so-nostalgic references to England from all sides. There was the possibility of me joining Taylor, Tom and Nick early morning on a trip up to do a 45 metre abseil; a possibility that was suitably thrown out the window at the prospect of having to go outside and, God-forbid, get wet. Instead, Anna and I headed off at around lunchtime to the thermal pools located an hour or so out of town, armed with the bottle of Malbec we'd picked up at Bodega di Tomasso the previous day.


The bus ride took us about an hour out of town and up into the hills, with the hot spring located in a valley carved by centuries of river-driven erosion between two giant ridges. It was a good setup though - the site comprised of a series of pools of various sizes and shapes, gradually moving further and further down the hill and ultimately down to the river level at the bottom, where a large pool with a fountain in the middle (see above) is bordered by an artificial river and cold, cold water. The hot spring water arrived at the top-most pool, and arrived at a temperature so damn hot you simply could not touch it (if you did, you're first instinct is that it is cold - that was how hot it was). From there, however, it was allowed to cascade downward from pool to pool, gradually cooling all the way and thus giving us punters a selection of water temperatures to suit our preference at the time.

Punters were indeed there in abundance, both of the local Latin variety and in the form of Taylor, Tom and Nick (middle, bottom-right and bottom-left respectively in photo below), whose abseiling trip included a trip to the hot pools to chill out afterward. The 5 of us entertained ourselves for many an hour, finally parting on departure as their minibus left an hour before our local bus was scheduled to head off. Thanks to a beer and a plate full of empanadas though, the interim period was passed more than happily.


We were all reunited later back in Hostel Lao, and began putting into action what we'd been discussing earlier in the day with regards to dinner time. In particular, the need to spend less money (after the splurge on the best steak ever), the desire to do some cooking, and the general consensus on a massive omelette. A stroll to a supermarket and back enabled the acquisition of a cool dozen and a half eggs, several hundred grams of cheese, a good 10 rashers of bacon, a load of chorizo and an even bigger load of tomatoes, and fuelled with free-flowing vino (provided by the hostel!) set about a top drawer team effort of chopping, slicing, frying and generally operating like a well oiled machine and, ultimately, producing the most whopping great big concoction of omelette mix you'll ever see (as illustrated in my right hand in the photo to the right), alongside an equally impressive vessel of fresh salad.

It quickly became apparent that the sheer volume of omelette mix we were dealing with meant making an omelette was impossible, but a smooth-as-silk switch to scrambled egg in no way diminished the quite ridiculous amount of food we'd prepared for ourselves. However, while it would be fair to say that there was a lot more food than was necessarily needed to feed 5 people, it has to be borne in mind that some of us eat a lot more than others... so it goes without saying that half an hour later, everything was gone (save a nasty amount of dish washing).

Today though, we find ourselves in an interesting moment in our trip as - for the next few days - Anna and I are going are separate ways. As I continue the blast up north and head to Salta (to be accompanied a few hours later by Tom), Anna is taking advantage of geographical proximity to make a return trip to good old Buenos Aires. In theory, we'll meet again mid-week...

Mudpools, Maoris, and Magical Caves

WAITOMO, NEW ZEALAND - 18th January 2010

One of the advantages of travelling alone is that you don't have to worry about anyone else's comfort. When it comes to deciding travel options or figuring out how you're getting anywhere, acting unilaterally can occasionally result in some pretty bad decisions being made, but the buck stops with you - one way or another you can cram as little, or, as in my case, as much into your day-to-day schedule as you could possibly want. When you have 17 days to get from one end of a country to the other, and all the way back again, without any decent public transport, without any proper motorways, and where travelling 70km as the crow flies can require a 750km return journey*; comfort and rest are pretty premium.

After getting a lift down to Rotorua with JC and Simon and having the afternoon to explore the town's array of bubbly and stinky mudpools (right), some contemplation of what I wanted to achieve in NZ given the time I had resulted in some sharp decision making. Without the overnight cross-country Greyhound-esque coaches that allowed me to fit oh so much into 11 days up Australia's east coast, and with tour buses taking waaay too long to get anywhere, the mathematics of the situation pointed in one direction: renting a car.

Calls were made, details exchanged, and bright and early after a quite ridiculous night in Cactus Jack's hostel (which featured rum, wine, and free use of a thermal hot pool) I was all set in my 2001 1.5L Hyundai Accent. Old, yes; 200,000km on the clock, yes; but it is one fantastic bit of machinery. Acceleration, handling, transmission, all well above expectations.

All of a sudden the door was opened to this land of activities, with the multitude of ways to have fun/burn money here springing up in every direction. Taking the view of "When in Rome...", I disengaged care for plastic in what promises to be a spending spree fit for Manchester City FC in the summer transfer window (or, for those not interested in English football's latest nouveau-riche money-grabbers, a lot of spending).

The assault on my bank balance began at the Skyline centre - a gondola ride to the top of the hill takes you to the home of the original, biggest and best tobaggan-luge run in the world. Having done a copy of Rotorua's luge back on Sentosa Island in Singapore (at 2 months, seemingly an age ago) and reading God-knows-how-many info boards about the original, grand-daddy run in New Zealand, it was nothing short of compulsory. And it doesn't disappoint. Where Sentosa has just the one run, Rotorua has 3 - a 4km "Scenic Route", a 2km "intermediate", and the awesome gravity-challenging 1.5km "advanced" run.

The concept is pretty simple - build a winding track down a big hill, stick some wheels and a steering column on a lump of plastic, and let gravity do its thing. The result is some serious racing fun!

After a quick bite in town, it was time for some culture in the form of a visit to Whakarewarewa "Living Village" - a Maori community living in their traditional manner just outside the town. The village is built in and around a whole host of boiling hot pools and bubbling mud pools, and the ground emanates the geothermal heat in much the same way as the White Island crater's cauldron of smoke and gas. Here though, the steam, hot water and heat and is harnessed by the villagers to pressure cook their meat, boil their vegetables, and bathe their bodies. No electricity or gas supply needed.

By 3 o'clock, it was time to hit the road. A lunch date at my second cousin's place in New Plymouth required some inventive route planning, and my trip to the west coast was nicely broken up by Waitomo Caves. New Zealand's AA have created a definitive list of "101 Must-Do Things for Kiwis" (Milford Sound unsurprisingly securing the top spot), and the Caves feature at #14. If there was more time at my disposal, I had options of underground abseiling, black water rafting and all sorts of other crazy crap, but these all entail a morning start that just couldn't tally with my ramroaded schedule. The most celebrated of the caves, however, is the Glowworm Cave, and after getting spectacularly lost en route from Rotorua (useless road signs) it was with less than one minute to spare that I made it for the day's final tour at 5.30pm.

A trek through underground pathways past millennia-old stalactytes and stalagmites and cathedral-sized caverns eventually led us to a subterranean river, and boarding a boat you sit, neck craned in transfixed wonder, as thousands upon thousands of little blue dots magically light up the roof of the cave; the compulsory silence broken only by water droplets ending their long filtration through the limestone rock with a metronomic drip...drip...drip... Photos are prohibited, but I found the right through Google Images. Needless to say it was awe-inspiring.

Another night, another bed (though with a free dinner thanks to the generosity of someone who massively underestimated the size of the pizzas when she ordered 3 of them), and come morning it will be time for a 250km drive down to the foothills of Mount Taranaki and the city of New Plymouth.

* Queenstown to Milford Sound