A Reflection on Last-Minute Invitations & Chorizo Served by the National Police of Chile
I don’t know if it was a lack of sleep or the hypnotic movements of the sea; either way I was tired. Knocked back in my chair I turned to deliver a nod to the woman behind the counter, our nonverbal communications so well-practiced I didn’t need to say a word to summon a third espresso, and subsequent fourth. I checked my watch again, quickly covering it with my jacket sleeve as if that would somehow slow time. My flight home departed in just two hours and I was in no hurry to be on it. I settled into a deep repose and pretended I had all day to soak up the view.
From my vantage point at the water’s edge, I watched the morning’s activities play out as I imagined they had for decades. It was a dazzling display of crayon-colored fishing boats jockeying for their position in the tight confines of a walled harbor.
In the shallows, small rowboats full of weary sailors glided towards a stony beach where wives and children waited in the morning sun. On the dock, a klatch of old men surveyed the scene, their faces weathered and backs made bent by years of toil on the blue waters of the Pacific. Long since cordoned to shore, they shuffled from boat to boat giving wistful looks to younger sailors hard at work, occasionally offering an approving wave when a fish of notable size came into view.
Mesmerized by the colorful tableau, I once again lost track of time.
B efore arriving in the fishing hamlet of Caldera, Chile, my surroundings could not have been more different. I spent the pre-dawn hours—and not many of them—driving a rented mining truck from deep within the country’s arid interior and the otherworldly moonscapes of the Atacama Desert. With my face still red from three days of relentless sun and exposure. the cool ocean breeze felt refreshing.
When I bought my plane ticket to Chile the week before, it was at the invitation of a friend and fellow adventurer. While thumbing through WhatsApp messages, his caught my eye and simply read,
“I’ll be in the Atacama next week. You should meet me there.” My reply, likely influenced by a stiff pour of bourbon, wasn’t any more elaborate. “Sounds great––tell me when and where.”
His third and final message listed a GPS coordinate, a date, and the word “noon.” Not much to go on, but enough to get me rolling.
I had been to Chile a few times before, but never to the Atacama. Not the most social of individuals, I’m drawn to desolate landscapes where I can escape to my aloneness. I’m also a sucker for unspoiled wilderness and the Atacama has plenty of it.
After a languished transition in the purgatory of Santiago’s airport, I hopped on a short domestic flight to Copiapó. Not much more than a strip of tarmac painted on the desert floor adjacent to a barn-sized terminal, it didn’t take long to swap my plane seat for a rented pickup truck. Only moments later I was barreling down an empty dirt road, music blasting, and dry desert air swirling through the cab.
I was just where I wanted to be—edging closer to the middle of nowhere.
With every passing mile the digits on my altimeter increased in equal measure. By early afternoon I pushed well past 12,000 feet, not that I could discern any geographical clues to convey such a height. I switched my GPS unit on, confirming I had only a few more miles to go.
Perhaps my friend would be at the rendezvous point, a small volcanic cone I’m sure he thought would make a suitable landmark. I stuck my elbow out the window into the emptiness, let the engine rev and dust fly.
T he further I drove into the Atacama, the more I realized it was my kind of place. I had not seen another human all day and had no indication I would any time soon. But I wasn’t alone. There were a handful of guanacos, a few vicunas, and a rare South American grey fox made a brief appearance on the horizon. While skirting a salt flat, a flock of Andean flamingos provided a vibrant contrast to a shimmering blue lake, their pink feathers the only color not represented in the earth-tone pastiche of the desert.
Content to drive forever in the immensity, I finally arrived at the blue dot indicated by my friend’s GPS coordinates. As he said he would be, he was there, his red rental truck hard to miss in a land of perpetual brown. Standing in the middle of a massive desert plateau at an altitude of 13,000 feet above sea level—a solid five-hour drive to the nearest town—we shook hands and marveled at the state of modern travel. Two dudes—one from America, another from Austria—exchanged five text messages and a week later met in one of the most isolated corners of the planet. What amazing times we live in.
For the next three days we explored turquoise lakes, ivory white salt pans, and the towering peaks of northern Chile’s frontier. We scouted locations for future projects and drove our rented truck to soaring heights over 17,500 feet. The only other people we met—and were happy to meet—were members of the Chilean national police. Known as the best police force in the world, I never pass up a chance to spend time with the Carabineros de Chile. On our second day in the high desert, they invited us to their desert outpost for an afternoon barbecue.
It’s not often travelers are treated to chorizo, steaks, and Chilean wine, all served by men with sidearms and badges, but it seemed fitting for the Atacama.
On my last day in the high desert I woke early for the drive back to the coast. Just as the sun broke the horizon I found a chair by a small boat harbor and a cafe owner with a talent for espresso. We didn’t have much time together, but we made the most of what we had. Before my fourth cup was finished, I conceded my time was up. I paid my tab, waved to the old-timers on the docks, and drove to the airport just over the hill. With the sunburn on my face still warm, I boarded my plane bound for home. My five-day trip to the Atacama was over.
Just three months later, I still check my WhatsApp account hoping someone will drop me a line with another coordinate, date, and time. Sometimes that’s all we need to spark a worthy adventure.
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