| Jeff Poulter & Graham Tillotson: 4th November 2004 |
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Iquique to Antofagasta
We decided, on advice, not to return to the Pan-America but to continue
down the coast road to Antofagasta because it was quicker and prettier.
Although there are long straight stretches through the coastal Atacama,
there are sufficient hills and passes to prevent rigor mortis overtaking
what's left of the brain after Mr Alzheimer's finished with it. But it
won't affect one's neck because mine was twisting right and left as the
desert changed and changed: texture, colour, contour, ever changing. It's
quite extraordinary (to me) the beauty of the desert. The colours are subtle,
the elevations so smooth, and just when you think you can predict the next
patch, it changes once more.
Desert Riding
What colours. The desert is pastel, and water colour would be the only medium to represent it. (Maybe Turner could have used oils, but that boy knew what he was doing with light.) Desert colours are similar to those of semi-precious stones: amethyst, rose quartz, jade, opal.
Contours are mostly jelly mould. Lava flows smoothed by wind, dunes built up around a desert irritant like a pearl in an oyster. Much of the desert looks like the folds in the fur of a sleeping Labrador. Some geological formations produce comical results, like the hills with hard upper rock and softer bases so that they erode to from stubby shapes, like the mushrooms in which elves make their houses.
Textures are the result of blown sand of various colours, all shades of cream, through brown to mid and dark greys. These sands sprinkle themselves all over the mineral coloured rocks and hills to form striking combinations. Chocolate dust on a Cappuccino, tiramisu, sugar dusted on a bread and butter pudding, and whipped cream with hundreds and thousands.
Normally I hate straight roads. My bum aches within ten minutes, wrists
seize up after fifteen, neck gets stiff from the wind blast, arsing from
the wind noise. (All discomfort, obviously, evaporates when the bends appear.)
But not in this desert. Because, as well as the symphony of colours and
shapes on the dry bit, on the right, just two hundred metres away, is the
Pacific Ocean. That's serious sea, and it cuts lovely bays and coves into
the desert, rings them with waves and spume and, well, looks jolly splendid.
The only negative is that lots of other people appear to share my appreciation of this desert and are building ticky-tacky wooden huts on the shoreline from which, presumably at weekends and high days, they... watch daytime soaps on TV - judging by the solar panels and satellite dishes accompanying most of the huts. There are, of course, real people living there but they are dirt poor and exist in shanty structures of rattan, twig and cardboard.
Hundreds of kilometres separate places of any size so "towns" shown on the map may be, in reality, a phosphate works or a customs post. At one of the latter, we needed to have our papers checked by, it turned out, by some bloke who joyously recited a string of English towns at Graham who looked appropriately stunned. With difficulty we left the Aduana still spouting "Winchester! Chelsea! Southend!" and rode across the highway to a restaurant for a cup of tea (we've utterly given up on the coffee) and were greeted by a delightful old man who engaged us in conversation. And, it must be said, we actually talked and communicated, probably for the first genuine time since we've been in Spanish speaking land. This was entirely because the old man realised that we didn't speak Spanish very well so he enunciated clearly and spoke slowly. It was a revelation! Both GT and I have been really frustrated by our seeming lack of ability to converse in Spanish and, here we were, with a patient and kind gent who appreciated our plight. We bade him a warm farewell.
Tocopilla refuel
About halfway we pulled into the only town of any size on today's 400 km journey. Tocopilla was another coastal dump, but the sad thing was it's home for several thousand people. We stopped to refuel at an Esso station which, although its shop was poorly stocked, seemed to be one of the livelier spots in town, if the volume of customers passing through while we drank their dreadful coffee was anything to go by. Next door was a children's playground, all the swings and roundabouts painted originally in bright primary colours, now faded and failing to shine under the leaden skies above. There were quite a few bars and basic cafes full of people on an early Sunday afternoon, sitting, drinking and staring out at the gloom. This was probably the highlight of their week. Imagine being born here and this is home. The very thought fills you with gloom and makes us realise how lucky we are.
Entry to Antofagasta was as numbing as any town so far. It was Sunday, so it was closed. Worse, Monday was a national holiday so everything, including all the restaurants listed in the guide, were also closed. The streets were littered with drunks and the town was a dump. We found a nondescript hotel which looked perfect to leave at the crack of dawn, to just get outta there.
Jeff 04.11.04 |
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