A day of travelling, and hanging around in airports. At Santiago airport, in the middle of the departures hall, a group of children are drilled through Spanish traditional, and Chilean festive music, accompanied by a small band. Most take a turn at singing solo, giving their all under the exuberant encouragement of their conductor. One chubby 12-year-old was fit to burst as she tried to do the right thing, then visibly relieved when her turn was over. My heart went out to her, memories of how I saw myself at that age flooding in. I'm glad to feel just an inkling Christmassy.
Flying over dry brown mountains and salt lakes we arrive late pm at Calama airport, 1000 or so km north of Santiago and the "portal" for the Atacama desert. The rental vehicle is familiar: a red Mitsubishi pick-up, its wheels securely padlocked, even in the airport carpark. According to the Hertz rep there is a very high theft rate: vehicles are stolen and then driven across the Bolivian border for resale, with the connivance of the frontier guards. We drive past Calama (annual precipitation 5 mm), a copper-mining settlement where every house hides behind locked railings, petrol station shops protected in a similar way. Distant hills - the altiplano - gradually come into focus. Just before San Pedro we pass through the edge of the Valle de la Luna reserve. Its contorted crags, and ridges of tilted sedimentary rock, are spectacular in the evening sun.
Entering San Pedro, a small, laid-back oasis village sitting at 2400 m, between the altiplano and desert, we go a few loops on the narrow dirt roads before finding our accommodation, Casa Don Tomas. It's a middle-to-up-market place, half a km from the village centre, and slightly controversial booking - a far cry from the backpacking places I prefer. Don Tomas caters for those who speak no Spanish, prefer guided tours to autonomy, value pool relaxation over running around the altiplano landscapes, and are not inhibited by budget. On the plus side we are very comfortable, a short walk from the centre, have access to a computer (great for marital harmony) and - important for Juan - a clean, dust-free environment. (I admit I also like being able to get and stay clean after returning from our daily sorties with dust up my nose, throat dry and hair stiff with wind and sun.)
San Pedro has been an important settlement since pre-Hispanic times, a major stop on the trading route connecting the llama herders with the coastal fishing communities. It was first settled by Pedro de Valdivia in 1540, and his house still stands in the atmospheric village square. A decorated (artificial, of course) Christmas tree is positioned next to a large crib scene, the only indication in the village that we are in the festive period. The dusty streets are lined with single-storey adobe "artisanal" shops selling an identical range of (perhaps) alpaca wool scarves, colourful throws (probably from Bolivia or Peru), and lapiz/copper jewelry. In the evening the streets and numerous restaurants and bars fill with throngs of the young-ish; Andine flute music floats from cafés - or live music from restaurant terraces.
The village is now a tourist hotspot, a base for day or longer trips to the geological marvels in the surrounding Atacama and altiplano. This first evening we just have time for a brief stroll before having supper.
24 December
We take our cue from the many agents advertising itineraries and visit the Salar de Atacama, a huge salt lake where three species of flamingo feed, their "S"-shaped necks making extraordinary reflections. Plovers and sandpipers are busy in the foreground. It is a wonderful moment, even if the restrictive walkway prevents us from getting as close as we would like.
We drive on up to the altiplano via the hamlet of Socaire. We are on a very well-established route, jumping out and snapping the scene alongside dozens of other tourists. Around the village are pockets of green - small fields, the occasional tree. It's hard to imagine how run-off from the surrounding volcanic hills would create enough water to sustain the precarious agriculture through the summer drought. But, right next to the church, is a small plot of healthy-looking broad beans. We drive on, picking up a peasant woman walking in the midday heat on crutches, apparently on her way to water her crops. At the point where we drop her the desert looks relentlessly barren. How can she scratch a living from this brutal landscape?
With little experience of what a pick-up can cope with, and scanty maps, deciding where to drive is not straightforward. But Juan is getting skilled at riding the corrugations, and I am getting better at staying calm as we skid around. As we climb, the tussocks of grass - classic pampa - are golden, the sky blue blue blue. We enter the Reserva Nacional Los Flamencos and, from the registration car park, have our first glimpses of vicuña, their golden fur almost camouflaging them.
Descending the track, Laguna Miscanti appears indigo blue; the surrounding volcanic hills shades of rust; the sky intense blue. We are at around 4200 m and there's a strong wind Although it's summer, we are wearing windbreaks. As at the Salar, access is strictly controlled: we have to stay on a short track that avoids going to the shore of the lake so as to leave the nesting giant coots in peace. Physical exertion is to be avoided: the high altitude is giving me a dull headache, and I notice a pain in my chest when I walk at "normal" speed up the path.
We continue in our vehicle to Laguna Miñiques and watch a group of vicuñas feeding by the lake. A park ranger - presumably on the payroll to ensure drivers adhere to the official road - dozes in the sun. Juan manages to sneak off piste for a photo of a "new" mat-forming plant.
Back at San Pedro it's Christmas Eve. We return to our restaurant from the previous evening for their "Christmas meal" - no different in essence from the usual 3-course but an opportunity to double the price! Beetroot soup, steak, cake; and the ubiquitous Concha y Toro Casillero del Diablo cab sauv.
25 December
We are up at an unholy hour on the holy day, 3.45am, in order to link up with a group tour going out to the geyser, El Tatio. This because I have convinced Juan that the 200 km return drive on dirt roads would be very tiring to do on our own, especially on a road we didn't know, at night; our agent having recommended avoiding this stretch of road; and Lonely Planet describing the journey as an "ordeal". In fact the road is no problem. And we both find the constraints of the tour difficult - unable to stop and take photos.
We arrive at the 4300 m volcano crater at 6.30 am, along with a couple of dozen other vehicles. Across an area of a couple of square km 80 geysers (8% of the world's total) perform in the sub-zero dawn. Some spout upward in the classic geyser way; others appear as clouds of steam, or "fumaroles". Nearby is pool of hot water where we are invited to soak. Much as I like the idea, stripping off in the chilly temperature, and immersing myself in water that is only between 15 and 25 degrees, is resistible - especially as our guide warns us not to exceed 20 minutes in the (sulphurically) toxic water.
On our way back to San Pedro we stop at Machuca, originally a llama-herder settlement, lost in a fold of the altiplano hills, now the obligatory stop-off point for the tour buses. The population has declined to just four permanent villagers - there's no school or shop. Just after having oohed and ahed on seeing our first llamas (domestic, as all llamas are) we are confronted by an Indian villager selling them as kebabs. One of our group goes for it - but it's still too early in the day for me.
Surprisingly - it's Christmas Day - the little blue and white church is padlocked. Passing an adobe thatched cottage I hear excitement as presents are unwrapped and listen for a moment, celebrating Christmas vicariously.
Back at San Pedro Juan pays a price for the heat, altitude and frustrating ride: a humongous migraine. So, late afternoon I drive to Valle de la Luna on my own. The sand, salt and rock formations shaped by the wind have given it the lunar quality of its name. Along with hundreds of others I digitally gobble the views. On this memorable day I see the sun rise and set.
26 December
We make up our own tour, taking a road towards Bolivia and the Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaron. At the border the barrier is down and as we walk in the chill air to the adjacent hut we assume that we'll need to show our passports. But we aren't expecting to be turned back because of not having obtained the necessary exit and re-entry paperwork. In the office a photo of Bolivia's Evo Morales stares down at us; two little girls, wrapped in blankets, watch us dully. What could be their story?
After keeping us in suspense the immigration officer says that, "exceptionally", he can give us a permit to visit our destination, Laguna Verde. Juan is anxious that we'll have difficulty re-entering Chile if he is in fact breaking a rule, and someone else on duty when we return. The complications that would cause us don't bear thinking about. But three round-faced Indian officials reassure us and we drive on.
The landscape is starkly beautiful: reddish volcanic hills, pale blue-white Laguna Blanco followed by Laguna Verde, Volcán Licancabur dramatically reflected. No vegetation. At the edge of Laguna Verde we walk on crunchy white - and have to touch it to discover that it's ice, on top of salt. Alone for a moment there is total silence. Surrounded by peaks and lakes, with distant views of flamingos, it's a magical moment. We gaze at the endless wilderness. "I feel sorry for the conquistadors", Juan observes.
Bolivia's poor economic status is seen in the absence of park-rule enforcement: 4WDs have carved out myriad paths around the lakes. Within an hour of our arrival dozens of jeeps arrive from San Pedro taking tourists on multi-day trips.
We drive back into Chile and then on the road to Argentina, to stop at an un-named lagoon that appears as a smudge of green on our map. We strike gold: no one is there, we can walk up close to vicuña and flamingos, and the light is perfect. We pass a blissful hour there before returning to San Pedro, and revisiting Valle de la Luna.
27 December
A day of catching up with email, a quick trip out of the village to snap some shots of the cacti we hadn't been able to photograph during the group tour, and a flight back to Santiago. There's a lot of hanging around before we arrive at our hotel. Then a late meal in the hotel where we taste our first truly Chilean dish: pastel de choclo, a kind of shepherd's pie made with puréed sweet corn and a mixture of chicken, beef and hard-boiled egg, with crunch sugar over the top. We are almost at the end of our holiday but have a couple more places on our itinerary before the trip is over: Santa Cruz and the Colchagua valley, centre of the wine industry, and Valparaiso.
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