Chile: Probably not

The Chile/Peru border crossing is 2000kms away, and we have ridden 1800 kms since leaving Chos Malal. After 7 days, we are halfway through our Chilean adventure and this is where the landscape changes dramatically from Forests and Agriculture to Desert. The change is instant. We pack up our Pacific Ocean campsite and get back on Route 5, which is now Coastal. No more down the middle of Chile, fenced in by wire and fields. This time it’s balancing between the sea and volcanic rivers of rock that tumble to meet the road. It’s beautiful and magnificent and ‘in your face’. We are so tiny and the landscape is so huge. We spot fields of wind turbines, and are grateful for the tail wind, until we bank left and get sideswiped by buffering blasts. 

  At La Serena it’s another difficult search for camping, but the day finally ends with a sandy, dusty compartmentalised patch under cover on the sea front. The ground is dirty and hard on B’s ribs and costs 20 euros! Chile is working out to be very expensive. There are frequent tolls where the charges vary from 200 to 900 pesos (50p-£2). Over 4000kms it’s beginning to add up.   The next fuel stop is at Vallenar, and Route 5 takes us back inland over sweeping sand dunes from an altitude of 76metres up to 2000 metres.  We are blown down into the Valley of Vallenar to find a picnic river stop and fuel, then can’t find the way out again. We go round and round the derelict shanty town and the loo stop at the Shell garage is closed. The feeling of being trapped in Chile is escalating. 

Then the highway appears and we aim for Copiaca, an inland mining city. The lady at tourist info has one suggestion, an agroturismo about 30kms west along route 5. There is no map, we must just look for a sign. So with the setting sun in our eyes we plot out the 30kms and 50 kms later find Dos Hermanas. It’s an oasis in the Atacama. After all the brown, we embrace the green and decide to stay for two nights. There are separate charges for Day and Night, so we get charged camping for two nights and charged for the day in-between , £32. How weird. We take full advantage of the pool and washing facilities. The clothes are strung out between the trees and as we had done a supermarket shop way back in La Serena, our food supplies carry us through 5 mealtimes. From a glorious sunny rest day by a pool we start the next day in a cold, misty sea fog, the temperature dropping from 27 to 16 degrees. Out came the jacket liners and ‘second skin’ thermals. 

We are learning where to pack cold clothing items for the instant temperature fluctuations and having a place to pack them back on when we strip off again as the heat of the day intensifies. We are a wardrobe on wheels. Antofagasta emerges, as do we, from a narrow, steep volcanic gorge back down to sea level. The sea mist clears by midday, and the search for a campsite becomes harder and the wind blows even more. But again as the sun is setting we find a corrugated tin fence, behind which is a pool and an super-clean shower/toilet complex and some shelters to which we can lash our tent. A French camping car pulls up and a mega-monster truck. After a brief hello, they close their doors and shut out the wind and the world. We swim, we cook our spaghetti and enjoy the Ocean view.

 Route 5 to Iquique is a mixture of coast and inland, and the scenery is desert, desert and more desert. Vast swathes of brown nothing, sometimes flat, sometimes dunes, sometimes steep up or down, sometimes straight for 100 kms and sometimes twisty and steep and windy all at the same time. We meet Jose and Gonzales, friendly Argentinians, at a fuel stop. They are returning from Machu Picchu, so we swop notes on road and riding  conditions.

We take super-zoom photos of an amazing sand hand protruding from the desert landscape like a last ‘help I’m drowning’ plea.  caption

Jose and Gonzales

At Iquique we give up the daily 2-3hour search for camping and decide to enjoy the town by booking in to a hostel (£38) and promenading along the crowded beach front. A skateboard park is packed with youngsters testing their skills doing swirls and kicks and loops up and over the concrete formations. They are having a great time and so are we and the thought of a sundowner whisky pops into our heads. We find a booze shop behind a padlocked prison-like grill, where the little grill door is opened, our money taken and the Jack Daniels passed through the hatch. Creepy. We suspect Booze Crime is a problem here. Iquique to Arica, the border town is a 330kms ride. Our tank can do just under 300kms. The map/gps shows a fuelstop about 30kms out of Iquique town. So with a good tail wind we should just about make it? hope so. The sea- to-summit-1400-metres-above-sea sand dune climb out of town goes on and on, but we eventually we get to the fuel stop for a top of the hill top-up, before starting the long, long straight road north. 

  It is a great ride, with 3 lots of 17kms Steep Descent interspersed with 2 lots of 20kms Steep Ascent. We marvel at the road engineering. It’s breath taking and unimaginable that people design and then build these asphalt slabs that precariously cut through lumps of sand and rock. We ride through the Valley of Chaca, a dry river bed, where larger than life boulders lie tumbled up alongside us. It is a Natural Wind Tunnel and we are blasted from every angle, hanging on and getting pushed sideways, skipping off to the left, then the right. At last we stop at a settlement of a few houses for a rest and leg stretch. The effort has taken a chunk out of the fuel supply. We calculate that Arica is 75kms away and we can do another 50kms. Oops, a shortfall of fuel is looming. I approach the Gendarmes in their station. They are clearly not interested in our fuel problem. I walk up and down past the cafes, making enquiries, and get pointed in the direction of another café. “Sorry, only diesel”. Leaving B to guard the bike and rest his arms, I approach two blokes building a metal framework and one of them has better English than my Spanish. “There’s a Truck stop, ‘Possada des Camineros’ about 30kms north”, he assures me with a handshake and a kiss on the cheek. After relaying this to B, he then approaches another man, who consults with yet more people, ‘maybe’. 

  These people probably never get out of this place to see what’s outside. We are deep in a desert valley, 75kms out to the north and 200 kms out to the South. Trapped, with a risky fuel capacity. “We will worry about it when it happens”, we say to each other. The exit climb out through the Valley of the Camarones is much calmer than the entrance as we are now sheltered from the wind. We get to the 30kms mark, promised with a handshake and a kiss from my builder friend and sure enough we spot ‘Posada des Camineros’ in big letters on a bill board on a wooden house. And that’s all.

 No fuel stop, no food stop. I dismount and approach the two red trucks that are parked up, wave my arms and give a big desperate shrug, “Gasolina? Gasolina??”. The drivers wander over to B and there’s a lot of discussion, before somebody jumps on the back of one of the trucks and finds a red petrol can, sloshing with about 5 litres. It is poured into our tank, no money required, just a big “Welcome to Chile” from Jonathan and his road construction gang. How can we ever thank you? For the last 50kms into Arica we ride behind them, secure in the knowledge that our escorts are watching out for us in their rear view mirrors. With a good bye wave and a toot-toot, we enter Arica. Us, to start the dreaded campsite search, and Jonathan and his gang to end their working day. 

Arica is a busy border town. There is a tourist section in the town centre, filled with market stalls, cafes and the usual high street bank/phone/shopping malls.  After 3 hours of riding around, asking at the tourist booth, searching along the coast, going back into town and stopping in the centre at a complex of hostels, we settle for a hotel with a lock up, secure garage and a pool. The difficulty is always where to park the bike. We cannot leave it in the road. We cannot unpack it every night. The main criteria in our search is a secure lock up. We lament about the possibility of an App that can be ‘live’ where motorbike/parking/campsites/hostels can be posted and updated. It’s a 10km ride to the border early next morning. At the Hotel check out, we hand over all the remaining pesos, and pay the outstanding balance by CC. The 12 day, 4000kms ride through Central and North Chile has averaged out at £67 per day, compared to £33 per day in Argentina. We hope Peru will be easier on our pocket.  We’ve met amazing people, had amazing adventures, seen amazing landscapes, but leave with a feeling that we’ve been funnelled through a windtunnel, squashed between sea and mountains, and drained of as much money as could be extracted. Would we go to Chile again? Probably not.

Chile: A Most Unholy Exaltation

Fortified by a Cactus beer at the Rodeo, we found a back road that circumnavigated Santiago and pointed us in the direction of the coast and the Pacific Ocean. It was already late, having waved farewell to lovely Alfredo and his horse, been unwelcome in Santiago, watched a Rodeo and clocked up 180kms, so when we rounded a sharp curve and steep hill down into the little town of Curacavi, we decided to call it a day. We bought basic supper/breakfast provisions at a supermarket and googled a campsite.  How Lucky, one right here. And this is where the difference between ‘camping’ and ‘camping’ became apparent. One means ‘picnic’ and one means ‘pitch a tent for the night’. The one we found meant ‘picnic’. No amount of smiling and arm waving could persuade them to have us pitch our tent on their lawns. “Why do you want a campsite? All camping is free at the rivers”, said the nice Gary. Before we throttled him, he mentioned that they have very nice comfortable cabanas at a reasonable price of 15 euros. The bike was parked safe and secure right outside the front door to our cabin under a vine bearing the tiniest sweetest yellow grapes. Perfect for breakfast.

The next morning we follow route 68 to the coast and experience the first of many roller-coaster rides that go round and round and down, down then up, up at all angles and speeds mostly accompanied by WIND. Wind that blows you forwards, backwards and even sideways. A northern wind is a tailwind, but turning to the left or right around the curves is another story. It’s head-on or a sideways whack. Fortunately the roads are wide enough to accommodate the buses and trucks that are ever present. The ride into Valparaiso is pretty damn terrifying, so when we got to Papadu, the icecream, and a photo-shoot of Pelicans restored our equilibrium. 

 The navigator showed a campsite (with a tent sign) at Les Molles, which would bring our day’s ride up to 238kms. Just about right. A few turns over passovers and ramps found us at the entrance to the campsite: down a very steep gravel road, which got steeper as it went on towards the reception area. For some reason I have developed a bit of an aversion to gravel and steepness and with a pounding heart started the descent on the back of the bike. Halfway down, my fears overcame my bravery and I screamed “stop, stop, I have to get off”. Silly me. B can’t stop a bike halfway down a slope!! We pulled up outside reception, on the level, and I leapt off the bike. Shaking. Control yourself, Girl!

 After a few minutes of deep breathing and with a smile on my face I approached the lady at the desk. “Buenos, Camping, por favour” and made the shape of a tent and pointed to the motorbike. 

 The reply was curt and to the point “ No”.

I stood there, shocked and speechless. 

Not exactly the reply I had expected. 

Doing a quick about turn I stepped out of her office, stood in the parking sandpit, raised my arms skywards and in a most unholy exaltation shouted very loudly 

“I HATE *&^%^&* CHILE, 

NO PARKING, 

NO CAMPING, 

NO MOTORCYCLES, 

I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE”. 

Tantrum over, B and I set about searching on Google for a ‘campsite near you’: 

30kms away!

Perhaps!

Just as we resigned ourselves to another hour’s ride and search, the receptionist appeared with a phone in her hand, holding it out to me. “Hello”, I said and a male voice replied ”Hello, we have found a site for you. It is at the end where we usually park the campercars. Will that be alright?”

“Yes, thank you”. I gasped, before he changed his mind. And so B rode about a kilometre down the sandy track passing tents, landcruisers, geodesic domes and I walked. I just want to feel the ground beneath my feet. We had a beautiful site, with a clear view of the pounding Pacific, albeit a bit windswept. Nevermind, we lashed our guy ropes to the fence and picnic table and watched the sunset. Peace was restored in the Niemann Camp.

Chile: If I were a Horse

This was what we had been searching for. A chance to rest B’s ribs and have a good night’s sleep. We were welcomed at Chita Que Lindo by a grey horse who fancied a munch on the panniers. B led him gently away on his rope and looped it around a tree beyond chomping distance. We delayed the unpack and pitch and, seeing another couple bathing in the pebbled lake, were encouraged to slip into our cozzies and do the same. We stopped at ankle depth: the water was decidedly too chilly for us. And then a big bloke on a small Honda putt-putted alongside our bike. With a huge smile he introduced himself as the owner, Alfredo. A convivial afternoon in the sun chatting with this charming man added to the fabulous ambiance: dappled light, dappled horse and dappled toes.

Alfred is a third generation Chilean descendant from grandparents who fled WW2 and Czechoslovakia (as it was then) where his grandfather bought this piece of land. The land was subsequently split in two by the RN5 and the land on the other side of the highway was sold and now houses a very grand Hotel and Casino complex. It is such a contrast to where we are camping, back to nature with wooden picnic tables and benches, basic ablutions and a lake. Supper was a delicious bowl of Trucker’s Soup at the Trucker’s Stop on the highway next door to the entrance to ChitaQuelindo. “Any bikers out there? This is the place for you”. We were guarded by a few campdogs and had a really restful sleep. (The ribs are getting better). In fact we were so rested that after the tent was packed away and the bike loaded up, we sat awhile in the sun sipping our tea and gave upon the chit-chat for a while, just absorbing the peace and quiet and natural beauty, watched over by the grazing horse. That is until I asked B “where did we sleep last night?”  Looking slightly astonished he answered” Right there”!  In my most senior moment ever I turned to look at the blank space where the tent had been and burst out laughing. I had been light years away from the Motorcycle Adventure Travel Zone so the reality check back to earth was both alarming and hilarious. 

The charming Alfredo presented us with a memento flaglet when we waved farewell in the morning.

Our destination today was a Rodeo show the other side of Santiago in Batuco. We like the challenge of riding through big cities. We’ve ridden through most of the capital cities of Europe and Asia, so why not Santiago. We have found most cities to be bike friendly, providing parking above or underground, or alongside a pavement bistro/café. NOT SO in Santiago! No motorbike allowed, no motorbike allowed. We saw the signs everywhere. We started down an underground ramp, too late to stop, carried on, with yellow jacketed Marshalls speaking into their walkie-talkie shoulders, No! No! and after a few loops, pooped out on the Exit ramp. Nowhere to park. Nowhere to even stop. We even asked a policemen when we were at a red traffic light, No! No! No motorbikes!

“%^&*” we exclaimed to each other and left Santiago as fast as we could.

Batuco is an almost shanty town north of Santiago, but the sign to the Rodeo are big and bold and Professional. It’s the run-up to the National Championship. Alfredo had warned us that the Traditional Chilean Rodeo is not very nice. The idea is that the ‘driving’ of cattle is now a sport of regional pride and pain. Two horses bump a cow vigorously, squashed between their chests and front hooves, driving it into a padded cushion until it falls over. The horse gets just as much punishment with spurs and sticks being jabbed into its ribs by the riders. The paraphernalia that accompanies this sport must cost a packet and the heat produced by sweating horses, riders and anxious cow in the afternoon sun, encouraged us to leave after a few rounds. We went, we saw and the poor cow got conquered.

If I was a horse, I know which horse I would like to be: the dappled one munching sweet grass in the dappled light by the pebble lake.

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