Numero 18 - Fantasies & fears

As Peru slowly faded from his rear view mirror, a new dust started settling on his old size nines. Arica was reminiscent to places he once new back home. A portal town, with shipping container painting the ocean front landscape, it all had the air of a dusty old  desert peublo. He stayed at a hostel a nine-iron away from the sea shore. They all spoke French, but with his flair for languages, he got on swimmingly well with the staff & fellow clientele. He couldn't & wouldn't stay more than a few nights. Something more overwhelming was calling in the distance. He woke up early in the morning with that same old feeling, a feeling he thought he had lost, 7 months in one place could do that. The road from Arica to Iquique would give him that feeling again. He'd missed that feeling. Water, camera, wet neck scarf, backpack & open road, is all he needed. It's all anybody really needs. Under the constraint of the sun, the tar seemed to be bubbling off the road. He loved it. He longed to get lost in the desert. By truly being lost, only then can you truly find yourself. His ride would inadvertently offer him that. Carla, his ride, had told him she was going all the way to Iquique. 2hrs in & she turned off the road. That was the end of the line. He hopped out the air conditioned little Japanese 2 seater into absolute nothingness. He had dreamed of this for years, & now when it finally arrived, he was to sure what to really expect. He stood in the deafening silence listening to the silence. It spoke volumes. He hadn't ever experience this, not even close. Imagine the quietest place you've ever been too, times it by 100 & then maybe you'll be close to what was playing out in front of him. It would be 90min before civilization came driving by. He reached Iquique round 5pm. Physically & mentally drained, he found sympathy from a cold shower at the hostel. It took a while for the events of the day to settle in. Iquique offered his first taste of salt water between his raggedly curly locks since Mancora now 8months in the past. It was great. He met some really geniune travellers as well. You meet a lot of people when travelling, & although they all talk, many rarely say anything worth remembering.

                                                       Only then can you find yourself

He was finding his ryhthm again. It was a good groove to be in. He really was having a fantastic time in Iquique. The road was calling his number, it would be rude not to answer. Anyway, 3 days in Iquique was perfect. It's always good to quit while in the lead. San Pedro was not that far down the road. He reached the town in the early part of the day. The mercury was heading well north at that point already. He would get to cycle in 'The Valley of The Moon' the next day. There's just something so simple about cycling. You can go where ever & when ever you you want. The town itself was like no other. Dusty old streets, flanked by mud houses & shops charging extortionist prices to all who ventured near. Everything from water to fruit was well over-priced. Weird since the town itself had nothing to offer. He woke up the next day all set for his ride into the valley. He had expected the heat to be like the day before, it surprisingly wasn't. It was worse. Not as hot as the sun, but not far off. The first few kilometers seamed easy, but as soon as the smooth stuff got replaced with the off-road, well, the scenery in more ways than one changed as well. He quickly discovered how a really good day can become a really shitty one. He loved every bit. He'd never choosen the theory of leaving a bit in the tank for the way back & once again followed that route. 'God do I regret that choice,' he murmurred under dryed out tongue. 'Onward & upward.' He loved the challenge. He even had time to spark up a few Marlboro's. He loved the pain racing through his desert stained shirt, he loved every bit of sweat being excorcised from his body by the Atacama sun. These are the days you remember when you back home & everything goes tits up. You'll long for these days. This is what it was all about.

                                            
                                                                            Lunar Landing

He returned that evening with a smile as wide as his arse was sore. It was really sore. The night was filled with laughter & tales with French, Dutch, Spanish & English accents. This was a really good day.
He was up early the next day with only one thing on his mind. Argentina. He stamped out of Chile in San Pedro, it was weird, cause there's still another 200klm to go before you actually hit Argentinian soil. He reached the road heading east pretty early, 5 hours later he was still sat there. He had been through it all before. So he returned that afternoon to his hostel. It resembled 'Fawlty Tours.' Fabian the owner was as Basil Fawlty as you can get. He even had his own Manuel. The disappointment of the day was soon forgotten as he visited long into the night under desert trees. Many people get stuck in San Pedro, he was obsessed with not becoming one. So off he trooped to Argentina once again. It would be another long day, but with a difference. A flat bed truck difference. They were heading from Peru to Buenos Aires. Perfecto. Marco & Lucas would get him all the way to northern Argie. They stayed in Susques. A tiny hamlet of a place surrounded by mountains on all sides. The road south from Susques was treacherous for trucks & they thus stayed the night. There was no place in the flatbed, so he crashed at the local dis-used bus depot. Rat infested bus depot. It didn't matter to him, he slept like a baby on codeine. He woke up to discover his ride had left, no worry though. He met a few other truckers in town & managed to arrange another ride. He had a few hours to kill so went to have a look around town. It was straight out of the old west. He was half expecting bandits to come running throw 6 shooters blazing aways with a dust cloud trailling behind. He could even hear the theme from 'The good, bad & ugly' ringing in his ears. All that was missing was a dual over the honour of the blacksmiths daughter. The church bells even chymed away at noon. Jujuy would be reached just before nightfall. 'Wet, wet ,wet,' would be an appropriate band name for Jujuy. It had been a while since he'd seen sheets of rain like was on display. Hitchhiking was always un-predictable, & so it would prove again. He started out looking for a ride to Cordoba, but by the next morning he would be in Rosario. He rolled into Rosario with on a sunny Friday afternoon more confident than ever of achieving his goal. Life though, like hitchhiking is un-predictable. Looking back, would have known though, that 2 weeks later, his dreams, his life, would be in tatters.

                                                                     Long beds

Until that day ......