Over the top we went and began the long descent into the valley on the far side. Cameron’s air brakes demanded constant pumping to avoid overheating as we wound down the tail of the snake, leaving the multi-colole ured rock faces of the southern side for the red sand of the north.
Entering the plain, we stopped for lunch behind some old, long-since abandoned mud brick houses. The roofs were gone but the walls were stout and performed well as a wind-break. The gale sand blasted all who ventured out from behind their protection. The ground was dry and cracked and the sand drifted up against the walls and swirled around Cameron’s wheels as we pulled back onto the highway that had reappeared since the mountains temporarily gave way to the plain.
After many hours bucking and bouncing along the tracks and roads we reached the Argentinian border. Stopping at the last YPF petrol station to spend the last of our ‘Argies’ as they had affectionately come to be known, we trundled to the low rise border post, 50km from the nearest settlement of any size. The wind held the flags rigid, without a flap. The border office was serious and we sat in regimented silence awaiting the exit stamp before going on to the Chilean border.
Instead of a 100m dash to the Chilean side, we entered a surreal triangle of no man’s land, stretching 50km in all directions to Argentina, Chile and Bolivia. The official explanation for its size is to do with disputed territorial claims but in reality it is more to do with who has to foot the bill for re-surfacing the roads that criss-cross this empty and desolate quarter.
That is not to say that it is featureless. The land is scored with canyons and cliffs and at this time of year, the receding drifts of snow still make the road impassable in places, more often subliming into jagged spikes that point skyward on the direction of the prevailing wind. Lakes dot the terrain and the ever present grasses cling to the arid soil.
After passing a series of up-turned lorries on the road-side we made for the final climb to the Chilean border crossing point. We were thumbed down by a Chilean military vehicle that had broken down in what should have been the de-militarised zone.
Cameron shuddered and groaned as she hauled the truck up the incline and she de-coupled at the top, leaving the soldiers to cruise down the hill to the check-point. Before they left, they handed us a bottle of rum; essential military issue for patrolling the cold Bolivian desert for marauding Argentines in search of some desolate wasteland to conquer.
Reaching the Chilean end of the no-man’s-land, the reception could not have been different. The Chilean’s have one concern and one concern only; to preserve their wine trade. To do this, they scour every vehicle entering the country for any means of transmitting infection. Cameron underwent the ignominy of an internal search. Despite Dave and Ivan’s best efforts and Argentinian orange found its way across the border. The SAG border guards turned a blind eye but searched our bags with extra zeal.
San Pedro is a border town and, when we arrived in the darkness, looked foreboding and unwelcoming. The campsite was situated down dark, unlit back streets which Dave struggled to negotiate Cameron along. Cars parked on the side of the road survived unscathed but low hanging branches snapped and scrapped along Cameron’s sides.
We ate from the promociones menu with Vanessa and Bert at a welcoming restaurant on the high street with good food and a warming fire pit before heading back to the camp site as the chill was setting in.
The tent was already knee deep in dust by the time we climbed into our sleeping bag on account of broken zip that let the elements in and the heat out.
At least we didn't wake to a river of sewage from the leaking cess-pit.
Like some.
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