I awoke to the sound of rain falling on the fiberglass roof. Stiff from yesterday’s marathon ride from Uyuni I entered the hotel’s dining room already full of miners sitting in the half-darkness. Electricity apparently is only available from dusk until sometime in the early morning. Grumpily I accepted the offered breakfast of stale bread, processed cheese, and rubbery ham and received the curious and sometimes hostile glances from the miner’s tables.
My plan was to leave for the much more tourist-friendly climes of the town of San Pedro De Atacama. Having only $50 USD and no bank machine for 200 kms, I could only stay one more night before running out of money. As the rain continued to fall through mid-morning with no break in sight, I decided to start my bike. I pressed the button and the starter turns but the engine won’t catch. Seeing my trouble several of the, by now drunk, miners takes an interest and start yanking out cables under the fuel tank. My anxiety increases as the belligerently ask each other where that cable came from and how it goes back in. Finally an older, sober, competent mine surveyor tells me that one of three parts (spark plug cover, ignition control electronic switch, or connecting wires) is wet and starts to help me take off the side covers, seat, and finally fuel tank in order to get to the parts.
We dry the parts but the engine still doesn’t catch. So we drain the fuel tank and he disassembles the fuel switch (off/on/reserve) and we discover that it doesn’t seem to allow liquid through. I then remember that it only operates with the vacuum hose forcing the diaphragm open. So we re-attach everything and then drain the carburetor at his suggestion. It turns out water had entered it and so was blocking the fuel from being absorbed from the tank. Now with the bike running and many miners taking an interest, they re-attach my front fender with spare wire through the bolt-holes. Another one applies a missing washer to one of side panels – previously secured by duct tape. I re-assemble my disabled side-stand kill switch mechanism while a few miners support my bike.
By this time it’s 5pm and the miners are telling me to stay another night and that I shouldn’t attempt crossing the snowy passes on the dirt road to San Pedro at this time. Besides the meat is being cut-up for the parrilla (massive meat barbecue). So I find myself standing around with 10 miners and 3 geologists (we four are the odd ones out) eating large hunks of meat and drinking wine from the shared bottles in the freezing cold, high in the Altiplano. Despite one calling me ‘gringo’ (and being chastised by some others) and their initial hostility, I’ve now been accepted by miners as an odd but welcome addition. The geologists gave me a huge bag of food and offered me a place to stay south of Santiago and wanted to give me money upon finding out I was running out of cash quickly.
When the sun began to set the landscape’s beauty became apparent. Even the garbage and debris strewn outskirts of the settlement don’t somehow seem so hopeless and wasted as they did in the coastal Peruvian towns with the same mess. It’s vast, cold, desolate but completely compelling. I like the people of the settlement all the more for having seen the surroundings after the veil of clouds lifted.











These places may be beautiful,but they seem also chillingly desolate . If praying foryour safety did anything for you I’d do it . Best I can think of is to urge you back to safer climes .