San Pedro de Atcama, Chile
The Los Angeles Times
Having grown up in a place where a rain free day is a small miracle, I worship deserts. My sodden soul soars when that dry heat hits and I behold those azure skies. And as far as deserts go, Chile's Atacama is a behemoth that stretches for some 2,000 miles. And in places there has never been any recorded rainfall. Not a drop.
It was late April, winter madness had set it, and I was in Chile with two girlfriends--Stephanie (Steph) Tuck and Wickham (Wicki) Boyle. We'd signed up for some pampering of the New World Order variety, meaning at night we would stay at a top-notch lodge, eat superb food, and drink world-class wine, but during daylight hours we were expected to engage every muscle in vigorous athletic pursuits.
We flew into Santiago, then headed northward to Calama, an inland mining town and the hub for San Pedro de Atacama, our destination.
On first impression, the Atacama looked bereft. The terrain was lifeless, flat, and gray. It reminded me of the moon, which I always thought desolate after the thrill of humans walking on it subsided.
After forty minutes of monotone moonscape and the van crested a hill, finally dropping us into the surrealist drama of the badlands. Red-lit boulders, twisted escarpments and silky dunes exploded below. Off to the right, a gorge was populated with grotesque mannequins, whittled by eons of winds. To the left were fields of cracked mud, and fingers of ocher sand reaching across to stroke at the snow-capped Andes. And smack in the middle was a pod of greenery encircling adobe houses--San Pedro de Atacama, an ancient and thriving desert oasis.
San Pedro, a town of 1,500, is perched at 8,000 feet in the central part of the Atacama desert in the north of Chile, 50 miles, as the crow flies, from the Bolivian border. It gets rain--a whole inch a year, but it is perennially endowed with springs, geothermal waters, and Andean rivers.
\We were staying at the Explora hotel, a place I'd heard about among adventurous friends. Although it was drastically more expensive than any of the smaller, less glamorous hotels in San Pedro, we'd rationalized that when you factor in all the meals, drinks, transfers, equipment and guides, the $1,296 per person tariff for a four day stay was really quite reasonable.
The Explora company is known for its singular lodges. Nine years ago they built the 30-room Explora Patagonia in Chile's Torres del Paine national park, a contemporary, upscale hotel which brought active luxury travelers flocking to the bottom of the world. In 1998, they opened the 50-room Explora Atacama, a haven of understated extravagance from which to base exploration. Theirs is a philosophy of environmental immersion through active journeying. The management likes to provide you with a serene-but-knowing guide, some gorp and water, a method of self-transport and wave you on your way. And when you finish your excursion in some gorgeous location, Explora staff are there waiting for you with chilled beverages, antipasto platters, dry towels and an air conditioned van to ferry you back to the hotel for your swim, your massage and your gourmet meals.
Arriving at midday, we were ushered into the bar to meet with Paula Valdes, Explora's charming head guide."There are five choices this afternoon," she said. "You can horseback ride, take one of two hikes, go on a photographic safari or mountain bike. If you want to climb the volcano, I suggest you do it near the end of your stay and work up to the altitude."
El Toco volcano, a one-morning ascent to 18,372 frigid, icy, oxygen-starved feet, is a source of fun for stalwart sorts, some of whom don't make it and have to be shouldered down to an oxygen tank in the van. "Honey, that won't be me," said Wicki, ever the pragmatist. "I'm gonna do it," said Steph, ever the overachiever. We chose acclimatization with a mild three-hour hike through the Kari Gorge.
To get into the Kari Gorge, we were required to bound down a steep sand dune like adolescents in a Mountain Dew commercial. Below was a cracked, flesh-toned plain covered with dazzling white salt crystals. The Atacama used to be under the ocean, and sodium chloride still remains in the earth. When it rains, or when the night air produces rare moisture, it rises to the surface, staying put like a permanent dusting of snow.
We climbed through the rocky corridors, grottos and narrow, salt-crusted fissures as the sun sank and the rocks glowed a feverish red. Our intention was to be at the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) for sunset, a short van drive from Kari Gorge.
As we struggled up to a knife-edged ridge overlooking Valle de la Luna, the nearly full moon hung fat in the darkening sky on one side while the sun seeped behind a ridge on the other. Although the climb was only 300 yards, the 9,000 foot altitude made it slow going. It was worth every labored breath when we reached the top. The creased, umber canyons lay below us, the lights of San Pedro glimmered in the distance, and the Andes grinned gap-toothed from the horizon.
The following morning I rose early to bike the mile from Explora into San Pedro. On the outskirts of town, I passed houses molded of adobe with thatched brea roofs and rows of corn in the garden. Dark skinned people, the Atacamaños, sat in small doorways or leaned on gates crafted from crooked sticks. Gauchos on ponies stamped terra-cotta clouds from the dusty roads, and bowlegged grandmothers in flat-topped hats and woven shawls lumbered by laden with baskets of alimentos.
In the tiny town center, established some 450 years ago by the conquering Spaniards, narrow alleys twisted past bars and shops. The Iglesia San Pedro, a quaint, whitewashed 18th-century church stood on a colonial plaza opposite the entrance to the artesanal market, a row of dim stalls selling the local crafts of aguayos saddle blankets, cactus wood statuettes and alpaca wool sweaters. Despite its size, the town is clearly set up for tourism, both foreign and Chilean. Hip restaurants serving international and local cuisine line the streets, as do small hotels and adventure outfitters.
I stopped at the Museo Gustavo Le Paige, an El Dorado for Pre-Colombian buffs. Le Paige was a Belgian priest with a penchant for archaeology. He helped the local people stake a claim to their artifacts and organize this museum, reputed to be one of South America's best. The San Pedro area was part of the pre-Hispanic Tiwanaku, Atacaman and Incan civilizations, and the arid air has preserved the museum's mummies, tools, textiles, and pottery with spooky intactness. One diminutive mummy, the doorman told me, was nicknamed Miss Chile. "She's thin, she's got great hair, and people love taking her picture."
When I returned to the hotel, there was a fine looking man on a fine looking horse riding out of the bar and through the lobby. He rose in the saddle, tipped his hat towards me, said, "Buenos dias," and rode off into the lounge.
It occurred to me then that the hotel had been designed around horses. The Explora Atacama has won awards for its environmental design, and I knew that Pedro Ibáñez, the wealthy industrialist owner, was an avid horseman. I now understood why there were ramps and immense sliding stable-like doors everywhere. Even the guest rooms skirted a courtyard, like the grand estancia stables of old, and the wall decorations were the tasteful, hand-loomed saddle blankets of the local baqueanos cowboys. Horses and the irregular angles of the Andes were the architectural inspiration. The hotel's fireplaces tilted in diagonal, and the roof lines were irregular, imperfect, like the seamless eccentricities found in nature. There were skylights in unexpected places, framing small canvases of scenery; hidden rooftop patios with serene views, and meandering pathways of quietude.
The horseman was Miguel Yarur, ex-Chilean national horseriding champion, demigod of the stables, horse whisperer extraordinaire. It turned out he was riding through the lobby to indulge a photographer, but, I was assured, the hotel was indeed designed for such whimsy.
I had forfeited a trip to the El Tatio geysers that morning, and later regretted it. A group left at 4:30 am to reach the geysers by sunrise, when the fumaroles jet to life. Wicki returned raving about the hazy extraterrestrial feel of the place, and having had a close encounter with an intrepid fox and several vicunas. The problem with the Atacama is there are simply too many things to do.
I hadn't gone because I couldn't tolerate sitting in a van for the four hour round trip. Instead, Steph and I hiked the Guatin Puritama trail, a valley which climbed past pre-Incan ruins, over small waterfalls, beneath the plumes of pampas grass and hoary cacti, and ended with a swim in the Puritama Hot Springs. A chain of pools spilled subterranean mineral water down the mountainside, waters which have been used as a curative elixir for centuries. The Inca's used the Puritama as a place of peace to settle disputes and lower stress. The original day spa.
We returned to the hotel for lunch and siesta. Explora's French chef serves wonderful food, balanced to be light on the stomach but high in protein for maximum energy. My favorite was pataska, a locally derived dish of corn and potato. On the sophisticated end, the duck confit was heavenly.
After siesta, we were to ride with Miguel. I have ridden sporadically since I was a girl, and these days I seek places where you can escape liability limited, plodding trail rides. Atacama had a reputation for genuine horsemanship.
Miguel strode out of the stables to meet us. He was compact and strong, possessing the type of masculinity that discombobulates feminists of all ages. The effect was compounded when he dropped to his knees to strap on my chaps. Pure Latin chivalry. "Hola, Amanda," he said as he knelt at my feet. "You ride, no?" It sounded more like a command than a question. I equivocated. I ride adequately, but in the presence of a man like Miguel, it would not do to overstate one's ability. Further, Miguel trained the horses and you could practically see them genuflect when he walked by. He flicked his head and a groom appeared with Mascota, a highly bred, lanky, Chilean-English mix.
Mascota handled with almost clairvoyant grace, possibly the best-mannered horse I have ridden. Our merry band was enamored with our mounts; we were enamored with the sunshine and the clear air and the empty plains before us; and we were all a little enamored with Miguel.
We rode for several miles into Valle de la Muerte, Death Valley, yet another expanse etched with sculptural shadows and clefts. We passed sand boarders, mountain bikers and hikers, quite the sporting tableau. We rode hard, Miguel's warhorse Caesar leading the charge, galloping up sand dunes, through streams, and racing across the desert. It was challenging, intoxicating riding.
The riders gathered to drink heartily in the bar that evening. Pisco sours are the Chilean drink of choice and Miguel poured a mean one. A 90-proof brandy distilled from wine grapes, pisco, I had read, "loosens tongues while sharpening wits." Please may the latter be true.
Javier, a gentle, ponytailed guide, was assigned the task of taking we women mountain biking to the Sejas Lagoon the next morning. Steph had given up on the volcano climb, preferring to go biking. Again, too many choices. We packed our bathing suits and bathroom slippers, straddled latest-model mountain bikes and headed across the plains.
We cycled for 16 miles past tussocked plains, pedaled furiously through deep tracts of sand and over crusty salt flats. And right as the landscape became utterly barren, we arrived at an aquamarine thermal lake, ringed in toadstool configurations of razor sharp salt crystals. Hence the slippers. We dove in, slippers on, scaring off a flock of flamingoes, which wheeled above us in disgust. We bobbed about in the weirdly buoyant saline water, warmed by hot vents from below, soaking the pisco out.
It was our final day and the mountain biking was merely the first in a crescendo of activity. In the bar the previous night, Miguel had leaned forward with a smirk and said, "You want muy peligroso ride tomorrow, Amanda?"
"Why yes," I, or probably the pisco sours, had replied, "Muy peligroso. No problemo."
"There will be, how you say, saltar."
"Jumping. Right."
I hadn't jumped in twenty years
That afternoon, a small group of us set off to Quebrada de Diablo, Devil's Canyon. We ran the horses across the desert and we loped them through narrow box canyons. They jumped up rocky ledges and over small rifts. They climbed stolidly upward over loose moraine and along precarious, cliffside tracks. The ride was dangerous indeed, and if only one of those horses had spooked it would have been an ugly ending. We climbed until we had a view like no other, a 360-degree panorama of ravines and volcanoes, lakes and salty wastelands, and green, green oases.
Hobbling off the horses at sunset, we gingerly mounted bikes and rode into San Pedro for a drink at Café Adobe, our favorite bar with a roaring fire under an open palapa roof. At night, the town truly comes alive. Chilean bohemians take to the streets; backpackers gather to swap dollar-a-day fables; long-haired astrologers gaze into telescopes; locals sell silver jewelry; and the hippies of every nation waft about in parachute pants and muslin headscarfs.
The moon was full that night, so we skipped dinner and drove instead to Valle de la Luna to witness the desert drowned in sterling light. At the summit, Javier emerged from the shadows toting pisco sours. There was no escaping the stuff.
At midnight, we returned to the hotel to find that Miguel, the gallant, had whipped up a platter of sushi. I know things taste better when you have been seduced by the magnificence of nature and have exerted yourself to the point of delicious exhaustion. I am aware that travel makes everything more flavorful, more chimerical. But that was the best damn sushi I have ever had. Right there in the middle of the driest desert on earth.
Getting There:
American Airlines, Lan Chile, Delta and United fly to Santiago. American and Lan Chile are a co-chair, meaning they sometimes offer discounts on internal flights if you fly American. Lan Chile flies from Santiago to Calama, which is a one hour drive from San Pedro. Driving is not recommended.
Explora Hotel de Atacama:
phone 011-562-206-6060; fax 011-562-228-4655; e-mail: reservexplora@explora.com,
http://www.explora.com. A 4-day/3-night stay is $1,296 per person, double occupancy; and an 8-day/7-night stay is $2,441 per person, double occupancy. Includes transfers from Calama, 3 meals, drinks (including alcohol), guides, equipment.
Other hotels:
Hotel Terrantai is right in town and is constructed of indigenous materials, but only offers package deals (price includes tours). 4-days/3-night stay including transfers, meals and driving tours is $591, rate is per person based on double occupancy. 011-562-851-045;
Hotel Kimal is an attractive, small place on the road outside of town. $89 per night, double. 011-562-851-030; http://www.chiphotels.cl/Hotel_Kimal.htm
Restaurants and Bars:
Adobe Cafe has great style and ambience, although probably not the best food in town. Sitting around the roaring fire under the stars with a pisco sour is a must. 851-089.
Paacá restaurant, in the Hotel Kimal, is one of the best eateries in San Pedro.
Explora. Even if you are not staying at the hotel, the Explora bar and restaurant are open to the public and well worth a visit. 585-1110