Where Volcanoes Dream and Flamingos Dance.
Day 21 – Trumpets at Midnight, Blessings at Dusk: Adventures Between Borders
When we planned this grand Argentina–Chile adventure, we discovered there are three ways to cross the border.
Naturally, we decided to do all three… because why choose when you can overdo?
Our first crossing: a bus from Salta to San Pedro de Atacama, gateway to the world’s driest desert. It sounded glorious… until we realised (after booking, of course) that the only bus leaves at 1:00 a.m. and takes eleven hours. ELEVEN. HOURS. Overnight. Through the Andes. 😱
I came prepared: podcasts downloaded, Kindle charged, snacks ready. We arrived at the station around midnight, expecting ghost-town vibes.
Instead, it was buzzing: families with balloons, kids in pyjamas, people greeting loved ones with Mate kits in hand. Argentina never sleeps, apparently.
Then came the music. Suddenly, a band appeared: trumpets, drums, and castanets! The whole station erupted in cheers as a bus pulled in.
We had no idea who the celebration was for, but I decided to take it personally. Clearly, they were sending us off in style.
We spotted our bus and noticed the one next to it: reclining seats, Wi-Fi, personal chargers… business class on wheels. “Ours will be the same,” we thought optimistically.
Spoiler: it wasn’t. No Wi-Fi, no chargers, but the seats reclined and the bus was half empty, so Yoni and I spread out like royalty.
I still couldn’t sleep, but two podcasts later I drifted off mid-episode… progress!
I woke to pitch darkness, then slowly realised we were climbing through icy roads with walls of frozen snow glistening in the headlights.
We were crossing the Andes. Magical and slightly terrifying.
After nine hours, we hit the Jama border crossing. We’d filled out customs forms online, feeling very efficient, only to be told we’d done them wrong.
At the border, everyone disembarked with luggage: Argentine exit, Chilean entry, luggage scan.
And then my suitcase was flagged. Apparently, peanuts and trail mix count as contraband. The officer eyed my breakfast stash like it was plutonium.
Luckily, her colleague took pity, just a lemon confiscation. Crisis mostly averted.
Two hours later, we rolled into San Pedro de Atacama, a desert town straight out of a Western. Our street looked modest, but behind a plain gate we found an oasis:
a spacious room, a heavenly bed, a private patio with mountain views. Best place so far.
We crashed immediately and woke in the afternoon to devour leftover empanadas from Salta (still delicious).
But the universe had one more surprise. On our evening walk, we heard joyful, passionate singing, not from a bar, but a tiny church.
The minister was playing guitar with pure devotion, joined by six people clapping, dancing, and smiling.
When he saw us in the doorway, he waved us in. “It’s in Spanish,” he apologised. “Perfect,” we said.
I understood enough to know it was about gratitude, for life, for blessings, for simply being. It hit straight to my heart.
Spirit doesn’t belong to any religion; it’s everywhere, waiting to sing. The perfect gift to end a long, wild, beautiful day.
*****
Day 22 – Chasing Sunsets in the Moon Valley
We woke to a view that made you question whether you’d stepped into a desktop wallpaper. Right outside our patio stood the mighty Licancabur volcano – majestic, perfectly triangular, as if drawn with a ruler. You’d think that after years of living under El Teide, I’d be immune to volcanic beauty. But no.
Here, everything is a volcano. Welcome to the Andes.
After breakfast came the reality check. The National Parks operate on a strict “cash or nothing” system, so off I went hunting for an ATM, passing gift shops selling the same alpaca poncho in slightly different shades of tourist beige. Then, jackpot, the local market.
Real people! Real life! No dreamcatchers in sight! I had a lovely chat with an indigenous woman who sold me vegetables and, without knowing it, gave me my “I can hold a normal Spanish conversation” moment. Two years of Duolingo, online lessons, and chatting to myself while cooking finally paid off.
The sun here doesn’t shine; it assaults. My hat was doing absolutely nothing, so I did what every sensible redhead does: went shopping.
I walked out proudly wearing a wide-brimmed hat embroidered with San Pedro de Atacama. If you’re going to get heatstroke, at least look stylish.
After lunch: our first tour – Valle de la Luna, the Moon Valley. Neither Yoni nor I are “organised tour” people, but sometimes you surrender, board the minibus, and pretend to be excited about the guide’s fifteenth mention of “unique rock formations.”
Luckily, the group was small, and our guide was enthusiastic. The scenery was vast, strange, and otherworldly, though after three days in La Puna, Argentina (basically Moon Valley’s wilder cousin), the wow factor had slightly dimmed. Less spiritual revelation, more school field trip.
Still, it was beautiful, especially “The Amphitheatre,” a curved rock formation that looked exactly like nature’s own opera house.
Then the finale: sunset. As the sky turned gold, our guide produced a table like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, except this hat held snacks, dips, and drinks.
We unanimously cancelled dinner. Nothing could top sunset tapas in the desert.
The valley is protected by the local Indigenous community, and once the sun sets, everyone must leave. In ancient times, the white salt sands reflected the moonlight so beautifully that it became sacred ground. Even surrounded by cameras and crowds, there was a whisper of magic in the air.
By 19:36 sharp, we were herded back onto the minibus, four layers of clothing stacked ready for tomorrow’s 5:00 a.m. adventure, and promptly collapsed into bed.
*****
Day 23 – Frozen Fingers and Flamingo Dances
The alarm went off at 4:15 a.m., that ungodly hour where even the stars are still yawning.
Destination: El Tatio Geysers, or as I now call them, “the world’s most dramatic alarm clock.”
Our WhatsApp tour group had buzzed the night before with warnings: “It’s going to be FREEZING! Three layers on your legs, four on top!”
Yoni, who normally treats instructions as mere suggestions, actually listened. A true miracle of the Andes.
By 5:01, we were outside, layered like onions, armed with a thermos of coca tea. Yoni started mumbling that people had exaggerated… until we arrived at the park.
Cue instant regret. It was glacial. The kind of cold that laughs at your jacket and bites through your soul.
But oh, what a sight. Steam danced in the dim light, curling from the earth like spirits rising to meet the dawn. Our guide, Francesco, explained that we came so early because once the sun rises, the steam fades. He also told us that El Tatio means “the crying grandfather”, from a distance, one mountain resembles an old man lying on his back, and when the snow melts, it looks like tears. Somehow, the story made the freezing air feel gentler.
We wandered among bubbling mud pools and hissing geysers. Even through four layers, my fingers were numb until Francesco had us kneel and press our palms to the earth. The warmth radiating up was pure heaven.
By sunrise, the temperature had “warmed up” to a cosy minus 3°C, and the geysers began to calm. Time for breakfast!
Out came the folding table and… abracadabra, a feast: scrambled eggs, guacamole, French baguettes (approved by the actual French in our group), cheeses, olives, ham. The only downside? Local seagulls who clearly thought it was their buffet. Every time we looked away, a feathery thief swooped in. Finding Nemo style.
Next stop: a tiny traditional village high in the desert. On the way, I finally photographed my beloved vicuñas, those shy, elegant llama cousins that had evaded my camera in La Puna. Victory! The village looked deserted, frozen in time… until we noticed the solar panels and satellite dishes.
Apparently, you can live at 4,400 metres and still not miss Netflix.
The tiny church sat at the top of a hill. Climbing those few steps in thin air felt like running a marathon underwater.
But gasping my way up, a thought arrived: life is just like altitude, you can do almost anything if you go slower and breathe deeper.
Our final stop was Laguna de los Flamencos, a glimmering lake splashed with pink. Three flamingo species share it peacefully: Andean, Chilean, and James, like polite neighbours who admire each other’s lawns without mingling. It was mating season, and we were lucky enough to witness the famous Flamingo Dance: synchronised, elegant, and far better coordinated than I’ll ever be.
By the time we got back, we collapsed like exhausted explorers, vowing to only wake for dinner.
Another extraordinary day in the desert. Tomorrow? Who knows what awaits? Stay tuned…
