Approaching Iquique, Chile. Check out the size of that sand dune!
3:13 p.m. What a day. I can finally relax. I'm sitting in an open air restaurant, La Surena II (the original La Surena was so popular, the owner opened another one next door) and eating the most amazing fish caldillo. It's a simple soup served in a giant cast iron bowl. Huge, tender chunks of fish (too hungry to ask what kind), potatoes, tomatoes, and onions are cooked with lemon, cilantro, peppers, and garlic. The soup base is not thick, but is substantial enough to be a meal in itself. I'm eating a scalding hot soup on a scorching day, surrounded by cheesy Christmas decorations. And I'm enjoying it.
How did I end up in this bustling coastal town south of Arica?
It's before sunrise. I get on the Arica to Iquique bus (four hour ride). The guy sitting next to me has a fake leg. He's got another fake leg, carefully wrapped in butcher paper and stowed in the luggage compartment. He was a nice chap, but reeked of garlic.
My immediate destination is not Iquique. Rather, it's Humberstone, a desert nitrate ghost town 45 miles east of Iquique. Hopefully, the express bus will stop for me and let me off. I tell the bus attendant to please have the bus driver stop at Humberstone. He says, "No problem, Hamburger it is." Oh dear.
If you're watching Dakar coverage right now, you know exactly what the landscape is like. It's not too hot (at least in the morning) but it's dry as hell. And bright.
The bus drops me off at the intersection of the Pan-American Highway and the turn-off to Iquique.
"Is this Humberstone?"
"Si, Hamburger."
There is only one other visitor. Though he is Taiwanese, he was born in Paraguay so he has a Paraguayan passport and speaks some Spanish. He is on assignment for a movie studio to find prospective filming locations all over South America. It's a really cool gig, as he seems to have all the time in the world to
From 1872 to 1960, Humberstone was a nitrate mining town. It's now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Virtually the entire town, and the interiors of all the buildings, are open to the public.
My first stop is the bar:
Here is/was the town square:
Trains:
Classroom:
Hospital ward (the graffiti on the wall reads: "Here my daddy was born..."):
And here is the theater. Last June, while sitting in the San Francisco Opera House, I daydreamed about the Humberstone theater:
This cast iron swimming pool blew my mind. The metal is derived from a shipwreck. Check out the diving boards and grandstand:
Just north of the town proper are the managers' houses. One of them, a Craftsman, could very well have an identical twin in Oakland. North of that, we have the nitrate processing facility. The staircase in the photo below is for taking better photographs. My fear of heights prevented me from taking more than four steps up.
Finished with my tour, I had a dilemma. I have no ride to Iquique, the nearest town. I am surrounded by desert and the midday sun is violently beating on my scalp. I walk to the road and plop down my backpack.
That's my pack. I could have traveled even lighter if I didn't have to carry a jacket, a windbreaker, a set of long johns (top and bottom), a pair of black leather shoes and dress socks (for the ballet in Buenos Aires that I promised my wife I'd go to when I joined her later in my trip), and seven books (including two hardcovers).
I really didn't know who or what I was waiting for. So I just kind of stood there, looking pathetic, in need of a ride. After about an hour, a black Hyundai van full of people instinctively pulls over next to me, as if expecting me. I hop on board, in my usual, monkey in the middle position between the kind driver and a worried lady who has to go to the main hospital in the big city to see a dying loved one.
The ride was exhilarating and uncomfortable. The van was very top heavy and the crosswinds were brutal. I didn't have a seatbelt. Out of respect for the driver, I tried not to step on the phantom brake pedal I often use when I'm a scared passenger. Instead, I did my best to shift the weight of my shoulders to prevent the van from rolling over and spilling its precious contents.
This is what the view looked like for much of my ride.
As we approach Iquique, I am confused. I see the ocean, which is just a few miles away, but we're still 2,000 feet above sea level. I look over and past the 1,600 foot sand dune and see the town. Iquique is on a spit of sand but it is densely populated. The medium sized skyscrapers are dwarfed by the gargantuan dune.
The city of Iquique (population 200,000+) is chaotic. It's a free trade zone and there is evidence of laissez-faire commerce everywhere. While at a red light, a street vendor walks up to stopped vehicles to hawk 1:12 scale diecast motorcycles. This was all he was selling, and he seemed to be successful. I imagine it's got the atmosphere of Paraguay's lawless border town of Ciudad del Este. In fact, I see a Mercedes with Paraguay plates. That must have been some drive.
After my soup, I get on a seven hour bus to the seedy, rough-and-tumble copper mining town of Calama. Lonely Planet describes the town as a "shithole". When I told a nice old lady at the bus station in Iquique that I was going to arrive in Calama after dark, she urged me to "clutch your bag and run to the hotel." *Gulp*
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