Iqueque

After a particularly cold and uncomfortable twenty-two hour bus journey we arrived in the Peruvian town of Tacna where we were transported across the border in a rather splendid old-skool american cadillac. From there it was another four hour coach ride through the desert pampa of northern Chile to our destination.

Iqueque is an attractive port and city sheltered by sandy-looking headlands and the high Atacama desert beyond. With the unfortunately named Plaza Prat as it's main square it still contains many historic buildings, despite being partly destroyed in the earthquake of 1876. At sunset, as we made our way down the winding road and looked over the town to the golden beaches we knew that this was the kind of place we had been looking for. Heading for our hostel which was located handily across the road from the beach, we took a short stroll around town and after our arduous twenty-eight hour trip, turned in early for the night.

A couple of lazy days on the gorgeous beaches quickly ensued, the first however being slightly tainted by the fact that both of us had to run back to the hostel every ten minutes for some zero-warning bowel relief. The combination of fatigue and apparent safety of being in a more civilised and well-to-do country meant we had let our guard slip the previous evening and opted erratically for a chinese which was now going through us at an alarming rate.

With the imodium thankfully kicking in, Sunday morning came and I sat around for nearly eight hours awaiting the all-important Spurs versus Chelsea showdown which I had seen advertised the previous day. It was only after getting frustrated at having to watch other random sports shows that I took a quick look on the internet and discovered that my Spanish was still a little rusty, and that I was waiting for a show that wasn't broadcasting until Tuesday. My disappointment was slightly helped by the fact that we won 2-1 (Come on you Spurs!), but as many of you can imagine, I was suitably chastised for 'wasting the day away'.

Having met up with a varied but not unpleasant crowd at the hostel and spending our evenings cooking, drinking and being generally sociable, we all decided to hire a car and take it out to see the surrounding area. Together with Beni and Dom, a pair of slightly unhinged Swiss lads with a Queens of the Stone Age addiction, Jordan, our emotionally volatile Canadian room-mate, and Alice and Tim, a couple teetering on the brink of separation with the former having nothing nice to say about the latter and his evident drink problem, the seven of us set out with nothing but a few cold six-packs and a heavy dose of optimism for the coming day.

First stop was the geoglyphs set into one of the surrounding sandy hills. Consisting rather unimpressively of a series of rocks organised into the shape of a stick man, this was supposedly the last evidence of a people long vanished. Moving quickly along, we visited the now abandoned nitrate town at Humberstone.

Although now essentially a ghost town after being shut down in 1961 when the nitrate workers were made redundant, the remnants of the old church, theatre, school and other ammenities can still be seen and explored. This made for a couple of hours of entertainment before we headed off south in the direction of Pica and it's thermal spa. Quiet, tranquil and surrounded by citrus groves, this was a great spot to finish the day with a relaxing dip into the warm waters.

As the day had progressed, we had all come to the conclusion that the Toyota Jeep we were using for transport was a bucket with a lawnmower engine; something which was sadly confirmed when it broke down on us half way home, luckily in a small town in the desert. While Beni, our only moderate Spanish speaker, negotiated with some local mechanics to take a look, the rest of us sat in the back and sampled a modest variety of the local beers. Three hours later we were finally on our way back to the hostel, most of us well and truly smashed.

After our successful day out (depending on which was you look at it) it was back to the coast for a few days and some beach football and body-boarding. With just two days to go until our planned departure, the arrival of two arrogant Austrian blokes with zero-manners and matching personalities, and a relatively unpleasant english girl who "doesn't bother talking to couples" and a rather annoying habit of putting "ah?" onto the end of every sentence whether it's a question or not, managed to spoil the vibe of the place. All of our crowd were moving on however so we made the best of the last couple of nights.

Our final day arrived, and we only had one mission left to complete before we caught our bus to Santiago. We had sat on the beach for the last week watching the paragliders descend onto the sands next to us, and despite not being massively keen on running off the edge of a large cliff, decided that we couldn't leave without having a bash.

Booked in for a 1:30pm flight, we were transported to the 1200m high jump-off point at the southern end of the resort and kitted up with our suits and helmets. Not knowing a thing about paragliding, we presumed that the strong wind was just what was needed for such an activity. Sarah was up first, and strapped to an ageing german man they attempted take off. As soon as the sail went up and the strong sea-breeze caught, the pair of them were janked powerfully backwards.

The guy charged with the task of holding them steady had absolutely no hope, and after a couple attempts, one of which managed to take the two of them about ten feet into the air before smashing them back to earth and bouncing Sarah's protected head like a basketball along the hard ground (Obviously, I did not find this amusing at all) they decided enough was enough and that today's flight would have to be cancelled. Suitably disappointed but undeterred, we booked again for the following morning in the hope we could have another go before our coach left.

The following morning, with the wind a little less blustery, take off was a little more smooth and we were soon up high above the desert hills and the busy highway leading into town.

Being our first time, it seemed very reasonable to look around at the sights, snapping as we went. Soon however, I discovered that combined with the ups and downs associated with finding the required thermals, this causes a rather uncomfortable feeling of nausea. Although a good time was had by all, the overwhelming urge to chunder tends to spoil the experience slightly, something we are told is very common among first time flyers.

Landing gracefully on the beach just a few yards from our hostel, it was no surprise to discover that Sarah had been as sick as a dog whilst in mid-air and was feeling pretty rough as a consequence. With no time to spare however, we said a rushed goodbye to our friends of the past week and headed for the bus station and our awaiting coach which would take us to the Chilean capital, and sadly, our final South American destination...

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