Border Crossing

26 November. Exiting Bolivia at 4,480 metres made this our highest border crossing yet. We pulled up to the control building, took our place in line, and waited our turn to face Chile’s famously strict food-entry rules. As expected, the officer—friendly, professional and thorough—confiscated our remaining fresh fruit, vegetables, eggs, and the near empty jar of honey. I kept quiet about the meat in the freezer and he didn’t ask, so the bacon survived.

An hour later we rolled away from the border with freshly stamped passports and all the necessary paperwork for Bruce. Crossing the last 2km of washboard till turning onto smooth pavement which felt like we were floating. From there the road plunged downwards—an incredible 2,500-metre descent into Chile’s Atacama Desert and the oasis-town of San Pedro de Atacama.

The differences were instant. The Spanish sounded nothing like Bolivian we’d grown used to—faster, sharper, almost like everyone was in a hurry. And the prices… well, those had definitely crossed the border too, and not in our favour.

San Pedro de Atacama

Camping just outside town at a place that wasn’t particularly special, we pulled in and managed to negotiate 50% off for the kids, but even with the discount the one-night stay cost a staggering $30USD. That made the decision easy: one night only.

The next morning we met up with Manuel, who’d stayed in a hostel, wandered through San Pedro’s dusty adobe streets, then headed out toward Valle de la Luna for a sunset drive and (free) desert camp. Only we arrived just 10 minutes after they closed the gates. Still not sure how that works for a place famous for its sunset viewpoints, but to be fair the hours were clearly posted online, which I’d missed. They also refused to refund our already-purchased tickets, which didn’t help the mood. We left grumpy—mostly at ourselves for not paying attention, doh!

A Night with the “Magic Bus”

Turning away, we drove deeper into the desert toward the so-called ‘Magic Bus’, which is really just an old bus shell layered with colourful spray paint grafiti which has now become an Instagram landmark. Once the tour groups drifted away and the sun dropped, we found a quiet corner in the desert to park for the night.

Big contrast of temperature in 2,500m it’s warm after sunset, even the wind is warm, love this! We’re alone out here in total silence, apart from the sound of Charley & Jaxon bickering. The sky is exploding with stars—millions of them, and there… is the Southern Cross.

We set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. and snuck outside with mugs of hot tea & coffee, finally able to enjoy the night sky we’d missed in Bolivia’s bitter cold. Back down the 10km of washboard we are the first to arrive, then Alex & Eric all toasty in their van with the heater on, mins later Manuel arrives. Setting off in the creeping dawn making our way to the coast. Two hours down the road we said our goodbyes—Alex and Eric naturally moved faster than us, and Manuel needed to stop and warm up a little.

Hand in the Desert, Antofagasta

27 November – 5 December. Leaving the desert we had hundreds of km’s of long, straight and boring desert to cover. Antofagasta is a sprawling mining city pressed between desert and sea. Passing by lengths of mining equipment lined up in the desert before entering the city tells us exactly what this town is about. Finding a large supermarket, we stopped long enough to restock groceries, grab lunch, and then continued south.

Onwards to the famous sculpture,  Hand of the Desert—the giant concrete hand rising out of the sand. After the obligatory photo session we climbed a nearby hill and camped at the top, rocked by howling winds that flattened Manuel’s tent against the truck, we were killing ourselves laughing with all the one line jokes that followed.

Then at 10pm, the wind magically died, Manuel’s tent reshaped and the day was done.

For the next ten days we ambled down the coast, camping on various beaches amongst the rocks. Watching the landscape shift subtly with each bay and headland. Jaxon cast his fishing rod at every stop. Catching only a small rock cod, which he released to grow some more. This was enough to fuel his fire for ‘the big one’, but the fish just weren’t having it.

Washboard Revenge

Roughly 50km before Taltal, we heard a solid thunk from the truck, followed by an uglier grinding sound. Pulling over, we discovered a broken leaf spring that supports the cab. It seemed Bruce hadn’t survived all that washboard unscathed as we’d hoped.

Creeping carefully into town, we went searching for a mechanic or welder. Finding an older Greek man and his son who said confidently they can do the repair. Half day & $200 USSD later, we were rolling again. Getting a repair done on a Sunday which managed to include a fully cooked chicken and a hefty dose of genuine goodwill, so no complaints from us.

They removed the broken leaf, filed it clean, welded and cooled the metal, then reinforced it for good measure. It wasn’t a forever fix, but it was honest, tidy work—good enough to keep us rolling all the way to Santiago, where we’ll have to replace it properly.

A Special Reunion

A little further South and a little inland, we stopped at the town of Villenar, where we had arranged a rendezvous with Herbert and Ingrid Fuess—the original owners of the company that built our camper.

I first met them nearly twenty years ago in a Whistler carpark when I spotted their huge expedition truck and waited for them to return so I could ask questions. One thing led to another, and that’s the short version of how we ended up with a ‘Fuss Mobile’ of our own.

Today at 81 & 83 they and are still travelling the world in their old faithful Mercedes, which has racked up more than 450,000 km across every country imaginable and still going strong.

They had brought replacement fuel caps for us. Their son Klaus was visiting them from the U.S. and travelling with them for a month. We camped together in a gravel parking lot for a night, before parting ways in the morning after both trucks having a bit of morning mechanical maintenance.

Next stop… Santiago!