IV. A long way to a blustery, dusty place

LA842
IPC-SCL
CC-BGB – Boeing 787-9
14:55 – 21:09
Seat 43J – Y

I’ve never been fond of return flights – who is? – but today it’s even worse. After all, everyone dreams of the day when they can reach the place they’ve been wanting to go to since they were kids; no one thinks about leaving it. But, alas, that time must come, and the day is today.

We do a last wander around at dawn, in time to see the first of today’s two flights come in for landing. Back in those innocent days in 2019, LATAM was having issues with their 787’s Trent 1000 engines and, to cover the operation, had leased a 77E that had spent time flying for Singapore Airlines. Today’s first flight of the day, a multi-leg journey that would end in Tahiti, was to be operated by this all-white 777.




Anyway, back to the airport. The place features, amongst the many things, the only bar I’ve ever seen with a division between landside and airside (a Plexiglas divider) and its very own Moai. Eat your heart out Changi! No amount of cascades will ever compare.



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Time to board. We’re again in the last seats of the plane and the atmosphere is substantially more subdued than on the way out. As we line up for the runway I vow to return and direct a silent prayer to Rapa Nui. Don’t ever build a W hotel. Do not allow any Influencer in. Please.





We flight towards the dusk; I find some suitable music under the form of a selection of the best Peruvian chichas and, before long, it’s time for dinner. Minimalistic but accompanied by a Vache qui rit cheese triangle that reminds me of childhood.


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Landing is at nine and, by the time we get out of the plane, through the corridors and back to the baggage reclaim area is almost 10. We’ve booked an airport hotel for tonight, a newish La Quinta Inn which happens to be the first ever property of this brand where I haven’t happened to interrupt a methamphetamine sale taking place in the courtyard. In fact it’s actually a very nice place.





LA126
SCL-ANF
CC-BEI – Airbus A321
08:00 – 10:00
Seat 38J – Y

We’re the only two tourists on this flight. Everyone else is either going back home or flying to work; judging by the logos stitched on our fellow passengers’ jackets, mining seems to be the big business over in the North.

One word on the boarding process on today’s flight: there are three queues, one for window seaters, one for middles and one for aisles. As you can see, I’m in the middle seat gang. First board those by the window, then my group, then the aislers. It all sort of seem to work and we’re all set in a jiffy, a full load on a very tight 321.



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As it inevitably happens, my seatmate is a former water polo player who hasn’t scaled back the calories after he’s stopped being a pro.

We take off in the grey Santiago morning, taxiing past some AA birds on maintenance and the Orbis flying clinic.



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Then it’s up in the blue, above the stormy seas.




There’s no service, only an attempt to BoB. Not many takers.





Barely one hour of discomfort and we’re in Antofagasta. Now, I hope the local Tourism Office won’t read this – and I hope not to offend anyone in saying it – but Antofagasta is one of the most charmless cities I’ve ever had the privilege to see and I’ve been to Slough.


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Imagine a city perennially encased in fog, besieged by desert. A city made of highrises and rubbish, with a motorway doubling as the seaside promenade, vultures - friggin’ vultures – perched above lampposts. The only ads in the airport, or on the way to town, extol the virtues of earthmoving equipment and announce a forthcoming expo of trucks, cranes and other mining implements.

So why coming here then?

Fair question! The go-to airport for the Atacama Desert is Calama, a lot further inland (and upwards). But Calama is also a lot more expensive as far as rental cars go. In fact, the price for the tiniest car available at AVIS over there – a Hyundai i-something, basically an egg riding on four shopping trolley wheels – was $200 higher than this:





Five meters of Nissan-made steel, four-wheel drive, manual transmission, the noisiest diesel engine I’ve ever had with the exception of my uncle’s Renault Trafic and a list of pre-notified damages longer than Jeff Bezos’ bank statement. All it missed was a sticker with Mullah Omar giving the thumbs-up and the writing The Taliban Approve of this Vehicle. It was bliss.

We drove off immediately, tackling the steep mountain motorway that rises immediately from behind Antofagasta. We climbed out of the coastal murk into an altiplano of blinding sunshine, running through a landscape that was empty but for the occasional mining behemoth, crossing traffic made exclusively of other pick-ups or trucks carrying sulphuric acid. We passed abandoned towns like Pampa Union, built to serve mines and vacated the moment the minerals ran out, and then turned right past Calama’s airport. Radio reception appears when nearing a village and fizzles out as soon as we’re past with just enough time for the dum-de-de-dum-de of a cumbia.

We’re coming closer and closer to Atacama and the landscape is becoming increasingly worthy of a Dali painting. First is a field of wind turbines, then an expanse of solar panels then, all of a sudden, rise the Martian landscape of the Cordillera de la Sal. We stop the truck, missing a ravine by a mere meter, and take a look. This is nothing like we’ve ever seen.



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“My dear”, I say, “This is the place stoner rock has been invented for”.

The wind picks up, but even with that noise I can hear Other Half groan.