Day 6/Part 3–

When we were at the border control getting our passports stamped and processed, Pierre casually mentioned that his headache had gotten worse.

When I asked if he had any other symptoms, he replied. “My head feels huge—like it’s going to explode.”

I started to watch him carefully. He was in good spirits, and to the casual observer, he probably would have appeared to be acting normally. However, him complaining about a headache, or any ailment isn’t normal behavior for him…he NEVER complains about not feeling well. That should have been clue number one for me.

The longer we waited in line, the quieter he became. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah—but my head really hurts.”

By the time we got back into the camper, I could tell that Pierre was really sick, and that it was coming on fast. He was complaining about being freezing cold and feeling nauseous.

Pierre is an excellent driver, and I would describe his style as alert and assertive. In other words, he’s a very, very focused driver. I began to watch him intently, because he was driving much slower than he normally does. He wasn’t doing anything alarming at this point, but I kept an eye on him anyway.

I could see that a big problem was beginning to develop. He was exhibiting clear signs of elevation sickness. Under normal circumstance, I would have offered to drive, but I hadn’t driven a manual transmission since I had gotten out of college over thirty years ago, and I knew that driving down a mountain in a camper wasn’t the optimal time for re-entry into that particular skill set.

I was getting worried.

He pulled the camper over to the side of the road, and instantly flung the door open and hopped out. He didn’t even make it two steps before he bent over and violently threw up. I opened the passenger door, and headed to the back of the camper to get tissues and a wet rag for him. He was already back in the driver’s seat by the time I had returned.

“I’m burning up,” he explained.

I held the wet rag to his forehead and then ran it over his head, and down the back of his neck. Never, not once, in our 12-years of marriage had I seen him like this. His facial expression showed no affect, and his mouth was slack. He started the engine, and I asked if he was okay to drive.

I don’t remember if he answered me, but he began to drive anyway. The pattern continued—he drove, pulled over, and threw up. He drove, pulled over, and threw up. It happened over and over again. I knew that he was probably already dehydrated, or getting there, so I kept offering him little sips of water every time that he climbed back into the camper. To make make matters worse, the hot sun was streaming through the windows, making the interior of the cab feel like an oven (in the middle of winter), even though we had the AC blasting.

Around this point, the seriousness of the situation began to create havoc in my mind—we were heading down a mountain with an elevation of over 14,000 ft., Pierre was suffering from elevation sickness, and every few minutes he had to pull over and throw up. I’m was fine and not showing any symptoms, but I couldn’t drive.

I felt helpless and then I remembered something else. “Pierre,” I blurted out, trying to contain my fear. “You need to get to the gate at the bottom of the mountain by six o’clock, or we’ll be locked in.”

I wasn’t sure if he had heard me, because he had pulled over again, but this time it was to go to the bathroom. He was out there for what seemed like forever, and I watched him from the side mirror, every few moments. I suppose I thought he was going to pass out, but he didn’t. He looked sick and vulnerable.

He slowly got back into the car and said, “I don’t feel so cold anymore.”

“Good–now, focus on getting to the gate,” I instructed, once again.

I was on high alert. I watched him, I watched the road, I watched the clock, and I watched the mileage signs on the side of road. Silently, I kept recalculating the time and distance remaining, and I pretty much figured out that if he didn’t stop again, we would probably make it to the gate.

I inwardly prayed that he wouldn’t have to throw up again, but I could tell that he was pulling from his last reserve. I really wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to do it. I began to dwell on what would happen if the gate was locked by the time we got there?

“Focus on getting to that gate,” I stated calmly, but I was worried. How would I be able to get medical help for him if he needed it?

He got us to the bottom of the mountain safely, and we drove through the gate at 5:45 p.m. on the nose. I had always heard about elevation sickness, and that it was serious, but it was shocking to see how hard and fast it had affected Pierre. I suppose, as equally shocking, was that I hadn’t suffered any ill effects, other than my ears popping when we drove up the mountain.

We made it…AND we got our passports stamped in Argentina! The scenery was breathtaking on the way up, and the trip was scary on the way down!

P.S. It seems so strange that the only picture that we took after leaving the border is the picture (above) of me smiling broadly. The sun was so hot coming through the window, that it felt like it was burning my skin, so I pulled my sweatshirt over my head. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I laughed. It was right after taking this picture, that I realized how sick Pierre was.

Day 5/Part 6–

Although we had driven down the tiny roads of San Pedro de Atacama several times already, we decided to park the camper and walk into town for dinner. We also needed to find the post office. I asked a few people as we walked along, both Anglo and Spanish, and I was told that it was near the police station and the directions were always finished with a finger pointing us in the right direction. We walked–asked clarification–walked– and asked for clarification until we found ourselves in a bustling town square. At the center of the action, a small band was playing and there appeared to be some dancers getting ready to perform.

Many stalls were set up in the middle of the square, and were occupied by vendors selling a wide assortment of merchandise to include: hand-crafted items, soaps, food, honey, etc. Small shops and restaurants lined the square on three sides, and a beautiful old adobe church occupied the remaining side. We finally found the police station that everyone had pointed us toward, but we still didn’t see the post office.

I’m a big fan of the Amazing Race, but one of the things that bothers me is that the contestants tend to run around like chickens and they never seem to think that it would be a good idea to stop and ask for directions. So–not wanting to be accused of being a frantic chicken, I asked one more time, and we were given a scant description that we really didn’t understand, BUT we got the all important finger (no, not that one!), which pointed us in the direction that we should go. Sure enough–we found the post office tucked away on a side street, just down from the church.

We stepped into a small courtyard and waited our turn to buy stamps. The building was so small, that only one customer could step into the lobby at a time. The bike pictured below is one one the mail bikes that the mailman/woman uses to deliver the mail locally, and a fancy mail scooter was there as well.

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After finishing at the post office, we set off to find a restaurant for dinner. We weren’t craving anything in particular, so we just picked a place called, Restaurant la Manada that “looked nice” from the outside. Wow~we picked well! Our dinner was excellent and the presentation was beautiful!

Day 4/Part 5–

It was approaching sunset by the time that we were ready to find a place to park the camper for the night.  Since we had decided to go to out to one of the lagoons to see the flamingos the next day, we figured that we could drive out there in the evening, so we would be well-positioned in the morning.  There are many lagoons to pick from, but we opted for Laguna Chaxta, because it was a bit bigger than the two closest lagoons, but it was much closer than a few of the others.  In other words, we thought that our plan was perfect!

We left the activity of San Pedro de Atacama and headed south on Route 23, and only we passed only one or two cars along the way.  As the sun was starting to set, we pulled over and took a few photos of the mountains in the distance.

We drove about an hour, and we easily found our turn off to the right. We left the “main” road and began traveling on a sandy, dirt road.  Almost instantly, we saw a sign that indicated that our target was 10 kms further, and that we were in the middle of construction zone.  As we continued to travel, sand piled increasingly higher and higher on either side of us, making it feel like we were traveling down a chute, rather than a road. 

We passed many construction vehicles, abandoned for the night, and silhouetted against the night sky which was glowing with stars.  All-in-all, it was a neat experience, until…we saw a set of headlights coming towards us in the distance.

As the distance between us diminished, I wondered how we would pass each other. Fortunately, the construction “gods” prevailed, and the road slightly widened as we met.  The car pulled up next to us, and the driver rolled down his window.  A man with a heavy black beard and a construction hat, told us (in Spanish) that the road was closed for the night, and that we would have to turn around.  We understood one or two words, but his hand motions were clear—turn around—now! 

Of course, we listened to his directive and we backed up until we found a little place where we could turn around.  He followed us out, making sure that we left the area.  When we reached the end of the road, we turned right on the main road, and we saw that he had turned left.  We drove for a minute or two, not seeing anyplace that we could pull over, so Pierre turned around and started heading back.  We arrived at the turn off (this time to our left), and like a moth to a flame, Pierre turned in again.

“What are you doing?” I wailed. “He told us we had to turn around!”

“He’s gone,” Pierre answered with a devilish smile.

“You’re going back in?” I asked, feeling very unsure for the first time on this adventure.

Pierre aimed the car back down the road and within a few moments, we saw a light bobbing off to our left.  “Someone is riding a bike out here,” Pierre declared with astonishment.

“No, it’s a guy walking.”  I answered. 

We watched his headlight bob toward us, and when he got close enough, he motioned for us to stop.  Pierre rolled down the window and the man pointed his flashlight into the car. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that it wasn’t the bearded man who had just told us to turn around.

This man, much older than the first, leaned his head in the window and began talking.  His tone was friendly, and of course he was speaking in Spanish.  The gist of what he was saying was—

No, you can’t drive down here.  It’s closed until morning.  You can go that way (he pointed with his flashlight in the direction of San Pedro de Atacama), or that way (pointing his flashlight the other way), but not this way (pointing his flashlight toward the lagoon).  He talked, and he talked, and he talked.  Finally, I told him (in Spanish) that we didn’t understand Spanish. He kept talking and waving his flashlight around.

At one point, I had to turn my head toward my window, to keep myself from laughing.  Every time the man said something in Spanish, Pierre answered him in English out of desperation.  I don’t think it ever occurred to the man that we didn’t understand him, and that we didn’t speak Spanish.

Not knowing how to extract ourselves from the situation, I repeated in English, everything I thought he had said to us in Spanish. “Okay, the road is closed tonight because of construction. We have two options. We can go that way,” I pointed to the left.  “Or we can go that way,” pointing to the right. “I think we’ll head back to San Pedro de Atacama.”

He smiled and seemed satisfied. He waved at us with his flashlight as we backed out and began to head down the main road.  I finally burst out laughing, because I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

“He was so sweet, but I don’t think he understood that we didn’t know what he was talking about!”

We had to backtrack about twenty minutes before we finally found a suitable place to pull over for the night.  As we pulled in, Pierre muttered, “Those flamingos better be worth it!”

I burst out laughing again—what an adventure! Like Pierre, I hoped that we wouldn’t be disappointed in the morning.