Inquique to Antofagasta

Inquique was hard to leave but then everywhere is becoming hard to leave. Not because the places themselves are so inviting but the desert is so uninviting. Without my eight liters of water and the promise of more within 100km I would quickly become a mummified biker in the desert. However, the hostel in Inquique was especially comfortable with good company, a nice kitchen, groceries close by, and the beach across the street - I even had a dog to hang out with.But leave I must after saying my goodbyes and thanking the German motorcyclist, Norman, for allowing me to photograph his detailed maps of Chile and Argentina. I now have good maps for the rest of my entire route to the end of South America. I rolled out the city in the afternoon on a bike path passing paragliders landing by the beach along the coastal highway. Strange to be riding through the driest desert along the world's largest body of water - both deserts in their own right not offering a drop of moisture to drink. However, the Pacific offers a welcome diversion, a cool breeze, and a break from the unrelenting headwinds of the plateau 600 meters above. Camping is easy on the endless beaches and I am relaxed about camping because no one is around to break my solitude.Scrap wood along the highway provides fuel for campfires. One evening I stop and gather wood and pile it onto the back of bike like that homeless guy on a bike . . . then realize I am that homeless guy on a bike with hair gone wild caked with road dust, blackened nails of greasy dirt, dark from the endless sun in my worn ride clothes and shoes held on with zip ties. I start my new novel, Joyce, Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, on the beach with a cup of box wine. Chile is expensive but the wine is cheaper than water . . . good to be thankful for the small things.
The desert appears devoid of life but the ocean teems with life and one of these nights I will break my relentless push south to pick crabs for dinner. Until then I sit on the beaches watching sea lions feed in the breaking surf - not just one or two but dozens. They seem to enjoy their meals coming to the surface shaking their heads vigorously so break the fish into manageable pieces while the gulls gather in predatory envy. Opportunistic gulls avail themselves of my bread bag one night while I am asleep. With the exception of a honk and a wave from truckers the road feels empty like traveling through space
between scattered fishing villages, or caletas, that hug the shore until the next tsunami in a ramshackle collection of wooded shacks and colorful wind weary tents of the folks collecting seaweed.I see other travelers such as myself but they are on motorcycles. A triad of gregarious Brazilians headed north stop to talk with me and take photos. They are every bit as friendly as Brazilians are renown for being and we easily communicate - the differences in Brazilian Portuguese and Spanish are not great - easily overcome with enthusiasm.
I feel the temptation of an internal combustion engine . . . my weeks ahead could be mere days.
Every couple hundred kilometers a small port city appears on the coast as a welcome oasis to shop for food and water . . .
then I head back out along the coast. On day two a group of dogs chase me out on to the highway and the inevitable happened - one of them got creamed by a bus . . . too bad they were no threat to me. If no one picks up the body it could be there for thousands of years mummified in the sand (seriously). I pass a golf club minus the green of grass that the thirsty south west of the United States could learn a thing or two from but I wonder what would happen to their game if the wind ever relented?Day three of riding offers the exciting prospect of a tunnel which also avoids a long climb over the jutting headland. . . honestly any little change is welcome.
I pass the remains of communities dating from the early 20th century nourished by salt peter for fertilizer.
But little remains aside from the odd abandoned mansion, foundations beaten back to sand, rusted machine parts, and a well populated turn of the century cemetery.
I bet some people are ready to see a little greenery on the blog page. I am. I should hit wine country in less two weeks riding until then it is down in the drops pounding out the distance.

As Chuang Tzu said, "Just go along with things and let your mind move freely. Resign yourself to what cannot be avoided and nourish what is within you - this is best. What more do you have to do to fulfill your mission? Nothing is as good as following orders (obeying fate) - that's how difficult it is!" Just keep pedaling.