Chile: To Nowhere, Somewhere Otherworldly

Introduction Of Chile

From the forgotten port of Antofagasta to the alien landscapes of San Pedro de Atacama, a trip filled with waiting, wandering, and wild skies.

Detour in the Desert: Antofagasta

Back in Santiago, our mission was simple: get a Bolivian visa for Madie. But bureaucracy had other plans. As a U.S. citizen, she couldn’t get a visa at the local consulate (not authorized, apparently), and the next best options were Antofagasta or Arica—both a grueling 16+ hours away by bus. Thankfully, we scored a cheap flight to Antofagasta for $40, ditching the overnight ride for a quick two-hour hop north.

From the air, Antofagasta is jaw-dropping: a city carved into one of the driest deserts on Earth, perched along the Pacific. But once on the ground, reality hits—it’s an industrial city, dominated by mining. Nicknamed “The Pearl of the North,” it’s more like a corporate rest stop than a tourist haven. The hotels are pricey, likely filled with business travelers. There’s a shiny mall with a TGI Fridays, and not much else to charm travelers. Still, we found the humble Bolivian consulate tucked near the main square, run by one man—Felipe—and a long line out the door. Chile

To make things worse, Sky Airlines lost my backpack. And then Trump was officially sworn in. The mood? Bleak. Our visa attempt was a bust too—missing photocopies. Everything seemed to unravel at once. After eight months on the road, this was one of those rare low points where nothing worked. So we paused. No more scrambling. Just waiting. Chile

Lost Luggage and Poolside Sketches

Two days and one side trip to Peru later, my backpack showed up at our hotel—along with a fresh set of trunks, a T-shirt, and some poolside hours overlooking the ocean. Not a bad consolation prize. We regrouped. Ate cheap. Waited it out. On our second consulate try, the visa was finally approved—just in time to catch our bus inland to San Pedro de Atacama.

Through the Andes to Mars

Crossing the Andes by land never gets old—and each time, the scenery changes completely. This section of the mountains was dry, cracked, and almost devoid of life. Just minerals and rock. We passed dusty mining roads and distant ridges. After four hours, San Pedro de Atacama appeared—a dusty little town in the middle of the driest desert on Earth.

It only rains here three days a year. The town is built for tourists—hostels, jeep tours to flamingo lagoons, early-morning geyser trips, and world-class stargazing. At 2,500 meters above sea level, with virtually no light pollution and bone-dry skies, it’s a dream for astronomers. But something was off. The weather had flipped. Locals told us it hadn’t stopped raining for 20 days straight—an anomaly that turned this desert town upside down. Chile

Storms in the Moon Valley

Still, we signed up for a sunset tour of Valle de la Luna—Moon Valley. And wow. Jagged salt formations, giant dunes, cracked red earth that looked like a Martian movie set. It felt more like Utah’s national parks or Death Valley than anywhere on Earth. We were soaking it all in when the storm hit. Lightning cracked overhead. Rain poured. The guide tried to keep it together, but we had to sprint back to the van. The desert had become a trap. Chile

Just before the skies collapsed, we caught a glimpse of Las Tres Marías—twisted stone pillars nearly a million years old, formed from salt, gravel, and quartz. They stood like sentinels in the storm. And then they vanished behind the clouds. Chile

Flooded, but Smiling

San Pedro doesn’t do well in the rain. Roads turned to rivers. Debris rolled down from the hills. Somehow, we made it back to our hostel—only to find it half-flooded. Our room was dry by a miracle, but the common areas were under water. We grabbed buckets and brooms and joined the other soaked travelers in a cleanup frenzy. Chile

That night, we cooked dinner in the dark. No lights. Wet socks. Thunder still rumbling in the distance. And Madie? She was giggling. That mischievous laugh that only comes out during the chaos. It was a mess. It was unforgettable. Chile had given us one final, wild sendoff—just the kind of story we’d tell for years

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