Category Archives: Wilderness

Special post: Earth Day Photos

Hi everyone, and Happy Earth Day!

I believe we could all benefit from taking a moment to stop and smell the roses, and simply to appreciate the natural beauties that surround us wherever we are on earth.

I know, it sounds saccharine. But, I find when traveling that each place has its own distinct landscapes, flora and fauna that help make a place memorable and generally make for a well-rounded travel experience. Traveling to different cities can be exciting, but I always like to take an opportunity to travel outside of a city and learn from what the world that is less touched by human influence has to offer.

Here are a few photos I have taken of some very distinct places on earth, which I am posting in honour of this holiday.

Wild capybaras graze on the banks of the Rio Preto in Brasil. I visited Brasil in 2004.

Coffee growing on a tree in Brasil.

Medieval cities are built on lush green hills in Portugal. I visited Portugal in 2006. (Photo credit goes to my dad.)

Beautiful roses grow abundantly in cracks in the sidewalk in Obidos, Portugal.

Valley of the Moon in the Atacama Desert, Chile.

Salt Flats & Flamingoes in the Altiplano, Chile

A falcon rests on a fence overlooking a field of grazing horses & eucalyptus trees in the Pampas of Argentina

The Andes mountains, somewhere above Argentina or Chile

Star Light, Star Bright

*I feel compelled to link to this video at the beginning of this post: Chilean singer/songwriter Violeta Parra seems to perfectly capture the essence of Chile, and I was reminded of her music many times while travelling through San Pedro de Atacama a week and a half ago.

At precisely 11:30 pm, I stood on a dusty street corner in the middle of the village of San Pedro de Atacama. The town’s stray dogs wandered around, picking up crumbs from the night’s dinner as my husband and his friend and I chatted with a Belgian and an English tourist. Despite the lingering heat from the day still radiating from the packed earth under my feet, I was dressed for a light snowfall in Canada: three layers including a sweater, boots that are good in below-freezing weather, a warm alpaca scarf and gloves that I picked up in the central square’s craft market earlier that day. (When I “tested” a few other alpaca gloves and scarves this past January in Canada, I determined that they were much warmer than wool; needless to say, I am now stocking up.)

Soon, our ride arrived, and drove us out of town.

It is not every night that you hop on a bus in the middle of the night and are driven through the pure darkness of a desert salt flat. It is also not every night that you wind along a private driveway toward a few low clusters of buildings standing at the feet of the Andes, with all of their lights duly turned off as not to disturb the deep black night with light pollution. It’s a unique experience indeed when you step out into the chilly midnight air and gaze upon the snow-capped peaks of the eternal Los Andes and 1200 stars and a brilliantly lit moon meet your eyes.

It is also not every night that you are “guided” around the crystal clear night sky by a humorous French astronomer and his charming wife (who offer you a cup of traditional maté tea to take the bite out of the chilly night air), telling funny anecdotes, everything from the early history of the world, Incan and Greek astronomy, quizzing you on which way is north (Psst: yours truly was the only person in the group who could answer that correctly! Yes, that’s right, I know my directions, even in the middle of the Andean pre-cordillera, hundreds of miles away from a “modern” city)

The desert salt flat with Los Andes in the background during the day

It’s not every night that you take advantage of the crystal clear skies to gaze through state-of-the-art telescopes that this French astronomer/hobbyist has set up in his yard, gazing upon the moon (in great detail), orange Saturn and its rings, faraway clusters and nebulae, flashy Sirius (the star, not Black).

I have rarely felt such an intense calm, and in such an endless open space, no less. Normally, the desert makes me nervous. I suppose that sounds silly, but to someone who grew up in the tight green woods and rolling landscapes of Michigan, next to the bright blue glimmer of lakes and rivers all around… the desert can seem void, desolate, too mysterious and too harsh.

On the other hand, under the cover of night and the company of the spectacular array of twinkling stars and fascinating constellations, with the comforting and humourous tones of our French guide as he spoke, I felt supremely at peace.

More peaceful still was that the normally ominous shadow of the great grey, desolate volcano called Licancabur that stands at the border between Bolivia and Chile and follows you hundreds of miles as you journey in the region, which somehow looked friendly under the cover of night with its snow-capped peak glowing brightly under the moonlight. Under the veil of darkness, it was hard to imagine that it lies on a border (between Bolivia and Chile) that has experienced a share of turbulence over the years.

Tapestry, created by an artist in the region, depicting the desert and the Southern Cross in the night sky. Father Le Paige Museum, San Pedro de Atacama. Artist: Jenny Cárdenas Pérez.

The night under the stars was educational in more ways than one. I finally learned how to find the Southern Cross, a feature of the sky in this hemisphere that I had never been able to locate on my own. I was amused by Orion, who lies on his side here and is lower in the sky than I had seen him three weeks prior, standing fully upright and higher at my parents’ house in Michigan.

The people of this region have a lot to be proud of, of course: their spectacular landscapes, their abilities to farm and raise livestock in such a challenging environment, their arts and crafts and their overall ingenuity, which has allowed their civilization to flourish for thousands of years in the nearly-empty desert.

But experiencing space in a new way that night, with the darkness all around and the Andes mountains looming nearby, I realized how special their world really is. It takes on a new personality at night, one that is somehow majestic and strangely comforting (at least to me). They have clean, fresh, clear air (and I hope it always stays that way), and little to no detectable noise or air pollution. It allows you to personally get much closer to nature and away from the hectic artificial fabrications of modern life.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not ready to leave my creature comforts behind and run off to live a life in the Atacamanian wilderness. I can, however, assure you that having a taste of such a unique, spectacular and special environment that I hope remains relatively untouched forever, is a way to feel a bit closer to this part of the world, its people and its history, and a reminder of simply the history that we all share as people under the vast starry sky.

The moon... photo taken on my iPhone through a telescope.

(To those who may be planning a trip to San Pedro de Atacama, find more information about the SPACE astronomy tour I took here: www.spaceobs.com -note I am not affiliated in any way.)

Documentary: Life in Patagonia

I mentioned I probably wouldn’t be blogging until I am back in Chile in March, but thoughts of my travels follow me wherever I am and when I ran across a lovely documentary today I couldn’t resist mentioning. This video, from the Huffington Post, is about a girl who traveled from New York to the absolute ends of the world: a remote lake in the depths of wild Patagonia (a mountainous, cold region, still very isolated region that stretches over southern Chile) to meet with a solitary man who lives there.

I think that the documentary captures the essence of the life that those who live in remote regions experience. They are so very far from the modern world, yet the ever-shrinking world (thanks to the internet, media, guidebooks, improved transportation, government, general interest…) still forces them to get in touch from their sanctuary from time to time.

This man’s story is interesting and you can certainly sympathize for how he simply wants to live his life.

I think it is also a beautiful glimpse of life on the nearly-untouched land (and those who live on it) that can still be found in places such as Chile.

View the documentary here.

 

Unspoiled Landscapes

Hola everyone and thank you very much for all of your comments, likes and follows after my post on Tuesday. I appreciate all of your kind words and was very happy to share this adventure with you!

Valle de la Luna

Each place that I have visited in South America so far has felt untouched (or minimally touched) by the presence of tourists and outsiders. When I visited the area around Rio Preto, Brasil, in 2004, I felt like the first non-Brasilian to walk through that rural provincial village. Last month in Buenos Aires, I felt like I could easily blend into the flow of the city and the charming traditional country town of San Antonio de Areco seemed to be a place where time stood still. And then there was San Pedro de Atacama, surprisingly the most touristy of any of the locations I have been to despite being the most remote, but not (yet) overturned by the presence of outsiders.

Road through the Atacama desert

I have joked to my husband that all of the bad rumours that seem to float around travel websites about the dangers of South America must have been started by savvy travellers to discourage more tourists from seeking out experiences in this part of the world. I have to admit that, selfishly, I too am glad there are not many tourists in any of these places (hypocritical, I know!) because I enjoy settling into a land, city, town or village where I can mingle amongst local residents going about their lives and appreciate the natural beauty of a landscape without the roar of tour busses in the background. I appreciated relaxing in the cool shade of the central square of San Pedro with local residents during their siesta hours last Friday and taking in some of the regional music by a local band who still play traditional Andean flutes, guitar and the churrango on Saturday night.

Salty scenery

To be fair, I suppose that tourism, if responsibly managed by the local residents, can also benefit some towns and cities. It can boost an economy and help a town maintain itself in a world that is increasingly global and competitive. From what I saw, I felt that San Pedro was a great example of carefully opening up to tourism. They have a lot of local guides who take visitors on treks to the salt flats, the mountain lagoons, hot springs and geysers, biking and sand boarding. Local small business owners welcome visitors to their hostels, hotels, cafes, restaurants and shops. I felt as though locals were firmly in control of the town, its resources and environment and destiny as they warmly welcomed visitors.

Gift shop in San Pedro

And being able to visit a place is important because it provides you with a greater appreciation for the importance and history of the local people. In my case, I learned to appreciate a bit more how people could have survived in such a remote area for centuries. They were able to find subterranean rivers to supply fresh water to their town and cultivate the desert to grow grain and domesticate animals and were even able to network with far away empires across a dry desert before the invention of technology or regular mail.

I can't get enough of these colors! Salt flats.

In San Pedro, I visited the local museum which presented the history of the people native to the Atacama Desert and Andes. It described how they lived thousands of years ago and survived and interacted with each other in the desert climate before European colonists arrived and drew lines between what had formerly been a cohesive network. History can be recounted in a book or a documentary, but you can more deeply appreciate it once you have seen and experienced the area: felt the dry, hot sun on your skin, tasted the dust that clings to your teeth, appreciated the quiet, lonely landscape.

Rock "monuments" stacked by people are scattered throughout the desert.

I mentioned in my post on Tuesday that as we crisscrossed the landscape between San Pedro, the salt flats and the mountains, I often saw little stacks of rocks dotting the landscape. Knowing that people had been stacking these rocks for centuries to mark their path through the desert and mountains and to indicate their presence in the vast expanse was a way for me to appreciate this incredible history of people in what otherwise felt like an empty place. The stacks of rocks were also testament to people’s abilities to communicate with each other even in some of the most difficult environments. To me, the stacks of rocks said, “Hey, someone has been here! You’ll be all right. Keep walking. Others have crossed this desert, you can, too.”

Terraced quinoa fields in a small village in the Atacama region

I hope that my observations are like a modest stack of rocks, in that they bring about awareness and appreciation without disturbing the natural flow and integrity of a place.

Have you ever been to a remote part of the world, and if so, where? What did you learn from the experience? How do you think tourism affects the integrity of otherwise isolated locations?

Trekking the Atacama Desert, Chile

When I was in high school, instead of watching syndicated episodes of Boy Meets World after school, I’d watch Lonely Planet (also called Globe Trekker) on the Travel Channel. I loved seeing the hosts (my favourites were Ian and Justine) visit some of the most remote parts of the planet and interact with the distinct local cultures amongst stunning landscapes. This was no Rick Steves’ Europe*: they visited glaciers, isolated villages, took harrowing rides through outback roads…

Tres Marias natural rock formation, Valle de la Luna

All that was missing this past weekend was a camera man and a sound guy, because I experienced my very own episode of Lonely Planet, finding myself (along with my husband and two guests) in the spectacular, isolated, endless Atacama Desert and Andean mountain range.

We left Antofagasta early on Friday morning and drove five hours from the ocean to about 8,000 ft above sea level. We crossed endless stretches of desert and sand dunes and rocky mountains to a (relatively) fertile plain where the ancient Andean people once dwelled. Now the village of San Pedro de Atacama sits in this valley, a town where I was told only got electricity less than 10 years ago. It is currently nurturing a burgeoning tourism industry.

Street in San Pedro de Atacama

The tiny village – population around 2,000 – is filled with souvenir shops, hotels and hostels, restaurants and bars. It does, however, still manage to maintain its rustic feel, with its unpaved roads and sidewalks, adobe huts and thatched roofs and packs of stray dogs that roam the streets. Many of the tourists we saw were the more rugged types: backpacking, motorbiking, and even biking (!) across South America, hikers and mountain climbers and adventurers. Many of the tourists were from Chile or nearby Argentina, or, to my surprise, there were several groups from France, Germany or England as well. Perhaps interest in this isolated town has been piqued in recent years thanks to television programs and guidebooks like Lonely Planet that romanticize such rustic, off-the-beaten-path destinations.

View of the village of San Pedro (the green patch to the left) from the rocky cliffs

We arrived with our driver Eduardo, a Chilean man who is used to taking academics to obscure locales to study things like rock formations and volcanoes. After settling at our hotel in town he drove us out to the spectacular Valle de la Luna, or Valley of the Moon, where we watched the sun set.

View in the Valle de la Luna

It was idyllic to climb the cliffs and enjoy such a spectacular clear sky overhead, but my experience was tempered slightly by the fact that I was feeling the altitude. The Valley was maybe only 9 or 10,000 feet above sea level, but I have never been at altitude and was surprised when my body would not cooperate with the situation. Travellers well into their 60s were breezing past me along the path through sand dunes and cliffs while I was feeling dizzy, short of breath and slightly nauseous. I kept stopping along the way, which at least afforded me the opportunity to take some great pictures. Finally, I reached a cliff where my group left me behind with a few other out-of-breath tourists to keep climbing higher along the narrow, crumbly, steep rock formation, while I sat down and had a wonderful view of the empty alien landscape and bright sky.

Sunset from Valle de la Luna

The next morning, we drove past the salt flats (Salar de Atacama) to the Flamingo National Park. Along our route through the plains, we saw pockets of trees that grow with the assistance of subterranean rivers. Every once in a while we would pass through a village, which always had a natural river and a small waterfall cutting through it. Village life in this part of the world clearly revolves around one thing: the natural availability of fresh water.

Salt Flats in Flamingo National Park

The ethereal salt flats are surrounded as far as the eye can see by mountains and a quite active volcano, Licancabur, which was letting off some steam and further adding to the eerie ambiance. In the foreground, there was nothing but hard salt crystal. The air was heavy in the hot, startlingly bright morning sunlight with the smell of sulphur. Graceful flamingos, most of which were the unique Andean and Chilean flamingoes, were grazing in the water, eating the tiny shrimp-like creatures that live in the harsh environment.

Andean Flamingos

The sulphur, salt and other minerals under the bright blue dome of a sky created a stunning combination of colours in the water. I could have spent the day there with my watercolours, committing the view to paint and paper.

We continued to drive uphill for a little over another hour. We were headed into the mountains. A narrow gravel road led us uphill, along sharp cliffs and hairpin turns. I was shocked to see that huge busses and semi trucks were actually navigating the poorly-kept gravel road where, should your brakes fail, would see you plummeting right off the side of a cliff like an action movie. It turns out that this unforgiving road is a regular route for shipping between Argentina, Paraguay and Chile. I hope the truckers are paid well.

High altitude lagoon with volcano in the background

We ascended to something around 13,000 feet above sea level, leaving trees behind, then eventually the spectacular bright reddish-pink succulent flowers, for nothing but rock and short puffs of yellowish grasses. When we finally reached our destination, a beautiful vista awaited us: three spectacular bright blue lagoons set amongst the mountains. The silent, tranquil waters of the lagoons were surrounded by the purest white gravel I have ever seen, where a large herd of wild llama were enjoying a mid-day frolick. Everything seemed pure and silent.

The desert is littered with stacks of rocks. This was an old Incan tradition: a way of marking a route or a path, and also a way of marking one's presence in the vast desert.

Unfortunately, my head was not feeling all that relaxed, as I was suffering even worse from the altitude. Dizziness and the feeling of being unable to move prompted me to sit on a large boulder to take in the view while my companions slowly walked up and down the surrounding hills. If you’ve never felt sick from altitude, it sort of feels like all of the life has been sucked out of you and you are trapped under water: dizzy, your head throbbing, ears popping, and your arms and legs feeling heavy and unable to move.

High altitude lagoon

We spent a while at the lagoons, where the sun was hot but the air was cool. A few of the llamas got used to us and came quite close. Small birds and a strange seagull also scoped us out. There are enough tourists that pass by the lagoons for the birds to know that people often equal crumbs.

On our return from the lagoon, we stopped in a small village where he buildings were made of mud bricks and a small, serene church stood in the stark landscape. We saw a nun tending to her garden near the church. It could have been the year 1800.

Church in small desert village

Finally, back in San Pedro, we enjoyed a traditional Chilean meal: grilled meat and potatoes, a soup served in traditional clay bowls, and a refreshing and sweet dessert made with dried peaches soaked in a syrup with barley called mote con huesillo.

Church in San Pedro

The next day, we criss-crossed the desert to get back to Antofagasta. The desert is littered with active mines along with eerie abandoned mining towns. Trains snake through the desert, bringing supplies to and from the mines. Shrines line the highway: the highway, though paved, is a dark and treacherous one at night especially when cars fail during the long journey.

I must admit I was relieved to see the ocean before me when we returned. I missed the green of the palm trees and the bright blue of the lively water.

The Pacific

Here’s where we were:

The green dot indicates where we were in proximity to the rest of the continent

San Pedro de Atacama. The salt flats and mountains and lagoons were to the right of the map, near Bolivia and Argentina

*No offense to Rick Steves’ Europe. I like his show, too!

**Please note that all photos were taken by me, Amanda. Please contact me for more information. The maps are from Google.

Updated 4 Dec. 2011 to add: I’ve received many questions asking about what kind of camera I used to take these photos. Believe it or not, all were taken with my iPhone 4 using the Camera Plus app. Not a single photo in this post was touched up with Camera Plus or other photo editing software.