Set out expecting to reach Calama in the afternoon. But, although it was a calm morning leaving San Pedro, the wind picked up after twenty kilometres while climbing a long tough hill called "Cordillera de Domeykjo", after crossing the smaller ridge, "Cordillera de la Sal", shadowing San Pedro, from the top of which, the road's straight line sweeps down-across a wide hollow, then rises up in straight line sections with regular elbow-bends staggering the line up and up, skywards.

It was almost one o'clock and there was still seventy kilometres to Calama. But every blustery crest crossed revealled more climbing and strong gusts of wind were pushing me out across the road. It was the same wind, the same as on the way to San Pedro. It was blowing so hard now that it took me off the side of the road and I stomped my foot down to counter a fall over the edge. I lay the bike on it's side on the shoulder and sat down using the trailer base as a back-rest while sand and grit rained against my neck. It was decision time. There was no sign of an end to the hill. And the wind made riding on near impossible anyway. There was only one choice: turn round and ride back to San Pedro. There was a risk from crosswind on the diagonal sections, but I descended carefully and then was powered along by a tailwind back across the hollow and up the Cordillera de la Sal. I arrived back in San Pedro around three-ish to deserted streets due to the wind and hail of airborne sand and grit.

Sep 29 Tuesday: Still in San Pedro where life is a little boring at times but extremely relaxing. I don't rise until nine these mornings and spend a lot of time reading my book: Dickens' The Pickford Papers. I enjoy the way Samual Weller talks. He reminds me of a onetime work mate, Roy Smart, back when I worked as a London cycle-courier. His call-sign on the radio-circuit was 9 3. Nine, thee-nine-thee-nine-theeee......:Roy would come on the radio. Controler replies: Nine three Roy! Nine theeee-clear Bar-clay Squi-ere! Can I gaw home now?

.........I am one tent in the backgarden of a house used as a hostel, where it's wonderful to listen to birdsong of a morning. Then after a visit to nextdoor's grocery store I eat a pastry breakfast in the cool shade of purple blossom trees. Hard to say I'm in a desert. Today I cycled to The Valley of the Moon, a National Park, which cost two thousand pesos in. It seemed a rip-off because it isn't much different than the ordinary valley of the moon, as the landscape round here is all very much valley and pretty lunar anyway.

This evening another cyclist has turned up, so we are now two tents. He's riding a glimming red Trek tourer; old model from early nineties: though he bused here from Salta because he hurt his knee riding from Buenos Aires. He says the plan is to ride to Mexico, then home to California.

Oct 2 Friday: October already and I need to be moving. It was hard leaving San Pedro. I kept putting it off each morning to tomorrow. And hard deciding which way: back to Salta; either by Paso de Sico or, back the way I came, Paso de Jama. Or straight on, west. I opted for the later and had luck today, making it over Cordillera de Domekjo before the wind picked up. A little after finally cresting the sumit, there was a bus-shelter were I stopped for lunch. I had an apple and homemade pastries from the store nextdoor to the hostel. The bus-shelter was a sturdy concrete house covered with graffiti. Some cretin had sprayed over all in big white letters "VIVA PINOCHET".

The road onwards descended ever so gradually; stretching in a straight line to a blurred horizon, and after a while had the elution of being gradually uphill again. There were hills not far off on my left, but it was a long way across to the range of hills on the rightside. In that direction in a few places the wind was blowing up clouds of dust. Mining perhaps. I kept plugging away, one pedalstroke after the other, with my mind else where. Like why Paul McCartney's songs aren't as good as John Lennon's; George wrote better songs too. And why most he keep churning it out year after year...........

The couple that own the hostel were going away for the weekend. I know because, at five o'clock they passed and pulled over, and offered me a lift. They were surprised that I'd ridden so far. But as I had less than twenty kilometres left, I declined their offer which they couldn't quite understand. Surely I don't want to ride more, they probably thought. Thanking them I said that there's only a short way to go and I didn't mind riding it too.

Later on the way into Calama I'd a lot of trouble with barking dogs at the roadside. The dogs in Chile are really visious looking in comparision to dogs in Argentina. I think the later are so content because they eat so much juicy leftover meat. Nearing the centre Is passing a big sports and camping complex, so here I am camped by a paddock with horses, which are over at the fence checking me out........