A calm night and the morning was perhaps the coldest so far. Condensation on the outside of my sleeping-bag had frozen and all the water bottles were lumps of ice. But with only forty five kilometres remaining to San Pedro, I stayed snug inside the sleeping-bag waiting for the sun to warm things up. It wasn't long as my tent was to the east of the road, and so avoiding long lingering shadows. Riding forth it was more of the same as yesterday afternoon, about thirteen kilometres until the descent began.

Descending, while definitely much better than climbing, the later however, provided you've legs and stamina, you have control over the bike, whereas the former can be precarious. With a full loaded trailer it can quickly go badly wrong, resulting in quite a painful spill. Its like the Summer in Iceland when I scambled up a steep scree on my hands and knees, but nearing the crags at the top ot the mountain, there was a sudden fall of rocks which tumbled and bounced on the scree down past me. If one had of hit me I wouldn't have been here to tell the tale. So I decided it better to turn and go down. But looking down I'd an instant fear of heights. I'd a nervious hour then carefully watching where on the loose stones I put my foot, as well as negociated round patches of snow, until securely reaching the bottom. This descend was somewhat similar, a steep bank. I kept the brakes half pulled which made a lot of noise from the rear disc; otherwise the bike would have careered away faster and faster, out of control. The road plunged down; almost as steep as the scree and a long way to the bottom. The builders had designed in a regular stagger from side to side to reduce the gradiant. And the shoulder widened at regular intervals to a slip road off, with a sign indicating: Pista Emergencia, just in case the brakes fail.

My hands ached with all the braking. It was around twenty kilometres of extremely steep downhill. There was near no wear left on the brake-pads then as the levers touched the handbar with not much effect. Then, the gradient gradually lessened and on passing kilometre board eleven, I was pedaling more than freewheeling. But, Is feeling exhausted and the climate was suddenly tropical as I had dropped down from over four thousand metres, to two thousand four hundred. It was too warm for all the clothes I'd worn above. The road ahead went dead straight across an oche hue plain, quivering in warm sunshine to a band of greenery with spects of white at the base of a range of redish brown hills. San Pedro de Atacama, at last. Eventually I passed kilometre board five and already could see the red and white striped communication mask and box-like industrial buildings on the edge of town.

In the aduana building, the policeman studied my passport and glanced up to check that my face fitted the photograph therein; then proceeded to leaf through, finding a fresh page and stamped it with a dull thud. He closed and passed the passport back through the slot in the glass over the counter with a welcoming smile. Out in the street trucks were parked up all down one side, and drivers and bus passengers with bags and backpacks shuffled about while others stood in queues. I pushed my bike along through the melee, happy knowing that I'd just swanned in without queuing and was away again without delay and was going on to town. But there was something wrong. Suddenly above all the other noises, I heard a whistle and then a summoning shout for me to come back. I thought for a minute perhaps the policeman I saw from the corner of my eye was calling someone else, but when he shouted a second time, I was facing him about fifty metres off and knew he meant me. U-turning the bike and pushing back to find out what was up, a second officer appeared in glaring anger like the first. The newcomer was a woman, wore a green jacket with the Chile flag logo of SAG (Sociedad de Agricole y Ganada, I think.), who rightaway addressed me in passable English. Of coarse, my mind was a blank; perhaps from the rigours of the days riding here. I'd clean forgotten about Chiles' tight control against animal produces, fruit, vegetables, cereals, wood and plant produces illegally entering the country in tourists' lugguage. She said "It's an offence to disobey a police officer" and before I could plead my defence which would've been, I'm very tired, even confused senora, when on glaringly "We can either put you in jail, or, you come back so we x-ray your bags."

I took the big bag which rides on the Bob-trailer and carried it into the other aduana building, the one were baggage is checked. A man studied the screem when the Bob-bag passed into the x-ray machine and a woman helped me decide what boxes to tick on a form declaring I knowing have none of the following incriminating produces. I then nerviously signed under knowing that to give false information on the form, would mean I'd be going to jail. But where was the SAG woman. She was nowhere to be seen.