On the way from Calama to San Pedro, the pale blue sky blended with the road ahead, like a placid body of water, while either side, quivering cream-brown plain stretched to blurred horizon. I plugged away, pedal-stroke after pedal-stroke, never closing the gap to the waters' edge, and sure that the only shade was the bus-shelter where I'd stopped last Friday. I remember it was at kilometre sixty and each kilometre board I reached and passed by, was one kilometre less until I could sit down and eat in relative comfort.

It was approaching three when I eventually got there. The same graffiti daubbed concrete bus-shelter from the outward ride; and today, Is soon to have company. After Taking the stove and other bits and pieces from the bag and sitting down inside, the sound of a vehicle drew me to look through the square hole in the shelters' left-side. I saw a pickup truck trundle up from the desert to the rear and continue on leaving a wake of dust behind it out to the roadside, where it accelerated out, turning right and moved in to stop on the shoulder shy of the front of the bus-shelter. The passenger door swung open and a man dropped to the ground together with a hold-all bag: he pushed the door shut, lifting the bag with one hand he waved at the window with the other as the pickup moved back out and drove off in the direction of Calama.

I'd just openned a can of sardines and was putting the contents onto crackers when the man entered and sat down. I offered a few words of greeting, out of politeness, to which he replied short with a single word. I had antisipated a shatterbox and thought, oh no, I just want to relax in peace and quiet but he said no more. This would be a strange scenario back in Argentina. There people talk talk talk. This man may have been shy. He rose and went out after barely a minute anyway, leaving me to crunch away on my sardine cracker lunch.

It wasn't long until I heard another vehicle, this time from Calama direction. Another pickup truck, it slowed, driving diagonally over and in to a halt on the shoulder next the bus-shelter while sounding a volley on the horn, excitedly annonsing its' arrival. The quiet man had already dashed back in and collected his bag and sprung back out, round to the passenger side where the door was already open waiting for him: taking hold of the door, he bursted into chatter as he climbed in. He shut the door after him and the pickup moved out and drove away towards San Pedro.

The afternoon continued with the now familar lengthy descend down Cordillera Domeyko, sweeping down, across then up and over Cordillera de la Sal to arrive back in San Pedro shortly before six. I returned to the same hostel where I'm camped in the same spot in the backgarden. I'm now looking forward to dinner at the cafe I frequented most evenings the last time. The fare is nothing special. A fixed menu, usually soup with chicken, spuds and corn. And I could do with a litre bottle of Escudo beer afterwards.

But first I'll write-up my notes: now nearing the end of my excursion into Northern Chile, I'd agree that San Pedro is well worth the effort getting here as it's an extremely pleasant place for us tourists. It's proximity too to the Andes means the surrounding are interesting and much better than the bleak landscape further west. I could've gone on to the coast but perhaps there'll be time later on on this trip. Now I would like to return to Salta from where I'll take a bus down to Patagonia, as it's now spring and the best time to be there.