Beth Cassidy and the Dickdance Kid

My favorite sidekick.

After much ado (and inevitably much disappointment, cursing, and shed tears from all you loyal readers who have been waiting for a post), San Pedro de Atacama set the scene for our next adventure, a classic Western starring yours truly, Beth Cassidy, and the Dickdance Kid.

San Pedro de Atacama: a setting surely eliciting a Cormac McCarthy wet dream, supposedly inspiring the likes of a Dali desert, and assuredly labeled as the driest desert in the world. This is a solitary and imposing land, but one of immense beauty, a surprising amount of fun, and the perfect setting for the sequel for the famous Hole-in-the-Wall gang (who despite popular belief, escaped the Bolivian police at the end and fled to Chile.)

Licancabur volcano in the driest desert in trh

A small oasis in a 600 square mile desert which receives an estimated 1 mm of rainfall a year, the town itself is literally in the middle of nowhere and consists of zero banks to rob (an oversight on our part), but is instead filled with about 35 tour agencies, run out of janky offices/ sheds in the "downtown" strip. Together, with pousadas\hostels and ridiculously overpriced eateries (the tourism trifecta), tourism accounts for 70 percent of the buildings in the maze-like town and 100% of the industry. Here we encounter the storys most evil villain, the BudgetKilla Gang. (Cue music: Dum, dum, dum!)

The real thrill of the plot was not the town itself, but its surroundings (reachable, of course, only through pricey tours). Overlooking the Licanabur volcano (which creates part of the border between Bolivia and Chile and dominates the Solar de Uyuni landscape at a whopping 1,312 ft above the town and 9,212 ft above sea level), the days are hot and the nights are freezing. Like the tough, hardened criminals we are, we partook in our first consumption of coca leaves to combat the High Altitude posse. Though rather flavorless by themselves, but decent in tea, the ruse was effective and we managed to dodge High Altitude and Below Freezing Temps by taking shelter in a local run-down brothel (aka hostel, where a lot of action goes on, but the clients just don't have to pay quite as much for it...)

Like our films predecessor, our first attempted robbery goes wrong. We headed to 30 of the 35 tour agencies in town, on the look out for the best deal, but our Spanish was too clumsily executed to negotiate a fairer price and the BudgetKilla gang in town was too strong. Hanging our heads in defeat (but with two tours booked), we stowed our money belts and moved on.

The next morning we arose at 3am (being a bandit ain't easy work, ladies and gentlemen) to sneak aboard the (tour) bus to our next hideout, the amazing El Tatio. Boasting themselves as the worlds highest and Southern Hemispheres largest geyser fields, with over 80 geysers nestled in the Andes, the scenery was breathtaking. If you think an arid desert with virtually no rainfall is bland, I encourage you to visit one. The unique allure only a barren desert landscape can bring about with cactus reaching above 20 ft in height, areas with green and blue salt residue reminiscent of a time when the land was underwater, and even some areas with unfathomably still snow melt run-off from the Andes, is solitary, yet stunning. But, perhaps, the real beauty of the landscape lies in marvelling at the flora and fauna that exist in it, proof of life's uncanny ability to adapt, despite even the harshest conditions.

El Tatio, the highest geysers in the world.

Arriving to El Tatio at 5:30 am, Dickdance and I braved -8 degrees C temps to reach our hide-out. As we hiked around the concentrated area, trouble ensued. We fell into a shoot out with the geysers, who spewed steam and water from all directions around us. Someone must have leaked our whereabouts! Though low on ammunition we managed to dodge the firing and survive the duel (and even had time to snap a few pics). Since the Atacama desert environment cannot support horses, we were forced to head back to the tour bus and retreat back into town.

A little r &r in a hot spring between capers.

The BudgetKilla Gang was smarter than we thought, so we had to be quick on our toes. The next day we decided to ditch the tour van at our next hide out and get around on our own two feet (with a sandboard attached.) Despite one hell of a walk up a gigantic sand dune (our estimate is about 500 ft in height), Dickdance took the challenge on, head-first (sometimes quite literally). I was slower to warm, but when the tour guide leader of the rebel posse pushed me off the slope, I was forced to go and discovered I am even more of a bad ass (and hitting dry sand doesn't really hurt). Best part of it all: we left with new disguises and were essentially unrecognizable with every inch of our exposed skin covered in sand, a great camouflage for the desert environment.

Next stop, Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon, for those of you who still need the translation cheat sheet), a national park run by the indigenous tribe of the region. The crater-like landscape elicited images of settling on the moon, and we took respite in enjoying an amazing sunset over porous, wind-blown rock formations on the horizon with Pisco Sours in hand.

Sunset over the moon-like terrain of Valle de la Luna

As our tour bus ventured off into the rising full moon, we were happy to be alive in one of our favorite destinations thus far. Though we barely managed to survive the BudgetKilla gang, we skirted by, knowing that we would have to recooperate and reface the posse in Brazil.

BudgetKilla survivor

"Who's that creepy guy taking a shit by my tent? Oh, wait, that's Beth." (1)

Future Hangover. Presently waiting to flip off the camera. (I should not footnote here that because I'm not French I don't have a scarf on. Likewise, because I'm a member of the Spanish national basketball team, I can't see a thing. I'd also like to not footnote that 1/8th of Beth takes incredible offense to that comment)



Welcome to Bahia Iglesia. Beach resort du jour. Camping by night and sleeping off our hangover (it's singular because Beth did not have the pleasure of a hangover, but did imbibe in the piscola and vino tintos) by day. A place where dreams come true: falling asleep to the peaceful sound of crashing waves, while at the same time wondering if your going to pee your sleeping bag because of those exact same waves. A tenuous, yet perfectly enjoyable existence.

The Chilean Caribbean is where we decided to meet up with our favorite French couple, Iris and Tio Lucho, for a few days of rest and relaxation--perfectly reasonable considering our difficult schedule of getting up sometime before 11am, which we've been experiencing these days.

The only problem with this great vacation from our vacation: cold water. I mean stick-your-head-in-a-bucket-of-ice-and-water cold. That's not relaxing, it's torture, like Titanic the movie torture (2). So, most of our days were spent taking gentle strolls along the beach or lying in the sand, waiting for that wicked reminder that we drank cheap wine the night before to go away (so cheap there was no name; no Cab, or Merlot or even Shiraz, no, simply vino tinto) . It was perfect, really.

(1) By about midnight, probably before, we had stopped using bathrooms and started watering the surrounding sand garden. I left to go water my patch of sand and on the way back noticed a loiterer by the tent. This shady shadow was looking around conspiculously, and because all our belongs are secured by a thin piece of waterproof tent, I decided to watch. Three circles around the area and a few glances this-way-and-that later, said being drops pants and I have the momentary horror of being downwind from this bowel movement. However, my concerns are allayed, as even I would be conspicuous when dropping trout, so I walked back to our drinking quorum. Not until I realized Beth was nowhere to be found that it dawned on me that she was, in fact, the creepy guy taking a shit (but really just a quick urination).

(2) I jumped in, Beth did too. She basically thinks I'm the biggest pussy, because I think it was cold; Which is probably true, but can you blame me for liking my ocean water the temperture of the baths I'm not taking? I still claim it was icy cold, she contends otherwise.

Welcome to Latin America, home of Los Doyers.

Valpo', Yo'

High on Aerosilla.

Graffiti, grime, drunk dudes playin soccer in the park, the occassional whif of urine, degraded roads, tiny-dark pathways leading to your inevitable death, or at least robbery; this is what welcomed us to possibly the worlds coolest UNESCO world heritage site.

My parents ingrained within me a certain amount of disdain for graffiti at a young age (my mom's side are cops, enough said. My dad's side mandated I help with Yucaipa's graffiti busters at the ripe old age of 12, adopting the preemptive "even if you are graffiting, you'll be cleaning" policy, (probably the most effective deterent for me.), which has lead to the inevitable backlash: I love graffiti art. Not the self-promotional kind (for a good time call: 951-505-1959), nor the industrious type (909'ers 4life), but the pure artistic expression type (think bansky, well not him, but his "art"). Valaparioso is littered with the latter, which is just one of its many appealing, if quirky, eccentricities.

We arrived with one night booked in a small, friendly, out-of-the way hostel and ended up staying an extra two nights (technically one, but our bus left at 11pm the third night), because we enjoyed wandering the city so much.

We spent our days walking the streets, taking boat taxis through the gorgeous bay, checking out the home of Pablo Nuruda, riding the funiculars and eating the delicious street food, such as the sopapillas adorning many of the street blocks. The city's real highlight, though, lies in its grittiness, which can only be found amongst the city itself, in its streets. So, that's where we spent our time.

Many of the streets meandering up the hills are narrow, pedestrian highways, like the streets of Venice, but vertical, like the streets of San francisco. They are equal parts mysterious, alluring and scary,especially considering the general seedy nature imbued upon the hilly city. At one point Beth decided that she wanted to venture no further down an intriguingly dark street, that seemed to have no end, because she was sure some latino criminals were lurking in the shadows. We went. We saw. We survived. And we loved it. Which pretty much sums up our time in Valaparaiso.

The hills are San Francisco steep, but the people here are a bit more industrious, creating funiculars to transport people up to the top...for a nominal fee.
















Panorama from the far left of the city. It was one of the biggest ports in South America before the creation of the Panama Canal. A big portion of the city's bay is still dedicated to this endeavor.






The sun setting over the palm-lined posh portion of Valpo.

The city's layout is akin to your Camp Edwards amphitheatre, with the bay serving as the main attraction. These steep hills combined with an overload of people leaves the land bursting at the seams with people. Small, twisting and incredibly steep alleyways lead up through the hills. This is one of probably 1,000's of similar walkways, dirt and all.

You want more panoramas? No problem. We took a boat out onto the water for some picturesque views. No zoom that day though, so you have to zoom yourself.

Wicked. (pun intended, sarcastically.)

A car, a mural, some girl and a city.