Atacama

Day 4 El Tatio Geysers

Keen observers might now notice a jarring change to the ongoing narrative, ................. & not for any good reason! Our next (& final) excursion was set to be the most demanding, combining an early start, a long, rough drive, & the highest altitude of the trip. Naturally, needing an early start, I woke repeatedly through the night, afraid of sleeping through the alarm, to then be rudely awoken by said alarm just as we finally fell into a deep sleep - a familiar tale, no doubt.

As I got ready, it became clear just how badly Shaz was feeling. In addition to barely sleeping, she had been vomiting during the night, & also had a terrible headache. No matter how badly she wanted to go, it was obvious that the best thing for her was to stay in bed. Being the trooper she is, she insisted that I should go - hence the jarring change in narrative - yep, it's John here, & I was now responsible for filling the gap in the blog - bugger!

So, here goes. We leave Tierra Atacama in the early morning light  & see the sun rise slowly over the desert. It's a blank canvas which lends itself to the ever-changing colours the rising sun creates. I'm tired, & feeling guilty about leaving Shaz behind, so sit quietly with my own thoughts during the nearly two hours of winding ascent, the Andes gradually lifting us higher with every switchback. The altitude makes its demands quietly but insistently — a reminder that here, nothing can be rushed. The engine hums, breath shortens, and the landscape shifts from shadow to pale dawn as the Altiplano plateau opens out, spare and immense. After an hour or so, the road becomes a dirt track, combining severe corrugations, with numerous hairpins - I'm not feeling spritely!

Finally, we arrive, & my initial feeling is  one of disappointment. To me, "geysers" means a column, or spout of water, bursting from the earth's crust but that's NOT what I'm seeing. Rather there's a large field of what I'd describe as steam vents. To think I left my ill missus behind for this! In addition, the altitude (4,000m) is making it's presence felt, so II need to walk through the field very slowly.  

But then, as you walk further into the field, the ground begins to speak more clearly. The earth churns and pulses with turbulent waters, bubbling and surging as if the crust itself were breathing. Pools shimmer in improbable colours — milky blues, rusty oranges, mossy greens — painted not by minerals alone but by thermophilic bacteria thriving in temperatures that would destroy most life (ranging from 100C to below freezing). Despite the geothermal drama, there is no overpowering sulphuric stench; with around 80 active geysers constantly venting steam and water, the gases are diluted, carried away almost as quickly as they rise.

Further on, Field Number Two reveals itself — smaller geysers, but far more numerous, quietly asserting El Tatio’s global significance. This high-altitude plain holds roughly eight percent of the world’s geysers, a concentration that feels almost excessive in such a stark place, as if the Earth has chosen here to release an unusual share of its internal energy. After the cold, the early start and the altitude, breakfast arrives as an unexpected grace: remarkably good, eaten while overlooking wetlands glowing softly in the morning light. Guanacos move through the grasses below, unhurried and watchful, their presence a gentle counterpoint to the restless ground beneath our feet.

The return journey is rougher than the drive out (perhaps our driver is ready for lunch?), daylight exposing every corrugation and jolt of the road. Yet by then, fatigue feels earned. El Tatio leaves you with the same humbling clarity found throughout the Atacama — the sense that you are witnessing processes vastly older and more powerful than yourself. 

I mentioned the Altiplano; in case you don't know what that is, it's an immense plateau that sits at around 3,600 to 4,500 metres above sea level, making it one of the highest inhabited regions on Earth, a broad table of land lifted skyward by the slow, relentless collision of tectonic plates. 

Political borders feel almost incidental in a landscape like this, which helps explain the startling proximity of Chile, Bolivia and Argentina. The Altiplano does not belong to a single country; it is a continuous geological structure that spills seamlessly across national lines. Northern Chile grades almost imperceptibly into southwestern Bolivia, while just beyond a chain of volcanoes and high passes, northwestern Argentina begins. From many points on the Chilean Altiplano, Bolivia is only a short drive away, and Argentina lies just over the Andean crest — closer than coastal Chile ever feels. These borders were drawn long after the land had already decided its own shape, and the plateau ignores them entirely.

We returned just as Shaz was getting up. She'd had a terrible morning, but was persuaded to join me for lunch, the highlight of which was a remarkable soup (the chef definitely has a way with soups - they were uniformly excellent). As you can see from the photo below, it was a half-&-half soup. A mix of cool avocado in one half, & warm corn chowder in the other. I know it sounds ghastly but, not only did each element work, the combination was terrific as well.

After lunch, we both needed a nap, & then to back, as tomorrow we're back on the road.

Day 3 - Hot Springs, Rainbow Valley and Star Gazing

Day 3 in the desert was always going to be a packed one. First stop: the hot springs. We climbed to around 3,500 metres, so altitude was definitely a factor, but I’ve been diligently drinking the local infusion, cha cha como, which is meant to help. So far, so good.

The springs sit at the bottom of a valley, which meant a pleasant walk down — and a much less appealing walk back up. I jokingly asked our guide how much it would cost to get a lift up.

We stayed in the hottest pool, which wasn’t exactly hot by Taupō standards, but it was lovely nonetheless. It gave us a chance to get to know the Aussie family from Sydney a bit better. Ann is a barrister in the city and knows Mark, having once fought a case against him — I didn’t ask who won. Her wife is a retired teacher who gave up work to be a full-time mum. They have two girls, aged 12 and 14, and had just come from the Galápagos Islands.

Eventually I became a bit too wrinkly, so out I got to dry off and socialise while waiting for the rest of the group to gather enough energy for the big climb back up. Then came my surprise — and secret delight — when the guide casually mentioned he could organise a lift for four people.

Obviously, I didn’t need it, so I generously offered it to anyone else. No takers. Before anyone could change their mind, I booked our spots. The road up turned out to be far scarier to drive than it would have been to walk — narrow, rough and genuinely treacherous — so despite my bravado we were both quietly relieved to be getting a lift rather than tackling it on foot.

Then it was back to the lodge for lunch and a well-earned siesta.

Feeling refreshed, we were back on the road again — our longest drive so far, apart from the airport run. About an hour in the car, halfway back towards Calama, we found ourselves on a completely different side of the desert and squarely in a geologist’s dream.

Our first stop involved a rather treacherous scramble up a rocky outcrop to see ancient rock carvings — petroglyphs. Most depict llamas, and they tell a story far bigger than the images themselves. The indigenous people used this route as a trading corridor, travelling from the north across the desert and over to the coast. This wasn’t a casual “pop to Westfield” — no food court stop, coffee break and home again — but month-long journeys through absolute nothingness.

These carvings are their record: a documented history etched into stone, marking routes, livelihoods and survival in one of the harshest landscapes on Earth. Standing there, clinging to the rocks and imagining those journeys, it’s impossible not to feel both awed and very small.

Walking through Valle del Arcoíris feels like strolling through a natural art gallery, but every colour tells a geological story. The reds and warm ochres come from ancient sedimentary layers — fine clays, silts and volcanic ash laid down millions of years ago when rivers, lakes and eruptions shaped this region. Over time, iron-rich minerals slowly oxidised, creating those dramatic rusty tones.

Threaded through them are striking white bands of evaporite minerals such as gypsum and calcite, formed when prehistoric salty lakes evaporated under an unforgiving sun, leaving their mineral skeletons behind — a reminder of the same processes that created the nearby Salar de Atacama. Then there are the unexpected greens and darker streaks, born of igneous intrusions: mineral-rich magmas that pushed up from deep below the Earth’s surface, carrying copper- and magnesium-bearing minerals that weathered into surreal shades of green.

Wind and time have patiently carved these layers into ripples and ridges, revealing a cross-section of the Earth’s past that feels both raw and intimate — less a single landscape and more a timeline you can walk through, one colourful step at a time.

There is actually a flowing river here, which we had to drive through — a constant water source fed from the Andes. Farmers grow alfalfa as feed for their herds of llamas, which they farm for meat, wool and milk. You also see guanacos, and sometimes there’s a bit of jiggy jiggy between them and the llamas, producing a cross-breed called a huarizo.

Walking through the valley leaves your neck sore from constantly looking upwards, and once again you’re struck by how humbling it all is — the realisation that you are barely a speck of dust, not even that, in the vast timeline of this valley.

Then it was back home for another siesta, as we had a late night ahead — the stargazing doesn’t even start until 10pm. Cocktails and a relaxed chat with Brent and Rachel set the tone, and before long we were layering up: thermals, jackets, layers upon layers, topped off with a very warm poncho.

Bundled up, we trekked out along a boardwalk to a circular seating area where a telescope awaited us. Our guide began talking us through the night sky here in Chile, and almost immediately it was clear why this place is legendary for stargazing. Right in front of us was Orion’s Belt, part of the Orion constellation, appearing upside down compared to what those in the Northern Hemisphere are used to seeing.

We spotted Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, and then the Magellanic Clouds. They were fascinating, although others were seeing shapes like anemones, jellyfish and all sorts of other things that I wasn’t quite seeing at first. That mystery was solved when I discovered the focus wand, which made all the difference.

With that sorted, the pièce de résistance was Saturn, perfectly crisp through the telescope, complete with her rings and many moons. Absolutely spectacular — and without question, worth every minute of the late night.

Day 2 – Moon Valley and Salt Lake

Another not-so-great night’s sleep for me. I am so thirsty — waking almost on the hour just to drink something — and my eyes are stinging constantly. But hey ho, onwards and upwards, I just "got on with it."

Yesterday was another perfect blue-sky day. Out here, with virtually no moisture in the air, clouds simply don’t form — so blue skies are pretty much guaranteed.

We headed off to Valle de la Luna (Moon Valley), about a 30-minute drive from the lodge. There were eight of us on the excursion and the walk started gently, across sand dunes, followed by a short ascent — about 50 metres, nothing dramatic at all. Some people were feeling the altitude and taking it slowly, but I felt fine and happily plodded along.

At the top of the dune, the view opens out over canyons that have been shaped over millions of years, formed from layers of volcanic ash from nearby volcanoes mixed with sediment from the surrounding mountain ranges. It’s truly spectacular — the kind of scenery you see in documentaries and think surely that can’t be real. But it is. Completely postcard-perfect.

We waited at the top for the stragglers, took photos… and then my head started pounding. Properly pounding. I’m a migraine sufferer, so I know headaches, and this one was not friendly. It ramped up quickly, and nausea followed close behind.

John suggested it might be the altitude — which felt ridiculous given we’d only climbed 50 metres. But we headed back down fairly quickly anyway. By the time we reached the van, I was feeling properly awful. The driver scrambled around for a plastic bag (always reassuring), I sat down, and within minutes the headache eased — and the nausea disappeared completely.

So what was going on?

Even though we’d only climbed a short distance, we’re already at around 2,400 metres above sea level here. At that altitude, the air pressure is significantly lower, which means less oxygen is available with every breath. For some people — especially those prone to migraines or sensitive nervous systems — even small changes in elevation can trigger symptoms. Add in extreme dryness, dehydration (despite drinking constantly), bright sun, and disrupted sleep, and your body can suddenly say, no thank you.

The rapid improvement once I descended and sat still makes perfect sense — oxygen levels stabilise quickly, blood vessels relax, and the brain stops protesting. A good reminder that altitude doesn’t care how fit or sensible you are.

Lesson learned: more water (somehow), slower pace, and listening to my body — even if it’s only complaining after 50 metres.

Onwards… carefully.

I honestly cannot tell you how fierce the sun is out here. As you can see from the first photo above, I have officially converted John to Sparms. Yep — he’s a convert. When you need to apply sunscreen every 40 minutes, and that’s factor 50, high-zinc, thick and gooey, you know you’re dealing with a different level of sun. The best solution is simply to cover up.

The lodge provides these neck gaiters — scarf-like things that protect your neck — and between those, big hats, and sunscreen on our faces, I am covered from head to toe. Very chic desert couture.

Once we were all safely back in the van, we drove a little further into the valley to visit the Three Marys, which are Australia’s Three Sisters equivalent. Impressive, yes — but I have to say, I thought the dinosaur formation was even better. All of these shapes are completely natural, including the dog-like figure I photographed from the top of the dune.

It’s almost impossible to describe the sheer magnitude of what you’re surrounded by. With nothing around to give scale — no trees, no buildings, no people — your brain struggles to fully comprehend it. And while the photos help, they really don’t do it justice. This is one of those places you have to stand in and feel to truly understand.

At the back of this photo you can see the purple mountains — one side of the valley, and the source of much of the sediment here. On the other side are the Andes, where layers of sediment and volcanic ash have also been washing down for millions of years. Over time, all of this material has collected and been shaped into yet another landscape of mountains, ridges and canyons within the valley itself. It’s mind-boggling when you stop to think about the time and forces involved. Just amazing.

Then it was back into the car and off to the old salt mines. Salt mining was once a major industry here — not for eating, as the salt didn’t contain enough iodine, but for use in other mining processes and chemical production. Mining stopped in the 1980s, but as you walk through the area you can still see salt rocks glimmering in the sun. You can even lick your finger and taste it — intensely salty.

The site is now part of a national park, and it’s beautifully maintained. The restrooms were spotless, which is always reassuring and a good sign that park fees are being put straight back into maintenance and care. You can still see the pits and the remains of buildings the miners used — and it’s hard to imagine working here with so little water and in such extreme conditions.

We were deliberately here in the morning, when the area sits in the shade of one of the mountain ranges — because once you step into the sun, the heat is fierce.

After a quick pit stop, it was back to the lodge for — yes, you guessed it — a siesta, followed by some lunch. The lodge offers three-course meals with à la carte options available at all times, so the choice is enormous and slightly dangerous.

When we got back to the hotel, our room was still being made up, which turned out to be a gift in disguise. I had a few things to sort through for the bridge club, and then the news of the Bondi shooting came through — sobering and upsetting, even from the other side of the world.

So I sat quietly at the desk while the lovely woman finished making the bed, and honestly, it was like watching an art form. The sheets are your usual beautiful hotel-quality linen. First, the bottom sheet goes on, then she lightly sprays it with scented water, and smooths and “irons” it using just her hands. Not a wrinkle anywhere — perfectly taut and smooth. I couldn’t help wondering whether this is a humidity trick, or whether it would work at home too… definitely worth experimenting.

Then she did the same with the top sheet, the pillows, and finally the duvet cover. Each layer placed with care, precision and pride. The finished result is absolutely immaculate — you can see it below — and I’m genuinely glad I was there to watch it happen.

It was one of those quiet, human moments that stay with you, especially on a day filled with so much contrast.

After lunch we had a little explore of the facilities — the spa, gym and pool area — all beautifully appointed and very tempting. They will definitely get some use.  There is also a BBQ on tonight so the lamb is already cooking Patagonian style.

Now it was off to the salt lakes — natural pools similar to the Dead Sea and the Red Sea. Bathers on, and away we went. It’s only about a 30-minute drive, and boardwalks have been carefully built through the grassed areas to limit the impact on the environment. Everything is thoughtfully done. There are proper changing rooms and showers, and as John and I were changing together in a cubicle, all we could hear around us were gasps and sharp intakes of breath as people discovered just how cold the water is.

We’d been warned not to apply sunscreen — it’s strictly forbidden in the pools to protect the fragile ecosystem — so fully exposed and slightly apprehensive, we set off on the ten-minute walk to the lakes. There are wooden cabanas positioned for shade, and to my delight there was even a flamingo feeding at the edge of the lake, completely unfazed by humans bobbing about nearby.

The water temperature sits at around 15–16 degrees, which is clearly preparing us nicely for the polar plunge ahead. Bloody freezing. There’s no diving allowed — the salt concentration is so intense you do not want it anywhere near your eyes or nose. So instead you do the slow, torturous walk in, inch by inch, until you can finally float. Once you’re in, it’s actually not too bad — and there are even warmer patches. Whether that’s a natural warm current or human-generated heat, I didn’t care.

Getting out is another story — but within about five minutes you’re completely bone dry, the desert air doing its thing. We opted to stay wrapped in the robes provided by the lodge rather than brave the freezing showers, and headed back “home” to make use of the spa facilities.

John and I chose the jet pools — warm, bath-like pools with massage jets, including two loungers with jets running the full length of the chair. I didn’t take a photo, but trust me, it was very special.

After that it was back to the room for a shower, then out again for dinner — a BBQ with live music, followed by cocktails by the outdoor fire pit.

There was, however, a more sombre note for John and me. News from home weighed heavily, and as President of the Bridge Club — where we have a large Jewish membership — I felt it was important to reach out. I sent an email letting members know that we stand with them, that we are thinking of them, and that there is no place for this kind of hatred in our community.

By the end of the evening, nearly 200 replies had come through — from Jewish and non-Jewish members alike — expressing thanks and support. I read every one, welling up each time, while John sat beside me feeling very proud. One member even suggested I should be writing speeches for the Prime Minister, which gave us both a much-needed smile.

With that, the night gently shifted back to the present — sitting around the fire, cocktails in hand, regaling tales with newly made friends under the desert sky.

Day 1 - The journey and the salt flats

We’ve touched down in the Atacama Desert, flying from Santiago into Calama — North, of course, because in Chile everything is either north or south. From the plane the scenery was spectacular, the mountains and valleys peeling away below us like a watercolour painting.

As soon as we started learning about where we are, the facts blew me away. The Atacama is officially the driest non-polar desert on the planet — and yes, that “non-polar” bit matters because the North and South Poles are technically deserts too. A desert isn’t defined by heat, but by how little precipitation it gets — usually less than 250 mm of rain a year. By that measure, both polar icecaps and sandy dunes can be deserts. But after those cold polar regions, the Atacama takes the title for being the driest place on Earth that isn’t frozen.

Some areas here receive virtually no rain at all — measurements show that a few parts of the desert literally haven’t recorded rainfall for decades, possibly centuries. The dryness comes from a combination of factors: the desert lies between the Andes and the Chilean Coastal Mountains, creating a double rain shadow that blocks moisture from both the Pacific and the Amazon; add in the cold Humboldt Current offshore, which inhibits cloud formation, and you have a landscape that almost never sees a drop.

Calama itself — the city we flew into — sits in this arid region with an annual average rainfall of around 5 mm. That’s about two or three grains of rain a year in most people’s terms. So while I was imagining heat and dust, the reality is a lot more dramatic — and a lot cooler. My jacket is still getting excellent use.

We flew in smoothly with LATAM — their departure times really do mean the times the plane takes off, which is incredibly efficient — though getting to the right departure gate was an adventure. We had to be at the airport two hours early for a domestic flight, and thank goodness we did, because we couldn’t make head nor tail of the checked baggage screens. Eventually we found someone who could help and managed to skip the hour-long line. Phew.

Once on the ground in Calama, the resort pickup was effortless. We’re staying at Tierra Atacama, part of the Häyli Bayley group, and it already feels like a perfect home base for exploring this astonishing landscape — a place that feels like another planet, yet somehow entirely unforgettable

Before we even reached the resort, the drive from Calama to Tierra Atacama set the tone for this part of our adventure. We piled into a van with five other guests and headed out for the roughly 1 hour 45 minute journey through vast, arid landscapes that look almost unreal — sharp horizons, scrubby desert plains, and distant mountain ranges fading into the heat and dust. Dotted along the route were solar farms and wind turbines, quietly powering a region that feels both ancient and surprisingly modern.

The area around Calama and the Atacama Desert is also one of the great industrial heartlands of Chile. You’re driving through a part of the world that’s rich in minerals, particularly copper and lithium, which help power modern life far beyond these plains. Chile is the largest copper producer on Earth, and right near Calama sits the famous Chuquicamata mine, one of the largest open-pit copper mines in the world. The hole in the ground is so vast and deep that it can almost be seen from space — a testament to how much copper has been extracted here over the last century. I am pleased to report that they have discovered a less invasive way of mining the copper (according to Manfred our guide in Valpo) where they can follow the seam of the copper.

But copper isn’t the only mineral here. Just beyond the desert’s salt flats lie enormous deposits of lithium, the lightweight metal that’s essential for rechargeable batteries — from electric cars to phones. The Salar de Atacama contains some of the world’s largest economically recoverable lithium reserves, and brine from beneath the salt flat is pumped into ponds to evaporate and concentrate the lithium salts.

Despite all that industrial activity, the drive itself was uneventful — in the best way. Six of us, quiet and gazing out the windows, watched the landscape roll by like a giant postcard. It was a good moment to absorb the scale of this extraordinary place: raw desert beauty interspersed with the signs of human endeavour in one of the driest corners of the world.

Here are some landscape shots — maybe they look boring, but I feel it is worth showing you.

Checking in at Tierra Atacama is always rather special. The moment you arrive, everyone greets you personally — warm smiles, welcoming words, and that feeling of something fabulous about to happen. And yes, it is “fabulous, darling!” in every sense. We were offered a welcome mocktail made from cactus juice — bright purple, tart and sweet at the same time — refreshing, memorable, and something Mum would have absolutely loved.

Next up was a session with our excursion planner. He walked us through all the options — horseback riding, mountain biking, hikes, hot air balloons, salt flats, geysers… if it’s desert adventure you want, they can arrange it. He listened to our preferences, understood our limitations, and helped plan exactly what we wanted. We opted for a visit to the salt flats this afternoon.

While our room was being prepared, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch. Then came the arrival at our slice of desert heaven. The introduction to the room was an event in itself: how the heating works (yes, my eyes lit up — currently on as I write this at 3 am), the air-conditioning (John’s eyes lit up), the indoor and outdoor shower, and a secluded courtyard with a vergola (an opening and closing roof), perfect for stargazing.

Needless to say, everything is perfect — Johnny did so well with his choice again! The courtyard is paved with Travertine marble — and yes, Angie, those eyebrows are raised — the stone was actually sourced here in the Atacama. Even better, the planting uses local species as part of a regenerative scheme. Everything feels thoughtful, respectful of the place, and beautifully done.

In Sydney we worry about de-humidifiers, but out here you’re supplied with a humidifier at night because the air is so dry. You genuinely cannot drink enough water. At 2,000 m above sea level your body loses moisture incredibly fast. You drink 600 ml, take a breath, and your mouth feels dry again — it’s quite astonishing.

On the way to the salt flats we stopped at a small village built almost entirely from volcanic rock, its earthy colours blending seamlessly into the surrounding desert. This was quite different to San Pedro de Atacama, where buildings are traditionally made from rammed earth. In the village we visited a tiny shop run by locals who keep llamas — not just for their charm, but for their wool and milk. Everything they sell is made from what they produce themselves. It’s incredible to see how people not only survive, but create a life, in such a harsh environment.

Then on to the salt flats — and they were nothing like I’d imagined. I expected dazzling white, blindingly bright, and perfectly flat. Instead, the landscape was textured, rugged and almost lunar, more like walking across volcanic rock. Our guide explained that beneath the surface lies brine and shallow water, which rises, evaporates, and leaves behind layers of salt and minerals. The result is a surface that’s cracked, sculpted and constantly changing.

The Salar de Atacama is rich in minerals — including lithium, potassium and borax — but it also supports a surprisingly delicate ecosystem. The shallow pools are home to tiny brine shrimp, which are the main food source for the flamingos. We also spotted a little orange-spotted lizard, who can’t drink the salty water because his body can’t process it. Instead, he eats flies that can drink it — effectively turning them into his own personal water bottles. Nature is endlessly clever.

Sun protection is non-negotiable out here. We’re at around 2,000 metres, the sun is fierce, the wind relentless, and my hat was tied on so tightly it wasn’t going anywhere. Gulp, gulp, gulp — more water, always more water.

And then came the flamingos.

I’ve seen them in zoos and documentaries — usually in places like Lake Tanzania — but I never expected to see them here, in the middle of the desert. There are three species in the Atacama, and we were lucky enough to see all three:

• Chilean Flamingo — paler pink and the most common

• Andean Flamingo — taller, deeper pink, with yellow legs

• James’s Flamingo (Puna Flamingo) — smaller and the most intensely coloured
  
  

Watching them feed was hypnotic. Then we noticed another bird working alongside them — black and white, elegant, with a long up-curved bill. This was the Andean Avocet, sweeping its bill side-to-side through the water, complementing the flamingos’ downward filtering. It felt like a perfectly choreographed feeding dance. See video below.

As flamingos flew overhead, our guide Nico shared fact after fact — the kind of information I sincerely hope comes up in trivia one day. The wind howled, the sun blazed, my water bottle emptied again, and I stood there thinking how completely surreal it was to see so much life thriving in one of the driest places on Earth.

🦩 Flamingo Fun Facts

• Flamingos aren’t born pink — they start out grey. Their famous pink colour comes from the beta-carotene in the algae and brine shrimp they eat. Basically, they are what they eat.

• A flamingo’s bill is specially designed to work upside down. When feeding, they flip their head and filter food from the water using tiny comb-like structures called lamellae, very similar to that of a whale.

• Flamingos often feed together in groups because stirring up the water helps bring more food to the surface — teamwork makes the dream work.

• They can drink boiling-hot, salty water that would be fatal to most animals, thanks to specialised glands that filter salt from their bodies.

• Flamingos usually stand on one leg to conserve body heat and reduce muscle fatigue — it’s actually more restful than standing on two.

• Despite their elegant appearance, flamingos are strong fliers and can travel long distances at night, reaching speeds of around 60 km/h.

• The Andean and James’s flamingos we saw here are considered near-threatened, making sightings like this extra special.

• Flamingos can live for 30–40 years, and in some cases, even longer in protected environments.

Another fun fact - John has clearly got over his jet lag.  I write this with the low distant murmuring in the background.

And the excursion wasn’t over yet — are you exhausted reading this? Because strangely, we weren’t. Despite me running on about three hours’ sleep, adrenaline and sheer awe were doing the heavy lifting. You just soak it all in. I was absolutely loving every second of it — and I never, ever expected to see flamingos in the desert. Tick. Tick.

Back into the van we went, heading off to find the perfect picnic spot to watch the sun set over the Andes and the western coastal mountain ranges. Of course, this came with a bit of adventure. The spot our guide had planned was no longer accessible — the bridge had broken, and our van most definitely was not making it across. This meant our poor driver had to reverse for about a kilometre along a very narrow track, lined with thorny trees enthusiastically scraping down both sides of the van.

While this delicate manoeuvre was underway, we got to know our fellow travellers a bit better — Rachel and Brent from New York, and Madeline, an Aussie living in Ecuador who, bless her, does not stop talking. She would ask the guide a question and then immediately answer it herself, which was… fascinating. Very weird, but everyone was lovely, and the conversation kept us entertained while branches screeched along the windows and the guide and driver quietly focused on getting us out of there before the sun disappeared completely.

We made it to a second picnic spot just in time. As the sun dipped, the Andes slowly changed colour — soft pinks, oranges, purples — the light shifting minute by minute. It was mesmerising, calming, and completely worth every dusty kilometre.

You’ll get the gist from the photos.

Then it was back home — dusty, windswept, and with the temperature starting to drop. The jacket was once again earning its place in the suitcase. Dinner followed, along with a cocktail, more Chilean wine, and plenty of easy conversation with our new friends from New York.

And with that, this very happy but decidedly sleepy head finally called it a night.

Just heard about the shooting in Bondi - so sad, sending our love to all impacted.