In the high heat of midday, very few living things in the desertic valley of Fiambala are stupid enough to out in the sun, let alone trying to get anywhere. The exception, of course, would be one mostly-lazy traveller who has decided to play "desert explorer".
She heads towards the town in the distance, mirage-like in its green-ness, nothing but sand and rock underfoot, rocky mountains on all sides and in the far distance she believes she can see Chile's snow capped mountain border.
She sees the landscape through a window of brightly coloured tropical fish: a sarong her mother made her bring with her, bless. She has it tucked into her sunglasses and around her hat and holds the two ends in her hands. She follows telegraph poles, ringing in the wind, but not too closely, because she is an adventurer, in the wild wild desert, alone. Completely alone.
Later, she will discover that she nas neglected to cover her legs, and she has earned herself two very German backpacker sock-line burn lines. mmm.
But for now, she shelters under small dry bushes when they are there. She sits, drinks water from a bottle and hears only the blood rushing in her ears as the wind dies down and there is nothing else to make a sound. She picks at some bread and a banana that a kind senorita gave her for her journey. Senorita knew about life in the desert.
How hard it would be, how quiet.
Yeah, it would suck.
But she, she is an adventurer, strong, confident and with a purpose...trekking through that desert, to find civilisation.
She tries to ignore the bottle of ice she holds in her hand (courtesy of aforementioned senorita). Yep, she takes a sip, life in the desert is hard, man.
She stands up and hits her head on the only branch capable of doing so for miles.
Bloody desert. How long until I can buy an icecream?
