Sickness in Paradise

Whenever I recount this story, I still cannot believe my luck.

On my way to the town of San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile, I took some time to pause in La Serena; the city of the golden papayas. I had already encountered some disappointment the previous day when attempting to hitch-hike to the Humboldt Penguin Reserve on Isla Damas with two German girls. One of our 'chauffeurs' drove a small van and stopped unannounced at various shops to make his deliveries. As a result of the glacial pace at which life moves outside of the capital of Santiago, we missed the last boat to Isla Damas and had to pretty much turn back as soon as we arrived. However, I was determined that this minor setback would not stop me from enjoying the next part of my adventure which I had planned - a detour to the sleepy village of Pisco Elqui; a place renowned for its pristine skies and potent liquor.

The bus journey should have been an omen of things to come. It never crossed my mind that as a passenger, you place a certain amount of trust in a bus driver to get you to your destination in one piece. This trust is particularly difficult to maintain when you are being violently thrust around the curvature of the Valle d’Elqui on a series of narrow single-track roads. In any case, my trust was not misplaced and the bus arrived in tact.

I had no place to sleep in my final destination of Pisco Elqui, but I had befriended a young Argentinian called Maxim on the bus and decided to stay with him for the night. Perhaps alarm bells should have started ringing - sharing a tent with a complete stranger in an unfamiliar secluded location? Maybe I was naive, but I can assure you that I never detected any malicious intentions.

After abandoning my initial plans to stay at Rancho Rodriguez (a rowdy refuge for ravers which was regrettably being refurbished!), we stumbled upon a tranquil campsite named El Refugio del Angel. We pitched his two man tent and began to cook tortelloni on a small butane stove with little success.

“Compramos algunas cervesas?” suggested Maxim, after eating a mouthful of suspiciously al dente tortelloni. Yes. I did want to add some beers to an already slightly dubious situation. We bought eight bottles of Kross Chilean beer in total and I thoroughly enjoyed sampling the locally brewed hoppy pale ale.

Back at the campsite, there was no artificial light and a pair of reclining wooden chairs were perched at the river’s edge, as if they’d been expecting us. The skies in the Valle d’Elqui are among some of the clearest on the planet and with no local light pollution, we had a veritable banquet of stars scattered across the endless sky. With the constellations out in full force, a more contrived person could have almost called it a romantic evening.

After conversing in fractured English and Spanish for a few hours and with eight empty bottles of Kross, I suddenly came over quite tired. I told Maxim that I was going to brush my teeth and then retire for the evening. I stared at myself in the mirror for a few moments before brushing my teeth, when almost imperceptibly, a violent wave of nausea struck me and I hurled myself into a cubicle to throw up. At first I blamed the alcohol, but it just kept coming and coming.

I gradually realised what was happening (between kecking and wretching). The previous day I had been chatting to a homeless guy on the beach at La Serena. I spent nearly the whole afternoon with him, exchanging stories about life and travel. He took me on a unofficial tour, which included a visit to a monument made of recycled goods; a few bottles of Escudo lager and a short introduction to clam fishing. It was the f***ing clams.

Upon reaching this conclusion, I heard a quiet voice from outside belonging to a world I had completely forgotten about,

“Cassie? Estas bien?”

Maxim had clearly realised that something was amiss and had brought me about a gallon of water, which I sipped pitifully, slouched against the door in my soiled clothes. I must have looked pretty peaky, because when I emerged from the cubicle he insisted we should go to the nearest medical centre, although it was approaching 5am now. The 400 metre walk up a gradual incline seemed like a tortuous tropical marathon in a sumo suit. It was certainly a relief to find someone working at the medical centre at such an unsociable hour. The doctor on call certainly looked a bit peeved to have been disturbed, but he gave me some pills for the sickness and said I should be fine the next day.

Poor Maxim. I had waltzed into his life and stolen half of his tent; eaten his under-cooked tortelloni; kept him awake all night with my incessant vomiting and to top it all, it was midday before I vacated his tent the next day. The most admirable thing was that Maxim didn't complain once about the entire ordeal. He simply stayed by my side and made sure I had what I needed. Sometimes, we don't need any great gesture to show compassion. We just need someone to ask if we are OK.

There will be those who read this story and gasp,

"Why would you share a tent with someone you just met?" OR...

"You are so lucky he didn't try to rape you!"

At the start of this story, I said that I couldn't believe my luck. This doesn't refer to my luck in finding Maxim, but to how lucky I am to be able to trust in the kindness of strangers. I know this is a luxury that some people no longer have due to bad experiences, so I am truly grateful that the events of that evening did nothing to lessen my belief in the kindness of humanity. Contrary to popular belief, most people are just trying to do their own version of the right thing in life. Besides, any person who still wants to seduce me after the amount of vomiting and s***ting I did that night, is out of their f**king mind.