Turning strangers into friends: Finding Connection in Chile’s Atacama Desert
The first story in our #MomentsToMemories sees Lydia Spencer-Elliot arrive alone to Chile’s Atacama Desert. But how did she turn a lonely desert trip into lasting friendship?
The decision to go traveling alone as a woman can be a haphazard one. Social wise, it’s nerve-wracking. Suitcase size wise, it’s an outfit aficionado’s worst nightmare. Everything would – from a logistical standpoint – be easier to navigate in a friendship group or as one half of a romantic couple. Yet, when I booked a one way ticket to South America when I was 22, I did so by myself. Brazil and Bolivia at the start of my trip were a blur of parties and passing acquaintances. I joined carnival parades in Rio and stayed up all night at questionable dive bars in La Paz. So, it was only when I reached the disconcertingly quiet town of San Pedro de Atacama in Chile that I felt, for the first time, truly alone.
Solo traveling is more popular with every year that goes by. A fifth of 25 to 34 year olds have taken trips alone. Meanwhile, the number of solo travelers among 35 to 44 year olds more than doubled in the last year on record. The appeal is clear: without a group to consult, you’re free to do whatever you want to do whenever you want to do it. But the real magic of traveling alone are the strangers we, however briefly, turn into good friends – and I met one of my best travel companions in the driest desert in the world.
Discovering the Atacama Desert
I arrived in Atacama in the middle of the night. Saloon swing doors, dusty streets and a host of empty hammocks were the only things that greeted me. After checking in at my hostel, I looked up at the sky and paused. Undisturbed by clouds or light pollution, the stars burned furiously above my head. Astrology enthusiasts come to Chile armed with telescopes for this exact purpose. But for the rest of the evening, in the absence of other guests, I buried my head in the Kindle that had sat unused at the bottom of my rucksack for six weeks while I partied. Between Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life and Sally Rooney’s Normal People, I did an excellent job of reading myself into depression in the space of one night.
Atacama’s insane landscape shook me by the shoulders when the sun rose. Red rocky terrain and a never-vanishing moon give the town an outer space quality so alike to the solar system’s seventh largest planet that NASA actually uses the desert as a testing ground for Mars missions. I booked onto a Valle de La Luna tour where our guide snapped photos of me solo in front of the Andes framed quasi-lunar landscape. Azure skies, jagged sand toned rocks painted with the white salt of dried rivers backdropped our mini photoshoot. Our group spent the afternoon swimming in the Puritama hot springs and watched the amber desert sun set over a Pisco Sours. But as I waved off the married couples to their boutique accommodation and returned to my hostel, I braced myself for another night alone. Then came Anna.
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Sometimes with new friends you size up how you’ll introduce yourself before sidling over to say hi. But with Anna, I can’t remember our initial interaction. We were suddenly just having dinner. Chatting like I would with my oldest school friends over tomato salad and empanadas. She was 18, from Germany, a high school graduate with plans to go to university in the UK next year. She listened earnestly and smiled encouragingly at every intimate anecdote we shared – probably too soon, for two essential strangers. We sunbathed each day from 10am to lunch, cycling into the centre of town to look at the haunting souvenirs (knitted figurines, llama wool ponchos) on sale in the small tourist shops. Our mouths moved constantly as we passed the story of our lives between one another. Anna was open and intelligent and I happily drank in her every word.
‘The real magic of traveling alone are the strangers we, however briefly, turn into good friends.’ – Lydia Spencer Elliott.
When I loaded my rucksack into the taxi taking me to the airport to fly to Santiago three days later, I felt a tug of sadness in my stomach as I turned back and waved goodbye to Anna and her reassuring smile. Although I’d spent less time with her than other travelers on my trip, chatting to her had felt more familiar than any other conversation I’d had since leaving London. Of course, we stayed in touch on social media. (“How was your next hostel?”, “look at these fried nachos!”, and “what do I sing at karaoke tonight??” messages flitted between us) as we explored the rest of South America without each other in the following weeks. “How are you doing?” she asked me of my post traveling blues as I landed back in the UK. “I feel sad but also very weird. I don’t know what to do with myself,” she admitted after she returned to Germany.
Lifelong Connection
Anna and I still chat – and I have felt quietly proud of her from a distance. She went to university in Scotland reading Business Studies and Psychology before doing a Masters in Behavioural Science. Now she works at a family law service near Mannheim, travels frequently, and smiles just as often. When the Coronavirus pandemic hit in 2020, she was one of the only people to message and actually ask “how’s quarantine going for you?” and I consider her one of the best friends I made in South America. She made me feel seen in a town of dust and sunsets and has let me know someone is thinking of me ever since.
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