Copiapo has a frontier feel, north is a thousand kilometres of desert, fifty times more arid than California’s “Death Valley”. A team of scientist tested for any sign of life, duplicating the tests carried out on the Viking missions to Mars and found none. As a result NASA now test all their scientific equipment bound for Mars in the Atacama, the driest place on earth.

Heading out of Copiapo its cloudy and cool to the point where it feels as if it might rain, there is mist that leaves a fine spray on my visor. The road rises out of the sand like a causeway into the sea. Almost perfect dunes rise like hills either side, the moment ruined slightly by huge bill boards advertising ham, hotels and plant equipment. After a few miles the billboards and rubbish subside, as for a while the landscape mimics the perfect dunes in “Laurence or Arabia”, the tankers on the road pre-empting what lies ahead with their hazardous load sign “Sulphuric Acid”. Dirt tracks start to appear, leading off to the nitrate mines, slim gauge railway lines run along side the road, crossing from time to time, electrical pylons lead to heavy duty processing plants, pumping out waste into the atmosphere. As the climbs, the clouds remain steadfast in the wind, it’s getting quiet cold and I have to stop to put on another layer, not really what I was expecting.

There is not a huge choice of roads through the Atacama, the Pan-American being the major artery, with mining traffic and wagon trains, it’s gets quiet busy in places, so I decide to take some quieter ripio roads. Now I’m travelling on my own, I have to be careful, I have good maps and a compass, but I have to keep reading the map to ensure I’m on the road I think I’m on. If I make mistake, I could end up having to double back, leaving me short of fuel. It’s some of the best riding I’ve done, right up there with Routa 40, there’s no wild life, but I’m treated to an array of colorful, ever changing, lunar landscapes, with deep blue skies, the clouds now long gone. As alien as the environment seems, I feel cocooned as I ride, it’s not until I stop, get off the bike and remove my helmet that it really sinks in where I am. I drink plenty, but I can still feel my lips drying out, as there is no moister in the air and the sun is fierce.

It’s such a vast desert it takes days to cross. I have planned out a route so that from time to time I can swing out of the desert, on to a costal road, where every two or three hundred kilometres there´s a town, in some cases quiet large. As I approach Iquique, – the name means peace and tranquillity – I pull in for petrol and spot a dog running at speed towards me, followed closely from behind by another, both barking, showing off their teeth. By the time I get to the pumps there are three matted mongrels in a semi circle around the front wheel snarling and gnashing. As soon as I take off the helmet and get off the bike, the spell is broken, it’s as if a 1930’s beat cop had just turned up, as they do the canine equivalent of walking away whistling. The bikes filled up, I put on my helmet, start the bike and all three are straight back on me, one circling from behind to cut me off, as I pull away. My biggest fear is running over one of the dogs as I accelerate onto the busy main road, all three dogs in pursuit oblivious to the oncoming traffic. It’s reminiscent of the flash back in “Spaced" where Daisy is being chased by a pack of dogs to the theme tune from “Rhubarb and Custard”. It seems barking dog really just enjoy the chase, the one to really watch are the “Silent running”, where some primeval instinct takes over, their eyes the big giveaway..

As I wind my way down through the desert drift and cliffs towards Iquique, I’m in for one more surprise. As I round a bend, the whole town appears below, the sea stretching out to the horizon, all in the shadow of an enormous sand dune, dwaffing everything below, including the fifteen story tower blocks.