The Importance of Language Skills: Rescued in the Atacama

This entry is dedicated to Miguel.

I have known many people to complain about taking language courses in school, arguing that they are useless, and anything they want to do in life can be accomplished in English. They mumble and grumble and forget the new vocabulary as soon as the exam is over, and then they walk outside into an English-speaking country and feel vindicated. These people are idiots.

Tuesday morning Chris and I set out for our last field location, both excited to be entering the last hurrah of our trip. A little over a two-hour drive from the city on some main roads, some less-main roads, and finally some tire tracks and we were there. Eager to get work done in time to set up camp that evening, we started right away, completing a couple of hours worth of scanlines before lunch. I felt confident that I would be able to accomplish everything I needed to as I sat there munching on an apple with peanut butter. We picked out a location for the next scanline, entered the coordinates into the GPS, and started the truck.... and started the truck... and started the truck. In horror, my mind flashed back to four hours before, when a passing truck had flashed its lights at me, and I had turned mine on in response. My mental promise to shut them off when we arrived rang in my ears as my eyes traveled to the knob. The switch was still on.

"Chris..." I said, my voice slow.

"What?" He too had been listening to the nauseating clicking sound that our truck had been making instead of its usual roar to life.

"Chris, I left the lights on. The battery is dead." I looked at my field assistant, having no idea what else to say, except, "I'm sorry" for the first of a thousand times.

We tried to keep our hopes up, knowing that, in theory, a vehicle with a clutch could be push-started. We had both seen Little Miss Sunshine. But even in Little Miss Sunshine they had a crew of more than five people pushing the van along paved roads to get it started. We had two. And dust, rocks, and sand. The first few pushes got the truck moving pretty quickly, because we were on a mild slope (emphasis on mild), but one of my attempts to jump into the driver's seat and start the truck resulted in a large lump on the top of my head and a bleeding tongue. Soon we were off the the "slope" and into a relatively flat channel. We resigned ourselves to the unfortunate reality that the truck was not going to start. We looked at the road in the distance, or the closest thing to a road we had to look at, which was about two miles off. True, at some point some mining company vehicle had driven through and plowed a relatively flat, drivable surface, but that surface had only been used by two vehicles so far that day - including us. The next closest road with a name was a half-an-hour away driving. The best plan seemed to be to keep pushing the truck, get it to the closest "road" and wait for some vehicle to come by.

We pushed. And pushed. And pushed. Over the next three-and-a-half hours we pushed our big, diesel truck towards the road. In between pushes, I sat on the bumper looking backwards at our tracks, our footprints in the sand recording our progress. There were a few segments where our footprints were spread out and shallow, as we jogged behind the vehicle only having to push with our arms to keep it going. More often, though, were the segments of deep, sprawling gouges from our feet as we threw our shoulders into the tailgate and felt every inch that the truck moved in our shoulders, backs, and thighs - involuntary, guttural groans escaping us as we used every ounce of strength we had. We both have a set of bruises on our shoulders corresponding nicely with the now-permanent, shoulder-shaped dents in the tailgate. Only having two people to push meant that we lacked the necessary ability to steer, so our tires left a zig-zag trace along the channel, as we would first tie the steering wheel with the wheels cocked to the left, push, re-tie the steering wheel, and leave another track veering off to the right. Our journey continued for three-and-a-half hours, not because that is how long it took to get to the road, but because that is how long it took for our bodies to completely refuse to work anymore. We had pushed the truck just over a mile. We were discussing whether or not to set up camp for the night right where we were, when we heard a low, rumbling sound. Chris grabbed the GPS and walkie-talkie and sprinted the rest of the way to the road, pushing his already-exhausted body harder than I like to think about. Unfortunately, the sound must have been a plane or distant mining vehicle, because no truck came. Chris used his time at the road to carve "Help!" in Spanish into the dirt with his heel. When Chris returned to the truck we started to set up camp for the evening. It was clear that our bodies were not going to move the truck any farther that day, bruises already blossoming over our bodies wherever they had touched the vehicle - shoulders, hips, thighs, the palms of our hands - and both of us were in pretty desperate need of some dinner.

Our moods rose some as we set up our tents, glad to be doing anything besides pushing the truck, the poles of our tents clacking together happily in the fading sunlight. Suddenly, both our idle chatter and the clacking of our tent poles stopped and neither of even dared to move our hands. Both of us had heard the bump and rattle of a large vehicle going over rough terrain, and this time it had been close. Before either of us could even pose a question, the sound came again, and after a momentary glance towards each other, Chris grabbed the GPS, the walkie-talkie, and his headlamp, and once again sprinted to the road on his exhausted legs. I grabbed the other walkie-talkie and stood in front of the truck, squinting watch Chris turn into an ever-smaller black speck as he ran the last kilometer to the road in the growing darkness, the sounds of the approaching vehicle ringing in my ears.

Suddenly, there was a larger black speck in the distance - a tractor trailer pulling a large flatbed with a front-end loader on it had stopped. I gripped the walkie-talkie and said thank you. This was the only vehicle to pass since the discovery of our dead battery five hours before.

"Amanda?" Chris' voice finally crackled over the speaker in my hand.

"Yes!" I answered in such a rush that I almost forgot to push the button.

"He said he will drive us to Antofagasta." Chris answered. I bit my lip. I really didn't want to abandon the truck, if it at all possible, but our options were running quite slim.

"Can he call the police for us, once he gets to the road, maybe?" I posed, already hesitant to watch the only vehicle we had seen drive away.

"He says that we would have to come with him to the police, that they wouldn't come out here without knowing for sure that our story is true." Chris responded. "Plus, if Hertz couldn't find us with GPS coordinates, what makes you think the police could?" At this point I was trying to concoct a way to ask whether the truck driver seemed trustworthy, but not wanting to offend our potential rescuer by asking just that.

"Does he speak English?" I asked. Chris paused, confused by the question.

"No. Not really... but he said he is willing to take us to Antofagasta," he posed again.

"Ok, well, should I pack everything back up, or will you come grab some of it?" I asked, tacking "and-do-you-think-he-is-trustworthy" onto the end in what I hoped was too-rapid English for the truck driver, but not too fast for Chris to understand.

"Yeah, I do." Chris answered, but before I could ask another question, he said to "hold on."

As I waited I started to pull the tent poles back out of my tent and put them back in the bag.

"Amanda?" Chris' voice came again.

"Yeah?" I asked, pulling the walkie-talkie back out of my pocket.

"We are pulling the battery out of the front-end loader and are going to carry it out to you. Ok?" He said, clanging noises ringing in the background.

"Ok." I said excitedly. "Is there anything I should do?"

"Just knock down camp and put on your headlamp so it will be easier to find you."

I took one last glance at the distant truck in the fading light and continued to repack our tents. Once I had everything back in the truck, pulled out the jumper cables, and popped the hood, I looked out again in the direction of the truck. The light had faded too much to see the vehicle anymore, but I could see the vague outline of Chris and the truck driver, battery hanging awkwardly between them, making their way towards me. Even at that distance and in such poor light, it was obvious that the battery was quite heavy from their wide, heavy steps and changing of hands. Night had fallen in earnest by the time they reached the truck, and I held out my hand to say thank you to our mysterious rescuer. He took my hand, and fluttered the fingers of his other hand over his heart and simply said "my heart is pounding" in response. I imagine that the distance to the truck had seemed significantly less than it actually was - large, open spaces play with your perception like that. Chris and I used our headlamps to light the truck driver's hands as they worked, no one saying anything out of exhaustion and nervous anticipation. Finally, the truck driver told us to start the vehicle. I tried, but there was only the same, empty clicking noise as before. All of our hearts sank. We tried a few more times, but nothing. The truck driver suggested that we try push starting it, but after a few minutes of pushing, and the truck only moving about six inches, he declared "Oh my god, this truck is heavy" and the plan was abandoned. We would have to abandon the truck.

Chris and I discussed potential plans as we threw all of our most important gear into our packs. We decided to ride with the truck driver out to the main road and try our luck with the police. If that failed, we would just go the rest of the way to Antofagasta. We began the slow walk back to the tractor trailer in the dark, the boys once again carrying the battery between them and me following the GPS point Chris had made of our rescuer's truck. When we reached the truck there was a moment of panic, because when the truck driver pulled his keys out of his pocket, nothing came out but the keychain. Thankfully, after a few moments of frantic searching the key turned up deeper in that same pocket. I don't think we could have found a lost key during the day, let alone at night. We loaded into the cab of the truck, which was much nicer than it looked from the outside, and started the slow journey out of the desert. In the silence, Chris apparently calmed enough to remember social courtesy.

"My name is Chris." he said, putting out his hand. The truck driver took it and shook it.

"Miguel."

I put out my hand and did the same.

"Amanda."

"Miguel."

"Thank you." we both said again, the words feeling woefully insufficient.

"De nada." said Miguel. (I write the Spanish response there, even though I have been writing the rest of the story in English, simply because it is not the same as what we say. In English, we would have said "You're welcome." In Spanish, you say what roughly translates to "It is nothing." In this context, with all that Miguel had already done, that response had a much more lasting meaning).

We drove in relative silence to the main road, and Miguel stopped the vehicle while we tried the police. Our Spanish got us about far enough to say "Our truck battery is dead out in the desert and we need help." Thankfully, Miguel took over and explained the situation more thoroughly. After a few minutes of rapid Spanish, he hung up and shook his head no. He explained that they did not have a four-wheel-drive vehicle, and thus weren't going to come help us. It was on to Antofagasta.

At this point I called Gabriel, our collaborator and contact at the Universidad Catolica del Norte in Antofagasta. I quickly explained our situation and Gabriel said to get a hotel for the night and to meet him at the University in the morning. He would arrange to have the geology department driver there to meet us and take us back out. I thanked him profusely and began calling hotels. The only hotel with an opening turned out to be the hotel we had left approximately twelve hours before, but at least we had somewhere to sleep.

We made a brief stop where Miguel had to turn in his tractor trailer and pick up his own truck, and Chris and I waited, tired and filthy, just outside the gate. Within a few minutes, Miguel's own Toyota emerged and we continued our journey. He explained to us animatedly about how he had put in the stereo system and added all kinds of neat features, and we did our best to follow along. Chris and I tried to figure out some kind of parting gift for Miguel, to say thank you, but we only had dirty clothes and equipment for our research. Eventually Chris remembered he had a hat with him and his green laser pointer, so he dug them out so that they would be ready when Miguel stopped. Miguel weaved into the upper part of the city, taking roads neither of us had seen, but explained that he would call a taxi for us to get back down to our hotel on the coast. We stopped and said our thank yous and goodbyes as the taxi approached. After telling the taxi driver where we needed to go, he thanked us for the hat and laser pointer, and walked out of our lives. The taxi ride itself was interesting, weaving and maneuvering with all the speed and aggressiveness of a New York City taxi driver, but with none of the angry honking. We stopped and picked up additional passengers, the taxis here operating on a "the taxi is only full once all of the seats are full" policy, simply dropping people off in the order they were picked up. It may not be as direct as a private taxi, but it is certainly cheaper.

At the hotel we met the smiling face of the same woman who had checked us out of our room that morning. We were simply short a truck. We trudged up to our room, and thankful to be rescued, slept soundly through the night.

In the morning we walked by a grocery store on the way to the University and grabbed some fresh bread and juice for breakfast. Our filthy backpacks and clothing drew more than a couple of glances. We arrived at the geology department a few minutes early, plopped down in the hallway, and started eating our breakfast. One of the other professors stopped by our feet and asked us who we were waiting for, and we said Gabriel, both motioning at his door with the bread in our hands. The professor stared at us for a moment, then broke into mildly accented English, asking if we wanted any coffee. We both shook our heads no.

"How about some tea? And a table and chairs?" He pointed at the label on the door across from us. "This is a kitchen."

We both said that tea would be nice and gathered our things as he unlocked the door. We must have looked so pitiful: exhausted and filthy on the floor of the hallway, chewing on bread and staring at the floor. The professor turned out to be Hans, a German, who knew my advisor and cheerfully talked to us as he made tea. It was wholly refreshing company, considering how the previous day had gone. How normal everything seemed, just sitting around having tea. Gabriel arrived then and joined us while we waited for Alejandro, the department driver. Hans told stories about times he had gotten his vehicle stuck and walked 25 miles, or when he and Gabriel had two tires blow out simultaneously, causing the vehicle to flip.

When Alejandro arrived, he introduced himself jovially, kissed me on the cheek, and lead us out to his truck. We weaved through a similar part of town as the night before, stopping to pick up a spare battery and a tool box from what I assume what his house. A little while longer of weaving through tiny streets, and we were on the main road out of the city.

I had been telling myself through the previous night that it would be utterly ridiculous for anyone to find our truck, and of course our stuff would be there when we got back. As we drove, however, rational thought faded, and I began to worry. Would our stuff be there? What if it wasn't? What if something happened to our truck? These thoughts eventually slowed, and I fell asleep. I woke up as Chris asked if this was the road where we wanted to turn of, and I confirmed that it was, the concerns of missing gear or a missing vehicle returning. I sat rigidly in my seat as we made the half-an-hour trip off of the main road back to our particular patch of the desert. Finally, we rounded a corner and crested a ridge, and there it was: our filthy, dead, heavy, wonderful truck.

Alejandro's truck made it easily out to ours, and we asked if we should pull out the jumper cables. He shook his head now and gestured to the extra battery in the back. He said it would be easier just to use the new battery. We watched as he pulled out our battery and put in the one he brought with him, which was of a slightly different design. Chris and I discussed softly about whether it was a good idea to put a new battery in a rented vehicle. Alejandro said "okay," and we both looked up. He has crossed some cables and shoved some cables around to make the leads connect to the proper part of the new battery. The solution looked tenuous to me at best. Then, with his gloved hands planted firmly on he connections to the battery, he said "start it up." We both stared.

"With your hands in the truck?" we asked, trying to make our Spanish as understandable as possible.

"Yes."

"Yes? Yes, start the truck with your hands in it, holding the battery?"

"Yes."

I looked at Chris, and we were both wearing the same 'I really don't want to kill this guy' expression.

"You are sure?" I asked one last time.

"Yes." he said, full of confidence, and in the moment before Chris turned the key, Alejandro gave me a clear, smiling wink.

The truck roared to life, especially loud with the hood open, and before I could even react, Alejandro was busily removing his battery and putting our old one back in. The engine continued to run, making the most wonderful sound I had heard since Miguel's truck the night before. We thanked Alejandro, and drove the half-an-hour back to the main road behind him, so that we could test the engine again once we got there without having to make him simply wait. Once at the road, we shut off the truck, and it turned back on without hesitation. Chris and I breathed a collective sigh of relief, waved goodbye to Alejandro, and headed back to our field site.

All in all the whole experience took just under 24 hours - not that bad - but it could have been much worse. Miguel's truck was the last vehicle besides our own to travel that road for the next three days. If we had not caught him, or been able to explain or problem, Chris and I would have had to face some of the decidedly less favorable "hiking out" options. We are back now, only a day away from the end of our trip, and very glad to have that whole ordeal behind us. Take care; I will post some pictures soon.

Take care.

Study foreign languages.

Don't leave your lights on.

Originally from an older version of this blog from July 5, 2009