JOEL GRIFFETT

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Checking out of the hotel in Copiapó, this morning I began to wonder what I was doing with my life. I’m 25 years old tomorrow and I’ve got no idea what I’m doing. Maybe that’s why everyone stares; not because I’m taller than most; not because I’m a green eyed gringo wandering aimlessly across the desert; but because I’m carrying my world in my backpack. In this rural part of Chile, way off the backpacker trail, the only other people living this life are homeless men, rummaging through bins in the hope they find some forgotten treasures. I would soon be doing the same.

If I wasn’t questioning my life choices before setting off from the hotel, I was now. I spared a thought for my friends back home in England, most of whom have actual jobs, relationships and even houses, and here I was stood at a petrol station at the edge of the desert, holding a dusty piece of cardboard I’d found in a bush in the wasteland behind the station, hoping to hitch a ride to Caldera. The English girls I’d met in the hostel in Pucón were right: this wasn’t a job, this was ridiculous.

I stood there, with my pack at my feet and the sun beating down onto my back, feeling equally ridiculous. Is that what I wanted? Is this what my parents wanted? I’m sure they wanted their only son to go far in life, but is this what they meant? Literally far away, writing far-fetched stories, far out of the reach of any sane publishers remit. It took me less than 15 minutes to hitch a ride to Caldera, but even as I clambered into the back of a clapped out car with no back windscreen, with one dog at my feet and another resting it’s head on my leg, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was, undeniably, a degenerate.

But you know what? Even after this mild bout of existential dread brought on by the approaching quarter century subsided, I had absolutely no regrets. If I wasn’t here, I’d be stuck in England, working in a curry house as winter drew in, dreaming of exactly what I’m doing now. A real job, bills to pay, someone to answer to on a daily basis except myself? No thanks.

I don’t want a real job, a real life or even a real relationship if it hinders me from pursuing my goals. I want to answer as much as possible to myself and only myself. A house would be nice, but there isn’t anywhere in the UK I could settle without quickly becoming stifled by bills and those mundane day to day responsibilities. I’ll take this strange life any day, as long as it eventually bears fruit: nourishment I’m desperately in need of right now. It’s not always fun, but it’s never boring…

The two women tried to drop me in the main square (in Spanish ‘plaza principal’ a phrase I should know but had to look up after) but that didn’t register in my brain so they were instead kind enough to drop me right by the hotel. I tried to offer some money for the toll we passed through but they refused, so I wished them well on their short holiday and entered the hotel. The man on reception handed me 3 keys: one for the gate, the front door and the room.
‘Which one is which?,’ I asked naively
‘You will have to guess, I do not know,’ he looked apologetic.
Silly of me to ask. Nothing in Chile makes sense so this should be no surprise.

I headed out and down to the station. There was no trace of the rails leading to and from the old building, so I set out in search of them. There was no sign and of course, given my luck, the Cultural Centre which now occupied the station was closed. The day after I spent another day wandering about in the desert, stopping off for a few beers on the beach at the curiously named ‘Bahia Inglesa’ (English Bay) before drifting home and falling asleep promptly. When I woke up I realised I completely forgot to pursue the railway links I’d come here for, but by this point it was too late. I had cardboard to find and places to get to.

I was already clutching at straws by coming here to find a story about nothing in particular and the tenuous grasp I have on this story is so weak that it slipped my mind after a couple of beers in the sunshine on a Monday afternoon. I’m sorry. I’m a disappointment.