Mini Cooper S Countryman in Chile

We, however, are feeling slightly tense as we wonder how much rough road we must bump along to reach the Atacama's dramatic inner reaches. We've damaged two tires in one day of driving, and we have a long, long way to go. Today we'll spear east to the Elqui Valley that we should have reached yesterday before heading north again to Copiapó, the nearest big town to the mine where thirty-three miners were trapped for sixty-nine days last year. Our derailed schedule prevents us from lingering for a nightfall session at an observatory, but it doesn't stop us from venturing toward one of several silver domes that adorn the occasional hilllike giant pearls. We dare to climb a dirt track toward one of the domes, edging through a cactus field as the Mini's four-wheel-drive system audibly engages the rear wheels to dig us out of several deep, dust-filled ruts on tight hairpins. It is eerily quiet at the top, and from this observatory we distantly spy another of these earthbound outposts to infinity. By the time we've headed west to hit the Pan-American Highway, the Pacific is swallowing the sun and we're struggling to pick off one roaring truck after another. It's a struggle not because the Mini is short on power -- its engine is enjoyably potent -- but because the highway has become a two-lane road. We e-mail the hotel to say we'll arrive around midnight-although my shameful Spanish may have informed them that I'd like to shampoo a llama -- but that's before the road delivers a passing lane for the long climb out of Chañaral and a Renault Clio Renaultsport for entertainment. The amusement stems from the Renault driver's ambition to pass a keenly piloted Citroën C4 coupe and our irresistible decision to stay on both their tails.