Iquique

Let's be clear: willingly leaping from Cerro Dragon strapped to what resembles a giant bedsheet might not be the sanest choice you've ever made-but sanity is overrated anyway. This isn't just your standard postcard-perfect paragliding scenario. No, this is gliding above gritty, windswept sand dunes, carved and reshaped daily by Pacific gusts that give Cerro Dragon its characteristically moody charm. Although named "Dragon Hill," there are no dragons here-just a tangle of legends spun by locals sipping cheap beer and watching daredevils like yourself float unpredictably across the beige dunes. Go late afternoon, when sunlight bathes the landscape in a golden hour glow so flattering, you'll momentarily forget the abrasive sand creeping into unmentionable places. Budget around fifty bucks, book at least a day ahead, and bring sunglasses, sunscreen, and an appetite for sand-crusted adventure. Whatever your level of aerial expertise (likely zero, let's be honest), you'll leave Cerro Dragon with one hell of a story-plus newfound respect for gravity and laundry detergent.

Venturing into Chile's lunar landscape of Tamarugal to see the Geoglyphs of Pintados is a bit like stumbling into humanity's very own prehistoric Instagram-a sprawling canvas of ancient geometric tweets etched meticulously into the desert surface centuries before hashtags were cool. Few experiences compare to wandering across these dusty plains at sunrise, before the relentless midday sun turns visitors into human jerky. You'll feel suspiciously Indiana Jones-esque, minus the whip and questionable ethics, as you gaze upon over 400 enigmatic figures depicting llamas, shamans, and abstract symbols left by pre-Columbian cultures like the Tiwanaku and Inca. Practical tips? Bring sunscreen, water, and a hat big enough to embarrass your travel companions. Plan a day or two ahead, budget around $10 USD for entry fees, and don't forget a decent camera-your grainy smartphone snaps won't do justice to these ancient desert doodles. The geoglyphs might not provide definitive insights (archaeologists still argue over their purpose-spiritual symbols, trail markers, or ancient alien landing pads?), but you'll leave with the deliciously unsettling feeling of having peeked into humanity's collective, slightly bizarre, subconscious. Trust me, even if history isn't your thing, it's worth being able to casually brag back home, "Ah yes, I've wandered amongst giant llamas in the desert-no big deal."

In Chile's stark, sun-scorched Atacama, where even tumbleweed would think twice before tumbling, you'll find Humberstone and Santa Laura-saltpeter ghost towns frozen somewhere between industrial nostalgia and post-apocalyptic movie set. Built on the brittle bones of nitrate mining booms that fizzled out faster than disco, these UNESCO sites offer eerie silence, rusted machinery, and tortured door hinges creaking out complaints beneath an unforgiving desert sun. Go early (the desert heat starts beating you down by noon, and your sense of adventure fades quickly when your sneakers start melting), pack sunscreen, a wide-brimmed hat, and at least two liters of water-unless spontaneous dehydration is your idea of adventure. Plan a day ahead: spontaneous drop-ins are fine here, but snagging a knowledgeable local guide to spin salty, scandal-ridden tales of nitrate fortunes, worker rebellions, and company-town shenanigans will turn hollow ruins into a memorable history lesson. Budget modestly-about $10 per person for entry, plus a few pesos for overpriced empanadas sold by entrepreneurial locals at the entrance. Why bother trekking out to the middle of nowhere to wander among rusting boilers, collapsed chimneys, and eerily empty houses? Because there's something oddly sublime about standing alone in these skeletal towns, where ambitions crashed headlong into reality-it's haunting, humbling, and worth it if only for the smug satisfaction of casually dropping the phrase "that time I got lost in a Chilean nitrate ghost town" into future conversations.

Perched stubbornly at roughly 2,700 meters in the bone-dry Atacama foothills, the mineral-rich waters of Mamina's hot springs bubble up like an ancient Andean secret whispered by earth itself. If a gruelling trek through Martian landscapes and altitude headaches aren't your thing, rest assured-this soak involves zero effort beyond peeling off your dusty socks and stepping gingerly into pools rumored to have been soothing weary Inca bones since before the Spanish blundered into South America. Early morning is best if you fancy a private communion with the steam and silence, but evenings provide a raucous chatfest with locals, who swear the baths heal everything from arthritis to heartbreak. Pack a towel, sunscreen, and enough pesos (around 8,000 CLP) to cover the entry fee and a cold beer afterwards-you'll appreciate both equally. It's well worth the trouble: aside from the restorative mineral magic, there's a certain swagger in casually mentioning, back home over cocktails, "Oh, that reminds me of the time I found spiritual enlightenment in a steaming rock pool halfway up the Andes."

If you've ever dreamed of stumbling across an alien runway etched into Chile's stark desert earth-or just need some wild bragging rights at your next dinner party-point yourself toward Cerro Unita near Huara, home to the Gigante de Atacama, the world's largest human-shaped geoglyph. Standing an imposing 390 feet tall, this hillside behemoth predates Peru's Nazca lines by a thousand years, making ancient Peruvians seem positively late to the geoglyph party. To truly appreciate this mysterious figure-possibly a prehistoric fertility symbol, an ancient deity representation, or merely ancient graffiti gone big-arrive early in the morning when the rising sun casts surreal shadows across the arid landscape. Pack plenty of water, sunscreen, and a willingness to marvel at humankind's timeless urge to doodle on epic scales. Plan your pilgrimage at least a week ahead and budget around $30-$50 if you prefer a guide who can spin fascinating theories with Bourdain-esque irreverence, or if you prefer your history as dry as the desert air, wander solo-it's free. Either way, venturing out to Cerro Unita is utterly worth it, not only for the surreal scale of the spectacle but also because discovering humanity's strange and obsessive pastimes always makes for fabulously peculiar storytelling fodder.