Crossing between Chile and Argentina was little more than a blink of an administrative counter. We got out to lift up a chain and let ourselves over. We had been strategically planning our diesel stops on the map. All plans to purchase and keep a  spare can had run dry. The scrub grass silence was broken when we took a 65 km shortcut down a cheese grater and laughed in disbelief that the lambs had long tails. They wagged like dogs. Then there was the lone flamingo. Lost  far from it’s comrades in Northern Chile, the wind had grounded it. It was the only colorful thing for hundreds of miles,…