78.
   We drifted west over the Argentine pampas and north over the Andes to the coast of Chile and the Atacama Desert. The desolation took my breath away.
    “This is the driest place on earth.”, said Claudia as we sailed toward a fog bank. “The fog from the sea is its only source of water. It is called the Camanchaca. Plants collect their water from it and insects climb to the top of a dune and hold their legs up to catch a drop of dew.”

   With that metaphor of desperation in mind I thought of Claudia. “What happened to you during the Dirty War? Who raised you?”
   She frowned and looked into the distance. “My aunt joined the resistance, and I was raised by them. Have you ever heard of Anne Frank? We were like her family, holed up in squalid little rooms with the knowledge that we could be killed at any time hanging over our heads, only we had guns. I was their eyes and ears. A little girl was less suspect. It was a lonely childhood. There were no other children to play with. I don’t blame my aunt or the others. Sometimes one of them would be captured and tortured. They never gave us away. Boris took me into his heart and saved me. One day my aunt disappeared. Then Boris disappeared. The others tried to support me but I was alone. When the generals went down in defeat after the Malvinas war, the long nightmare was over for Argentina. But it will always be with us. It will always be with me.”
   The fog parted briefly and a huge geoglyph appeared below us. “The Giant of the Atacama!”, Claudia announced. “Four hundred feet long and two thousand years old.”