T A B L E_T A L K Is it safe to travel solo if you're a woman? Share your experiences and worries in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Oh when the gays come dancing in By Rebecca Bryant The physical -- and emotional -- revelations of Amsterdam's Gay Games V (08/21/98) The view from Japan By Dave McCombs It's the economy, not the morality (08/20/98) Everest controversy Weston DeWalt's latest response The co-author of "The Climb" responds to Jon Krakauer's most recent comments in Salon about the Everest tragedy of May 10, 1996 (08/20/98) The view from Europe Clinton's Achilles penis and other reactions (08/19/98) The mother of all road trips By Melanie D. Goldman Bouncing, climbing and kayaking through Chile to win the Camel Trophy (08/18/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		Sex, death and beauty in South America Our correspondent reports on Week Two of the Camel Trophy: The craziest road trip on the planet. Week One - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY MELANIE D. GOLDMAN Pan-American Highway (Ruta 5), Chile; Aug. 11: Driving is an art. If you ask an experienced off-road driver, he will tell you that no two roads are alike and that there are an infinite number of variables that affect the drive, including road curves, rock size and shape, weather, the way the car is packed and how much weight is on the roof. He will tell you that highway driving bores him to tears. If you ask a back-seat journalist, she will tell that she prays every hour for a strip of paved road. Every once in a while -- like now -- we end up on the highway. But most of our 10 hours a day in the car are spent tackling windy, bumpy, muddy roads. Yesterday, I found myself wrapping my arms around my head as a helmet to soften the blow when a bump in the road at 30 mph caused me to slam into the window or the roof of the car. At its worst, the ride's bumps knock my ribs up into my throat. At its best, it's a moderate vibration that makes my spine feel like a slinky caught under a jackhammer. Dean Vergillo and Greg Thomas -- the two members of the U.S. team, with whom I'm bouncing through South America -- are extremely competent drivers, but some of the muddy, rocky, icy roads scare me so much I just squeeze my eyes shut like I used to do on roller coasters and wait for it all to be over. We had another conversation this morning about rolling a car, and I learned that you have to end up back on four wheels to make it an official roll, as opposed to a top-heavy vehicle just falling over, where it lands on one of its sides or its roof. If you know you're going to roll, Greg said, tuck your head in and keep your hands away from the roll bars. Ahhh, the comfort of being prepared. The back seat of our Freelander shrinks by the day; soon, we'll attempt to get in the car and find that there's no more room for people. Six days ago, we started with my laptop on the floor and a camera bag the size of a microwave on the seat between another journalist and me. By the second day, there were dozens of items we needed at our fingertips: a Spanish dictionary, an Arctic headlamp, extra batteries, water and several layers of clothes. Behind our heads is a net hammock filled with first aid supplies and snacks: Power Bars, raisins, nuts, chocolate bars, beef jerky and black licorice. In comparison to the back, the front of the car is highly organized, to Dean's delight. Everything that could be Velcro-ed has been Velcro-ed, including the calculator to the dashboard and pencils to the VHF radio. Velcro-ed pens hang from the ceiling like stalactites. And the rubber duck -- once on the ceiling as well -- has a new, less turbulent home on the dash. For a couple of days, our handle on the radio was "Rubber Ducky," and our Defender was called "Barbie," thanks to the doll our tag-along Russian journalist had contributed as a gag gift. She is attached to the hood of the Defender with zip ties strapped around her legs (after electrical tape didn't hold in the sleet), and quite honestly, she's had a rough few days out there in the cold. Her pink dress is jacked up from driving at 50 mph, she's lost her panties and her blond locks and smooth legs are splattered with mud. Her situation has made me realize that constant car sickness, back pain and hairy legs aren't so bad after all. In comparison to Barbie, my job as a back-seat journalist seems positively glamorous. San Martin de los Andes, Argentina; Aug. 12: Today is the eighth day of the Camel Trophy, and I've finally adopted the priorities of the team, which include, and are limited to, driving and sleeping. I fought it at first, but now I see the big picture, and in it, going to the bathroom and eating are on the sidelines. I also have concluded that the feeling of having to go to the bathroom is one that is largely mind over matter. Nature's calls aren't nearly as demanding as they once were. The other night, I slept in a 6-by-6-foot tent, so close to two other bodies that sardines would cringe, and the idea of moving -- not to mention leaving the tent in the snow and exposing myself to the dark, wee hours of the morning -- was hardly inspiring. Once in a while, we stop for gas and are rewarded with toilets. We have coupons for diesel fuel at Shell stations, so we rank them based on their baño facilities, snacks and overall modernity. The top Shell thus far had a separate building for bathrooms and a short, curly-haired woman selling toilet paper at three squares for 100 pesos. (The worst station had one pump, neither snacks nor bathrooms and three red buckets of water hanging under an awning, which we concluded was an antiquated fire-extinguishing system.) At a less inviting bathroom in a shopping square, I tracked down the woman with the keys, and I was thrilled when she dug into her pockets for a few crumpled squares of t.p. Last night we slept in a cozy cabana with a wood-burning stove near the Argentine border so we could be there when it opened at 8 a.m. We actually slept through sunrise -- an absurdity in Camel Trophy -- and I had a few minutes to boil water for oatmeal in my all-purpose, stainless steel mug. The more typical morning has us out of our sleeping bags before sunrise, packed up and ready to drive away in minutes. Brushing our teeth and showering are luxuries we can't afford. Between the Chilean border crossing and the Argentine border crossing is about 45 minutes of snow-covered no-man's-land, otherwise known as the Andes. The mountains have allowed communities to develop independently of each other in Chile and Argentina. Just over the border, I noticed differences that indicated a higher standard of living in Argentina: more street signs, smoother roads, nicer gas stations, fewer Datsuns, more Volvos and little gardens in the center of town. We drove through several resort ski villages that look like they belong at the foot of the Alps instead of the Andes, with quaint chalets and stores with wooden fronts. The people look different, too, with longer, more defined faces and lighter hair. N E X T+P A G E | The circus comes to town