Once we had regained money and health in San Pedro de Atacama it was time to leave Chile behind and make our way into Bolivia, where Rich was convinced we'd lose both money and health within hours.
Rich has a lot to say about our chilling and chilly journey through Bolivia's beautiful Altiplano, so I will just show you some of the natural wonders that we saw on the way and leave the rest up to the combat correspondent.
The Altiplano is kind of the "flat" part of the Andes, a huge area covering parts of Chile, Argentina, Peru and Bolivia. The average height of the Altiplano is about 3,700m and were going to go as high as 5000m, an altitude that both Rich and I had never been at. But not only the air up there was breathtaking, so was the scenery. Unfortunately my camera was unable to pick up the full extent of nature's beauty but you will get the idea. But now: Let it out, Rich!
The time had come to do the job. The Bolivian job. This is how I felt when it came to going Bolivia. The morning of departure brought a spiteful chill. I didnt realize that it had been that cold in the mornings having not gotten out of bed before 10am previously. Had I known, probably wouldn't have altered the decision of the heartless powers at the be to awaken at another time. I was every so often revisited by the ghosts of last nights risotto. The dose of garlic that I consumed insured that in fhe immediate future vampires and intimacy would be where I wasn't. We loaded up onto a small buss together with other travelers who were also migrating up and east. The bus driver was vague and bitter about something and was in a terrible mood. I offered to help him load my hefty backpack into the bus. He gnarrled at me and aggressively waved me along. His bulging eyes and rapid exhalation upon lifting my behemoth cargo told me that he resented his decision to decline my help.
Our bus left and we drove 10mins to reach the Chilean border which was a Tetris jam of trucks, cars and people waiting to get permission to cross the frontier. Two lines of people existed, easily discernible as to which line severed what purpose; people dressed in t-shirts and jeans were locals or worker trying to get across the border and people dressed in jackets designed by NASA and fashioned by MC hammer were old German tourists. The risotto waging revolution in my sigmond colon made it impossible for me to stand as the others, idle and frozen in a que, so I chose to go in search of a toilette. I asked locals and police where the toilette was and in uniformity they all described that it was around the corner. So off I went, and when went, I thus came back. No toilette. I asked again. Same response. What I didn't realize was that the gigantic local line was divided in two. One for border bureaucracy and the other for lower colon bureaucracy. I joined the latter. Wondering why the line was so long, it became obvious that there was only one toilet for all 35 people or so, for both outties and innies. Each person who arose from the tomb of relief displayed the same face, one of contempt. Almost as if their honour had been morally smited. I wasn't about to entertain the notion that anything other than a toilette existed in that little room. No! I didn't need the added pressure of anxiety. I needed to use it's function and that's all. No judgment required. In - use it - leave it. An elemental function for an elemental object. I waited there for roughly half an hour where the number of people in front of me dwindled down to three. Being where I was, I could not see where the others were. Charly appeared from the corner, rushed and obnoxious, "you have to get your passport stamped right now!" I looked at the line with distress. Charly snapped, "there's no time, you can go in Bolivia!". Well, if there is no time there is no time. I guess I'll have to hold on. With all my might! After all, Bolivia is only 30 mins away. Straight up.
After the pseudo-organised mess that was the border, we made with relative ease the transition across the frontier into Bolivia. Noticing immediately that the road we were traveling on just kept ascending, slicing between two gigantic volcanos. The motor of the mini bus was struggling with the conditions which, strangely enough, offered some relief to my own plight of colon stress. Looking out the window contemplating stuff, my attention was grabbed by fern-like cracks radiating out from the corner of the window. Realizing that it was in fact rapidly forming ice focused the mind to consider where we were going and if we were prepared.
After 29 mins of travel we circumvented the base of one of the gigantic volcanos to arrive at what was allegedly the Bolivian border. We only knew this because the road ended.
When the minibus stopped I was on the verge of cursing the failing air conditioning until the side door slid open. We ascended 2700 meters in 30 mins and had left behind almost 15 degrees of heat. The transition and transformation was complete; I was colder than John Wayne.
When thinking of borders, one may think of restrictions and a definitive assertion of custom and culture. The Bolivian border that we encountered consisted of one hut which smelt like diesel fuel and occupied by three Bolivian customs officials.. Or maybe just three Bolivians. Mysteriously, outside was a burnt-out 1960s American school bus which raised important questions as to where now were the Americans passengers?
By now the revolution in my stomach had become visceral battle as I began to hear their revolutionary chants and odor of public buildings being burnt down. I asked, with confidence, one of the Bolivians in the diesel shack if I could use their toilette. I was met with "no, we don't have one" as he callously tried to obscure the toilette behind him with his wide frame. He then gestured with his eyebrows to the burnt out shell of the bus that had reached absolute zero outside.
The revolution had advanced and was now at the presidential palace gates and I had no time to think. Charly, give me the toilette paper! Why, there's no toilette! Quiet woman! We have to think like Bolivians now!!!! Off I trudged away from everyone, but that only drew their attention to where I was going. When they would see my head disappear behind the metal carcus, they could only conclude one thing and their desire of posing for a photo near this unusual structure would surley take a hit. To my relief/surprise, I was not the only one to use the bus for concealment. On the private side, to my luck the down-wind side, existed ancient little shrines of stones piled on frozen toilette paper. There were many, therefore, I could not be blamed specifically if it came to it. Resonable doubt prevails again! I will not go into tremendous detail about processes you are obviously familiar with but I will say this: anything at 37degrees in -10 degrees creates quite a bit of steam. Finally, a peace had been reached with the revolutionary leader and I walked away in comfort.
Awaiting our presence with coca tee was our tour guides and their four-wheeled drives. Someone had commented on how impressive the mountainous Bolivian border was. One of the guides pointed to the surrounding mountain range and said with resent that the Chilean police were up there shooting Bolivians that were illegally crossing the frontier! What did the Chileans fear so badly to shoot them as if they were escaping zombies. And why were we willingly entering this mad house, not desperately fleeing!
With little supervision we had to divide ourselves into two separate groups of 5 and 6. For a reason which will forever be unknown, one 4x4 could only take 5 people so the other had to take 6. Naturally, everyone motioned to the 4x4 which could only take 5 people. A frantic race-for-space occurred as 6 people, plus guide, in a 4x4 is more than intimate. I was about to fight some Brazilians for some space for me, Charly and our friend Karim, when Karim was told to go in the other car with the other French. The battle was lost and minimal knee room was gained.
Off we went. To begin with, our driver Jimmy was quiet, seemingly oblivious to our gringo presence. He was the first Bolivian I had ever met and I was obviously interested in his features. A stout man, about 160cm with facial structure and symetry reflecting his Indian heritage. His skin wore the damage of the combined effects of sun damage and an arid climate. When he smiled, multiple creases in his skin emanated from the corners of his eyes and you could see a life-times accumulation of dry cracks around his lips expanding with the tension. All of which were downplayed by three solid-gold front teeth. We were to spend three days with this guy and quite literally our survival depended on him, so I at least thought it be pertinent to break the ice. Luckily for Jimmy and us, the French spoke perfect Spanish and began asking questions which were reciprocated with sharp/brief answers. "Si!!". "No!!". The division in the car was obvious from my standpoint. One Bolivian, one German, one Australian and four French. A clash of cultures was inevitable in these close quarters and the threat of close combat conflict was very real. If the French were going to make a move I was ready but I wasn't sure about Jimmy. How would I form an alliance with him secretly over the French trench? He's on his own for now, I thought. But his relative calm was a good diversion for the time being.
Between us and our final destination, Uyuni, laid a three day journey, void of roads and civilization. A vast wasteland of bitterly cold tundra, towering mountains, lunar terrain and salt flats which would have normally been amazing, but stuck in a car with a mute guide dulled the edge of our adventurous enthusiasm.
Our initial push east was swift. Long dirt roads with wispy grass-like reeds protruding every so often. The general rumble of the 4x4 made it difficult to appreciate the stiff wind blowing across the plains but the cold was easily appreciable when opening the carbonated drink that you had bought at 2700m which then explodes all over you at 4200m. The scenery was cinematic to the point that it was intimidating.
But what was really on my mind was the coming night and the conditions that it was bringing. The effects of altitude can vary widely between individual people. One person can be left unscathed while their friend may suffer from cerebral and pulmonary odema which can be life threatening. In preparation for this we took a prophylaxis precaution which incidentally makes you pee like a pregnant woman. We were told by the tour company that the conditions on the first night were the hardest, being cold (-15 degrees) and high (4400m). Our sleeping bags were theoretically rated to -15 degrees at their limits and I wondered what would happen if it was -16?
More light was shown into the psychology of our driver Jimmy. When we stopped to take photos of rocks he had a confession. With his arms defensively crossed and leaning back against the front of his 4x4 bonnet and gazing at the horizon he wanted to break the ice with us and explain why his mood had been dreadfully sour. Initially when our entire group had to choose a 4x4 to travel in, everyone preferred the other 4x4 due to the knee room, thus making him feel unwanted. I was perplexed because he was truly upset. Realising that an appology was needed to continue, I offered my deepest condolences, whole hartedly and shook his hand as did the others. Everything seemed to find a natural and neutral balance, so off we went.
The so-called Dalí desert. Our guide said that Dalí
found inspiration in the barren landscapes when he travelled through
South America. Google tells me that international tourists were reminded
of Dalí's painings and therefore nicknamed the desert after him. Either
way, it's a beautiful place.
Letting off some steam at the Termas de Polques and the Sol de Manaña geysers (4850m)
In this type of landscape, anything that is not naturally formed stands out and our lodging for the night was no different. A simple building with only one layer of brick between the inside and out and the beds in the rooms were concrete blocks with no pillows, which made me consider that we would be warmer in the car.
We all sat down for dinner as the people who ran the establishment ran around setting things up. I was amazed at their durability, agility and stamina because at that altitude if I sneezed I would have needed to be resuscitated. I was also amazed that people could exist in an environment so incompatible with comfortable life. It is compatible with rudimentary forms of life being alpaca and oddly enough flamingos but for obvious reasons a thriving metropolis could not persist there. At the other end of the dining room was another group of tourists, roughly 9, travelling in the other direction to our own. From what I could gather they were entierly American. The bottles of booze on their table told me that they were threatening a jovial night but in my mind I was questioning if they really knew what they were doing. Booze at altitude can be savage and coupled with the morbid -15 degrees, dangerous. I didn't really care, natural selection in full flight right infront of us. Charles Darwin had never encountered this on his travels on the Beagle. Well, maybe in New Zealand. It wasn't long until some of the booze had been drunk and disproportionate laughter was being belched. One chap I observed, decided it was too hot and took off his gloves then his anorak and then his two alpaca jumpers. He himself, I imagine, was probably impressed by how drunk he really was from the little he drank. He stood up with great authority and with conviction, dressed in t-shirt and jeans, calmly opened the front door, walked outside and gently closed the door behind him. What was more impressive was that not one of his friends noticed. I went outside to investigate, arriving in time to see him purge himself of bad karma. Once again I witnessed this steam phenomenon. He seemed content with what he had achieved and returned, as did I. 20 mins later, he again awoke from stasis and calmly walked outside. This time he did not come back. After ten mins I found him asleep in a truly frigid howling wind, this time one of his friends who wanted a cigarette (also innately perplexing to me at this altitude) came out and haphazardly offered his assistance. Alright, I said - your mess! Inside both men adjourned to the toilet where the smoking man offered the inebriated man cocain to solve the problem. They snorted away and off to bed they went. I didn't really care.
Charly and I zipped both our sleeping bags together to make mutual use of body heat but the trade off was that the bed - a concrete slab - was only 50cm wide.
In lack of a sleeping bag and sleeping buddy, Karim grabbed as many blankets as possible.
The night was cold, the air was thin and sleep was light so there was no real distinction between the night before and the morning. I deduced from hearing the shuffling of feet outside that it was morning. Again no real clear distinction; pitch black, bitterly cold and no singing birds. I was happy we both made it through the night without too much discomfort. Though as unpleasant as it was, I tended to think it could have been a lot worse. Pondering of our own good fortune I thought about the silly Americans from the night before. If they had died during the night I thought at least it would have been peaceful and maybe I could have taken their place in escaping in the other direction. But I could hear them walk around, one of them raspidly begging for water, providing solid evidence that they did not perish. Astounding! When I left them, their predicament, in my humble judgment, was grim. They had done specifically what not to do at that altitude and when found themselves in trouble they kept digging until a solution. Unbelievable and unfair. They probably slept better than we did. Headaches aside we left the refuge and entered a remarkably chilly car.
Once amassed inside the 4x4 Jimmy tried to persuade the engine to turn on. He sensed from the harmony of teeth chattering that we needed warmth thus blasting the heater. Full-boar!!! Well, no one informed the sleeping heater and all that came out was an arctic gale. Karim tried to reason with Jimmy that, in order for hot air to come out, the engine must be at running temperature. Jimmy seemed jolted. Apparently no one was going to tell Jimmy how to run his ship and said in Spanish "you don't want heat then you dont get heat" (his mannerism was that of a parent at the end of their tether. I wondered if there was offspring of this stout, menopausal Heat-Nazi). So, for reasons not known to us, we were punished and for the next 4 hours we drove through the tundra without heat. (The second coldest I have ever been). Due to the draft sweeping through the floor boards and the nature of convection heating, our feet were to suffer especially. Suffering paid particular attention to our dear friend Karim who's normal-labrador-like temperament was harshly tested. Usually passive and most likely unaware of imminent and occurring misfortunes, Karim would quite often lightly brush off any ill-will with a shoulder shrug and a pout of his lips. As if the occurrence had concerned someone other than himself. Once the car had stopped, we eject like ice cubes out of the 4x4 to immediately feel that it was warmer outside than in. I found Karim in a state of distress standing still and shaking his head, completely ignoring the rocks were were meant to be looking at.
The Arbol de Piedra. Beautiful but less so when you are fighting to keep your limbs alive while looking at it.
I probed with "Are you ok man?". He replied "Infact, U kno, i'ee reale no like this man." he said gently. For the untrained eye this may have looked like a person in mild disagrence with something, but to my eye which had observed him for 5 weeks, I could tell that a rage only paralleled in metrological terms was waging behind his calm distant glare. Decapitation by guillotine is not usually associated with personal-retribution-type-attacks, but I could tell this is would be his choice of method. Like so many returned war veterans who have witnessed humanity without the "ity", they part with who they once were. Karim entered the car that day a Labrador puppy, blissfully unaware of harsh realities of injustice and totalitarianism, to exist 4 hours later a guarded Doberman.
At the same stop we met the other group who had been at the site for a
while and were about to leave again. I entered a brief conversation with
my friend Alan who was in the other group. He stated with resent,
"geesze it's cold out here its so much warmer in the car". My left
eyebrow managed to break rigor mortis and was stiffly risen with
distane for the situation. I asked what the relationship was like with
his guide and what the conditions were inside the car. He reported
without hesitation that both were fine. Why wouldn't they be, he
questioned? Their guide was full of knowledge and willful interaction,
always smiling and pro-heat. I explained our struggle with
both man and machine and that the car was so cold that ice had formed on
both sides of the windows and our drinks had frozen (curiously I
wondered at what temperature vinyl would freeze and thought we may still
yet find out).
Alan sympathetically offered his opinion, "tough luck
man". And that's what it was in a nut shell, bad luck. It could have gone
either way. I was beginning to worry that this observation may be
applicable to Bolivia as a whole and no matter how thorough and
meticulous Charly's planning could be, the outcome of our journey and
our health may ultimately be at the mercy of chance and probability.
Alan returned to his car which made me well aware of the stark contrasts
between his journey and mine. His car waiting for him bristling, warm
and in the sun. Our car was waiting cold, dead and in the shade. They
left on the rays of sunshine, I could hear laughter and singing, maybe
even a mandolin. It could have been the wretched cold playing tricks but
I'm quite certain I saw a rainbow comming out of the exhaust.
Lake after lake, mountain after mountain and flamingo after god damn pink flamingo we penetrated further inland Bolivia.
Our second night was meant to be one of novelty as we were supposedly lodging in a building entirely made of salt. Having heard only brief descriptions my imagination could only theoretically put together a building that a James bond villain occupied. Without a doubt this was not what was waiting for us. The novelty after all was not a novelty but rather a necessity, as the site where the building was built was right next to a gigantic salt flat. Salt was the most abundant material around and as it is, anything that grows wood does so best when there is no salt. The true novelty would be a house constructed of wood. Salt on the ground, salt in the bricks. No argument at all. It was a salt hotel.
The next day we again got up before the sun in order to tour the Salar de Uyuni and observing, from distance with amazement, people breaking their backs (and almost their relationships) trying to take perspective photos involving the flat terrain, tiny objects and themselves.
Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt flat at 10,582 square km with a salt crust of up to a few meters. Apart from salt, the Salar de Uyuni holds 50-70% of the worlds lithium reserves.
Charly's mood worsened by the apparent technical difficulties she encountered and we tiffed. Obviously my fault, without question.
On a salt flat there is nowhere to hide except moving 50m away which I did and faced the other way.
I turned around after a while to witness a strange scene. The other 5 people (Charly included) were, from a strangers perspective (my perspective), in a bizarre ritual of some sort. From my distance I could see two people on their knees with one of their cheeks on the ground facing the direction of the other 3 people either periodically jumping up and down or protruding their arses at an acute angle. I snapped out of my perspective and began to question the motives of each person I was traveling with. Including Jimmy, who had assumed some kind of weird voyeur position through all of this; leaning back on his car watching while simultaneously picking something out of his teeth. I found all of this most unsettling.
In the centre of the salar are a few islands, which are "leftovers" from
some ancient volcanos. We visited the Isla de los Pescados, even though
this island probably hasn't seen any fish in about 11,000 years. Now,
the name Isla de los Cactuses would be more fitting.
The majority of the salt flat behind us we adventually reached the shore of the other side where a small town had spawned out of the haze. The town plan resembled a Warner Brothers wild west movie set, a few buildings in parallel down a single street. To be expected, everything was made of salt. Conditions in this town were the lesser adjective of rudimentary yet people survived by selling their trinkets and alpaca jumpers. Our group was herded around the back of one of the salt buildings for a prepared lunch. As we moved between buildings, Jimmy was explaining what was what. Lunch is over there - he pointed at the building. And the toilette is over there - he pointed at an old man holding napkins, barely conscious with what looked like grass clippings all over his whispy beard, sitting in a wheelbarrow with no front wheel (so really just the barrow). Oh yeh, his penis was hanging out. I, like everyone else, felt like they had missed the translation in Jimmies simple directions. Lunch over there in that building - check. Toilette, on that coca fiend in the barrow - not check. I immaturely debated with myself; is he the toilette?? As it turns out, the coca fiend was the gatekeeper of the toilette. The process of using the probable hole in the salt involved waking up the coca fiend, giving him one boliviano, receiving a napkin and clear instructions that under no circumstances are you to take any photos of the toilette. No photos? Curious, I thought. Why? It had been our experience that when not allowed to take a photo of something it was usually because it was something of immense wealth: Christian regalia inside of a cathedral or a muriel in the Sistine Chapel. My intuition whispered to me that neither existed behind that curtin and that the entrance fee was not wort it's treasure.
After lunch, some of our group went back to the main street to window shop again. Charly had woken up the coca fiend to buy a ticket. He went from, what seemed, full unconsciousness to full animation, without apprehension or hesitation in an instant, even with his penis poking out. He knew his job and did it well! Once Charly had bought her ticket and went on the ride, the coca fiend wiped his face and re-throned himself in the barrow. All the shreds of dried un-mauled coca leaves detached his face and were being caught in a small thermal current swirling around his body. If it wasn't for the concentrated destitute of his condition, that moment may have been majestic. Very Walt Disney.... This was never in Bambi though:
While waiting for everyone to return, I watched Karim play football with a local boy whom I estimated to be around 9. The boy was enthusiastic and seemed to appreciate Karim's interaction. Looking at the boy and our surroundings, I wondered with concern about his future. It was a weekday and he wasn't in school, in fact non of the children of the town were. Jimmy returned and had joined watching the football match. From my perspective I could see, in order of ascending age, the 9 year old boy, the roughly 45 year old Jimmy and the 119 year old coca fiend. I couldn't help but make the hypothesis in my mind that the three of them represented the cycle of life in that harsh environment.
Karim said goodbye to the boy and I bid farewell to the coca fiend who was wrestling the complex mechanism of his fly.
Loaded up with French we bent straight for Uyuni. Gradually the white/greyish hume of the salt faded to complete tan-featureless desert. I asked Jimmy if he liked our destination Uyuni and he responded with great gusto,"it's beautiful, I was born there!". Ok, I thought, maybe it's not that bad. 20 mins later, we had arrived at a train graveyard which minded several colonial-era steam locomotives.
All roughly 150 years old in semi-pristine condition. Two tracks had been laid down for these iron riveted beasts to be laid to rest, all of which were facing the same direction: Chile. (I played with the idea that these trains in succession, once tried to escape, only to find they had run out of track.) I really don't think officials of the time had tourists interest in consideration when deciding where to place the industrial waist of the day. For this, I appreciated the sight and experience more because it felt like it had almost naturally occurred. Monstrous contraptions, which you could explore and investigate at will. Dark coal traps, the dial gand leaver rich cab and inside the tubeless boiler. I was in my element (because the equivalent in Australia would be an awful hick frontier town which would have then displayed the locomotives behind several layers of barriers to then charge $20 admission).
The trains however, did bear the marks of thousands of adventurers some of which I thought were very very far from home. Instead of the normal graffiti: political slogans, city of a travelers origin or name of persons who visited, theses trains were covered in giant mathematical equations. Font size 1,000,000. No conventional marker carried by the conventional backpacker could achieve such a grand mural. The script in bold white had to be painted by a paint brush with a substantial amount of paint. I for one, would not want to trade warm clothes for 8 liters of paint in my backpack so I found it hard to consider that a backpacker would attempt this impractical form of expression. Somebody local had to have done this, which gave me hope for the little boys education. Strange, why would somebody feel so passionately to protest with maths, what kind of country is this? I can't pretend to understand what the equations meant but their presence made the experience that much more interesting.
Like a little boy, I had to be coerced away from the trains and back to the car.
We left the graveyard and drove through small settlements which became more frequent. I was in deep thought, coming to grips with the reality of people in these parts and I was about to make the comparison with a Taliban infested stronghold in Afghanistan when the car stopped and Jimmy said as if unveiling a present, "Uyuni". Holy crap, I mumbled. I interrogated Charly, are we meant to stay here for a night!? Did I fall asleep in Bolivia and somehow woke up in the Kandahar valley? Uyuni was a town I was not ready for. It was a bizarre reality especially after three very unusual days. The sun was setting and in this town I knew for sure that our flesh was definitely more tender than the staple alpaca meat. We had to get out...... by any means possible.
The same and a couple of more photos here:
https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/SalarDeUyuniTour?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPaZt5fu3bij2QE&feat=directlink
