The Salt Desert, Salt Hotel, Salt Table
Friday, October 23, 1998
In the morning, I checked out of the squalid hotel in Potosi, and headed to the bus terminal in a taxi. I like to sit in the front seat when I take a taxi because I think it gives you a better perspective, a better chance to talk to the driver, and has more leg room. This taxi was different. I sat in the front seat and noticed that the speedometer and all the rest of the gauges were right in front of me, but the steering wheel was on the other side. Very strange.
After a five hour bus ride, I arrived in Uyuni where I was going to book a trip through the Salar de Uyuni, the Salt Desert, and get dropped off at the Chilean border. I call it a "transit tour".
Upon arrival at one the few hotels in Uyuni, I was greeted by a German girl with really huge black hair and a somewhat featureless Japanese girl. "Our group needs one more person," they said, "We have done research and the company is a good one." So, not wanting to waste time doing my own research, I trusted them and signed up.
After a quick trip out to a spot known as the "Cementario de Tren" (The Train Graveyard), I went for a pizza with an interesting Swiss guy, Luc.
Saturday, October 24, 1998
After a quick breakfast, I went to the Paquara Tours office at 10:00 as directed. They escorted our group to the immigration office where we were unceremoniously stamped out of Bolivia. Back at the office, we waited for Luc to show up -- so much for Precision Swiss time pieces! During that wait, I asked how much water we would have for the three day trip through the desert. I was shocked when she said 1 Liter bottle was provided for each person. Wait a minute, I argued, this is the world's most arid desert, almost 4000 meters above sea level, and a journey of 3 days and 1000 kilometers! 1 Liter of Water? I went to the local market and bought 4 more liters, some Coke, and some snacks as a precaution against their judgement on food being as deplorable as their judgement of water consumption.
After loading all seven of us into the Land Cruiser, the driver got in and then motioned for the cook to enter as well. You've got to be kidding. 9 people in one Land Cruiser. It's only a three day drive across the desert. At least we weren't loaded down with unnecessary water... As we departed, the driver signaled to a few of the locals around the car to give him a push -- the clutch was having some problems and he needed help to get into gear. Excellent.
A few kilometers outside of the city, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the truck's tape player was operational. Unfortunately, I couldn't say the same thing about my window. The Police's "Roxanne" crackled through the right rear speaker as we headed into the desert. Just as "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" came on, we hit salt. Salt as far as the eye could see. Salt mounds. Salt pits ten feet deep. Salt road. Salt. The glare from the afternoon sun hit hard and made it almost painful even with sunglasses.
With salt in every direction, it came as almost no surprise when we came across a hotel made exclusively of... take a guess... Salt! Salt doors, salt walls, salt dining table, salt chairs, salt sculptures, salt picture frames. You can stay in the salt palace for only about $20 a night.
Just as "Do Do Do Da Da Da" came on (not my favorite song on the album, to be sure), we came across the magical Isla de Pescado, Fish Island. It's basically a very large outcrop of long dead coral that is now studded with 5 meter tall phallic cacti, overpopulated with a strange rabbit/chinchilla like creature, and the major attraction in the desert. I thought is was quite interesting that the small budding cacti look almost exactly like the sea urchins that once inhabited the reef. The bright blue sky, glaring white sand, flowering cacti, and enterprising Bolivian lady with two pet llamas dressed in ribbons and bows made an interesting setting for lunch.
A few more hours through the desert and we settled in a small village called San Juan. God only knows what industry could possibly be thriving in the middle of the wasteland. The only store doing any business just happened to be the one that Luc and I found for a beer. A few friendly locals were there and getting pretty toasty. We joined them. Shortly thereafter, most of the other tour groups in the desert showed up at the little store. We had a party. I met a very interesting couple, Simon and Eliza from London. Simon is a professional cricket player and he spent the better part of the afternoon trying in vain to convince me that cricket is a thinking man's sport, a real test of physical endurance, and a game of finesse. I promised to go see a game in person (not a 5 day test, I think) before reaching any final conclusions.
After a quick and somewhat passable dinner, we all met at a quaint little bar on one of the five streets in town. It was only just past midnight when we closed the place due to a lack of electricity -- no music, no atmosphere. Unfortunately, that same lack of electricity made it extremely dark on the way back to the hotel. I happened to forget that the bathroom door was particularly low and I put a nice little three inch welt right across my forehead and had a headache for the rest of the night. I hate it when that happens!
Sunday, October 25, 1998
A few boiled eggs, load up the car, crank up the Police, and we were ready to go. But, no Luc! The Precision Engineered Swiss Guy just wouldn't get out of bed. We were the last of the trucks to leave San Juan.
Being
last normally wouldn't be that big a deal for me, except that
I had very little faith in the car. My instincts proved accurate
about an hour outside of San Juan. The driver hit a bump and then
just stopped the car and turned it off. What? Did someone ask
for a picture or bathroom stop? My God, that's stupid, because
now we all have to get out to push so that we can get the car
back into gear... Nope, it seems that that bump broke the right
rear spring and we would be forced to get it fixed before proceeding.
The Germans were furious. The Japanese was livid. Two Brit guys
were worried. Luc was sleeping. I was hiding my extra bottles
of water.
Fortunately,
we were able to limp back to town. We tried to convince the driver
to drive back to Uyuni in a borrowed car, get yet another truck,
and then return for us. It seemed like the best plan. Estimated
time cost: about 8 hours if everything went smoothly. More likely,
we'd be stuck in San Juan for the better part of the day and night
and effectively miss the sights of the second day -- because we
were already stamped out of the country, it was essential to get
to the border tomorrow or else there would be big trouble awaiting
us in Chilean immigration.
The driver, not even the least bit frustrated or worried about the events of the disasterous day, took the spring off the car and disappeared into the town. About 2 hours later, he returned with what seemed like a new spring, but was in effect just a welded version of the same. Impressive! San Juan has soldering facilities! Another hour, and we were loading up the car again and driving into the desert. The Brit guys in the truck determined our chances of making it to the next camp, some 8 hours away over very rough terrain, at about 50/50. Uncharacteristic British optimism, I thought.
The
road through the desert was flanked by very large, very ominous
looking volcanoes on every side. A few had fumerals and steam
rising from their sides. The air was sulphurous and burned the
back of my throat. Spots of yellow, ocre, and all shades of black
studded the almost vertical sides of the volcanoes. It's really
an almost lunar landscape. I drifted off to sleep.
I came back to life when the car stopped. Before opening my eyes, I prayed that we hadn't broken down again. Indeed, I was relieved to see the crystal blue water of Laguna Canyapa. Beautiful pink flamingos pecked at algae along the water. These lagoons are the last refuge for the Andean, James, and Chilean Flamingos. The winds picked up -- it was very late in the day -- and it was almost too cold to get out of the car. But, I really enjoyed seeing the birds -- it was also pleasant to be there without other tourists groups -- a small advantage to having a car from hell.
When we finally arrived at our camp next to Laguna Colorado, a supposedly red lagoon made that color from iron and other minerals from the surrounding volcanoes, it was well below freezing. There is no wood in the desert for a fire. There is no electricity. The wool blanket on the bed was inadequate. It's easily the coldest night I've ever spent in my life and it is not any fun at all to awake with chattering teeth, frozen feet, and a runny nose. The Brit guys, in a strange showing, decided to sleep outside in their sleeping bag... On second thought, it couldn't have been much colder outside than inside, and the star field was magical. There's something about being at really high altitude that makes for unbelievable stellar displays. In the desert, even at a new moon, you can walk aided only by starlight.
Monday, October 26, 1998
A really early wakeup wasn't even really necessary. I spent the majority of the night curled into a ball and cursing my decision to bring only a fleece sleeping sack. At 6:15, we departed for the Chilean border, a few hours away. At 6:30, the driver stopped the car -- always a bad sign. He pointed at the temperature gauge, now spiked through the red zone. "Caliente," he said dead pan. Smoke and steam poured from the radiator.
He got out some bottles of water and tried to cool it off -- seems they don't believe in antifreeze in Bolivia and our radiator was frozen almost solid which meant that cooling water couldn't get to the engine block (I knew watching Dukes of Hazard religiously as a kid would pay off down the road... and mom thought I was watching just to see Daisy lean over the top of the General Lee...) Anyway, he somehow managed to fix the radiator after about an hour of tinkering (our shortest delay yet) and we rumbled down the road.
Soon, we came to steaming, bubbling, frothing field. There were geysers and bubbling mud pits everywhere -- raw geophysical power. A sign posted said "Very dangerous! Stay out of field. Death may result." We kicked the sign as we walked almost right to the edge of the pits and stared in awe. You could feel the not-so-solid ground shaking underfoot. Every few minutes, a big ball of rock and mud would come out and land a few feet away. The sulphurous smells just reeked and reminded me of the terrible boiled eggs we'd had for breakfast and were now rumbling in my stomach. I couldn't remember enough chemistry to feel comfortable letting one rip -- are methane and sulphur a combustible mixture?
Just
an hour or so later, we were stripped semi-naked and soaking in
geothermically heated hot springs. I was the first one in and
the last one out. It was wonderful.
And then, we finally hit the Chilean border. Bye Bye Bolivia! A huge 6000 meter volcano rose in front of a beautiful green laguna (Laguna Verde) marked the end of the trip. I was relieved. As we waited for our transport to San Pedro, Chile, I drank the last of my four liters of water. The others looked dazed. Our transport was no where to be seen, so when a seat opened up in Simon and Eliza's van, I jumped at the opportunity to get to town.
Chile really makes a statement when you cross in from Bolivia. The roads are perfectly paved. There are painted markings down the middle of the asphalt, the little reflective yellow thingys, a kilometer markers. Street signs tell you what you need to know about the route, the down hill slope, the passing landmarks. Guard rails and drainage ditches line the sides of the roads. With a Gross National Product more than 10 times that of Bolivia, it is easy to understand.
In San Pedro de Atacama, Simon, Eliza, Dave, and Ian (the four Brits, as I'll call them from here) went immediately for lunch at a quaint and pleasant cafe. We had descended almost 3000 meters after crossing the border and it felt really nice to have some air in my lungs again. We had quite a lively discussion after a few beers -- Eliza informed me of a little known fact. Seems that how far guys get on a first date is almost directly proportional to how much a girl has shaved recently. Interesting. From now on, the first question I'm asking on a date is "so, when's the last time you shaved your legs?"
After a quick shower, we all returned for more of the festivities. An excellent steak, Chilean red wine, and more conversation on body hair. I really enjoyed their company and I was happy that I'd have a chance to hang out with them for a few days. Fortunately, Dave and Ian were staying in San Pedro with me for a quick tour of the magical Valley of the Moon.