The first night in Bolivia I didn’t sleep. That day, we had gradually ascended more than 1500 meters from sweltering San Pedro de Atacama to cross the Chilean border into Bolivia, and although the sun was high in the sky, the air was thinner, the temperature cooler. As soon as I stumbled off the bus into the dusty, red sand at immigration, my blood instantly chilled. Seeing how ill-prepared I was—without a real jacket or a sleeping bag—I should have been more worried. But it would take a lot more than the sudden plunge in temperature to bring me down from the heights of Bolivia.
After the bus ride, we had continued our climb in creaky SUVs, humming through hours of sand, and coaxing our way through rocky passes. We marveled at how our guide was navigating the sometimes featureless landscape, pausing at an imperceptible depression in the sand to make a sharp right turn, veer up a sand dune, and then deliver us directly to something spectacular.
At each waypoint, we layered up before tumbling out into the cold desert. We immersed ourselves in the hot thermal pools of the Agua Blanco, surrounded by the soaring Andes. After struggling back into our clothes in the chilly air, we rambled on to the Sol de Mañana geysers, a collection of craggy pots bubbling clays of grey, blue, and brilliant orange below a haze of sulfur and steam.
We settled at a remote outpost—a one-story, cinder block structure divided into several block-like, windowless rooms abutting a large dune. Many were struggling with altitude sickness, and rested by having some tea or chewing on coca leaves. I ventured out with a new Swiss friend for a hike in the brown rocks and sand. We were wonderfully rewarded when we followed a trickle of water that led us deep into a canyon full of green mosses, and sculpted rock forms, providing us with a lush playground in the middle of the desolate plateau.
When we returned at dusk, we introduced ourselves to the other travelers whose guides had deposited them at the house for the night. While we anxiously awaited our supper, we made our rounds of introductions, and I was surprised to discover that among the 20 of us, I was the only American. With the wind howling outside, we scraped the pans for every last bit of greasy pasta, bland tomato sauce, tasteless salad, and mysterious hot dogs cut in such a way that they resembled bird’s claws. When the meal had been thoroughly demolished, we talked in our common languages—atrocious Spanish and slow French—until our patient hosts had to cut the generator, leaving us to negotiate our way to our stone chambers by flashlight.
I shivered all night in the unheated barracks, bundled in all of the clothes I’d stuffed into my backpack. I had been warned of this unavoidable suffering—two lone backpackers I’d met in Chile had independently told me that the journey would be exceedingly uncomfortable, but that it would be worth it. Thus far, they were right on both counts. I couldn’t wait for the sun to come up for both these reasons.
As soon as my eyes detected the morning light, I geared up and ran out into the desert for the sunrise. That day we would hunt flamingos in the frigid desert. We followed brown and rust-colored sand dunes underneath royal blue skies, accompanied to the soundtrack of the four Mexican and American greatest dance hits CDs that we’d listened to repeatedly the day before. Hidden lakes emerged from behind tall peaks, sheltered from the winds and colored brilliant blues, pinks, greens, whites and reds by minerals and algae. As shocking as it was to come across these strange oases, it was more surprising still to see that scores of flamingos had found their way there first.
We passed our second evening in a building constructed completely out of salt. The floor of the building was covered with a layer of rock salt three inches deep. The bricks were compacted salt, as were the tables and squat stools in the main room, perched atop a rocky outcropping overlooking a dried-out lake. Our cavalcade was overjoyed that there was a shower in the salt hotel, which every single one of us enjoyed—even my Swiss friend, who had gallantly waited to shower last, only to find we were out of hot water.
Although we didn’t have high hopes for dinner, we all shared the various rations we’d brought with us, and the congenial group atmosphere led us to mix up our seating arrangement to chat with even those with whom we really could not. That evening, the thin stew, unchewable meat, and fried potatoes, were thankfully upstaged by several bottles of Chilean wine while mysterious explosions from across the mud flat occasionally lit up outside the windows. We felt like survivors, warriors, and conquerors of an abandoned kingdom on the edge of the earth.
The third day brought us to the magnificent Salar de Uyuni, the largest salt flat in the world. After days rolling through the sand, our vehicles were suddenly able to whiz through a seemingly endless landscape of what seemed like brilliant white snow. We headed for a black mound on the horizon. Descending from our car, the salt crunched beneath our feet, and reflected the sun’s blinding rays as we hiked around the Isla de Pescadores, a bizarre, small island covered in tall cactuses in the middle of the salar.
Our final stop was the train graveyard in Uyuni, where dozens of rail cars rust slowly away in a dry field on the outskirts of town. A few theatrically leaped from car to car, before joining the rest in a contemplative stance, silenced by the midday heat. We reluctantly bid half the group goodbye, as they made their way deeper into Bolivia, and the rest of us prepared for the trek back to Chile, armed with enough goodwill and infectious enthusiasm to lure the next crop of intrepid travelers into the secrets of the Bolivian alitiplano.
Traveler’s Tips : Getting There
It’s not necessary to suffer to enjoy the sights of Bolivia. Take warm layers with you, and a light blanket or sleeping bag, if you can. Although only the first night of the tour is extremely cold, the extra warmth will come in handy in some of the older SUVs which may not have heat, or may break down occasionally. Long-term travelers in South America should think about taking the reverse trip, from Uyuni to San Pedro de Atacama, as it is half as expensive to book the trip in Bolivia (roughly US$75 as compared to US$150). And, even though meals are included, bring extra snacks and water, as there will be little opportunity to purchase anything while on tour.
Any number of tours will take you there, but check Colque Tours for more information.
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