Safe From Harm

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Names

First of all, I'm going to drop the habit of referring to people by their city/country. I don't think anyone really cares if I use their first name - they're using mine in their blogs. Besides, it gets unwieldy to the writing and has been confusing some of my more reading-challenged friends. Awww Fran.

So for the sake of the current context, allow me to introduce you to:

Cornwall = Ross
Poland = Anna
The Barcelonas = Joan (Catalán form of John/Juan) and Marta
The French = Samuel and Sonia

Drive

Standing next to the window, I pull the crimson-colored curtain aside a few inches and peer out into the desert. There is nothing else to hear out here, so the sound of the approaching vehicle is detectable from quite a distance. I can't make it out yet, but a plume of dust billows up in its wake.

I walk back over to my backpack and finish off the large bottle of water. Despite the chaos of last night, the bits of sleep acquired over thirteen hours have me feeling much better. The only remnant is the pounding headache.

I stuff a few things into my pack, zip up, and return to the window. Noel's Land Cruiser is now plainly visible pulling up in front of the salt hotel. As he gets out, I hear two doors slam and notice a second man leaving from the passenger side.

I drop the curtain again and head out of the room for breakfast. I make a stop in the bathroom to check the shower. I give the hot water knob three or four turns. A meager amount of ice-cold water dribbles from the shower head, but nothing follows.

Bad sign. I look in the mirror. Three days without a proper hot shower in combination with all the tossing and turning last night have me looking like a freak show. I use some of the cold water from the sink to push my hair back into some sort of semi-civilized state and head into the dining room.

Now hungry, I scarf down yogurt, bread, and coffee for the headache. When the señora who runs the place comes out, I ask if it would be possible to get some hot water for a shower.

She stops and raises her eyebrows, "Oh, well the tank is frozen from last night. Hot showers only in the evening after it thaws."

I put my face into my hands and pretend to weep softly. This wins me laughing sympathy from Marta and Joan.

I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have cold showers.

Take it all away. The email, Facebook, the whole internet. Cars, public transportation, Boeing 747's. Take away electricity, phone lines, and particle accelerators. Take every last bit of civilization and throw me back into a Neanderthal state. I don't care, I'm cool. I'll hunt antelope with jagged chunks of limestone and pick berries. I just need two innovations. I need blood red wine, and a blistering hot shower every morning. That's all.

Ok, pull it together. Tonight you'll be somewhere with what you require.

After breakfast, we gather up our stuff and meet Noel outside. He is standing behind the SUV talking with the second man I saw earlier. Like Noel, he is dark; but slightly taller. His hair is thick and hangs long in the back down to the base of his neck.

Noel introduces us to his brother, Paul. Paul shakes our hands. The motion of his body matches that of his eyes and speech - slow and serene. Noel explains that Paul needs a ride to Uyuni and will be squeezing in with us. The trip is very nearly over, so no one minds.

We hoist our stuff up top one last time and climb aboard the now extremely dusty Toyota.

Within half an hour, we drive onto the solid white void of the Uyuni salt flat. The first thing I notice is how incredibly smooth the ride is. It really is flat - far better than a lot of highways i've had the misfortune of taking.

"Musica! Musica!" Noel cries. This is the queue for Joan to hand over his iPod. He passes it up from the middle row and Noel starts fidgiting with the cable he has jacked into the Toyota's stereo. He switches it on and starts looking at the menu.

I can't stand it when people fiddle with electronics while driving - even if it is on the largest salt flat in the world and there is no sign of obstacles in sight.

From the passenger seat, I offer assistance, "You want me to do that?"

Noel begins to bring the Land Cruiser to a stop and hands the iPod back to Joan. "No, he can do it. Besides, you'll be too busy driving."

"¿Qué?"

He gives me another of those Andean grins "You don't have to see very well to drive out here." He hops out of the Cruiser.

Not one to waste opportunities, I jump out and walk around to the driver's side. I close the door and announce into the back, "OK! Is everybody ready to DIE?" Cheers of suicidal approval.

I wiggle the stick in its neutral position, mash the clutch, and put it in first. Not sure that I even know how to drive a standard, Noel raises a hand and opens his mouth to explain. But by the time he formulates a sentence in his mind, we've taken off and I'm already shifting into second. I'm from the United States of America. I knew how to drive before puberty.

Noel points out a faded mountain in the distance, "Just go...that way."

By now, Joan has found a selection on the iPod. I sit back in the driver's seat with happy satisfaction as I hear the opening bass line of "Safe From Harm" off Massive Attack's Blue Lines album. We're a long way from Bristol, but I can think of no more perfect song for driving than this groovy classic.

The purpose of good driving music is to act as a catalyst in the symbiotic melding between Human and Machine. The sultry vocals of Shara Nelson hovering in the air are doing the trick to fuse the engine, driveshaft, and tires to my internal neural simulacra as I push the Cruiser into fourth gear.

"You can free the world, you can free my mind"

With the coffee doing its work, the buildup of heat from the sun, and the joy of driving, the last of my headache melts away. Shara and I happily fly across a landscape I have never imagined while the others chat.

Ten minutes go by, and Noel glances up, "Ok, we're coming up at a stopping point. There are a few other vehicles there, so slow it down a bit. I've got ten kids to feed, man."
"Ten?"
"Well, zero, actually. But still, I like living."
I check the speed before downshifting. About 55mph. This is the fastest I've ever driven.

I know it's pathetic. Just let me enjoy it.

El Salar de Uyuni

I bring the Cruiser to a stop alongside another near what looks like a small excavation site. We hop out and look down into the carefully carved pit. Noel explains how the salt is extracted and shaped into bricks for construction and maintenence of the salt hotels.

We give it a few second's observation and quickly lose interest. We wander away. Who cares? This is the Uyuni Salt Flat. What fascinates you here isn't the something you might see - but the vast amounts of Nothing.

Walking away from the pit and the vehicles on my own two feet puts the flat into perspective. It is immense. It is pure white off into the horizon - presumably forever. My entire field of vision is divided in two parts of solid white and the solid blue of the sky. There is literally nothing else to see.

It almost reminds me of the "Loading Program" from The Matrix. I halfway expect Morpheus to walk up in his long trench coat and explain the truth of my existence to me.

Or perhaps Jean Baudrillard will appear out of nowhere. "Welcome, Monsieur, to the desert of the real."

I stoop down and place a palm on the salt surface. Absolutely solid. Noel says it is around 7m (23+ ft) deep. It covers an area of over 10,500 km² (4,085 m²).

That is a lot of margaritas.

We amble about and contemplate the flat for a few minutes, and Noel shoos us back into the Cruiser.

The Island

An hour or so later, and we make our next stop. La Isla de Incawasi is a sort of oasis that rises up out of the flat. It is a rocky, but life-providing hill that reaches a height of about 20 meters over the surface of the flat. The life it sustains consists mostly of cacti, shrubs, and some birds. A footpath winds around the perimeter of the island and leads us to the very top. Along the way, we take pictures and enjoy this radically different view of the flat. Joan spots an oddly-colored green rabbit. It blends in perfectly with the cacti.
Once at the top, we sit on some rocks and rest a bit.

Returning to the bottom, we find that Noel has prepared lunch for us - chicken and pasta.
After lunch, we wander out into the flat again. This time we devolve into pea-brained tourists and take the obligatory salt flat photos that make use of the warped perspective. Look! I'm squashing your head! I'm standing in the palm of your hand! It's fun.

Once our photographic creativity has been exhausted, we head back to the island where Noel and Paul are waitng for us. While Noel packs lunch stuff into the back of the cruiser, Paul chats with us in his quiet and peaceful manner.

Looking a little mre closely at the flat, I start to notice a pattern. The flat is, well, flat. But there is a web of small ridges that interconnect. For the first time I notice that the web of scar-like lines creates a mesh of wobbly, but unmistakeable five-sided figures.

I ask Paul about them. He explains that they are formed during the rainy season as the water seeps into the salt.

"It's weird. They always form as pentagons," I reply.
Paul smiles his slow, shaman smile, "Yes, five. It is strange."

This is precisely what I was thinking. I can't remember having seen too many instances of the number five occuring in nature.

Uyuni

In the mid-afternoon, we finally arrive in the small town of Uyuni. Noel pulls the Cruiser up in front of Cordillera's office and we unload our stuff from the roof. We all shake hands with him and Paul, make our farewells, and the two brothers coast away in the Toyota.

Citizens from the United States need a tourist visa for Bolivia. A few years ago, the U.S. imposed (more) tourist restrictions on South American countries, citing terrorism as a motive. The visa restrictions included providing photographs, fingerprints, and paying a fee of up to $150. A little offended at being implicated as terror potentials - and more offended by the fees that are quite steep in local currencies - some governments reciprocated with the same fees as a form of "reciprocity". These countries include Brazil, Bolivia, and Chile. I had to pay for the Brazil visa before going, and got lucky on Chile - they only impose it when entering by air. So now I have to get the Bolivian visa. Although I can understand the argument and reaction to insult, "reciprocity" involves an even return to the person who paid - not the government that represents them. In the end, it's just two governments pissing on innocent people.

Whatever.

Even though my passport was stamped at the border, I have to go to the immigration office here in Uyuni to actually get the visa. The other four agree to wait for me at the corner while I beg for permission to be in Bolivia for up to 90 days, and the girl working at Cordillera leads me up the street to Immigration.

Only half-wondering if I'll be subjected to any Anti-Americanism due to current diplomatic disputes over the situation in Bolivia, I walk into the immigration office and hand over my U.S. passport for inspection. The two men working the office run back and forth for the proper forms and stamps - all the while joking with me and giving me advice on where I should visit in Bolivia. Within ten minutes, everything is all sorted, and they wish me a pleasant stay and off I go.

Every time I enter the United States, I get rudely interrogated about anything and everything. "Why were in Spain for so long? What do you mean you were working?" Go figure.

With $135 less in my pocket and a glossy new Bolivian tourist visa burned into my aging and faded passport, I head up the street with my stuff and find Marta, Joan, Samuel, and Sonia waiting for me.

We've been debating all day whether or not to stay in Uyuni or move on to Potosí. Part of me is tempted to stay a night here just so I can take a badly needed shower. But there is literally no other reason to stay here in Uyuni.

The Europeans have made the decision for me. "We can get a bus in a few hours and be in Potosí by 1am," says Joan. "There is a hostel in the center. We went ahead and made a tentative reservation for you. Single room for 50 Bolivianos . If you want, we'll just confirm it and you can wake up tomorrow in Potosí. Much easier, really."

"Mmmm, ok," Of course he's right.

With a few hours to kill, we find a small cafe with a table on the sidewalk and sit down for a beer and a sándwich.

A few minutes later, Marta tugs at my sleeve, “Look who’s here!”

I look up and see Ross (Cornwall) and Anna (Poland) crossing over from the other side of the street and waving. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see them again. We pull over a few more chairs and make room. The seven of us sit and have a few beers.

Ross is going directly to La Paz much farther north later this evening. Anna is also going to Potosí, but she is taking a different bus company and will be staying in a different hostel.

Wisely losing our earlier optimism, we exchange email addresses in order to stay in touch.

However, we maintain a little of the optimism and refuse to say goodbyes. There is a good chance we will cross paths again on this continent.

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