Salt and sunrise and sickness

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Everybody talks about the salt flats when you arrive in Bolivia, it seems a must on the tourist route. And to access these much talked about flats, you need to go to the town of Uyuni.
My friend Jonny and I set off far too early on a cramped bus to the middle of nowhere. Actually the whole journey felt like the middle of nowhere, it is so arid and wide and open and seemingly deserted. We stopped in the windswept and tired looking town of Potosi for only half an hour and I ate a later regretted empanada. Around Potosi it was just dry, windy open spaces with only rocks, some meagre scrub and lots of ratty alpacas being led by cholitas. But then the landscape slowly changed to rainbow mountains that were creased peculiarly, like someone had taken a big scoop out of the russet earth with an icecream spoon. The mountains were layered with turquoise, light brown and that same deep pink. And there was still nothing. The occasional mud brick house with no trees in the middle of dust. We bumped and heaved along the unpaved and rather steep roads (it felt like death road all over again), dropping off the occasional local on the side of the road and wondering where they could possibly be going. And then on the horizon you see the little town of Uyuni, the outer circles of which are surrounded by a horrifying pile of rubbish. The town is dusty and bare, wide streets with no-one to fill them. By day a locals markets spreads itself out here, but of an evening there is only a handful of people. But even here there is a pizza shop.
The very next morning we were ready to go on our three day salt flats tour, we just had to wait for the jeep to arrive. This inexplicably took some time, but we sat watching soap operas (novellas) and getting all too involved. Eventually, ignoring the rumble of the beginnings of food poisoning in my stomach, we clambered into the jeep with our guide Lester, our cook, a French couple and a Swiss couple. The salt flats themselves are just spectacular. At first it just seems like a blinding white desert. The ground is cracked, flat and empty but if you lean down close it sparkles. In some places the salt is 6 metres deep. Everything looks impossibly far away, impossibly empty. The mountains in the distance look fake. After leaping about taking the infamous salt flat perspective photos we clambered up the coral like stones of Isla de Pescado, or Fish Island (in the wet season when the flats become a lake, the island looks like a fish). It is dotted with enormous cacti, one of which was 900 years old. The view from the top was mind blowing. Just white flat leading in every direction until the purple smudge of mountains on the horizon. The drive afterwards was almost as astounding. The salt flats eventually gave way to desert and our jeep just hurtles along in white dust, following practically invisible roads to nowhere. There is nothing here. No houses, no people, the occasional crop of haggard rocks and a skinny vicuna. After hours, we arrive at San Juan. To call it a tiny town doesn’t even begin to describe it. A few empty streets of mud brick buildings plonked in the middle of the desert. The streets, the buildings and even the locals seem caked with dust and isolation. The only colours in the town are the gaudy blue and pink decorations on the crosses in the tiny cemetery and the dazzling oranges and pinks of a desert sunset. We slept in a room with a bin made of cactus and with floors and walls of sparkling white salt.
We woke early on the second day, I forced manzanilla (camomile) tea and bread into my angry stomach and we were off. It was windy and the landscape was relentlessly bare. The minute you stepped out of the jeep the wind whipped and wailed at you, penetrating the meager layers of clothes. But in this bitter wind we still saw spectacular things. Volcanoes and mountains with marble coloured patterns and endless lagunas cropping out of nowhere of different colours and sizes. On most lakes resided huge packs of flamingos. Their colours varied greatly, from totally white all the way to bright pink. But they all had long willowy necks, curved yellow beaks and spindly stick legs with knees that bent backwards. They loped their way through the shallow stagnant water and dipped their long beaks in to find food. When they flew (only when startled) they looked slightly ungainly, too long, their necks stretched out to its full length.
The varying colours of the lagunas created a stark contrast to the endless browns and reds of the desert. There were bright aqua lakes and deep blue, but most stunning was the Laguna Colorado. We arrived at the mirador above it and we all were silent in awe. It was a deep bright red. Ochre from plants in the pond coloured it in this brilliant red and the effect in the middle of the desert plus streaks of the white mineral “boraks” was stunning.
We had lunch in a “desert restaurant” as our guide Lester liked to call it, balancing our plates on our knees as we perched on rocks. Then we had a delightful siesta in the sun, lying like lizards on the dusty red rocks. In the afternoon we visited a sudden crop of giant rocks worn by years in that harsh wind to spectacular shapes. One is the famous Arbol de Piedra (tree rock) that really looks like a frozen tree.
Our hostel that night was even more isolated. It wasn’t a town, just a building plonked by some rocks. I was feeling horrible and greatly regretting that stupid empanada, so spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. That night was the coldest I have ever been. We were wearing every item of clothes we had brought and were still cold. I just don’t know how people live in these places, with nothing at all, in such a climate. It was so startling to be out of the cities and see how so many Bolivians really live.
We woke up at 4.30 am in the bitter cold to pack the jeep and my stomach was even moodier than I was. But then we were in the cosy warmth of the jeep and wrapped in our multiple alpaca woollies, driving through the desert, watching the orange sun alight on mountains with tops cracked like overcooked cakes.
We arrived at the stinky steamy geisers at 5,003 metres in altitude! The highest I had been on my trip! The mud under the ground bubbled like lava and you could feel the warmth through the soles of your shoes. The steam hissed forth with amazing strength and we weren’t allowed to get too close as they can explode suddenly.
Afterwards we visited some thermal baths, but only French Alan even contemplated taking off his clothes in that freezing weather. The day mostly consisted of the trip home but (although I have said it before) the landscape was endlessly enthralling. We stopped at another outcrop of rocks that are all in strange shapes like a condor, two dogs and a man in profile. We also stopped at a pretty little town but I was far too sick to appreciate it.
Luckily I was feeling abit better at our final stop before heading home, the Cemetery of the Trains; a dilapidated pile of inexplicably abandoned old trains, just rusting away amongst the piles of rubbish surrounding Uyuni. Jonny was in heaven, and we all loved it, climbing amongst these ancient vehicles.
We finally got home to a lovely hot shower and a comfortable bed in the quirky town of Uyuni. On the way home from dinner with our little group, I saw a marching band parading down the empty street. Oh Bolivia.

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