Elevation

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I am used to cold showers. Having lived in Brazil - particularly the north - you have no choice but to get used to it. The Amazon region holds one fifth of the world's fresh water supply, and most households just pull it right up out of the ground with an electric pump and have a small storage tank above the roof. The water comes up relatively warm and so it is an unnecessary and often unaffordable cost to heat it. So I took tepid showers for eight months. No problem.

But this isn't the equator. This is San Pedro de Atacama. It is cold at night and the water comes out icy cold.

The problem this morning is that the hostel's gas heating setup isn't working. And all the training in Brazil isn't going to do me much good for the cold shower I'm about to take. But I'm still quite dingy from yesterday, and it will probably be a few days into Bolivia before I get a chance to take one at all.

I look up at the shower head spurting arctic misery down for me and think of the famous murder scene from Psycho. I'd almost rather be knifed to death by Anthony Perkins.

Oh just get it over with.

Once it's all over, I scamper out into the courtyard to soak up some of the morning sun. Better. I then get my stuff together and wait for Poland, Cornwall, and Germany. The four of us then walk down the street to the main drag.

We are all taking a three-day trip over the border to Bolivia and through a national park filled with lagoons and volcanoes. Then we will go across the Uyuni salt flat and finally end in the small town of Uyuni.

However, we've all booked with different agencies and are unsure if we'll be bumping into each other again. Keeping our optimism, we refuse to say goodbye, and head to our respective agencies.

One of the now familiar microbus vans pulls up in front of my agency - Cordillera Traveler. Two couples and I climb in and we're off. The first stop is the Chilean immigration office to get stamped out. We all get out to get in line.

While waiting, we do introductions. One couple is from Barcelona and is doing an ATW (around the world) trip that started in Brazil. The other couple is from France and just visiting Chile, Bolivia, and Perú. They all seem very friendly. This is good considering we're stuck together for the next three days.

After immigration, it's about an hour drive to the border. Once in Bolivia, we step into a tiny shack in the middle of the desert where the driver and his assistant lay out breakfast for us. This has just been an initial transport over the border, and we are now waiting for our Bolivian driver and the SUV that we'll be taking to Uyuni.

Halfway through eating, a short, dark man walks into the shack and greets his Chilean counterparts. He then introduces himself to us as Noel.

After breakfast, we head outside into the high wind and hoist our packs up to Noel to strap them onto the top of the Toyota Land Cruiser that stands waiting for us.

The two couples take up the two rows of seats in the back of the Cruiser, so I get shotgun next to Noel.

Soon we enter the national park and are cruising across yet another deserted landscape. We stop occasionally to see various colorful lagoons. The wind is cold and brutal as we slowly ascend to over 4,000 meters (~13,300 feet). After the past week or so, this is no longer a daunting task, and I don't get the dummy giggles anymore.

At around noon, we stop at a particularly large lagoon which has been harnessed to make a natural hot spring pool. Travelers and drivers alike are sitting around the pool in their bathing suits soaking up the heat. I spot Cornwall and Poland and chat with them for ten minutes. They will be eating lunch here, but Noel said we'll be moving on.

Once back in the SUV, he explains to us that he actually has a handful of vehicles that he coordinates on these tours. One of them broke down last week and he needed to get it fixed. To do this on the cheap, he left it with some friends of his at a Borax processing plant where he used to work. He explains that he needs to stop at the plant to pay for the repairs and that it will only be a slight detour from our itinerary. Not having much of an option, we agree.

An hour later we drive through the gate of a large set of industrial buildings nestled between some rocky, barren mountains. He stops the Cruiser in front of one building and steps out. "You guys stay here, you're really not supposed to be here."

Well, ok.

We sit and wait for fifteen minutes or so. Finally he comes back out and opens the driver-side door, "Ok chicos, come inside and have some lunch." Apparently the violation of visitor protocol has been resolved.

We step out and follow him inside to a large cafeteria where some plant workers are finishing up lunch and shooting pool. Barcelona Girl sits down and asks Noel what the altitude is. She's feeling a bit strange. I feel a little off, as well.

"5,100 meters." 17,000 feet.

I seem to be taking it ok. I don't feel faint or sick or anything. But my insides are giving off a weird hum. It's very strange.

Plates of salad, rice, and a mix of noodles and sausage come out. I'm starving and gobble it down. Barcelona Girl can't eat. This is one of the effects of altitude. The others feel about the same as I do and eat with no problem.

Half an hour later, we get back into the Cruiser and leave the plant. We quickly descend to around 4,600 meters and everyone immediately starts to feel a bit more normal.

Late in the afternoon, we stop at two more lagoons. One is an eerie red caused by a certain type of algae that thrives in the water. The other is swarmed by flamingos, but is a bit far away to get good photos.

Noel explains that there are two "refuges" in this part of the park where all the agencies take the travelers to spend the first night. We stop at the one closest to the lagoon. Halfway between a hostel and a desert outpost, the refuge is a C-shaped structure lined with 7-bed dorm rooms along the back. Along the left is a small shop and the living quarters for the half-dozen people who live and work here. On the right there is a long dining room that resembles a military mess hall with a kitchen attached to the back of it. Within the C are parked half a dozen Toyota Land Cruisers.

We pile out, get our bags, and go to our room in the far corner of the building. The sun is beginning to set and the temperature is dropping right along with it. There is no hot water here. There is no heating. We knew what we were getting ourselves into, so we can't complain. This is going to be a rough night.

In true Spanish style, the Barcelonas suggest the five of us go buy a few beers to share to take the edge off before dinner. Amen. We huddle in a corner of the hallway outside our room passing cans of Salta beer around and chatting. The group dynamic is starting to take hold and we are getting along well. Our friendly and lively conversation even seems to have attracted a few other travelers who come over to introduce themselves and join in.

A few minutes later, Cornwall and Germany show up to join us. I shuttle back and forth between English and Spanish.

The Barcelonas, the French, and I agree that after dinner we will get a bottle of wine to help simulate the feeling of warmth and hopefully promote easier sleep. I hope it works. We've hijacked spare blankets from the empty beds, but who knows how much good they will do. I tap on one of the walls of the room with my knuckles. Paper thin.

Once the sun is down, we are called into the mess hall for dinner. Roughly thirty backpackers bundled in their warmest clothing line the room on either side and feast on hot soup and pasta. After dinner, we are served hot coca tea.

None of us have a corkscrew. So French Guy is using my utility knife to try and perform a trick he knows. He slides the side of the blade back and forth rapidly along the seal of the neck of the bottle. The idea is to raise the temperature in the seal just enough to weaken it. Then you crash the blade into the lip of the rim at the top which, in theory, ruptures the seal and knocks the neck of the bottle clean off with the cork inside.

But the room temperature is already around freezing point, so this is hopeless. The Barcelonas wander from room to room asking if anyone has a corkscrew. As luck would have it, another French guy has one and we are saved. We pour the red wine into small plastic cups, make a toast to survival, and drink.

The two couples push their single beds together in order to keep each other warm. I could use a girlfriend right about now.

The others are crawling into bed. I still owe Cornwall a few beers from before, and I know he is back in the dining room playing cards with Germany. So I decide to buy a six-pack and join them for a while. The three of us and a German guy finish off the beer and head to our rooms.

Wearing two long-sleeved shirts, a sweater, and a fleece coat, I crawl under four blankets and focus on sleep. I keep in a fetal position to maintain as much heat as possible. I'd like to stretch my legs, but every time I attempt it they are thrust into a world of isolated chill and I bring them back up again. My hands are planted well into my crotch between my legs for maximum warmth.

I honestly cannot remember ever trying to sleep at this temperature. I'm shivering like a malaria patient. Are the others sleeping? Is it possible?

For about four hours I slip in and out of uneasy, frigid sleep. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, I manage to fall into an unstable - yet meaningful - sleep.

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Photos

A Mini-Canyon
Death Start anyone?

Comments

[Alli]

I don't know if i ever told you, but I did the same Uyuni tour out of San Pedro. The first night in the "refuge" was probably the coldest night of my life. I'm dying to trade more travel stories with you. My doors in Mexico are open to you any time.