Salarinas De Uyuni - Uyuni, Bolivia
Uyuni, Bolivia
The tires of our Toyota Land-Cruiser crunch over the white grain surface at 90km/hour uninterrupted, as we cruise towards a make-believe horizon in the distance. The intolerable glare, bounces viciously off the white surface of the largest salt flat in the world. This part of the earth offers very little to see, however it's slideshow of diverse landscapes that flickers rapidly fools you into assuming there is so much more to see here than there actually is. For four days we drive across God's canvas, where lies splattered, moments of spontaneous outburst over the blankness. The vivacious sun invites every dim space to dance, not allowing a single corner of darkness to escape its intense glare. Not just a metaphorical highlight, this place must of been some divine beings art studio, in which they explored their most dangerous creativity.
A train graveyard emerges on the plain, where black rusted carriages throw elongated shadows carelessly. An artist playground, the scene looks surreal and strangely displaced. Once a train-line stretched from La Paz, lugging loads across this vast landscape. Now the engines lay abandoned and askew from their companions.
We return to the cruiser, where our little elderly Bolivian
driver waits loyally, with his stray glass eye and funny little smirk. His short
torso stretches optimistically as he just manages to peek over the broad dashboard
and bulky steering wheel, whilst carefully navigating the vehicle over the
empty plain. As we approach the enormous white poster, I begin to appreciate
the vastness of the landscape we will spend our next four days in. As far as the
eye can see and beyond is a flag of electric blue sky meeting a glowing white,
who together encapsulate your vision entirely, eliminating all other colors and
objects. Mirages swallow the horizon until we are left with no point of
reference. Numerous other cruises sprout in definite lines across the plain, in
search of solidarity. We find ours, where we sit next to the car, with our legs
spread in front of us while we enjoy a picnic of traditional food served to us
by our driver, who shuffles and fusses like a lonely grandfather savoring
precious moments spent with grandkids. Stationed in this situation of complete
desolation, one can only wonder the purpose of civilization, when the
alternative is so eerily enriching in its tranquility.
Stranded upon the only raised piece of land in 1000 square
hectares and surrounded by a white ocean, the faint outline of mountains
reappears in the distance. This small island is inhabited by thousands of giant
cacti, like sentries standing tall as they patrol the plain vigilantly. These illuminated
light houses aren’t the source of light, but the recipient of the intense glare
that illuminates the plain with a heavenly glow, reflecting a heat that keeps
the Germans brown and the English bright red. However this extraterrestrial
setting doesn’t ignore the laws of physics, and what goes up must come down. Lodged
in a salt house, the temperatures come plummeting down as we experience the
opposite extreme during the night. The sun fools us expertly, surreptitiously disguising
the 4600m altitude that replaces all the earth’s absorbed heat with an
unfriendly chill.
Awaking early, we continue through the plain and the real
slideshow begins. Each rise and fall flashes an entirely new slide of contours,
color and carvings. In one instance we are crossing through a valley of active volcanoes
who intimidate the horizon and produce angry clouds of smoke drifting from
their peaks, taunting the atmosphere. The nutritious soil seeps in multicolored
squiggles down to their bases where the earth falls away obediently. Within 15
minutes of driving we are in a schoolyard of boulders, perched awkwardly in the
sand. And again, appearing out of nothingness is a bright blue lagoon, which
substitutes with a green, grey and red lagoon shortly afterwards. Upon their
surfaces treads thousands of elegant flamingoes, who sophisticatedly emerge
their beaks into the salty water before stretching their heads back to swallow
eloquently and without unwanted attention.
After another freezing night, with card games and red wine
making it slightly bearable, we rise at 4am for a reason I am completely
unaware of. Yet again I’m shocked by what more this diverse landscape withholds,
when upon a hill in the dim light, I see smoke drifting lost towards the sky.
Over the hill, the obvious origin of this lost haze reveals itself. Geysers shoot
from the surface, emitting an abundance of steam that drifts indecisively in
the atmosphere. Beams of first sunlight reach over the surrounding sand dunes and
playfully integrate into the steam that escapes desperately from the
underground. Formations of semi melted snow watch shyly close by, embarrassed by
their obvious displacement. Observing these natural elements unify in such
beauty is a phenomenal site that puts my senses into overdrive as the gushing
roar fills my ears, the sun splashes my face gently and together shoots tingles
down my spine and surfaces the bumps that cover my arms. This truly is nature’s
playground.
Finishing the tour on the Chilean border, isolation
introduces itself when we are left in no man’s land with no mode of transport.
Looking right is the vast Bolivian salt flats and looking left is the infamous Chilean
Atacama Desert – where they filmed Star Wars. As much as I would like to
transform this scene into Luke Skywalker and Princess Layla stranded in the
desert, it definitely wasn’t. We find transport to the small, lively village of
San Pedro and are welcomed to what can be described as the Wild West of Chile’s
Outback. Dusty streets and white rendered houses trimmed with timber windows
and thatched roofs, swinging doors and rustic décor, this village boast a
western theme that would teach any man to shoot a gun and ride a horse. A brief
visit to the Death Valley, which is where they filmed the racing scene from the
famous sci-fi film, and then to moon valley, where we climb a massive sand dune
to watch the sunrise. From here an impressive desert extends for miles before
us, yet the sunset doesn’t rival those pallets of pinks, oranges, reds and
yellows that smear the afternoon sky so effortlessly in Orange.
From San Pedro we travel to Iquique on a long bus journey
through mountainous sand dunes that sweep smoothly towards the horizon from the
coast. Roads cut into these impressive sand formations that lead up the entire
West coast of the South America, along the Pan-American Highway, which we are
set to follow for the next few weeks.
Disembarking the bus I linger in the bus terminal one sore
moment to long and am slapped with my first truly terrible experience that I so
eagerly anticipated in my first blog. With my rucksack secured on my back, I am
approached by a lady. She carries limp tissues in her hand and with a furrowed
brow begins to tug impatiently on my backpack whilst rapidly speaking Spanish.
A smell so terribly unpleasant is brought to my attention and I abruptly
realize the cause of this fuss. Dropping my bags hastily, I bend backwards to
discover I have been sprayed with some substance so putrid that I will not
entertain you with the description. This is worst than what your dog produces
after last week’s leftovers. The lady is now adamant on getting my **********
me to help me clean it and I can feel in the frenzy that I am being inundated
with attention and lured away from my bags. The bright fluorescents beam
down on the scene, illuminating my realization that this is a coy. Alone and
covered in this ghastly stuff I am confused, upset and angry. Before entering
deeper into this frenzy which so unsympathetically strips me of my senses as
someone presses fast-forward, I loop my backpack strap through my leg and
continue down my gauntlet of emotions. The lady reads me perfectly, puts her
wipes away and wanders off to make a phone call. Men walk past mumbling
uncomprehendable statements and questions at me, unsettling me further. Dad
pops up with his bible* tactfully placed under his nose begins to tell me the
population, land size and best restaurant of Iquique, before glancing up and
saying “What’s wrong with you?”. Needless to say, the presence of Dad scatters the perpetrators instantly and he provides much needed comfort and help disinfecting my possessions of the foul substance.
Iquique is a reincarnation of Rio Dejinero, whose beach
front sports a beautiful esplanade, expensive restaurants and tall apartment
buildings. Two blocks back from the beach identifies a completely different
socio-economic stratum, one that I wouldn’t be keen to explore in the night.
Crossing that imaginary line that officially declares us in
Peru brings a sense of relief over me instantly. Immediately embraced back into
Peru’s open, friendly arms, I feel unexpectedly at home. The honest curiosity
that constantly eyeballs me returns and I once again can communicate with this
old friend. It’s not that Peruvians don’t always continuously attempt to take
your money, however their approach is entirely different. Their persistence at
least offers in return yet another “authentic” alpaca jumper, multicolored
key-ring or taxi ride. I am surprised that Peru, whose economy lies dismally
slumped among poverty and unemployment, provides a much more honest culture
than that of Chile. Despite not losing anything, I am sincerely unsettled by
the attempted robbery, not only because of its vulgar nature, but also because
my confidence was stripped from me while my back was turned. South America
presents as many unpleasant challenges as wonderful experiences, which will
hold your dignity for ransom and kick you while you’re down. However, a
valuable lesson remains. I can’t afford to take my freedom for granted, and can’t
trust everyone like a neighbor. If the world was a divinely honest place, do
you think we’d be here? Humans are a complex being, who each act due to special
and unique motives. I can only hold my passport close and continue to trek on,
and be glad that this was a metaphorical friendly attempt…
* Bible – lonely planet guide. Reading these books in public
in South America basically screams “rob me please!”