CHAPTER 29
Bolivia was an enigma. A forgotten country. The southern half is covered by huge expanses of barren wasteland, so starkly deserted that you wondered why anyone would live there, let alone why you were there? The few villages and towns that we passed through were not much more than a loose collection of decrepit hovels, each house surrounded by a weathered fence caging a few hungry looking goats or sheep, with a rusted out old car in front, slowly disintegrating in the aired, salty wind. There were no fields to speak of, and not any appreciable herds of livestock. It seemed like the only reason any of these communities ever existed was to service the train running from La Paz down to the rich mineral mines in the south- but the train has been discontinued for decades and the tracks abandoned to the blowing sands of the desert.
We didn’t have a chance to visit the mountainous eastern section of Bolivia, where individual miners still work their claims down in the bowels of a huge mountain, looking to hit a seam of silver and strike it rich. Nor did we have the chance to travel through the northern part, which is strangled by the thick jungle of the Amazon River basin. For us, Bolivia was a desert, sparsely populated, and poorer than anywhere we had been yet.
We waited at the Peru-Bolivia border post for more than 3 hours because the customs official had taken a long “lunch break”, as he explained it, and an hour later came to the outskirts of La Paz. It was big, dirty, and the streets were crowded with jalopy taxis and trucks belching black smog into the air. We stopped at the first ATM we saw, took out enough Bolivianos to last us the week we were planning to stay in the country, and without entering the city proper, turned onto Highway 1, headed south. We had seen enough of these overcrowded Latin American capitals to know that we weren’t missing anything too spectacular- we’ll save that adventure for someday when we come back to explore the jungles in the north and we have to fly into La Paz.
The highway was as empty as the surrounding landscape. Hours would go by without seeing another car. Each night we would find a lonesome dirt track leading off into the desert and drive down it far enough into the hills so that we were out of sight from the main road. And each morning, though we had thought we had camped miles from the nearest house or farm, an inquisitive peasant came to visit us, and see what we were all about. The first morning, he was a poor dirty soul, his cloths ragged and thread bare. He had been herding his two cows across a hill nearby and saw our tent. We were a little startled, and I have to say, a bit wary of this strange old man at first, but after a few minutes of chatting with him we realized he was just curious, and there was a pretty good chance that we were the first Americans he had ever seen in his life. He was very proud of the fact that he could read, and asked us if we had any books we could give him. We told him sorry, that they were all in English, but then Kacey remembered that we had some tourist pamphlets from Peru that were in Spanish. As soon as we handed them over, he proudly began reading the entire pamphlet out loud to us. After the first long page, I thought he would stop, but he determinedly flipped the page and continued on. He wasn’t the quickest reader in the world, and though we were touched by this humble performance, I interrupted him at the end of the second page while Kacey gave him a few apples and packs of crackers. He waved his thanks, and slowly walked back to his grazing cows, stumbling as he went because he was reading the whole time. What a different life to be a Bolivian farmer! The second morning, our visitor was a bit more worldly, and as soon as he found out we were from America, he said “Obama?” while giving us a thumbs-up. We are constantly amazed by the saturating influence of America on the world- how could a poor Bolivian peasant possibly be effected, or even knowledgeable of US politics? We showed him a map of our route, and he told us the furthest he had ever been from his home was to the next province (like a county to us- less than we had driven in a few hours the day before). To him, we might as well had driven there from the moon. A few more apples and we were out of fruit- but each local we met was a cultural revelation to us, as startling as a slap in the face. Sometime after leaving Peru, we had crossed into a new, or rather very old, world- we were truly on an untrodden path.
The pervasive feeling that we were somewhere very different from home culminated at a small market in Oruro. As we walked among the stalls- basically unorganized piles of useless junk, but with a few interesting antiques among the clutter (I am a sucker for old coins)- we came to a fat little man sitting in his stall surrounded by his various curiosities, and then we saw the strangest thing of all… Hanging from the ceiling were dozens of small dried animals. Most of them looked like miniature versions of llamas or horses, their bodies long and distorted, with large heads and big eyes, and covered all over in a gross matted fur that made you want to cringe when it crunched under your touch. The man saw the look on our faces and explained that they were used by the locals as sacrificial offerings to Pachamama, their god of the earth. “But what are they?” we asked. He gave us a wry smile, and with a sinister emphasis on the last word, said “They are preserved unborn llama fetuses!”
We decided it was time to leave, lest Pachamama grow angry over our queasiness of her divine offerings, but apparently we were too late. We usually try to fill up our gas tank when it gets half empty to avoid running out, but due to the long distances between large towns in Bolivia, we were currently running quite low. We pulled into the only station we could find, and up to the pump. The attendant walked over with a “ah, these stupid gringos” look on his face and nonchalantly told us that there wasn’t any gas. “What are you talking about, ‘no gas’? Isn’t this a gas station?” Well, they were out, and had been for some time- long enough that apparently it was common knowledge that you couldn’t buy gas at the station, and even a bunch of idiot Americans should know that. Well, I hope he perceived the tone of disdain in my voice when I asked him where the next station was- because that would be the only reason to explain the pitiless chuckle he let out when he told me “60 miles”- now we were in real trouble and he knew it! The guy at the next station was a little more sympathetic, but alas, was out of gas as well. He told us the only place you could buy some was at the market- just look for the men with gas canisters. Running on fumes we pulled into the central plaza where a bustling market was taking place, and sure enough, standing on every corner were men holding sloshing jerry cans. I was a little doubtful of the quality of gas these shady characters were trying to sell me at three times the price of the gas station, but it was our only option. It turns out that the gas is regulated and rationed by the government. The stations have to stick to a mandated sale price, so the enterprising young men in the remoter sections of Bolivia collectively buy them out as soon as the stations receive a shipment. Then they turn around and resell the gas at a huge mark up to the hapless consumers, and we probably got the gringo mark-up on top of that.
Finally with a full tank, we could make it to our destination- the small town of Uyuni. Sitting on the edge of the vast Salar de Uyuni, the town is the jumping off point for the four day off-road journey through the remote Bolivian desert, the huge Reserva de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa (a nature reserve- with little nature) and on to San Pedro de Atacama, Chile. We stalked up on food and water, bottles of cheap wine and a case of beer, and bought three 20 liter plastic gas jugs, which when added to our 5 gallon jug we already had, and a full tank to start with, would give us a range of 630 miles- just enough to make it to Chile- if we didn’t get lost. Our map was woefully lacking detail, so we asked a local tour operator for advice on the route we should take. He gave us some directions that at the time seemed a bit too simple to be accurate, but proved good in the end, and a pat on the back, wishing us luck.
The Salar de Uyuni was something out of a dream. A massive salt flat formed when the Andes Mountains rose from the ocean, trapping an inland sea that evaporated to form the Salar- it stretched as far as the horizon in every direction, a blindingly white expanse of smooth, flat salt. In fact, the Salar is so flat, that over its entire surface area, some 3500 square miles, it differs less than 1 meter in elevation.
An uncommon rain storm had come through the day before we arrived, leaving about an inch of water covering the entire flat, which made driving over it a surreal experience- the sky blended seamlessly with its reflection on the thin film of water, and even though we were going almost 60mph, the lack of perspective made it feel like we were frozen in an ephemeral world of glass. Luckily, the tracks of previous vehicles could be seen as a faint path in the salt, and they were all headed in the same direction: first to the Salt Hotel- a dreary place, where most people stop rather than stay, made entirely of blocks of salt cut from the ground. Everything was made from salt- the walls, the chairs and tables, even the beds. Unfortunately, they chose to construct the roof out of sections of corrugated, clear, fiberglass panels, which cast a sickly yellow glow over the interior and when added to the building’s slight state of disrepair, the novelty of a hotel made of salt wore off quickly. It could have been a very cool place to stay, but the owners focused more on the ‘salt’ aspect, rather than the ‘hotel’, to their detriment- they ended up with a third rate tourist attraction, on par with the “World’s Biggest Prairie Dog” in Kansas, or the “Drive-thru Redwood Tree” in California- both of which have suckered me in but left me wanting.
After the Salt Hotel, the tracks over the Salar led in a more-or-less straight line for the Isla Pescada, 35 miles to the west. The name translates to “fish island”, not because there are fish there, but because as you approach it over the flat plane of salt, it slowly rises over the horizon, the bottom portion obscured by a shimmering mirage, which reflects the top of the island like a mirror, making the classic image of a fish. As we got closer the mirage faded and the island showed itself for what it was, a group of low rocky hills- black warts on the otherwise perfect porcelain face of the Salar. We drove around the island, and “made landfall” on a gravel beach in a small cove. The slopes were crowded with tall, bushy cactuses, their long needles poking out through a thick mat of yellow and white hair. Small birds with long, thin beaks, perched on top of each plant, pecking bugs out from the dense hair- their beaks mimicked the long needles of the cactus. Everything about this island was pokey- the rocks and boulders were covered in a thick crust of salt deposited by thousands of years of wind blowing over the Salar. The outer layer of the crust was a complex formation with a similar texture to coral, but the edges were jagged and knife sharp. The whole environment had an inhospitable air to it- a dry, harsh land- it might be the only true “desert island” in the whole world.
We spent only one night camped out on the island. The wind was ferocious after the sun set, which prevented us from popping the tent on the truck, and left us eating cookies and potato chips in the cab because the stove keep blowing out when we were cooking our pasta. This would be the norm for the next 2 nights as we travelled south through the desert towards Chile. On the second night though, we parked facing the wind and positioned some big boxes on the tailgate to either side of the stove. This made cooking easier, but we still had to sleep on the elevated deck in the bed of the truck, rather than popping the tent. Unfortunately, the terribly rough dirt tracks we had been driving on broke the seal of the cap on one of the three new gas jugs we bought in Uyuni, and a bit of gasoline had leaked out onto the bed of the truck. We left the windows open, but the faint lingering whiffs of gas made it difficult to sleep.
The landscape was colorful, like a painter’s brush had smeared vibrant swaths of reds, yellows and blacks across the mountains. It was also empty- in over 500 miles, we saw little more than a few guanacos, and a few rhea, small ostrich like birds. No tress, no grass, no bushes, and certainly no people. We were further from civilization than we had ever been. It was a bit unsettling thinking about the consequences of our remoteness, if we were to run out of gas, or break down, but the Golden Gringo performed admirably, and we rolled up to the Bolivian border crossing in high spirits. We knew the Chilean customs agents would confiscate the remainder of our fresh fruits and vegetables, so we put them all in a bag and gave them to the lonely Bolivian border guard- it looked like he had been stationed there for quite some time, probably subsisting on cheap dried and canned food, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the fresh produce.
Driving into Chile from Bolivia was like driving into another world. The prosperity of the towns and villages, the quality of the roads and building, had gradually degraded from Colombia down through Ecuador and Peru, and finally bottomed out in Bolivia. By comparison, Chile was modern and polished, crisp and efficient, a little America sitting at the bottom of the world. The roads were smooth and fast, there were actual supermarkets with name brand products, their major gas station chain, Copec, has free wifi, and even the police were friendly and helpful. But, all this modernity came at a cost- Chile was expensive! The gas was almost US$5 a gallon, we paid 2 to 3 times for hotels and hostels from what we had been paying previously, and even when we tried to save money by eating from the grocery store, we would routinely walk out a bit dejected- for the same amount of money we could have eaten like kings in the rest of South America!
We stopped for an afternoon in San Pedro de Atacama, and then drove north to the El Tatio geysers, where the park rangers let us camp in the entrance parking lot. El Tatio has nothing as big or impressive as Old Faithful in Yellowstone- their claim to fame is the sheer number of vents which make up the geyser field, and the fact that you can walk right up to them- no boardwalks or fences for safety here!
We continued west, across the Atacama Desert- the driest desert in the world- and came to the coastal town of Antofagasta. The truck was in need of a little TLC after our off-road adventure through Bolivia, so we spent a full week having work done on the suspension and clutch (I don’t know if it was just time for the clutch to go out or not, but one day on the beach I helped tow a guy out of the sand who had gotten stuck. All of a sudden there was an awful sound and a bunch of smoke came out from under our truck. I realized immediately what had happened, and kicked myself for ever having offered to help. But I got him out, and who knows, maybe we were lucky- at least the clutch broke in Antofagasta, where they had parts and good mechanics, rather than in the BFE of Bolivia, or further south in the wilds of Patagonia.) This unplanned stop also led to our first experience with international stardom- you can read about that in this earlier post “We’re Famous!”
With the truck back in running order, we headed south once again- some beach camping and a night gazing at the stars through the telescopes of the Cerro Mamalluca Observatory, and we rolled into Santiago on January 19th. From here on out, the essence our trip would change- no more corrupt police officials, no more worrying about bandits, even the tap water would be potable from now on. It seemed as if we had overcome the major hurtles and obstacles of traveling across the undeveloped world, and with four months to relax, and drive casually through Chile and Argentina, we couldn’t have been more excited.
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