Four Wheel Driving With Jesus

Having left sunny Santiago behind, I strangely enough relished the idea of being on a bus for 24 hours, travelling the San Pedro de Atacama. Located in the northern-eastern part of Chile, it is the gateway town into Bolivia’s natural wonders. That is, a tiny (less than 5000 people) adobe town full of tour companies and souvenir shops. I did of course partake in both, and booked myself on a three-day 4WD trip to Uyuni.

It is the first of many early starts when I arrive at the office the next morning at 7am. Our group, consisting of two Spanish girls Mar and Kristina, and English boy Alistair, and an Irish man Sean, haul our bags on top of the van and pile inside to gather heat. But it is a bit of a false start when we are made to wait outside the chilly border crossing office for over half an hour. Sean is quick to point out that this is nothing compared to his last two and a half hour wait, and the five hours he spent the time before, but I still think it should have been on the itinerary.

Quintin, our first driver, then continues down the road on a silent climb to a 4300m height. The drone from the engine is so loud that even my iPod can’t out blast it. I watch as tufts of grasses stick up like tee-pees from the red brown dirt, and touches of snow cover the tops of the two mountains beside us, daring the blue sky to melt it. We then stop at the Bolivian side of the border, strangely quite a distance into their country, to get our stamps. Their puny flag flies above the office, barely holding its own against the fierce wind.

But luckily for us, tea, coffee and breakfast is served straight away, warming us up from the bastardly breeze cutting through us. It is here that we also say goodbye to our spacious van, and cram ourselves into a rather aging Land Cruiser to head towards the entrance of the national park. We make a pit-stop here for the toilet and to get our carbon-copy entry papers, which despite your passport stamps and various logbook entries, you still have to keep with you as proof of a legal visit.

It is not too long before our first stop - Laguna Blanca – arrives. Mostly covered over in ice, which beams the sun back into our eyes, it is a pretty impressive sight in the middle of nowhere. It seems Nature never gets it wrong with her colours, mixing white with blue, brown and green in perfect harmony. Laguna Verde follows, but is not as green as its name might suggest because there is no wind. Apparently, so Jesus (pronunced “He-sus”) our second driver tells us, its presence brings up the colour - although I am yet to confirm that scientifically.

It is here, at just over 4000m, I start feeling a little dizzy, and so ask to have some of the coca leaves that are being smooshed into Jesus’ cheeks. Tasting a little like bitter green tea, they are meant to help with the effects of altitude sickness, which, for a person like me who is allergic to the medicinal drugs, is the only way around my drowsiness. But another relief comes soon, in the form of hot springs, which are so sweet compared to the bitter cold.

Next up are the stinky geysers, spewing out their steam from grey and orange pools that happen to match my jumper. Lying along a nearby fault line, they are formed when water contained in underground reservoirs is heated up by volcanic activity – in this case, from the Volcano Ollague – causing it to boil and steam out of the earth. Our final stop for the day is at the Laguna Colorado – a ‘red’ lagoon that is coloured by the algae it contains, which the many flamingos feed on. It is here that we also get up close to the llama-like animals “vicuñas” that are protected in the park due to their scarcity.

We then make our way to our homestay/hostel, which is located a few hundred metres from the waters eddge and I try to go to the toilet. But it seems there are some renovations are going on – that is, lots of cement and dirt on the floor, but from what I can see, there is nothing new happening. Still fighting the intolerable cold, we sit down to eat our lunch of boiled vegetables, tomato, cucumber and eggs. I really have no idea where this combination comes from, but it quickly disappeared into our cold stomachs, lining them for our afternoon nap.

But what we don’t realise, until we take our stuff to our room, is that the only heat our bedroom has ever seen, is perhaps a few drops of sweat when it was first haphazardly built. I scratch at the plaster, knowing for sure that it is still wet. After a few sighs, we all end up snoozing off minor headaches. After all, there’s nothing left today but dinner.

Questions and Answers

My first day in Santiago was much like the weather – a little overcast, but a warm-ish 20 degrees. Following a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, individually prepared by the cook/cleaner, I hopped straight on the metro and made my way into town. I walked past the many street vendors with their woollen cardigans, squawking plastic parrots and knitted scarves, past the demonstrations of useless kitchen products (think Demtel), and ended up at the Palacio de la Moneda.

The Presidential Palace of the Chile, it is probably best known as the site of Salvador Allende’s last speech as leader of the struggling country, before troops stormed its doors, and he committed suicide. But like the days, and indeed the many years that followed Allende’s demise, its doors are closed to unofficial visitors and I instead disappear below, into the cultural centre located underneath.

A relatively new place, that has not yet made it into the Lonely Planet guide, its modern edgy design greatly contrasts the streets above. Housing several different spaces over its three levels, the centre contains galleries, art-shops, an arthouse cinema, a bookstore, cafes and restaurants – all of which are full with lunching businessmen and women. A few local tourists float around with me through the traditional Mapuche display, and the collection of religious relics below, but I am basically the only real foreigner here. (And so it continues through my most of my visit).

Taking in the Chilean Museum of Pre-Colombian art – which gave a comprehensive tour through the years and cultures of Latin America – I then made a pit-stop at El Rapido for a fish and cheese empanada. Having grown so fond of these readily available bites, I consider myself to be somewhat of a mini-expert now, sampling them across three countries. And these would definitely make my top five for their crunch, spice and yes, you guessed it, oozing cheese. I just can’t get enough!

From here, I made my way past the glum Cathedral, and slightly more lively Plaza de Armas, to the National Historical Museum to see if what they had to say about Salvador Allende, and the oppression that followed his ousting by Pinochet’s military coup. I passed patiently through the many ceramics, pieces of jewellery, clothing, portraits and weaponary on offer, many of which I have seen in other such museums, and excitedly arrived at the most modern additions. But what awaited me at the end, was not the detailed account I had hoped for, rather, the sad half-pair of glasses Allende once wore, and newspaper clippings reporting his futile death. No mention whatsoever of the next 27 years of oppression, and the affect it has had on South America’s leading economic nation.

Instead it was left to Pablo Neruda, Chile’s most famous writer and staunch socialist, and a quote of his from Book of Questions: “Porque anduvimos tanto tiempo creciendo para separrarnos?” (roughly translated: Was it because we walked so long together that time separated us?) to provide some sort of answer.