Braving Bolivia

Having scoffed down a street-side “milanesa” (supposed to be a breaded filet, but it was more like a hamburger) I got on the bus to Sucre and instantly realised that we had been conned into a cama price, despite only having just enough room for my legs (heaven help my travelling partner Alistair who is over six foot).

The bus driver was still outside spruiking our departure, trying to fill the last remaining seats – one of which happens to be next to me. Of course I prayed that he had no luck, but this is Bolivia, and my little white-girl Australian wishes don’t mean anything at all here. (And so starts the worst bus ride in the world).

Never mind the Death Road, this was Death itself. Once we got driving, fluoro lights blinded us throughout the night, and the driver made sure that even the passing cars could hear his horrible Bolivian music. Not only just the seats, but the aisles were crowded with people and their parcels – which had been stuffed into whatever space they could find above and below. The familiar horse blanket smell of my tour returned in full force, and I clamoured to spray enough perfume on my clothes to overpower it.

Our first stop was after only a few hours for a “baño” (toilet) break, but we ended up staying much longer than the usual 15 minutes, with the drivers sitting down to eat dinner and chat with their other driver friends. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all between Uyuni and Potosi and when we arrived at the highest city in the world – 4060m above sea – it was not only my heart that was agitated. Here we were told to get off with everyone else, who were staying in town to make the passage down the infamous silver mines, despite paying for an onward ticket to Sucre. Of course I questioned the driver further, as to the location of our next bus, and he mumbled something about it being around the corner. But was 130am, pitch black and my lungs could hardly breathe from the altitude and the diesel fumes that were being pumped out of our bus. I was in no mood for being fobbed off.

So I stood my ground and asked him again firmly, proving that my Spanish was not as bad as he thought it was, to which I was told to get back on the bus. Still not sure what was happening, Alistair and I were taken around the corner, where the bus stopped again. It is here that I asked the only other person with us, a young Bolivian guy, where he was going and what was happening. He politely told me he lives in Sucre and that a bus will come along eventually, but that it might take a few hours. I then probed further and asked how much he had paid to get there, to which he gave me a figure more than half ours.

I am livid at this stage, having been lied to about the price and the timing of our journey, and instantly thump on the driver’s door to demand some answers. I still don’t get any, but when bus passes a half an hour later, we are pushed through to the front, probably given someone else’s seats.

Aboard, we are greeted with an even more potent stench than before – matured over several hours no doubt – but fortunately no lights or music. I slowly drift in and out of consciousness, each time praying for the two hours to pass quickly, but it is almost 5am before we reach the terminal in Sucre, and my hopes of getting an early connection to Santa Cruz are immediately dashed when I find the terminal all closed-up except for the many waiting passengers. And I am further crushed when I see that no buses will leave until the afternoon.

So stumbling up the hill and around the corner with Alistair, I go to the closest hostel, and check in for a hot shower and a few hours sleep. Waking up a short while later, I go to buy my bus ticket out and join Alistair for a walk into town. But there’s really not much to see here – in a town of only 200,000 – bar a few closed museums and churches. And with Sunday siesta in full swing, sampling some chocolate is all that I have to fill in my time.

It is then that I call my friend in Santa Cruz to explain I won’t be arriving for her party that night, to which she tells me about the cheap flights here. And it is with this glimmer of light, that I jump online to book a ticket. But this doesn’t work, with only international flights appearing, so I head to the office in town to purchase one there. But they are closed too, any given Sunday, and I am told that I must go out to the airport itself - which I do with much urgency.

Once there, I am told there is one available in an hour or so, if I don’t mind going via La Paz rather than direct, and that they will reserve my ticket while I collect my bag and passport. So I haul my arse into a taxi, paying the high tariff just to get out of here, but when I return it seems things aren’t so easy after all. The group of French in front of me are politely informed that there are no phone lines out of the airport at the moment, and that the credit card machine won’t work. Of course nothing changes in the time it takes them to scrape together enough cash – there being no ATMs here either – and I am left with only one option. Suddenly it seems there is another seat on the direct plane, and I am told to take another expensive taxi to the their office in a downtown supermarket to pay there.

I quickly do this, but it is the same story there - there is no line out, and I must pay in cash. But time and money has gotten the better of me, having already missed the bus I tentatively booked, and being a low cash position for the next week, I cannot afford to pay in Bolivanos. And so I must return to the airport again, just to collect my bags and tell them that I can’t fly.

Once there, I try to arrange a payment in Santa Cruz, but it won’t work, and it seems I am stuck here until tomorrow, when hopefully, I will find a machine that works. Completely crestfallen, and not wanting to get back on the dreaded Death Bus, I walk back out the front of the airport where a sign stares back at me: “Sonrisa – estas in Sucre!”…Smile – you are in Sucre!

I think not.

(The next day I did of course get on a flight...but no, I wasn't game enough to eat the pork-laced empanada on board)

Salty Sonrisa**

It is an early awakening, to catch the sunrise over the salt flats, which at 530am are freezing but mercifully close to our hotel. We drive to the centre of it all and continue to brave the cold until we can no longer push the buttons on our cameras, taking shots of its immense whiteness. At about 40m thick at its deepest, and taking in about 12,000sqkm, the Salar de Uyuni is truly impressive (and I shall be voting for it in the upcoming new 7 Wonders of the World competition).

Formed many years ago – about 40,000 – when prehistoric Lake Minchin dried up, leaving two smaller lakes, and two salt deserts, it provides the best blank canvas for taking distorted perspective shots. But before we can start on those, we huddle around one of the salt-brick tables that have been erected beside the Isla Pescado – a cactus-laden oasis in the middle of it all – and attempt to warm our insides with cake, yoghurt and coffee.

It takes a while for the sun to rise sufficiently for us to take our photos, but eventually we are able to stay out long enough to fool around with the perspective, taking shots of ourselves standing on Pringles packets and each other. And, after sitting more hours than I would like to count in a car for the last few days, we are happy to almost smell Uyuni on the other side. Bolivia, here I come!

**(“sonrisa” = smile)

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.