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Fraser was a New Zealander and his girlfriend, Bec,
was Australian. They were both crazy. We met them on an
overnight train in Bolivia and immediately clicked, likely due to
our mutual appreciation for fun and games and mutual disdain for
filth and rude people. They had both been living large in London,
England for years and were now doing a backpacking trip around
South America on their round-a-bout way home to Australia to live
permanently, or at least permanently for now. Frase was a tall,
stocky bloke with an outstanding sense of humour and an unusually
narrow range of facial expressions; he either looked happy or
worried. Bec was a tall, thin, striking looking, red headed
vegetarian who ate meat. We got to know each other over a few
beers in the dining car. They taught us some new card games which
would end up providing us with hours of entertainment in the
following weeks. We eventually laboured our way back to our
seats, en route stepping on at least half a dozen Bolivian kids
sleeping unnoticed in the dark walking aisle. They merely spat a
sharp yelp then fell straight back asleep; apparently they were
well accustomed to being trod upon by stupid foreigners. Once
settled in our seats we shared a bottle of cheap red wine while
watching the onboard movie about an American who gets kidnapped by
rebel drug dealers and held for ransom in a dodgy country in South
America. Impeccable choice of films considering the country we
were currently in. But at least it was in English.
The train arrived at its destination, a town called
Uyuni, with a grinding steel squeal at three in the morning. Half
awake and half hungover, we gathered our packs and found a taxi to
the hotel we had booked. We checked in with relative ease and
crashed out for the remainder of the night.
Our little black alarm clock rang us to
consciousness a few hours later. We grudgingly arose, had
showers, breakfast, and packed our bags. Frase and Bec met us at
breakfast then we walked together over to the agency with whom Ana
and I had booked our three day trip into the Uyuni region of
Bolivia. Luckily, they had space left for our new friends and we
were directed up the block to where the vehicle we would be
traveling in was parked. Two others were standing there, Patricia
and Mark, both from a French speaking part of Switzerland, and we
introduced ourselves. Mark spoke very good English while Patricia
spoke only a little. As we were chit chatting a Bolivian fellow
walked up to the truck, pulled himself on to the roof then
impatiently motioned for us to pass up the luggage. Assuming he
was our guide we passed up the bags while he strapped them to the
top of the vehicle then covered all the gear with a blue
tarpaulin. He hopped down then motioned for us to get in the
vehicle and once the last door had shut we took off, leaving only
a dust cloud and a parking space.
After half an hour on the road I finally plucked
enough courage to ask the guy driving the truck who he was and
what his name was. In Spanish, he replied, “Guide. Emilio.”
Obviously the strong and silent type. Since conversation seemed
not to be an option, most of us just looked out the window at the
passing terrain. The ground seemed to be changing from a dusty
brown colour to snowy white and before long we found ourselves at
the edge of a giant, stretching plain of snow, or was it perhaps
ice? With a temperature of over 30 degrees centigrade that was
unlikely. It turned out to be salt. Our vehicle had come to a
stop in the midst of a series of small, run down buildings and
Emilio directed us to get out. In Spanish, he explained to us
that the residents of this tiny village operated a co-operative
venture producing table salt. He led us over to one of the
building where one of the workers took us on a short tour. The
raw salt was collected in truckloads from the huge salt flats then
it was dumped onto a large belt under which they kept stoked a
roaring fire. Once the salt was dried it was shoveled into bags
by the children of the village then sold in the local markets.
We piled back into the vehicle and Emilio sped off
into the whiteness. The intensity of the glare from the white
landscape was blinding. Luckily, I was wearing a pair of
polarized sunglasses which cut down the glare but most of the
others in the vehicle were not so fortunate and I could foresee
some large headaches. Emilio soon stopped the vehicle again and
we explored. Everywhere around us were piles of salt drying in
the hot sun and trucks loading it. There was one area of the
ground which was brown and bubbling and Emilio explained that it
was some sort of underground gas being released. Yet again we
were stuffed back into the vehicle and sped away by Emilio. The
next stop we made was to look at a salt hotel being dismantled.
Apparently, the hotel had been constructed entirely of salt bricks
and was a luxury destination for tourists but studies done by the
Bolivian government had shown that the sewage from the hotel was
contaminating the salt fields so the hotel had to be destroyed and
reconstructed elsewhere.
The next ninety minutes were a snowy blur. Emilio
sped across the perfectly flat salt lake at over 100 kilometers
per hour. He explained that this basin used to be a huge salty
lake but had dried up naturally thousands of years ago leaving
this salty speedway.
Around mid-day, we approached an island in the
middle of this ancient sea and realized that it was covered with
giant cacti! Emilio sent us off to explore the island while he
prepared lunch and we were happy to stretch our legs. Standing at
the top of this cactus dominated island looking down across the
blinding white sea of salt was an experience I will never forget.
This bizarre landscape was something I think even the mind of the
maddest madman could not conjure. The green, spiny arms of the
giant cacti reached up for the hot rays of the sun while the roots
below somehow feasted on the salty soil below. I could imagine a
giant icebreaker ship crashing towards us through the salt, with
the sailors wearing board shorts and shades instead of parkas and woolen hats. I could imagine bikini-clad Inuit sawing holes in
the salt looking to spear seals or catch fish. But instead of
these things I saw my wife and new friends sweating from the heat
and huffing from the high altitude as they hiked all over the
island marveling in the beauty of this natural wonder.
We returned to the few small buildings where Emilio
had prepared lunch, which consisted of canned meat which smelled
suspiciously like dog food, hard bread and, luckily, plenty of
fresh fruit. This was the first chance we got to have a good
chat with each other and I felt quite lucky that we had been
placed with such a great group of people.
After lunch we took off in the vehicle across the
salt and after several hours of snow blindness finally arrived at
our final destination for the day, which was a pleasant surprise.
It was a newly constructed building with clean rooms, a large
dining area, electricity, and running water. Frase, Mark and I
suspected the presence of beer so we went in search of suds while
the ladies freshened up. Our supernatural beer senses proved
correct and to our delight the cervezas were cold and cheap so we
settled ourselves into some chairs outside and enjoyed the sunset
while discussing the standard topics for international travelers:
English accents, tax avoidance, memorable hangovers and food
poisoning. I also pulled out the charango I had purchased in
Bolivia and proudly picked out the initial banjo riff from
‘Deliverance’. A charango is a ten stringed instrument that
resembles a small guitar and is often used in South American
music, in particular, music from Bolivia and Peru. Judging by the
tortured expressions of my compadres as I strummed away, my skills
were lacking.
We had a great dinner that night served by our
guides. After our arrival several other groups from the same
company had shown up so there was quite a gang for supper and we
all got to know each other. After the meal we all sat
together and played cards and drank beers for a few hours.
We eventually decided to return to the large room which we were
all sharing but once there Frase and I decided that we should get
the laptop fired and watch the ‘Stigmata’ DVD which I had
purchased in the market for a few pesos. Like a couple of
kids we pushed the beds together, doubled up the pillows and
settled in for the movie. But before it began there was some
commotion coming from Marc and Patricia’s corner of the room so
Frase yelled out, “What the fuck’s going on back there??”
There was a double click and two blinding lights then a chorus of
laughter when they turned to us with identical head lamps strapped
to their noggins. They looked like two hopelessly lost coal
miners. After the laughter subsided we got back to our movie
and everyone else went to bed.
Dawn arrived right on schedule and Emilio was
banging on our door telling us to wake up and get ready. We
gathered our things, had a bread and cheese breakfast in the
kitchen then helped Emilio load the gear onto the truck. By
this time I had figured out that Emilio was an egomaniac; he liked
to be first. We jammed ourselves into the vehicle, Ana and
Bec being kind enough to sit in the cramped back row, and Emilio
patched out leaving a cloud of dust for the other groups to chew
on. The scenery was completely different this day; we passed
by the edge of the salt lake then snaked through a hilly, dry area
along the makeshift roads until we finally reached a small village
called San Juan where we stepped out to take a break. Emilio
parked in front of the town’s general store and we picked up some
important supplies; wine, chips and a few eight ball key chains
which were a great bargain that could not be passed up. As
we loitered in front of the shop someone pointed out the two kids
wandering up an alley toward us. One of the kids had a big
white furry thing stuck to his leg which was making it difficult
for him to walk. Upon closer inspection this white furry
object turned out to be the horniest dog on the planet. It
was completely in lust with the little boy and humped his leg
ferociously and constantly. The kid would shake the dog off
but the five legged beast would be right back on him grinding
away. His little friend even gave the dog a mighty kick,
which gave the kid’s leg only temporary relief as the perverted
little puppy barely missed a stroke. Frase and I judged this
as quality entertainment proceeded to take more than a few photos.
The other three groups soon arrived. Emilio
timed our exit perfectly, leaving another cloud of dust on them as
they were getting out of their vehicles. We left the town
and continued along the sketchy road until it disappeared and we
found ourselves on a large flat plain racing toward what looked
like a giant lake, and Emilio showed no signs of slowing.
Incidentally, he still hadn’t said a word all day, but after
seeing him humiliate our fellow tour groups so fully completely, I
had total confidence in him. Besides that, he had also
dipped into his pocket and offered us each a mouthful of cocoa
leaves to chew on, which was the local equivalent of Pakistani pan
or American chewing tobacco. It gave a slight narcotic buzz
and, as any backpacker will tell you, any free buzz is a good
buzz. So on we drove and as expected, Emilio hit the lake
doing 70 miles per hour and we went slicing through it like a
speedboat. The water was only a few inches deep but that was
sufficient for us to leave a beautiful wake behind us – all I
could think about was having someone take a picture of me
waterskiing behind a vehicle in Bolivia.
Imagine our surprise when we finally emerged from
this lake in the middle of nowhere to be confronted by a railway
crossing sign sticking out of the ground! Sure enough the train
tracks originated from god knows where, split the lake in two then
disappeared in the distance, obviously on their way to god knows
where. Emilio let us out of the truck for a quick stretch which
actually turned into a long stretch since the other groups were
nothing but a giant moving splash in the distance. As expected,
we were ushered into the vehicles as the others approached and
Emilio left two beautiful rooster tails of mud which landed on
each of their windshields. He didn’t even crack a smile, but I
could tell he was laughing inside, likely a very demented,
maniacal chortle.
For the third time in the day, the scenery changed
entirely and we found giant orange rock formations passing by us.
These formations lived comfortably on scrubby plains which were
otherwise dotted with tufts of toupee grass and the entire scene
was bordered by enormous snow capped mountains. Once or
twice Emilio slowed down to point out the rock rabbits that lived
on and around the rocks, though they looked more to me like
woodchucks than rabbits. We passed through this area until
we reached one of the largest rock formations we had seen and
Emilio announced it was time for lunch so he pulled over into the
shadow of this mini mountain. He told us it would take a
little while for him to prepare lunch so we were free to entertain
ourselves. One activity he heartily recommended was to
collect some nice round projectile stones and try to knock the
rock bunnies off the formation. Frase and I immediately
began scouting for ammo and were rewarded with slaps in the head
from our respective kind hearted, though thoroughly unadventurous
better halves. So instead we went and climbed the rocks and
took photos of the amazing countryside.
We were soon back on the dusty trail and of course
the scenery changed almost immediately. We arrived at a high
altitude lake that was full of pink flamingoes. Bec almost
flipped at the sight of these magnificent birds and she was
snapping pictures as fast as her finger could hit the button.
‘BiiiKK!’ Frase shouted in his Kiwi accent, ‘enough
pictures of the goddamn seagulls!’
‘But they’re so beautiful,’ she answered, ‘I want
to make sure I get a good shot.’
‘You can see those anytime you want in the bloody
Sydney Zoo!’
This short interruption slowed Bec’s pace of rapid
photography, but only just. Emilio soon rounded everybody up
and packed them back into the truck. Twenty minutes after
leaving the once in a lifetime flamingo flock, we came to the
second in a lifetime flamingo flock and I could hear the machine
gunning of Bec’s camera shutter even before the truck came
to a stop. Frase didn’t say much this time, he knew it was
of no use. Bec could hardly believe her luck; two flamingo
flocks in the same day. She squeezed off about half a roll
before Emilio pushed on.
The next stretch of the journey was a large, flat
orange and pink coloured plain which was obviously well hardened
and almost bump free which gave everyone in the truck a chance to
doze off, even Emilio a couple times evidenced by the frantic jerk
and fishtailing of the vehicle periodically. When I awoke from my
shallow slumber I saw that we had reached a large lake with a
background of ominous fluorescent mountains and a blanket of, you
guessed it, flamingoes trotting in unison through the waters.
‘Quck Bec, get your camera!’ shouted Frase as he
shook Bec to consciousness, ‘You won’t believe it, there’s a flock
of wild flamingoes down on the lake!’ Ignoring the obvious
sarcasm, Bec did exactly that and cranked off another half role of
photos. I don’t think that particular half role contained any
nice close ups since as soon as the truck stopped Marc the
Swissman had leaped out and ran psychotically down the gravel
embankment screaming, ‘Yeaaaaahoogahooga!!’ and waving his arms
which scared the droppings out of the pinkish fowls and caused
them to furiously splash-dash across the lake to the tourist-free
other side. By the time the other two trucks arrived the only
things they could possibly have seen were clouds of bird shit on
the lake and a dust plumes in the air where our vehicle had been.
Emilio was ever in the lead.
We finally arrived at what we thought would be the
last spectacle of the day; a tree-shaped rock in the middle of a
dusty brown flatland. Snap, snap of the camera shutters and we
were gone. We were all getting tired and were looking forward to
a good sleep. I faintly recalled the lady who sold us the tour
saying that the second night’s accommodation wasn’t quite as nice
as the first, it was more “rustic” so I was a little fearful of
what was awaiting us. We approached what looked like an abandoned
military camp which was littered with rubbish and populated by
decrepit buildings and shells of vehicles. To my horror, Emilio
cranked the wheel and two-tired it into the mud pit which sufficed
as a parking lot for “Hitler’s Hotel”. I looked over to my
horrified wife who was shaking her head and mouthing the eff
word. I looked over to Bec who’s blank look confirmed a state of
pure shock. I looked at Frase who said, “I wonder if they sell
booze here?” Emilio was just grinning; evil little bastard.
If I were a rat I would have thought to myself,
“this place is a real shithole”. The floor was broken, cold
concrete and looked lovely to trip on. The only running water was
the rain spilling in through the holes in the roof. There
actually was a bathroom but I didn’t see a single person use it.
The ceiling panels had been partially pulled off and people had
stuffed their used toilet paper into the openings. The toilets
were slightly more than holes in the ground, but you would much
rather take your chances of rupturing a bowel than get anywhere
close to those god forbidden stinkholes.
The bedrooms consisted of three bunk beds barely
holding together with rotten mattresses and thin pillows that
looked frighteningly similar to feminine sanitary napkins –
used, of course. After seeing this I looked at Frase, he
looked at me, and without words, we agreed that the best course of
action would be to get blind drunk as soon as possible to numb our
senses to this catastrophically unclean situation. The lord
must have been looking out for us, yeah, he was. They sold
wine. Horrific, blood curdling, coagulated red wine made
from Bolivian grapes, as if there were such a thing.
Frase grabbed the cards and we started drinking and
playing. Ah, the sweet buzz of cheap and nasty alcohol. The
horrible room in which we were playing was not getting any warmer,
but that Bolivian wine was jacking up my own body temperature
rather quickly. We reluctantly broke away from the card game at
the urging of some of the others who had been for a walk and told
us there was some interesting things to see we wouldn’t want to
miss. So we filled our cups, grabbed a reserve bottle and went
for an adventure. We initially headed off in the wrong direction
and found ourselves in the middle of a sewage field without rubber
boots. “That way!” said Mark, pointing in the direction of some
white hills in the distance. We changed course and began walking
and walked for a good while until we came to the white hills,
which looked like giant piles of cocaine. A person from one of
the other groups was on her way back and told us that it was some
sort of naturally occurring mineral called Botox.
“Botox?” somebody asked.
“Yeah, Botox…or something like that,” she replied.
Good enough, Mount Botox it was! We
wandered around on the huge drifts of powder and took a few
pictures. Though my memory of this is dim, I seem to
remember trying to pee my full name into the nice white palette.
Must have been the artist in me.
We soon decided to head back as we had run short of
wine. On the way back we were stunned by an unbelievable
sunset over Mount Botox. We all took photos but, like most
photos of sunsets, they did not come close to capturing the beauty
of the sight.
We returned to our table and the card game
resumed. Three hours later I was completely plastered and
starting to feel blackout stage creeping up on me, though I had
likely been on blackout autopilot for some time by then. After I
had trumped Bec’s seventeen of hearts with my fourteen of spades I
knew loss of consciousness would soon be following up my loss of
vision. I staggered back to the bunk bedded chamber of filth and
happily plopped my weightless body onto one of the rotting beds. I hope to god my tongue wasn’t hanging out
onto the diseased pillow as I slept that deep yogic slumber common
to pisstank backpackers.
Emilio had promised us an early start and at 4:45
he was banging on the wall telling us we were leaving in ten. My
autopilot drunk switch was still activated so the body attached to
my head jumped up, packed my things and marched to the vehicle
while my mind enjoyed a few more minutes of creepy sleep. I
remember noting that my companions, otherwise known as the
forgotten cast of “The Dawn of the Dead” were all on autopilot as
well and none looked back when we peeled away from that ranch of
rot.
A most beautiful thing happened two hours later.
We wound our way around a mountain and came to a river that had an
unusual amount of steam hovering above it. Emilio told us it was
time for a bath and brekkie so with aching head in hand I dug out
my swim gear, changed behind a rock, and slid into the beautifully
hot, clear spring water. What heaven! I could feel the hangover
being slowly cleansed away by the delicious hot spring. Several
more vehicles soon arrived and before long there was quite a group
of people wallowing in the wonderful waters. There was only one
thing that could have ever convinced me to leave that luxurious
spa…the smell of frying bacon! I followed my nose back to the
vehicle where Emilio was cooking up the grease feed and after
changing into dry clothes I tucked into several bacon and egger
sandwiches. The rest of the crew was looking much, much better
now. If I had been a chemistry scholar my goal would have been to
understand the mysterious healing properties of bacon and eggs and
use this knowledge for the betterment of mankind. I’ve seen this
breakfast cure everything from red wine hangovers to the basic
blues.
This was to be our last moment in and last memory
of Bolivia. After leaving the hot springs Emilio drove for only a
short ways and we were at the border station, where we would soon
be met by a bus that would take us across the border to Chile.
Here we had the pleasure of paying 10 Bolivian pesos to use a real
(filthy) toilet that actually had a supply of toilet paper. After
that crunching episode we helped Emilio unload the gear from the
truck then said our tearful goodbyes to our faithful guide. Well,
maybe not quite tearful, but we were a little sad, though he
didn’t talk much he got us through everything and provided a few
unintentional laughs along the way.
Our next stop was to be Atacama de San Pedro and
we had been told it was a beautiful, charming Chilean town,
perfect for spending a few days enjoying first world comforts and
cheap beer. What we found was something completely different.
But that’s another story…. |
