Breathtaking

"Go with the flow" was to be the mantra for the middle part of my South American odyssey, and Bolivia did not disappoint in that regard. As you may recall, my plan to cross to San Pedro de Atacama was foiled by snow. That was just the beginning.

Before I begin: the photo albums for Chile and Argentina are now complete. Some pictures may have short or slightly-longer-but-not-too-long captions.

Do as the locals do

Full from a whole lot of barbecued meat, roasted vegetables, and a little bit of beer, I caught a cab to the Salta bus terminal and bought a ticket to La Quiaca on the Argentina-Bolivia border.

As I waited for my bus to arrive, I glanced at the different operators that still had agents working. On the very left, a couple of guys chatting, one with a cigarette in one hand as he typed with the other; in the next, a woman constantly checking her makeup in a hand mirror while the man in the same booth would laugh boisterously at something evidently amusing every minute or two; in the next, two very bored women, probably waiting for their shift to end; in the last, a computer screen with a Windows screensaver that I have not seen in almost a decade. In other words, fairly standard for a long distance bus terminal in any part of the world.

"You'll get a lot of sleep," Victor had said after our sizeable meal, of which there was still a lot left over. He was right. I fell asleep almost immediately after the bus left the terminal. I was woken up a few times when the bus stopped to pick up and/or drop off passengers on the way, but I managed to get a good five or six hours worth of shut eye out of the seven hours of the trip, which was a lot more than what I got on the flight from Sydney to Santiago.

Still, I was feeling a bit tired when we got to La Quiaca and had neglected to look up directions to the border in advance, so I caught a quick cab.

The border crossing was a bridge between the Argentine town of La Quiaca and the Bolivian town of Villazón. It surprised me how lax security was at that early hour, just after seven in the morning. Most people, presumably locals, were just walking across without going through immigration control.

I followed the flow of people and tried to find where to get my passport stamped. Before I knew it, I was past the sign that said Argentina on one side and Bolivia on the other. Hmm, I think I've entered illegally, I thought to myself on the other side of the bridge, and decided I better turn back. I was directed to the other side of the road, to the flow of people heading into Argentina, where the Bolivian immigration officer looked through my passport and asked me where the Bolivian stamp was. After a few attempts in broken Spanish to convey the fact that I was trying to get into Bolivia and not Argentina, he got the message and sent me across the road again, where I finally found the immigration office for Argentina. It was all very confusing, but I did finally get into the country legitimately after being an illegal for the briefest of moments.

On the other side, I couldn't find any ATMs on the way to the bus terminal, so I exchanged the small amount of Argentine Pesos I had left at an extortionate rate at one of the many money exchangers. On the lookout for a bus to Tupiza in the general area where coaches were parked (there was not much of an actual terminal), I heard screams of "Tupiza! Tupiza!" from a woman standing in front a share van. I was initially dubious of their legitimacy, but the price was reasonable and the woman quoted the trip time as an hour (lies) rather than the three to four that the bus supposedly took. The people taking the van were also mostly locals, and I figured following the locals worked out so well for me the first time around. I hopped on.

Just under two hours later, the van arrived in Tupiza, another dusty South American town, but smaller and much higher in elevation than Salta.

The thing that struck me straight away (especially after the share van) was how cheap things were. Checking into (the very bare-bones) Tupiza Hostal cost me the equivalent of less than six Australian dollars for a night. Having a set lunch, or almuerzo, was just a little over two dollars at a restaurant in the tourist centre of town. Food in particular was a stand-out for me; I wouldn't say it was the best I've ever had, but it was tasty and the value for money was incredible.

Of course, things still cost money, and I was running short on cash. Getting money out meant a roundabout trip in the centre of the city because, as it turns out, foreign cards will not work with every type of ATM in this part of South America, no matter what your bank claims. Days later, in La Paz, I spent almost a half hour trying to withdraw cash from various ATMs until one finally spat out some bolivianos.

Getting high

Another thing I quickly discovered in Bolivia was how easy it was to get tired due to the altitude. I think every place I visited in the country was over 3000 metres above sea level, and it showed.

Tupiza, where I spent my first two days, was at about 3160m, and after short strolls around town, I found myself heading back to the hostel for a nap.

During one of these naps, I was woken up by a marching band blurting out some music a few blocks away. I encountered more of these bands in Peru; it seemed so spontaneous but I never did find out their significance other than, perhaps, plain collective enthusiasm for music.

Anyway, my first hostel was a dud so I splashed out some money (still just over ten dollars for a night) for a room at Hotel Mitru. Conveniently, they also ran Tupiza Tours, who offered 4-day Salar de Uyuni Tours. They were well-reviewed, and Victor had recommended them, so that was enough for me to choose them over everyone else to take me to the salt flats.

After a couple of days of acclimatising to the altitude, I hopped on a 4x4 with a French couple and two Brits--some initial miscommunication from the agency portrayed the Brits as a French couple, the French couple as Germans, and me as a girl--to tour the sights of southwestern Bolivia.

Ascents, descents, flats

"It's going to be cold," said Charlie, one of the Brits, translating our driver's* suggestion of keeping warm clothes with our day packs (my day back being a plastic bag). This was not a good sign, especially since the woman who sold me the tour said it was fairly warm and I did not need to rent a sleeping bag.

Not messing around with rapid altitude changes, the tour started off with a climb up to a viewpoint of El Sillar. I think the guide said it was around 4200 metres above sea level, but I can't remember exactly.

Just before lunch, the driver noticed a flat tyre and stopped to replace it. We took this opportunity to take a bathroom break (which I needed thanks to the Diamox--altitude acclimatisation pills) and to take pictures of some nearby llamas, who promptly ran away to the other side of the road upon our approach.

After the change, we moved along a bit further for our first meal of the trip, which was a surprisingly delectable dish of rice and a vegetable sauce of some description. This signalled a theme of better-than-expected lunches and dinners throughout the trip.

While our cook prepared our food, the driver was busy replacing the tube in the flat tyre. Fortunately it was only a tube that needed replacement; something worse would not have been fun on the very first day of the tour.

The rest of the day took us through more of the area outside of Tupiza, heading towards the southwestern corner of the country. There was Ruinas de San Antonio, an eerie abandoned town on the foothills of the Uturuncu volcano, and a panoramic view of one of the first of many lakes of the tour.

As the sun set, we passed the Eduardo Avaroa Andean Fauna National Reserve checkpoint and headed to our bare-bones hostel where stone beds (fortunately, with mattresses and thick blankets) awaited.

Dinner was an opportunity to get to know my travel companions a little better - Hélène and Guillaume were a young married couple from Paris on a short holiday, and Charlie and Georgie were friends from England travelling through South America together.

We were the first four-wheel drives to set off on the second day, which meant an icy crossing through a few rivers before arriving at a natural hot springs for a quick dip. I hadn't intended to go in, for I hadn't brought any swimmers or flip flops on my trip, but peer pressure got the better to me so I waddled in in my underwear. The water was nice and warm but it made drying and changing clothes afterwards a little awkward. When in the Bolivian desert, I guess.

Speaking of deserts, the 4x4 headed through the Desierto Salvador Dalí, near the very bottom of the country, near the border with Chile. The story goes that this arid desert is so named because of its similarities to some of the paintings of Salvador Dalí.

Lunch was near the very windy but picturesque Laguna Verde, which gets its colour from a mix of elements, most notably arsenic (which means it is not a lake you would want to swim in).

We then turned away from the border towards the geysers of Sol de Mañana--not actually a series of geysers but a geothermal field--past some more unexceptional lakes (which were getting a bit repetitive at this point) and ending the day of sightseeing at Laguna Colorada, an iron-rich lake with a distinct reddish-orange tint. This lake was also home to a lot of flamingoes, and the animal lovers in the tour loved the sight of them. I must admit that I thought they were cool, though by the end of the tour, much like the lakes, I was getting bored with them.

The second night's accommodation was higher up than the first night's, which meant it was a lot colder, but also meant that, combined with the dryness and lack of city lights, we got some amazing views of the night sky, including the milky way.

There was a fireplace, which was a boon for us all, who were, even before night time, feeling the cold. In an attempt to warm my socks up a little quicker, I stupidly placed them on a very hot fireplace. Result? A sock with a hole in it and a pair of thick wool socks, which I had had since my Canada working holiday year, completely written off. What an idiot!

An early start on the third day took us to some cool rock formations in the desert, an abridged tour of a few more lakes with flamingoes (i.e. boring!), and a smaller salt flat that was not as pure as the Salar de Uyuni.

The pièce de résistance of the tour was, of course, Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt flats. Upon entering the flats, you immediately felt a sense of otherworldliness about the place--a giant expanse of white with faint blue-green formations in the distance that might be mountains.

Our first stop was one of these blue-green blobs, but it wasn't a mountain. It was called an island, but it wasn't really even an island, though I imagine it might look like that after a downpour, when the salar would become a giant mirror made of water. Isla Incahuasi was a piece of land in the middle of the salt flats and attracted tourist because of its cacti and its two resident alpacas. It's also a good place to lunch in the middle of a tour of the area.

A trip to Salar de Uyuni would not be complete without some silly perspective-trickery photographs, and we spent more than an hour in the hot sun (and cool shade of the four-wheel-drive during breaks) coming up with as many silly ideas as possible. Our driver was particularly enthusiastic with the taking of these photos for us.

We ended the day on the base of Tunupa, an inactive volcano on the north end of the salar, where we watched the sun set behind the mountains.

Okay, so, the real reason we visited Salar de Uyuni on the third day rather than the fourth day was because, thanks to some more carefully-applied peer pressure, I was convinced to climb the imposing Tunupa the very next day. This was usually done in a fifth add-on day but our driver/guide offered to take us there--off the books, which is why I have not mentioned his name--on the fourth instead.

The climb was, well, challenging. Rewarding, yes, but challenging indeed. Starting off at just below 4000 metres above sea level and ending on the lower rim at about 4800m (or so said our local mountain guide), the climb began gentle enough for the first few hours before becoming ridiculous in the last, with a steeper gradient and some slippery rocks. I dreaded the prospect of heading down those rocks and said more than once that I did not want to go on. But go on I did, and it was a decision I was glad I made in retrospect. The climb was not only good preparation for the multi-day high-altitude Inca Trail trek but also afforded spectacular views from the top. Looking down at the salt flats from such a high viewpoint lent a surreal quality; it seemed like looking down on clouds with peaks of mountains popping out here and there.

The first part of the climb down, as expected, was a pain. However, the sense of achievement of reaching the rim of the volcano helped me navigate the tricky descent of sliding rock. We quickly visited a cave housing reasonably preserved mummies, and had lunch at the hostel before making our exit of the salt flats.

As we were heading out, there was a loud pop from one of the tyres followed by the unmistakable sound of a flat tyre (yes, another one). We stopped in the middle of nowhere so that the driver and the cook could inspect the damage, which turned out to be substantial. Something sharp must have been left on the "road" (I use quote marks because it's more of a set of tracks) out of the salar because there was a hole on the tyre itself. Fortunately, the flat from the first day had been speedily repaired, so a quick change was all that was needed before heading off again.

Our final stop of the tour was the Cementerio de Trenes in the outskirts of Uyuni, a place where old disused trains went to die. For whatever reason, I enjoy the sight of discarded, rusting machinery, so this was a treat. I even found a swing that somebody had fashioned out of spare parts hanging out of one of the trains. Lots of fun.

All in all, a great trip it was, with Uyuni and the climb to Tunupa the highlights. To be honest, it was great that we crammed this all in to the four-day tour because visiting in four days what we did in three would have felt dragged out.

We were dropped off in Uyuni, which exuded a negative vibe of dirty, dusty town, only serving as a jump-off point for tourists to explore the nearby salt flats--I was immediately glad I started in Tupiza instead. Not liking this one bit, I and the Brits hopped on an 12ish-hour overnight bus to La Paz.

La Paz

The first few hours of the bus ride was on unpaved roads, which meant a very bumpy ride getting out of Uyuni, much like sitting in a massage chair that had an unlimited stream of coins being slotted into it. Once things settled down, I got a bit of sleep, but not really enough for my liking.

I woke up just before we arrived in La Paz in the early hours of the morning, which was a good thing because I saw the lights of the city. Nuestra Señora de La Paz, or Our Lady of Peace, is situated in a kind of bowl, with the city centre at the bottom sprawling out into the surrounding hills. The view while heading down into the bowl when all the lights were still on was quite something. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but I immediately liked the place.

Charlie and Georgie checked in to an Irish-run party hostel, while I checked in to a rival hostel, Loki, just around the corner. At reception, I met Pierre, a fellow Aussie (the first I ran into since Buenos Aires, almost two weeks prior--imagine that!) who had also just come from Uyuni on a different overnight bus.

I had the basic free breakfast at the hostel and rested a little bit then joined a walking tour of the city. La Paz was nice to walk around, though I had neglected to take into consideration the strength of the sun and brought along my leather jacket. The Google forecast of possible rain was nowhere to be seen, so I had to carry my jacket under my arms for most of the trip, and occasionally used it as a sun cover for my head. We visited the local markets, bustling with activity as it was Sunday, as well as the tourist-magnet Mercado de las Brujas, or Witches' Market, where they sold various traditional and alternative wares, such as llama foetuses, which our guide said were used in a Andean ceremony before any buildings were built. Another stop was the Basílica de San Francisco, a church with an intermix of Catholic and native iconography, a result of the Conquistadors' campaign to conquer the Andean people by conversion.

Our guide also told us a bit about the city's history; we heard about the infamous El penal de San Pedro, an overcrowded prison for drug offenders with its own micro economy and notorious past involving daring tourists (the jail is now quite illegal to enter let alone take a photo of); at Plaza Murillo, an important location in many key political moments of the country's history, we learnt the story of Gualberto Villarroel, a former leader who was killed and thrown from the presidential palace before being hung in the square, and much later celebrated with a statue in the very place he was hung.

I had lunch after a tour at a place serving chicharrón, a fried pork dish. I love the Filipino variety, so I had to try the Latin American version. Not as good, I must say, although fairly different as it included a lot of the meaty parts rather than focusing on the rind. It was cheap, though, so I couldn't complain.

Sunday evenings in El Alto meant wrestling with a Bolivian twist--cholitas (women in traditional dresses, often found in markets selling goods), or at the very least women dressed as cholitas, featured in several matches, sometimes against men and sometimes against women. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I opted against getting some much-needed sleep. On the way up to El Alto, I got a great look at the city from on high for the second time in the day, which was almost worth the price of the ticket. Almost.

The wrestling itself was interesting though ultimately repetitive, with the same good-guy-versus-bad guy-with-a-biased-referee theme being played out over and over again. It was fun to see some of the matches--there was a couple of wrestlers who were thrown into the tourists in the ringside seats, and there was a character that appeared to be impervious to pain, so much so that he had to be set on fire to chase him out of the building--but at the ended of the night I just wanted to head back to the hostel.

I went out to dinner with Pierre and some friends he had met while travelling; we ate at Maphrao On, an Asian restaurant, which served good food, though was a bit steep in price. The drinks throughout the night got a bit out of hand and I found out for the first time how easy it was to get drunk at a high altitude. I fell asleep quickly that night.

Hanging out

Not really having anything to do on my second day and nursing a slight hangover, I opted for a chilled out day in the city. After a much-needed and much-craved bacon and eggs breakfast, I had a slow walk around the area, visiting Mirador Killi Killi, a viewpoint involving a short hike up, and checking out the football stadium area. For lunch I went into a little cafe on Calle Jaen called Etno Café Cultural, which the walking tour guide from the day before had recommended; it was one of the best set lunches I had in South America.

I was getting sick of my thermals, which were itchy on my legs, so I shopped around at the knock off adventure gear stores. I settled on a pair, which I suspect are not thermals at all, but instead are swimming pants. The cheap price and the need for swimmers for the trip helped justify the purchase.

The next day, I attended a FIFA World Cup qualifier between Bolivia and Ecuador at the stadium with a few of the people from the hostel. The crowd was sparse since Bolivia were at the bottom of the CONMEBOL table, but the passion was there, and it turned out to be a well-fought match that ended in a disappointing (for the home side) 1-1 draw.

Cause and effect (strike two)

I had found out before leaving for the football match that there was to be a general strike in La Paz the following day, with the people protesting against a proposed increase in taxes (or something like that). General strikes in South America, I discovered, were a bit more interesting than elsewhere I had observed such things. In particular, the protesters would barricade roads around the city, especially roads heading to and from the airport as well as other cities; La Paz would, in effect, be blocked off.

I was meant to be heading to Puno, on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca, the next day, but I decided I best delay my plans. One of the staff at the hostel speculated that the timing of the strike falling on the day after the football was no coincidence, and that it would probably be okay to travel on subsequent days.

Because of the extra day in the city, I decided to take my clothes to the laundry as most were dirty from the Salar de Uyuni tour. My jeans were part of this lot, so I had to wear my hiking pants for the day. Unfortunately, the pockets on my hiking pants weren't as secure as the ones on my jeans. With a few people from the hotel, I went to a restaurant and bar that night. It was only when I got back to the hostel that I realised my phone was no longer in my pocket. Dammit.

Anyway, let's focus on the good points. I checked out a couple of cool bars early in the evening with Pierre and Joe, a British stand-up comedian backpacking around South America. One was Etno, the cafe I had had lunch at the day before, and the other was Bocaisapo, a speakeasy that served Bolivian drinks and played music from a tape deck (pretty rad, right?). It was great to see where the locals hung out.

Oh, yeah, I lost my glasses too. This one was a bit of a mystery, because I know I had them when I got back to the hostel. I must have misplaced them somewhere there before I had gone to sleep, perhaps when I was brushing my teeth, but could not find them despite checking back again and again with lost property. I had prepared for the possibility of losing my glasses, so had brought along some contact lenses as backup. Still, it was a bit annoying, probably more so than the loss of the phone.

Of course, the lost phone meant a day wasted filing a police report--made easier with the help of an Aussie who was also at the tourist police station reporting his stolen backpack with all his valuables--and changing passwords. Throughout this, I saw the people on strike at various places; some were playing volleyball over the barricades while others simply sat around eating food. Maybe the guy at the hostel was right about the timing of it all. I knew I had made the right decision staying in La Paz an extra day when a girl arrived at the hostel with red eyes. It looked like she had been crying; it turned out that her bus had arrived that morning and the protesters had thrown tear gas at them as they passed through. Yeesh.

So, that was my time Bolivia. Perhaps too short, but certainly eventful and slightly unpredictable. I was starting to get the hang of vaguely-planned travel at that point. I will be back.

Next: Peru.

While you wait for that, I've uploaded some photos from Bolivia on my Flickr page. You can find them here.

*While I've mostly been using names here, I will not mention those of our driver/guide and cook, for it may get them in trouble for the change in itinerary. That said, if you care enough, it's probably not difficult to figure them out.