2008 August 13 « a+b ramblings

Yesterday evening, as we rushed to catch our third bus of the evening en route from the deserted desert border of Bolivia (la frontera as it is known) to the coastal city of Iquique, Chile, my faithful companion and co-author wrote that we had been to hell and back and had survived to tell the tale.

And as our bodies slowly recovered from the sub-zero nights in adobe dwellings, the blasting afternoon winds, and the constant high altitude of the Bolivian altiplano……we did feel a bit like Lazarus back from a world absolutely unfamiliar and, at times, utterly unbearable. On the other hand, our time in the Sud Lipez of Bolivia was a trip through the most heart-stoppingly beautiful expanse of the planet either of us has ever experienced…an experience made much warmer by our Bolivian guide, Ariel, and his brand-new cook, Nancy. As I reflect back on it now, from the newly-appreciated comforts of a hotel on the Pacific Ocean, it is impossible to comprehend that we spent only 2 nights and 3 days with Ariel, Nancy, and one very tough (if less-than-gas-efficient) Landcruiser following perhaps the most unorthdox itinerary through what guidebooks term the Southwest Circuit….chosing not to tred over the most popular of Bolivian sights, the Salar de Uyuni.

How is it that 3 days in this corner of Bolivia feel more like 3 years? Perhaps we can only answer that question over time, and with the aid of the photographs that Barron took there with all 3 of his cameras. What I can say is that our journey with Ariel and Nancy was out of time altogether….a journey through one indescribably vast and diverse stretch of desert that makes you aware of every fiber and bone in your body and, at the same time, oblivious of everything but the sand, rock and volcanic mountains ahead of you.

I suspect that this brief journey has left me with some of the most visceral memories of a lifetime. And so, a bit like Barron’s lyrical list of impressions from our sail to Itaparica with Bel all those weeks ago, I will simply write down the memories from our drive through the altiplano as they come….

The knock at the door of our Tupiza hostel in the pre-dawn of Sunday, the unnerving-yet-exhilarating drive on a field of red sand as Airel hurries us out of town before the government closes the streets for the day’s recall vote on President Morales and the provincial governors who stand against him, the pilgrimmage of other travellers on foot out of Tupiza to the jeeps that sit waiting for them at the town´s edge, a hushed goodbye to Ariel’s wife, Sylvia, and a quick introduction to our 19-year-old cook, Nancy, the langorous climb out of town into the dawn-soaked canyonlands beyond, a breakfast of rolls and jam out of the back of the jeep looking out over sinuously-rolling gorges and mountains, a breathless run up the winding dirt road and a turn back to see Barron standing on the mountain’s edge behind his camera, a turn away from the other tour companies’ jeeps to follow Ariel’s alternate route into the altiplano, the sight of no other life but our four bodies and herds of llamas grazing, stepping into the frame of Barron’s photograph of an elderly Amarya couple walking through a canyon toward the nearest town to vote, a steep hike and a scrumptious lunch in that same canyon, Barron towering above Nancy as he shows her how to take a picture of us against a backdrop of cave paintings, wind blasting us on the top of a 12,000-foot ridge covered in green moss as we look out at 17,000-foot mountains in the distance, stopping in a Quechua village in the middle of the desert to visit a one-room museum of fossils found by two local men, arriving at dusk in the valley of Kollopani to be greeted by the Quechua family that runs the only lodging for miles, a walk across that valley as the sun sets and the temperature plummets with the sound of sheep baying and 5 French travellers chatting, a warm greeting by the hospedaje owner in our frigid adobe room with dirt floors, a warm bowl of soup in the equally frigid dining hut, a glimpse into the family’s room as they gather around the woodstove preparing their dinner, a sublime moon glimpsed for moments before retreating to the relative comfort of sleeping bags, a long night bracing against cold air and aching bones, a cold morning warmed by Ariel’s kindnesses (scrambled eggs, fresh-cut papaya, and a pot of hot water to wash our face and hands), a delayed start to the day as we huddle outside with three of the 14 siblings sifting through their collection of ancient arrowheads, the older brother offering to trade us a few arrowheads for our binoculars and his delight when we agree, driving out of the village and into the sunlight, stopping in a green meadow of icy ponds and grazing llamas, scaring the llamas off just as Barron is preparing to take one hell of a picture, stomach problems and a pounding headache as the inevitable altitude sickness hits us, emerging into the desert as I have never seen it before with the mountains on all sides stained red and turquoise and white and green by volcanic minerals, lunch in another hospedaje whose proud owner has plans for expansion and upgrading (terra cotta floors and private bathrooms….luxuries unknown until now), conversations with Ariel and Nancy in Spanish too numerous to recount about travel and politics and relationships and the desert, Ariel’s earnest stories of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and vast knowledge of the Bolivian altiplano, our walk utterly alone on the freezing shores of the glowing orange Laguna Colorado looking out at pink flamingos and a desert broken by jeep tracks, laying in the sand together listening to the silence and talking about our travels from the tropics of Brazil to the desert of Bolivia as the sun begins to set over the lake and the flamingos fly overhead, Ariel’s return for us and the warmth of his melodic Spanish, burgundy down coat and oft-repeated refrain (te gusta Allison?), our inevitable rendezvous with the other travellers making their way south from the Salar de Uyuni at the largest hospedaje in the Sud Lipez (a compound of low lying cement dorms and jeeps), an early dinner of chicken and Andean potates roasted in an adobe oven, the unexpected delight of conversation with other travellers huddled in front of a wood stove in the anteroom to our dorm, another unbearably cold night spent sleeping fitfully and waiting for the sun, brushing our teeth in the sub-zero dawn while the pink sun rises over the lake, Ariel lighting a hay fire under our jeep to warm the engine, the hours ticking by as we huddle together in wool blankets and Ariel huddles over the engine trying to fix a car whose diesel gas had turned to ice overnight, our victorious drive out of the hospedaje only to break down again a mile off, the hours ticking by again as we pace the desert warming ourselves in the sun and Nancy and Ariel labor to repair the air bubble in the fuel pipe, Ariel running across the desert to a house in the distance and returning beaming with a long clear plastic tube and a solution (bypassing the fuel pipe altogether by running the plastic hose from the tank into the engine, and then later, running the hose directly from a spare diesel jug on the roof), my worries that this solution might be unsafe, Ariel’s reassurance that this is a common practice in the Bolivian altiplano, our much belated arrivals at two long-awaited sights….sulfur geisers like the face of the moon and natural hot springs refashioned into a stone jacuzzi for the Sud Lipez travellers, our final meal of spaghetti and greek salad and beef cutlets in the small comedor above the hot springs as Ariel radios the border to arrange a transport for us into Chile, our final two hours driving across the most spectacular landscape thus far…..a Saharan-like desert enclosed in volcanos and dotted by unreal rock forms called Las Rocas de Dali, the final moments of our journey standing in the strongest wind of my life looking out at the turquoise water of Laguna Verde and the technicolor summit of Volcan Licancabur while Barron takes perhaps the most brilliant pictures of our travels in under 10 minutes, the final kilometer in the jeep driving to the border, a frenetic and difficult goodbye, waving to Ariel from the window of a Chilean minibus, the stocky, bearded figure of Ariel (burgundy-down-jacket-clad) retreating in the distance as we cross from the sand road leading out of the Bolivian desert onto the newly-paved highway leading into Chile.

Ariel and Sylvia: Predawn Embarcation

El 4-por-4

The Land

The Lakes (Clockwise from Top Left): Laguna Amarilla; Laguna Colorada (with Flamengos); Laguna Verde; Laguna Blanca; Salt Flat near Laguna Verde; Laguna Colorada