Salar de Uyuni

       A four day journey through the salt flats of Uyuni, Bolivia.  They are the worlds largest stretching 6479 square miles.  Beyond that is tens of thousands of miles of volcanic minerals reaching as high as 15,000 feet.  I am going to let the pictures speak of the trip but there is one story to tell.
      

       The Toyota Landcruiser is arguably one of the best off road vehicle in the world.  Tough, reliable and durable under tremendous stress both from driver and terrain.  I have owned two myself and have never been disappointed.  You could even call me a bit of an enthusiast.  My old FJ55 was a 1971.  To this day it is my favorite car I´ve ever owned.

       You can imagine my excitement when we arrived via tourist bus to Uyuni, Bolivia only to discover that all the tours were taken by Landcruiser.  Although none dated back as far as my FJ55, many of the older ones were FJ60 and FJ62 which date back to 1989.  The newer cruisers (which we were in) were more luxury vehicles in the U.S.  The rounded body and high roofs lent themselves to the Baby Boomers and would comfortably seat 7-8 people fr family travel.  I have always laughed at these trucks thinking of them more as an expenisve mini-van than an actual off-road vehicle.  I couldn´t have been more wrong.

       Our driver, Raul, was a sort and capable man of few words.  I don´t think I ever saw him without his sunglasses on or without a fiendish grin on his face.  He was born to race to Baja 500, only he had no idea what that was.  He adorned a full body aviator suit every time he climbed onto the roof to load our gear and food supplies.  He was, I would say, a Bolivian bad-ass.

       Day two of our trip commenced at 8am with the usual bread, jelly and tea.  Raul loaded up the packs and hearded us into the truck.  Along with Linda and myself were four Irish guys on a break between school and the world of work.  They were cordial and polite, not at all like the other Irish we had met along the way.  Ny that I mean that they were mostly sober and a bit reserved.  We loved them and were fascinated by their shy nature.

       And that was how day two began.  I was a little tired and spinning from the constant climb in altitude.  Our average elevation was around 12,500 ft.  I´m not sure if I was daydreaming about U.S. comforts long gone or trying to take a picture but I was jarred by the sudden halt of te truck only ten miles outsdie of camp.  Even after only one day we had pretty much become accustomed to the violent rolling of washboard roads at 110 kph (68mph) which our calm but psychotic guide seemed to enjoy.  Even at times when an experienced driver might switch to Low Gear, Raul prefered gasoline and speed.  I prayed for his suspension system and tires.

       Why were we stopped?  Raul put the truck in park, lifted his sunglasses (for the first and only time) and turned around to look at me.  We had no common language with which to communicate but I understood at once what he was saying by his hand signals.  He pointed at me and began to turn his hands as if holding a steering wheel.  He wanted me to drive!

       In any other situation I think I would have paused for a moment to ask myself why.  But here we were, six travellers lost in world´s largest salt flat somewhere in the Bolivian desert and our dear Raul was handing command of the mother ship to me!  I was out of the truck and around to the driver´s side before he could tip his sunglasses back down.  He tried to expalin the gears but I already had the truck moving.  "Sesenta!  Sesenta, no mas!"  He would yell.  60 km per hour is only 37mph and I know good old Raul never travelled any slower than about 80 km.  He was trying to keep me honest.  I rolled the truck foward, excellerated and took my first really good look at the road ahead.

       If you´ve ever seen old animal trails you know that they diverge.  They branch off and splinter every hundred yards in multiple directions only to meander back to an original path.  This was no different.  I wondered about gaining speed when every minute a new road appeared.  I looked back at Raul, now sitting next to Linda, for some advice but his hand signals simply motioned me foward; he seemed not to care where I went.  As best I could tell Raul wanted me to go about 70 mles ahead and to the southeast of a mountain that shared a border with Bolivia and Chili.  That was at best an educated guess.  The Irish boys remained cautiously quiet and I decided to see what this truck could deliver.

       Before passing out on Linda´s shoulder Raul informed us that yesturday was his birthday and he was too tired to drive.  That would explain the music and playful groans of a woman we had heard late into the night before.  With that, he was asleep.  Linda said he stunk of booze.  Good for Raul!  Hate the player not the game.  If a man, in this vast desert, can get can a piece of ass, why not?  Who were we to judge?  Hit it and quit it from Bolivia to Chili!  Raul who was about to party, we salute you!  I think all the men (and maybe even Linda), were more than little jealous. 
       For now there was the road to think about, or lack there of.  By now we were beyond the salt flats.  Volcanic ash and dried mud from the rainy season formed deep grooves in the road.  I used these tracks from last season´s treks to find my direction the best I could. 

       In the far distance, up along the mountains and directly ahead, we noticed some lumps in the landscape.  We all agreed that it must be a town.  Road or not we were going to head towards it and see if we couldn´t buy some water.  On this decision Raul was quite passive and we took his snoring as a sign of agreement.  Tracks in the mud would veer off to the left and right but everything seemed to be taking us in that direction.  And it was none to early.  We needed our daily dose of Coke and Pringles.  The hearty were already talking about a noon glass of red wine and piece of bread.  I had long ago rolled down the window and started smoking, acting the part and demanding to be tipped in Bolivian Pesos for my role as tour guide.

       In hindsight I´m not sure if the road became more difficult or I just started to proceed with more caution because this group of buildings was definetly not a town.  A dozen or so oval structures took shape.  They were lined in a very organized fashion and had a short five foot wall encasing the entire area.  As I had never seen any round architecture before anywhere in South America (other than a church dome) I believed them to be tents.  In my mind this could only mean one thing.  Military.

       Up until this point we had been pretty jovial.  We snapped shots of Raul passed out and I swirved the truck west to east just to watch him sway in his sleep.  Bastard that he was, he remained asleep and stoic like an Incan stone artifact.  There was no denying what we were looking at though.  The road was even and I could tell it had been pushed to the side by a machine and grated.  The lack of rock made the tires quiet and the road took on an ominous sound.  White rock began lining either side of the road escorting us to a gate ahead.  Signs in Spanish gave directions but we had no idea what they said.  We did notice that they were not pedestrian in nature.  I felt as though we were entering area 51.  It´s one thing to see the familiar yellow signs with the sillhouette of a woman and child dashing across the road.  It´s another thing entirely when they have barbed wire, rifles and landmines on them.

       I reduced the speed of the Landcruiser to 30km and approached a clay hovel that had a decrepid wooden post blocking our way.  Along the mounside gypsm had been used to write the words Bolivian Militaria in giant script.  The Irish boys clutched their ipods and I could almost here U2´s Sunday Bloody Sunday coming from the earphones.  Linda was knudging Raul harder now but he was lost in the slumber of his birthday.  As the driver of precious cargo I tried to appear as though all was normal but I too, couldn´t mask my fear.

       Outside the gate were 3 young guards.  They couldn´t have been any older than eighteen and they all had Russian built AK47´s losely slung across their shoulders.  As I rolled the truck to a stop at the gate, I´m not sure what was noticed first, their amazement to see me driving or my fear of imprisionment and death.  The commander looked at me, then at the tour truck and back to me.  He furrowed his young brow; I could see this made no sense to him.  He may have tightened his grip on his rifle a bit when he motioned me closer.  I thought I was goig to be shot with only four Irish kids who loved the Beatles to bear witness.

       Linda knocked Raul so hard his head almost hit the window.  He didn´t need to raise his sunglasses for me to see the surprise on his face.  I think he dropped the pringles that had been nestled in his lap.  Feigning that all was as it should be Raul laughed, offered an hello and motioned the guard to the other side of the truck.  The guard wasn´t as confindent as Raul but he came around the back side to where the door had been opened.  Another guard took his place at my side and said nothing.
       It´s customary for guides to come upon check points or toll roads where they pay a fee which has already been included in our price.  They show ID, pay the money and off we all go.  This was a little different.  Raul fumbled around for his identification and then produced a rather large sum of cash.  He seemed a little out of sorts but cross cultural differences are hard to decipher.  Once the money had changed hands the tone of the entire scene altered.  The guards snickered at the fact that I was driving and made friendly eye contact.  A few even raised their hand in a welcoming gesture.
       The gate was lifted and we were allowed to pass through.  What exactly we crossed I´ll never know.  Raul laughed loud with a sense of new found ease, muttered something in Spanish and was back to his dreaming within minutes.  Not sure what to do, I kicked the truck into gear and proceeded towards Chili.  Not 3 miles down the road Raul woke and motioned for me to stop.  My day as a Bolivian Tour Guide was at an end.  Militia or no, I was sad to relinquish the wheel.

Here are pictures of Salar de Uyuni and the surrounding area:

      

    

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