The original draft of this one occurred on the day that in the States would be called Halloween. I have covered some ground and had some of the best experiences that I have had thus far in my journeys. The timeline of this entry will be a bit mixed up, but the important part remains the same, well that is if there was an important part. In Potosí, Bolívia the residents celebrate this holiday a bit different as I found out yesterday. Día de Todos los Santos, or All Saint´s Day is a period of about 3 to 4 days where many businesses are shut down to take part in remembering loved ones. A tour guide at one of the companies in Potosí offered to take us to a part of town where people who have lost a loved one open their houses to anyone who is willing to join. Even gringos. It was slightly strange at first, entering the houses that had a small black plastic bag above the door in a group of 10 to 12 tourists. Upon entering the house of the family of the deceased, we approached the shrine, decorated with artesan sweetbread, a picture or two of the fallen, a cross (sometimes constructed by two blacklights) and candles. We would say a silent prayer, wish the deceased´s spirit a successful journey to the afterlife or do whatever ritual best suits the individual to show respect and pay homage to the deceased. Then we would take a seat around the room, many were big, open, garage-types and someone from the family would bring you a tray of 3 or 4 little glasses of alcoholic beverages, a bag of biscuits, wine and chicha. The latter is a corn-based drink that undergoes a process of fermentation and additions of other products unbeknownst to the writer. It is considered an insult to refuse the alcohol, but the biscuits may be put in your pockets or other satchel. Small portions of the drinks are poured onto the floor before or after taking a swig, in order to acknowledge Pachamama, or what also might be known as "Mother Earth". The literal translation from the Aymara and Quechua languages: Pacha being "world", and Mama being "Mother". The kids partake in their version of "Trick or Treating". Rather than collecting a hodge-podge of sweets, they fill up plastic sacks with biscuits and tote them around the streets. As we walked further up the hill, the trend of the South American towns and cities held true. There seems to be a correlation between poverty levels and elevation of home placement. In my experience, those who are more financially stable or belong to the higher echelons of socio-economic classes generally live further down the hill and those pertaining to lower socio-economic classes generally live further up the hill. We passed a few kids, the oldest being no more than 11 years or so, that were frying llama, french fries and cooking garbanzo beans. A Boliviano or two could get you a modest meal that was served in a small plastic bag. To give you an idea, one U.S. dollar is equal to 7 Bolivianos. The last house we visited was the furthest up on the hill and the family was paying homage to the father who had died from silicosis from working in the mines. It was getting later in the day and it was evident that the guests of this household had been partaking for quite a while. I pulled out my emergency hackey sack to distract the drunk individuals from gifting me with another shot of wine. It worked for a while, but then I continued into the room where people were seated remembering the late miner. After saying the prayer, sitting down and receiving my drinks, a few over-attentive Bolivians uttered some incomprehensible phrases and invaded the comfort zone. Time to go. One of them impeded the process of leaving but luckily another grabbed him by the coat which allowed a quick and much needed escape. It was certainly interesting to see how Bolivians celebrate this holiday, to see how it differed from the Halloween I knew growing up and also which celebratory traits the two cultures share. I´m glad to say that Pachamama was there to receive the over-abundance of alcohol that the friendly people bestowed upon me.
Here´s where a time lapse occurs and we actually travel back in time to a few days prior. Arriving in Uyuni on Saturday the 30th around 1:00 PM after a 3 day tour of the desert, I got to experience my first bus ride in Bolívia traveling to Potosí. We had some time to kill before our bus departed at 6:30 that same night. The machine that would carry us further into the heart of Bolívia to the northwest, the "Mega Scorpion", was surrounded by Bolívians and the random tourist that were thoroughly engaged in the task of finding a place to store their bags beneath the bus. This was no easy task, but once accomplished we made our way to our designated seats. In the front of the bus was a real taco of people, taco being Chilean for traffic jam. And I really don´t want to stop using Chilenismos just because I´m not in Chile anymore because they´re so gosh darn cool. They were shouting at each other rather fiercely that I honestly thought that a fight was going to break out. Grácias a Dios the (non)customers anger was diffused using raised voices. The dispute occurred between a lady, who visibly held a ticket in her hand, and 4 or 5 other men who assumedly wanted that ticket. The aggressors were pushed off the bus while the police eventually meandered over once the situation was well under control. The bus driver changed a tire 5 minutes before we took off. When the bus was in motion, René who was sitting next to me gave a startled lurch. There was a shaggy dog that could very well have been Benji´s doppleganger under the seat in front of him. A cat seemed to whine almost constantly from somewhere in the back of the bus. Seated next to the window, I watched on as the bus came dangerously close to sheer drops on the edge of gravel roads. The bus hurtled through the night towards a thunder storm, which I had the privilege of watching from slightly less than a bird´s eye view. Arriving in Uyuni around 1:30 PM, Benja, Teresa, René and I shared a cab at $5 Bolivianos a person that carried us to our respective hostels. So far, the dog under the seat in front of us has been the moment that embodies my travels here in Bolívia. Very well may be a slight case of culture shock.
I have to remember to maintain a sense of humor when experiences that I´ve never encountered come about. If not, they can turn out to be unpleasant and possibly worse: I will miss a learning opportunity. You don´t see when you´re not looking. Time warp! My sense of humor was utterly non-existant on Thursday, October 28th when we arrived at the border between Chile and Bolívia. The customs "official" took my passport, and put it in a drawer, which was in direct violation of my personal mantra of never separating with the document. U.S. citizens have to pay $135 U.S. dollars and jump through a series of hoops that is based on a sort of reciprocal relationship between the U.S. and Bolívian governments. Every other nationality, that I´m aware of, is free to pass through the Bolívian borders nearly unobstructed. *Insert complaint about U.S. Government here* Our chofer, whose name we (including the company´s driver of the first van that carried us to the border) did not yet know, had also not yet arrived at the dropoff point. My passport was to be held at customs until the arrival of this mystery man, who turned out to be Walter, so it could be safely toted to Uyuni where I would fork over the dough. When a 5 foot or so Bolívian appeared and announced his presence as the driver, I continued to ask for my passport, explaining that it never leaves my person. Luckily, Walter´s height had no effect on his driving skills, attentiveness and sense of responsibility for the group.
I must mention that during our ascent to the border, which lies at 4,200 meters above sea-level, one of the Brazilians passed out. The Chilean driver, Óscar, calmly stopped the van, exited the driver´s seat, strolled around the front of the rig, opened the right side passenger door and administered oxygen to the incapacitated fellow. Rubbing his sinuses and shaking his head, we continued on passing vicuñas, the llama´s skinnier cousin, and ever so sparse vegetation to the border.
The first day of the 3 day tour was the most spectacular. The other members of the tour included Benjamín and his wife Teresa from Barcelona, René from Switzerland, two Brazilian dudes whose names I never actually learned and our fearless yet extremely reserved guide Walter. Our "jeep", or rather our Toyota Land Cruiser, carried us most of the time comfortably to Laguna Blanca, Laguna Verde, a spectacular hot springs and finally to our resting place for the night, Laguna Colorado. I´ve never seen flamingoes in the wild before until this trip. And not just a few but a downright gaggle of pink birds. Thousands of them, each belonging to one of three species, lined the shores of White Lagoon, Green Lagoon, Red-colored Lagoon and most of the other lakelets we visited. This species seems awkwardly proportioned, but just to the untrained eye such as mine. When they fly, they first begin to run, bending their ultra-skinny legs. When the necessary speed for flight is reached, they begin to heave their wings that causes an effect that immitates a rope being whipped that ripples through their body, front to back.
When we got to our hostel on the first night, the owner was M.I.A. Luckily the hostel actually consisted of a compound of 10-12 hostels that were all used to house the same type of tourists making their way through the desert. Walter announced that the owner was not there, so we simply moved a door or two down and proceeded to unload our bags. As you probably well know, deserts are notorious for having an extreme contrast in temperatures from day to night. During the day, you could feel comfortable wearing a sweater, wool cap and windbreaker. During the night at Laguna Colorada, temperatures reached as low as -10 to -15 degrees Celcius. My long underwear, sleeping bag and its liner, and the many layers of blankets on the bed shielded me from the cold.
The next day was a long one, 7:30 AM to about 4:00 PM in the Land Cruiser with a few much needed stops. Being the youngest of the group, I was delegated to the back seat. It didn´t really make much diference though with landscapes such as that we were seeing anyone would be hard-pressed to be discontent. The windows provided great portals through which you could gaze at the towering volcanoes and vast desert that surrounded us for tens or maybe even hundreds of miles. Descending to a lower altitude of 3,200 meters, we stopped in the one-horse town of San Pablo. The small tienda offered snacks and other artesan goods. After leaving the pueblito, the Salar de Uyuni, or the Uyuni Salt Flat greeted us with a warm, no change in elevation embrace. The camino suddenly became a lot less bumpy. Some of the other sides of the salt flat were simply not visible. That night, we stayed in the Hotel de Sal, or Salt Hotel, where the bricks forming the walls, the tables and chairs, and even the floors were made of salt. We all thought this was a novelty, if not a bit impractical. Upon arrival to the last town of the tour, we discovered that making houses out of salt was not the exception but more or less the norm. Just like the food production system in the U.S. has done with corn and other subsidies, these people have found a use for an excess of one certain product. The "train graveyard" was the last stop on the tour. Locomotives that had outlived their years sat abandoned next to the train tracks that supposedly still functioned. Dust had well infiltrated our nostrils to the point where it may have even permeated our brains. Rolling into Uyuni at about 1:00 PM, I had to wait for the customs "official" to open the immigration building specially for me. Good thing I won´t have to pay the $135 dollars again in the next 5 years when I come back to Bolívia.
Traveling back in time once more to the days in San Pedro de Atacama before our epic 3 day tour, I was able to have some great experiences as well. I swam in a lake that contained abotu 80% salt, 7 times more than the ocean on the tour of Laguna Cejar. I submereged completely in the lake, remembering to keep my eyes closed. All I could smell or taste for 20 minutes or so afterwards was salt. The sides of my back burned from nearly constantly wearing a backpack. Chafing had developed that I was not aware of until the salt water infiltrated the small but ubiquitous cuts. I have never been able to float so easily in my life. The salt solidified and caked onto the body, but the tour guides were well experienced and stopped a short ways down the road at Ojos de Salar. These two craters were filled with fresh water that did a nice job of removing the caked-on salt. I hadn´t done a gainer in a year or so, but went for it anyway coming up a little bit short. See what a few summers away from the good ol´ Snake River does to a guy? Our last stop was at a shallow salt lagoon to watch the sunset and to toast with a pisco sour and hors d'oeuvre consisting of raisins, peanuts and black olives.
I also joined in on a combination tour of Valle de la Luna and Valle de la Muerte. The person who "discovered" Death Valley originally bestowed it with the name of Valle de la Marte for its similarity in color to the red planet. Over time, the name was mispronounced and evolved into the equivalent of the same site in California: Death Valley. Sunset at Moon Valley was stellar. The sun´s rays lit up the Andes Cordillera, opposite to the setting, life-giving star, in brilliant colors of orange, red and eventually purple tones. Needless to declare, life is great when you´re on an extended vacation. I will miss Chile and a piece of my heart will always fall on the soil of this great state. What I will not miss is the prices of goods and services that reflect the relatively high standard of living present there. The stamp in my passport is good for 4 years without paying the $141 U.S. dollars, and I still need to see Patagonia... This is Elvagabundonumerouno, from Sucre, Bolívia signing off.
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