(old) Tell me why I don’t like borders. Tell me why.

because my battery was dead no photos this one is courtesy of flickr user Emi ♫ and used under CC license with much thanks

If you’ve been reading along (first I should say thank you, and second apologise for the huge lag between posts), you know I hate border crossings. It’s not the bureaucracy but the touts and scams that drive me nuts. Ever since the horrible crossing between Ecuador and Peru that dread has just gotten worse. My new plan to counteract the dread and disorientation has been 1. make sure you’ve not spent hours getting to the border, 2. get a good night’s sleep before hand and 3. exchange as little money as possible when you get there. Waking up today, I’d already broken the first two of these new rules. It was almost impossible to get much rest on the train. Between the uncomfortable seats and constant early morning stops, I think there were only about 3 hours of actual sleep. So once the sun was streaming in the windows, I decided to stop the charade of sleep. Adrian was in a similar grumpy frame of mind. But we consoled ourselves that we were heading to Argentina – not know for its pushy touts and tourist scams. Perhaps this time it would be different.

We still had an hour or so before our arrival at Villazon – the Bolivian border town – so we headed to the dining car for breakfast. It was included in the price of our first class ticket and I suppose was where the extra money went. But I can’t say it was worth it. Breakfast was eggs, breads and crackers and café con leche. Better than nothing and it helped pass the time until we pulled into the station relatively on time – perhaps our German friend from Santa Cruz had already brought the Bolivan Rail Service up to German efficiency standards. The platform was packed. Most appeared to be touts selling overpriced bus tickets to groggy tourists. A little bit of research in Uyuni had revealed that most (maybe even all) of these tickets were horrendously overpriced and that the same tickets were available just across the border for far less. So we barreled through the crowd, swatting the pamphlets that were thrust in our face and went to fetch our baggage. Here we had to fight with the locals. We could see our bags within reach but weren’t allowed to grab them without handing our tickets to the baggage handler who ignored us until he had helped every local first. When every local was gone, he turned his attention to us. We pointing to the two bags in front but he ignored us and he went looking in the baggage car coming out empty handed with a shrug until I once again pointed to the two in front and began to pick them up. I thought he was going to slap my hand for touching the bags before he had checked the tickets. And then went through the whole performance of cross referencing every number on our tickets with the tags on the bags. I guess with our lack of sleep we looked kinda shifty or something. Or perhaps he was just trying to save us from the touts because most of them had left to chase the other gringos down the street. We hopped into a cab and for $2 we were let off metres from the border post.

The street was lined with money bureaus and we backtracked to the nearest one and converted our Bolivianos into pesos. The rate was almost the real rate and it looked real after our quick examination (gently used, water marks security bands etc.) So far, so good. With cash in hand we retraced our steps to the border and joined the line up of gringos waiting to get stamped out of Bolivia. There were no locals waiting and there wasn’t another line up for Bolivans or Argentines which was a bit odd. The line wasn’t moving very fast and some pushy gringos thought they could bypass the rest of us by heading directly into the office. Now, nothing upsets a Canadian or a Brit more than ignoring a perfectly good line up (or queue if you prefer). We’re folks that pride ourselves on the orderly nature of a line up and would go to war to defend it. There were three Brits in front of us, about to join Adrian and I in our battle against the interlopers. However, bloodshed was avoided when an official with shiny boots and a gun headed them off and waved them to the back of the line. The tourists didn’t give up and pretending not to understand the official’s Spanish tried to continue into the office. But the Border guy dragged them to the end of the line which was now ten people longer than when they arrived. The three girls laughed and celebrated the victory with us. The line suddenly sped up and we were soon at the counter getting stamped out. Even better, the line slowed to a trickle as soon as we were done and the pushy wannabe queue jumpers had barely moved. Now that’s my sort of travel karma.

We walked with the girls across the bridge to the Argentinean border. There was an old rail bridge that ran parallel to us, left over from the days when the Bolivian train used to continue on into Argentina. It was fenced off but it wasn’t deserted. No, this was the way the Bolivians and Argentineans apparently crossed the border. There was a steady stream of locals carrying huge bags hopping the chain link fence and crossing the border without showing their papers. It looked rather illegal but since there were watchful border guards everywhere I guess it was fine. As we got close to the shiny new Argentina border post, I have to admit getting a bit nervous. I don’t know whether it was lack of sleep or excitement over stepping into Argentina but the heart was definitely thumping a little faster and harder. Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown – Would we be forced to produce proof of exit? Would we have to pay some outrageous entrance fee? Or would they want to tax our electronics as imports? All these questions were going through my mind. And all for nothing. The crossing was painless and even the customs guy waved us through without searching our bags once he saw Adrian’s Canadian flag, proclaiming his love for Canada in perfect English. Okay, perhaps I’ll stop teasing Adrian (the immigrant) for the stereotypical flag on his backpack.

But the easy part was behind us. Now we had to go catch a bus to Salta. Rather than take a taxi I believed the guide book which seemed to indicate that the walk was a short one. Short only if you’re not carrying 25kg in luggage on your back after sleeping upright on a train. As we got close to the bus station, I was lagging behind Adrian and when I eventually caught up to him, he was already in line to buy tickets for the bus. He was trying to purchase the tickets with his non-existent Spanish. The ticket man was asking for 60 pesos for the tickets which appeared to say 30 on them. So I asked him again. The chaos of the lineup and the ayudantes telling us to hurry because the bus was leaving made it hard to hear, and now it sounded like he said 80. So I asked him to repeat it and he said 180 for the 2 of us. Behind us the ayudante grabbed our bags and was throwing them on the bus. I chased the bags while Adrian paid for the tickets. The bus was now beginning to pull away but before we could get on the baggage guy now wanted 2 pesos before he’d give us our claim tickets. I gave him a nasty look and asked him why and he told me to give him the money unless we wanted to miss the bus. So we had no choice but to give him the cash. And it got worse when we got on the bus. I looked at the tickets and discovered that this "direct" bus trip was in fact two bus trips on two different companies. And worse, the price on the tickets read 30 pesos for the first and 24 pesos for the other for a total of 54 pesos not 90. Scammed in our first hour in Argentina. It was a shock after Bolivia where we’d had a few moments with touts but had mostly been left alone and untouched as we traveled through the country. It was one of the reasons we’d loved it so much – cheap and hassle free. Now here we were in Argentina and people were demanding cash bribes from us and skimming money from our bus tickets. Wow, Argentina you have changed.

The gringo sitting across the aisle from us asked me what was wrong. I told him what had happened and he looked at his ticket. He’d paid 60 but was upset that he’d been over charged 54. But when he heard what we’d paid, he started asking other people on the bus what they’d paid. Apparently we’d all been charged different prices. Some Americans paid 75 others 70 but we’d gotten ripped off the most. Dmitri (yes, he was Greek) immediately called over the ayudante to complain. The ayudante was sympathetic and told us to complain when we got to Salta where we could get our money back. Dmitri was adamant that we all do that particularly when the ayudante told us the price should have been 25 for the first half of the trip and 24 for the second half. But to me, it didn’t make sense – the company in Salta would be a different from the one that sold us the tickets and probably weren’t even aware that this other company was reselling their tickets. There was no way we’d be getting our money back. But now I had 4 hours to stew until we had to change buses. Actually it was 5 hours because we were stopped at a customs check just outside of town because another passenger apparently had enough gold on her to raise the alarm. We were forced to wait for an hour while they questioned her and charged her an import fee. During this break, the South Africa couple behind us tried to make us feel better. They had just been in Argentina for 3 months and this was the first scam they’d encountered. But I wasn’t worried about Argentina I was just angry that we’d gotten ripped off at another border.

When we finally got to Jujuy, the other bus was already there. We had just enough time to grab our bags and put them on the new bus not before being asked for another 2 pesos from yet another baggage guy who had just lifting our bags one foot off the ground and on to the bus. Once again I refused to pay and luckily this guy gave us our bags without demanding the money. I was commenting on the cash grab, when the South Africans informed me that in Argentina it was customary to tip the baggage man (although the refusal to give us the ticket until we’d paid was unheard of – it was a tip after all). Oops, I almost felt bad but then I remembered that some joker had already gotten an extra 70 pesos out of us today and we had to recoup it somehow.

This second bus was nicer than the first and arrived in Salta on time. We immediately went to the Flecha Bus office to make our complaint. As predicted it was the El Quicacena company we should have complained to but the fact that they were selling tickets for Flecha bus was enough to anger the Flecha bus attendant, let alone that they were ripping people off in their name. We filled out a complaint form but since it was the weekend we couldn’t get much further. They gave us a formal receipt and the number of the head office. They were very nice and apologetic which was enough to make us feel better but I knew I wouldn’t be calling the number and wouldn’t be getting our money back. The amount we lost wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things – about $20 I think – and we wouldn’t have paid it, if we didn’t think that was the price for 7 hours on the bus. Plus, just having someone who appeared to care about a customer complaint was enough to make us feel better.

Now it was time to find the hostel. We needed a shower and to relax. Lucky the hostel was close to the bus station and even luckier that there was room available, albeit one with shared bath. The hostel was great. It was a converted house and it felt just as welcoming. The staff were super nice and made us feel very welcome. We jumped into the (hot water! high pressure!) shower and washed away the crankiness of the day. We’d survived another border crossing.

(old) It’s all about perspective.

The alarms went off at 4:30am. There was no shower but there was a good breakfast with eggs. Well, that’s Adrian’s definition of a good breakfast not mine. I hate eggs and these tasted really eggy but compared to the instant coffee and bread from yesterday it was an improvement. It was still pitch black when we loaded our gear back on the roof of the jeep and then raced across the salt flats trying to beat the sun. The rays were just peeking above the horizon when Amigo stopped the jeep. We got out and since the sun was still a few minutes from making its appearance we got to take in our surroundings. First, it was fricken (and you know I wanted to write something other than fricken) freezing – as in see your breath, stamp your feet to keep warm, sort of freezing. Once we got over the shock of the cold, we realized we were at a place where they were harvesting the salt from the salt flats. Wow, because it’s such a touristy thing to do I’d forgotten that they weren’t just a pretty place but a livelihood for locals. So how did they harvest it? Well, they had some sort of machine that cut the surface salt into blocks which they let dry out and then stacked for the trucks to pick up and take to the salt processing place. Or so Adrian found out using his amazing non-verbal Spanish abilities – I really don’t know how he does it.

I found myself wishing the sun would rise faster and distracted myself by taking pictures of the vast white landscape. This time I didn’t distract myself by taking up Amigo’s invitation to taste one of the blocks of salt. And eventually the sun slowly peeked over the horizon. Was getting up that early worth it? A sunrise is always pretty but the cold made it hard to appreciate. A sunrise only last a few minutes and in this case as soon as it was up we all huddled back in the jeep and joined the long line of vehicles heading towards the horizon. After our solitary day of rock sighting, we were back on the tourist train. The next “station” in this case was the Isla de Pescado (fish island). I asked Amigo why it was called that – as it had been a long time since there were any fish near by. He told me that the real name was actually Xqkyrtsqsfd, or something like that. (Okay that wasn’t the real name but it was in Quechua so that’s as good as I can do) but some tourists had remarked that it was shaped like a fish and the much easier to remember Isla de Pescado stuck. The island was indeed an island in the salt flats a hill rising out of the immense white expanse (photo above). It was covered in ancient cacti and coral rocks, a reminder of the time there was actual water in the area. We all followed the path up to the top of the island. There was a natural arch in the old coral rock, a plethora of giant cacti, as well as an area where the local Quechua folks performed some sort of rite but now appeared to be a dumping place for people’s extra visa and passport photos. The view was more white salt flat vastness so I decided to head down. I saw Amigo at the bottom and decided to finally ask his name. I told him I’d forgotten it and he was gracious enough to let me know what it was. Drum roll please…. “Me llama… Ruben”. Finally, mystery solved. When the others came back down I let them know. And we all breathed a sigh of relief and then promptly started using his name every time we spoke to him. I’m sure he was annoyed and confused by the sudden popularity of his first name.

Back in the jeep we headed out to the middle of the salt flats for some fun with perspective. Well that was my goal. Ever since I read another blogger’s account of their salt flat trip, I had been eager to take my own weird playing with perspective photos. It’s possible because of the featureless landscape. The others had no clue what I was trying to do as I posed Adrian standing metres behind the only prop we had – a water bottle. It wasn’t as easy as I thought but I eventually figured it out. Soon the others got into it and they all took turns “standing” on top of the water bottle while I snapped away on their cameras. I wish we had other things but either no one wanted to admit a stash of toys in their packs or we were all just too old and boring. After that we explored the small building made out a salt which, judging by the bottles and other things left in front was some sort of chapel. There was even a small table and chair made out of salt but it didn’t look up to anyone sitting on it.

But that small building was nothing compared to our next stop. By request, Ruben let us off at the salt hotel. It wasn’t just a building made out of salt, but everything inside. Ruben let us know that it was free to visit but that we should purchase something inside as a donation, since it was a private establishment. Inside Adrian found giant bars of Dairy Milk chocolate for sale and would have bought the entire stock if I hadn’t stopped him. With our “entrance fee” paid we began exploring the hotel. The table, the chairs, the beds, the bar, everything was made out of salt blocks. Pretty cool but also a little weird. But not as weird as the “museum” which was really a collection of salt sculptures from Quechua mythological figures, to a copy of Big Ben. Told you it was weird. Outside, a small wading pool had been cut out of the salt but at this temperature I can’t imagine it got much use. But it was worth it if only for the chocolate even if it did cost a small fortune.

After the salt hotel, we stopped one more time at a little town just on the edge of the salt flats. And by town I mean a collection of souvenir stalls and some high-end hotels. I headed straight to a display of alpaca wool hats and gloves and picked out some for both Adrian and I, not as souvenirs but as necessities. And cheap necessities too, at only $3 each. Finally my head and hands were warm after the 3 freezing days. The rest of the gang bought more than their fill and then it was back to the jeep and on our way to Uyuni. But now I had a request. I wanted to stop at the Uyuni train cemetery. It was exactly what it sounded like, a cemetery full of old decaying and rusting old locomotives. That’s right more decay. I think it was a bit out of the way but if we could see it on our way into town then there was no reason for Adrian and I to stay in town and we could immediately (try) to head to Argentina. I don’t think the others were as enthused by the detour but when we got there, Adrian and I didn’t care. Amongst the wind-blown rubbish were hundreds of rusting train parts and probably just as many tourists climbing over them. My camera battery was flashing red but it lasted just long enough to get enough shots to make me happy (although I could have taken more). I’m sure the others were happy that my battery died because when we made our way back to the jeep, they were already waiting.

And then it was into Uyuni. Thanks to the early hour it was barely noon. But that gave all of us time to figure out our onward travel plans. Tony was going to stick around for a night. While Kai, Anna and Bart were all trying to head out that day. And we were, well originally we had said that if we couldn’t shower in the morning we’d stay the night in Uyuni but now that we were in the town even feeling gross and icky wasn’t enough of a reason to stick around. So we decided to let the availability of train tickets decide our fate. Ruben dropped us off at the train station and then took the rest to the ATM, promising to come back for us. The station was empty as was the ticket office. Eventually a man appeared to tell us that there were plenty of tickets available for tonight’s train. So that was decided we were heading to Argentina tonight. We opted for first class tickets figuring that a bit of comfort after the last four days and within 5 minutes we were booked in. Now it was time to wait for the others to come back.

As we were standing in the shade outside the station, we saw some familiar faces across the street. It was Stuart and Max from Santa Cruz. I went running down the street after them to say hello. They had just arrived and were shopping around for a cheap salt flat tour. I told them that the one-day tour would be enough. But our reunion was cut short by the return of the jeep. We said goodbye (once again) to the lads and climbed back into the jeep for the short ride to the bus company offices. While the others bought their tickets to La Paz and Tony checked into his hostel, Ruben unloaded all of our luggage. When all that was done we thanked him, gave him his tip and said goodbye. We may not have been able to remember his name, but we really did appreciate everything.

Then it was just us without the guide. We decided to stick together and have lunch in the main square. We followed the others with our big bags (they had been able to check their’s at bus company) to the first tables we saw. They were in the sun and, of course now that I’d bought woolly hats and mittens it was baking. The menu was a bit of a shock. The prices were more like Chile than Bolivia and after Adrian and I had told the others how cheap Bolivia we were going to have to literally eat our words. But it was food and drinks not cooked by Ruben and that was worth it. (Sorry Ruben). After lunch the others went out to explore the town while Adrian and I stayed put, and getting a chance to chat to Stuart and Max who passed by as well as two British girls at the table next to us. We started to talk about food we missed and when one of the girls mentioned Cadbury’s chocolate I gave her the rest of the giant Dairy Milk we had and immediately became their best friends. Travel karma.

Adrian and I realized the café was actually part of a hostel and he asked if we could use their shower. They charged us $2 but it was the best $2 we spent and now we were ready to take the overnight train, except it wasn’t leaving for another 8 hours. We were sick of schlepping our bags around so we headed to the train station to ask if we could leave them there. The station master told us he wasn’t supposed to but told us he didn’t mind helping us out. We assumed he was dropping a hint so we gave him a small tip and just hoped our bags would be there when we got back. Then it was time to join the rest of the group. Adrian and I had decided that we wanted to try the infamous Minuteman Pizza that so many people had raved about and the others said they’d join us. Adrian went off to use the internet and said he’d join us shortly. But as the rest of us were searching for the pizza place which wasn’t sign posted I realized he’d never find it. I waited for 20 minutes and then went out to find him wandering the streets looking lost. After dinner and an exchange of emails, Anna, Bart and Kai went to catch their buses while Tony, Adrian and I went back to the internet. It was time to do some research to prepare for crossing the border – like buses from the border, places to stay in Salta, and most importantly the exchange rate between the Boliviano and the Argentinean peso. That helped pass the time until it was time to catch the train and for Tony to head to bed.

With no sun beating down on us it had turned cold again and the waiting room was not heated. Nor was there anywhere to sit. As the people piled in it warmed up and the luggage room was officially opened. Phew our luggage was still there. And almost on time the train arrived and we headed out. I failed to notice any difference between the first class seats and second class. The seats were far less comfortable than bus seats and there were no blankets. There was however a TV playing a really bad Bolivian talent show, really loud. From our perspective, the TV was a minus but the Bolivians in our car seemed to love it. But we were so tired that we soon fell (almost) asleep.

(old) Salt flat rock city

As the sun rose, I wiggled my toes, then my fingers. They were fully functional no hypothermia and frostbite for me. Actually, for all that drama I was surprisingly warm and toasty unlike Adrian who had accidentally kicked off his blankets in the night and woke up with his teeth chattering. And unlike our driver who I saw sleeping in the back of the frost-covered jeep when I slipped out to use the loo. But maybe that sun would mean a warmer day. The bitter wind had disappeared and that definitely helped. A warm shower would have really helped too, le sigh. At least none of us were able to shower so any b.o. would be impossible to trace. Breakfast was just as simple as our accommodations had been: bread and coffee and the only milk on the table was chocolate milk. It actually made the instant coffee taste pretty good – a cheap and easy mocha I guess. Adrian sat at the table and patiently awaited the arrival of some eggs but when the driver started the jeep he knew he was out of luck. We jumped in the back again this time to start the day. Our day of rocks.

Our first stop was a group of red rocks that we’d seen a hint of in Villa Mar. The centrepiece was called el Mondial or World Cup and I suppose if you squinted it sorta looked like the trophy. There were also a few of those rock trees I’d hoped to see. Not actual petrified trees but wind-eroded rocks that, once again, sorta looked like trees when you squinted. The rest of the gang went climbing up the cliff but I wasn’t up for that and headed towards the cave further back. Along there was one rock formation that reminded me of the Easter Island heads that we probably wouldn’t be visiting (too expensive). Just beyond them was a cool cave that had been carved out of the rock by the wind. Inside the wind had created these swiss cheese niches that lots of birds were now using as ready-made nests. Cooler than the view from the top would have been, I think. Although as a non-climber and hiker, I may have been biased.

We regrouped at the jeep, climbed in and then drove for an hour on rough roads across the desert not seeing many other jeeps. Actually, we didn’t see any other jeeps, surprising considering yesterday’s race to the parking spots. I guess the other groups had all chosen to the lake route. When we stopped for a break in a small town I wondered if perhaps we should have chosen the lake route at all. The view along the route was unique but the barren land was getting a bit samey. And the town was another small one with nothing to explain why we had stopped. There was some weird chicken sculpture in the town square and on the gazebo there were odd cartoon paintings of a very sickly looking Minnie Mouse and Goofy complete with Nike branding. Perhaps this was where we were supposed to contemplate the evils of copyright infringement. Or perhaps the driver just wanted a break from us as none of us could find him when we wanted to leave (5 minutes later) and had to wait until he materialized (30 minutes later). He didn’t really offer an explanation and we piled back in so he could drive us to another non-descript small town so we could stop for lunch. I’m not faulting the towns, they were tiny outposts in the middle of the desert, just curious why we were stopping.

Lunch was soup, rice and llama and there was plenty of it even if it wasn’t the tastiest. Good thing we were all getting used to bland food. The highlight of the meal was dessert. It was Jello (or jelly to you Brits) and none of the Europeans knew what it was. They watched as Adrian gleefully grabbed a serving. His enthusiasm enticed Bart to give it a go but he was less than impressed. Oh well, I guess jello won’t be taking off on the Continent any time soon. Meanwhile, Kai went to check out the accommodations at this place. He reported they were a step above the ones we’d had last night but sill nothing like the pictures we’d been shown when we had booked. Somehow we all started to discuss the driver’s name which we still didn’t know and now it was too late to ask. I decided that Amigo would probably get his attention and probably confuse him less than shouting out Rubregenerto.

After lunch it was off to our next rock formation outside of town (photo above). Yup, more rocks but at least these ones had an interesting story. The locals had used to use one of the natural shelters as a church until they’d gotten the money together to build an actual one. Considering how far from the small town these rocks were, I’m not surprised they were such bad cartoon painters. They had to spend all their time walking too and from church rather than perfecting their painting technique. Amigo stopped the car and began leading up up one of the tall rock faces. Kai, Anna, Bart and Adrian followed him while Tony and I ditched the hike to check out the church. It didn’t look like a church but the nature of this shelter was still super cool. A circular area carved out by the wind, big enough to hold the locals for Sunday service, although without a roof I can imagine rainy days made services uncomfortable. When Adrian came scrambling down from the lookout point I took him to see it. Just beyond the church there was another sheet of rock –really it was as thin as a sheet of paper. Despite that and the giant crack down the middle of it, it was still upright. Better yet there was a human-sized hole at the bottom of the crack which Adrian promptly jumped into so I could take a picture of him. Then he made me do it, but it was kinda scary. It seemed like it would come crashing down on me at any moment. Of course, as Adrian was quick to point out, it had been there for hundreds of years and wasn’t likely to come down in the next few minutes - touch wood.

Amigo called us all back to the jeep and we were off along the dusty roads once again. The dust really picked up but it wasn’t because of the jeep. The wind had caused a minor dust storm in our path. We quickly closed all the windows and the vents but we could still taste the dust in the jeep until we got through it. Just on the other side of the cloud was another small town. Originally it had been a little stop along the railway tracks but now it was 90% deserted. Adrian and I were excited at the prospect of the ghost town but we were alone. We jumped out and began exploring the empty buildings. If 10% still lived here we never saw them and the only evidence was the neglected cemetery which had a sprinkling of recently (recent as in the last year or 10) laid decorations. There was no sign of life except for the water leaking out of the water tower and a distant cement factory that was just as still as the town itself. Adrian and I would have stayed longer but we could feel the others getting antsy.

The rest of the afternoon was a lot of driving and more rocks and more small towns. We stopped at one for almost an hour and once again we couldn’t figure out why. It was obvious we had all had our fill of rocks and small villages but I was still glad we weren’t doing another day of lakes. Eventually Amigo resurfaced. I’m guessing the breaks were mostly for him as we were covering a lot of distance today and it couldn’t have been fun to spend that much time behind the wheel. In fact the last leg of the day was a long one on really really bad roads to our accommodation. The road ended and the sand changed to hard packed dirt with white frosting that was salt (but at least not ice) We were headed to the salt flats and the supposedly good accommodation, the one we assumed we had seen in the photos. On the horizon we could see the white glow of the flats but that was tomorrow. At San Juan we turned right and around a big hill. Behind it was an even smaller town and just beyond it a hill with the hostel where we’d be staying. Bart admitted that he didn’t think he’d find a pub here either.

No there was no pub but when we walked into the building the first thing we saw was a dining room with a bar. The boys were immediately pleased and we were all a bit more optimistic. But alas our room was another dorm room. It did however have a shower. Adrian immediately saddled up to the bar while I waited for the hot water to be turned on so I could scrub off the last two day’s dust and grime. The others went out to explore the small town. They were back before the hot water was on and went to join Adrian at the bar. Soon the shower was ready and I jumped in. It was probably the best shower ever and I made sure to leave plenty of hot water for the rest of the gang.

Dinner was an improvement too. There was a big spread of soup, rice and chicken. Yes I’m expressing excitement about rice and chicken. There was even lemon cake for dessert. So the accommodation wasn’t the greatest but the food wasn’t anything to complain about. We tried to convince Amigo to eat with us but he told us the guides always eat together. Oh well at least there wasn’t going to be any awkward name moments. But before he left to hang out with his fellow guides he asked us if we wanted to get up to experience sunrise on the salt flats. Since there was nothing much to do once it got dark and we knew we’d all be heading to bed shortly after dinner, we thought why not. Of course that meant we had to get up at 4:30 am to leave at 5. Oy vey. But even with the bar we were all in bed by 9pm.

(old) Cold showers and hot baths.

It was a rough start to our tour when we woke up to no hot water and no breakfast in the hostel. Since we could see our breath we skipped the cold water shower and pulled out some cookies to tide us over until we got the breakfast the tour company had promised us. And looked forward to the hot water shower we’d get tonight. We didn’t let it get to us probably because we were getting out of San Pedro before we went bankrupt. The tour office was just a couple of blocks down the road. There was already a small crowd waiting although at this early hour no one was feeling particularly talkative. Or perhaps they hadn’t had their hot showers either.

Right on time, a guide appeared and shuttled us over to a waiting minibus. There were twelve of us in total but we weren’t all traveling together. This was just the bus to the border where we’d be separated into our different tours, depending on how long we had signed up for. Chilean tour companies aren’t allowed to got into Bolivia and vice versa and since we were only 20km from the border this journey was going to be a short one, that is until we got to the Chilean border post just outside of town. The two Colombians onboard had forgotten to bring their tourist cards with them and we had to wait a half hour while the driver took them back to their hotel to fetch them. Then it was back on the bus for the drive past the turn off for the Argentinian border past some volcanoes to the Bolivian post another 45 minutes away. Even the word post is perhaps too strong a description. It was just a hut in the middle of the desert. There was nothing in sight in either direction except a burnt out bus shell yet the Bolivians had taken care to put up a free-standing gate across the road, perhaps not realizing that the hard packed desert on either side of the road was probably easier to drive on than the potholed road they were blocking.

We were given forms to fill out and then waved into the hut one at a time to pay our entry fee. The fee was a surprise since we hadn’t needed to pay one at the Peru-Bolivia border and when I raised my eyebrow at the $2 they wanted they showed me the official-looking seal in my passport that my money bought. Our border crossings in Central America taught us that individual border posts are good at coming up with official looking receipts for fees at supposedly free crossings. But rather than protest I reminded myself that $2 was a lot less than the useless bus tickets we’d had to buy to get into Panama or the $150 the Americans had to pay.

Once we were all paid up and stamped in we were divided up into three groups – those doing a one day tour, those doing a two-day tour and the 6 of us who’d signed up for the full 3-days to Uyuni. Unfortunately for us 3-dayers, our jeep had yet to arrive so we huddled into the bus to protect ourselves from the bitterly cold wind that was blowing across the desert. The cold got to Adrian’s bladder and with nothing except the burnt out bus to hide behind he ran off to do his business. He returned quickly breaking the ice with the rest of our tour mates by providing a full report of his journey.

“Don’t go back there,” he warned the rest of us.

Apparently the burnt out bus was the local toilet for everyone crossing the border and was a minefield of excrement. It must have been bad because Adrian didn’t even ask for the camera so he could take a picture. Either that or he knew I would have denied his request. Before he could launch into more detail, the jeep arrived saving us from the cold as well. The jeep driver jumped out and began loading all of our bags up on the roof of the jeep. He did an amazing job of fitting it all up there and even more amazingly, the vehicle didn’t topple over under the weight. Now it was time to fit all of us in the vehicle. Adrian and I hopped into the back and let the skinny others share the middle and front seats. Our driver was just about to launch into his introduction when Adrian interrupted him to ask about breakfast and was distressed to hear that it wasn’t coming for a while. But at least it silenced him long enough so that we could all introduce ourselves and let the guide begin his tour.

Up in front was Kai, a young German guy on a three-month whirlwind round the world tour. In the middle was Tony, an older German guy on an extended vacation in Bolivia and next to him Bart and Anna a Dutch and French couple (respectively) on a 6-week vacation of South America. Our guide didn’t speak English and his name would become the subject of much debate amongst us over the next few days. Was it Ruben? I heard Brugen? I thought he said Robeto? Even Kai who was half-Spanish didn’t catch the name as he stepped in to act as translator for all of us. Instead we just avoided any situation which would require us to call the guide by his name.

Our first stop was the park entry office where we had to pay our entrance fee. Adrian asked if this was where we were having breakfast but Ru-bregen-erto just shook his head and with a small smile said no. Anna and Bart went to the take advantage of the washroom located in the office thinking it a better option than the bus at the border. But judging by their expressions when they came back, perhaps not too much better. With our entrance fees paid we piled back in the van and headed to our first site, Laguna Verde. Amidst the dusty desert, it was a perfect aqua colour that reminded me of Llanganuco in Peru. Our driver drove past the other tour vans and headed up to a ridge overlooking the lake so we could take it in. It was the perfect spot but not perfect enough for Adrian who once again asked if this is where we were having breakfast. And once again our guide shook his head no although this time there was no smile.

After we’d all had our fill of the view, we piled back into the jeep and drove to another small lake remarkable only because of a small flock of flamingos camped out nearby. Adrian was about to ask if this is where we were having breakfast but I stopped him. Of course this was where we were having breakfast. There was a small hostel just over a ridge with a good view of the lake and an empty dining room. We may have been in the middle of nowhere but breakfast was already an improvement over the typical bread and jam we’d been offered at other hostels. This place had cheese and it was real cheese not the weird feta-mozzarella cross we’d had for the last 7 months. Adrian was finally happy as were we since we wouldn’t have to listen to him ask when we were going to eat. Thanks to the leftover bread on another table we had plenty of food. Kai left us to scout out the bathrooms and accommodation and it wasn’t promising. We hoped that our luck would be better tonight. We paid one last visit to the flamingos before getting back into the jeep.

It was another hour until our next stop which Rubregenerto told us were called the Dali rocks. This was a bad name since we all conjured up images of rocks that looked like melting clocks or cities on giraffe legs and when we got there they looked like a bunch of boulders in the sand. I think the guide sensed our disappointment because he quickly moved on and promised us we’d love the next stop. We were headed to the hot springs although considering how cold it was outside I wasn’t sure how fun or how hot the springs could actually be. When we pulled up I was encouraged by the sight of 5 others already in the springs steam rising up from around them. However, that still didn’t solve the problem of the blustery cold wind that we’d have to fight before we got into the water. I was about to point out to Adrian that there was also no place to change into our bathing suits but when I turned around he was already in the midst of stripping down and jumping into his trunks in front of our group and the 20 others standing nearby. He jumped into the water and repeated ad nauseum “nice, nice, nice”. Well if he didn’t care neither did I. But I did care about exposing my bottom to everyone. So I wrapped a towel around me and somehow managed to change without flashing everyone then ran into the water before hypothermia set in. Kai joined us but the others passed. The water was indeed hot and super relaxing but with all the minerals I don’t think it was the best choice as a substitute shower. We soaked in the bath as long as we could mostly because the idea of getting out of the hot water and into the freezing cold was so unappealing. But eventually, our guide told us time was up. It was still freezing and the wind on wet skin meant certain wind chill frostbite. I sucked it up and quickly managed to get changed back into my dry clothes without exposing my bare ass to everyone else and without getting my dry clothes wet. Quite an achievement.

Just beyond the springs was another hut. This was our lunch stop. Inside it was filled to the rafters with folks from other tour groups. The room was just a dining room and the food was provided by the tour companies and there was a definite difference. The Japanese had a major spread while others were eating rice and not much else. Our tour group fell somewhere in the middle and considering the cost it was pretty good. The best part of the stop (after the bath in the hot springs) was courtesy of one of the older Japanese women. She pulled out a bag of origami peace cranes which she proceeded to hand out to us backpackers. She didn’t speak any English but understood everyone’s garbled version of Domo Origato (I stopped myself from adding Mr. Roboto, disappointed aren’t you?). It was such a simple gift but we all loved it and I wished there was a Canadian equivalent to break the ice as we traveled – Timbits? Hockey Pucks? Touques? Not quite the same. Although I wish I’d had a touque at that moment – it was freezing.

It was time to get back in the jeep and this time we all changed our seats which meant poor Tony was crammed next to Adrian in I in the middle. Oh well, at the very least we warmed up quickly. But it was a short cramped ride as not too far from the hot springs we pulled up to a field of smoke and boiling mud. Signs warned that this was a dangerous field of volcanoes (photo above) and I suppose it was although the volcanoes were only an inch or two across although constantly erupting. The steam-smoke was a noxious sulphur mix that made it hard to breath and hard to enjoy the warm so we headed to a windy spot to view the field. That required us to walk over suspiciously unstable parts of caked mud and I expected us to fall through into the boiling mixture just below the surface. Of course we didn’t and Adrian accused me of being as melodramatic as the warning signs. However, warning signs aren’t common in Bolivia so I figured they must be there for a pretty good reason. Too many boiled stews of tourists was my best guess. At this point the driver called us over to make a decision. We were headed towards the Laguna Colorado and afterwards we could go in one direction and stay in a refugio with no electricity or running water and tomorrow we’d see more lakes and the arbol de piedra or we could go in another direction and stay at a better place with lights and water (and a shower) and tomorrow see other rock formations. Faced with the prospect of roughing it we all voted for the nicer option. Although I was a bit torn because I wanted to see the rock tree that I’d seen in photos. However, the guide told us that we’d see lots of rocks like the arbol. So I felt better and I’m sure I’d feel even better after that shower.

Laguna Colorado was a giant pink lake covered in flamingos. But these weren’t ordinary flamingos they were super smart. Or at least it appeared that way. The closer we tried to get to them the further away they got without appearing to move at all. Somehow these birds could bend the laws of physics. We all tried to get close to them but nothing worked until the convoy of Japanese tourists pulled up at the opposite end of the lake causing the birds to motionlessly move right in front of us to get away from them. Good for us but bad for the Japanese tour group – perhaps they should have tried giving the flamingos some of those cranes.

The guide then told us it was time to go to our accommodation for the night. It was another hour of driving to Villa Mar – weirdly named since there was no sea anywhere nearby. But that wasn’t the only disappointment. Our “deluxe accommodation” was a six bed door and the showers were there but none of us could figure out how to get them to work. Not at all what we expected. This was the first time we were staying in a dorm on our trip so we warned the others about Adrian’s snoring. Oh well, nothing like a sleeping on top of each other to ensure our group would bond. Just behind the guesthouse a woman was washing clothes in the stream oblivious to the fact that it was freezing. Just beside her llamas grazed on the bit of grass growing on either side of the trickle of water. It was pretty but it was also too cold to explore so I hid back in the room trying to get some blood and feeling back into my fingertips. If the rest of the trip was like this I was in trouble - I only had that long sleeve polo shirt and a windbreaker and this was full fleece weather. The others headed into the village to explore (and look for a pub Bart said half-jokingly) while Adrian headed up to climb the rock cliff that circled the village. But everyone returned in time for dinner. Bart hadn’t found his pub but Adrian had found a store selling beer by candlelight so we created our own pub atmosphere over our soup and spaghetti. It was probably just the alcohol but for a brief moment I was actually warm so I left the others and crawled into bed fully clothed hoping to wake up with all my digits unfrozen.

Desperately seeking Uyuni

If there’s anything I’ve learned in the last 7 months of traveling, it’s that you have to be flexible and patient. Things don’t happen they way they do back home whether it’s a bus trip that takes twice as long as scheduled or dealing with taxi drivers. The best way to deal with everything is to just relax. Over the next three days, I had to learn this lesson all over again.

Our last stop in Bolivia was supposed to be Uyuni, a small town that’s the jumping off point for tours of the famous Bolivian salt flats. After a good scrub and a good meal last night we booked our bus tickets to Uyuni. After she sold us our tickets, the clerk warned us that the bus hadn’t been running the last few days because of a blockade. Apparently, the entire town of Uyuni was blocked off by protesting locals so no buses were getting in or out. When I asked her when she thought the blockade would be cleared she said Mañana. Adrian and I crossed our fingers and hoped she meant that literally (meaning tomorrow) but prepared ourselves if she meant it the typically Latin way (meaning some vague time in the future) Of course, the next morning after we had packed all our gear up, the clerk notified us that there would be no buses to Uyuni today, the blockade was still up. We checked back into our room for another night and hoped that tomorrow would be our day. Just in case we discussed a plan B.

The next morning, the buses were still not running. Bored of Potosi (and maybe wanting to put as much distance between us and Julio) we decided to get out of town and head to Oruro. There was a train to Potosi from there and we hoped perhaps that it would get in, even if the buses couldn’t. Oruro was a big town and hopefully, there’d be some more information about the blockade and something to do while we waited. It was also fairly close to Potosi so we were able to catch a bus that got us into town early afternoon.

Oruro was not very impressive, actually it was ugly, particularly after Sucre and Potosi. It looked like a huge jumble of bad wiring and dusty cement blocks. We bypassed the hostel across from the equally ugly bus terminal and headed to a small hotel downtown. The hotel was full of convention delegates but the super nice owner had a room with shared bath still available. We checked in and told her that we were trying to get to Uyuni. She hadn’t heard about the blockade but wasn’t surprised because they happen all the time. She handed us a train schedule and pointed out that one was scheduled to leave tomorrow. We followed her directions to the train station only to find a room full of empty chairs. A lone clerk came out from a backroom. Before we were able to complete our request he pointed to a notice board. There were no trains due to the blockade at Uyuni. Great.

We caught a bus to the bus station and confirmed that there were no buses to Uyuni. We had just a handful of days left to stay in the country and the one place we wanted to visit was closed. Do we go back to Sucre? Maybe but we’d have to find a place to stay. What were our other options? La Paz? Too far. We looked around at the different schedules and found a bus going to Iquique, Chile. That would solve our visa issue and with just a slight detour we could still do our salt flat tour starting at Chilean end rather than from Uyuni. That would send us back to Bolivia with a new visa and down into Argentina. That wasn’t our original plan but the other option was staying in Oruro. There were 5 different bus companies all going across the border the next day and all around the same time. So we planned to come back tomorrow and buy tickets for whatever bus was leaving first.

There was really nothing to see in Oruro. The main attraction was the carnival but that wasn’t on until February. The woman at the hotel told us we’d have to come back to see it. And as much as I wished we could, I knew we’d be long gone by then. Instead we headed out to the most highly recommended restaurant in the city. It was a posh place with linen tablecloths and bow-tied waiters ready to attend to our every whim. Adrian order the che’'s speciality which turned out to be the biggest plate of lamb ever while I stuck with rice and chicken. It was tasty but our choice of beer spoiled it a bit. Adrian had spotted an unfamiliar brand he had to try. But on first taste we realized it was more of a sweet malt drink than beer. Imagine sweet guiness and you’ll have an idea of what it tasted like.

The next morning we had breakfast at the hotel. It was a simple continental one but the bread was fresh baked with real butter, the sweet bread came with dulce de leche, and there was juice and real coffee with real milk. And it was included in the cost of our room. We still had some time before the buses to Chile were leaving so we headed to the internet café to find out a bit about the new country and city we were heading too. Our first shock was the prices. In Bolivia we would think twice before spending $20 on a room but in Chile it looked like we were going to have to spend that much each. I hoped that was just my bad math and picked out some cheaper options close to each other for us to check out when we got into Iquique.

Even taking our time we arrived with lots of time to kill. We bought our tickets for the 11 oclock bus and then found two seats to read and wait. As we were sitting there, a German couple approached us. They had been to the train station already trying to get tickets to uyuni and were turned away. They only had three weeks to try and squeeze in a salt flat tour, and northern argentina and were a little panicked. They asked us what we were doing. I told them about our plan to do the salt flat tour in reverse hoping that the blockade would be over by the time our tour arrived in Uyuni. But we also let them know that Sucre was really nice if they wanted to visit another city and wait. They thought for a moment and decided to take the bus with us. They bought their tickets then headed back to their hostel to get their bags. I hoped that it was going to be worth it since we had no idea what Iquique was going to be like.

Bastien and Anita turned up with their bags and some provisions for the 8 hour bus ride. They had bought some beers and a jealous Adrian took off to get his own supplies. I reminded him that the bus may not have a toilet which scared the couple but didn’t stop Adrian. With beers in hand we boarded the bus and began our border run. There was a toilet and it worked. And the roads were some of the nicest ones in Bolivia. So far so good. I was even optimistic that we might make it to Iquique before dark. That didn’t last long once the bus turned off the highway and onto a sandy road through the desert. The driver barely slowed down sending huge plumes of dust over the bus. In an attempt to keep the dust out of the bus (and our lungs), we all closed our windows and the ayudante locked the bathroom door much to Adrian’s chagrin. He squirmed with his very full beer bladder for 30 minutes before I told him to just ask the ayudante for the key. It worked and he was able to enjoy the ride to the border.

I had no idea which border we were at. Once we left the highway, the map I was following was useless. We were at some minor border post just before immigration, the bus stopped to let us off to exchange money. Adrian bought a minimal amount of Chilean pesos and then got back on board. Just a few minutes down the road was a shiny new immigration building. In the midst of the Bolivian desert it stood out and quickly reminded us that we were leaving the third world for first world Chile. The building held both Chilean and Bolivian immigration so it was easy. The only hiccup was the customs inspectors. Chile has a very strict import policy. All grains, fruits, veg, dairy and meat were forbidden. They xrayed all luggage and the mostly indigenous passengers were a bit confused. Many of them had their quinoa and bread as well as other grocercies they were carrying with them. When we’d all been thoroughly checked and stamped we were allowed back on the bus.

The difference between Bolivia and Chile were immediate. Although the landscape looked the same, on this side of the border the roads were paved. Notice I didn't say well-paved however, the endless construction signaled that would soon be fixed and take more than a few hours off the trip. Unfortunately, at the moment the road was a little treacherous and at one point we had to stop when we came upon a crash. There was a bus overturned on the side of the road. As we got closer we saw that there had been a collision with a truck. There were no emergency officials and all the passengers appeared to be okay as they stood at the side of the road waiting for someone to pick them up. They climbed on a truck ahead of us to the nearest town while we were waved through the accident zone to continue our journey. I noticed that our driver reduced his speed after that. Well I thought it was because of that, as we chugged along it became apparent that the bus was having issues. The driver plodded on though the mountains getting us to the highway where he alternated between trying to make up some time and stopping to work on the bus. We may have been in a new country but it was the same old story when it came to buses.

Around 9pm the bus got to Iquique, or so I thought. It was a big sprawling town full of stoplights and modern buildings. But in fact this was Alto Hospicio, the suburbs of Iquique. I only realized where we were when the bus reached a cliff. Two kilometers down a steep series of switchbacks lay Iquique all bright lights and tall buildings that hugged the coast of the Pacific. It was an amazing sight but as the bus got to the city the awe of the lights changed to a turned up nose. The city looked grotty and rundown. Unlike old Bolivian towns which were just the victim of ugly architecture and building materials, Iquique looked rundown. The buildings were better built but were now grotty giving the town a very seedy feeling. In the midst of this the bus pulled over on a street and let us off. We had no clue where we were. The Germans managed to find a cab to take them to the hostel in town they picked out. We were headed in the opposite direction so we said goodbye and wished them luck. Now it was our turn to find a taxi. We lugged our bags to a busier road where we eventually flagged down a free taxi to take us to Cavancha beach where the hostels we had chosen were located. It was a good choice, as we got out of the centre of town, the homeless people disappeared replaced with landscaped lawns and palm trees. Our first choice of hostel was booked up. They recommended another place 4 blocks away but we couldn’t find it ending up at a small hotel described as a surfers’ hangout in our guidebook. It wasn’t great but it would do so we dumped our bags, grabbed a quick bite to eat across the street before heading to bed. It didn’t matter about the accommodation, all that mattered was we had escaped from Bolivia, for now at least.

Arsenic and old lead.

It was hard to believe but just a few hundred years ago, Potosi (and Bolivia) had been the richest city in the world. No really, poor crappy dusty Bolivia had once been the envy of the world with Potosi at the centre of it all. This wealth came from the crappy dusty hills surrounding the city. Or rather one hill, Cerro Rico (literally Rich Hill). For almost 500 years, miners had been pulling silver out of the ground of this looming bump. These days the search for silver may take years unlike the minutes it did back in the beginning and the miners must make a living selling lesser minerals like zinc and tin but mostly by giving tours of the mines. Although Potosi was nice to look at, it was small so the mine tour was the only reason to stay in Potosi. And today that’s what we were doing.

The night before we’d booked our Engligh tour through the hostel figuring that the favourite hostel in town would have a pretty good tour. They promised small groups but when they picked us up there were double the number in the mini bus. Hmm… But we still were only about 18 of us and our guide Julio was soon joined by Jhonny who was going to help out. Julio either had a very weird sense of humour or was about to go postal. I hoped for our sake it was a sense of humour but when he told us that before becoming a guide he’d worked in the mines for 20 years I began looking around the mini bus to make sure he didn’t have a duffle bag with a rifle and boxes of bullets.

The bus dropped us off at the office where Jhonny and Julio handed out protective jackets and pants as well as rubber boots and helmets, headlamps and battery belts. All the sizes were European and it took Adrian and I a couple of guesses to figure out what our sizes translate into. Even then, we both ended up walking around in boots at least a size too big. But the last time we changed our boots, Julio started twitching and yelled that it didn’t matter. So we decided not to say anything and clomped across the street to the miner’s market.

At the miner’s market which wasn’t actually a market but a street with a handful of modest shops, Julio gave us a little background on the mines. Until the 80s the mine of Cerro Rico were a huge part of the Potosi economy, even after silver ceased to tumble out of the shafts. Then the price of tin and zinc and silver fell and the government pulled out. The rusty industrial equipment they left behind still pockmarked the side of the mountaim unused and abandonned. But without the mines the people of Potosi had nothing and no way to make a living. The miners decided to continue mining on their own and formed small mining cooperatives (photo above), each claiming a portion of the shafts as their own. It was one of the dozens of cooperatives we were going to visit to meet some of the 20 miners that worked for it. They mined everything by hand. Life was short and hard. And the returns for their effort were even smaller. That’s why they did the tours. And to help them out, we were now at the market to buy them some supplies as a gift. We all put in 20Bs each and let Julio choose what to get. At the first stall, he piled up coca leaves and cigarettes before directing our attention to the lighters. There were typical Bics and as well as shelf of those decorated with pictures of half-naked women.

“If you were down in the mine, which lighter would you rather have?” Julio asked. The lads in the group immediately grabbed a handful of the half naked ladies. Julio approved and added them to the pile, holidng on to one just a little too long before dragging us down the street.

“We have to buy different things at different places because only certain people can sell certain things,” he continued. “Back there we bought coca leaves because she had a license to sell coca leaves. But we couldn’t buy too much because she could go to jail.” We were all confused so he explained. If a licence holder sold more than 500kg a year, she could be arrested and accused of selling to cocaine producers. That was unfortunate for the locals because with all the tour groups coming through and all the miners desperate for a little buzz while they worked, she probably could have sold a lot more and made a lot more money.

The next shop was licensed to sell dynamite. And alcohol apparently. Interesting combination of products. And perhaps it was the alcohol that explained Julio’s weird behaviour. He threw sticks of dynamite to all of us causing us to yelp when half of the folks missed and dropped theirs. That just made Julio laugh sadistically.

“They’re harmless without these,” he said holding up fuses and blastic caps. But not all of us were convinced reading the large warning on each. He roughly gathered up all the sticks and put them in a pile before adding a dozen bottles of pure alcohol to the pile. One guy made the mistake of grabbing some water too. Julio tossed it aside. “If you were down in a mine, would you want to drink water,” he scoffed but he replaced it with some bottles of non-alcoholic but super sweet orangeade as if trying to appease us.

With the shopping done, Julio hustled us all into the mini van for the drive up to the mine entrance. On our way up, Julio began barking at us about safety. “My word is the word. You must do exactly as I say. And if you don’t like it tough sh*t. Complain afterwards. I don’t care.” Oh boy, this was going to be a fun outing. His mood didn’t improve at the mine. He divided us into two groups. He took one group and Jhonny took the other. Adrian and I were pushed into Jhonny’s group. That would have been fine except Jhonny spoke no English. I told Julio we had paid for an English tour. He glared at me and told me to complain to the office and then ignored me. Luckily Leoni, a Dutch girl, was fluent and said she would translate for our group. It turned out she was the only one who had signed up for the Spanish language tour – the rest of us were all expecting English. I was happy to be away from Julio but still angry about the incident. It wasn’t the language barrier (I could understand and translate for Adrian) but it was his unapologetic attitude that ticked me off.

But I had to forget about all that as we passed the entrance. Overhead the sign was barely visible under the sticky film of llama’s blood that covered it. Jhonny explained that it was part of a blessing ceremony that took place twice a year. It was a blessing we all wanted once we stepped inside. It was impossible to step upright in the tunnels, built for the vertically-challenged Bolivian miners. We were instructed to move fast to avoid the full ore carts due to come speeding down the narrow tunnel. But our progress was hampered by the uneven ground as we tripped over deep holes filled with murky water. Of course, it was as I was hunched over and trying to speed walk that I discovered my helmet was too big for me. It slid over my eyes and I couldn’t see unless I held my head up awkwardly. If you want to recreate the moment, blindfold yourself, bend from the waist and try to run. Not easy. I considered taking the helmet off until I banged my head on the overhead pipes and realized I’d rather stumble than knock myself unconscious.

After 15 mintues of walking into the heart of the mine, Jhonny pulled us into a small cave. It contained a statue of Jesus. This was a place where the miners blessed themselves before heading in. But it was also marked the point where miners left religion behind. Inside the mine was considered the underworld and this statue was a way of announcing “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” Cheery. Jhonny let us catch our breath before taking us further into the mine. There was another cave not too far ahead. Inside this one was a grotesque statue. This was Tio, the god of the mines.

Tio, Jhonny told us, wasn’t a Quechua god, he was actually a Spanish creation. When the Spanish had first built the mine, they had forced the locals to work in the mines but found they weren’t very productive in the horrible conditions unless someone was watching over them. Of course, none of the Spanish had wanted to volunteer in the deadly depths so they called on a higher power. They placed a statue in the mine and called him Dio (God) which the Quechua pronounced Tio. The workers, probably terrified by the figure, worked harder under its gaze and now it was considered the god of the mines. They made offerings of cigarettes, alcohol and lit candles to it, praying to survive longer than the average worker.

After we’d all had a moment to take in the story and the statue, Jhonny got us back on our feet and led us further into the tunnel which had somehow gotten story. We were passed by Julio, leading a girl out to the entrance. She was obviously upset unable to take the claustrophobic conditions. When he came back he pointed at me and told us we were now to join him. It was a case of be careful what you wish for. Sure we were now in the English speaking group again but we were back with Julio, the jerk.

My mood didn’t improve as the air got hotter and thicker the further into the mine we went. (And Julio’s certainly didn’t) In the humid conditions my glasses kept fogging up and I had to take them off. It wasn’t like I could see with the helmet slipping over my eyes anyway. Julio saw me struggling with my helmet and then yelled at me for not wearing one that fit. I wanted to remind him that he said it didn’t matter if everything fit but wisely bit my tongue. We met up with the rest of the tour group and Julio led us to an opening in the ceiling. I looked at the height and then at my short little legs and knew there would be a problem. I tried to assess how I’d be able to climb up the slimy walls to get through the hole wearing rubber boats that were too big, unable to see, and worried about breaking a leg or two, only to have my thought process interrupted by Julio.

“What’s taking you so long? Get up there now,” he barked at me as he grabbed my arms and pulled. Now I had no way to support myself so I wrenched my arms away from him, and told him off. I took my time to get up the hole conjuring up everything I had learned about caving from Patrick back in the caves of Belize. It worked. Up above we were in a small chamber in the midst of a group of miners as well as Jhonny and his group. As we were gathered around them, Julio took the time to yell at me in front of everyone. “If I tell you to move, you move. If you don’t you can just leave. If you think this is bad think of the miners who work here every day.” He stared at me and I glared back not breaking my stare. He blinked first and then encouraged the miners to ask us questions, the ruder the better. So the miners asked the girl with short hair and no boyfriend if she was a lesbian, the guy with dreadlocks if he was gay, and wanted to know why I hadn’t given Adrian any babies, etc. He seemed to think it was funny and when anyone objected he told us to be sensitive to them. For Julio, working in the dismal conditions of the mine meant one could be as rude as possible. This was the first time during our time in Bolivia that we’d encountered any sort of bad behaviour by the locals. The highly indigenous population were normally quiet, shy and reserved. But down here, things were different. Down here they had Julioto egg them on, Julio who obviously hated us tourists. Hoping to ease the mood, we passed out our gifts of dynamite, coca leaves, and pure sugar alcohol. The miners immediately opened the alcohol and began to pass it around. Julio told us all we had to drink or the miners would be offended.

Around the fifth round, Julio came over to sort of apologize to me, claiming that safety was the reason for the outburst. But I wondered why, if Julio was so worried about safety he was forcing us to drink. It was only the voracious thirst of the miners that kept us from all getting completely drunk. He probably hoped that the alcohol was going to soften my mood but I simply glared at him and he moved on. The miners polished off the alcohol before going back to work. The five of them were trying to insert a beam above their heads to support the roof of the cave. Julio then asked who wanted to go further, everyone but Adrian and I put up their hands. So we stayed with Jhonny and the miners. For some reason we felt safer with the drunk miners hammering at an unstable roof than we did going down to the next level with crazy Julio, even as chunks of the roof fell around us. With the help of Jhonny we were able to talk to the miners a bit more honestly. Most were under 30, married with at least one girlfriend on the side and a couple of children. They were proud of their girlfriends; the more they had the more successful and manly their peers considered them. But I wondered how many of them were telling the truth and how many were lying to keep themselves amused while they worked 12 hours a day in these mines. They’d all started working underground in their teens and admitted they’s probably die here. Jhonny was only 23 but had managed to get this tour guide gig. Unlike the rest of them, he actually smiled. I would too once I made it out of the mine, whenever that was.

I was getting anxious to leave, especially when Jhonny explained that the dust and slime in the mine was full of arsenic, lead, asbestos and other fun things. I pulled my hand out of the pile of gunk, however, I was already covered in crap and pretty sure I’d be blowing black boogers for the next week as it was. We had to wait 45 minutes for the others to return before we could leave the toxic mess. None of them looked happier or satisfied. In fact they looked worse. Now rather than just one miserable guide there was one miserable guide and 18 miserable tourists. Julio couldn’t make any of us feel any worse, so he considered his work done and began to lead us out of the mine. The thought that the tour was almost over, made the return trip a lot easier. And there was the sound of deep breaths being taken when we reached the wall of fresh cool air just before the entrance.

Outside of the mine we all whipped off our helmets and opened our protective jackets. But Julio had one more activity planned. He took us to an open area and ordered Jhonny to blow up the last stick of dynamite. He proceeded to tell us the story of buying dynamite. You never used to need a license to sell it or buy but a few years ago a tourist bought some and then took it back to his hostel where he promptly used it to commit suicide, injuring a few guests in the blast. I wondered to myself if he killed himself after taking Julio’s tour. Jhonny lit the fuse and we all stood a safe distance away only to notice that Julio and Jhonny were nowhere in sight. A guy turned to me and said “Do you think it’s odd that they’ve left us hear while the dynamite goes off.” Actually no, I wouldn’t be surprised if Julio was trying to get rid of us. We put our helmets back on and took a few more steps back just as the dynamite went off. It was loud but fireworks are a bit more exciting.

Julio and Jhonny were waiting at the bus to take us back to the office where we shed our layers of muddy clothes and deposited our helmets and battery belts. Despite being the thing to do in Potosi, no one was talking about the tour in an excited or satisfied way. No one was talking at all. We’d gotten to see what working in a mine for almost no money was like. It was grim and depressing. But the tour was even worse. I’ve always said the tour guide makes or breaks a tour – and Julio had definitely broken this one. When we got back to the hostel, the murmurings began. Everyone had hated him and was happy to see the back of him. I immediately showered trying to remove the layer of gunk off of my face and hands. But like Julio’s attitude it wouldn’t go away and for the next few days all I could smell was the nasty metallic scent of the mine.

Penitent in Potosi

Our time in Sucre was over just as we were really beginning to like the city. We could have stayed but with the clock ticking on our visa, we decided to move on to our next destination Potosi. If we spent 2 days there we’d get to our final destination Uyuni with just enough time to do a 3-day salt flat tour. A Canadian-Aussie couple staying at the Sucre hostel tried to make us feel better by assuring us that Potosi was a nice town too. I wasn’t so sure. Potosi was the world’s highest city and in the middle of the dry mountains. It had a rich history but that history was based on the mining that had gone on in those mountains for the last 400 years and mines aren’t really known to be picturesque. However, visiting the still-operational mines was high on the gringo to do list so we were off.

Our plan was to take a shared taxi however our taxi let us off at the bus station instead of the shared taxi stand down the road. But as we were getting out of the taxi, a ticket seller approached us to let us know that there was a Potosi bus leaving in 2 minutes. It would take longer but the price was cheaper and we weren’t in a hurry. Potosi was only 5 hours away which after our journey from Samaipata was nothing. So we hurried to get on. The bus took us up and up through the bare hills. Rocks and sand and more rocks. The view so far was mesmerizing for its nothingness but didn’t make me hopeful for Potosi. And when we got to the outskirts, my low expectations were met. The town was another ugly cement Bolivian town of low shacks and dusty roads. Looming over the town were the mines adding to (or should that be subtracting from) the view.

The bus left us off on one of those dusty roads and we grabbed a taxi to take us into the centre where our hostel was. It was described as an old colonial building which I assumed would be easy to find. But once the taxi turned down into the heart of the city, I wasn’t so sure. While the vast suburbs had been ugly, the centre was nothing but pretty and old (really old) colonial buildings. The taxi driver most also have been a little confused as he let us off in front of the wrong colonial hostel far away from ours. Actually it probably wasn’t that far but since we were back at altitude after a week down in Sucre we were out of practice and we were carrying our heavy packs. Not the best conditions for our first walking tour but Potosi still made a good impression on us. It was like a miniature and older version of Sucre.

The hostel was nice and since we weren’t planning on spending too much time here we weren’t too bothered about the weak wifi signal. Although Adrian did insist on upgrading to the room with the tv so that he could watch Monday night football. But he surprised me by not turning the tv on and instead insisting that we go out to visit a convent – “there’s a display on flagellation” he said with sick glee, hoping for a display of whips and other torturous objects.

Walking through the square past more pretty buildings and churches, we arrived at the convent just after 4pm joining the last tour group of the day in progress. The guide took us around the convent for a lengthy 2-hour tour that explained the history of the cloistered order and took us through all the rooms and how they lived. Adrian got impatient about an hour in but remained hopeful that we’d soon see the gruesome objects. However, somewhere between the museum and and the crypt, he began to lose hope. We shouldn’t have been surprised, the order was still active and our guide was a nun herself; I couldn’t imagine her showing and explaining the tools of self-flagellation. I tried to prepare Adrian for this but he held on to the Lonely Planet description he’d read as The Word. I finally took a peek at it and realized he’d misinterpreted it. The writer had meant the tour was for those who wanted to torture themselves not a tour of instruments of torture. In the end both descriptions were wrong since the tour was a good albeit thorough one even if it wasn’t what we expected nor about what we were interested in.

So what did we learn about the convent instead? Well, cloistered nuns take their segregation seriously. They weren’t allowed contact with anyone from the outside world. Family visits were held behind screens. Priests were separated by confessional-like windows. Supplies and food were delivered to special drawers. And it wasn’t like the nuns were living it up on the inside either. They sleep on wooden boards, knelt on stone floors. And wore itchy wool tunics. Prayed to gruesome figures of Christ on the cross. Yet despite all this, families encouraged their daughters to join the order (photo above) and these daughters considered it a privilege. Yikes. Perhaps the torture the guide book had been referring to, had been their strict disciplined lifestyle. Whatever the reason, it definitely wasn’t for us and as soon as the tour was over we took off.

On our way back to the hostel we stopped in at a funky café for a tasty pasta dinner. Then it was back to the hostel so Adrian could watch his Monday night football. While searching for ESPN, we came across Much Music and it was playing actual music videos – something that the Canadian version hasn’t done in many, many years. Unfortunately, one of the artists they played was Daddy Yankee, and his song Gasolina which we had heard on every bus ride in every country, and at every restaurant, bar and café. It was torture. If the order of nuns at the convent ever decide to practice self-flagellation, I think non-stop Daddy Yankee would be the modern version of whips and chains.

As dead as a dinosaur.

Besides just being a nice town, the other thing Sucre is famous for is its dinosaur tracks. There’s even a special tourist bus called the dino tuck that picks people up from the plaza and takes them out to the quarry where the tracks are located. The site is the largest set of dinosaur tracks in the world. Adrian was super excited about this and for some reason, the Dino Truck in particular.

Although we were only going to be here for one night, Adrian started the day by heading to the market to pick up some grub. His goal was to come back with a bunch of oranges to make juice, as well as some other fresh fruit that we were missing terribly. Unfortunately for Adrian he confused the Spanish word for 10 with the word for Thankfully, the seller had erred on the side of caution and sent him away with just two shopping bags full of oranges. Next time Adrian should just stick to saying sh-sh-sh-sh while shopping. It seems to work better than his attempts at Spanish. Oh well, after lots of orange juice and free oatmeal we headed out to catch the Dino Truck.

When the truck/bus pulled up, Adrian however was disappointed. “I though it would be a truck shaped like a dinosaur,” he admitted. No really. That’s what he was excited about. I should have guessed since if it’s tacky he wants to see it. But when the truck pulled up to the entrance to the park his need for all things tacky was satisfied once again. In the last five years, the Bolivian government and the cement factory on whose land the tracks were located, had pumped a bunch of money into the site to build a tourist centre complete with lifesize plaster and plastic models of the dinosaurs. Since it was smack dab in the middle of a dismal looking cement factory and quarry, the bright colours and child-like design was a weird juxtaposition. We had just enough time to take it in before every one on the dino truck was herded into a tour group.

The guide took us through the small onsite museum and into the grounds before taking us to the track viewing point. Along the way he gave us a brief history of site. Around the turn of the last century, an earthquake struck destroying much of the town, our guide told us. This was surprising since the town was one of the best-preserved ones we’d seen. To rebuild the town a cement factory and quarry were built just outside of town where there was plenty of the required minerals and rocks. They dug and dug and dug until they reached a hard layer. One of the geologists noticed something a bit odd about it. The layer jutted straight up vertically but was covered in animal tracks. On closer inspection he realized they weren’t animal tracks but dinosaur ones. He called in the right people and despite being in the middle of a (still-functioning) cement quarry, the slab remained untouched except for the scientists.

Nowadays, the slab was preserved for tourists. At one time the slab had been a muddy flat used as a highway by the area animals but shifts in the earth had driven the hardened slab straight up, perfect for viewing the kilometer long stretch. Until recently, it was possible to get right up to the slab but it was now too dangerous not just because of the instability of the wall but because the factory trucks used the area in front as a main road to and from the factory. But from the safe distance of the tourist park we had a great view. There were small dino prints and big ones. There were the tracks of docile herbivores and of scary carnivores crisscrossing the wall. Exposure to the elements had caused some portions to collapse but scientists and the government are working hard to keep the rest intact. I don’t blame them – they invested all this money in a tourist centre that wouldn’t be all that appealing without the tracks themselves. Although Adrian might disagree – he enjoyed posing under the plastic models particularly when he realized that the creator had included anatomically correct bums which he pointed and giggled at. He would have stuck around longer but the dino truck honked that it was time for our return trip to Sucre.

Back in town, it was still early afternoon so we stopped for lunch at an Italian café on the plaza. Then we decided to check out some more of the city. We walked towards the big park in front of the government buildings. It was the weekend so the park was full of families. The kids were riding around in motoroized or peddle powered cars and carts or playing on the jungle gym shaped like the Eiffel tower. Meanwhile their parents and what looked like every stray dog in the city lounged under the shady trees. Afterwards we headed out past the opera house and old hospital towards the cemetery. It was a bit of a trek but it was worth it.

The cemetery was jammed full of people, not just dead ones but living ones too. The cemetery was a city of cramped streets lined with graves – although they weren’t graves like we were used to. Instead there were walls of tombs on each of the dozens of streets. Some were marked by just a simple engraved stone while others were more like glass display cases. Instead of street names or monuments, we navigated our way using the fancy crypts in the middle. They were home to some of Sucre’s wealthy families. The crowds of living people were all busy tended to the tombs, scrubbing the stone markers, replacing the flowers with fresh ones and and placing new tokens in the tombs as an offering. The day of the dead was in a few weeks and it looks like everyone was sprucing up the cemetery for the 1st of November. What was interesting was that it didn’t matter if the person had died a hundred years before or two months ago, all the graves were being tended too. We were offered a tour but since we didn’t know any of the famous people buried here we declined. We wandered around on our own, discovering the poor part of the cemetery where the streets of tombs had been replaced by modest markers like the ones we saw on the side of the road, as well as a small Jewish cemetery.

With our feet now very tired, dare I say dead tired, we grabbed a mini bus back to the market. The break gave me a chance to realize that we’d actually visited two cemeteries today and they weren’t all that different. Okay, so the dino tracks weren’t real one but it was a place were people visited to remember the animals that were no longer here. And when you think about it, that isn’t very different from an actual cemetery. The locals tended to the graves of distant family members who had been dead for generations and we saw many other gringos like ourselves checking out the cemetery even though they had no connection to anyone in it. I guess human nature is just fascinated by the past no matter how distant it is.