(old) Don’t drink and bike.

Back in the years I now lovingly call my misspent youth, I used to ride my bike everywhere. To university (when I went), to the club (when I left), around Ottawa, around Toronto. And after dark that often involved riding my bike (with helmet) down side streets with more than a couple of drinks in me. My clubbing days are way behind (by choice) me and so are my cycling days (by bike thievery). But today was a chance to relive those halcyon days of drinking and biking and see if they were just as rose coloured as I remembered. Adrian and I had signed up to do the bikesnwines™ tour of the Mendoza wineries.

Over our free breakfast of corn flakes, medialunas, coffee and juice, I checked my email and saw that Jillian and Dan had replied but the best I could do was suggest a random winery and random time to meet up. Then I sent my sister a happy birthday email. Then it was off to raise a glass or two in her honour at those wineries. We were picked up and dropped off in Maipu at the bikesnwines office where there was a large group already waiting. We were given maps of the area and a briefing about some of the highlights including where we might get some food on the way. Then it was time to grab a bike. They were all yellow but not equal, except for all being equally in bad shape. But eventually Adrian and I both found bikes we could peddle and headed out down the road. Initially there were bike paths at the side of the road but once we left the town the road became smaller and the bike paths disappeared. Neither of our bikes was a particularly easy ride so rather than heading out to the furthest winery we had picked out we ended up at the closest one.

The closest winery also ended up being one of the original ones. La Rural was also a museum. Amongst the industrial and modern vats and distilling equipment were the original wine making instruments, old photos and documents from the winery’s centuries old history. My favourite room had to be the one full of giant oak vats full of aging wine. We took it all in (probably because we weren’t in a hurry to get back on the awful bikes) and then wandered over to the tasting area. For free we were given three half glasses of wine including a malbec. Now, I’m not a wine connoisseur but I’ll do my best. Malbec is an Argentinean varietal so I wanted to like it but can’t say I enjoyed it. It had an almost bitter taste to it. However, the others okay. I blamed this on the sample being free. After all we couldn’t expect them to give away the good stuff. With our free wine sampled we headed back to the bikes and peddled off stopping to watch a tanker pull in and up a one-wheel ramp so that the last bit of grape juice dribbled out of the tank.

We continued down the road. The cycling didn’t get easier but the view was pretty spectacular. Miles of vineyards in front and the snow-capped Andes in the back. After our first tasting I was already feeling my fake Asian flush* coming on (*after a drink, I have a minor allergic reaction to alcohol, however I am not Asian, hence my term fake Asian flush) and it was also midday so we decided to stop in at the Almacen del Sur deli that was mentioned during this morning’s briefing. We turned down a side road and soon reached the “deli”. It looked more like a french country estate and the on site gourmet deli full of organic spreads and tapanades. Delicious but wasn’t going to tide us over. Luckily they also had a café in their garden so we sat down, looked at the menu and immediately began drooling. There was a biker’s quick lunch but it was the tasting menu that we lingered on. $30 each for a huge spread of countless goodies and a bottle of wine. We hemmed and hawed about the splurge before common sense kicked in – we’d never get an opportunity to eat so well for so little, at least not on this trip. We ordered the tasting menu and undid our pants’ buttons in preparation (metaphorically speaking of course)

The food was delicious. The server kept bringing it out, explaining each dish as best she could in English. The first course was a selection of breads and spreads. Tapanade, arugula and pine nut, roasted eggplant, some soft cheese and a vegetable mix. Delish. Then there was the green salad, followed by 7 more dishes cheese and fish stuffed peppers, chicken wings, sauteed shrimp skewers, pork ribs, filo stuffed with lamb, and a potato cake. We were soon stuffed and good thing because we needed something to soak up the alcohol as we washed it all down with a bottle of chardonnay, passing on the malbec this time. But we weren’t finished. Dessert was apple crumble with custard and a coffee. All the food was grown on site and fresh and we enjoyed ever cent we spent. In fact we had so much food in us, the idea of getting back on the bikes wasn’t very alluring.

It was now past 2 (the random time I had suggested to Jillian and Danny that we meet at the random winery). But a glance at the map and it was obvious we were nowhere near the meeting spot. But since it was more than likely possible that they didn’t get the message I didn’t feel too bad about not being there. Instead we headed to the Tempus Alba winery. Only our second winery on our winery tour. As old and traditional as our first stop had been, this place was modern and shiny. Inside our first sight was a bottle of wine draped in the Canadian maple leaf. It had won some major prize at some Canadian wine show. We took it as a good sign and walked through. There was a self-guided walking tour explaining the fermentation process which led us from the vineyards to the restaurant and tasting area. We quickly turned over the food menu and reached for the wine tasting one. We chose to split the three wines for $7 menu. We skipped the Malbec and picked a Tempranillo (another local special), a Syrah and a fancy blend (photo above). The glasses were larger and so were the tastes. It was a good thing we were sharing. Especially when we left and were immediately followed by a motorcycle cop. I waited for the siren to go off and hoped we weren’t as drunk as we felt. I tried my hardest to keep the bike going straight and a decent speed. But sweat trickled down my back in nervous expectation. Back in Canada we’d definitely be arrested for drunk biking (actually, I don’t know if it’s an arrest or a ticket but I do know it’s illegal) but here in Argentina we were followed all the way to the next winery which just happened to be Trapiche, the one I had randomly suggested meeting the others at. Now safely off the bikes, I turned to take a look at the cop. He was now following another group of drunk cyclists in a slow-motion imitation of a cop chase. It was then that I noticed the “Turista” emblazoned on the side of his bike and the flashing light. His job wasn’t to arrest drunk bikers but to protect them from the other vehicles.

Having lost the fuzz on our trail we were finally able to relax. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) we weren’t able to relax with another glass or two of wine. The guide told us we had just missed the 4pm tour and the next didn’t begin until 5pm. Trapiche was Argentina’s largest winery. It looked like a big corporate monstrosity and evidently ran their even the tourist part of their business like a corporation. So we decided to bail and head to the liqueur and chocolate place marked on the map. We’d probably had enough wine by this point any way but you can never have too much chocolate. We had to wait here for a tour too. And after the rest of the day it was a bit more cottage industry than elegant winery. The chocolates were tasty and the liqueurs weren’t bad however we didn’t really need the hot dogs they served to go with it. It was now time to get back to the winesnbikes office. We were definitely a little tipsy because it was suddenly easy to peddle. But that didn’t stop us from having a few après drinks drinks back at the office. We didn’t need them but we started chatting with some of the other recently returned folks and suddenly found ourselves imbibing. After Adrian order and drank another large Quilmes, I cut him off and dragged him to the bus stop. He was definitely now drunk and was completely useless when the bus arrived and I needed to get bus fare from him. He handed me his wallet and went to sit down in one of the few available seats at the back. But there was a problem. I couldn’t pay my fare to the driver, only a machine. And the machine only took coins in a country where no uses or ever has coins. I asked around the bus and met nothing but blank stares. I turned back to the front and was greeted by Dan and Jillian, they were on their way back to town as well. I told them my predicament and they tried to help by breaking my bill into some smaller ones. But I still had no coins. No wonder drinking and biking is acceptable in these parts – it’s virtually impossible to pay for a bus fare. Luckily a stranger on the bus, stepped forward and swiped his pass card for us and I gave him the bills. Thank you, stranger.

With Adrian half passed out in the back of the bus, I stopped to chat to Dan and Jillian who were accompanied by their couchsurfing host Jessica. Somehow we ended up talking about Canadian politics which the two Americans knew more about than me thanks to some Canadian civil servant couchsurfing host they’d had in Mexico. I was put to shame – I only hope that Jessica wasn’t bored by all the North American political babble. But it helped to pass the time until we got back to Mendoza. It was dark when we all got off the bus. Adrian immediately ran across the busy street to pee in front of the rush hour crowd. He may have had no shame but I did especially when Jessica jokingly mentioned that these things don’t happen in Argentina. I tried to excuse his behaviour by saying that they were quite normal in Bolivia where we had just been for the last month. I quickly said my goodbyes to the gang and dragged drunk boy away from further embarrassment. Unfortunately, I dragged him three blocks before realizing we were walking in the opposite direction from our hostel. Ok so perhaps I was a little tipsy too. But the detour back to the hostel did take us past a little completo (hot dog) stand so I could get some more food into Adrian.

We stumbled back into the hostel and while Adrian immediately passed out, I began searching for our Santiago friends, Ivan and Catalina’s contact info. We were headed there next and it would be great to meet up with them for their offer of a city tour. I turned all our bags upside down but couldn’t find it. Just as we’d made contact with Dan and Jillian I’d lost contact with two others. Oh well. If you’re reading this Ivan and Catalina sorry for not ever emailing you but now you know why.

(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.

(old) Beam us outta here Scotty.

Tonight we were off on the night bus to San Pedro de Atacama so it was time to put our affairs in order. Not because we feared for our life or anything so melodramatic but because San Pedro was a small town on the border with Bolivia and where we hoped to join a Salt Flat Tour back into Bolivia. That meant we might not have internet for quite a few days. The hotel here in Iquique supposedly had wifi but I had been unable to connect to it and their desktop in the lobby was so slow that after 20 minutes it had yet to load up the home page. I hoped that this was just the hotel connection and not a sign that the internet had taken the holiday off as well. Ivan and Catalina had told us that where they were staying was full of posh restaurants and hotels and we set off in that direction beach combing for a coffee shop with wifi.

We packed up all our gear and checked out of our room leaving all our bags except for my pack and computer in their storage room. Then it was time to walk down the beach towards posh Cavancha. Today the waves were huge and the water was full of surfers taking advantage of the swells. But they weren’t the only ones. The beach was absolutely heaving despite it being what we considered a bit too chilly to be sunbathing. The surf competition was still going on and with the big waves the experienced surfers were battling it out so we pulled up a rock to watch the action. Beside me Adrian continued to chant one, two, three, chum pretending to jump up on his invisible surfboard in some sort of imaginary competition with the pros. I didn’t ask him if he was winning but did tell him it was time to go when the backpack and computer got too heavy.

At the far end of Cavancha was a totally different world from downtown Iquique. Here it was nothing but those shiny condos and five-star hotels and restaurants that were way beyond our price range – or at least that’s what the linen table cloths and wine glasses said to us. But most of them looked closed anyway. There was no sign of a coffee shop with or without wifi. We considered heading downtown where we had seen a place with wifi but doubted that it would open today. So we kept walking all the way to Playa Brava. All though it was a wide beach it was empty because the waves here were deadly. Not even the surfers were brave enough for Brava. There wasn’t much in this area and we were starving and headed back to Cavancha to try and catch a bus into town. However, on our way back through the condos and hi-rises we took a different turn and discovered a bunch of restaurants that were open. One even advertised it had wifi so although it looked quite pricey we decided to give it a go. The prices were steep but we decided to just enjoy the ambience and the wifi and order anyway. I had my first Peruvian ceviche (albeit in Chile) and a salad while landlubber Adrian stuck with steak and potatoes. While we ate I used the wifi to upload some photos. It was a shot upload session since there was no plug and my weak battery quickly drained. There was more bad news when I used the little power I had left to look up some info on San Pedro. The hostel prices were ridiculous - $40 for a room with shared bath!?! I just hoped that we’d be able to find a tour out of town as soon as possible. We sipped our drinks as slowly as possible and just before dark we headed back to the hotel to get our bags and head to the bus station a few hours later.

When we bought our tickets the helpful clerk had spoken slowly and repeated everything so I could understood but I was still not 100% sure if I had understood it all. I was still puzzled by the fact that she had said the bus would stop in the middle of the night so we could get some sleep. That seemed weird and when we got on the bus I had trouble drifting off wondering if we were going to be woken up and forced off the bus to wait for a connection to San Pedro. When I finally decided just to sleep and figure it out when we got there, sleep was made difficult by the bus temperature. There were no blankets on board so Adrian and I alternated between sweating and freezing as the driver clumsily adjusted the heat throughout the trip. But we must have fallen asleep and indeed sometime in the middle of the night the bus did stop because when the sun came up, I woke up to discover that we were parked in the Calama bus company office with just Adrian, myself and a couple of other passengers left on the bus. The bus was locked up tight and so was the onboard bathroom. That was the most distressing since I now had to piss like a racehorse. It was also freezing now which did nothing to help my bladder issues. I thought I was saved when the driver opened the door and came onboard. I asked him to unlock the bathroom but he said no and directed me to the bus company office. I quickly ran off the bus only to discover the office just opening up and told by a clerk that the bathroom was across the street in the shipping office. It of course was closed for another hour. I set the world record in pee-pee dancing on the street waiting and hoping that some keen worker would turn up early for work. He didn’t but my bladder held until he showed up. Feeling 10000 times better I boarded the bus as the rest of the passengers filed on for the trip to San Pedro.

It was a 4-hour drive through the desert to the small dusty town of San Pedro. When the bus stopped and as we got off it felt like we’d traveled back to Bolivia already. We grabbed our bags and headed into town to search for a place to stay. The first place had a room for $60. And the next had a dorm that was going to cost us $20 each. Both were more than we wanted to be paying so we continued on to the HI where they at least had a room with shared bath for $40. The price wasn’t great and neither were the facilities but we were sick of walking and after a night on the bus just wanted to shower. However we were told we had to pay upfront and we didn’t have enough cash on us. So we set out once again through the small town in search of an ATM. The first machine we found only took Mastercards and our bank cards are Visa. We were directed to another machine on the other side of the thankfully small town but it was out of service. Now we had to find an internet café so that I could go online to look up our Mastercard PINs that I had stored in my email. But first we decided to stop for breakfast using the bit of cash we had. Breakfast was more expensive than we’ve paid so far and was mediocre like the rest of the town so far. But just next door was an internet café so I was able to grab our PINs while we waited for the food. Then it was back to the ATM which was now only giving out $100 at a time. I took this as a sign that our time in San Pedro should be as short as possible and after paying our hostel bill and showering in the lukewarm dribble they called a tap, Adrian and I went out to search for a tour that was leaving tomorrow.

San Pedro appeared to be a town that existed only for the tourist. The streets were pretty in that generic cookie-cutter sort of way and they were filled by alternating tour companies, cafes, and gift shops. It was like a Disney version of Spanish Colonial South America but at least it made it easy to do some comparison tour shopping. The guidebooks and fellow travelers warn that the tour companies in San Pedro were hit or miss and all somewhat mediocre. We tried one recommend by the Aussies we’d met back in Costa Rica. The rep there told us that the accommodations were basic; they only had dorms and there was no hot water (way to sell) and they cost more than we’d hoped to pay. So we walked down the street to another place that I’d seen reco’ed elsewhere. Their price was 10% less and they showed us pictures of their private rooms and promised hot water. But more importantly they took credit cards without adding a service charge. It was kind of a no-brainer and we booked with them to leave tomorrow. With our escape plotted we walked around the town but just saw more of the picture perfect white washed adobe buildings, souvenir markets, generic backpacker cafes and more pricey package tour restaurants. One of these had wifi so we decided to abuse their facilities. We ordered copious cups of coffee while I finished uploading the photos from the past week. The connection was rather slow and when the restaurant closed between lunch and dinner I thought they would kick us out. But they didn’t and four hours, and $20 worth of coffee later I got all the photos up.

We stopped to pick up snacks and water for the three day tour and then went to find a place where the locals ate for a cheap meal. Our search led us out of town to a not so pretty suburb. The homes were still adobe but were no longer painted and there were no more leafy trees lining the streets. It was amazing that this totally different village lay right next door to a tourist mecca. I thought for sure we’d find a place to eat but the streets were deserted and we saw nothing that looked open. You know in those Western movies when the stranger walks into town and all the locals close up pretending to have moved away hoping to avoid him? Well, that’s it what it felt like as we walked through this side of town. We were the outsiders looking for a meal (not a shoot out) and the locals were all locked up tight inside hoping we’d just go away. It was eerie and unnerving. I know the locals ate somewhere but we couldn’t find it. Instead we ate at the first place we came to back in San Pedro. But being on the edge of town, food was cheaper than what we’d seen elsewhere. It wasn’t the best but at least it cost less than our coffee. The best part came when we left the café. The sun was setting and thanks to some low-lying clouds it was the most unbelievable sunset ever. It was apocalyptic and I expected a space ship to appear out of the clouds (photo above) at any moment and blow up the church in the plaza. And when I looked down the street I wasn’t the only one that felt that way. Every other gringo stood motionless looking up at the sky. Before all of us zombies were beamed up, the sun dipped below the horizon breaking the spell. But I took it as a good sign that we were leaving tomorrow to be beamed up into the other world of the salt flats.

(old) Turning the clocks back and forth.

“What day is it?”
“Do you mean the date or the day?”
“Either, I guess.”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Not really, I guess.”
Adrian and I must have had this exact conversation about 100 times in the last 7 months. I’m not sure when we lost track of the day or at least the day of the week, but I know it happened relatively quickly. Although we’ve discovered that we have a knack for trying to visit museums or galleries or other sites on the one day of the week they are closed. We’ve also gotten very good at forgetting what time it is. But most of the time it really doesn’t matter. And Bolivia this was particularly true. There the only clocks people use is the sun. They get up when it’s light and go to bed when it’s dark. And as for calendars, well their way of life really hasn’t changed all that much in the last 100 years. But here we were in Chile which had already shocked us with such modern wonders as shopping malls, stoplights and Pakastani corner shops, so it was rather fitting that last night before going to bed I had to dig out the alarm clock (my cell phone) to charge it and set the alarm. Today we were on tour time and I wanted to make sure that we’d have plenty of time to get ready before professor Luis came to pick us up punctually for our tour.

The stress of having to be some place at a certain time, meant I got up before the alarm went off. So I had my shower and returned to the wake up Adrian and turn off the ringing alarm he was ignoring. I was feeling mighty pleased with ourselves for leaving us enough time to gentle wake up when the hotel bell rang. It was Luis – 45 minutes early. He must have been very eager to continue his English lessons. I told him that Adrian was in the shower still so he said he’d go and pick up the others and then come pick us up. He got back in the van and headed back inside to tell Adrian to hurry up – although I don’t think he heard me over his loud shower singing. As I quickly scoffed my breakfast and packed Adrian’s up, the hotel clerk turned to me and said “ahora mes por verano,” which didn’t appear to make much sense. Now is a month to summer? I assumed he was talking about the weather or something equally banal so I smiled and nodded and repeted “verano” to him to which he smile and nodded in return. Adrian was finally out of the shower and I hustled him, or at least tried to, but since Luis was an hour early, Adrian didn’t feel the urge to rush. Luckily when the van returned we were ready although both a little annoyed by Luis’s early arrival.

We scrambled into the minivan that was full now full with Chileans. This was the first time we’d been on a tour and it was local tourists rather than foreigners. I guess, Chile is the first country we’ve been to in a while where the locals actually have vacations and the money to travel. Sitting nearest to us were Catalina and Ivan, who spoke perfect English and were happy to translate for us. Since I was still rather discombobulated by Luis’ early arrival I appreciated the break. The couple were from Santiago and had flown here for the long weekend (ah, good to know that tomorrow was a holiday). He was an environmental lawyer and she was a journalist. And both of them were very nice, despite Adrian continually calling Catalina, Catarina to go with what he called Ivan’s “odd Russian name”. Oh Adrian, the Miss Manners of the road. Luckily, Ivan and Catalina found us entertaining, particularly when they heard about our trip. We did our best not to bore them to death as we headed out of town to our first stop on the tour.

It was this first stop that Adrian and I were excited about. The tour was taking is to Humberstone in the middle of the desert. It was once a thriving town built to house the workers of the British nitrate mining operation on January 1st 1961, the town was closed, the people moved out and everything left in the desert. Adrian and I both love ghost towns. Just like us on this trip, time has stopped for them. But we also like the broken down, decaying state of everything and this site was mecca for us. Because it was the first stop on the tour, I feared we might be rushed but we ended up spending almost 3 hours exploring every nook and cranny. And there was lots to explore, the town had living quarters for all its staff but also everything to support them. There was a theatre, some churches, a swimming pool and school. But there were also many stores and shops. You see the crafty British managers didn’t pay the workers in cash but in company credit good at only the company stores. So the workers had to give back what they earned to the company. As long as nitrate was in demand, the company was laughing but soon the market dropped out and the company could no longer support the town and its workers. So they just abandoned the whole place and for decades it was left untouched until the Chilean government realized they could make some money out of it by turning it into a tourist attraction. They stepped in and stopped the decay and in some places they were even trying to fix up the old buildings hoping to prevent the tourists from injuring themselves on the broken floorboards and rusty nails and to attract a different type of visitor. The old hotel was now available to rent for events although I can’t imagine many people wanting to host their wedding in the midst of this eerie ghost town. The mine operations were also open for exploration and there the combination of rust and decay was awesome, particularly in the early morning sun (photo above). I’m pretty sure after the first hour that most of the people on the tour were bored but Adrian and I were sad when Luis told us it was time to go three hours later.

If the tour had ended now, I think Adrian and I would have felt like we’d gotten our money’s worth, but we still had the whole day ahead of us. But the sites were far spread out far across the desert giving us lots of time to take in the landscape. There were the huge sand dunes that surrounded Iquique forming the cliff we’d come down on our arrival in town two nights ago. And Humberstone was located in the rocky desert. Now Luis stopped on the side of the impossibly straight highway that was surrounded by some weird lumpy plain. As he picked up some of the lumps and threw them on the ground they broke apart revealing that they were salt and we were currently in the middle of the Chilean salt flats. Luis invited us to touch our tongues to the rock and we stupidly did. And it tasted exactly like a brick of salt, d’uh.

Before we were burnt to a crisp on the black hardtop, Luis shuttled us back into the van towards our next destination. Back when Luis had outlined the itinerary of the tour Adrian was disappointed that we wouldn’t be seeing El Gigante, a giant petroglyph in the desert. Luis had told him, that he had something even better in store. But Adrian still pouted. As we pulled up to our third stop, he finally stopped the pouting. We were at Cerro Pintado (or Painted Hill). From back on the highway we could see a series of markings on the hills the lined the edge of the desert. As we drove across the desert the figures got clearer. Here there were over 350 different figures from 4 different eras and four different people. There were some from the Tiwanaku, Inca, Aymara and Quechua people and for some reason that anthropologists have yet to determine, they all chose this spot to leave some sort of message that was still visible centuries later. Some were simple geoglyphs but there were also animals and humans depicted. And the sheer number made Adrian forget about El Gigante.

Soon everyone started grumbling about lunch – a bit unusual since it was only about noon. But I guess Chileans are used to eating at exactly noon. Luis placated us with cold drinks and snacks from the cooler and told us the next stop was lunch – an hour away on the other side of the desert. As the air conditioned van cut across the desert road, I was just thankful we were inside as we could see the heat rising off the highway and even the sand. At first I thought I had even spotted a mirage but it was an oasis and our destination. The town of Pica had been built around the oasis hundreds of years ago and was now known for its springs and orange trees. But the only site that my fellow passengers cared about at the moment was the café where we were stopping for lunch. We ordered and then chatted while waiting for our food to be prepared. When it finally arrived, everyone dug in and it was silent while we chowed down. As the dishes were being cleared away, I noticed a clock on the wall and noticed that it said 3 oclock not 2. I asked Ivan if there was a time difference between Chile and Bolivia. He explained that there was now because the clocks had sprung forward last night for daylight savings time. D’oh, Luis wasn’t an hour early this morning, we were an hour late. And the clerk at the hotel wasn’t say “Ahora mes por verano.” He was saying “Una hora mas por verano” (One hour more for summer). I guess we really had lost track of time.

It was a good thing it was so hot out so everybody was as redfaced as I now was. The heat was truly oppressive here in the middle of the desert but Luis told us he had just the thing to cure it. He took us to the hot springs in town. Unfortunately soaking in a thermal bath was the last thing I felt like doing. Adrian had no such qualms and immediately changed into his trunks and jumped in amongst all the families in the water. Ivan and Catalina invited me to walk with them into town but I passed and found a shady spot to hang out and wait for him and Tatiana, the only other one from the van who decided to jump in. And it was Tatiana, who proved to be the one who held us up as she dawdled out of the water and then back to the van and all of us were soon overheated.

It suddenly felt like a very long day but Luis had two more stops for us. Both were small towns with some very important churches. The rest of the tour group were happy to get out and explore but Adrian and I were less enthusiastic. Ivan tried to encourage us but we explained that these were the upteenth churches we’d seen on our trip. But since we were here we took a look. The first town was Mantilla and the church must have been important but we missed Luis’s explanation. So we tried to figure out our own explanation. It was white and red and a church and that was the best Adrian and I could do. The second stop was La Tirana and here I paid a bit more attention. La Tirana was famous for its yearly carnival celebrating the Virgin of Something or Other. But it wasn’t carnival so the only attraction was the church which was interesting because it was made out of wood. When we were done looking around it, we joined Ivan and Catalina to wait for the others who were shopping at the stalls in the square. We thanked Ivan for his translation services and jokingly asked how much he charged. But instead of handing us a bill, he handed us his phone number and email address and told us to give him a call when we arrived in Santiago so he could show us around the city. He and Catalina also invited us to join them for dinner and drinks that evening but Adrian was determined to watch the NFL game that night so we passed. They were really the nicest people and their generocity was awesome and we would definitely have to give them a call when we got to the city. When we got back to Iquique, we said goodbye to our new Chilean friends and set out to search for an open restaurant or pub where we could watch the game. However nothing was open, not even the chicken and chips place from the night before. Either everyone was still confused by the time or everything was closed on Sundays. We walked another street over and stumbled across a chirasco shop. Chirascos in Chile appeared to be sandwiches the size of our heads we discovered when our orders came. We stuffed as much as we could into our bellies and then rolled back to the hotel where Adrian watched the game and I went to sleep.

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.