Salt of the Earth, Bolivia

The bustling town of Uyuni, Bolivia, located nine hours north of the border town of Villazon, appears to exist solely for the purpose of catering to tourists desiring 4x4 expeditions through the surrounding countryside. We first heard about these tours from a pair of Dutch boys at a Chilean hostel, and figured we'd never participate ourselves. However, curiosity eventually got the better of us.

Our tour consisted of our driver, Leonardo, his wife/our cook Barbara, and five Italian agronomists. Three of the Italians live in La Paz and speak fluent Castellano. Two were visiting from Italy, and spoke only Italian, which to my ear sounded like fluent Castellano. Anyway, they were all quite nice, and besides for the occasional communication problems, we preferred them to the squawking Brits and Aussies we encountered at each stop. Also, they reminded us a lot of the characters in The Best of Youth.

On the first day, we explored a train "museum" -- really an old rail yard where locomotives are left to oxidize in the dusty air. From there, we visited a tiny town where a woman demonstrated how local families dry, pulverize, and package salt for consumption. And from there, we headed to the blindingly white salt flats, covered in many places by a warm cover of rainwater. Everything sparkled and shined, and the water made the mountains on the horizon seem to float in air.

The highlight of Day One was the town where we ended up and it's eerie necropolis. We spent the hour before the sun set exploring the site, which consisted of beehive-like constructions of rock scattered throughout a desert landscape. Each of the constructions housed visible human remains. Many were just skulls and femurs, but there were also some remarkably intact mummified corpses, dressed in tattered woven material and surrounded by pottery shards. All of the remains dated to pre-Incan times.

Day Two brought us to a series of small lakes, many of which were choked with colorful micro-organisms and deposits of arsenic and borax. We watched pink and white flamingos traipse about, their skinny legs folding at impossible angles. At night we stayed at a crowded encampment, sleeping seven to a room. Before bed, we taught Leonardo how to play Rummy 500, and neglected to correct him when he slapped runs and three-of-a-kinds down on the table that weren't deservedly his. Afterwards, everybody turned in early to be rested for our 4:30 am wake-up.

We pulled out the next morning in the frigid, pitch black, listening to Leonardo's stories about how drug smugglers move marijuana and cocaine into Chile by dressing up as tourists on the same 4x4 excursions we were on. We climbed to 4900 meters (the Italians had a GPS to verify it) to take in roaring geysers. The steam smelled noxiously of sulfur, but everyone was eager to brave it for the heat it provided.

The highlight of Day Three, and possibly of the trip, was a stop at some thermal baths. Despite the lack of an adequate changing area, the Italians stripped down to their tighty-whities to go for a dip. Not wanting to disrupt group solidarity, we quickly joined them, relaxing in the warm water while more tours arrived and spent awhile gawking and photographing us in their parkas and wool hats. Eventually, almost everyone joined in.

The Italians had a bus to catch that night, so we spent most of the morning and all of the afternoon booking it back to Uyuni. Unfortunately, our jeep was unwilling to cooperate. Because one of the wheels was improperly aligned on its axle, Leonardo had to make infrequent stops to remove the wheel and reattach it again. Once, someone asked how long it would take to walk to Uyuni. "A day and a night," Leonardo said, "Then another day and another night, and probably another one too." He drew some kind of symbol in the dirt with a tire iron, which presumably helped. Also helpful--continually crossing himself in between bites of coca leaves.

In the end, the fickle gods smiled down on us. We made one last stop at a town that Leonardo claimed existed solely for drug trafficking. The low stone houses were all shuttered up, and on the hillside, above a yawning cave, the mangled remains of a prop plane were twisted into the rock. There was definitely a story there. From the town, it was a straight shot to Uyuni, with the occasional braking for llamas the only thing to slow us down. After 14 hours of driving, the Italians made their bus by about 20 minutes. -NSH