Turista Daze

I was in Bolivia for no great reasons other than I wanted to lay eyes on the Andes and a condor, and I’d heard it was an inexpensive place to visit.

In my first two weeks in-country I’d hiked a piece of the Andes, saw a condor, and now in my third week was on an inexpensive bus making its way to Salar de Uyuni. Big salt flat. That’s what I’d heard. More importantly, I’d heard it didn’t rain in that region and after a whole lotta rain in the high country, I was ready for some dry weather.

The Panasur Line bus looked as if it left the factory sometime in the 1950s. She was a sturdy rig with almost comfortable bench seats that would motor from La Paz to the southwestern town of Uyuni in approximately 14 hours, a distance of 340 miles.

We left on time, 5:30 p.m., and I was impressed with how it climbed out of the La Paz canyon walls, belching diesel all the way as the driver ground into lower and lower gears.

There was a big mudhole at a construction site near El Alto that nearly bogged us down, but ole Panasur chugged its way out of that mess. Once past Oruro the pavement ended and the sun set. For hours we bumped, thumped, and groaned in the dark along dirt roads crossing dried and not-so-dry arroyos. We shimmied over miles of washboards and lurched slowly over rocky sections. The abandoned Volvo truck in the middle of the road caused a bit of delay as Panasur had to squeeze past the disabled rig and that required backing up, pulling forward, backing up again, pulling forward again, until the mission was accomplished.

Bolivians, I had learned, aren’t big on heating houses or in this case, buses. Locals boarded with beautiful wool blankets. I, on the other hand, had put my sleeping bag in my pack that was on top of the bus and soon learned a sweater and warm socks wouldn’t cut it. Windows rattled open all the time. When turistas shut those windows, the locals would open them again to take in the fresh air.

I was able to doze off every now and again. The sound that jerked us all awake was when the old girl just didn’t want to downshift. There would be the usual grinding and gnashing but then the bus would jolt to a halt, and we’d all wake up thinking she’d given up the ghost.

But the driver kept her going and we made it to Uyuni where I got some sleep then cast around for a tour to the Salar region. I found Colque tours run by an animated man who, like many Bolivians I’d encountered, spit out derisive comments about the U.S. I didn’t blame them but had to respond in whatever Spanish I knew that I wasn’t a fan of the Monroe Doctrine and all the U.S. interference throughout the centuries, either. That amounted to me saying “No mi.”

As I bought the ticket, Mr. Colque explained, mostly in Spanish, that I would board a Toyota Land Cruiser that evening and meet the rest of the group near the Chilean border. I thought he said it would take dos horas. Once in the rig with two French women, I said “at least it’s only two hours.” They laughed and replied, “Dos horas? Tu sueno. Viente horas.“ The driver disagreed. He thought it would only be quince horas. At least I had my sleeping bag this time. We spent all night bumping and thumping over bad roads, catching sleep here and there.

We pulled into Laguna Verde early that morning (only doce horas). We could smell coffee in the restaurant and politely asked if we could have a little café y desayuno. The answer was a firm “no.” The driver, who was allowed inside, tried to invite us in but the señora in charge kicked us out. The rule was ironclad: wait until the turistas from Chile arrived in about two hours. I tried to ignore my headache from no coffee and inadequate sleep and just enjoy the warmth of the sun as the three of us hung out against the building.

They did arrive — in three hours.

After café y desayuno we loaded up in our respective Land Cruisers, there were two in our caravan, and took off to see the Salar region. I was the only woman in my group of six.

The first night we stayed at a small lodge near a laguna. I wandered around for a couple of hours taking in the stark and mostly flat landscape where the only sign of life was on the water where hundreds of flamingoes landed and fed on brine shrimp and whatever else could survive in that environment.

When I went to the dormitory to set up my bed, I saw I had been put in with my traveling mates. I didn’t like the idea of sleeping with a bunch of men so tried to throw my pack in a room with a few women. Not allowed. I tried arguing but this was another ironclad rule: travelers in the same rig sleep in the same room. I was trying to say something about “I don’t want to be with men” in my crappy Spanish but the women in charge heard me say “Yo tengo hambre.” That cracked them up.

That night I fell prey to a bout of severe gastric distress. My gut is the weak link in my constitution, especially if I don’t keep regular sleeping hours. I left the medication that would alleviate suffering in La Paz because I wasn’t so smart. In between baño runs I dozed off until the dude from Chicago next to me urgently whispered, “Do you hear that?...

“Rats!…

“One just ran across my bed…. Oh no, I don’t believe it, I’m getting sick…

“I can feel it…

“Sick, damn, not now…

“Rats! They’re back…

“Did you hear that?”

He repeated the refrain throughout the night.

For the record, there were no rats, and he didn’t get sick.

The second day we checked out some geysers, which Europeans and the Israeli called geezers, and made our way over that huge salt desert dotted by a little brackish lakes on this highland plateau. It was a surreal vast lunar landscape in the foreground with volcanoes belching in the distance. Even with a bad gut, I had to marvel at what I was seeing.

Late in the third afternoon we came to a checkpoint guarded by uniformed officers with big guns. It looked like a small military base with barracks and maybe an abandoned train depot. As we stood in line, I saw that the rat-seeing guy pulled out a green paper. I’d been given one at the airport upon arrival and was told it was a very important and not to lose it. So, I’d stashed it in the safe back at the hostel in La Paz.

I asked him what he had, and he said, “You have one, right?”

“Yeah, but not on me.”

“If you don’t have one then you’re in deep shit.”

I was just recovering from the runs and there was no way in hell I wanted to spend even one night in this desolate burg waiting for the paperwork to sort itself out.

When it came my turn and the young officer asked for the tarjeta verde, I had to say, “No tienes.”

The officer asked, “No? Porque?”

I tried to say in my best Spanish, “Tarjeta verde en hotel en La Paz. Yo soy estupida.” I hoped I’d said, “Green card in hotel in La Paz. I am stupid.” I’m pretty sure it came out that way because the officer looked at Elias and Juan, the two drivers in our group. They both nodded and Elias said, “Si, es estupida.”

Elias, Juan, and the officer talked a bit more, none of which I understood, and I was allowed to continue with the group.

Whew. Close call.

We spent another day and a half crossing the massive Salar region. At times there were a few inches of water over the flats, which made the ground a giant mirror of the sky, reflecting puffer clouds and crystal blue sky. The Israeli put on his Faithless tape and all of us jammed to techno tunes as we seemed to sail into nowhere.

We stopped at a small isla for lunch and a hike where a few lizards managed to make a living. The last day we toured a hotel, a kind of resort, built entirely of salt. I’m not sure why anyone would want to stay there. Kind of gritty.

Once back in Uyuni, I spent some time with Mr. Colque driving around searching for my manchilla (backpack), which had stayed with the Land Cruiser instead of being dropped off at my hotel. Fortunately, Uyuni is not a big town and there are only so many hotels where turistas stay. We found it at the fourth place we looked.

The bus ride back to La Paz was uneventful. Panasur Especial chugged along. I had my sleeping bag so when I roused awake during the serious gear-grinding I took in a full moon lighting the giant plain with mountains in the distance, then dozed off again.

Once back in La Paz, I booked passage to the Yungas region where there were trees and the elevation was a mere 8,000 feet. It sounded delightful, since I hadn’t been below 10,000 feet for three weeks. This journey was also by bus, a school bus. I was the only turista in the mix of locals. A man tried to converse with me but alas, he was speaking Quechua and not even my crappy Spanish and gestures could bridge that divide.

The road went through the mountains with high cliffs on one side and precipitous drops on the other. It had been raining so things were little slippery. There were times we had to navigate past slides or oncoming traffic, and the rig sometimes slid when brakes were applied. I noticed all of us kept our eyes on the windshield and the road, silently urging the driver to keep us out of the canyon. That’s when I realized Bolivian bus drivers turn off the music when things are dicey. Once we were down to the Sorata Valley, the music came back on, and everyone sat back on their seats and went back to talking or looking out the side windows.

I enjoyed a few days in the charming town of Sorata staying in an old mansion turned hostel. I hiked surrounding trails through big trees along small streams. The air was deliciously thick.

On the way back to La Paz we were stopped at another checkpoint where the armed officer asked for my tarjeta verde, which I definitely had on me, and grilled me about what I did for a living back in the States, sneered when I said la periodista, then released me back to the bus.

I’m not sure if he was being derisive of my Spanish or just didn’t like journalists.