The Straw That Broke The Alpaca’s Back

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia – Altitude: 4,000 metres

“My baby don’t care!”

A TICKET TO RIDE – The Beatles

I woke up with an itch. It seemed the laundry service provided by our ostensibly modern hotel, had used fleas instead of fabric softener. This was a minor annoyance, although for newcomers Tom & Laura, their La Paz laundry experience was a little more inconvenient. Their laundry had not arrived at the hotel by the time our transfer bus was due to set off for La Paz bus station. Apparently, the laundrette had run out of fleas – and the Bolivian work ethic demanded standards compliance. We were leaving at 8:30am, and the bus to our first stop, Oruro, was departing at 10am. The laundrette didn’t open until 9am, leaving Tom & Laura in a frantic flurry to retrieve their clean but somewhat scratchy clothes, and be across town in time for the Oruro connection. Fortunately, they did make it, although this experience would be the first of many for the luckless duo. For this reason I’ve dubbed Laura – Miss Laundrette Fret.

La Paz bus station was similar in ambience to that of its Cusco cousin. Again a plethora of bus companies pushing their lungs to the limit to obtain your business. While there were indeed shouts of “Poono!” “POONO!”, I’m afraid the destination that won out was the exceptionally strident “Cocha-bamba!!!!”, “COCHABAMBAAA!”, “COCHABAMBAAAAAAA!”. Cochabamba is in central Bolivia, but for our newly formed Rio Ring, we were off to Uyuni, via the town of Oruro.

The bus left on time, and although it was extremely comfortable, it did present a few problems. The first of which was a rather obnoxious German-speaking Peruvian tour guide, who for the first twenty minutes after boarding the bus at El Alto had declared the aisle his territory. As if doing a sound check on his voice, he flung his boisterous voice to the opposing end of the aisle at the same time as furiously pacing up and down it. It was as though his underpants had had a little too much Bolivian fabric-softener. “FHM!” Shut up please, I thought! I reasoned that his vociferous ranting was to try and convey somehow to his German tour group that things were indeed under control. Even though in reality he was not. For soon after, the hostess put on the movie ‘American Ninja 4’! Nothing like an incredibly gripping movie to silence even the loudest of loud-mouths. The journey to Oruro was approximately three and a half hours, and despite it’s less than auspicious start went largely without incident. The only other bother was when the videotape cut out half way through “American Ninja 4”. Only sarcastic groans rocked the bus as our German-Peruvian friend was asleep!

We arrived in Oruro at around 1:30pm, and were immediately underwhelmed by its dust-bowl appearance. Perhaps the one vestige of character came from its several bizarre metal sculptures that lined the route into the town centre. Our bus seemed to wind its way through the streets of Oruro, like a stupid mouse in a laboratory experiment, in search of that cheesy looking train station. It must have been at least thirty minutes before we finally arrived at the station, where we would get our connection to Uyuni. However, arriving here was only after witnessing a humorous exchange between a local bus-passenger and the driver. From what I could gather from my limited Spanish, the driver had forgotten to wake her up for the Oruro bus station stop, and so much to her consternation the driver set her down 1km further down the road.

It wasn’t long before we had our luggage checked in at Oruro train station and so some time to kill. As we had an hour or so to wait before departure Margaret and I wandered around a couple of the streets in search of food, water and something resembling entertainment. We came across a market, but alas nothing to raise our interest. After refusing to buy soft drink that was out of date, we returned empty handed to the station to wait with the rest of the group. Our train eventually arrived on time for the four hour journey to Uyuni. Unlike the leg to Oruro, our train journey proved extremely stimulating. First of all the Bolivians had taken the concept of video entertainment to an entirely new level. Our movies this time round included Jacki Chan’s “Rumble in the Bronx”, and that very realistic shark fest “Deep Blue Sea”. Even more of a novelty was witnessing hundreds of Red Flamingos standing statuesque like in a massive shallow lake. But certainly one of the more engaging activities was that of a mere card game, simply called – but aptly named “Shaft Your Neighbour!” Hmm! In actual fact the word Shaft was substituted for an expletive, so I shall refer to the game from here on in as “FYN!” A very simple game really, and one that the Hardcore Hoard had learnt from their Tucan guide, Pepe, on the Inca Trail. The rules are defined as follows:

RULES TO “FYN!”

GENERAL RULES

• Number of Players: Unlimited
• Number of Cards: Unlimited, but one deck of 52 including jokers will suffice.
• Hierarchy of cards: King, Queen, Jack is the hierarchy; Jokers and Aces are low.
• Objective: To not be left with the lowest card. You should try and have the highest card as possible; anything below a 7 is potentially dicey.

GAME PLAY

• All players are dealt one card. They can immediately look at it.
• The player to the left of the dealer starts.
• Each player looks at his or her card one by one, to the left of the dealer.
• If the card is a low card, then the player has the option to swap it with a person to their left.
• The player on the left must comply with the request to swap. The only exception is if the card the left player holds is a King, in which case they can tell the person that they are stuck with it, or to simply get stuffed.

PLAYER WARNING 1: It’s very possible that in passing a card you may actually receive an even lower card. If this happens then you have realised fully the title of this game. This is especially worse if you pass a Joker for a Joker. Screwed before you even start!

• Play continues like this until it comes back to the dealer.
• The dealer can choose to accept the final card passed to him/her, or split the deck and pick a random card.
• Whichever card is chosen, determines whether you win or lose.
• Those with a card lower than the dealer or in fact have the lowest card loses and they are subjected to much ridicule.

PLAYER WARNING 2: Avoid alcohol when playing this game.

• Hours of fun for the whole family, although you may want to change the title to something more palatable. Like “Mess your neighbour round!”

So by these rules we played for a good couple of hours. We played with a “lives” system. After five losses you were out. Glenn “Jacko” Thompson was the ultimate winner and so performed a victory moon-dance. Other forms of diversion during the journey included participating in Ian’s sexual orientation survey. He’d been reading a book, akin to “Men are from Mars” and “Women are from Venus”, and had everyone do a test that would enlighten them on whether their mind was geared to their actual gender or the other way. To my relief, I learnt that I think like a male, and Margaret thinks like a woman. Just as well really.

A journey on a Bolivian train is not complete without a visit to the dining car. The smell of deep fried fat pervaded the carriage care of the kitchen being located just beyond the rear of the car. After a meal of greasy chicken and stale rice, we soon realised that we should have just inhaled to achieve the same level of nutrition as we ate. Other not-so-delectable delights included a very stale doughnut. Although, I must say the 600ml bottle of beer did the job. As we approached our destination, we were treated to an amazing sunset over the increasingly arid landscape, then as night hit and so too the frigid air our train pulled into Uyuni.

Some freezing time on the Uyuni station platform before collecting our luggage and boarding our jeeps for the transfer to our hotel; the Hotel Toñito. Our freezing continued in the temperamental electric showers of the hotel, and so coupled with the day’s exhaustion our bed proved too warm an invitation. We were all quite tired, so it proved an early night before the following day’s excursion out to the magnificent Salar de Uyuni. The Uyuni Salt Lake.

Up early for a breakfast of Dulce de Leche (Toffee) and tasteless bread. Our guide from Andean Salt Expeditions, Braulio, was meeting us with our 4WD, salt lake transportation at 9am. The early morning air was crisp in Uyuni. On exiting the hotel, I noted the army barracks to the right with soldiers standing to attention, and to my left hoards of children in white smocks making their way to school and the older folk no doubt making their way to work.

We were quickly ushered aboard our jeeps, and the first stop on the day’s itinerary was the Uyuni Train Cemetery. The train cemetery was located a short way out of the town, and we arrived after driving an unsealed road through a barren landscape, barren that is with the exception of profuse amounts of rubbish. I would like to say the train cemetery was exciting but as I’m not an avid train enthusiast (and nor a spotter for that matter) I wasn’t overly excited by the sight of rusted pieces of steel and machinery. Granted though some metal carcasses still resembled the steam trains they once were in their glory days. Perhaps the most interesting point of this stop was when Alpaca Alan, the man with a penchant for manipulating drinking straws, performed a series of alluring poses on one of the cabooses.

After a short stop here, we were all anxiously awaiting our first view of the magnificent salt lake we had all heard so much about. But that was some way off yet. First of all we had a trip back into Uyuni town centre to stock up on water. It made sense, being on a salt pan would have the same solar affects as snow, leaving you quite dehydrated. Unfortunately, our high spirits were cut short when Braulio driving the lead 4WD, ran over the leg of a dog. As we were in the jeep behind, we witnessed it, and were sickened as the poor creature yelped and cried, hobbling precariously to the road’s middle. What was perhaps more shocking to all of us, was the apparent disregard by Braulio for the well being of the animal. We ventured back to the injured dog, to see if there was anything that could be done, but Braulio remained behind, seemingly unfazed by what had just happened. The dog was taken away by one of the locals in a wheelbarrow. It would seem there are no vets in Uyuni, as Bolivians being as poor as they are couldn’t possibly afford one. So I would say the dog would be put down in some less than western fashion. It was extremely upsetting and some in our group were quite angry with Braulio. Personally though, I couldn’t really judge the guy for this. There are many stray dogs in Bolivian towns, and it may be a fairly frequent event for a driver to hit one. In a town where the locals are extremely poor and their main priority is to get food in their family’s bellies and shelter over their heads, then a dog is going to come second best. Indeed they can’t even afford the luxury of caring for an animal as we gringos would. So despite our displeasure at the whole affair, I think the group soon realised this, and so were able to continue with the rest of the Uyuni tour.

Our small 4WD cavalcade left the township of Uyuni for the second time that day. This time as we followed an alternate dusty winding road which carved its way through yet another sparsely vegetated landscape, we caught the first sign of the salt lake, a mere glimmer of whiteness below some high mountain peaks in the distance. As we were driving we encountered a herd of Vicuña. This was indeed a milestone for Margaret and I, as we had now seen all of South America’s llama variations. The Guanaco we had seen in Patagonia, and of course Llamas and Alpacas abound in the Andes, and now seemingly the minority of the four with Vicuña. The Vicuña is much more agile looking than the Llama and Alpaca. Indeed they’re much more like the Guanaco, only slighter. Perhaps that’s another reason why both Bolivian’s and Peruvian folk alike don’t eat the beast. There’s not enough meat. Only if Rudy was here for me to present my argument to him.

Buoyed by our Vicuña visitation, we ventured ever closer to the outer rim of the Salt Lake. Even as the sliver of white became tantalisingly thicker, as if teasing our anticipation Braulio directed our fleet to stop yet again, this time at a Salt Factory. This proved extremely fascinating, although a simpler operation than would no doubt be used in more well equipped countries. The salt workers would unload the salt from the lake in huge piles before heating it in stifling ovens to remove the moisture and other impurities. The refined salt was then modified further with the addition of iodine, apparently because without it, you were likely to end up with a goiter* if you so consumed it.

* A goiter is a condition resulting from a defective thyroid. It manifests itself as a grotesque looking double chin.

The salt was subsequently mixed and crushed into the fine white crystals that we know it as. The packing method employed was painfully slow but engaging all the same. A single guy would manually pack the salt into one of two small bags, red or blue. After he packed it, he would seal the plastic with a flaming torch. Painstaking work by account of the sheer numbers of bags stacked in an adjoining room. We were bemused by the difference between the contents of the red and blue bags. Apparently, there was no difference, but the red bag was marketed to the rich, and the blue was sold to the poor. I recalled a comment from a Marketing Director that I heard once. Marketing is the key to any product’s success. True as it may seem in this case, but then I also remember a comment from the CEO of the same company; “Marketing is all bullshit!” I believe there to be more truth in the latter. After a quick visit to a small stall to peruse some salty souvenirs, we eagerly hit the road again seeking out that ever elusive salt lake.

The dusty landscape began to erupt in patches of crystalline white. The winding dust-beaten path suddenly became damper and pocked with wet patches of salt as we approached the buffer of the lake. Then almost without warning we were driving on it. Suddenly the terrain became white as far as the eye could see stretching to the horizon where the Mt Tunupa volcano ominously stood. Once we had officially arrived on the lake, we enthusiastically alighted and paid a visit to a few of the salt workers who were busily shovelling the endless white stuff into the back of a truck. Bandannas covered most of their faces, sunglasses the rest. The high altitude of 4,000 metres and the brilliant white surface of the salt lake were a lethal catalyst to the suns rays. Alpaca Alan decided to entertain us for the second time that day, by getting in on the act, and casting a shovel of salt over his shoulder and into the truck. Superstitious or super-silly! It was too early to tell. After a chat with some of the salt-workers kids; well a few words of Spanish greetings we headed out into a brave new world. A white wasteland, flat but for the fascinating honeycomb shapes, formed when evaporating water leaves a thin crust of hardened salt. It is as though an army of tireless spiders had woven an elaborate web of silky salt, giving the land a really genuine parched look. We were thirsty already. We drove for ten minutes appreciating the Salar de Uyuni vastness, and then noticed a multitude of white projections in the distance. The white projections turned out to be piles of salt, resembling salty gopher holes. Later we visited some other salt workers who were making salt bricks, using the simplest of tools. Their precision was amazing and could knock out bricks of virtually the same dimensions with ease.

Our lunch break was situated on a salt-brick platform in the heart of the lake. The urge to just run as far as you could go was overwhelming. Actually, I took the need to pee as an excuse to hurl myself into the vast whiteness so as to attain a little privacy. It is for this little escapade that I was officially dubbed “Forrest Gump” by Glenn Thompson. Still, at least I had the decency to go about my business within a few hundred yards of a designated lunch spot. Others in the Rio Ring merely relieved themselves on the platform wall. I took my new moniker with a pinch of salt. A lunch of Spam and salad rolls, and then we hit the road again. Actually, that’s not true. For on a salt lake there are no roads and very little traffic in fact. We soon realised this and so began encouraging our driver to outpace the rest of our three 4WD fleet and put the pedal to the metal. He wasn’t fazed by our persistence. There seemed to be a veritable pecking order in Braulio’s team. Our driver was condemned to third position all the way. Our journey still proved exciting though it’s very difficult to convey the beauty of the surrounds. The vast white flat and the brilliant blue sky made for an incredible experience. After a good drive of an hour or so, we arrived at the rim of the lake, but this time at the small farming hamlet of Tahua. The town was situated at the foot of our forthcoming destination. Mt Tunupa, a dormant volcano, whose vermilion, argent crater had imploded to the point that it resembled an immense funnel; the sands of time falling through it.

On the expansive Salar de Uyuni

Driving across a small ford we left the salt lake to an explosion of fertile green pasture. When in Bolivia and there is pasture that can only mean one thing. Llama’s! Loads of them! Given the majestic surrounds, we all opted to get that classic photo of Llama and salt-lake. A volley of photos from my digital camera and then a twenty five minute winding drive up the steep slopes of the Tunupa foot hills to the starting point of our hike. The walk to Mt Tunupa was initially easy going as there were a number of diversions. Firstly there were the mummies. The skeletal remains of former inhabitants now sat sunken-eyed with cigarette protruding mouths, amidst a blanket of coca leaves and other trinkets. The locals who visit the mummies adorn the skeletons with such things, so as to bring good luck. It was all a bit freaky. “Vamos, Braulio, por favor!” Afterwards we visited a local quinoa farmer. Quinoa (pronounced Kin-wah) resembles wheat. The woman we saw was busily pounding the stuff into submission so as to obtain the fine grain, which is common in Andean soups. As is often the case with Andean women, she was wearing a bowler hat, and competed with Alan for entertainment value. Despite pushing 80 years of age she bubbled with life and rivaled Dany our tour leader for the convulsions she experienced when laughing.

Cutting to the chase we began the arduous hike up to a viewpoint of Mt Tunupa. Admiring the cactus pocked sloping landscape we negotiated stone walls and trudged upwards for a good hour in what seemed an interminable journey. For every section of the slope we completed, there always appeared to be yet another rise ahead of us. I was starting to get annoyed, by both the lack of air at this silly altitude and Braulio’s unrelenting pace: so annoyed in fact that I was determined to beat this Bolivian taskmaster up the mountain. I sucked in the big ones, and kept pace with him. Before my heart threatened to donate itself to a worthier cause, like an Andean mummy say, the final rise was within sight and I ran the last few metres, and sat for the next ten minutes recovering in the splendour of the view. The rush to Mt Tunupa aside, the view was still extremely worth it. Margaret made it up a few minutes later at a much more humane pace. Her annoyance at Braulio’s tempo was slightly tempered by the stunning view of the Tunupa crater in one direction and the magnificent panorama of the Salar de Uyuni in another. Our stay at the Tunupa viewpoint was a short one. It wasn’t too long before we were ambling down the slopes back towards the jeeps, in the fading light of a beautiful sunset. The silhouette of a lone llama standing on the brow of one of Tunupa’s many contours really brought home the majesty of this landscape.

Back to the vehicles, and a short venture on the salt lake to our overnight accommodation at the tiny village of Jirira, which such is the size of Mt Tunupa, is also situated at the foot of this ancient mountain. There are no hotels in Jirira, only locals, so we were staying at one of the larger residences. The accommodation was simple but adequate, very similar to that of our Amantani Island experience. Freshening up after our eventful day (that was a splash of water to the face, as there was no hot water, nor any showers) we all visited the dining room/kitchen for a much anticipated evening meal. Unbeknown to us at the time this would prove an eventful night; and in my reckoning one of the highlight nights of our trip.

To the dining room it was, a small but comfortable cement rendered building. All the Rio Ringers were here, and our hosts busily attended to the kitchen and bar duties. Everyone was in fine form, and happily sinking a few alcoholic beverages to finish off the day’s activities on the right note. I’m not sure who it was, but somebody had brought along a pack of cards, so it wasn’t long before everybody was playing that much celebrated game. “FYN!” The game was fine until two things happened. One, I started to lose frequently, and two alcohol became involved. Suddenly an innocuous family game turned into a battle of livers. For a loser would now have to take a drink should they lose, and not just any poison. The drink was some Bolivian bastardisation of cachasa, the notorious Brazilian liqueur used in its national drink, the caipirinha. For those that are not familiar with cachasa, it’s a very lethal sugar-cane alcohol. Now losers would have to take a hit of this. This was in flagrant disregard to the warnings that come with this game. We entered into dangerous territory. Naturally, being on a losing streak, I took three hits in rapid succession. The room was soon buzzing with the sounds of whoops and shouts as some poor soul had to swill this god-forsaken drink. Fortunately, for my sake a rule was introduced that after you had five shots, then should you lose you could nominate a person. I nominated the rather parochial Ian (“Baby Alpaca”), on a number of occasions, and so too did others. I can only thank the subsequent arrival of dinner, a hearty Bolivian Bolognaise for saving me from a night exploring the enigmatic wonders of Bolivian plumbing. After dinner, I approached sobriety and so I was a little more prepared for the next drinking game that was too follow. Margaret watching her stomach sensitivities elected not to partake in the following game, and was certainly the smartest person in the room. (This includes our Bolivian hosts. According to Dany, for reasons entertained later there is no such thing as a clever Bolivian)

The game we were about to play went by an even simpler name than our card venture and by a much more politically correct one at that with the title; BOTTLES! The rules of Bottles are herein.

RULES TO THE GAME OF “BOTTLES!”

 

GENERAL RULES

• This is essentially a counting game. If you can count, then you can play. But even if you can play this does not necessarily mean you can count!
• Play commences in the direction that the initiator declares. Anyone who initiates a game is called “The Bottler”, “The Swill Master” or invariably Ian.
• When the Bottler says, “I declare a game of bottles to my right ONE…” the game proceeds around the room in an anticlockwise direction. Conversely, “I declare a game of bottles to my left ONE…” is in a clockwise direction.
• After the initiator says ONE, the people immediately to his left or right, depending on the direction called for must successively count in increments of 1.
• A game is complete after the group successfully reaches 21. If this is achieved a few times, then its suggested the game is moved up a level in order to enhance enjoyment.
• If at any level, a player fails to say the appropriate thing at the appropriate time, or indeed makes any other mistake, they must take a hit of unpleasant swill. Alcohol is preferred, but can be substituted for Frog Juice.
• If at any level a player falsely accuses somebody of making a mistake, they must also take a hit of swill most foul.
• A fouling player becomes the Bottler for the next round.

LEVEL 1 – BASIC BOTTLES

• All multiples of 5 and 7, and indeed any number with 5 and 7 in them require the player to say “BOTTLES!” instead of the number.

E.g. Numbers 5, 7, 10, 15, 17, 21 all would require the player to say “BOTTLES!”

LEVEL 2 – BOTTLES REVERSED

• The game can be complicated further by reversing the direction of play whenever somebody says “BOTTLES!”

LEVEL 3 – ARSE

• Further complication and inebriation can be achieved by introducing the “ARSE!” rule. Essentially it means picking an arbitrary series of 1 or more numbers, and mandating that the player says “ARSE!” instead of that number. E.g. For multiples of 7 the player is now required to say “ARSE!” This overrides the Level 1 rule of saying “BOTTLES!” for multiples of 7, and to confuse further, the number 17 still remains “BOTTLES!”
• This rule combined with the “BOTTLES!” reverse technique is bound to upset the most rigorous of drinker-thinkers.

LEVEL 4 – MAKE IT UP

• Once you achieve this level, you have attained the Nirvana of Bottles. As a master of the game you can pretty much make up any other rule to further enhance the group dynamic. One such suggestion might be replacing multiples of 6 with the bizarre expression “MMM-KEH!”

E.g. Numbers 6, 12, 18 all would require the player to say “MMM-KEH!”

 

And so it was, the game of Bottles was entertainment for a good while amongst the now rowdy Rio Ringers. I would say everyone was caught out at one stage, but most notably Horst and Alpaca Alan, those mature, Machu men. While the Incredible Horst appeared to be taking the punishment in his stride, Alan became increasingly entertaining; whipping himself into a musical stupor. His whip of choice was the trusty drinking straw. Out it came, with an adeptness that is rarely seen at drunken parties. With an additional swift deft touch there was a cleverly engineered nook in the straw in order that it just snugly fitted behind his ear. The straw microphone was in place, and our music had arrived. Renditions of Beatles songs were the order of the night. “She’s got a ticket to ride!” had never sounded better with Alan belting out the tune from the lofty height of his stool. The best part of the song was the “MY BABY DON’T CARE!” The chorus was repeated in such fervour that it threatened to raise the Bolivian dead – mummies included. The drunk and disorderly night continued with more songs from every dubious 80s artist and finally culminated with rendition of various national anthems. Mild-mannered Irish New Yorker Anne took particular offence to Glenn’s hearty rendition of “God, save the queen!” and so delivered the timeless expression “BITE MY ASS!” Alas Anne had just unwittingly given herself a new nickname. Sensing perhaps some political strife in a country that already has too much of its own, Dany suggested a change of tune. In my opinion I suspected Dany didn’t know the words to the Peruvian anthem and took advantage of the situation.

By the end of the night, in the early hours, I found myself remarkably sober, this possibly having something to do with there being no more drink in the establishment. I left the remaining hardcore few, after Jane (“FHM!”) began recounting clearly a treasured anecdote of when she apparently made a fool of herself in front of Britain’s foremost comics Frank Skinner and David Bediel. After taking a final few moments to take in the night sky, awash with glittering stars, I adjourned to my quarters to join my more sensible girlfriend who had had more sense to leave before we got bottled, so-to-speak. The following morning would prove to be interesting.

I awoke feeling surprisingly healthy despite the previous night and day’s exertions. Indeed the only side effects from the night were feeling tired (but that’s more than perfectly normal for myself) and a little dehydrated. Although, I was certain this was more as a result of being at altitude a livelier Margaret tended to disagree. Consuming alcohol at high altitude can be a little more challenging than normal, given that you tend to dehydrate much faster, but I still managed to survive a testing night. I proved to be one of the lucky ones though. There were a few in the group that were quite worse for wear: but none more so than Alan. It certainly looked like the flamboyantly wielded drinking straw was the one that broke the back of Alpaca Alan. Poor Alan spent the morning admiring Bolivian plumbing and riding the porcelain bus. The legacy of the previous night’s entertainment was not merely your average run-of-the-mill hangover for Alan, but it also seemed to have given him a mighty gullet affliction. A veritable volcano erupting from both ends! This test of Alan’s constitution was one he grappled by the horns, and despite his less than healthy state, he joined our 4WD flotilla as we set out from Jirira to explore more of what Salar de Uyuni had to offer.

Llamas and flamingos gather at the feet of Mt Tunupa

The first stop for the day’s tour was a short drive just outside of Jirira, to the crusty, sodden rim of the salt lake. Our drivers dropped us off on the edge, and directed us to approach a few shallow pools of water a few hundred metres ahead of us in the direction of the glimmering white expanse of the salt lake. Apparently, the extremely rare, flame-red, James’ flamingo could sometimes be seen drinking from the pools that border the lake in the early morning. We approached the pools with some caution, although it seemed clear from the outset that there were no birds at all quenching their thirst let alone, an easily conspicuous bird like the flamingo. While we gradually ventured across the pool pocked and spongy landscape to the shallow water, our drivers were circling us, and were to meet us at the rim of the lake. We eventually arrived at the pools, and we were not surprised when no birds were present. Despite this, there were still some amazing views of the Tunupa volcano, the cinnabar colours of its collapsed cone looking exceptionally vibrant in the morning sun. After a few minutes we soon realised that we would have to wade through the shallow water to arrive on the salt-lake proper and so meet our drivers. This was all good and well, as most of us were wearing waterproof-hiking boots, however, the muddy pool-bed did present some difficulty. The mud clung to your boots, as though threatening to suck you into some murky depth, and worse was when for a brief moment mud began swelling at ankle level. I embraced my newly acquired “Forrest Gump” nickname and somehow managed to make my way successfully across to the other side. It was actually rather amusing. Margaret and the rest of the Rio Ring were anxiously waiting for me to sink to my waist and no doubt have a laugh at my expense, but the situation was soon reversed when having seen my success the group had no alternative but to follow my intrepid footsteps. Cussing and shrieks quickly ensued as they negotiated the muddy pools. To my disappointment all made it without falling foul of the mud.

Having managed to find our way onto the salt pan proper we took some time to take in the vista just before our 4WD fleet arrived to pick us up. Our next destination was Isla Cujiri, which is the Aymara name for Isla de Pescado, which is Spanish for quite simply Fish Island.* While the island was quite discernible in the distance, it took us well over an hour to drive there. Our journey was made longer by the fact that we actually did spot some flamingos in another set of pools between the rim of the lake and Mt Tunupa. They weren’t James flamingos though. These were your bog-standard pink variety. Still, it was a nice change from seeing llama and alpaca. Another flurry of photographs before Braulio’s arriving 4WD scared them away. As we finally approached the domed shaped Isla de Pescado, we soon began to appreciate the uniqueness of it. Where Mt Tunupa had ample green covering with the occasional cactus thrown in, Isla de Pescado was festooned with cacti. Cacti, some resembling pitchforks, and others towering metres in the air, adorned the otherwise spinifex and rocky landscape.

No rest for the wicked though. With the exception of one! Alan had elected to remain seated in the vehicle for fear that he may be a walking environmental hazard. (In fact Alan spent most of the day seated in the vehicle, it seemed the previous night’s shenanigans had only earned him a ticket to ride.) Our 4WDs parked up at the foot of the island, like boats moored on the shores of a surreal white sea. Braulio had yet another climb install for us, this time to the top of the island. It was another tough walk, perhaps exacerbated by dehydration. The island’s cacti while beautiful to admire, also presented problems. The sloping side of the island was quite steep in parts, and the soil was more akin to scree. We needed to be very careful with our footing, and should we waver, then extra care was needed in placing our hands, as I soon discovered. At only inches high, a youthful cactus proved to be my support when I lost my footing. Despite its diminutive stature, the small cactus still proved very painful. There were a few other curses from the group as they also met the wrath of the cactus’ pricks.

The many cacti of Isla Cujiri

After about forty minutes of picking our way through the cactus-riddled terrain, we did make it to the top. Yet again tremendous views of the Uyuni salt pan were on offer, extending to Mt Tunupa in one direction, to another island in the distance and beyond to snow-capped mountains. While at the top, we savoured the view and more so the opportunity to rest, particularly Dany who found a remote outcrop and took a twenty minute power nap. Soon though, we headed back down, cursing cacti and the loose sloping surface. Fortunately, we did make it back to the 4WDs okay. I checked with Alan to see whether he was feeling any better. His response was, “I feel like I’ve sat on a cactus!” Having just negotiated a cactus highway, I could fully appreciate how poorly he must be feeling.

Driving along the brilliant-white lake again, we set out from Isla de Pescado in the direction of yet another island, the very island we had seen earlier from the summit of our island hike. This island, in the local dialect, was called Isla Inkawasi (pronounced Incahuasi), but the Spanish name for it is Isla Pescadores, which in English means Fisherman’s Island.* Our drivers set us down a couple of kilometres out from the island to give us the opportunity to walk the remaining distance. This we did with relish. It certainly gave us a much better appreciation of the immense vastness of the lake. It is extremely difficult to judge distances when on the salt pan. What can look merely hundreds of metres away can in actual fact be a few kilometres away. Braulio indulged us in a story about a family whose car had broken down on the salt lake. The father and son went in search of help, but to no avail. All members of the family perished from dehydration. We soon began to appreciate the distance, but despite this, it was much to our disappointment when our walk finished and so arrived at the island. It’s not every day you get to walk on such a unique landscape.

Fisherman’s Island is very similar to the landscape of Fish Island. Perhaps, the only major difference is that Fisherman’s Island has a tourist information office and an amenities block. The latter was the first major highlight of the island for us, as like Alan, many in the group including myself had digested a Scotsman, now happily using our plumbing for bagpipes. After a not so solid rendition of Scotland the Brave, and feeling a little more human, a few of us elected to take in a short walk around the island. This was no where near as difficult as our previous cactus-wielding island, as this time there was an actual path to follow. The views from this island were equally as impressive, and the cacti on this island proved exceptionally remarkable. Apparently, the taller the cactus, the older it is. A cactus may only grow an inch or two per year, so some of the cacti were exceptionally old. One in particular, was five to six metres in height. A unique feature of this island was a precarious looking archway. Although visually not that spectacular, it did make for a good photo opportunity as there was a great view of the cactus populated island extending to the expansive white lake in the distance.

* Okay, so can someone please explain to me what is going on here? In the middle of a salt lake, we have two islands, both of which have been given fishy names. Fish Island and Fisherman’s Island. Why then the names? There is not a fish in sight on these islands and in fact not even the smallest quantity of water for a fish to inhabit. Being at this altitude and in the midst of a salt lake means that only the cacti are able to flourish here. The only plausible explanation I can think of for these names is that perhaps some locals once had a run in with an obnoxious fisherman and so the cactus riddled islands served as an appropriate reminder to them. Indeed to put my Rudy hat on, the island is festooned with big pricks.

Our visit to Fisherman’s island concluded with lunch. Not just any lunch though, for today llama was on the menu. It proved to be very tasty, and despite an earlier warning from Dany that llama was less palatable than alpaca, I definitely enjoyed this meal more so than the alpaca meal I’d had in Cusco. Braulio proved to be quite a cook, with both barbecued llama and chicken being on the day’s midday menu. Well, Braulio says it was chicken, although it could have been flamingo for all I knew. It definitely wasn’t fish though! Our bellies stunned into submission from second helpings of llama, we soon found ourselves hurtling across white infinity once more. Our excursion was drawing to a close as too was the afternoon and so we were heading back across the lake in order to return to the town of Uyuni. There was to be a few more stops though, well actually one more than planned. Our next stop on the itinerary was to be the remarkable Salt Hotel. This was the hotel that we were meant to be staying at, and that had since been closed to the public. However, after some healthy competition as to whose 4WD was faster, one proved to be the slowest. Braulio’s 4WD had hit the front, and left both our vehicle and the one behind in its wake. As we carried on, we noticed that the third car had in fact stopped. Our driver seemed unconcerned by the fact that the other jeep had stopped, and certainly Braulio was unconcerned because he was already on the horizon. After some exchanges of pigeon Spanish we managed to convince our driver to head back to the halted 4WD and it was just as well we did. The beleaguered vehicle had in fact run out of petrol. The ensuing half an hour was spent watching our driver siphon petrol out of our 4WD, and subsequently fill the other vehicle’s tank. We all found it terribly amusing in the end, and even more so when Braulio finally showed up. At this point we were all ready to set off again.

We eventually did make it to the Salt Hotel, and I believe we were all quite glad that we didn’t stay there in the end. While, granted it was extremely unusual, it didn’t look very salubrious. The hotel was made from salt bricks, and walking on the floor was like paying a visit to the beach. Despite this, it was interesting enough and in some ways sad to learn that this was to be shut down because of some apparent environmental problems. Our stay was short and we left the salty establishment after the caretakers became increasingly annoyed at our unwillingness to pay an entry fee. Shortly after leaving we were all given an opportunity to drive the 4WD. Excellent, we get to drive on a salt lake. A few of us had a go at it, including both Margaret and I. Dare I say it, but I think Margaret did a much better job at negotiating the left hand drive than I did. Still it proved to be fun, and ended with my driver imploring me to stop, for I almost drove the vehicle onto the wafer thin crust protecting the underwater springs of Uyuni. We quickly alighted and watched the last 4WD arrive. Anne (“Bite My Ass”), was at the wheel and the engine whined to fever pitch between kangaroo hops. It was very funny. I didn’t feel quite so bad about my own dismal performance.

Our visit to the underwater springs (or the Ojos del Salar – The Eyes of Salt, as was the Spanish name) was a quick one, and proved a little precarious. The crust of the salt lake was indeed thin here, and the surface was pocked by a variety of small water pools, where the spring had managed to break through. It was a bizarre feeling walking across this part of the lake, hearing the bubbling spring underneath the surface. It sounded very much like geothermal activity, but it wasn’t that sinister. This was despite sending our hearts fluttering on a number of occasions when our feet broke through the salty surface. At worst, our boots were covered in thick clumps of damp salt and reddish mud. From the Ojos del Salar, it was back to Uyuni. Our incredible two-day journey across the salt lake had finished. It wasn’t too long before we were passing the gopher landscape of the salt workers and then onto the unsealed meandering road back to Uyuni.

We arrived back at the Hotel Toñito for dusk. It was time to get ourselves freshened up and reacquainted with the cumbersome electric showers. A few minutes into the hotel and then I realised that I had left my fleece in the 4WD. Curse my absent-mindedness! Of course the vehicles had left by the time I ventured outside. Dany did all that he could to help me out, but attempting to contact Braulio and Andes Salt Expeditions proved a vain exercise. It seemed my only hope rested in the fact that Braulio was to be our guide for the next destination, Potosi. However, we had gathered he had already left on the seven-hour overland journey to Potosi, so my hopes of him having my fleece by the time we arrived there the following day had drastically diminished. Never mind about the advertised crime rate in South America. It seemed the biggest danger to me for losing valuables was in fact myself.

LOST ITEM NO 3: An expensive black fleece.

Immensely unhappy with myself, I had a cold shower and then rejoined Margaret and everyone else in the hotel’s restaurant. It turned out that the Toñito’s restaurant was also the local pizzeria. Minuteman Pizza as it was called. Having arrived a little later than everyone else, I put my order in last, and two hours later I received it. This group meal was certainly a fiasco, but at the same time mildly amusing. Apparently the gringo manager was out of town for a couple of days, so the management of the restaurant was left to a few locals. What was most amusing were when pizzas, that weren’t even on the menu, appeared on our table, much to the displeasure of a now fuming Dany. As far as normal expectations of service went, this hotel failed miserably. It took at least three of us, two hours to get our meals, and even then after Dany numerously had to go back to the kitchen to vent his anger. A riled Dany, amidst hurling volleys of “PRONTO! PRONTO! POR FAVOR!” actually proved to be quite humorous when a definite hint of Peruvian Bolivian rivalry surfaced. In the same way the Australian’s bag the Kiwis, or the English bag the Welsh, then it would seem Peruvian’s have only a measured tolerance for the Bolivians. “They can be so trying!” was Dany’s repeated frustration. The night concluded, eventually, with Laura, Maurie and I finishing our meals, and the Bolivian manager attempting to appease Dany’s Peruvian wrath. I had soon forgotten about my fleece.