Jeep White Sea

Bolivia has undeniably the worst musical culture of any of the world´s recognised nation states. There is only such thing as a typical song, because they all sound the same, and it sounds like a badly produced casio keyboard demo fortified with a terribly out of tune, whining vocal. To add insult to aural injury, they go to some lengths to ensure it is played at an intrusive volume at all times: on the overnight bus, in our jeep and even through the streets of charming, colonial Sucre courtesy of cars with huge megaphones attached to the roof.

There´s a shop up my road that sells nothing but raw chickens. At some stage the decision was made, presumably at a management level, to attempt to attract passing trade by placing a huge PA system outside. That the resulting noise could motivate a previously unplanned purchase of uncooked poultry seems a little doubtfull to me.



When a country has 5 paved roads, the chance to take a train is a real blessing. From the Argentinian border, the line snakes through stunning rock formations, taking turns so sharp that it sometimes seems that the back of the train was ahead of the front.

Having waited (tactically) to hear where the painfully annoying Aussie I met on the bus to the border would sit (1st class), I bought my ticket (3rd class) and braced myself for a cosy ride. Fortunately, two Uruguayan backpackers were sharing my ´bench´, providing a stronger option, conversation wise, that the giggling, corn-cooking, bread-carrying, cat-smuggling Bolivian grannies that filled the rest of the carriage. In between marvelling at the scenery, we discussed multi-hair-coloured Uruguayan playboy striker Dario Silva, and his recent loss of both legs in a car accident suffered whilst driving drunk.

Arriving at Tupiza, 4 hours from the border, I was devastated to find said Australian in my dorm. Mercifully, he planned to stay a few days to relax, so I immediately booked my 4 day jeep tour of, amongst other things, the world´s biggest Salt Flat (that really big white thing you see in photos), leaving the following morning.

The lineup: Rodney - an ex consultant from Atlanta, Amanda and Duncan from New South Wales, Neslon - stone faced, softly spoken driver from Tupiza and the cook, a twenty something on her first such trip. The rushed departure gave me only a few moments to shop for the recommended warm clothes. A couple of ill-advised purchases later we set off, with me looking like Victor Meldrew auditioning for the Village People.

Long periods driving through wilderness offered the chance of some healthy conversation, and our incessant chatter was only sometimes interrupted by Nelson describing a -usually incredible - site of natural interest. He would offer the chance to take photos, and allow me to make up some (hopefully vaguely related) description to pass on to the others. Often we sat in silence, awestruck at being able to witness such sights with nobody else for miles around. The atmosphere in the jeep was futher boosted by what appeared to be a burgeoning romance between our two guides.



On the first day, we ascended steeply over narrow mountain passes, crossing cactus-filled valleys and desert-like plains. Lunch was shared with a pack of llamas, and we spent the night in a small village, where I tried to play football with a bunch of 8 year olds until the altitude made me stop. For dinner: llama steaks and mash.

We woke early, the after difficult night´s sleep, and watched the first of four beautiful sunrises before loading the jeep. Nelson was particularly spritely that morning after what appeared to have been an equally sleepless night. The cook gave nothing away.

The action packed second day featured the surreal Dali desert of numerous colours, a stone tree, beautiful silver lakes and a flourescent green, arsenic-filled lagoon. We reached 5000 metres across an active volcano, where geysers spew out hot sulphur gas from bubbling, brightly coloured pools of thick mud. As well as a rare example of a unique geographical phenomenon, the potent smell of the gas provided a prime oportunity to release some of the wind that had been building up since the spiced llama-ball lunch a few hours before. The evening drive across increasingly bumpy tracks was much easier as a result.


After staying overnight amongst flamengos on the red and white striped Laguna Colorada, we arrived on the third day in an isolated village (population 125) a short drive from the edge of the Salt Flat. As we strolled through the village, the school (population 8) bell went, leaving us surrounded by manically excited kids. Already groggy from the driving and altitude, me and Duncan were persuaded, by a combination of charm and persistence, to spend the next half hour spinning screaming tots round our head. Do not do this if you are already sick.



Relations between Nelson and cook seemed to have taken a turn for the worse: she wasn´t laughing at his jokes any more, and he was quick to hit the bottle the moment we settled for the evening. Our early (4.30) start on the final day was delayed as we dragged him out of bed. After a more erratic than usual morning stint in the jeep, we arrived at our destination just in time for a sunrise that even the noise of Nelson chucking up onto the white wilderness a few metres behind couldn´t spoil.



Despite the driver´s weariness, we made it safely to Uyuni after an afternoon taking ridiculous photos against the salty backdrop. For me, it was stright on an overnight-bus-from-hell to Sucre, my home for the next couple of weeks at least.