Salt lakes, volcanoes and a pinch of borax

Bolivia | Anno 2015

 

Monday 20 July | Uyuni – Colchani

Tuesday 21 July | Colchani – Ojo de Perdiz

Wednesday 22 July | Ojo de Perdiz – Chilean border

 

 

Monday 20 July | Uyuni – Colchani

Minus ten degrees is quite normal for a winter night in Uyuni, our guide Martín teases us after breakfast. We can easily believe that – after all, we are on the Bolivian puna, 3,670 meters above sea level. Still, it was a bit of a shock last night when we discovered that Hotel Los Girasoles does have central heating, but no fuel oil. This is due to the miners' strike. Their blockade has completely cut off Potosí, a crucial road hub, from the outside world. The consequences are being felt over an increasingly wide area.

If you step from the sun into the shade, it feels like you're breaking through a cold front

But it can get even colder, Martín continues in one breath, because today we have the Salar de Uyuni on the schedule, the enormous salt flat. It’s the coldest place in Bolivia, as the bright white salt layer reflects the sun’s rays immediately, so the ground absorbs no warmth at all. Moreover, the air here is so thin that only radiant heat plays a role – there's no warming from convection. If you step from the sun into the shade, it feels like you're breaking through a cold front. Almost no one stays overnight near the salt flat. Except us tonight, of course.

 

Uyuni – Crowds at the school gate

We won't be leaving until ten o'clock, which gives us ample opportunity to explore the area a bit first. At the school gate, it’s incredibly busy. Mothers in traditional outfits – bowler hat, long braids, wide skirts, thick stockings, colourful ponchos – are dropping off their warmly bundled children and exchanging the latest news. The candy shop is doing a booming business.

 

 

With José and Alfredo at the wheel of the two Toyota Landcruisers 4500, we set off. Quite soon, we are on Ruta 30, the asphalt road that leads all the way to La Paz via Oruro. Gradually, a white line appears on the horizon to the left. It’s the salt flat of Uyuni, sometimes also called the Salar de Tunupa, named after the extinct volcano on the northern edge.

With a surface area of 10,584 m², the salt flat is as large as a third of Belgium. Searching for roads, signposts or other landmarks is useless. They simply aren't there. Nor are there any facilities for fuel, water, food, or toilets. Only the white emptiness awaits us there.

Rightly so, the mining town of Colchani calls itself the gateway to this bizarre world. They’ve built a small museum there. Made of salt stone, of course, with neat rectangular blocks cut from the salt layers. Each stone shows two white and two brown layers. The white layers were deposited during the rainy season when the water washes away the mud. The mud-brown layers are the result of the dry season.

Of the 580 inhabitants, the vast majority are either active in one of the many souvenir shops or in salt production. Juan will explain to us how the latter works. Salt is scraped from the surface of the salt flat and scooped into cone-shaped piles on the spot. This can only be done during the rainy season, as too much earth mixes with the salt in the dry season.

Next, the salt, still rock-hard, is brought to Colchani to dry. In blocks of about 150 kg, Juan places the salt on a drying plate, under which he lights a fire. This takes at most ten minutes, after which the salt must cool for two hours. The dry salt then goes into the machine, iodine is added, and the mixture is blended and ground. Juan scoops his final product into plastic bags with his bare hands and seals them with the flame of a butane gas bottle. All of this is done under spotless hygienic conditions, of course.

 

Colchani – Salt production		Grinding salt and adding iodine
Searing the salt bags		The final product

We can buy the bags in two varieties – table salt and barbecue salt. The price is displayed in English and Japanese. They produce 20,000 tons of salt annually for human consumption, making Colchani the largest production centre of the Salar de Uyuni.

We drive over bare, brown earth to the edge of the salt flat. It’s half-past eleven when we get the white expanse under the wheels. Initially, it’s still a bit coarse brown due to the mud from the rainy season, but the surface becomes increasingly uniformly white as we move further from the shore.

Behind the closed windows of the jeep, it’s quite warm, but the windows themselves feel ice-cold. Martín had advised us to bring sunglasses. But sometimes it seems as if you need two pairs, so intense is the light from the bright, steel-blue sky and the snow-white surface. It’s precisely these factors, combined with the vastness and the exceptional flatness of the salar, that allow satellites to calibrate their altimeters here.

 

Salar de Uyuni

There are no landmarks, nor are there roads. The salt is as hard as concrete. Individual jeeps leave no tracks on this terrain. Only where jeeps repeatedly follow the exact same route does a vague, usually perfectly straight path emerge. It is advisable to follow those dull tracks because, occasionally, a layer of salt may be pushed up. In this uniform landscape, you can barely see those ridges of 20 to 25 cm. If you hit such a rigid ridge with your jeep at fifty kilometres per hour, it won't be your best day.

If you hit such a rigid ridge with your jeep at fifty kilometres per hour, it won't be your best day

Estimating distances is completely impossible, so barren and vast is the plain. It’s seventy kilometres to Puerto Chuvica, our first destination. Yet, the scenery hardly changes during the journey. It feels as if you're barely making any progress on the immense flatness.

 

View from Puerto Chuvica

All around us in the distance, rounded mountain peaks rise like dark green islands above the white sea. These are mostly extinct volcanoes. The shimmering layers of air create fascinating fata morganas. Some mountains seem to float above the salt surface as if they were levitating.

It's pretty quiet on the salt flat, mutters Martín. Normally, 300 to 400 jeeps drive around here every day, but with the blockade around Potosí, tourists can only reach this area from Argentina or Chile. That makes a big difference.

This is the second-largest salt flat in the world, after the Makgadikgadi salt pans in Botswana, which are still half as large again. A hundred million years ago, this area was still below sea level. But tectonic plate movements have since changed that. The Nazca plate is slowly pushing under the South American plate, causing the entire Andes to be uplifted. As a result, the salt flat is now 3,650 meters above sea level.

Across a total depth of 140 meters, eleven salt layers have been found, each separated by a thick layer of clay

About 40,000 years ago, there was a lake here. The water level was even 100 meters higher than it is now. You can tell by the presence of fossilized stromatolites high up against the mountain slopes. These only thrive in shallow water.

Rainwater flowing down the mountain slopes carries a high concentration of salt minerals with it. When that water evaporates, those salt minerals remain in a thick layer on the ground, forming the salt flat.

However, we should not imagine the subsurface as one massive salt deposit. Periods of salt formation alternated with dry periods. Test drilling has revealed that there have been eleven such cycles over time. Across a total depth of 140 meters, eleven salt layers have been found, each separated by a thick layer of clay.

Only 300 mm of rain falls here annually, between December and April. Ten to sixty centimetres of water then forms on some parts of the salt flat, laden with salt. In this bone-dry atmosphere, that water evaporates very quickly under the influence of sun and wind – six to eight millimetres per day. And so, year after year, a new layer of salt is deposited.

 

Vicuña

In the meantime, José has turned the steering wheel toward the Lliphi, one of those extinct volcanoes. It seems within reach, yet it takes forever to get closer to it. On the shore, they have built a sort of pier made of brown earth, which extends several hundred meters into the salt flat. Without such a pier, you can't even reach the shore with a jeep. The edges of the lake are shallow, and the salt there has not crystallized into a rock-hard layer. In this swampy mixture of mud and salt, even the best jeep will get stuck. Unsuspecting tourists sometimes experience this firsthand.

 

Puerto Chuvica – Drying meat

Cueva del Diablo, the Devil’s Cave, is the main reason we’ve come down to Puerto Chuvica. There are a handful of small houses, but the man who holds the key to the caves is nowhere to be found. A little further on, some women are drying meat.

 

 

One of them turns out to be the man’s daughter. She tells us that her father has gone to Uyuni and will be unreachable for the entire day. Alfredo expresses his opinion about Bolivian officials in general and about this particular one in very clear terms.

 

Chuvica

It’s a quarter to one when we reach Chuvica, a collection of adobe houses with grass roofs along dusty streets. The village seems as lifeless as the barren, cactus-covered volcano that rises above the houses.

The thick salt crystals under our feet crunch as if we’re walking on a pebble beach

Salt Hotel San Vincente – Walls, chairs, tables…

…and chandeliers in salt stone

We settle down at the salt hotel San Vincente. This will be our first experience with such a hotel. All the walls are made of salt stone, as are the tables and chairs in the dining room, and even the chandeliers are made of salt stone. The thick salt crystals under our feet crunch as if we’re walking on a pebble beach. Martín emphasizes that we should never spill liquids on the floor, as doing so would dissolve it. Surprisingly, he managed to bring a warm lunch with him – meat, vegetables, quinoa.

 

On the flanks of the Lliphi

As an alternative to the Devil’s Cave, Martín suggests the Gruta de las Galaxias, a bit west of Aguaquiza. The road takes us higher along the slopes of Lliphi, with splendid views of the plain. A few quinoa fields are ready for the next harvest. A small herd of vicuñas pays little attention to our presence.

 

Vicuñas

When Nemecio and Pelagio accidentally discovered some caves in 2003 after quite a bit of underground crawling, they found it so fantastic that they named it Gruta de las Galaxias, the Cave of the Galaxies. It's a somewhat grandiose name for a rather modest cave with two levels. On the wall hangs the official certificate from the government confirming the discovery by the two finders.

 

Gruta de las Galaxias

Pelagio has since passed away, but Nemecio continues to proudly showcase his little treasure to anyone willing to pay a small fee. And he has good reason to, as this is not a typical limestone cave. You won't find stalagmites or stalactites here. In fact, this cave was once underwater during the time of the great lake. The bizarre shapes we see are fossilized remnants of plants, with their structures still clearly recognizable.

As a parting gift, Nemecio shows us two dried quinoa plants – a quinoa colorado and a quinoa real. The latter variety is said to be the most popular worldwide due to its large, white seeds with a high protein content. It grows only here, in this barren landscape around the salt flat, as if the alkaline environment, low temperatures, and scarcity of nutrients and water do not bother it. No other plant can match it.

In fact, Nemecio and Pelagio were not initially searching for an ordinary cave, but for bodies

Chullpa’s, graves of the Aymara

In fact, Nemecio and Pelagio were not initially searching for an ordinary cave, but for bodies. We only understand Nemecio’s strange statement when Martín later leads us to a half-open cave with several dozen chullpas. In such structures, the Aymara buried their dead. At the back against the rock wall, the graves are shaped like small houses with an open door, while the graves in the middle of the cave are mostly underground, with the door at the front. This is still a sacred place for the local population.

 

Chullpa

Arboles Petrificados

The fact that the bodies are mummified is due to the bone-dry atmosphere. During the dry season, the Aymara buried their dead directly in the urn. However, during the rainy season, they left the body exposed to the harsh weather and scavengers, so that the body would be reduced in size before the secondary burial in an urn. The same goes for big people. They also underwent such a two-step burial, because otherwise it would be impossible to fit such a body into a small grave.

 

 

A path leads us higher to the Árboles Petrificados. These cylindrical structures have nothing to do with petrified trees, as the name suggests, but everything to do with calcium carbonate deposits. Martín calls these knobby pillars the Army of Coral. But it's the unparalleled view over the plain that steals the show here, with the green islands in the distance appearing to float above shimmering layers of air.

 

With the green islands in the distance appearing to float above shimmering layers of air

Large, bright green plants against the mountainside catch our attention. They look like moss-covered spheres. This plant is called yareta, and it is only found on the puna. It is unaffected by the intense sunlight and the cold. As long as it gets enough water, it grows at a rate of about 15 millimetres per year. The oldest specimens at this site can easily be 1,000 years old, Martín says.

 

 

Yet another breakdown of Alfredo’s jeep reminds us of how harshly the jeeps suffer on this unforgiving terrain. The problem seems to be fixed quickly, but five minutes later we are stopped again. The splashing water when driving through puddles during the rainy season is especially harmful. Corrosion constantly eats away at the undercarriage, and short circuits are a constant threat. It seems that Alfredo has managed to fix the short circuit for good this time.

 

The splashing water when driving through puddles during the rainy season is especially harmful, as corrosion constantly eats away at the undercarriage

We drive back into the white salt sea via the earthen pier. Soon, the rock-hard surface becomes as smooth as a billiard table, indicating that during the rainy season, up to twenty centimetres of water covers this area, preventing the surface from drying out and cracking.

As inhospitable as this salt flat may be, the Incas once crossed it with their llama caravans. On one of the islands, they even set up a kind of caravanserai, a place for people and animals to stay overnight. This place is now called Incahuasi, the House of the Inca.

 

 

To navigate, José steers straight toward a tall mountain in the distance for tens of kilometres. Then, he makes a wide turn between two islands. In the distance, a small brown rock mass appears – Isla Incahuasi. The distance is impossible to gauge – perhaps twenty to thirty kilometres. Meanwhile, the salt surface starts to crack, indicating that this area does not receive any water during the rainy season. José points out the small island of Pía Pía to the right.

 

Isla Incahuasi with cardόn cacti

At times, the otherworldly salt flat seems to stretch all the way to the horizon. No landmarks break the white monotony of the ground or the clear blue of the sky. It’s the perfect place for Martín to play with some optical illusions. A menacing-looking toy dinosaur is placed close to the camera lens, while we pose as frightened victims several meters away. Together with the steel-blue sky and the snow-white flatness devoid of any landmarks, the perspective creates the illusion that a giant dino is chasing us.

 

Isla Incahuasi

Repairing a traditional roof made of paja brava

This must be one of the most popular destinations on the salt flat; we count about sixty jeeps at the base of Isla Incahuasi. A man is repairing a traditional roof made of paja brava. The island – barely 24 hectares (59 acres) in size – is a magical experience in itself. Hundreds of cardón cacti occupy the volcanic rock, the same giants as those found in the Parque nacional Los Cardones near Salta, Argentina. They can grow up to ten meters high. The low sun casts a warm glow on the long spines. That white halo around the green plants gives the rugged cacti a surprisingly soft appearance.

 

Isla Incahuasi, Salar de Uyuni

But what truly makes the climb spectacular is the phenomenal 360° view over the white flat, with the blue-grey mountains on the horizon.

 

 

Just after six o'clock, the sun will disappear from the scene. Drivers José and Alfredo know the best spot to witness this. In the west, the horizon draws a straight line between the sky and the earth. As far as the eye can see, the white emptiness dominates. Even the crowd of tourists from earlier is nowhere to be seen.

 

Salar de Uyuni

Through thin mists, the sun casts its last remnants of warmth onto the salt flat, giving the white salt crusts a warm glow. These crusts are the result of the arid conditions and the large temperature fluctuations, which cause the salt surface to crack. Brine water rises through these cracks – this is known as capillarity. Once at the surface, the water evaporates quickly, leaving the salt behind. This forms salt crusts, usually in the shape of irregular hexagons, a result of the salt's crystal structure. In the low sunlight, these white salt crusts stand out sharply against the white-grey surface, creating the illusion of a giant net with large hexagonal meshes spread across the flat.

 

Salt crusts in the shape of irregular hexagons

Harmony between natural and artificial forms is the essence of the Chinese concept of feng shui. In Bolivia, you wouldn't immediately expect to encounter this concept, but the Cristal Samaña Hotel in Colchani claims to be the only hotel in Bolivia designed with this principle in mind. According to their website, the hotel's floor plan is shaped like a coca leaf, symbolizing the balance and energy that feng shui aims to achieve.

Naturally, the use of salt stone is integral to this concept. Massive salt stone sculptures adorn the corridors, and the salt stone walls feature intricate reliefs, including depictions of Inca trade caravans and various motifs from Aymara astrology. The crunch of salt stones underfoot is a constant reminder of the material's omnipresence. Everything from the beds, nightstands, tables, and chairs is crafted from salt stone, with only the sanitary facilities diverging for obvious reasons.

The salt hotel's floor plan is shaped like a coca leaf, symbolizing the balance and energy

Colchani – Salt hotel Cristal Samaña

Beds in salt stone

Heating is once again minimal, with a small hot air heater offering some relief, but it's the hot water bottles in bed that truly provide comfort at this frigid altitude.

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Tuesday 21 July | Colchani – Ojo de Perdiz

Not everyone handles the thin air well, as evidenced by a young Japanese traveller gasping for breath from an oxygen tank in the hallway before breakfast. Despite this, we're heading even higher today, to the southwestern corner of Bolivia, a region famed for its colourful lagoons.

Before tackling the rough highland roads, the condition of the jeeps is reassessed. Since José's jeep has more power than Alfredo's, passengers and luggage are redistributed accordingly.

Dipping your feet in the water is said to be beneficial, but you must be quick to pull them out before they freeze

Salt harvesting

Ojos del Salar

Leaving the salt flat without acknowledging the salt harvesting process is unthinkable. Piles of salt stand as silent witnesses to the laborious work done in a place where, during the rainy season, no more than a centimetre of water typically covers the ground. This is the ideal depth – not too much water, so workers can move comfortably, and not too little, allowing the salt to be loosened and scraped away with minimal effort. The rainwater even provides a natural first wash, with the contaminated top layer being scooped into piles while the pure material is transported to Colchani for further processing. All of this is done manually, as machines would quickly succumb to the extreme corrosion in this environment.

Further along, we encounter the Ojos del Salar, or the Eyes of the Salt Flat. These small holes in the salt crust constantly bubble with brine, resembling tiny geysers, though this isn't geothermal activity. The brine surfaces simply because this is the lowest point in the area. The icy water is rich in salt and iron, giving it a rusty hue and reputed medicinal properties. Dipping your feet in the water is said to be beneficial, but you must be quick to pull them out before they freeze.

 

Vicuñas

Rail track

Once, there was a salt hotel on the lake, with an unhealthy sense of humour called Hotel Playa Blanca. For ecological reasons, the government put an end to it, replacing it with an exhibition of salt sculptures. Dozens of flags from around the world flutter in front of the building, now known as Plaza de las Banderas in Uyuni. In vain we search for our own national tricolour.

Just a stone's throw away stands a massive replica of the Dakar Rally trophy – a Tuareg on the puna, no less. Last year, this was a stage stop for the motorcycles and quads of the Dakar. It doesn't take us long to turn our backs on this infamous site.

 

Cementerio de Trenes, cemetery for locomotives

About three kilometres south of Uyuni lies the Cementerio de Trenes, the final resting place for steam locomotives that transported minerals from the mountains to the Pacific seaports. A dozen or so rusted wrecks remind us of a time when it was the mining industry, not tourism, that dictated the rhythm of life in Uyuni. The decline began in the 1940s, largely due to the depletion of the mines.

 

 

Shortly after eleven, we officially begin our trek southwest via Ruta 5. Soon, in the distance, the snow-capped Cerro Lípez makes its appearance, standing at 5,933 meters. We cross the Río Grande de Lípez, which flows northward into the salt flat, carrying numerous minerals, especially during the rainy season.

 

Llamas

High in the mountains, we spot the silhouette of the San Cristóbal open-pit mine. One of the largest mines in the world, it produces up to 1,300 tons of zinc and silver concentrate and 300 tons of lead and silver daily.

A pueblo modelo, a model village, is what the people of Culpina K modestly call themselves

Culpina “K”

For lunch, we dive into Culpina K. The streets of this sun-soaked village seem deserted. It's unclear where it gets its bizarre name from. A quick glance at the map shows that such names are not uncommon in this region – Colcha K, Santiago K, Calcha K, Miraflores K, and so on. Neither Martín nor Alfredo can explain it, aside from a vague reference to colonial times when the Spaniards supposedly named these places.

A pueblo modelo, a model village, is what the people of Culpina K modestly call themselves. This is evident from wise sayings on some house facades, such as La limpieza refleja tu educacion – Cleanliness reflects your upbringing. At the Churrasqueria Doña Hilda, they have chicken ready for us, accompanied by pasta, raw and cooked vegetables, and mandarins for dessert.

From now on, we head deeper into the mountains along route 701, in search of colourful lagoons – the jewels of the puna. But first, we encounter the desolate Salar de Caypasa, a shriveled version of the Salar de Uyuni, which Martín notes is rich in borax.

 

Ñandús

In the distance, a handful of ñandús can be seen grazing. In Aymara and Quechua, these large flightless birds are called suri. Their common English name is rhea. They are smaller cousins of ostriches and emus. They feed on plants, fruit, and seeds but will occasionally take down a small snake or rodent. The males are the ones that incubate the large eggs.

 

Valle de Rocas

Just before two, the Valle de Rocas appears. Once, a volcano must have spewed fire and lava generously during an eruption, leaving meters-high rock blocks scattered across a gently sloping terrain. Rich in iron, copper, and lime, with some sulphur mixed in, the area is also home to a few yareta plants.

 

Yareta

Yareta

The gravel road winds lazily through the treeless landscape, a pure wind corridor where vegetation has little chance of survival. Not reassuring, however, is the pace at which Alfredo is chewing on fresh coca leaves. He’s not chewing them to spit out; he’s eating them whole. Stripping the green leaves from the veins with his teeth, he chews a bit and then swallows. The bare veins end up somewhere between his feet.

 

Cerro Caquella with paja brava

At the foot of the 5,858 m high Cerro Caquella, two brave cyclists are deliberating over their route, map in hand. Signposts are considered a luxury here, and one wrong turn on this merciless terrain can have dire consequences for cyclists.

But José and Alfredo feel at home and promptly turn left, heading straight south. From a slight elevation, we take in the surroundings. In the distance, we can just see Volcán Ollagüe, right on the border between Bolivia and Chile. Rising to 5,870 m, it towers almost 1,700 m above its surroundings. Small plumes of smoke rise sharply against the blue sky. Martín explains that these are fumaroles – openings from which hot gases and vapours escape. Superheated water fuels this mechanism, and typically, the gases also contain various minerals dissolved in the water.

 

Signposts are considered a luxury here, and one wrong turn on this merciless terrain can have dire consequences for cyclists

Parallel to the border, no more than ten kilometres away, we continue south. All slopes and lakes in this area have been scoured by the glaciers of Caquella over the centuries.

 

Laguna Cañapa

In the distance, one of the Corina lakes draws a white streak across the landscape. The snow-white shore is packed with borax, and any form of life in that lake will be searched for in vain. Only the plume grasses of paja brava adorn the wide, barren valley. In inhabited areas, this long white grass is used as fodder for llamas and also as roofing material. The steep rocky road makes it challenging for the jeeps to navigate. An abandoned gold mine bears witness to a not-so-distant past. A yellow strip of surface vegetation reveals the presence of an underground river.

 

Paja brava

By half-past three, we reach Laguna Cañapa, sitting at 4,160 m above sea level. There's not much to see here, but ten minutes further lies Laguna Hedionda, which demands all the attention – despite the strong sulphur smell that can be detected from miles away, earning it the nickname Smelly Lagoon.

 

Laguna Hedionda

A colony of pink flamingos has made this place their permanent home. There are hundreds of them, constantly stealing the show. Some are peacefully pecking for food in the shallow water along the shore, but most are walking around in the middle of the lake, calling out loudly as they parade through the water with their vibrant pink feathers. As if they were pink soldiers in a folk operetta, they march side by side in the water, with their chests puffed out and their heads held high. These are courtship displays, meant to impress the females with their ritual movements.

As if they were pink soldiers in a folk operetta, they march side by side in the water

James's flamingos courting

The pinker they are, the more they attract attention, as females perceive brighter males as stronger. Interestingly, that pink colour is not innate. Flamingos are born white, the one-sided diet of small crustaceans transforms their feathers to pink over time.

 

James's flamingos

 

However, not all pink flamingos are the same. They come in different species, and Martín expects us to be able to distinguish between them later. The largest is the Andean flamingo, the parina grande, while the smallest is James’s flamingo, the parina chica, which we see here. The Chilean flamingo falls in between these two in size.

 

 

You can easily recognize them by their eye colour, Martín explains. Really? That doesn’t help very much when the majority of these creatures are about 250 meters away. Their beaks are different too, he adds. It's half yellow and half black for parina grande, two-thirds yellow and one-third black for parina chica, and half white and half black for the last group the Chilean flamingo... Alas, that’s still more confusing. The legs remain as a last option: respectively, they are yellow, red, and bluish pale with red knees. We give up. We won’t be able to tell the difference.

 

Laguna Chiar Khota (south side)

Laguna Chiar Khota (north side)

Just a stone's throw away lies Laguna Chiar Khota. The water there is so acidic that no life can exist. The strong western winds continuously shake the jeep. A little further, we encounter the smaller Laguna Honda and its larger sister, Laguna Ramaditas. Underground, these lakes are likely interconnected.

A fairly large black bird with a white belly flies alongside the jeep. It’s a mountain caracara, a scavenger bird. Its menu includes both carcasses and small live animals, but it is also known to follow vehicles in hopes of being fed scraps.

Once again, enchanting lunar landscapes unfold before our eyes – icy lagoons with hostile waters, barren slopes dotted with clumps of paja brava, a steel-blue sky, and, on the horizon, extinct snow-covered volcanoes. This scenery calls for a photo stop, which is quite the challenge with the fierce wind making it difficult even to open or close the door. In the distance to the left, a road leads to a sulphur mine.

 

Andean gull (f)

Mountain caracara

Now, we head through the Cañón del Inca to the highlight of the day – quite literally. The road winds up through a long V-shaped canyon, about ten meters deep, snaking its way between brown-red rock formations. Water flows down the middle of the road. It’s not extremely steep, but the jeeps struggle with the rocks scattered across the path. Occasionally, there’s snow and ice on the trail, causing the jeeps to slip and slide erratically as they ascend.

A solitary northern viscacha peers at us from a rock, calmly nibbling on something. Eventually, the commotion becomes too much for it, and it quickly scurries away. Higher up on the rocky wall, a mountain caracara watches the spectacle with amusement.

The jeeps struggle with the rocks scattered across the path

Cañón del Inca

Northern viscacha

Just after five, the road widens out into El Siloli, a barren, parched desert. It's hard to imagine a landscape more desolate than this – a bleak environment of bare brown earth and rocks. Apparently vicuñas still manage to scoop up a few blades of grass here. Soon after, we reach the highest point at 4,750 meters above sea level.

 

El Siloli

A little later, we stop at hotel Tayka del Desierto, where dozens of tire tracks converge in the sand. About ten jeeps have already arrived at this desolate location, known as Ojo de Perdiz, or the Eye of the Partridge, situated at an elevation of 4,540 meters. As far as the eye can see, bare sandy slopes stretch out without any signs of habitation.

The hotel is constructed from volcanic rock and is designed in the shape of a sickle, curving southwest as if to brace against the strong winds. Fifteen local families worked for twelve months to build it.

 

It's nothing short of a miracle that they can accommodate dozens of guests in this godforsaken corner of the world

It's nothing short of a miracle that they can accommodate dozens of guests in this godforsaken corner of the world. They harness their energy from solar panels. The little warmth provided by the radiators keeps the room temperature just above freezing, ensuring that neither the furnishings nor the guests will freeze, which is a relief. There is also warm water, but only in the evenings, not in the mornings. Cosy flannel sheets provide old-fashioned warmth in bed, and in the restaurant, burners create a comforting heat along with a stunning panoramic view of the surroundings.

Tonight, temperatures will drop to –17 °C (1.4 °F). At exactly ten o'clock, the lights go out, but by then, we are already snugly nestled between the flannel sheets.

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Wednesday 22 July | Ojo de Perdiz – Chilean border

At half past five, we begin to fumble in the dark for our clothes. Ten minutes later, the lights flicker on, but the same cannot be said for the radiators. Martín estimates the morning temperature to be somewhere between –5 and –10 °C (between 23 and 14 °F). Soon, we will feel a comfortable 23 °C (73 °F) on our shoulders in the much lower San Pedro de Atacama. Throughout the day, we must bridge a temperature difference of about thirty degrees. Layer by layer, we will need to strip to maintain our body temperature. Six layers seem sufficient – long underwear, T-shirt, shirt, pullover, fleece, and winter jacket.

We crawl into the jeeps like round Michelin men

We crawl into the jeeps like round Michelin men. The sun is still hiding behind the mountains as we hit the road shortly before seven. With the radio volume cranked up to 10, Alfredo speeds through El Siloli. You will look in vain for any trace of vegetation here, yet there must be some, as animals manage to survive in this harsh landscape. To the right, Martín points out a seven-coloured mountain, though it pales in comparison to what we saw last week in Argentina.

 

Árboles de Piedra

Gradually, the sun rises above the mountains, and the first rays settle on the jeep. A strange rock formation has become a tourist attraction. It resembles a stone tree, an Árbol de Piedra, with a narrow trunk at the bottom that widens towards the top. You don't need to be a certified geologist to suspect that the rock at the top is more resistant to erosion than that at the bottom. This hard rock, called ignimbrite, is a type of tuff deposited from a pyroclastic flow that once raced down the slopes of a volcano during an eruption. It is much harder than the biotite below.

 

 

The Laguna Colorada owes its colour to the red algae thriving in its shallow waters. It’s a very peculiar colour palette on display here, with the islands and shores of bright white borax, the bare brown slopes glowing in the reddish morning light, partially reflected in the brown-red water.

 

Laguna Colorada

Yet flamingos feel right at home in this surreal landscape. Both Andean flamingos and James's flamingos are visible, side by side. Busy foraging for food underwater, their backsides are particularly prominent. The distinction is now clear: the black rear belongs to the James's flamingo, while the Andean flamingo flaunts a red behind with a black tuft. We’re starting to feel like experts. A handful of Andean gulls stand motionless in the shallow water along the shore.

Here and there, snow and ice cover shallow streams

Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Abaroa

Just after eight, we enter the Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Abaroa, registering individually at the entrance with our passport numbers. Covering an area of 7,147 square kilometres, this nature reserve in the extreme southwest of Bolivia is roughly half the size of Northern Ireland.

We gradually ascend from the lagoon. Here and there, snow and ice cover shallow streams. In the distance to the right, snow-capped peaks mark the border with Chile. We climb up to 4,938 meters, and then begin to descend again to the Sol de Mañana, which lies a hundred meters lower.

The government occasionally tries to capitalize on the geothermal activity in this area, as evidenced by The Pipe. This is essentially an artificial fumarole. Water that comes into contact with hot lava in an underground cavity instantly vaporizes and shoots out as steam through the pipe driven into the ground here. It's not really dangerous – unless, like Martín and Alfredo, you try to block the hot steam with your foot and direct it low to the ground – thankfully not towards us. Just a way to get a thrilling photo.

 

Sol de Mañana

 

A little further along, the foul-smelling vapours of solfataras rise above a lunar landscape. It resembles a small geyser field, but it’s not. Here, it's not water that is forcefully ejected into the air, but sulphur-laden steam mists.

As we attempt to open the door against the strong wind, the penetrating smell of sulphur immediately greets us. They mostly turn out to be mud pots, where there isn’t enough pressure on the steam, causing the vapours to bubble up through the grey mud with slow, gurgling sounds.

Rheumatism, arthritis, stress, ... you name it, this healing water knows what to do with it

Salar de Chalviri

The descent takes us further to the edge of the Salar de Chalviri, a rather modest salt flat that unveils a captivating azure lagoon along its southwestern shore. The high sun casts silver ripples across the blue water, while delicate clouds accentuate the steel-blue sky.

 

Andes gull (m)

Andes gull (chick)

The local wildlife has also discovered the charms of this place. Along the shore, vicuñas graze on the paja brava grass. In the air, on the rocks, and in the water, the Andean gulls reign supreme – the males sporting black heads, the females dressed entirely in white, and the chicks still covered in down.

Although nighttime temperatures can drop to –20 °C (–4 °F), the lagoon is fed by water over 30 °C (86 °F). It's no surprise, then, that a natural hot spring has developed at the lagoon's edge. About fifteen bathers are enjoying the warm, mineral-rich waters of the Termas de Polques. Rheumatism, arthritis, stress, ... you name it, this healing water knows what to do with it.

 

Jara Pampa (Desierto Salvador Dalí)

We continue our journey through Jara Pampa, still at an altitude of 4,750 meters. This inhospitable high plateau is better known as the Desierto Salvador Dalí. The landscapes are so bizarre that it seems as if the surrealist master himself placed them here.

 

Jara Pampa (Desierto Salvador Dalí)

On our right, the Sairecabur volcano rises majestically above the mountain range that bears its name. In the distance ahead, the silhouette of Licancábur begins to take shape. Basalt rocks are scattered throughout the valley. In the past, tools and implements were made from them. These solidified lava flows are between 20 and 40 million years old.

 

Sairecabur, basalt rocks

Brave cyclists

Before us appears the Laguna Blanca, a rather unremarkable pale body of water known to contain a significant amount of sulphur, calcium carbonate, and magnesium. However, it is the much smaller Laguna Verde that steals the show. The two lagoons are interconnected.

 

Licancábur, Laguna Verde

The exceptional colour of the green lagoon is due to a mineral suspension of magnesium, arsenic, lead, and calcium carbonate. The wind keeps the water in motion, preventing the minerals from sinking to the bottom. Depending on the strength and direction of the wind, the colour of the water varies from turquoise to emerald green.

Rising above the lagoon is the 5,868-meter-high Licancábur, a textbook example of a perfect volcanic cone. The sky is once again steel blue, with a few white clouds highlighting the grandeur of the scenery. There are no flamingos in sight, and behind us, black basalt rocks lie scattered across the slope, as if thrown down by the hand of a deity. In the distance, a small dust devil briefly forms.

 

 

Ten minutes later, we reach the park's exit. Eleven o'clock in the morning is a bit early for lunch, but necessity knows no law, as this is the only place in the area.

The culpeo likely single-handedly ensured that South America never faced a rabbit plague like Australia did after colonization

Dust devil

Culpeo

A culpeo, an Andean fox, roams the grounds, seemingly unconcerned by our presence. This is the second-largest canid on the South American continent. Rodents, rabbits, birds, and lizards better watch out when it's around. It will also attack sheep, which doesn't make it popular with farmers. However, it's worth noting that the culpeo likely single-handedly ensured that South America never faced a rabbit plague like Australia did after colonization.

 

Bolivian border post

At a quarter to twelve, we resume our journey toward the border. Eight minutes later, we arrive – at least on the Bolivian side. A rickety barrier across the gravel road blocks our way. Next to it, there's a small guardhouse and a few container offices. That's all you can expect at 4,350 meters above sea level.

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Jaak Palmans
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