The next stop after La Paz was the vast salt flats in the southwest of Bolivia named Salar de Uyuni. For the uninitiated, this used to be a huge saltwater lake until it dried up millions of years ago, leaving what is essentially a big white desert, over ten thousand kilometres in area.
First of all, and arguably more excitingly, the rare treat to a train ride to the town of Uyuni from Oruro, 4 hours south of La Paz. We took our waiting ticket from a machine which must have been made around the start of the 20th century (in Liverpool!), booked our executive first class seats and settled in for 7 hours of luxury.
This, though, is Bolivia, and such terms as 'executive' should be taken with a pinch of salt (see what I did there?). What we were presented with was a grand old diesel car with fairly cramped seats, 80s Italian music videos on a loop, and a strict rule against taking your shoes off. In defence of that rule, I'd been tramping around in my walking boots and the same socks for the past few days so my feet did proper stink.
The journey itself featured an incredible long passage through the middle of a large expanse of water with birds fleeing from the reeds, followed by an executive standard sunset over the water. We arrived in the chilly outpost of Uyuni at around 11, batted away some persistent tour touts and resolved to get out on the salt the next day.
Most tour companies offer 1, 3 or 4 day tours onto the salt, but we wanted 2 days. Therefore we had to go with a more profit-orientated organisation, bought enough supplies to keep us going in case of abandonment in the salty wasteland and set off with northern-to-the-core and their 'southern fairy' in the back of a Nissan 4x4 with our charming guide Roberto.
Roberto speaks zero English despite having been leading unsuspecting foreigners out into the white for a good twenty years. So he would explain each location in painfully slow Spanish, occasionally giving me time to relay what I could to the others. These would be given in the car on the way to each site, where we were allowed out for five minutes to take photos before Roberto got moody and insisted we set off again.
This meant that sites such as the graveyard of trains (an eery deserted old and rusty train depot) and a hotel made entirely of salt were kind of skipped through, presumably to give us more time at the souvenir stands shopping for little salt ashtrays and, of course, packets of salt.
We stopped for a surprisingly tasty beef lunch on a little salt table and chairs near the main attraction of the day - Incahuasi island. This is an 'island' in the salt covered with giant cacti. I kid you not (see pictures below if you don't believe me). I have truly no idea how that kind of thing is possible, but peering through the cacti at the top to a sea of pure white below is a view that will stick with me for a long time.
With a bit of time left before Roberto would round us up, we tried, fairly unsuccessfully, to get some hilarious perspective-assisted photos done on the endless mass of salt. A couple of our attempts are at the bottom, the true potential was realised by these guys: http://mashable.com/2013/10/22/salar-de-uyuni-instagram/
Before long Roberto was on our case again and we were off to where we would spend the night, in a salt hotel on a small island formed by a volcano. It was here that the catchphrase of the tour was coined. Roberto was an odd character, and my attempts to get conversation going in Spanish normally failed at the first hurdle as he didn't understand even the most basic thing I said. Hence when I asked how many people lived in the little salt community he replied 'muchas llamas!'
He was clearly a fan of the llamas, as when we came to eat our chicken dinner he would come into the room as if about to start a conversation, and instead declare 'muchas llamas!' and walk out again. We would have been cheesed off about such a lame guide if it hadn't been for the good old northern pisstaking (and Yorkshire tea talk) of our tour mates, and we enjoyed the wine that Roberto had tried to bribe us into a tip with until deep into a very starry night.
The next day we drove up to a trail where we were shown by a local guide to a cave containing the mummified (due to the salty air) remains of an ancient family finished off by a deadly illness. From there we headed up the side of the volcano to try and get to a viewpoint near the crater. At that altitude it was a struggle, but I hardly have to tell you that the view from the top was stunning.
Luckily we made it back before Roberto drove off and deserted us, and we headed back with a bonus Russian in the back who'd been getting a bit desperate stuck on the island without having seen a car for two days. Roberto took a lot of persuading on that matter, finally changing his tune quite dramatically when money was mentioned.
I guess Roberto is typical of Uyuni - one of those end-of-the-road towns that only exist to support tours, with very few people staying more than one night in itself. Why should people make an effort when there's a new set of people in their rooms every day? Our HI hostel was so miserable that they'd taken all the plug sockets out of our rooms and limited us to an hour of charge in the reception.
Therefore we were relieved to leave on the freeeezing night bus to Sucre (the true capital of Bolivia). We had around 10 hours in that place to enjoy its classic white colonial town, its English breakfasts and a happy atmosphere of a happening place which Loja could be given a few licks of paint and a change in attitude. You should definitely go for at least a night if you're heading to Bolivia.
We couldn't afford such luxuries and instead hopped onto our second night bus in a row that evening, to Mareike's final destination of Santa Cruz. Much hotter and more tropical than the rest of Bolivia, Sucre it ain't but it was a lot more pleasant than Uyuni. We spent our days gorging on a huge barbecue at the hostel, buying cheap sunglasses, visiting tropical butterfly reserves and um... catching up on The Voice UK.
When that was all done the Friday arrived and it was time for Mareike's flight. 52 days had passed in barely believably quick time, and once she'd passed through those doors I knew I was going to have to be very savvy, as well as unnaturally sociable, to survive a further ten weeks on my own.
As in my worry and confusion I stumbled into the ladies toilets at the airport, I was really not sure if I could.
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