They say if you travel long enough down here, you will have your run in with the thieves. I mentioned a camera being stolen in an earlier blog, but this is the city where it actually happened. I came here with Matteo and Baska, my friends made on the Salar trip after our time in Potosi. We went looking for a hostel and eventually found one to our liking. We walked in with a couple other people and requested some rooms, a single for me and a double for Baska and Matteo. We went up to put our stuff away but still had to register with our passport numbers and names, standard procedure. I went and did it right away and then went to hang out with Matteo and Baska outside their room in the courtyard downstairs. The man came into the courtyard from the direction of the office to inform Matteo and Baska they still needed to register, and we figured perhaps he had just done so and was informing us because the desk clerk said something (just being a nice guy, right?). Meanwhile the woman just sort of hung out in the courtyard. So Baska and Matteo went to register while I stayed in front of the room, door open (we definitely had our guard down). The woman then proceeded to talk to me about some delegation coming, and I was trying to understand what she was telling me in Spanish. Meanwhile the man slipped into the room behind my back as I was distracted and lifted Matteo’s camera. The lady soon told me to forget whatever it was she was trying to tell me and her and the man took off. None of us thought much of it at the time. The way I tell the story now is how we pieced it together 4 hours afterward when we came back to the hotel and realized the camera was missing. It made for a sour night and next day. We ended up not doing much in Sucre other than walk around the plaza and few other places. I parted ways with my friends here and went off toward Santa Cruz, with a pit stop in Samaipata.
After a long bus ride from Sucre, I arrived in Samaipata at 4:30 am on a dark, rainy morning. That is about the worst time to be dropped off anywhere, although I would say a small town would be preferable to a large city concerning safety, but worse considering street lights and available taxis. So after wandering for a while in the darkness and rain, I finally found my way into the town proper, about 5 blocks from where I was dropped off, and managed to find an empty room in a what ended up being a nice little place. I found out later that morning from some other travelers that the two roads to Santa Cruz, my next destination, were either closed due to landslides or a river had carried away a bridge. So I spent my time there visiting an old Inca fort and figuring out how to get to Santa Cruz. The fort was uneventful and quite boring I thought. The most notable experience I had while in Samaipata was that I pooped normally for the first time after two weeks. No one was around to celebrate with me, so I did a dance by myself in the bathroom. Ahhhh, the simple joys in life. I left the next day with some of the people, and we caught a cab to the missing bridge, crossed the river on a footbridge, then caught another cab into Santa Cruz. Not quite normal, but nevertheless, typical for Bolivian travel.
March 6, 2008
Into Thin Air - Potosí
So much more is traveling than merely sightseeing. There would indeed be little to draw you outside your front door if a picture of Rome or a postcard of Patagonia would serve as a journey there. No, traveling is about the living out of what life any one place has to offer: the touch, the smells, the sights, the sounds, the feelings, the ambiance, the people, the culture, the pleasures, the challenges. It is about looking about for whatever is willing to reveal itself to you, taking it in and letting it impress itself upon you. It is about standing inside the mighty arches of the Coliseum where the worst of human nature was once realized, caught up in a vision of the chaos and pandemonium of a raucous mob calling for the brutal and gory death of the unfortunate souls in the arena below. It is about the sense of wonder and humility one feels standing beneath towering peaks of solid rock glowing pink in the morning rays of sunrise, and despite battling the biting wind and deep chill penetrating your four layers of clothing, you can think of no place you would rather be.
It is true that while traveling, some places are merely a postcard snapshot in your memory, a fleeting glimpse through a dirty bus window as you roll on by. Yet others etch themselves so deeply into your being that upon their recollection you can still feel it, taste it, and smell it; you can still live it long after it has passed from reality to memory. You still feel where your body ached as you recall resting wearily in the cool shade along a rushing mountain river after a 6 day trek, reminiscing upon the spectacular scenery you were witness to. Or that that feeling of peace falling over you as the sky turns colors above a lighted soccer pitch, cold beer in hand, taking friendly jabs for being an American from your Paraguayan friends, knowing there is nothing left to do with the night but play a couple more games of ball and share a few more beers. These memories are almost as real now as when they were made, evoking so much feeling and emotion when recalled. It may be too soon to say, but I believe my experience in Potosi will be another one of these experiences.
Just getting there was an experience. (For that matter, so is most travel in Bolivia. Hot busses full of people, aisle included, families of four sharing two seats. Washed out bridges cutting off direct transportation, although you can leave your first means of transportation, hop off and walk across the gully on a makeshift foot bridge, then catch some other form of transportation on the other side. The journey from Uyuni to Potosi though takes the cake (or the biscuit for my British friends).) The six hour journey took eight, and it was overnight. I was lucky enough to get a chair whose recline lever was broken off. Just recovering from altitude sickness, we were traveling from a high 3100m to a higher 4100m. I was also midway through my two week diarrhea session as well. The winding dirt road was in such a state of disrepair that the bus rattled violently on down it for nearly the entire 8 hours. How happy I was when we finally hit the short stretch of paved road before Potosi. The rattling was so bad that you couldn’t sleep (straight backed chairs didn’t help either) as it would randomly change from constant to strong, with the occasional JAR as you hit a big pot hole. Please excuse me if this sentence offends any you, but the rattling was so strong my “package” was hurting from all the back and forth, so I had to stuff my sweatshirt between my legs to give more support and create a makeshift pillow. It was seriously that bad. We got one bathroom break to pee on the side of the road, and luckily my intestines had mercy on me for the journey. I might have been on a straight 36 hour bus ride in Argentina, but this was without a doubt the longest bus ride of my life.
The city of Potosi itself is really quite unremarkable, other than its altitude. You walk a block and you are short of breath, your heart is pounding, and, if you exert yourself too much, then your brain is racking against the side of your skull (the fact that the city is built on a hillside doesn’t help the situation). The chaotic street scenes weigh a bit on your sanity. Not enough space on the sidewalks, the pedestrians overflow into the streets, then have to press together when a car comes to avoid being hit, creating this surging mob going about their day to day activities. It is Potosi’s mining heritage and lifestyle though that will leave its mark on you.
It is true that while traveling, some places are merely a postcard snapshot in your memory, a fleeting glimpse through a dirty bus window as you roll on by. Yet others etch themselves so deeply into your being that upon their recollection you can still feel it, taste it, and smell it; you can still live it long after it has passed from reality to memory. You still feel where your body ached as you recall resting wearily in the cool shade along a rushing mountain river after a 6 day trek, reminiscing upon the spectacular scenery you were witness to. Or that that feeling of peace falling over you as the sky turns colors above a lighted soccer pitch, cold beer in hand, taking friendly jabs for being an American from your Paraguayan friends, knowing there is nothing left to do with the night but play a couple more games of ball and share a few more beers. These memories are almost as real now as when they were made, evoking so much feeling and emotion when recalled. It may be too soon to say, but I believe my experience in Potosi will be another one of these experiences.
Just getting there was an experience. (For that matter, so is most travel in Bolivia. Hot busses full of people, aisle included, families of four sharing two seats. Washed out bridges cutting off direct transportation, although you can leave your first means of transportation, hop off and walk across the gully on a makeshift foot bridge, then catch some other form of transportation on the other side. The journey from Uyuni to Potosi though takes the cake (or the biscuit for my British friends).) The six hour journey took eight, and it was overnight. I was lucky enough to get a chair whose recline lever was broken off. Just recovering from altitude sickness, we were traveling from a high 3100m to a higher 4100m. I was also midway through my two week diarrhea session as well. The winding dirt road was in such a state of disrepair that the bus rattled violently on down it for nearly the entire 8 hours. How happy I was when we finally hit the short stretch of paved road before Potosi. The rattling was so bad that you couldn’t sleep (straight backed chairs didn’t help either) as it would randomly change from constant to strong, with the occasional JAR as you hit a big pot hole. Please excuse me if this sentence offends any you, but the rattling was so strong my “package” was hurting from all the back and forth, so I had to stuff my sweatshirt between my legs to give more support and create a makeshift pillow. It was seriously that bad. We got one bathroom break to pee on the side of the road, and luckily my intestines had mercy on me for the journey. I might have been on a straight 36 hour bus ride in Argentina, but this was without a doubt the longest bus ride of my life.
The city of Potosi itself is really quite unremarkable, other than its altitude. You walk a block and you are short of breath, your heart is pounding, and, if you exert yourself too much, then your brain is racking against the side of your skull (the fact that the city is built on a hillside doesn’t help the situation). The chaotic street scenes weigh a bit on your sanity. Not enough space on the sidewalks, the pedestrians overflow into the streets, then have to press together when a car comes to avoid being hit, creating this surging mob going about their day to day activities. It is Potosi’s mining heritage and lifestyle though that will leave its mark on you.
The Spanish sought the silver veins coursing through the multicolored mountain standing above Potosi, perforating the mountainside with dark shafts baptized by the blood of black and indigenous slaves alike. Due to their acclimatization to the altitude, and the inability of the blacks to adjust under their immediate and heavy work burdens, the indigenous workers soon dominated the mine work force. Testament to this fact is the eerie absence of African heritage among Potosi habitants, despite the importation of a plethora of African slaves. The dark, damp 
shafts soon became known as a literal incarnation of hell on earth because of the harsh conditions and life of the workers, further reinforced by the Catholic tradition of the occupying Spanish that hell’s dominion lay underground. A fusion between the indigenous and Catholic traditions, a whole other religious tradition formed in the underground tunnels and is still very prevalent today. Tio oversees and watches all, causing accidents if offerings are insufficient, or leading a miner to a rich vein of ore if he is pleased. An altar to Tio exists in every mine, of which there are currently 300 employing 12,000-15,000 workers, depending on the economy. He has a striking resemblance to the Catholic imagery of Satan, as well as other pronounced features taken from the indigenous culture (see if you can find the most pronounced…). So strong is 
the belief in Tio’s reward or punishment, that even when taking little capful shots of liquor, some is poured onto the earth as tribute before each drink. Miners earn a decent living compared to their Bolivian counterparts, but it is also a good way to live a short life. The days in the mine take years off of your life, and also add them to your body. The miners we shared drinks with were not much older than me, 25 and 28, but looked easily 10 to 15 years older than that. They were engineers, not a bad job for miners. We witnessed a whole hierarchy of jobs, some harder with better pay, or vice versa. Every single one of them made any form of work I have ever done or ever will do seem like a Sunday stroll through the park. It was an eye-opening experience to walk those damp, dark shafts and witness an underground life so harsh and so different.
One last impression I will never forget is after we had climbed about 300 feet up a shaft via ladders to see some work that was being done. Some miners had placed some dynamite for a horizontal tunnel they were boring, and after talking about this, we sat down with those engineers to share some drinks and talk more about mine culture. At some point someone realized it was 5:00, and I overheard one of the miners tell our guide that we should get going and that we had about ten minutes. I figured we had 10 minutes to leave because the miners were going home for the day. 
We descended the narrow laddered shafts to the level we entered on, and when we were together again, we started to talk once again about the mines. 10 minutes apparently was meant on a Bolivian time scale, and I was content to let the guides worry about it anyway. In the middle of some talk about silver veins BOOM! Dirt shook itself from the roof and walls as we looked at each other with panicked looks BOOM! More dirt falling, the vibrations could be felt in our legs, the source come somewhere maybe above our BOOM! Yep, definitely above our 
heads. What are we supposed to do? BOOM! Does my face look as scared as that guy’s over there? Why is our guide smiling? BOOM! “Music of the mines,” our guide says. “That is dynamite exploding.” Seconds later the two engineers came down the ladders we had just descended. It then clicked. We didn’t have ten minutes to get out of the mine. We just had ten to get out of the area until they were going to blow it to smithereens. You haven’t lived unless you have been in a mine with dynamite going off in it. It was an experience I will never, ever forget.
We laughed off the tense nerves when it was all over, relieved to be heading back out to our world of open ground, fresh air, and daylight. I think we all saw it with different eyes though; a new appreciation for the freedom it offered compared to the cramped, enclosed world we had just journeyed through. When we had arrived in Potosi we had joked and complained about the shortness of breath and altitude, but after that tour, the open air of Potosi was never so easy to breathe. Salar de Uyuni Tour
Let me first say that these links to the pictures are soooo worth your time. We saw the most incredible scenery on this trip. (If you can't get them open to see the pictures, email me at the address to the right)
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These links include two camera's pictures (mine and a girl's named Baska), and Baska had a siiiccckkk camera, so her shots are amazing (but also cause she is a really good photographer). We could have had more great photos, but Matteo's camera got stolen in a later city and Eyal's camera was film. That was just a lot of names, so I guess I should do some introductions.
This is Eyal, my horseback riding friend from Israel. He had been traveling around South America for sometime as well, and was near the end of his trip here in Bolivia.
This is Matteo, a Frenchman. He studied in Buenos Aires and is planning on graduating from his school there. He was on vacation from school and doing a bit of traveling.
This is Baska (or Barbara to be easier on the non-polish speaking masses) from Poland. She and Matteo were an item, having met through a couch surfing meeting. For those who don't know the web site, basically you can surf a vast world wide network of members, looking for places to crash or people who can help out with certain things. Baska had about a year off of school to travel, and took some amazing photos on our trip.
This is me. I like my hat.
On the left is our driver and guide, Rolando. He came a couple years back to Tupiza from La Paz to do jeep tours with his friend and head of our tour company, Alexandro Adventure Tours (we highly recommend them by the way). Rolando was an awesome guide and driver, and made the trip even more enjoyable. Unfortunately we don't have a picture of our cook, Cristina, who made some grubbin' meals all throughout the trip.
When you plan to go travelling, as some of you know, you go pick up your guide book, get online, pick up magazines, whatever, and then just start reading. And for a trip encompassing most of South America and all of Central America, there is a lot of reading to do. You read and plan, read more, plan more, bookmark, create whole itineraries, make side notes, write in, scratch out, crumple up, throw away, start over, dig back out, lose sleep, drink lots of 
coffee, day in, day out, and then finally you are finished. The trip is all mapped out, the itinerary a work of art, perfect. Then, once you arrive and set out on your journey, you toss it all to the wind and change your plans all over again. Yet, there some places that remain as immovable landmarks, shining like beacons of light through the hazy gray that fogs most of your ever changing road map. You may wind on down the road from here to there, 
wandering with just the slightest amount of purpose to keep on moving forward, but no matter what, you will end up at that beacon. The Salar de Uyuni, a gargantuan field of salt, is one of them. It is basically THE trip to do in Bolivia; you don’t come without doing it. It as a four day tour exploring the vast, remote, and impressive land in southwest Bolivia, finishing up at the salt flat.
Eyal and I were hoping to find some people to go with us out of Tupiza, and the final group came down to him, myself, Matteo, Barbara, our guide Rolando, and our cook Cristina. We set off from Tupiza in our Toyota SUV, gear strapped to the roof, ready for four days of adventure. We drove about 8-12 hours per day, stopping at particularly striking vistas, ghost towns, flamingo filled lagoons, colorful lakes, volcanoes, hot springs, geysers, rock formations, or just whenever we asked, which was quite frequently because we basically had 4 people who loved photography traveling on the trip. We spent the time in the car staring out the window at the 
surreal setting, listening to music, getting to know each other, and playing lots and lots of those car games that pass the time. I know we made it up to at least 4855 m (14565 ft), as it was painted on this random rock, and altitude made the trip quite interesting. (FYI, anything above 2400m or 8,000 ft is considered the rough boundary of when it symptons can occur). I got altitude sickness on the trip, after jogging to catch up with Matteo and Barbara who were going to go walk up a hill. I spent the night with 
severe chills and a fever, and, coupled with my intestinal rejection of Bolivian food and just the simplest of toilette facilities, it made for quite a night. My pills for the altitude and chewing lots of coca leaf didn’t help the stupidity of running around at 12,600 feet. I don’t think I mentioned eating coca leaves before. The chemical in the leaf increases the oxygen absorption of your blood, and also makes things a whole lot more interesting with flying phantoms, friendly ghosts, and even talking horses when we chewed it in Tupiza…no, just kidding. While the artificial drug of cocaine is indeed obtained by using thousands of coca leaves, chewing a few dozen doesn’t do much of anything to your senses.
Observing the lives of the people who live in these certain areas was interesting as well. We passed by some leading out their flock of goats to feed on a hillside; others sat in their adobe homes, llamas grazing nearby. Most seemed quite indifferent to the spread out caravan of jeeps making their way across the land. In other places, the inevitable mark of a place trodden by travelers could clearly be seen. In the village where we first spent the night the children 
would continually come up to us and try to sell us poorly woven wool bracelets or crudely carved arrowheads. (I mean real poor workmanship. Not that I was there to judge, but if you are going to try to sell a craft, you would want it to be well made. It was more like they were trying to sell pity masked behind some item.) It was heartbreaking actually, as they were just trying to present us anything to earn some money as they gazed up at you with begging eyes. Continually I am reminded of the privileged luck I have inherited as a matter of 
birth. I was born American, which guarantees, in a simple way, that I will have opportunity for education, I will have money, I will have opportunity for a job, and I will live rich and comfortably, at least in comparison to so many people I have encountered on this continent, and I have not even wandered into its poorest regions, much less those of the rest of the world. 
(I am not trying to say there are not people in our country who have it hard, because there are and they do. But the amount of these people pales in comparison to South America, as does their situation. Most would have it better than a lot of the people here.) It is sometimes irritating to be thought of as a walking ATM machine that will throw its money at whims to the masses. On the other hand, how many of these people I interact will ever get a chance to enjoy a trip of leisure even outside their city, 
let alone their country or continent? None of the people in these small villages wanted their picture taken, even if you asked politely. Not that I blame them; we are one of maybe 50 to 100 people that pass by daily. On the last night we spent the night in a building made almost entirely of salt. It was quite nice actually, with salt tables, chairs, bricks, and night stands. The town, however, was unbelievably worn down however. Someone commented it looked almost like a war zone, so damaged were the buildings. Gleaming white salt flats for the travelers, crumbling adobe houses in shambles for the locals. The two worlds were clearly defined.
The salt flats were the definite highlight of the trip. During this time of year, rains bring enough water to cover most of the salt flats. The downside is that much of the salt flat is too dangerous to access, so you miss out on seeing parts of it otherwise included in the tour, but the part that can be seen is absolutely amazing. Covered with just a few 
inches of water on the section we saw, the flats reflect perfectly the images from the sky, and the result is an unbelievable. Perfect mirror image scenery, whether it be sunset, sunrise, or just the reflection of the clouds and blue sky. The salt flats also afford the opportunity to take some great pictures. With the water just a couple inches deep but 
perfectly reflection the sky, you can make it appear as if you are walking on water. With unchanging colors and near perfect flatness, you can also take pictures that defy reality, such as a giant foot smashing somebody, super gigantic wine bottles, super human jumping heights, among other things. Unfortunately the camera with the vast majority of the 
best of these shots was stolen in a later city, so we lost most of these kinds of pictures. But some came out okay on some other cameras, so that is what you are seeing. I’ll go into detail on a later post, but the worst part of being robbed of your camera is the loss of all your photos. You can 
replace the camera, the memory cards, but never the memories themselves contained in those photos. Luckily a lot of the scenery pictures overlapped, so we didn’t really miss those between two other cameras, but this guy’s camera had most of the group shots, so it was a major bummer to be robbed of those. I guess we will just have to hold on tighter to the memories we have in our heads. One I know will stay with me forever is when we were driving back to the hotel from the middle of the salt flats, covered entirely in water reflecting the sky and clouds. We were perched upon the rack on the top of the
jeep, laying back, legs over the side of the car, wind in our faces as we took in the scenery and the jeep cut through the water, spraying it to the side. It was very similar feeling I get when I am on a boat cutting through the water, a feeling of just inner peace, but in just a particularly different setting. Like I said, that feeling will be carried in my memory for many years to come. And no one can rob me of that.Tupiza by Horse
(Complete Picture Set)
Red rock canyons, sleepy little villages, and proximity to the last showdown of Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid contribute to the Wild West atmosphere of Tupiza and its surrounding hills. Actually, it is more like the wild south, but that doesn’t sound as cool. So what better way to celebrate this setting than with a two day trip on the back of horses to explore the surrounding area? I went with an Israeli I met in my hostel, Eyal, and we were guided by our Bolivian guide, Jose. His 
family has been a part of Tupiza as far back as the family history goes, and it was similar in the
smaller villages we visited along the way. I can’t really even imagine that with how much we move around in the States, and anyone who isn’t indigenous to the States can only trace their roots back to a maximum of 300 years, give or take, depending on when their family immigrated. To be there “since the beginning” is pretty impressive.
Two Germans with their 11 year old guide tagged along with us for the day, but they were only doing the 7 hour trip (only, ha! That is the trip I should of done, and I still would have had a broken body), so they left after lunch, which was fruit, egg sandwiches, and llama tamales. Yup, check llama off the things to eat before I die list. Anyway, after the two days, my butt was swollen and bruised and my back aching and stiff. It was worth the pain though, as horse riding is definitely an amazing experience. Our horses 
were big, strong, and well cared for, and we
had a great time galloping, sometimes racing, and even shouting like cowboys during the trip. The bright mountain scenery was stunning and the Bolivian altiplano (“high plane,” just the name of this region in Bolivia) culture was intriguing. Having become accustomed to the different yet still occidental culture and influence in Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, etc., the stark contrast I found upon entering Bolivia was a much welcomed change.
We spent the night in a simple mountain village of maybe 30 people, in a “guest house” of a local family, where they cooked dinner for us while we rested our aching bodies. Outside chickens roamed around and grass-chewing, funny looking goats looked inquisitively at you as they gnawed on their greens. A simple, humble life these people lived, with wanderin
g gringos probably their only real contact to the outside world, although they seemed unconcerned about it as they
didn’t talk to us really at all. Not out of disrespect I don’t think, but perhaps just indifference about the world from which these wandering gringo travelers come from. They were here before we came, they would be there after. We were just a couple of strangers from another world, out of hundreds every year, which were just passing through. Upon getting back to Tupiza, Eyal and I finalized our plans to go on the four day salt flat tour to Uyuni beginning the
next day, ate dinner, and crawled back to our hostel. We couldn’t move, sit, stand, or breathe without grunting with effort or gasping in pain. In some grade school history class I remember reading about cowboys breaking horses, taming their wild habits so they could be rode and used for work. However, this time around, it was I that came home broken. I hit the pillow on my bed at 9:00 and passed out for the next 11 hours.
(Complete Picture Set)
Red rock canyons, sleepy little villages, and proximity to the last showdown of Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid contribute to the Wild West atmosphere of Tupiza and its surrounding hills. Actually, it is more like the wild south, but that doesn’t sound as cool. So what better way to celebrate this setting than with a two day trip on the back of horses to explore the surrounding area? I went with an Israeli I met in my hostel, Eyal, and we were guided by our Bolivian guide, Jose. His 
family has been a part of Tupiza as far back as the family history goes, and it was similar in the(Top - Ridin'; Lft - My travel mate Eyal)
smaller villages we visited along the way. I can’t really even imagine that with how much we move around in the States, and anyone who isn’t indigenous to the States can only trace their roots back to a maximum of 300 years, give or take, depending on when their family immigrated. To be there “since the beginning” is pretty impressive.
Two Germans with their 11 year old guide tagged along with us for the day, but they were only doing the 7 hour trip (only, ha! That is the trip I should of done, and I still would have had a broken body), so they left after lunch, which was fruit, egg sandwiches, and llama tamales. Yup, check llama off the things to eat before I die list. Anyway, after the two days, my butt was swollen and bruised and my back aching and stiff. It was worth the pain though, as horse riding is definitely an amazing experience. Our horses 
were big, strong, and well cared for, and we(Top - Action Photo; Rgt - Pee Break)
had a great time galloping, sometimes racing, and even shouting like cowboys during the trip. The bright mountain scenery was stunning and the Bolivian altiplano (“high plane,” just the name of this region in Bolivia) culture was intriguing. Having become accustomed to the different yet still occidental culture and influence in Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, etc., the stark contrast I found upon entering Bolivia was a much welcomed change.
We spent the night in a simple mountain village of maybe 30 people, in a “guest house” of a local family, where they cooked dinner for us while we rested our aching bodies. Outside chickens roamed around and grass-chewing, funny looking goats looked inquisitively at you as they gnawed on their greens. A simple, humble life these people lived, with wanderin
g gringos probably their only real contact to the outside world, although they seemed unconcerned about it as they(Top - Our goat friend; Rgt - El Torre; Btm - Simple mountain dwelling)
didn’t talk to us really at all. Not out of disrespect I don’t think, but perhaps just indifference about the world from which these wandering gringo travelers come from. They were here before we came, they would be there after. We were just a couple of strangers from another world, out of hundreds every year, which were just passing through. Upon getting back to Tupiza, Eyal and I finalized our plans to go on the four day salt flat tour to Uyuni beginning the
next day, ate dinner, and crawled back to our hostel. We couldn’t move, sit, stand, or breathe without grunting with effort or gasping in pain. In some grade school history class I remember reading about cowboys breaking horses, taming their wild habits so they could be rode and used for work. However, this time around, it was I that came home broken. I hit the pillow on my bed at 9:00 and passed out for the next 11 hours.(Complete Picture Set)
March 3, 2008
Land of the 7 Colors
Northern Argentina is gorgeous. I wish I could have spent more time exploring around here. The bus ride north to Tilcara was awesome. Starting with tall, green mountains cut by streams and scarred by landslides, the climate soon became more arid, and the scenery shifted bright colorful mountains full of cactii. Not only the scenery changes, but the people and towns as well. Simple adobe structures and dirt streets make up towns, and the people look more like the altiplano Bolivians than the European descendents found in the regions south of the area. Tilcara was such a town, which had a fort to explore and a bingo match with sheep as a prize. 
Just south of Tilcara was Purmamarca, which has a mountain called the Rock of the 7 Colors, and it is full of colorful layers, just as the hills and mountains around it are. From Purmamarca you can see a salt flat, Salinas Grandes, where there is a co-op to harvest salt. I went up for sunset, which is supposed to be spectacular, but clouds sort of ruined our particular visit. It was pretty nonetheless though, and a small taste of what was to come with the massive salt flats of Uyuni in Bolivia.Salta
(Complete picture set)
So, for my Tahoe friends, I have a very random meeting at my hostel in Salta. A travelling American from a little place called Winnemucca, Nevada. She also happened to go to OU, where my brother is, and so where would a more logical place be to meet each other than in the north of Argentina. Ran-dom. She was a bit surprised when I found out she was from Nevada and then asked where. She gave a little laugh like I would have no idea if it wasn't Vegas, maybe Reno. But little did she know I had been to about every city the state has to offer on its three main highways, and then some, so it was pretty funny when I knew where she was from. I still can't believe I met someone from there here in Argentina. Comical.
Salta itself is pretty enough, with some mountain scenery, interesting and
pretty churches, and a mountain you can climb or get a ride to to see the city, valley, and surrounding countryside. The streets are narrow and busy, quite different from my Mendoza experience, with an atmosphere all its own. I met some cool people in my hostel, and ended up speaking spanish most of the time, as the nationalities were Argentinian, Italian, and Spanish. It was a welcome practice period and relief from English. They even had a puppet show at the hostel in Spanish, for which they cooked some grubbin' Argentinian barbeque. Once I finally got my visa, I headed north to see the colorful mountains painted with many colors near Tilcara.
So, for my Tahoe friends, I have a very random meeting at my hostel in Salta. A travelling American from a little place called Winnemucca, Nevada. She also happened to go to OU, where my brother is, and so where would a more logical place be to meet each other than in the north of Argentina. Ran-dom. She was a bit surprised when I found out she was from Nevada and then asked where. She gave a little laugh like I would have no idea if it wasn't Vegas, maybe Reno. But little did she know I had been to about every city the state has to offer on its three main highways, and then some, so it was pretty funny when I knew where she was from. I still can't believe I met someone from there here in Argentina. Comical.I also got stuck again. Bolivian visa requirements are long, arduous, and complicated by only getting half the information one day, and the other half the next when you come back and think you have everything ready. They wouldn't want to give to you all at once though, that might just be convenient. (Forgive my cynicism, I know it sounds pessimistic. I actually chuckle to myself everytime I think of this latino quirk of how they give you information. I don't know if I mentioned this before, but if you 
ever ask for directions in South America, ask twice. Don't start walking too far until you have at least two corraborating stories. For some reason, you can't just say you don't know where a place is down here.). So with a big smile, =D, I spent 3 days getting my Bolivian visa, having to obtain copies of my Yellow Fever vaccination, credit card, passport, and letter of invitation, a 3x5 photo, filled out application, and deposit with receipt of $100 in the bank. Thankfully I didn't need a entry and exit ticket, as there are no busses that go in and out near the southern border. Eventually it all worked out, and I was legal to cross into Bolivia.
ever ask for directions in South America, ask twice. Don't start walking too far until you have at least two corraborating stories. For some reason, you can't just say you don't know where a place is down here.). So with a big smile, =D, I spent 3 days getting my Bolivian visa, having to obtain copies of my Yellow Fever vaccination, credit card, passport, and letter of invitation, a 3x5 photo, filled out application, and deposit with receipt of $100 in the bank. Thankfully I didn't need a entry and exit ticket, as there are no busses that go in and out near the southern border. Eventually it all worked out, and I was legal to cross into Bolivia. Salta itself is pretty enough, with some mountain scenery, interesting and
pretty churches, and a mountain you can climb or get a ride to to see the city, valley, and surrounding countryside. The streets are narrow and busy, quite different from my Mendoza experience, with an atmosphere all its own. I met some cool people in my hostel, and ended up speaking spanish most of the time, as the nationalities were Argentinian, Italian, and Spanish. It was a welcome practice period and relief from English. They even had a puppet show at the hostel in Spanish, for which they cooked some grubbin' Argentinian barbeque. Once I finally got my visa, I headed north to see the colorful mountains painted with many colors near Tilcara.Mendoza, Argentina
(Complete Picture Set)
After Santiago it was a hop across the mighty Andes and Chile-Argentina border to Mendoza. Crossing the Andes via this route is spectacular and full of impressive views of peaks, canyons, and just nature in general. It passes by the highest peak in the southern hemisphere, Aconcagua, towering an impressive 20,886 ft up above the sea. I just found out Brittany's dad Craig just climbed it (for those that know the family), and I may have even passed him on my bus ride while he was desperately trying to find oxygen high above me. =) Congrats by the way on that Craig, no small feat.
I was in Mendoza a very short time...about 30 hours maybe, and basically just walked around the town on a liesurely Sunday. On Sundays in Latin America, all the people disappear from the world, and leave there cities basically as ghost towns for a few foreigners to stroll around in. So while I could see the cities buildings, super extremely wide sidewalks, and plazas, I didn't really get a good feel for Mendoza's atmosphere. I also missed the vast wine country surrounding the city, basically the Napa Valley of Argentina. I did buy a bottle though, a Malbec, Argentina's speciality, and enjoyed it at my hostel. It was then on to Salta, 18 hours closer to the border with Bolivia.
After Santiago it was a hop across the mighty Andes and Chile-Argentina border to Mendoza. Crossing the Andes via this route is spectacular and full of impressive views of peaks, canyons, and just nature in general. It passes by the highest peak in the southern hemisphere, Aconcagua, towering an impressive 20,886 ft up above the sea. I just found out Brittany's dad Craig just climbed it (for those that know the family), and I may have even passed him on my bus ride while he was desperately trying to find oxygen high above me. =) Congrats by the way on that Craig, no small feat.
(Top - Wicked switchbacks; Mid - Widest street ever; Bot - Main Square in Mendoza)
I was in Mendoza a very short time...about 30 hours maybe, and basically just walked around the town on a liesurely Sunday. On Sundays in Latin America, all the people disappear from the world, and leave there cities basically as ghost towns for a few foreigners to stroll around in. So while I could see the cities buildings, super extremely wide sidewalks, and plazas, I didn't really get a good feel for Mendoza's atmosphere. I also missed the vast wine country surrounding the city, basically the Napa Valley of Argentina. I did buy a bottle though, a Malbec, Argentina's speciality, and enjoyed it at my hostel. It was then on to Salta, 18 hours closer to the border with Bolivia.
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