The Good

The Salar itself is ridiculously bright, a brilliant white expanse no horizon. For as far as you can see, just whiteness, a pristine freshly-ironed tablecloth, unsullied, untainted, pure and heavenly.

Everyone poses for arty photos, lifting arms and legs, jumping, squatting, stretching, playing with the dimensions of an other world.

We dive into the island and abandon the path at the first available opportunity. We're rewarded very quickly by coming face to face (not literally, too painful) with some of the most impressive cacti I have ever seen. They stand defiantly tall, proud of their survival where nothing else grows. Stretching up and up as if trying to see the edges of the great Salar around it, they reach heights of five metres and more. Growing just 2cm every year, they're here hundreds of years, long before the landcruisers first started bringing admirers.
I hop around from rock to rock, careful not to brush against them or come too close. Jenny, unfortunately, gets nabbed by one. There's too much beauty for sympathy however.

I see a rabbit-like fox, the best of both worlds. Apparently called a vizcacha, it scampers away across the rocks to escape my curious camera lens but I catch him all the same. Fantastic.

Old steam engines, their best days evidently long behind them, they lie there neglected and unwanted, a curio for warped visitors who take pleasure from the plight of rotting trains. Zugschadenfreude.
Now they're part of a playground for passing tourists, posing and feckarsing about with no respect for the trains' former glory. I find it impossible not to feel sorry for them.
For more pictures see: http://picasaweb.google.com/faheyc/TrainGraveyard#

We settle down for the night and pass the time with a pack of cards, Bolivian whiskey, wine, beer and rum. The potent mix causes us to run around through the pampas in the dark, jumping over the little bushes or running through them, chasing llamas and yelling like wild animals or demented idiots.
Unfortunately I don't remember chasing the llamas very well, but my camera provides the evidence to confirm the stories I'm told the next day.

It's a desolate place, with the mountains of Chile just behind. Nothing grows save for a few hardy shrubs.
The wind howls and whistles through gaps in the rocks, but it doesn't blow the hangover from my head. Sand and dust abound, whipped up by the wind. Vizcuña on the outskirts seeking to get away from it all graze what little tit-bits they can find.

We come to the point where Bolivians take advantage of tourists through legal theft. B$150 to pass through to look at the next lakes.
The price put up from B$30 four days before and applicable only to foreigners. Shamefaced discriminatory extortion.

Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid who used to roam these parts, we glance furtively back towards the border.

We wait until we can wait no more and walk back towards the village. A six pack of beer and we duck into another building to escape the cold while we await our pick-up. I open the can in the hope it will help with my raging hangover. But it doesn't. And still we wait, sheltering from the wind and keeping an eye out for the guards.
Eventually we see movement at the border post. Vehicles are coming through! They zoom past us however, dashing our hopes of rescue. Finally, after thoughts of settling down for the long cold night pass through our heads, our jeep finally arrives. Doors fly open, we jump in, and away we go. We'd made it!


We're looking at the Montañas de Siete Colores. Muddy browns, reds, whites, blacks and creams. Surreal pointy mountains with jagged edges surrounding dusty dry dunes. Clouds of dust are suspended in the air, scattered around this rock-strewn sandy desert. A volcano dead ahead, spectacular as it catches the first rays of the sun. Nothing moves, nothing lives. Not even an auld cactus. It's just too remote, even for the rain.

We move on to Laguna Verde just nearby. Nestled neatly in front of the imposing Volcán Licancábur, its turquoise sheen captivates and enchants. I move closer towards its white fringes but quickly discover one shouldn't wander too close here either. I move back before I sink any further, and content myself with observing from a safe distance.

On our way back we pass through more desolate land, lonely and stark. Coloured by the wealth of minerals, red, brown, cream and white, its great expanses are punctuated by jagged peaks, its rolling hills lapped by gentle lagoons. This is wild country, but great. We're privileged to see it, happy to feast on such untamed beauty. Go reader, go. Go see it for yourself. Just be careful what tour agency you choose!

Incredible pictures of the real desert, the mountains and lagoons, can be seen here: http://picasaweb.google.com/faheyc/LagoonsGeysersAndDeserts#
And the train graveyard, as mentioned earlier, can be seen here: http://picasaweb.google.com/faheyc/TrainGraveyard#
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