Out of breath, we reached the top of Incahuasi. It wasn’t a very steep climb to the island’s peak, but the light-on-oxygen altitude made flatland lungs work harder.
Like a darkly dressed sentinel standing conspicuously in a seemingly endless expanse of snow, Incahuasi juts toward the sky, watching over one of Earth’s most breathtaking beauties – the mystical Salar de Uyuni. At more than 11,000 feet above sea level, Incahuasi – which in the Quechua language of the ancient Incas means “Inca House” – is but one of several islands in the middle of the Uyuni salt flats, the largest salt lake in the world. Not many outside of Bolivia realize that the Uyuni salt flats is actually a lake, because it’s dry for much of the year. Under that sea of salt, however, rivers run year-round and in places bubble to the surface, creating circular patterns in the otherwise smooth terrain.
But come summer in the Southern Hemisphere, the Uyuni salt flats is under water, rendering Incahuasi unreachable by the fleet of four-wheel drive vehicles that otherwise normally speed along the blindingly white-as-snow salt bed. Even submerged – perhaps more so because of the mirror-like effect the water creates – Uyuni takes your breath away. Any air I had left from that climb up Incahuasi was knocked right out of me by the stunning landscape before me. At the top of the island, I found a spot away from the other mesmerized tourists and sat to catch my breath. But instead, if only for a brief moment, I unwittingly held my breath as I caught my first glimpse of Uyuni from this amazing vantage point on Incahuasi.
Posts Tagged With: Uyuni
The first time I saw the Salar de Uyuni, I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office, with a fractured right arm. I was 16-years-old, tall and skinny with a big afro – I looked like a pencil with a big eraser. Wouldn’t have taken much to snap a bone in my stick-figure body, and indeed it didn’t take much effort when my childhood friend Dickey pulled my arm right out of the socket at the elbow.
We were walking home from school and we spotted a cigarette lighter on the ground. It was one of those cheap plastic ones that come in a variety of bright transparent colors. With its transparency, the fuel inside was visible. This particular lighter was orange and judging from the amount of fuel, it was brand new.
Deep in conversation, Dickey and I walked along Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, toward home. The conversation came to an abrupt end when we spotted the lighter. Our reaction? He looked at me, I looked at him and without a word, we both made a mad dash for the lighter.
Dickey was not as fleet-footed as me. He was beefy bordering on fat, but he could move fast when pushed. On this particular day, he wasn’t as fast as I was. I got to the lighter about a second ahead of him and snatched it up, scraping my knuckles against the concrete pavement – ouch! He only managed to grabbed my fist clutching the cigarette lighter. He tried to pry my fist open to grab the lighter, which was sticking out a bit. Had I had it solidly in hand, maybe he would have backed off. Instead, he continued to pry the lighter out of my hand, but I did not budge. Our struggle for the lighter became a full on wrestling match in the middle of Flatbush Avenue – and you would think some adult would intervene? – people instead just walked by as if nothing.
Then it happened. Dickey yanked on my extended arm so hard that it popped right out of the socket at the elbow. All I heard was a snap, crackle then a pop! I dropped the lighter in anguish.
I never had experienced such pain. Dickey and I walked the rest of the way home, he with the lighter in his pocket, me clutching my arm. The next day my arm was so swollen at the elbow, my mother took me to the doctor. The doctor at first determined that the arm was not broken. I could still move my fingers. He sent me home with an order to ice it. Then the next day my doctor’s office called to say the X-Ray had revealed a fracture and that I needed to return to see the doctor. That day I left my doctor’s office in a cast that extended from my wrist to my armpit. Nice going Dickey!
Okay, the truth is both Dickey and I were both at fault. We were two dumb teenagers horsing around. And when that happens, sometimes someone gets hurt – boys will be boys, you know. He did feel bad about it. And every chance I got, I reminded him that he owed me big time! He didn’t fall for that. We went on being friends, as if nothing.
In some strange way, I have Dickey to thank. Had it not been for that fractured arm, I never would have landed in the doctor’s office with the Nat Geo subscription. There on the table in the waiting room, there were several month’s worth of Nat Geo magazines. I picked one up and started to thumb through it and there it was – the Salar de Uyuni – or in English – the Uyuni Salt Flats. I thought, where in the world was this place and how could I get there – like soon?! Like most images in Nat Geo, the photographs were absolutely stunning. I then read the text: Bolivia.
Uyuni has since been embedded in my head. This desert where instead of salt the land is an expanse of blindingly white salt – often under inches of water that reflect sky and mountains during the rainy summer seasons – has crept into my dreams. I have long wished to visit Uyuni, and every time I have met someone lucky enough to have visited, I peppered them with questions. And now, living in Calama, Chile, a few hours away from Uyuni, I think my decades-old dream to visit is near. Or so I hope.
I am determined to visit Uyuni, but tit-for-tat global politics may have something else to say about that.
I EXPLAIN: The president of Venezuela, Hugo Chavez, hates the United States. As if to drive that point home, he has aligned himself with avowed enemies of the United States. He has also used Venezuela’s oil riches to influence other countries in the region, one of which is Bolivia.
The president of Bolivia walks in lock-step with the president of Venezuela. When Venezuela is mad at the United States, Morales feels the need to show his loyalty to Chavez by, frankly, doing something stupid. That stupid thing – which amounts to shooting himself in the foot and hurting the Bolivian people – was to make it more difficult for U.S. tourists to visit Bolivia. Morales imposed a $135 visa requirement on U.S. citizens, placed strict limits on how long they could stay in Bolivia, and imposed other rules that work like a charm to turn away Americans. It’s not that Morales wants Americans to stay away – au contraire – he wants Americans to continue to visit and pay a “reciprocal” visa fee, about the same amount that Bolivians are required to pay to gain a visa to enter the U.S.
Only problem with Morales tit-for-tat approach is Bolivia – the poorest country in South America and one of the poorest in the world – needs those millions of tourists dollars it once got from visitors from the United States. There was a time when 1 in 5 visitors to Bolivia was from the United States. Since the new requirements that number has dropped. Some Americans don’t mind paying the fee – frankly, some who are backpackers on a budget can’t afford it – but what makes Bolivia even more a country to be avoided are some of the other roadblocks Morales has put up, aimed at just sticking it to the United States.
As I started researching what is required to enter Bolivia as a U.S. citizen, I literally got a headache. I mean, for instance, must bring a photograph of a certain size with a red background only? If the background of the photo is anything other than red expect to be turned away and sent back across the border or on the next plane. For a country and a people badly in need of tourism dollars, how stupid is that? Politics.
Now, I believe in reciprocity. Brazil, Argentina, Chile and others have such laws in place. These laws state we charge your citizens what you charge our citizens to enter your country. But in some of these countries, Chile for instance, you pay nothing if you cross the border by land. In other words, low-budget backpackers are not hit with a large fee. When I crossed the border from Peru into Chile, I paid nothing.
And some countries only require the fee, not that you jump through hoops, as Bolivia does. Foolish, if you ask me.
So, I must make sure that all my I’s are dotted and my T’s are crossed as I make my way to the Bolivian border in coming weeks. I am taking no chances. I will be marching down to the Bolivian Consulate in Calama, Chile, to inquire exactly what they need from me. Would be a shame to come this far and only come as close to Uyuni as that National Geographic Magazine spread my dear old friend Dickey unwittingly led me to.
The town is called Calama, but they may as well have named it Calamity. Or at least that’s the impression inhabitants have given in the short time I’ve been here.
In less than a week in this dusty mining town in northern Chile, I’ve been warned to be careful about packs of street dogs that behave more like wolves on the attack; tricky gypsy women out to relieve the unsuspecting of cash and credit; roving band of drug-addicted robbers looking violently take possession of other people’s valuables; of contaminated tap water with high levels of stuff that can kill you; on and on. Who would think a decision to come to Calama to teach English would be potentially hazardous to my health? Well, living life is a big hazard in of itself, isn’t it? I’ll just continue to hope my Guardian Angels have not abandoned me, thinking “kid, no way we are spending a minute in this Podunk town!” 🙂
For those of you who aren’t keeping up – and God only knows why you are not! – Calama kind of just happened. I was in Peru on my way to Bolivia. I had La Paz on my mind, its mountains, the salt flats of Uyuni, and the landscape and people I had heard so much about. Ready for Bolivia I was. Then the good people at the International Center contacted me to ask if I would be interested in joining their team of English teachers for at least the next six months. My task would be to teach English to executives at one of the local copper mines. After some thought, and with South America in the throes of winter, I accepted the offer. The idea is to wait out winter here and continue travel in nicer summer weather.
A word about the region’s copper mines: Chile is the world’s largest copper producer and boasts the world’s largest copper mine. The mines are in the northern part of the country and Calama is a town that sprung from that mining production. The mines date back to pre-Inca times. In other words, the indigenous people that lived in the region pulled copper from the area long before the Incas and the Spaniards came to the area. The mines were the source of wars between Chile, Peru and Bolivia with archrival Argentina threatening to also attack Chile. Argentina has a longstanding beef with Chile over some southern islands. Not to mention their rivalry over futbol 🙂 Chile managed to kick serious butt and in the process took land from Peru and Bolivia. To the victor go the spoil, right?
In that so-called War of the Pacific, Chile kept several cities and towns from Bolivia and Peru. One of those towns it took from Bolivia was Calama. The Chileans had marched all the way to Peru’s capital, Lima, and contend they could have kept even more territory. The Peruvians and Bolivians still hold a grudge with Chile over the lost territories, especially Bolivia which lost its access to the Pacific Ocean. Chile maintains a very strong army just in case its neighbors try anything foolish. Most military experts note that Chile would handily beat back any aggression. They are probably right. Chile maintains a military contingency in the north and I saw them marching through the streets and they looked like a fierce force.
Anyway, there’s no soft way to put it: Calama is an ugly city. Some say it’s not even a city, that it’s an encampment of miners and mining-related industries. A Chilean colleague at the International Center told me that I picked the ugliest city in Chile to visit first. She said the reason the city is so ugly is because it grew out of a collection of substandard houses and buildings to house and provide services to the miners. Nobody was thinking aesthetics.
One of the first questions I’m asked by residents of Calama is what I think of their city. That question is usually followed with a statement from them that it’s okay to say it’s ugly because it is. Clearly some of them don’t think much of the place. I for one think I can survive here six months. I don’t mind that the place is ugly. I care more about the people and how they treat me, and so far, people have been very friendly.
Now, if only those rabid dogs, those street thugs, those tricky-dickey gypsies and the carcinogenic water would leave me be. 🙂