Adventure Travel
I traveled by car from the Atacama Desert in Chile to the Salt Flats in Bolivia.
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by Freya Stark
24-06-2024
Adventure Travel
a
by Freya Stark
24-06-2024
The flamingos took flight out of nowhere over Laguna Colorada, a salt lake in southern Bolivia that is rusty-colored. I paused to catch my breath. Throughout the afternoon, the uncommon birds stood with their beaks pointed downward, consuming the algae that gives them their pink color. Then, when a grazing vicuña disturbed the flamboyance of the flock, it took flight.
Low and heavy, hundreds—if not thousands—of birds swooped over the lake, which looked like a pool of molten brick before me, and hurtled on toward faraway hills dotted with snow. This tiny salt lake on Bolivia's Altiplano, also called the Andean Plateau, can host as many as 40,000 James's flamingos, which is equivalent to nearly half of the world's total population.
I was the only person present to observe this remarkable event, with the exception of my guide, David Torres. As Torres and I walked this stretch of the Andean Plateau, it was as if we were investigating the surface of an alien planet with red water and white sand. Standing 14,000 feet above sea level, scorched by the angry sunbeams, I felt as if I had departed from Earth altogether, so near to the sky.
A weeklong journey over a section of the Qhapaq Ñan, a network of roads built by the ancient Incan Empire that stretches over 18,600 miles in six nations, was actually what I was embarking on. The 300-mile trip was going to be escorted by Torres on a travesía, the Spanish term for a lengthy crossing or voyage across a broad stretch of landscape. Historically, this route traversed Bolivia and Chile, with caravans bringing commodities such as textiles, cocoa, precious metals, and military supplies pulled by llamas. Passengers would engage in cultural and linguistic exchanges as they traveled. The travesía aimed, in part, to bring attention to the trail system that is rapidly disappearing, along with the Andean Aymara llama herders' culture that relies on it.
This travesía, which would lead us across one of the world's most desolate landscapes, was launched in September by the adventure-hotel company Explora. With any luck, it will alleviate some of the most dreadful discomfort that hikers have reported while traversing the Atacama Desert in Chile and the Salar de Uyuni salt flat in Bolivia. Luxury lodges with Wi-Fi, 24-hour power, and hot showers are available to guests, who are driven in state-of-the-art Land Cruisers with padded leather seats over all-dirt roads.
Still, I was cognizant of the fact that the trip could be strenuous physically. Clouds that whirled about like cartoon dust devils, slap-your-face winds, sunrays that zap you dry, and freezing temperature decreases would all be part of the weather. The logistics would be just as crazy: we'd have to import food from Bolivia's Uyuni and load four fuel drums onto the Land Cruiser's roof to get us through the week without petrol. Ascending gently on an ethereal Andean high, I would spend six nights at an altitude of 12,000 feet, a place where even daring hikers hardly stay more than a few of nights.
My impression was that the Atacama was more desolate and undeveloped than the typical American desert, complete with tumbleweeds and colorful cowboys. However, there are verdant havens, such as the Chilean hamlet of San Pedro de Atacama, where yatiri, traditional healers of the Atacameño people, and stray llamas live in harmony, with the latter having supposedly gained their abilities after being struck by lightning.
San Pedro de Atacama is the starting point for my ascent to the altitude of the Altiplano and this desert. An observatory, two saunas, and four lap pools partially concealed by swaying pampas grass made up Explora Atacama, a 50-room resort, the base camp. Grassy Sauvignon Blancs from Chile's San Antonio Valley or peppery Carmenères, the country's famous red wine, go well with foods like octopus in olive sauce and crisp pan-fried fish. Despite all the comfort, the one drawback was that Explora Atacama is only 8,000 feet above sea level. This meant that I had to spend a lot of time hiking to get used to the higher altitudes we would soon encounter, rather than relaxing in my cozy room that was decorated in cool, natural tones and warm Andean textiles.
To see the Tatio Geysers—the tallest geothermal complex on Earth and the biggest in the Southern Hemisphere—at an altitude of 14,000 feet, Torres took me on my first tour. The five-mile hike started at an apacheta, a distinctive Andean stone tower where, as Torres informed me, pilgrims usually leave coca leaves as a sacrifice for good health and safety. Subsequently, we ascended to the salty Río Blanco and traversed its course, passing geysers that spurted water and mud pits that spewed mud upwards. A subtle sulfuric aroma wafted across the atmosphere. There were spots along the riverbank where the surface looked like licks of fire, with veins of bacteria that were brick red.
"This one appears to be a gateway to the underworld," Torres nonchalantly said as he stepped around a bubbling cascade. I felt at ease with him because he had been guiding tourists around the Andes for over ten years. As he regaled me with tales and folklore about the extraordinary things about this complicated and unsettling world, he appeared to flourish in it.
I was a little sluggish from my first brush with the altitude the day before, but Torres was wide up and ready to take on the day. We both got up early the following morning. We crossed into Bolivia from the east at the Hito Cajón Pass, then headed north to see the flamingos at Laguna Colorada. After that, we drove the 146 miles past the puffing Putana Volcano to Explora's new Ramaditas Mountain Lodge, an eco-shelter with four rooms at 13,370 feet.
Two long steel rectangles, one housing the guest rooms and the other a huge communal area, are supported on stilts, giving Ramaditas an alien appearance from the outside. The ocher-painted structures, created by the Chilean architect Max Núñez, were intended to have a minimal effect on the surrounding area, according to Jesus Silverth, Explora's head of services in Bolivia.
"The impact on the land would be minimal if we were to close tomorrow because these modular constructions could be pulled up." "This one appears to be a gateway to the underworld," Torres nonchalantly said as he stepped around a bubbling cascade. I felt at ease with him because he had been guiding tourists around the Andes for over ten years. As he regaled me with tales and folklore about the extraordinary things about this complicated and unsettling world, he appeared to flourish in it.
Soothing my sunburned eyes were the indigenous mani wood walls, and my cracked skin was relieved by bath products made with the citrusy desert herb rica-rica. Chilean artist Claudia Peña painted the llama caravans that first paved the way for our journey, while art collective Artecampo and Bolivian ceramist Marcelo Terán Mitre provided the heavy dinnerware and toquilla palm tapestries that complemented our home-cooked meals.
The chefs from La Paz's Restaurante Ancestral, Mauricio López and Sebastián Giménez, organize their meals around the reality that the closest store is six hours away, which is why almost everything in the mountain resort was supplied from Bolivia. Serving family-style, the three-person kitchen crew is from the neighboring Villamar village. I had a quinoa dish with smoked trout and minty huacatay pesto, as well as a soup made with ocas, the sour Andean tubers. Cerveza Bendita's post-hike IPAs, Marquez de la Viña's cabernets for supper, and the subtropical Yungas region's coffees for breakfast were all Bolivian.
The designers of Explora's five-star rooms never take anything away from the breathtaking scenery outside, opting instead for understated decor and neutral colors. At Ramaditas, I watched the little lake below transform into a mirror as the sun dipped below the horizon via the floor-to-ceiling windows in my room.
A few hours later, as is common at high altitudes, I was barely drifting off to sleep, dreaming constantly and waking up multiple times, when I caught a sight of the Milky Way outside my window. It was obvious even to my half-awake self that I wasn't trying to look up. Like glitter, I could make out its reflection on the lake.
Everywhere we went, the dust clouds produced by our Land Cruisers announced our arrival. Since Torres, our driver Cesar Cruz, and I veered off the old caravan path to destinations like Pastos Grandes, we didn't see anyone else. The 37-mile-wide Pastos Grandes crater is one of the biggest in the world and is formed when a volcano erupts. The saline white earth is sliced across at the base by water streams.
At a later trek that day, we ascended to a cathedral-like complex of columnar rock formations called hoodoos. Torres warned me that if an eruption similar to the one that formed this site five million years ago were to occur again, our entire civilization would be wiped out. "The Americas as we know them would come to an end as a result of a mass extinction."
On that particular day, Torres and I enjoyed a protein-rich grain bowl picnic meal alongside what are thought to have been rock paintings created by the Mallku-Hedionda people hundreds of years ago. The Incan Empire reached its peak in the 15th century, although these nomadic tribes existed from 2,000 B.C. to 500 A.D. They herded llamas along routes that would later become part of the Qhapaq Ñan road system. In the distance, car-sized volcanic pebbles protected yaretas, which are cushion plants with a verdant, pinecone-scented foliage. In addition to tola, lampayo, and pupusa, Torres listed other fragrant shrubs that are used in native teas to aid digestion and altitude sickness.
On our way north to the Chituca Mountain Lodge, our second mini-resort, we made dust trails through a terrain that had been recently enlivened by towering cardon cactus. Surrounded by rock and bush, the dark green structure appeared to be an integral element of the scenery. On the inside, Chituca was very similar to our last shelter; the only difference was that this one overlooked a salt flat in the distance.
That night, when I attempted to fall asleep again, I found myself thinking, in astonishment, about how isolated our location was. There was a three-hour drive to the closest major city. I didn't feel the kind of seclusion I would in a tropical forest, on an island, or in a jungle. I was completely detached. It wasn't terrifying; in fact, I was ecstatic. That much room. Lots of empty space to occupy. Being on the opposite side of a massive glass pane, gazing out over such a merciless and heartless landscape, while enjoying such great amenities, was almost unfair. To me, it was the pinnacle of earthly luxury.
The moment it felt our approach, the Andean mountain cat huffed and climbed a slope, hopping from boulder to boulder on its bushy tail for stability.
"Andino, go!" I couldn'believe it! Torres screamed.
Also taken aback was Cruz, our driver. Although he was born and raised in the region, he had never laid eyes on one of these cats—just slightly larger than house cats—with their shocking leopard-like coats.
"They're more elusive than the puma," Torres informed me, extending his binoculars. By the time I was able to concentrate, though, the feline had vanished into faraway bushes. Viscachas, rodents that look a lot like rabbits, were all I could make out.
The travesía's acclimatization efforts culminated in the ascent of Irruputuncu, a nearly 17,000-foot volcano, which we had begun that day with the intention of taking a westerly detour towards the Chilean border.
Even though I had been able to evade the most severe affects of the high altitude thus far, they came crashing down on me like waves as I walked. Because of the effects of the oxygen deprivation on my body, I began to believe that I had regressed to a weaker, more unable version of myself, experiencing dizziness, shortness of breath, and other symptoms. These pains, nevertheless, were worth it for the opportunity to witness what was to come. Following Torres's advice, I walked slowly, breathed deliberately, and drank water voraciously.
After a two-hour careful climb, we reached the peak of the active volcano. Looking down into the crater from over a hundred feet up, we were taken aback by the sight of its distant edge, which emitted an artificial yellow light reminiscent of highlighters and running shoes due to the sulfur it contained. From rival vents came a torrent of foul smoke. On occasion, the air got so thick that it appeared to obscure the sun's rays.
As if we were descending a gigantic dune, we slid-jumped down the sandy slope of Irruputuncu after turning around. I was in for a pleasant surprise when we shattered the hydration restrictions with celebrating cervezas and dove into a natural pool filled with thermal water as hot as a bathtub.
On the Salar de Uyuni salt flat, an incredible 4,086 square miles (more than twice the size of Delaware), the light was so intense that I could hardly open my eyes. A brilliant, pink-hued ivory, not the bluish white of ice and snow. As I strode across it with my boots, it resembled shattered glass and shook like the waves.
We hopped back into the Land Cruiser and sped north over the desert after a brief photo stop. I could see nothing but white as we continued on our journey; the terrain became increasingly devoid of the usual assortment of vegetation, rocks, and man-made structures.
Our speed increased to above 60 miles per hour as we were no longer hindered by rocks and dust. Speeding up after days of leisurely walking felt like a breath of fresh air. Our journey finally ended at a rock outcrop known as Fish Island due to its distinctively long shape. The two of us ascended the mountain. We were joined by others for the first time in four days. About 70 miles away, in the town of Uyuni, you'll find an airport and a thriving tourist sector that welcomes visitors eager to see the salt flat. We saw as 4x4s carrying additional guests seemed to scurry across the salar like little ants. According to Torres, "you totally lose perspective here" when faced with the delusion. "The stark contrast between Uyuni and our familiar surroundings causes things that appear close to be actually quite distant, and the illusion of a mirage further confuses matters." According to Torres, astronaut Neil Armstrong paid a visit to Salar de Uyuni in 1969, just after stepping foot on the moon, because he was captivated by the way the sun reflected from space.
The lithium mines, which are expanding annually in the southeast part of Uyuni, could be just discernible with a little magnification. The Uyuni region stands to gain significantly from the metal that might power electric automobiles, which in turn could spur an energy transformation aimed at reducing the effects of climate change. However, as Torres informed me, there are already concerns in the region regarding the potential harm that the water required to extract this "white gold" could do to the delicate environment and the lives of the inhabitants who rely on it.
Cruz informed me, "The salar is our treasure," as we made our way toward Explora's Uyuni Lodge, our terminal for the expedition. We are proud of it. You could say it's been a constant companion of ours. On the other hand, the future is completely unpredictable.
The travesía became more leisurely and easygoing during my final days. Torres and I strolled along a stone road that belonged to the Qhapaq Ñan, which is situated near the base of the inactive Tunupa Volcano, where Uyuni Lodge is situated.
We made our way up scarecrow-dotted terraced quinoa fields. The old farmers Torres was talking to had faces like cracked leather from the intense Altiplano sun, but Torres, as always, was joyful. I, too, was feeling jubilant, having finally settled into the altitude. The locals who utilize these cloud-hugging roads on a daily basis—just as generations of their predecessors have done before them—have my utmost respect. I remember my difficulties with altitude from the days prior.
On the Salar de Uyuni salt flat, an incredible 4,086 square miles (more than twice the size of Delaware), the light was so intense that I could hardly open my eyes. A brilliant, pink-hued ivory, not the bluish white of ice and snow.
Once again, I started my last day by gazing out over the salar, but this time it was beneath the soft embrace of sunrise rather than the scorching heat of the sun. At 4:30 in the morning, Torres and I bundled up and braved the frigid cold as we drove into the salt flat's center in the dark. In the thin Andean air, our hot breaths were like clouds bursting. There weren't a human within miles of us.
Day by day, the moon dipped lower and the stars grew dimmer. What came next was a dawn accompanied by opera. The opening theme was a medley of tangerines and indigos, building to a climax of glistening gold that the bone-white salt crystals reflected. I was reminded of the flamingos at Laguna Colorada by the pastel pinks and powder blues used in the finale. As we sat in our camp chairs on the salar, enjoying Torres's breakfast buffet of coca-leaf tea, fruits, and pastries, we watched as our early-morning shadows stretched across the roof of the world.
