The day got off to an auspicious start with some typically South American inefficiency which had so far been absent for much of my time in Chile. Finding a passage from San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile to Uyuni in south-west Bolivia had proved harder than expected, with buses only going twice a week and at extremely inconvinient hours, but with a bit of research I had found a company that would take me directly through the desert, four-wheel-drive, in one day. Perfect. But two hours after the intended departure time we were still in San Pedro at the immigration office with every other bus and truck in northern Chile trying to get through at once. And somehow my driver was still at the back of the line, chatting jovially to his colleagues, in no hurry at all.
The usual route from San Pedro to Uruni went through Calama and Ollague, sticking to the major freeways. I tried finding a route on Google Maps, but after entering the origin and destination, the best Google could give me was a southern detour through Argentina. The direct route, through the desert platuea with barely a town in between on a winding, dirt road was only accessible by 4WD and was far more scenic and a lot more fun.
Chile had been almost flawless so far in terms of punctuality and efficiency, but now, almost at it's border it had shown it's South Americaness as one man behind a window processed every truck-driver, delivery man, tour operator and tourist by himself, and the 8am departure time turned into 10am, a 50-odd kilometer drive to the Bolivian border, where a Land Rover would be waiting to make the journey to Uyuni.
Of all the border crossings I have ever been to - and some stand out - the San Pedro crossing was by far the most amazing. In the middle of a large, flat, gray clearing with only distant mountains and volcanos in sight, there was a small, gray, rectangular building with a Bolivian flag fluttering in the wind and 'Micracion Bolivia' painted onto the side. There were no other man-made structures in site apart from a burnt out, wheel-less bus frame, similar to Alexander Supertramp's in the movie 'Into the Wild'. Nobody could have lived there though. Not possibly. There was not a hint of life or vegetation in sight, immigration had to have been the most isolated building in the world. Inside it a stocky, dark skinned Bolivian man sat at a table, a beanie on his head with 'Bolivia' written in green, yellow and red. He grabbed my passport, opened a page and stamped it without looking at anything inside. So far I liked Bolivia.
A Land Rover arrived soon after for the eight hour, off-road drive through the high altitude platuea, basically a giant desert in the sky. I managed to score a front seat, giving a perfect view of the nothingness that lay ahead and of the crack in the wind-shield being held together by a band-aid. Our driver aimed the vehicle north and sped away. The mountains ahead were always visible but never seemed to get closer. The monotony was broken by sporadic lakes, one white, one blue, one turqoise, one was even a dark pink, orangey colour. Don't ask me how. When I got out to have a closer look the wind almost took me with it. Sand stung my eyes and filled my mouth, I got straight back in the vehicle, these were not conditions for people, even the odd lama we passed seemed to be wondering how it had the misfortune to have ended up there.
After two hours of climbing and dipping and swerving along the dirt track through rough terrain there seemed to be a house in the distance, as we got closer it turned out to be an entire village - Villa Mar. It was wedged inbetween two small mountains. I found no reason for it to exist. You couldn't farm anything out here and there were no mines. Villa Mar was about twenty blocks long by three blocks wide, eached filled with identical, light brown, one-storey houses, but no one seemed to live there. As we rolled through the main street at midday the only movement in town was the mini sand twisters that moved through the streets like residents. The houses didn't look abandoned, people obviously lived there, but the weather was too brutal to stay outside. Despite the cloudless sky and sun shining into the car, the wind was arctic and ferocious and explained the snow that still clung to life throughout the desert.
An hour out of Villa Mar we came to a crossroads. A native family was there, huddled together to protect against the elements in their traditional bright coloured clothing, next to them were baskets full of bananas and tomatoes. I'm not sure many people were stopping to purchase any.
For the next hour the scenery didn't change at all, yet the whole time we were continually going about 80km per hour, then suddenly, a stretch of paved road and another empty, destitute town being smashed by the wind. This was lunch in Santa Maria.
The four tourists from our car were ushered into a house and into a long, plain room where a meal of hot-dogs and mashed potato was being served by a native woman who could have been aged anywhere from 25 to 50. We sat quietly chewing, listening to the howling gale outside and watching chickens get blown about in the courtyard, before our driver re-emerged and took us away on the final leg. As we left the empty streets of Santa Maria a lone, small, black mongrel of a dog was curled up against the wall, it's black coat now a shade of brown.
Two hours passed. The dust storms were the only sign of movement on the landscape other than a rare herd of lamas. The only structure was a mud brick hut that had been inexplicabley placed hours from anywhere, in the middle of this freezing, weather beaten desert. It defined 'middle of nowhere.'
The last town of any note before Uyuni was San Cristobal, which seemed like a thriving metropolis compared to it's neighbours. The most notable difference was that there were people. Older looking people - with leathery, dark skin - sat with their stalls of random goods. Coca-cola, nail clippers, biscuits, bananas, incense, remote controls, toy dolls, gloves, batteries, and a thousand other things I didn't want. Young girls pushed wheelbarrows and dirty boys carried bricks and stones. Child labour or not, at least they were doing something. We were given time to explore the town. It sounded like a party was coming out of a large hall so I went to check it out. It was a large basketball stadium, there were three people in there with a stereo, blasting 'Sacrifice' by Elton John. The music didn't fit the setting, but it's better not to judge things in these types of places.
From then on the road remained flat and straight before we arrived in Uyuni just before dusk. The gateway town to the salt flats, a tourist hot spot with a slew of hostels and tour operators on it's streets. I had been looking for the quickest possible way to get here, but, as often happens, the journey had overshadowed the destination.
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