Two flights, one overnight 18 hour bus trip and a series of increasingly shabby bus rides brought us to the edge of the Chilean world - the lovely desert village of San Pedro.
Twenty four hours were spent enjoying San Pedro - showering, trying to sleep through the muted sounds of the fiesta next door, lazing about the sun dappled plaza with local dogs, wandering dusty back lanes to the corners of town and drinking “vino tinto” over dinner in a bonfire lit cafe.
And then we were right back at it.
We crossed the Chilean border into the quiet and desolate Bolivian high desert early Saturday morning. For three days we folded ourselves into the far back of a 20 year old Land Cruiser. Conversation precluded by the roar and rumble of the truck flying through rocky ruts in parched soil and then bumping over unmarked Andean mountain passes, we stared contendedly out the window for hours on end - day dreaming and contemplating a landscape sometimes beautiful, always fascinating. I firmly believe having nothing required of you but thinking and witnessing - and occassionally holding on to your seat - is an unmatchable luxury.
We spent our nights in cold concrete structures and a home built entirely of salt rising out of the vast, unpopulated Antiplano. We climbed bizarre rock formations, marveled at gurgling mud filled geysers, sat at the edge of lakes stained red and green by untranslatable minerals and ate our dinners by candlelight beside animated middle aged Argentines who gave us enthusiastic Spanish lessons.
On the final morning of the trip, we were up at 4:30 am and barreling over the salt flats before dawn broke. It’s impossible to describe how vast and how odd the salt flats are - like an endless snowy dance floor where shadows stretch for miles in the light of the sunrise.
By 6 am, we had hiked to the top of a rock “island” covered in thousands of giant cacti and sat confused and thrilled at the top. I can’t begin to do justice to the light - the way it stained the salt pastel and backlit the mountains on the horizon and drew blue shadows behind every cactus.
There’s something about finding yourself in a place like this that feels like a victory - like you’ve journeyed to a secret spot in a mystical hour and you shouldn’t be allowed to be soaking it all in and photographing it to remember forever… like you’re getting away with something rare and undeserved. Suffice it to say I feel fortunate.
In the final hours of the overland trip into southern Bolivia, we passed through a few salt mining towns, played with local children on deserted streets, ate delicious chopped llama on a bed of potatoes purchased for 50 cents and crawled through an amazing train graveyard more somber and beautiful than a real cemetary.
Finally deposited in Uyuni - the first real frontier town you reach after days in the desert and salt flats - we relaxed and watched the locals buy and sell, play and gossip, before waking at 1 am to catch a great old train that rolled and swayed us back up to La Paz at a leisurely pace.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Today we sit in La Paz, where the old women are festooned in woven skirts and bowler hats and their men stroll through the street in formal suits and tattered shoes fresh with polish. The people are kind and gentle, the markets are labryinths of intricate textiles and witchcraft amulets. The city lies in the palm of a steep valley, the walls of which are stitched with spanish homes and colonial churches. At the lip of the valley, snowy Andean peaks rise like a Hollywood backdrop. The city is bustling, dirty and perfect - and for today at least, it is ours.
This year, I hope everyone of you has as much to be thankful for as I do at this very moment.
