A Walk in Lima

We took a 26 hour bus ride from La Paz to Lima. Along with a pair of French tourists, we managed to be the only tourists lured into a "customs checkpoint" at the border by some unscrupulous guards. We were asked to show them all our money and they sifted through our bags. The four of us made sure that at least two people were present at each of the checks and the guards seemed to back down when it was clear that we suspected them of bad behavior. The actual checkpoint, we found out soon after, was about 100m up the road. The "luxury" bus we boarded at the border came with an extremely serious (and nutty) travel attendant who ushered us quickly onto the bus. She decided that it was her job to keep anyone from exiting the bus at any time. This was a huge pain, because we hadn't purchased a lot of water, knowing that we would be able to buy some en route. We decided that this was not a customary procedure, as most of the passengers were getting angry and began hurling out insults directed at our hostess. This caused the utterly crazy woman to become increasingly militant until she was waging a full out war on her unruly passengers. One of the few Western tourists on the bus had to leave us quite early on, the attendant had told her that the bus bathroom was only for peeing, but was not letting her exit the bus to use other facilities!? The poor girl looked utterly distressed as we left her in some town. When we exited the bus in Lima it was the first breath of non-recycled bus air we had taken in over a day, we were excruciatingly thirsty and completely exhausted.

Lima is a sprawling, confusing city. We were relegated to the rich tourist district of Miraflores by lack of creativity and adventurousness. With only two days in Lima, without even a map or guidebook, we didn't plan to do much (we were only in Lima because it saved us money on the plane tickets). We visited the amazing sights of Miraflores: (1) Two blocks of giant tourist souvenir warehouses (highly recommended by the adorable American couple we met) (2) The modern ocean-side shopping mall (where Yann bought a small Dunkin' Donuts coffee). Despite the riveting excitement of Miraflores, we had our fill of llama trinkets and pashmina shawls and wanted to see other neighborhoods of Lima.

On the advice of our hostel staff we took a taxi to the historic downtown centre of Lima, rather than take public transportation "which would require transferring buses in a bad neighborhood". We were skeptical about all the warnings, but we had no guidebook, and the only map we had was a small tourist pamphlet. Since most of Lima's sights are concentrated within a few blocks, we knew once we were downtown, we didn't have much searching to do. Our taxi driver dropped us off at the Plaza Mayor in time for us to watch the bizarre changing of the guards ceremony. Bizarre, because spectators have to watch it from outside the gates of the Presidential Palace, actually from across the street. Crowds of school children, families and tourists jostle for position on the sidewalk, across the streets from the gates of the palace. To make sure no one gets to close, a row of riot cop stands between the crowd and the palace. I watched the routine while Yann was entertained by a grumpy old Peruvian man, who spent 20 minutes pointing out all the similarities between the French, Italian and Spanish language. After the excitement of the changing of the guards was over, we wandered around the Plaza searching for something to visit. We walked along a pedestrianized street until we were behind the Presidential Palace facing the Rimac river and a large hill in the distance dotted with brightly-painted homes. We decided to cross the river to get a closer view. As we crossed the bridge, we noticed the lovely colonial architecture and a large church in the street directly in front of us. We strolled down the street heading towards the church, carrying our large day bags, and our even larger cameras hanging around our necks. We left the majority of the palace riot police standing on the bridge behind us. We could still spot the fluorescent yellow reflectors of the single police officers stationed at every street corner in the distance, so it didn't feel like we were leaving the tourist district. I remember making two brilliant observations as we walked along; "Boy! people sure like to whistle around here!" and "Boy! That's the third person who passed us making the sign of the cross!". Yann made the third astounding observation "Look, those people across the street seem to be waving at us!". Once we concluded that the shopkeepers had in fact leaped out of their stores to wave us down, we stopped to analyze the complex flow of information coming to us in the form of subtle clues. At the same time, we bumped into the last visible policeman stationed on the street. The kind shopkeepers were looking out for us, and were in fact desperately waving their arms and pointing towards the Presidential Palace. The policeman, after instructing us to hide our cameras, stood in the middle of the sidewalk blocking us from moving forward. The policeman kept repeating "peligroso", which neither Yann nor I knew the meaning of (so much for our "Speak in a Week" Spanish CDs). It took us a surprisingly long time to decide that we should in fact head back towards the plaza. We were actually pretty frazzled and we sped back from where we came from, to the sound of the same whistling, now taking on a new and slightly more alarming meaning. Oh, and we looked up "peligroso" in our pocket dictionary once we were back in tourist territory: "dangerous".

Thus ended our Lima exploring, we were both mad at ourselves for our bad judgment and we concluded that such naive travelers could only be set loose on Miraflores, which is where we stayed for the rest of our time in Lima.


Note: Back in Canada, we came across a blog describing a traveler's day in this same neighborhood (Cerro San Cristobal), where he explored the homes on the mountainside, met locals and had no problems whatsoever...

Fruit in Sucre

When we arrived to Sucre, it was the first time we had been under 3000m since we had landed in La Paz two weeks earlier. Sucre is markedly different from other cities we had visited in the Bolivian Altiplano, and not only owing to the change in climate. It is a city made up of elegant Spanish Colonial era, white washed buildings and churches. As Bolivia's legislative capital, the seat of Bolivia's Catholic Church and home to one of the oldest universities in the "New World" it is not as poor as its next door neighbour Potosi. In June 2008 a group of indigenous farmers was through Sucre's central plaza, forced to take off their shirts and burn the Wiphala and MAS flags (the Wiphala flag is that of Bolivia's indigenous people, MAS is Morales' Party). All this to the cheers of "on your knees shitty Indians", "long live the capital Sucre"... This was the current political climate when we visited Sucre. Tourists like to stick around the hostels of Sucre to learn Spanish and enjoy the lovely weather. Yann and I enjoyed the hot climate and agreed that the city was quite lovely, but concluded that it was also fairly dull. As in Potosi, we visited all the churches and museums including the one that houses Bolivia's declaration of Independence. The views of the city from the top of the Felipe Neri Convent were particularly nice. The highlight of Sucre for us was the central market where we ate all of our meals with crowds of locals. We went there every night for greasy potatoes and chicken, and every afternoon for gigantic bowls of fruit covered in yogurt. The town of Tarabuco is about 65km from Sucre, and its Sunday market is a popular excursion. Tarabuco and its neighbouring villages are renowned for their intricate textiles. We decided to visit, mainly for lack of other day trip options. Most of the vendors in Tarabuco target the visiting tourists. All sell "authentic embroideries" of various quality (after a visit to the textile museum in Sucre, it is difficult to impress). Most of the local vendors wear traditional clothing, but this seems mostly to be a show for the visiting tourists. Away from the central plaza, vendors sell everyday goods and tourists are slightly more scarce. We wandered the back streets for a few hours, but we were still disappointed by the "market". Back in Sucre, Yann and I joined a group of tourists racing to the fruit stalls. Despite arriving past closing time, we managed to get a vendor to sell us all fruit cups through the locked gates. Yann and I enjoyed our last treat before our long trip to Lima.

Mining in Bolivia

There was no time to rest, even after our three day tour of the Bolivian desert. First thing the next morning, we were on the bus to Potosi. Yann had recovered well and we had received the good news that 67% of voters had supported Evo Morales in the vote of confidence referendum (that had taken place while we were on the tour). In the western highlands of Bolivia (where we were traveling), where the population is poor and mainly indigenous, support for Morales was even higher. We arrived in Potosi in the late afternoon. We made our way through Potosi's cobblestone alleys, past its crumbling colonial mansions and dozens of churches, admiring the massive Cerro Rico mountain that seems to loom over the city from wherever we were standing. Potosi has a grand and terrible history, and tourists come here for glimpses of the vestiges both of grandeur and of terror. Four hundred years of history has shaped Potosi into a city where the divide between the rich and the poor is even more present than in other parts of the country. (Perhaps why Morales and his Movement for Socialism Party enjoy over 80% support, the most of all prefects in Bolivia). It was established as a mining town in the 16th century and quickly the Spanish discovered that the nearby mountain was full of silver ore. The Spanish removed 45 000 tones of pure silver from the from what seemed to be an inexhaustible source of silver. Thousands of native Quechua and Aymara people were enslaved, and sometimes forced to live underground for 3 months (until they died). When the native population had been decimated (hundreds of thousands are said to have died in the mines), African slaves were shipped to Potosi to continue the work. An estimated 30 000 African slaves died, and rather quickly, due to the 4000m altitude. At the height of silver excavation, the population of the city swelled to over 200 000, making it one of the world's biggest cities. It is even mentioned in Cervantes' Don Quixote "I were to requite thee as the importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice, the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee."

By the beginning of the 19th century most of the silver had been depleted and the city began to decline. Today, there is almost no silver left in Potosi, neither in Cerro Rico or in the museums and churches. Most is in Europe. We did the mandatory visit to the Potosi Mint, a testimony to Potosi's previous position of power, the coins for most of Europe were produced here for over a century. We visited a handful of churches, mostly for the great views of the city from their rooftops. And we visited museums and developed a particularly liking for some of the Bolivian artwork. We noted the common theme of Spanish conquistadors crucifying Jesus, which, given Potosi's history is quite an apt representation. On our second day in Potosi, we decided to witness what remains of Cerro Rico mining. We took a popular "Mine Tour" with a local company. For 10$ you get a trip to the mining quarter of Potosi (including the miner's market), then a refinery then a visit inside one of the dozens of cooperative mines that operate in the old tunnels of Cerro Rico. Before heading to the market we were first fitted with ridiculous suits, hardhats and lamps. The lamps and hardhats proved to be useful, but the rubber coveralls just served to highlight our invasive presence in the tunnels. We paraded through the small miners' market purchasing "gifts" for the miners on the insistence of our guide. Gifts included soft drinks, coca leaves and sticks of dynamite, all three available at most market stalls. Miners purchase all of their supplies themselves, hence the absence of any sophisticated equipment (including masks). Mines have been stripped of most of their wealth and ore is extracted with the hope of having a high enough mineral content to make decent money. Each cooperative works in teams sharing their meager profits. Miners are mostly uneducated and indigenous and are forced into mining by circumstance. Small children, boys and girls, enter the mines young, as they are able to crawl to small hard to reach corners. Miners usually die within 15 years of entering the mines, from silicosis (caused by the inhalation of large quantities of silica dust). We arrived at the Candeleria mine around lunch time, and workers were preparing to enter the mines for the beginning of their 12 hr+ shift. They prepared their painfully rickety equipment and put on their cloth masks and we watched them enter the mine. Shortly after, our group of about 8 people entered the mine behind them. We were accompanied by two guides, one to lead and the other to help people out if they began to feel uncomfortable. The first few hundred meters of tunnel is wide with high ceilings, it is dark and extremely noisy, due to the hydraulic pipes used to power the carts. The air is stale and stinky, the tunnel is hot and your lungs begin burning almost immediately after entering. It took us about 10 minutes to get to the end of the main tunnel with the ceiling at which point we sat and rested. We were given a description of the following part of the mine. We would descend a few meters at which point we would enter a tunnel in which we would have to crawl until we reached the second level of the mine. Yann had to be convinced to take this tour, and when we turned the corner and watched as people began entering the tunnel on their hands and knees he turned around to leave. Another tourist had already dropped out ahead of him and our guide left with both of them. I was the last person in our convoy. With just the slight descent further into the mine the temperature had already risen and us inexperienced tourists were kicking up dust everywhere around us, (much to the dismay of the miners that had grumpily joined the queue behind me).
It is hard for me to describe the smells and the discomfort of my few minutes crawling through the tunnel. About halfway through the tunnel, I turned around and crawled back, despite the encouragements of my fellow tourist next to me. I knew that if I got to the end of the tunnel I would eventually have to turn back and do it again. I raced out of the mine (as fast as I could), out of breath and afraid.
Outside the mine Yann and I sat in silence covered in dust and feeling pretty lame dejected as we watched a group of even young miners getting ready to enter the mine. For a wonderful portrayal of the lives of Potosi miners we strongly encourage you to watch "The Devil's Miner" a heartbreaking documentary about mining in Cerro Rico filmed in 2005.

Information at www.thedevilsminer.com

Back to Civilization

After a great day two, we were ready for the final and longest day (12 hours of driving) of our tour of Southwestern Bolivia. We spent the previous evening eating spaghetti, playing cards and drinking cheap Chilean wine. None of us had particularly considered the fact that we were at an altitude of almost 4000m. We slept poorly, Yann and I huddled together in a single bed under a pile of damp blankets, wearing all of our clothes. There were around 7 or 8 groups spending a night at the tourist lodge and we had planned to be the first group gone in the morning. We wanted to watch the sun rise over the Sol de Manana, a geyser basin.

We were the first group awake (4:30am), we had all the bags ready, we passed on breakfast (much to the dismay of Hilarion who seemed to want to keep sleeping) and we began loading up the jeep. It was extremely cold outside so we took shifts going outside to help load the jeep (with Jonathan and Jonas doing the bulk of the work). Yann seemed to be struggling and was obviously not doing very well, a combination of food, alcohol (only 2 glasses of wine) and altitude had flattened him. We sent him back to bed while we tried to get things ready. We were getting frustrated with the speed at which Hilarion and Maria were packing up, they had nothing packed almost half an hour after the six of us were ready and waiting. The other groups were beginning to wake up and prepare their things (with their guides working much more efficiently).

By 5:30am we should have been on the road, but our poor jeep had had a rough night in the sub-zero weather. When we heard the repeated sound of a jeep starter (not starting), we didn't have to see whose jeep it was, we already knew... We tried everything to start it, we pushed, we boosted the battery, we changed parts. After multiple attempts at getting the jeep started by rolling it uphill, I threw in the towel. My lungs were burning, my heart was pounding and my hands were numb, I thought I was going to pass out. Jonas and Jonathan must have spent a brave 2 hours with Hilarion in the -20 C weather, trying to get our awful jeep started. They enlisted the help of other drivers who tried their best, but had their own clients and jeeps to deal with. One by one they drove off, until we were the last jeep at the lodge. We finally pulled away at about 8am, we were 2 hours behind most of the other groups.

Yann's extra hours of sleep had not improved his situation. He was pale and exhausted, and we piled him under blankets in the back of the jeep. When we got to the Sol de Manana to see the geysers, Yann couldn't leave the jeep. The stench of sulfur in the air wasn't helping him get over his nausea and headache, his face had gone from white to green. We were now climbed to an altitude of almost 5000m. I visited the impressive geysers and hot bubbling sludge by myself, trying to rush through so that we could get to a lower altitude and escape the smell. Nearby are the natural Termas de Polques hot springs, which we were really looking forward to, until we realised that we would have to strip down to our bathing suits, get wet, and then exit into the cold air. Yann had still not left the back of the jeep and was still freezing under his pile of blankets, so there was no question as to whether or not he would enter the water. The three other guys stripped down to the speedos the minute we got there and beckoned Mathilde and I to join them. I spent at least an hour in the water, which was so wonderful after our cold night and awful morning. Getting out wasn't pleasant, but was manageable.

I began to wonder why we were hanging around at the hot springs for so long, as we still had another 50km to the Chilean border where we would visit the Laguna Verde and the 6000m Licancabur Volcano. From Laguna Verde, Yann, Michael and I would leave the three Frenchmen to climb the volcano, and we would switch into a jeep who had dumped passengers at the Chilean border and was heading back to Uyuni half empty. The problem was, we were so behind, that all the jeeps were already on their way back from the border, and we wouldn't be able to catch up. Hilarion mumbled to us in Spanish, that we wouldn't visit the Laguna Verde, and we could get some money back in Uyuni. He flagged down a passing jeep handed the driver some money and we quickly transferred our things. We said goodbye to Mathilde, Jonathan and Jonas who had been wonderful company. They were nervous to be continuing three more days in the same jeep.

The next 5 hours were spent racing back to Uyuni, with a brief stop at the Valles de Rocas (where I puked from motion sickness, and Yann still did not have the energy to exit the jeep). Despite Hilarion's terrible jeep, I was grateful to not have taken the trip with our new driver. He was driving way too fast for the terrain. I asked him to slow down a few times and he obliged. Apparently, he had drank so heavily on the second night, that he was still drunk in the morning. His driving was so erratic that one of the tourists had driven for most of day two while the other passengers navigated. Our jeep troubles seemed minor when I listed to the description of their awful experience. We felt some frustration for having been promised a "great jeep" and missing one third of the sights on the circuit due to its utter crappiness. But since Yann was so sick, we were happy to have saved him from the extra 3 hours of driving. By the time we arrived in San Cristobal Yann was able to get up and walk. We had descended 1500m in one day, which seemed to relieve his headache somewhat. Back in Uyuni, Yann went to bed at 6pm and didn't wake up until the next morning. Meanwhile, Michael (who spoke some Spanish) was busy blasting the travel agent at Ripley Tours. She eventually reimbursed us each some money (reluctantly). So basically our trip was a great success!

Note: About a week later we ran into Jonathan who described their trip continuation with Hilarion. They had paid for 3 more days, but Hilarion only wanted to do 2, they argued with him for the rest of the trip over the terms of their agreement, the jeep broke down two more times, stranding them both mornings AND the absolutely unforgivable: they completely ran out of food!

Guide to a Problem Free Day on the Southwest Circuit

We learned that whether or not your package tour of the Bolivian southwest has nothing to do with careful preparation, and everything to do with luck. Luckily, we had good travel companions, and we made it through at least one of three days without a jeep breakdown. Our second day was great, we weren't even bothered by the fact that when Hilarion came to pick us up in the morning he was driving the exact same jeep as the day before, unrepaired. So we are actually able to summarize what the second day of the Bolivian Southwest Circuit should be like:

Wake up is at 5 a.m., if you are sleeping in Puerto Chubica (as we were) you can watch the sunrise over the salt flats. After sunrise you will have a breakfast of pancakes, jam, and dulce de leche, complete with moccacinos (hot chocolate, instant coffee and powdered milk). Leaving Puerto Chubica and the salar, you will head to San Juan to pick up supplies: Chilean wine, orange drink, chips... (Note: Depending on your jeep situation the previous day, the small town of San Juan could actually be your day 2 starting point). If your group is organized, you can start the day ahead of all the other groups and at least feel like you are not visiting the desert in a convoy of 30 jeeps. We were actually very organized group, but given our situation, we followed the "last is first" method, in order to have the sights to ourselves.
The first stop of the day is a vast plain of volcanic rock formations, with views of the smoking active Volcano Ollague in the distance. The rest of the morning is spent driving through barren, rocky terrain. On some of the steeper trails, all the passengers have to walk (especially if you don't have a spare tire). You can request stops to admire the packs of Vicunas (llamas with long silky hair) grazing in the distance. For many, the most impressive sight of the day will be the thousands of South American flamingos. These flamingos only inhabit the high altitude (over 3000m) salt lakes and lagoons of the Andes. They are pink due to the beta-carotene contained in their algae diet (the source of beta-carotene the African flamingo's diet is shrimp). You will have your lunch at Laguna Hedionda where you can watch this endangered bird eat, fly or just stand around on a leg. The only thing that detracts ever so slightly from the experience is the raging stench of flamingo poop. The first stop after lunch is the rock forest. You might question the enthusiasm with which it will be presented to you by every single tour operator in Uyuni. The wide-spread belief seems to be that the most interesting thing on the tour is the Arbol de Pietra, a rock shaped like a tree. In the afternoon, the colours and shapes of the desert terrain seem to change every few minutes. The last sight of the day is the Laguna Colorada, sitting at 4300m, red from algae and plankton with shiny white deposits of minerals colouring its banks. By the time you arrive at the lodge just past the Laguna Colarada, you will have traveled for more than 12 hours, covering almost 200km. You will appreciate the wine purchased in San Juan and the spaghetti dinner, especially when the sun sets and the temperature drops to -20C.

First Day on the Southwest Circuit

Our tour of southwestern Bolivia with Ripley's Tours began 2 hours late. We sat outside the tour office watching other groups meet their sharply-dressed guides,load up their 4x4's and depart. This gave us the time to meet our travelmates, an adventurous French trio: Jonas, Jonathan and Mathilde and a solo Israeli Michael. Michael had enough supplies to last a month in the desert, including a 2kg bag of animal crackers and an enormous backpack. It was pretty obvious that the promise of a 10a.m. departure, a guarantee of fuel (despite the region-wide shortage), an English speaking guide and a new jeep was not going to be fulfilled. When the jeep finally pulled up there was now a significant doubt as to whether it would be able to actually complete the trip. It was in pretty rough shape and we consoled each other by attempting to remember ones we'd seen that might have been worse looking. Our driver Hilarion, a huge local clad in oil stained sweat pants (having probably spent the morning getting the jeep to start) was not particularly amused by the situation. We strapped our bags and boxes of food along with the fuel on the roof and pulled away towards the salt flats.

Our first stop was the train cemetery, which luckily Yann and I had already visited. Due to our late departure, we spent about 10 minutes there. To our surprise, we then drove back to Uyuni, where our driver proceeded to drive through the back streets stopping at make-shift garages inquiring about spare tires (apparently we didn't have one yet). We eventually found one, that actually looked in worse shape than our jeep. We also picked up Hilarion's cousin Maria (our cook) and, another surprise, her 1-year old son Jesus. The nine of us headed off back towards the desert.

The Salar de Uyuni is the largest salt flat in the world (10500 square km) and a highlight of the southwestern circuit, it begins about 10km from Uyuni. The first part of our salt flats visit was the 'Salt Museum' in Colchani, also known as the row of vendors selling knick-knacks made out of salt. The villagers living on the outskirts of the salt flats make their living from salt harvesting and processing and supplement their meager wages by selling their salt figurines to tourists. We felt torn between buying an item from a poor villager and the fact that the items were useless and overpriced. In the end, we left empty handed, hoping that other tourists might have a need for a salt ashtray. (Note: A few hours later I bought a pill box made from salt, which Yann proceeded to misplace on the salt flats 5 minutes later, we never found it).
We drove a few kilometers from Colchani where we saw the villagers mining the salt. After being scraped from the surface of the desert with a pick axe, the salt is then placed into large piles to eventually be loaded into rusty trucks and carried off to refineries. After a brief stop photographing the salt mounds, we moved on to another great addition to the salar brought by tourism: the Salt Hotel. Structures like this one are now illegal to build on the salt flats, but this one was permitted to stay. The ugly building made entirely of salt is now where most of the tour groups stop for lunch. We reached the hotel as most of the other groups were eating, our late departure from Uyuni had at least kept us from traveling in the jeep convoy. While lunch was being prepared we had the chance to walk around and admire the blinding white salt flats that stretching out for kilometers in every direction. After the rainy season, the salt dries up and crystallizes into hexagonal formations, covering the entire surface of the desert. It was after lunch that our car troubles began. As we drove along to our next destination along the hard, flat salt, we popped a rear tire and began swerving out of control. The advantage of having a jeep in such a sorry state, was that we hadn't be traveling very quickly and our visibly shaken Hilarion was able to come to a stop without flipping. After only a few hours on our trip, we had already lost a tire, and we hadn't even began any of the rockier terrain. Plus, we had the world's worst spare tire to drive on for the next 3 days.

The island that we were to visit was visible in the distance so we decided that we would leave Hilarion to unload the jeep and put on the spare tire while we made our way to our next stop. Distances can be quite deceiving in the desert, but we made it to the island in 30 minutes or so, with our pathetic jeep becoming a smaller and smaller sight in the distance. We were again one of the last groups to arrive at Isla Incahuasi, a small oasis home to a colony of gigantic cacti. We had lots of time to explore it and as all the other groups departed we watched the sun get lower and lower in the sky. After our lengthy visit and at least an hour of waiting around the jeep (that had finally arrived to meet us), there was still no sign of our driver. I tracked him down to the small tourist office on the island, where he was desperately trying to radio back to his office in Uyuni. It turned out there there might be more problems with the jeep than the spare tire. He explained that he would drop us off at our lodge and drive back to Uyuni to replace the jeep. We still had a significant distance to complete and by now the sun was setting. We were now half-jokingly discussing the possibility of spending the night on the salt flats at -20 C. We were greatly relieved to spot the tourist lodges lined up on the outskirts of the desert. But when we pulled up, we were told there was no room for us. (What? No reservation?) We ended up in a small village further on, that had a lovely room for us in their salt hotel (complete with the hottest shower I had in Bolivia?!). We said goodbye to poor Hilarion who drove away in the darkness, back to Uyuni to get us a replacement jeep.

A Day in Uyuni

We spent the morning catching up on our night's lost sleep in our freezing Uyuni hotel room. Due to 5 showerless days we attempted to use the "hot water" in our rooms. There didn't seem to be any way to turn the shower knob in order to get even slightly warm water. I went to the front desk to ask for assistance, since our room fee was higher owing to the hot water. A few minutes later a young girl showed up to our door with a screwdriver. After pulling apart the shower head, switching the breaker on and off multiple times, playing with loose wires, while standing in a pool of water, the conclusion was made that our shower was broken. Bolivian shower heads are exceptionally ingenious. Instead of heating a whole tank of water, a small heater is installed in the shower head, so that the water warms up upon exit. Most of the time the wires are exposed and protruding from the shower head. Some hotels have signs reminding people not to touch the shower without turning off the breaker, but most backpackers we met had been zapped at least once (we were fine because we usually opted not to shower). Adding to the sheer brilliance of the design, the water doesn't actually ever heat up. So our shower didn't work, but that didn't actually make much of a difference. Our hygiene situation was rather desperate however, so we showered and spent at least another hour under the blankets trying to regain some body heat before heading out to visit Uyuni.

Uyuni is a strange, eerie place, owing its current existence to tourists, who use it as a jump off point to visit the surrounding deserts and salt flats. Despite its tourism potential, it remains poor and gloomy (and is one of Bolivia's coldest places). The only cars on the road are the travel agency jeeps, apparently owned by the same few people. Locals rent the vehicles and attempt to eke out a living stuffing as many backpackers into them as possible. Every other storefront in Uyuni is a travel agency. All promise roughly the same trip, prices vary wildly as does service, but not necessarily in a correlated fashion. We were weary about the trips, some of the summer's headlines about Uyuni included "13 tourists burn to death in Bolivia car accident" and "3 tourists die in crash on Bolivian salt flats, raising death toll to 16 since May". We spent the afternoon visiting agency after agency, hearing the same story of "best food, English guide, new jeep...". The reality of the situation was that no matter how carefully we chose our agency, the morning of departure we could be clumped together with another agency if our jeep wasn't full to capacity (6 tourists). To make matters worse, there was a shortage of fuel in the region, and only the agencies that were first in the queue at the gas station the next morning would be able to depart. Only a few of the high end agencies had reserves of fuel. With the national referendum in two days, we had to depart the next day, because all travel was prohibited on the day of the referendum (once we were in the uninhabited desert we wouldn't have any problems). We sought out the agency with tourists already booked to leave the next morning and a guarantee of fuel (a bold face lie), even though it was not the cheapest. After we made our selection (which we immediately doubted), we bought supplies (extra water and food) before walking out to see Uyuni's only tourist attraction. About 2km from Uyuni is the train cemetery. A dump of old train cars and parts abandoned to rust and decay. Upon friends' recommendation we visited in the late afternoon when the sun was setting and the tour groups had long finished their ten minute visit. The sight was well worth the two hours or so that we gave it. We walked up and down the kilometers of train which lay in the unforgiving desert. As the sun set we headed back to Uyuni to get ready for our morning departure.