The Salar de Uyuni and a Trip to the Moon

« Return to Bolivia

Anyone who decides to visit the deserts of southern Bolivia gets the added bonus of visiting the Moon, Mars, and probably Uranus. Because this is not Earth. Earth does not have dry deserts of salt, bright red mountains, boiling rocks and purple skies. If aliens landed on this hot, hostile landscape, they would assume there is no life of this planet. Then a jeep loaded with tourists would come out of nowhere and drive straight pass them, its occupants too busy taking pictures of the sky to even notice, its driver too busy squinting to see the horizon of the Salar de Uyuni.

La Paz was shutting down for Easter weekend, making it a perfect opportunity to vamos and lose myself in a desert. I did however manage to catch the President, the vortex of a current political storm, emerge from the main church in the Plaza Murillo behind my hotel. Several hundred soldiers lined the street dressed as lampshades, surrounded by several hundred soldiers dressed in the more famous Bolivian death squad attire. Thousands of people hung about, feeding the pigeons and waiting for a glimpse of their fearless leader, who just last week tried unsuccessfully to resign and call an early election. “It’s as if they’re waiting for a rock star,” says Gustavo from Brazil, shortly before the conversation shifts to the fate of Michael Jackson.

Getting to Uyuni would involve a full day’s journey - a four-hour bus to Oruro to catch a seven-hour train. Fortunately I did not share a seat with a neurotic goat, but the neurotic German family was marginally worse. The train station in Oruro was packed with travelers going south. $10 afforded the executive cabin with reclining seats, bad Spanish-dubbed movies and a dry cheese sandwich, all of which made no difference as the train began to float on a crystal clear lake. The tracks are built on a narrow passageway through flat, flooded deserts, creating stunning views and a distinctly boat-like feeling. Snapping an outrageous sunset, lightning streaking in the distance, I glanced up at the TV and saw a man walk past Save On Meats on a cold, wet Hastings St. The Vancouver-shot movie Dreamcatcher, awful as it is, transported me home for a moment, and once again I felt truly lucky to be able to look out at the deep velvet sky outside the window.

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