Rurrenabaque and The Return To La Paz

I was leaving the high altitude of La Paz for the low lands of Rurrenabaque. As soon as the plane was in sight all the tourists started taking pictures. The plane was tiny, like a wind up toy. Once we got inside, it seemed even smaller. It had no toilet, no cabin crew, and not even enough space to stand up straight. This was when I realised I would be getting no on-board meal.

I was sat in the very front seat. Directly in front of me was the plane door, and directly in front of that, the cockpit. The pilot, the co-pilot, and every dial and instrument was in plain sight. After a small delay the propellers began to rotate, the plane began to move, and we were off. We left the ground like a feather caught in the wind.

Before long we were above the clouds. Mountains and rivers could be seen far below between the gaps. Looking behind me however, there were a few worried faces; many were not comfortable with the lightweight aircraft. At one point the air pressure must have changed and the plane dipped like a rollercoaster, accompanied by numerous yelps and screams. Being so close to the pilots could be unnerving too. I could hear every beep, or succession of beeps, from the cockpit, some very much like warning beeps. At one point the pilot appeared to be knocking the control wheel then gesturing to the co-pilot how it wasn´t functioning!

But all was in order, and forty minutes later the plane began to descend. I watched the altitude dial in the cockpit count down. As the plane banked left close to the nearby mountains, we landed on an isolated runaway in the middle of a green field. As we stepped out of the plane the humidity attacked like a furnace. A short bus ride took us to the terminal; a hut in a field. It was hard to comprehend that only forty minutes earlier I had been in the busy, chilly, high-altitude city of La Paz!

I spent my first day in Rurrenabaque gently walking around, sheltering from a sudden heavy downpour, and choosing which Amazon trip I wished to take. I chose a Pampas trip; a river journey.

By the following morning I was in a jeep accompanied by five other tourists; three Australians and two Danes. The three hour journey to our motorboat however was across a very rugged road, and we got stuck in the mud twice. The first time, it took a lot of pushing and tactical positioning of stones to get the vehicle back on track again. The second time, we needed to be towed out.

We eventually arrived at the pick up point beside The Yacuma River. As we waited for our boat to arrive I briefly spotted two eyes and a snout floating in the river. It soon descending down back into the murk. I had no doubts about what I saw, it looked like a crocodile. It was a caiman, the crocodile´s cousin.

My group stepped into the boat and before long we were whizzing down the river. A variety of birds could be seen sitting in the neighbouring trees and flying into the distance. As we continued towards our lodgings we paused outside the lodgings of another tour company. A group of Israelis were lingering on their boardwalk, edging closer and closer to a caiman waiting below the edge. One eager Israeli bent over and stretched his camera gradually down towards the caiman. The caiman looked up. The Israeli moved his arm closer. The caiman maneuvered himself vertically and appeared to bend at the knees. Now, I am not Steve Irwin, and I am no animal expert, but I became uneasy. I had seen crocodiles form this position in Australia. It is the position of a beast ready to pounce upwards and snatch. I wasn´t certain this was the case, but without realising I found myself shouting out loud; ¨Step back!¨ I exclaimed! I wasn´t the only shouting voice in my boat. But the Israeli was too occupied with the caiman, who was now even more tightly poised. ¨STEP BACK!¨ I heared myself shout even louder, but the words mingled with the other screams from my boat. The Israeli eventually took a step back, and the caiman relaxed. Later that day I asked my guide if the caiman was ready to pounce. He replied ¨maybe¨, but that he has got in trouble before for advising members of other tour groups about safety. All the while during the incident, the group leader of the Israelis had been sitting and watching. He had said nothing.

In addition to further caiman and birds, we saw howler monkeys hanging in trees, an anaconda in the grass, and a docile sloth curled up in a ball up in a river-side tree top. We also went swimming with pink dolphins, although they kept their distance of a few metres.

Later, in a separate part of the river, we went pirahna fishing. While a lot of fishing in the river is classed as unethical, piranhas are not an endangered species. Everybody found the activity easy. We attached some meat to a hook, through it into the water, and very often the string would go tight. Unlike the cartoons though, the water didn´t bubble in a frenzy at the slightest hint of meat. Each piranha we caught was about three inches long, and everyone caught many.

It felt like about half an hour had gone when our guide informed us we were nearly ready to go back. Piranha was for dinner. And then my line went tight. It went tighter and heavier than ever before, maybe twice as much. I reeled it in. ¨It´s massive!¨ I shouted the moment I saw water draining from skin and fins upon the water top. My initial reaction was that it wasn´t a pirahna. We had caught maybe twenty during the last half an hour, and none were like this. ´Can I catch this? Do I need to throw it back?´ I thought, but all I heard around me was screams of ´Get it in the boat! Get it in the boat!´, and so I reeled it in further and dangled it over the boat. As it dangled there, hanging heavy upon one small hook, I realised the situation I was in. Just one foot away from me, swaying vigourously, was an angry beast with razor sharp teeth. Our guide quickly confirmed it was indeed a piranha. My aim was to eat it that night, not for it to eat me. I stretched my arm as far as I could, and my feet as far back as I could. I stood there as the paranha, multiple times bigger than our previous catches, struggled and swayed infront of my knees. Our guide scrambled over and removed the beast from my clutches. And credit to the chef, we had a feast that night.

I awoke on the final morning of our three day tour to the deep hoots of monkeys in the trees on the opposite bank of the river. It was so loud it was as if they were right outside our lodge. My time in the amazon was excellent, and I was actually rather happy with my new collection of about fifteen or twenty mosquito bites ... I had genuinely expected many more. Our jeep on the return journey got stuck in the mud once more, plus it got a flat tire. Our driver struggled to change it, and did so while lying under a very unsecure jack. But I was blessed on the return flight to La Paz with a plane high enough to stand in, a cockpit behind closed doors, and even one member of cabin crew serving a free drink! I was returning to reality.

I spent my final days in La Paz exploring the parts of the city I had yet to visit, and taking a day trip to the ancient ruins of Tiwanaku. Special mention must also go to the Bolivian clown who turns up everyday at San Francisco square ad libbing interactions with the passing cars and people. If Bolivia´s Got Talent exists, he should go on it.

Tommorow I catch an early bus to Copacabana. The Bolivian section of my trip is nearly at an end.

La Paz

My bus to La Paz arrived at 6am. Still half asleep, I made my way to Adventure Brew hostel near the bus station. It would be a a week before I would check out.

Some of my days were spent just walking around; sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, and one day on a walking tour. La Paz has an interesting feel to it, sometimes reminding me of the cities of Vietnam, although with its basin like structure, the countless hillside house lights look like a giant constellation of stars wrapping around the city at night. There are numerous markets; some selling clothes, some selling food, and in the witches market, some selling llama foetuses and peculiar powdered potions. And then there is San Pedro prison, a bizarre compund with its own unique community locked up behind four walls. Many travellers here rave about the book Marching Powder which documents the strange life going on within the prison.

Much of my time in La Paz was spent with Willem and Alies, who I had previously got to know well in Sucre. On Sunday I agreed to join them to see some wrestling. In my naivety, I originally assumed it was real wrestling; possibly some kind of Bolivian Judo. In reality, it was as fake and staged as Hulk Hogan in his prime. As the fighters worked up the crowd, it was obvious who was a goodie and who was a baddie. There were numerous overly dramatic throws, air-bound punches and fake faces of agony. At one point even a couple of tourists were dragged into the ring to join in on command. Most of the foreign tourists sat at the front happily went along with the fun, although an hour later they were all clock watching, leaving the locals at the back to do all the cheering and jeering.

The following evening I was walking back to my hostel with Willem, Alies, and a couple of other people we had just met. Alies was walking a few metres infront of me talking to the guy. I was walking behind talking to the girl, aware of Willem immediately behind me. Just moments later, the girl I was talking to asked where Willem was. I turned around, but he wasn´t there. He had vanished. I shouted to Alies to stop walking. The new guy and girl checked the two nearby open restaurants to see if he had gone to the toilet, while I walked back to check around the corner, but he could not be seen. I stopped for a moment to think of what possibly could have happened. He had literally been right behind me ... or had he? I started to doubt if I knew for certain if the figure behind me had been him.

Maybe a couple of minutes passed, and there was still no sign. We all stood looking lost in the street. "Should I be worried?" Alies asked me. "Nah, there's no need to be worried", I replied. This was a bareface lie. What I was actually thinking was "Yes! Of course you should be worried! Willem has just dissapeared from the side of the street! He had no reason to suddenly run away, and there's nowhere left he could possibly be! Of course you should be worried!". But I hid that thought. Alies walked alone back down the street to peer around the corner I had already checked. In her own words, this is the moment she felt her crying face come on.

Willem suddenly emerged from one of the restaurants. He had been feeling ill, and upon seeing a toilet door, he promptly made a move; he chose the women's toilet, where we did not think to look. And he vowed to never suddenly dissapear again.

Just north of La Paz there is a road. It is known as The World's Most Dangerous Road, or if that name isn't scary enough, Death Road. Until a new road was built nearby a number of years ago, the steep twisting cliff bends claimed countless lives and vehicles. Now the new road has been built, most deaths, albeit rarer deaths, are tourist cyclists. And I think it is no underestimation to say that the majority of La Paz's tourists give it a flirt. I hastily booked myself a ticket on Tuesday evening, and woke up more than once on Tuesday night wondering why ... not for the first time in South America!

The following morning I found myself on the tour bus to Death Road. I chose to cycle with Gravity Tours, by far the most expensive company, and also the original. I was very quickly pleased with my decision. The bikes were high quality and tested before each use, and safety was the primary focus ...well, safety and fun. And fun I certainly had. Most of the journey is downhill, so the only tiring parts for most of the way were on my braking fingers. And as the hours past by, I became happier to increase my speed ... usually followed by an inner voice telling me this was neither the time nor the place to scour for my cycling limits.

Deaths are not particularly common on the road anymore, but they do happen to the foolhardy or those pushing themselves too far, and our guide told us the story of those who had fallen off the edge at each particular interval.

Four or five hours of downhill cycling later we had finished, but the day was not over yet. Only one of our group of eleven declined the optional ziplines. They were very long, very fast, and very very high. And they were great. On the second of the three I was offered the chance to do it Superman style. This means attaching myself to one of the organisers, then flying head first. The extra weight makes it even faster. And through a lack of volunteers and a lucky coin toss, I was able to do it again for the final zipline. Click here for a video.

There was a little more of La Paz I still wanted to see, but that would have to wait. A week after my arrival I took a morning bus to the airport. I had a flight to Rurrenabaque to catch, by The Amazon.

Leaving Sucre, and Potosi

Tuesday 8th April 2014

11:15 - Left Sucre hostel
11:40 - Bought a 1pm bus ticket to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:00 - Boarded the bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:20 - Disembarked the bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:30 - Obtained refund for bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
14:00 - Returned to Sucre hostel

Road blocks are common in Bolivia, and there had recently been many created by protesting miners. Strangely, it had been university students behind the blockade which delayed me, and not the miners.

On the second day of asking, I finally escaped the clutches of Sucre and arrived in Potosi. Upon many recommendations, I checked in to Koala Den hostel. Potosi is the highest city of it´s size in the world at 3977 metres. Luckily I was now acclimatised to high altitudes. Many centuries ago Potosi was the richest place in the world due to the discovery of silver in the mines, but this heydey has been and gone.

My first evening in Potosi and my full second day involved walking around, soaking up the atmosphere, and visitng the boring Mint museum. Most visitors to Potosi are there for one thing; the mines. Sometimes while travelling, morals and ethics come into play. When I first heard about trips to the mines in Potosi, I was sceptical. In such harsh conditions, do the miners really want a bunch of gawping foreigners watching them graft? I had a similar conversation with a Canadian guy back in Sucre, but he was the only person I could find who had conciously decided not to enter the mines on ethical grounds. But the reccomendations from those who had been were always excellent. Part of my second day in Potosi was therefore spent weighing this up, but also choosing the best way to do it. I opted to buy my mine tour with Big Deal Tours. Big Deal are the only tour owned, arranged and guided by miners themselves.

I awoke a little uneasy on the morning of the tour. Many people opt out of a visit due to claustrophobia, fear of the heat, fear of the noxious dust and gas, fear of wayward dynamite explosions, or simply because of the plight of the miners. No wonder it is nicknamed ´The Mountain That Eats Men´.

But my unease that morning was quickly amplified. I was informed by the hostel that there had been a phone call for me, and he would ring back again in ten minutes. This can´t be good, I thought, as I continued to prepare for the mines. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and I walked towards reception..

¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Yes, hello? Who is this?¨
¨It´s Yosef, the Israeli guy you met in the hostel last night!¨
¨Oh ... hi ... What´s up?¨
¨When I left for the bus to Cochabamba last night you asked me what time the bus departs. Are you coming here tonight?¨
¨Erm, possibly. I haven´t decided yet. Why?¨
¨I´ve left my laundry at your hostel!¨

Panic over. I told Yosef to ring me later after my mine visit when I will have decided if I was going to Cochabamba. I could carry one extra bag on one bus journey, no problem.

By the time I had settled again, it was time to go. I grabbed some bread from the breakfast table, and along with my current best friend Edmundo, we headed off to Big Deal. After changing into our mining gear, we visited The Miner´s Market. Tourists to the mines are encouraged to buy gifts for the miners. Possible gifts include cigarettes, alcohol and dynamite, but we were greatly encouraged to buy a bag of coca leaves which staves off hunger, and a bottle of fruit drink. Next we visited a refinery plant where the minerals from the mines are purified, and there was then a brief stop at a viewpoint over Potosi.

Before long we were at the mine entrance. We entered without hesitation; one Englishman, one Brazilian, one Frenchman, one Dutch girl, one German, and two Bolivian guides, one of whom was a miner. With our helmet lights on, we sludged through muddy cart tracks. The natural light quickly dissapeared. We would only see it again once we exited at the far side of the mountain. Despite being told it was not yet neccesary, all the tourists put on their face masks. Dust of many different minerals, some toxic, were floating around our noses. Many parts of the mine were too low to stand up straight, and so bent legged, I huddled down, often leaning on my tiring right leg. Everybody was grateful for the helmets which periodically saved our banging heads. Our guide was excellent, stopping now again to talk about the veins of minerals that could be seen on the walls, or explaining to us about the life of a Potosi miner.

Many miners, hard at work, passed us by. Some pushed minecarts along the tracks, sometimes requiring us to nestle ourselves flat against the tunnel walls. The carts fizzed past our feet. At one early moment I found myself seperated from the rest of the group when a few miners approached from the darkness. The largest of the group spoke to me in his indigenous tongue. His voice was deep and gruff. It was difficult to guess what he wanted, but I pulled my bag of coca leaves out of my rucksack. He gladly accepted. He continued to make gruff expressions. ¨Inglaterra¨, I replied. He grunted in a confused tone. ¨Inglaterra¨ I repeated. ¨Australia?¨ he replied. ¨Inglaterra¨ I responded, and he fully understood. The men moved on, and I caught up with the rest of the group.

The miner´s were clearly welcoming of our presence. One of our group had brought the miners some jeans as a present; a great gift in my view. Even once we had left the small cubby hole in which they were mining silver, they shouted their thanks from the shadows. Other miners were nothing short of delighted to have their photos taken with the foreigners, including one known as Rambo, who was very chatty, despite our lack of a common tongue. I wondered if it was the gifts which appeased them, but many often stopped to chat without asking for a present. Coming to the mines, with this particular tour at least, was no longer a moral issue for me.

As we strolled through the mines for well more than an hour, I realised all my earlier worry had been in vain. Neither the dust or the altitude significantly affected my breathing, even though the tiring low ceiling sections made us all out of breath. I had seen no deathly drops to fall down. I heard no dynamite explosions or impeding tunnel collapses. In a way it was almost as much of a dissapointment as a relief. And then we reached the ladders. I had known in advance that there was a section of three ladders, but each was only about one storey high. What I hadn´t anticipated, however, was that there was no comfortable point to stand in between each one. I had to place myself precaurioustly on a single beam to give myself a leg up to each following ladder 180 degrees behind my back. Not only did the altitude add to my already tired arms and legs, but it was a serious case of ´dont look down´ ... as if the darkness wasn´t there to disguise the dizzying drop. Once I reached the top, I regretted being slightly disappointed at the previous lack of danger.

But my attention was soon swayed. In a small cove at the top of the ladder, sat El Tio. The miners are Christians. A statue of Jesus looms on the outside hilltop. But inside the mine, their god cannot reach them. Inside the mine, they worship the only one who can protect them from accidents and lead them to veins of precious material. Inside the mine, the miners worship the lord of the underworld.

Every mine has a statue of Tio. He is offered cigarettes and alcohol. We sat by Tio as our guide made his offerings and wishes. He wished for more tourists. Guiding tourists through the mines twice a day won´t kill him as quickly as spending each full day as a miner. Our guide then told us to turn off our headlamps. We sat in pitch black alongside Tio. Not a sound was heard from the heart of the mountain.

For many tourists who visit the mine, the first sign of daylight is a relief. As we stooped through a long and low section of tunnel, natural light began to filter through. Before long, we saw clouds and sky. We had wallowed from one side of the mountain to the other over the course of two hours. Meanwhile, miners entered past us in the opposite direction. Many are proud of their jobs; proud to be miners. Yet many would love to get out. Some work there from as young as 12. The lungs of many begin to fail before middle age. If they cough up blood, they know their time has come.

I made a decision that afternoon to depart to La Paz on an overnight bus. The bus was hot. As I lay awake in my semi reclining seat, I had an overly hot heater by my left leg, an achy right leg, and no working toilet. But I had been reminded that day how many have it so much worse than me in South America. And meanwhile, a bag of Israeli laundry lay dormant in Koala Den hostel, Potosi.

Sucre

Upon arrival at The Beehive Hostel in Sucre, it impressed. Friendly atmosphere, laptops to hire, a choice of eggs, porridge or fruit for breakfast, laundry service, spacious dormitories, regular events such as meals or activities, and a guitar. With my backpack still on my back, I uttered the words "best hostel ever" countless times within ten minutes of arrival. This was reason one.

As I have already mentioned, there is scarcely little English spoken in South America. Spanish, naturally, is paramount. While Sucre has plenty of Spanish Language schools, one-on-one lessons are available in The Beehive Hostel for just 30 Bolivianos an hour; less than three pounds. It would cost ten times that much in England. This was reason two.

As a result, I have now been firmly rooted at The Beehive for over two weeks, primarily to learn Spanish. I didn't actually believe that I had much hope - Languages had always been a million times harder than any other lesson at school - but after 2 weeks of one on one lessons with Abi, I have to say I have impressed myself. I know verbs, I know nouns, and crucially, I know much of the grammar necessary to piece it all together. And with so much time on my hands until my return flight to England in June, it was a perfect way to spend two weeks. At the most basic of levels, hablo Espanyol.

I've also seen many people come and go over the last two weeks. Julian, my Spanish-speaking Danish interpreter who I met in San Pedro, moved on after three days. Hoi-Yuen, my replacement best friend, was gone after about a week. Willem and Alies re-attached their backpacks today. And countless others.

In between visiting the market, visiting the cemetery (much more interesting that it sounds!), visiting the ancient dinosaur tracks, scaling a nearby hill for a view of the city, relaxing in the central square, and having my beard shaved with a straight razor, eating out has been another major experience. One day Julian, Hoi-Yuen and myself found a small cafe offering a set menu for next to nothing. The first course was a small plate of various beans and vegetable bits. I can't claim it pleased me much, but Julian was quickly even less pleased. As he squinted at his plate, a small insect was taking a casual stroll between some beans. Julian chose not to take a further bite. I duly took a closer inspection at my own plate. Moving a few bits and pieces about, I saw no movement, so I gingerly continued to plough my way through. 30 seconds later Hoi-Yuen asked me a casually question; "Oh, you found one too?" she said, indicating to the side of my plate. Camouflaged within one of the perimeter painted swirls of my plate, a motionless insect lay dead. It was twice as big as Julian's. My natural reaction was to rocket myself out of my seat, perfectly timed to nearly crash into the simultaneously emerging waitress. She replaced my plate, but I no longer felt like beans.

Now, however, it is finally time to move on. I am ready. I was unsure where to go at first, and recent road blockade protests have limited bus routes some days. However, last night we rented a DVD documentary from the hostel; The Devil's Miner. As a result of this, tomorrow I intend to backtrack to a town I previously missed; Potosi.

From San Pedro de Atacama to Sucre

Salar de Uyuni is the largest and highest salt lake in the world, and is the final segment on the three day jeep journey from San Pedro de Atacama into Bolivia. The internet is rampant with horror stories of basic accommodation, cold nights, altitude sickness, dangerous drivers, drunk drivers, fatal crashes and unsympathetic tour companies. It is also full of rave reviews of the nature. Joined by numerous members of my hostel, Julian and myself crossed the border into Bolivia and boarded our jeep. Joining us in our jeep were Helen and Andrew from England and Corinne and Jen from Germany. Our driver spoke no English, but Julian continued his job as my side-kick interpreter. And very quickly I discovered our driver was very safe and steady. Why a toy dinosaur sat upon the dashboard, however, we did not know.

On day one we visited a series of beautiful lagoons. Gradually and initially unnoticed, our altitude rose. Soon we disembarked at a rocky steaming geyser and further lagoons. And the altitude rose. My head was gently massaged by pain, but the view from the window disguised my brain's rhythmic beats.

By the afternoon we reached our basic accommodation, and a late lunch. I devoured the Smash and frankfurters eagerly, blindly in the hope that food would somehow mask my increasing quease. Shortly after the meal, I decided to relax in my bed, but this did not last long. It became soon apparent that positioning myself into a horizontal position only accelerated the increasing altitude sickness, and shortly after, and with little choice, I had to hastily scamper to the toilets.

Later that afternoon we visited a further lagoon. Tinged with shades of red and a colony of flamingos, it was the most striking of all; and I know this from revisiting the photos on my camera. Marginally smearing the occasional tourist photo was the British man sat tightly on the lagoon-side mound, trying full-heartedly to enjoy the view. And to an extent I did.

I struggled to consume much of my meal that evening, and for the third time that day I was forced to gingerly meander to the toilets. My usual cubicle was full, and so were the others. Twenty seconds ticked by. No doors swung open. I no longer had a choice. As I bowed in honour to the left sink of two, one thing above all was confusing me; why was it just me who was struggling? There is apparently no way to predict who will suffer from altitude sickness ... even the fittest of athletes with no previous issues acclimatising to great heights can find themselves stricken down. But what frustrated me most as I struggled to drift to sleep that night was why no-one else was reporting any more than a minor headache.

I awoke some three hours later to the sound of uneasy breathing patterns. I lay awake. None of my roommates were sleeping well. The night silence was tainted with the sound of irregular inhales, occasionally followed by a sudden jolt and a giant gulp of breath. Awake, I got out of bed and strolled to the bathroom feeling hugely improved. Upon arrival I discovered both sinks had now been ladened with vomit. With selfish comfort, I no longer felt alone.

By the following morning I was on better form than most of my room. Maybe it was all relative, but my spirits were higher than most. I was the one on the up. The less said about the morning state of the bathroom, the better.


Day Two featured an isolated span of rocky outlets, further pretty flamingo lagoons, and a rocky landscape overlooked by a distant steaming volcano. But the highlight of the day was in the evening; The Bolivian Jeep Drivers vs Pescado Hombre Amigos high altitude football match!! Pescado Hombre Amigos was an in-joke within one of the other jeeps. It translates as Fisherman's Friend Brothers, or something similar. In other words, it's locals vs tourists.

I instantly set myself in defence. Straight from kickoff a teammate at right-back received the ball. I looked ahead. He had no support, and so I ran. A moment later I found myself out of my comfort zone, steaming with the ball down the right wing. As the opposition approached and as the ball skipped over the hard grass surface, the ball slipped out of play, so I instantly turned around and sprinted back into my defensive position. And that was me done. I was exhausted. The high altitude pulls the breath out of anyone unclimatised and foolish enough to push themselves, and I was the first to discover this.

But the game goes on, and after a dodgy start, Pescado Hombre Amigos and myself began to adapt. We became increasingly used to the speed of the ball, the quickening breathlessness, and the ever increasing night darkness. It wasn't long until the goal at the far side of the pitch was no longer insight for me, and before long, the ball was only invisible when just metres away. But the games goes on. We were always chasing the scoreline, but after we scored maybe our third or fourth goal Willem from Holland declared 'Next goal wins', and after a cagey 10 minutes a roar erupted from the shadows at the far side of the pitch. We had scored. Whether we actually scored more goals than the Bolivians, I'm not sure anybody knows ... but we claimed the victory anyway.

A fellow teammate offered me the "Most Improved" award ... and after the change I had experienced over the past 24 hours, I gladly accepted! I was the Pescado Hombre Amigos defensive rock.

The second night of the journey was very comfortable, and despite the early start, I was ready at 5:30 am to travel to the salt flats to witness the sunrise. The flat salts spread over and beyond the horizon, and driving upon it felt like floating over water. Breakfast was served after a walk around a bizarre and alien cactus island sitting in the middle of the flats. And before we set off again, someone organised a birthday salt flat Harlem Shake. Click here. I'm in there somewhere.

Tourists on the salt flats are also encouraged to play the role of creative artist. Cameras combine with props, and with a little creativity, size and distance perception becomes distorted. The toy dinosaur on the dashboard now made sense.

Our excellent three day trip ended in Uyuni, but Julian and myself decided to join Alex, Chris, Natasha and Nina from New Zealand the following day in a journey to Sucre to celebrate Alex's birthday. I had no idea what would happen next.