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.
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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment