Christmas in Buenos Aires (Dec 24-25th)

We awoke bright and early on the morning of Christmas Eve to join a bike tour around the city.


We began in the neighborhoods of Retiro and then headed southward toward the waterfront.


There we saw the bridge, which is supposedly shaped like a tango dancer dipping his partner, but which is also derided by portenos for lacking the spirit of the tango.


As usual, my favorite part of the day was the people we encountered, particularly this fantastic group of extremely overly tanned and overtly confident older Argentinians rocking it out in their bathing suits. You should have seen the guy the were shouting to across the way!


The tour then took us to the colorful neighborhood of Boca, home of the world-famous Boca Juniors futbol team.


Although residences dominate Boca, the main strip serves of as the main tourist hub of the entire city, with kitschy restaurants, stalls, and stores everywhere.


As we moved on through one of Buenos Aires's parks, it occurred to me that we had seen far fewer stray dogs than in other cities in South America... and then we saw this. Absolutely made my day.





Finally we arrived back at the Piramida de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada, which once again decorated for Christmas. When we'd been there the previous day, all that remained of the Christmas tree had been smoking embers, as anarchists had burned it down only an hour before we'd arrived.


Protests and other civil demonstrations are quite common in BA, and even more so during our time there, as the tenth anniversary of the economic crash approached. Huge photographic boards commemorated the march and upheaval that had followed the crash.





At the conclusion of the tour, James and I walked back, stopping by the Congressional building only two blocks from our hostel.


That night we joined the majority of our hostel mates for the Christmas Eve dinner on the roof. The staff served up a tasty meal of more courses than I can remember, and James and I split a bottle of champagne.


Just after we finished our meal, the fireworks began in each neighborhood in Buenos Aires. From our perch on the roof, we were able to view 7 different pyrotechnic shows, the closest taking place just down the street at the plaza in front of the Congressional building.


The dancing began on the roof, in anticipation of moving the party onward to the dance clubs of Palermo, but when I went to check on James who had returned to the room to change, I found him under the covers and shivering with a fever. I let him rest for an hour while I danced upstairs, but when I returned again, his fever had worsened and he was borderline delirious. Knowing that he would chide me for it in the morning but not caring one bit, I changed out of my party dress and heels, gave him a fever reducer, and applied and reapplied wet cloths to his head and neck to cool him off. At some point, I fell asleep cloth in hand.

James's fever broke in the night, returned in the morning and subsided again. After sleeping in as long a possible, we packed up our things, since James had decided to extend his stay after I left and split the room with a friend flying in from England, and in order to accommodate the extension, we needed to change rooms.

I Skyped each member of my family, as I had the night previous, but it didn't feel like Christmas being away from them. Besides which, the gorgeous 80-degree weather felt decidedly un-Christmasy, and James and I had already exchanged gifts rather comically the previous day, when I was forced to reveal mine when he almost bought the same thing for himself.

That night, the two of us went out for a sumptuous dinner at La Cabrera, where James's lomo (filet mignon) ranked as the best steak either of us had ever tasted, and then we met Lisa, Tarl, Nacho, and Consue for a drink around the corner. And that, friends, was my Christmas in Buenos Aires.

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Location:Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Buenos Aires, Days 2-4 (Dec 21st-23rd)

Upon waking for our first full day in Buenos Aires, James and I made an incredible discovery: our colds had disappeared. Both of us had been blowing our noses consistently each morning and night since we'd gone to high altitudes, but we had finally found relief. I'm also not sure that I had conveyed our joy at the first-rate infrastructure of Buenos Aires. I loved Peru and greatly enjoyed Bolivia, but after six weeks in those countries, I welcomed a stint in a truly modern city.

But before we could fully indulge in the pleasures the city has to offer, we each needed to see a doctor, me to have another test done on my blood coagulation level as a follow-up to my hospital stay in Peru and James to determine the cause of his stomach troubles. On the advice of the hostel, we hopped a bus north to the Suiss Medical Group, and after a bit of bungling, we went to the emergency room, as directed, despite neither situation being emergent. We each saw a doctor, my consultation taking place in Spanish and James and his doctor cobbling his together in broken English. His appointment concluded sooner and more simply than mine and during which my doctor stipulated that I see a hematologist, with whom he made an appointment two hours later.

We decided to have lunch and see Recoleta cemetery in the meantime, since we were in the area.


Recoleta is essentially a miniature walled city of outlandishly ornate mausoleums in which the wealthiest porteno (Buenos Aires) families house their dead.


These elaborate, often gargantuan structures form a labyrinth, which literally requires a map to navigate.


Ironically, Eva Peron's remains rests here as well, despite the fact that she championed the poor, despised the aristocracy, and had made a particular request to be buried elsewhere. The placement of her body here, after it was stolen from its original entombment, mutilated, and rediscovered in Italy, is considered by many to be a victory on the part of her detractors. Yet her tomb is the only one in the entire cemetery covered in flowers at all times.


After that, I returned to Suiss Medical to consult with the Hematologist while James sat in the waiting room and chatted with a nice Argentinian guy we'd met in the ER. The doctor spoke no English, but we made it by. He gave me a referral to have another test and set me up for another appointment with him for that Friday to review the results. After a lot of red tape and following an administrative assistant seemingly all over the hospital in order to pay, I go the blood test, and we were on our way. We walked back to the hostel, stopping to pick up wine, chocolate, and groceries for dinner later that week.

After tidying ourselves up and making reservations for La Cabrera, one of the best steakhouses in BA, for Christmas, we then headed out for the night. We wandered down Avenida de Mayo, past some major landmarks, and then down to the San Telmo district. Along the way, we passed a fully armored vehicle of the federal police with its doors open, only to see the armed policemen inside playing Super Mario brothers on an old Nintendo 64. Priceless.

Once in San Telmo, we sat in the Plaza Dorrego to have drinks and watch one of the dinnertime tango shows, complete with live music sung by a very talented woman with a voice as low as mine. ;)


At 10pm, standard dinnertime for the late-night-loving portenos, we headed to Desnivel, a parilla (steakhouse) recommended by the owner of our hostel, and it did not disappoint. The steak was excellent and the mashed potatoes were the best I have had oustide of my grandmother's house.


In fact, we enjoyed ourselves so greatly, ate so much, and had such a wide-ranging conversation that we closed the place down, unaware that it had begun to rain in earnest during our meal. We hopped a cab back to the hostel, bellies full and happy.

The next morning, we enjoyed the best free hostel breakfast of the trip so far: tea, coffee, oranges with a squeezer for fresh juice, cereal, eggs made to order, many jams and dolce de leche, and, best of all, fresh-baked glazed croissants. I never got sick of this breakfast during my whole stay and made sure to get up for it each day. Each day one of us squeezed the orange juice and the other would wash the dishes. Lovely way to start the day.

Later that morning, I had to return to the hospital in order to pick up the results of my blood test, only to find that they weren't ready and I would have to return yet again the following morning. I had arranged to meet James back at the hostel later that afternoon, so I spent the meantime shopping for his Christmas present in Galerias Pacificos.


Upon my return to the hostel, James and I left it immediately to meet up with his former travel buddy Lisa and her boyfriend Tarl and take a private tour of the Argentinian equivalent of the White House, La Casa Rosada (the pink house), provided by Nacho, a friend James and Lisa had made while in Cuzco.


Taking a break from his workday within the famous governmental building, the very sweet and accommodating Nacho took us through its majestic interior.


We even got to take turns standing behind the podium used by the president during her press conferences, although we were shortly ushered out, as Nacho hadn't realized that cameras were prohibited. Luckily, they didn't take our cameras, and we left, awesome illicit photos in tact.


At the end of the tour, Nacho escorted us to the exit, and we arranged to meet him and his girlfriend for dinner later that night. The four of us then got tea and coffee at a local cafe where James and I also sampled alfajores for the first time. We both became instant fans of the delicious traditional cookies. And I became quite a fan of Lisa and Tarl, who I'll tell you more about later.

Back at the hostel, James began making arrangements for the next part of his trip while I took a nap. Then it was back out again for dinner with Lisa, Tarl, Nacho, and his lovely girlfriend Consue at Miranda in the hip neighborhood of Palermo. After we'd all tucked into a bottle of wine, the boys fell into a rather intense debate over Brit indy rock, and soon we had rearranged the chairs so that the girls clustered on one end of the table and the boys on the other. Now, I am not someone who always gets along well within groups of women, but I just adored these two. The lively conversation, held in both English and Spanish, swept easily over topics as diverse as South American economic policies, traveling, modern print journalism, and the ever-important and oddly ubiquitous debate on the relative beauty of Argentinians versus Brazilians-- motivating Consue to assert that Brazilian women are incapable of forming cellulite.

And then there was the food. James got a lomo (filet mignon) on his own, but the rest of us split a number of appetizers and pooled our entrees in such a way that we each got to sample everything on the table. Lisa and Tarl, who had both worked in an upscale Argentinian restaurant in London, proved to have excellent taste and ordered for all five of us. And thank goodness! Had they not, I might never have known the mouth-watering pleasures of provoleta (a salty fried cheese), morcilla (a savory black pudding), or entranas (long thin cut of meat). And to finish it all off, the girls split a delicious banana cream concoction. I went home happy.

The following day passed simply. James, who felt poorly yet again, spent the morning and afternoon on the terrace, while I ran a few errands, picked up my test results, and had my follow-up appointment with the hematologist. The results confirmed that my blood coagulation level had returned to normal, but that I would need to remain on blood thinners for another three months. My doctor was congenial and thorough, and I wished him Feliz Navidad as I said goodbye. That evening, I made dinner-- a simple pasta with onions, peppers, and garlic in a red sauce; we drank our wine, and we stayed in, reading and listening to music.

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Location:Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

In the Hospital, or The Truth About Cuzco

Before I proceed with my Buenos Aires stories, I need to give them some previously-undisclosed context. But allow me to preface my confession with an assurance that I am FINE. Healthy, fit, all the rest of it. Now that that's out of the way... the big reveal:

One week into my trip I wound up in the hospital. Essentially, after disembarking from the bus I had taken from Lima to Cusco, I felt a powerful cramp in my right leg that would not abate no matter how much I massaged it. I realized that this probably amounted to nothing more than stiffness from the journey, even when combined with some other minor symptoms, most of which could be attributed to adjusting to the altitude, but I had promised my mom that I would be safe rather than sorry, so I called my doctor at home. He said that, although the chance of my having Deep Vein Thrombosis was slim, the D-Dimer test didn't cost much and would be worth getting.

I asked my hostel for a recommendation of a doctor, and they sent me to a clinic where the doctor barely spoke any english, despite claiming otherwise, and he basically laughed me out of the room. He said, in Spanish, that my only risk factor was being on birth control, that I wasn't fat or old, and that therefore, I didn't need the test. So I let my mom know and went on with my day.

The next day I called my doc in the U.S. again. He told me to find another doctor. After consulting my hostel, checking some guidebooks, and calling the U.S. Embassy-- who thought Cuzco was in Bolivia, by the way-- I finally just googled "English-speaking doctor in Cuzco" and found one Dr. Eduardo Luna. I went straight to his office, and fortunately, his secretary let me in for his evening hours, even though they were on a dinner break. When Dr. Luna arrived at the office an hour later, dressed in a dapper ensemble and holding a motorcycle helmet under my arm, I literally sighed with relief at his impeccable English. He assured me that my concerns were valid and that, in fact, he had lost a patient to DVT the week prior. Although I could have done without that information, I appreciated his willingness to do do the test. Sadly, he himself did not perform it, and his assistant proved rather inept at drawing blood, but I gritted my teeth and smiled as she stuck me four times before meeting with success.

Dr. Luna sent his assistant straight off to the lab with the vial and gave me one of his own books, a gorgeous coffee table tome of photographs of Cuzco, to peruse while I awaited the results. When she returned with them an hour and a half later, she took them straight to the doctor. Within two minutes, he emerged from his office, coat in hand, and told me he needed to escort me to the hospital.

That's when my heart started racing. In a daze, I collected my things and followed him out of the office. For a moment, I thought we would be climbing onto the motorcycle that stood at the bottom of the stairs, but he waved at it saying that he couldn't risk taking me on that. He hailed a taxi, and we both got in. Inside, he told me that my results were three times the norm and that he was taking me for an emergency ultrasound with the best cardiologist he knew in a private hospital a few miles away. He advised me against calling my mom until we discovered the results of the ultrasound, and when I asked him timidly what were the chances of me dying, he said as reassuringly as he could, "Let's not think about that." I was not reassured.

We waited half an hour in a hospital hallway outside of the office of the cardiologist, standing because I was too nervous to sit. My mind boggled with thoughts both significant and trivial. I wondered if I might drop dead at any moment, and if not, if I would have to cancel my whole trip only one week into it. I thought of how upset my mom would be if the former happened and I hadn't called her. I thought of how my Aunt Violet had warned me about DVT and the importance of stretching only two weeks before I had left. I wondered if my travel insurance would cover the medical bills.

When Dr. Gonzalez, the cardiologist, was ready for us, he and Dr. Luna discussed my condition in Spanish, as he spoke little English, and then he administered the ultrasound and EKG. He stated early on that I have a heart like a horse's, which I found comforting, and then, finally, that he found no sign of a clot. I almost cried. The possibility of developing a clot still existed, however, so I would have to be admitted to the hospital and kept on heavy blood thinners for three or four days.

The rest of that night is still a bit of a blur. I was taken to a suite, put in bed with my feet elevated, given pills and shots, and submitted to another round of basic diagnostics. Dr. Luna took my passport and insurance information and checked me in while I called my mom and my U.S. doctor to inform them of the situation. Although greatly relieved, I still felt vulnerable and alone. My neuroses kicked in, followed swiftly by Catholic guilt, and I began to question what I could have done to prevent the situation, etc. Then I felt lonely. I woke my mom up in the middle of the night, and she comforted me.

I spent the next day and a half trying to watch television in Spanish, but largely failing to understand because of the rapidity of speech, and ringing up an obscene cell phone bill chatting with my mom and sisters out of loneliness and boredom. Periodically, the nurses would come in to run diagnostics, and we bonded as they looked over the pictures of my family that I had fortunately kept with me in my wallet. Upon seeing my little brother Christian, every single one of them exclaimed, "Ahhh! Ron de Harry Potter!"

My Spanish served me fairly well in the hospital, and only periodically did a problem arise. On one particular occasion, a nurse came to ask me about how much water I had drank and how much I had slept. She then asked, "Urin?" That I understood, and told her how many times I had gone. But I was unable to decipher the next question. I shrugged and told her I didn't understand. She squinted and shook her head, trying to come up with a way to explain, when suddenly her eyes lit up as the universal word came to mind: "Poo!" It was the laugh I needed.

Dr. Luna stopped by once to say hello, that I was in good hands, and that I should contact him if I needed anything. Dr. Gonzalez, my cardiologist, popped in once in the morning and again in the evening, when he told me that my marked improvement meant that I would most likely be released the following day. Fantastic. Carmen, the insurance handler, checked in with me periodically to let me know that she was working on getting the payment and that it shouldn't be a problem. I asked her what the cost of the hospital would be if my insurance couldn't pay. The answer: $84. God love Peruvian healthcare.

This price-tag staggered me even more because of the quality of the institution. I had been given my own suite with a couch, flat-screen TV, and jacuzzi tub, with an adjoining sitting room, not that I had anyone to sit in it considering that I had arrived in Cuzco only the day prior. And I had an incredible view through floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows!


The only caveat lay in the fact that, despite the amenities, patients are expected to supply their own clothes and toiletries, which I could not. I asked permission to take a cab to my hostel to retrieve my thing but was informed that I could only go in an ambulance and accompanied by a nurse. This seemed extravagant, so I declined and spent my whole stay alternating between my jeans and just my underwear and stinking to high heaven. I took one shower and one bath and attempted to wash my hair with hand soap, but that resulted in a tangled mess, and I still didn't have any deodorant.

After my second night, my tests came in just beneath the threshold and I was released that afternoon, essentially 48 hours after checking in. The doctor informed me that I could continue with my travel under certain conditions:

1) No drinking for the first week
2) No dangerous activity-- Inca Trail included-- for two weeks, due to the fact that I was on blood thinners and would bleed to death if injured
3) No travel exceeding 12 hours within a 24-hour period for 2 months
4) Stretching every hour and drinking copious amounts of water while traveling any distance longer than 1 hour

I emerged from the Clinica Mac Salud with a high cell phone bill and a lowered tolerance for alcohol, but otherwise feeling extremely fortunate to have discovered the problem, to have been treated with such excellent care, and to be allowed to continue my trip. I returned for a follow-up appointment the next week, which ran long and which is the real reason I missed my bus to Arequipa, ended up staying in Cuzco an extra night, and started traveling with James, so at least a silver lining emerged. And I needed to see another doctor one month from the date of my release, and that, my friends, returns us to Argentina.

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Back to La Paz and off to Buenos Aires (Dec 19-20th)

James and I arrived back in La Paz at 6am, having survived the bumpy ride, and checked into the hotel where he had stayed the nights before and after his jungle trek. The staff let us in early, so we were able to take a nap, have breakfast, and turn in some laundry for washing before heading back out into the city-- of which we had an excellent view in our room.


We spent the better part of the day in the markets looking for some clothes and a small set of Iphone speakers for James, and a sweater for me. As unbelievable as it is, I never found the right sweater, in all my travels through Peru and Bolivia; all the softest ones had alpacas emblazoned all over them, and I just couldn't see wearing them back home. Besides, within my price range, most were ill-fitting. I did, however, find a present that I simply had to buy for my sister Carrie; the minute I had seen the traditional eye-scarringly bright fuschia tablecloths so prevalent in Bolivia, I knew I had to purchase one for my bold-color-loving little sis.


In between our shopping efforts, we had a delicious set lunch at the same cafe Julia and I had tried the week prior, and it did not disappoint. Later we stopped into a tiny, makeshift cafe for a cup of tea and a game of Scrabble, in which James summarily handed me my ass. I cannot chide myself to horribly for my massive defeat, however, as I hadn't played in years and didn't know most of the rules but more importantly because James is essentially a Scrabble savant. Seriously, dude has never lost a game. Half the time, when we've had downtime and an internet connection, he's on his Iphone Scrabble app, participating in twelve or so games online. So I see it that I was learning from the best. ;)

We returned to the hotel to organize our things and take care of some odds and ends on the computer. That night, we ordered curry, cracked open a bottle of wine, and made more plans for Buenos Aires. I also had the coldest shower since Colca Canyon, which I did not enjoy.

The next day started early as well, with two flights, the first from La Paz to Santa Cruz and the second on to Buenos Aires. Flying out of La Paz, we enjoyed a postcard-perfect view of ______ Potosi, which looms so famously over the city and in the title card of Paramount Pictures.


The journey from the Buenos Aires airport to Hostel Estoril, our accommodation in the center of the city, took almost as long as the flight itself, due to the worst rush hour gridlock I have ever seen (although apparently such traffic is typical in BA). When we did finally arrive, Hostel Estoril proved worth the wait. Certainly one of my favorites of the trip, with accommodating staff, a fantastic roof deck, and the sunniest room I've had.


That night we made some plans for the week and walked around a bit but went to bed early since I was exhausted and James had been fasting all day in an attempt to starve away his stomach troubles.

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Location:Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Salar de Uyuni, Days 2-3 (Dec 17-18th)

A blessedly piping-hot shower, for which I paid 10 bolivianos, and a simple breakfast were the only prelude to the first kerfuffle of the day. One of the tourists in our group had neglected to pay for her shower the previous night, which motivated the proprietor to ask Juan for the money, which sent Juan on a tear through the hostel. He jumped down my throat, but quickly apologized when I told him I had paid for mine. I then hunted down Australian Sandra, who I knew had not paid for hers, while Juan followed at my shoulder, accosting anyone he saw about it. Although she gladly paid up at this point, this set in motion a series of confrontations between the two and particularly choice words whispered to everyone on the tour by each of them about the other.

Once we were packed back up and into the jeep, we headed off again, stopping first at an old set of railroad tracks, which seemed to go on forever.


Then we observed a smoking volcano from an gloriously unearthly landscape some 20 miles away.


After having driven another full hour, we stopped at the first of a series of lagoons we would be viewing that day.


There we watched a flock of flamingoes scour for their lunch as we had lunch ourselves, prepared by Freddy and the cook out of the back of our jeep.


Then it was an otherworldly journey across the world's highest desert, set appropriately to the sounds of Radiohead and Pink Floyd, thanks to Guy's Ipod. Freddy, who only spoke Spanish, had let us take over the sound system the day prior. Per James's request, I also asked him if my dear thrill-seeking travel buddy could take the wheel for a while over the rocky terrain, but Freddy merely smiled and shook his head.


Another hour passed before we reached the Stone Tree, basically, a big rock shaped like a tree, and, interestingly shaped as it was, I admit that I had been hoping for a bigger payoff for the number of hours we had been driving. The ride was beginning to wear on me and my dust-filled lungs. And James felt no differently.


Fortunately, the next sight that awaited us was the simply sublime Laguna Colorada, one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. The pictures simply cannot do it justice. The same algae that the flamingoes eat and that turns them pink has the same effect on the lagoon itself, but beyond that, other elements combine to create a delirious rainbow effect across the water. I don't think there is a color that wasn't represented somewhere on its surface.





On the shores, little moss covered fingers of land jutted into the water, causing James, who does a mean Samwise Gamgee impression, to remark that we might as well have been standing in the Shire.


But after we'd stood at the shore for a few moments, the wind kicked up something fierce and we had to battle to climb back up the hillside, which was covered in a soft ashy grey soil, and we needed a breather when we finally got to the top.


On the ride back, our other two tour mates, Michiko and Joon, took over DJing, and I thought James's head might explode from the steady stream of Bruno Mars tracks pouring from the speakers. When he had reached his limit, his head swung back toward us from his position in the front seat, his eyes big a saucers, and he cried out, "What IS this?!?" I nearly peed my pants laughing.

That night, James's stomach problems kicked in in earnest, and he laid in bed reading while I played cards with the rest of our group. We all spent the night in one large dorm, each of us absolutely freezing since the second hotel had no heat despite the frigid desert night conditions.

The next morning, I shivered through breakfast, which at least surpassed the previous meals by tenfold, and the group laughed at me for taking the extra pancakes in case lunch returned to the previous standard. And since we were delayed because one of the jeeps wouldn't start, we all jumped back into our beds, fully-clothed to wait. When we did get into the jeep, Katarzyna and I literally snuggled up in the back leeching off each other's body heat, while the boys toughed it out. I still hadn't warmed up by the time we reached the geysers an hour later, but standing downwind from them certainly helped.


Although in order to do so, I had to wrap my nose up in my scarf, the sulfurous odor being over-powering.


The effect of the smoke over the newly-risen sun was stunning.


And unlike in most U.S. national parks, where geysers have protective rails around them, you can walk right up to and climb over these, "until some idiot falls in and dies," as our guide put it. I was almost that idiot.


Following the geysers, we stopped by some natural hot springs but since I was the only interested party in our group, we moved on. The final sight of our trip was Laguna Verde, which wasn't so much green as aquamarine, but still provided a lovely vista.


After that, we dropped off Michiko and Joon at the Chilean border, from where they would continue their travels, and we headed back toward Uyuni. The rest of the day mostly consisted of riding over bumpy roads and listening to James's Itunes (partially just to avoid Freddy's shriek-filled Bollywood-influenced Peruvian pop music). We stopped for a late lunch at a small ranch, for lack of a better word, in the middle of nowhere.


We were pretty ravenous, but that still wasn't enough to motivate Matthew, a French-trained chef, to partake of the tuna, rice and vegetable medley put in front of us. "I have tastebuds."

When finally we arrived back in Uyuni, we tipped Juan and Freddy, who suddenly became much chattier with me once the money was in hand. I then paid to have a shower at the hostel I'd stayed in previously, we stopped off for pizza, and headed to the bus station to return to La Paz. James and I knocked ourselves out with melatonin for the notoriously bumpy bus ride, and off we went.

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Location:Uyuni, Bolivia

Salar de Uyuni, Day 1 (Dec 16th)

I arose at 7:30 the next morning, grabbed my Ipad, and went to sit it the small plaza just in front of the hostel to wait for James. It turned out that he had booked a room there for us for the night as well, thinking that we might not be able to get a tour that day. His bus didn't arrive until nearly 9am, so I sat, catching up on my blog and reading, and at some point, I reentered the hostel, grabbed a tray full of breakfast, and ate it in the square. When James finally arrived, I stifled the impulse to tackle him into a hug immediately, seeing as how he had just gotten off a very long bus ride.

We stored his things in the hostel, discussed our tour options, and settled on the same one Guy had chosen. We then made our final preparations and had breakfast, while he told me about his adventures in the jungle, which I sorely regretted having missed, and his less enjoyable struggles with a lingering bout of food poisoning. At last, we returned to the tour operator, dropped off all but our daypacks, met up with Guy, and began our journey.

Two jeeps carried our group, one holding our guide Juan, a driver, the cook, and five other people, and the second holding our driver Freddy, James, Guy, myself, and four others. Our first stop, 20 minutes outside of Uyuni, was the train graveyard, where stood the hulking remains of the now-defunct railroad through Uyuni.


We climbed and crawled around for half an hour so, with Juan informing us of the history of the place.


After another 45 minute's drive, we arrived at the start of the salt flats, where the local salt harvesters has formed cones to be picked up later, leaving drained water in ponds around them, which glistened in the strange, reflective way particular to the terrain.


We drove further out, into the middle of the plains to have lunch and take photos making use of the capabilities for optical illusions provided by the ivory-colored landscape.


Guy's hat proved a particularly useful prop.





And fortunately, I had stretched and done some yoga the previous night. ;)


After an hour or so, we headed off further into the salt flats, stopping in front of the mountains that surround them. Sadly, the wind prevented us from seeing the famous reflections of the mountains on the sand, but the stark beauty of the place still took my breath away.


And as though to compensate for having missed said reflections, we were treated to a ride through the rain-flooded portions farther south, which looked like pearl-colored oceans on which we miraculously coasted.





Afterward, we arrived at our accommodation for the night: a bare-bones hostel made entirely of salt, where James and I were lucky enough to procure one of only two double rooms, thanks to the kindness of Katarzyna and Ian, a couple on our tour. We then sat down to what was undoubtedly the most disgusting meal of my trip so far: under-cooked hot dogs and onions over french fries. It suffices to say, I stuck to bread and soup and thanked my lucky stars for the stash of Snickers bars James and I had brought.


Unfortunately, my night's sleep didn't prove much better, as James's stomach ache returned, and I had to wake several time in order to cough out some of the dust that had entered my lungs from traveling around rocky terrain with the windows down. Between my hacking and James's snoring, I figured the others were lucky we were isolated in our own room.

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Location:Uyuni, Bolivia

Bus to Uyuni (Dec 15)

Early on the morning of December 15th, together Guy, Clive, and I jumped in a cab and headed off to the Sucre bus station. Upon our arrival, ticket salesmen greeted us, and soon we had purchased tickets for a cama, or reclining-seat, bus to Potosi, where Clive would disembark and Guy and I would continue on to Uyuni.

Well, cama, my ass. This bus was certainly not on par with what we had experienced in Peru, but fortunately, it lasted only three hours, most of which I slept or read through, having become recently absorbed in "The Hunger Games." When we arrived in Potosi, Guy and I bid farewell to Clive, bought our tickets for Uyuni, and began the hunt for lunch. You would think, given that Potosi serves as a connecting point for several destinations within Bolivia, not the least of which is Uyuni, which alone greets over 400 tourists each day, that restaurants would have sprung up by the dozens along the route in front of the bus station. But alas, we walked back and forth, unable to find anything but a pathetic little luncheonette where they hadn't even turned on the grills yet. Nearly an hour after we ordered, our food appeared, we stuffed it into to-go containers, and returned to the bus station. Only when we had found our seats and settled in did we realize that we had forgotten utensils. Thank god for hand sanitizer.

The trip onward held few surprises, although I had not quite understood what it truly meant to ride in a bus over rocky terrain without the benefit of pavement. I still think some of my internal organs may have been shaken loose. Guy, still suffering lingering pangs from his food poisoning and perturbed even further by the teenager behind us who felt no need for headphones when watching some straight-to-DVD action flick, grumbled his disapproval", as he had so many times that week: "Fucking Bolivia."


Yet there was beauty in the largely barren landscape, dappled with trees and rocks. The mountains sometimes in a group, sometimes rising out of the earth, solitary as gravestones, their sides largely green and brown, but sometimes slashed with vivid orange or red, or even a deep purple, like a bruise. And the earth itself, glowing like copper in the sunlight, so much that I almost thought myself in Santa Fe.


Sometimes miles and miles would pass without any sign of civilization. It reminded me of the journey from Arequipa to Puno. James and I had been looking out the window at the arid landscape. We'd seen nothing-- not a building, not a fence, not a soul-- for miles, when suddenly we saw one man clad in jeans and a button-down, standing at least 100 yards from the road, on a cell phone. And then nothing again for miles. We had both burst out laughing trying to imagine the story behind his being there. James had imagined that the man had begun the previous night a stag party in London, only to awake where he was. "Guys, I just woke up, and I seem to be in the middle of nowhere in South America."

At the two-hour mark, the bus stopped to allow for a bathroom break. With no bathroom. Somehow, a small restaurant with candy vendors outside of it did not have a restroom, or at least one open to customers. And so I had the pleasure of once again joining a group of unacquainted women in finding cover behind the local fauna and, for the first time, of accidentally peeing on my shoe. Lovely.

When finally we arrived in Uyuni, Guy and I checked into our dorm and made a study of 5 or 6 tour operators. I leaned toward one of the cheaper outfits, while Guy felt so pleased with one of the more expensive ones that he booked it immediately. I attempted to contact James via the abysmal internet cafes, and finally set a time to meet him the following morning and pick an operator. Then Guy and I stopped in a pizza joint on the main strip where our hostel was located, then returned to settle in for the night.

I had just gotten my kit ready for the shower, when the power went out, or at least was reduced to such a low-level that the lone lightbulb in the room barely radiated at a capacity greater than a firefly's butt. The hostel staff soon appeared bearing candles wedged into wine bottles and assured me that the water would still be hot, so I took my first candlelit shower. Rather relaxing actually. And with that, I was ready for sleep.

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Location:Uyuni, Bolivia