After a hideous night in Uyuni's Avenida Hotel, I needed to find some white stuff. I went to the local dealer round the corner and spent the day getting off my head on cocaine.
Ha bloody ha.
No, I was obviously in Uyuni to find some salt. Lots of salt.
I woke up (or the icy wind blowing under my bedroom door woke me up) at 8am and walked out onto the street.
Uyuni is what we refer to as a 'sleepy' town. It was almost comatose. I'm sure if I had looked closer I would have spied tumbleweed drifting across the town's main street:
Once I saw what the town had to offer, or rather what it didn't, I decided to get myself on a tour straight away and leave that morning.
I had foolishly not arrived in Uyuni with much cash - always dangerous when arriving somewhere small, especially on a Sunday when the banks are closed.
But Uyuni has an ATM. I went there, put my card in and asked for 700 Bolivianos (about 65 quid). I got my receipt back saying I had withdrawn it, then the card was returned, then the machine made some weird noises, and then a message flashed up saying 'Out of Service'.
Thanks for that, you Annoying Twatty Machine.
There were about 10 tour operators open that morning. Eight of them didn't take credit cards, one of them took credit cards but was full up for the tour. I walked into Cristal Tours, discovered they had one space left, and paid with my card. Phew.
I then had a frustrating 10 minutes failing to contact my bank re the failed transaction, trying to enlist the help of my mother (but the bank were being the usual unhelpful service we know and love) and working out how to make my minimal amount of cash last the next three days.
Can I afford to buy bog roll? One bottle or water, or can I stretch to two?
One thing I did need to splash out on was a jacket or fleece, as my travelling wardrobe is severly unprepared for cold weather - and I was told that the second night of the tour would be 'enjoyed' in temperatures down to minus 15C. Yippeee!
So I went and bought a fleece for 8 quid that would have fitted darts legend Andy Fordham in his prime...
But it seemed warm - and who cares about fashion when your body is quickly turning blue.
I soon met two of my travelling party - a couple from Switzerland called Jeremie and Aline. They were cycling across South America and were only on the tour for one day before we would bid them farewell and they would continue by bike.
Here's me in my Fordham fleece just after our driver (more of him later) had strapped their bikes to the roof of our Toyota 4x4:
Our driver was a short little Bolivian called Ricardo. His specialities were, in no particular order: chewing coca leaves, not saying anything, driving slowly.
To be honest, that's not a particularly bad trio of specialities for a tour driver. Coca leaves help him in the high altitude, saying nothing can be a bit frustrating but better than a guide who rabbits on all day, and I'd rather drive slow than too fast.
This is he, mouth closed (probably in mid-chew):
We set off at 10am to our first destination: the railroad cemetery.
As with many things I seem to find myself doing in South America, I hadn't done much research about this Salar de Uyuni tour. So coming across a graveyard for battered old steam trains was not something I expected:
When we arrived there, the strict instruction from Ricardo was 'diez minutos' for pictures. Ten minutes. Got it? No more.
It was to become a common theme.
These old trains had once shipped minerals, and people, up and down Bolivia - but for reasons best known to itself, Bolivia has let its rail system fall into decay. There are only a handful of routes still in existence here.
When we got back into the car ten minutes later, I was sure I could smell a whiff of booze on Ricardo's breath. Damn.
It is a common traveller's tale out in South America - talk to enough people who have done the salt flats tour and you'll soon come across someone who has a story about a drunk driver.
Drinking on the job is quite endemic with this particular tour, apparently. I remember chatting to a couple of Swedes in Huacachina who recounted a tale of their driver first driving into a ditch, drunk, and then into a lagoon about an hour later.
So I was on the edge of my seat (in the front, minus seatbelt) as we carried on towards the Salar de Uyuni.
We first stopped at a salt refinery, which wasn't much more than a couple of buildings processing salt and a line of little stalls selling anything you could wish for.
That is, as long as your wish is to own a piece of tourist tat made of salt. An ashtray, perhaps? Or a little pen-holder?
As we were waiting to leave this peaceful little place, a jeep tore round the corner being followed by a police car with its lights flashing. A modern-day Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid* episode was taking place.
I wanted the pursuit to carry on going round and round the village, Dukes Of Hazzard style, with the cigar-chewing cop cursing the runaway car as it continually remained just out of reach.
Unfortunately the car stopped, and the cop got out to give them a bollocking about something or other:
Getting back into our Toyota, I took a good whiff of Ricardo but this time I could only smell the coca leaves he was continually chewing on.
And when I say continually, I mean continually.
Throughout the three days, he never stopped dipping his right hand into the green bag of leaves by the gear stick, stuffing a load into his gob each time - making his cheek bulge as he chewed on the forestation inside his mouth.
Within 10 minutes of starting each day, he had a line of green dribble seeping out of his mouth and down his chin. His teeth, what was left of them, were coated in green. Not that we saw his teeth much, seeing as he spoke about twice a day.
But anyway, each to their own, and he was a good driver - drunk or not. Much slower than just about every other jeep driver, but meticulous with how he negotiated some tricky terrain.
Once we left the refinery we headed to the place we had all come to see - the famous salt flats of Bolivia.
After a couple of miles on dusty roads we saw the white expanse of salt ahead of us, and soon we were driving on it:
I'd seen pictures of what is probably Bolivia's most iconic location, but driving across it in a 4x4 - with the crisp white salt slicing into the blue sky on a faraway horizon - was truly stunning. What an incredible sight.
For the whole three days I was in the front seat, so had the double benefit of an unobstructed view through the windscreen, and out of my passenger-side window. I just sat and stared for hours and hours as Ricardo expertly drove us through this magical place.
We passed truckers loading pyramids of stockpiled salt onto their vehicles, and eventually came to a salt hotel in the middle of the lake.
Other travellers were busily contorting themselves into various positions to take the famous 'zero perspective' shots that the Salar is famous for.
When you have no background objects or reference points in vision, you can play funny tricks with a camera, a prop and a person. I had a couple of goes:
The one with the water bottle doesn't really work, as the idea is to get both you and the prop on the horizon - but you get the idea.
With Ricardo's 'diez minutos' almost up, I went into acrobatic mode and asked someone to take a picture of me doing a cartwheel:
33 going on six years old.
It was great to watch people come up with strange perspective shots for their family albums. People standing on other people's hands, people being eaten by dinosaurs and other toys, and the rest. I made do with one final star jump:
Back in Uyuni, the woman in Cristal Tours had explained that only a couple of tour groups actually dare to drive all the way across the Salar - visiting the cactus island in the middle of the lake and staying the first night in a salt hotel.
Most groups get as far as the first hotel - where we took the perspective pics - and head back to Uyuni before circumnavigating the lake. This is because we have just been through the rainy season and a large proportion of the lake is flooded.
I'd paid a little bit more with Cristal, but we were carrying on to see more amazing sights while other groups had to turn round back to Uyuni. It was definitely money well spent.
At the hotel we had picked up three Germans who had spent their first night there - Gisela, mother of Lena, and Lena's friend Evelyn.
The group of 6 of us, plus Ricardo, then drove on towards the cactus island - some 100km further into the lake.
On the way we stopped to photograph some incredible natural hexagonal salt shapes - apparently formed by the all the lithium in the lake. I can't remember the exact figure, but the Salar de Uyuni has something like 60-70% of the world's supply of lithium in it.
These shapes, and the salt crystals that glistened on top of them, were stunning:
At lunchtime we arrived at the cactus island - a strange peak jutting out of the white lake, covered in spiky cacti. We ate some beef and rice before walking over the top of the island. The air was clean, the noise was non-existent, and the views were fantastic:
There were a couple of cacti that caught the eye. First, one with a pair of boobs:
And then one who was flicking the middle finger at the passing tourists:
With Ricardo beeping the horn at us, anxious to get on, we quickly bundled back into the jeep for the final leg of the day. We needed to reach the other side of the lake before nightfall, and had the tricky task of negotiating miles and miles of flooded salt to get there.
At this point it was just us and one other jeep taking on the flood. We later heard that some other drivers, who had planned to drive across it, got as far as the water and turned back to Uyuni.
As we were driving along, we could see football-sized holes in the salt, with dark green water below. We held our collective breath as Ricardo weaved around the holes and kept us on solid(ish) ground.
When I asked him if it was 'peligroso' (dangerous) to be driving here, he muttered 'si, peligroso'. That constituted a conversation between Ricardo and I.
Driving further across the flat plain, we soon came across the proper flood. The water was 6-10 inches above the salt and it felt slightly scary, but exhilarating, to be driving through it towards an unseen spot on the blank horizon:
After a couple more hours, with the sun dipping swiftly behind the mountains, we reached a track leading us out of the water. We got on dry land, stopped the jeep and took pictures:
Fifteen minutes later, after Ricardo made us nervous by not appearing to know where he was going, we finally made it to base camp for the night - a hotel made entirely of salt.
Its surroundings were a nondescript village under the cloak of a dark mountain range, but inside it was just what we were hoping it would be.
The large dining room had tables and chairs made of salt:
The beds were of the same construction, as were the walls. The floor to the whole place was a shingling (if that's a word...) of salt grains, and just about the only non salt-built part of the hotel was the pool table and the ceramic toilet bowls. It was a great place to spend the night.
We had some dinner, chatted to the other group staying there, shared a bottle of wine, and went to bed.
Day two would turn out to be a day of surprises.
As I said, I hadn't done research about what this tour had in store for us. After covering the salt flat - which I obviously knew about, the final two days' itinerary were a bit of a mystery.
First up, we drove for an hour or two to a town called San Juan where we dropped off the Swiss pair, plus bikes:
We then continued for a couple of hours along dirt tracks and through vast, open plains. We passed snow-capped mountains and volcanoes, and stopped briefly at one of God's natural adventure playgrounds.
Under the shadow of a volcano that sat half in Bolivia and half in Chile (with the Chilean side erupting), we came across a large set of rocks that were perfect for climbing. So we climbed them.
Here's me trying to a David Bailey - if David Bailey ever took pics of mountains through rock formations:
As usual, Ricardo hollered for us after 10 minutes to get back in the jeep. At this point I got a little bit miffed and asked him why we always seemed to be spending less time at these sights than the other groups. He grunted and drove on.
Next up, we were going to the first of five natural lagoons. All along the way was some of the most spectacular scenery I've ever seen. Amazingly colourful mountains, enormous sand flats, deep blue skies.
Bolivia: wow.
At one point we even drove over a crispy bacon Frazzle:
Now you don't get to do that every day.
The lagoon where we had lunch was another stunner. Green shrubs led down to the blue water, with picture-perfect mountains completing the view. Not a bad spot for a picnic of chicken and rice.
Shortly after lunch, we arrived at a second lagoon. This one had pink flamingos standing (on one foot, naturally) on the ice, and a clear signposting to all the smokers out there:
I thought the dead flamingo was stressing the point a bit much, but fair play - it definitely got my attention.
In the afternoon we stopped at another climbing frame of rocks, these ones sticking out of the desert as if planted there by a movie director. I hastily climbed one of the largest rocks, not realising that the top part involved scaling a narrow ledge and gripping onto a flimsy overhang. But I got there in the end:
There was also a rock that looked like a tree:
With the afternoon creeping away from us, Ricardo continued covering the miles in our trusty jeep and we eventually arrived at the Laguna Colarada - a lake with deep red water. It was where we would spend the night.
This was the point when I was glad to have bought the big fleece back in Uyuni. There was a biting wind whipping across the lake and it clawed its way into my bones. Excuse my French, but it was f*cking freezing.
Perhaps inadvisably, I went for a walk along the lake to get some pics - and to enjoy the peaceful seclusion away from the small village. After five minutes, my nose felt like it was about to freeze solid. I had no scarf, so pathetically wrapped the ear toggles of my hat around it:
Probably not a fashion statement that will catch on.
Compared to the previous night in the salt hotel, this was like going from the Ritz to the shed at the bottom of your garden. The guesthouse had no running water (bucket flush for the toilet), thin window panes and cold, lumpy beds.
But it was only one night of our lives, and we made the best of it. The evening feed was another good one - soup and then spaghetti. We chatted a bit to a French-Canadian group who were also staying there, before going to bed under 87 layers of blanket.
At 4.40am my alarm went. Ricardo, ever the time-keeper, had told us it was a 5am start. We had a lot to do on day three.
With the cold biting into my fingers and toes (I have really poor blood circulation), and in the pitch black, I helped our driver load stuff on to the roof rack. And then we set off.
With no roads to speak of, just dusty tracks that fanned out in all directions, Ricardo proved his worth that morning - driving us through the dark; dim yellow headlights giving him little support.
After an hour - during which time I desperately clasped my toes with my hands in the vain hope that they would warm each other - we arrived at some fumadores.
Some what?
Fumadores, dontcha know, are like geysers - but instead of water shooting out of the ground these are sulphur clouds. With the sun finally rising, we clambered out of the jeep to the smell of rotten eggs and got some pictures:
I love travelling. I'm constantly seeing things I've never seen before. Fumadores: tick.
And what was next on this trip of many surprises?
Getting our clothes off in zero degree temperatures and soaking in hot thermal springs, that's what.
My toes at this stage felt like they were at the point of no return. I'm not sure what constitutes frostbite, but I can't have been far off. I hurriedly got changed under my towel on the side of the small spring pool, and got in the 40C water.
Suddenly the world was a better place. The heat came back to my body - it was great.
The Germans didn't have their swimming stuff with them so Lena took some pics from the side:
After one of the most pleasurable 20 minutes of my journey so far, I had to get out as Ricardo had prepared us breakfast of pancakes and coffee out of the back of the jeep. Here's me going from pleasure to pain in the space of two seconds:
During breakfast I'd hung my swimming shorts over the door of the vehicle, and ten minutes later - in the full beam of the sun - they were frozen solid. Ditto with my towel.
But my body was in much better shape, and my brain too. I was excited because the next leg of my adventure was just hours away - I was off to Chile.
We passed the 'Salvador Dali' stretch of rocks and mountain on the way to the border. It is so called, because - um - it kind of looks like something from a Dali painting. I wasn't hugely impressed.
My final thing to see in Bolivia, after almost a month travelling in this cracking little country, was the Lagunda Verde - the Green Lake.
Unfortunately, due to the time of year, the minerals that give the lake its green colour were absent - so instead we found a turquoise/grey stretch of water. But green or not, we stopped for a final group pic anyway:
And that completed my Salar de Uyuni tour. Ricardo drove me to the border where I said my goodbyes (as the others were heading back to Uyuni - a 500km drive in one day. Ouch).
I got my passport exit-stamped by one of the friendliest border guards you could ever meet and took a couple of pics. One of an abandoned bus (which Ricardo, in a rare moment of humour, joked was my bus to Chile)...
...and one final one of me in Bolivia:
I got on the bus, where I met a Canadian/German girl called Martina who I'd previously bumped into at the Colca Canyon, and a couple from Brighton.
After a bit of faffing around, caused by us seemingly having to ferry an old woman on her various errands, we said goodbye to Bolivia and crossed the border:
Straight away we came across a perfectly pristine tarmac road - something I hadn't seen since Peru - and the Brighton couple (Sam and Tash) dropped the bombshell about Osama bin Laden.
I'd had no phone or internet for three days. My jaw hit the floor and I didn't believe them for about 10 minutes. Wow.
We had a short 45 minute drive down to San Pedro de Atacama - thankfully some 2,000m lower in altitude than the Andes. We crossed the border on the Chilean side with minimal fuss, including a bag check, and arrived in San Pedro at lunchtime.
And that's where I am now. Chilling out in the sun and reflecting on an astonishing three days in the salt flats, deserts and mountains of southern Bolivia.
Btw, I went a bit snap-happy on my three day trip, and there are tonnes more photos on Flickr if you're interested.
*The famous criminal duo spent some of their heisting days not far from Uyuni, down near Tupiza.
Ha bloody ha.
No, I was obviously in Uyuni to find some salt. Lots of salt.
I woke up (or the icy wind blowing under my bedroom door woke me up) at 8am and walked out onto the street.
Uyuni is what we refer to as a 'sleepy' town. It was almost comatose. I'm sure if I had looked closer I would have spied tumbleweed drifting across the town's main street:
Once I saw what the town had to offer, or rather what it didn't, I decided to get myself on a tour straight away and leave that morning.
I had foolishly not arrived in Uyuni with much cash - always dangerous when arriving somewhere small, especially on a Sunday when the banks are closed.
But Uyuni has an ATM. I went there, put my card in and asked for 700 Bolivianos (about 65 quid). I got my receipt back saying I had withdrawn it, then the card was returned, then the machine made some weird noises, and then a message flashed up saying 'Out of Service'.
Thanks for that, you Annoying Twatty Machine.
There were about 10 tour operators open that morning. Eight of them didn't take credit cards, one of them took credit cards but was full up for the tour. I walked into Cristal Tours, discovered they had one space left, and paid with my card. Phew.
I then had a frustrating 10 minutes failing to contact my bank re the failed transaction, trying to enlist the help of my mother (but the bank were being the usual unhelpful service we know and love) and working out how to make my minimal amount of cash last the next three days.
Can I afford to buy bog roll? One bottle or water, or can I stretch to two?
One thing I did need to splash out on was a jacket or fleece, as my travelling wardrobe is severly unprepared for cold weather - and I was told that the second night of the tour would be 'enjoyed' in temperatures down to minus 15C. Yippeee!
So I went and bought a fleece for 8 quid that would have fitted darts legend Andy Fordham in his prime...
But it seemed warm - and who cares about fashion when your body is quickly turning blue.
I soon met two of my travelling party - a couple from Switzerland called Jeremie and Aline. They were cycling across South America and were only on the tour for one day before we would bid them farewell and they would continue by bike.
Here's me in my Fordham fleece just after our driver (more of him later) had strapped their bikes to the roof of our Toyota 4x4:
Our driver was a short little Bolivian called Ricardo. His specialities were, in no particular order: chewing coca leaves, not saying anything, driving slowly.
To be honest, that's not a particularly bad trio of specialities for a tour driver. Coca leaves help him in the high altitude, saying nothing can be a bit frustrating but better than a guide who rabbits on all day, and I'd rather drive slow than too fast.
This is he, mouth closed (probably in mid-chew):
We set off at 10am to our first destination: the railroad cemetery.
As with many things I seem to find myself doing in South America, I hadn't done much research about this Salar de Uyuni tour. So coming across a graveyard for battered old steam trains was not something I expected:
When we arrived there, the strict instruction from Ricardo was 'diez minutos' for pictures. Ten minutes. Got it? No more.
It was to become a common theme.
These old trains had once shipped minerals, and people, up and down Bolivia - but for reasons best known to itself, Bolivia has let its rail system fall into decay. There are only a handful of routes still in existence here.
When we got back into the car ten minutes later, I was sure I could smell a whiff of booze on Ricardo's breath. Damn.
It is a common traveller's tale out in South America - talk to enough people who have done the salt flats tour and you'll soon come across someone who has a story about a drunk driver.
Drinking on the job is quite endemic with this particular tour, apparently. I remember chatting to a couple of Swedes in Huacachina who recounted a tale of their driver first driving into a ditch, drunk, and then into a lagoon about an hour later.
So I was on the edge of my seat (in the front, minus seatbelt) as we carried on towards the Salar de Uyuni.
We first stopped at a salt refinery, which wasn't much more than a couple of buildings processing salt and a line of little stalls selling anything you could wish for.
That is, as long as your wish is to own a piece of tourist tat made of salt. An ashtray, perhaps? Or a little pen-holder?
As we were waiting to leave this peaceful little place, a jeep tore round the corner being followed by a police car with its lights flashing. A modern-day Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid* episode was taking place.
I wanted the pursuit to carry on going round and round the village, Dukes Of Hazzard style, with the cigar-chewing cop cursing the runaway car as it continually remained just out of reach.
Unfortunately the car stopped, and the cop got out to give them a bollocking about something or other:
Getting back into our Toyota, I took a good whiff of Ricardo but this time I could only smell the coca leaves he was continually chewing on.
And when I say continually, I mean continually.
Throughout the three days, he never stopped dipping his right hand into the green bag of leaves by the gear stick, stuffing a load into his gob each time - making his cheek bulge as he chewed on the forestation inside his mouth.
Within 10 minutes of starting each day, he had a line of green dribble seeping out of his mouth and down his chin. His teeth, what was left of them, were coated in green. Not that we saw his teeth much, seeing as he spoke about twice a day.
But anyway, each to their own, and he was a good driver - drunk or not. Much slower than just about every other jeep driver, but meticulous with how he negotiated some tricky terrain.
Once we left the refinery we headed to the place we had all come to see - the famous salt flats of Bolivia.
After a couple of miles on dusty roads we saw the white expanse of salt ahead of us, and soon we were driving on it:
I'd seen pictures of what is probably Bolivia's most iconic location, but driving across it in a 4x4 - with the crisp white salt slicing into the blue sky on a faraway horizon - was truly stunning. What an incredible sight.
For the whole three days I was in the front seat, so had the double benefit of an unobstructed view through the windscreen, and out of my passenger-side window. I just sat and stared for hours and hours as Ricardo expertly drove us through this magical place.
We passed truckers loading pyramids of stockpiled salt onto their vehicles, and eventually came to a salt hotel in the middle of the lake.
Other travellers were busily contorting themselves into various positions to take the famous 'zero perspective' shots that the Salar is famous for.
When you have no background objects or reference points in vision, you can play funny tricks with a camera, a prop and a person. I had a couple of goes:
The one with the water bottle doesn't really work, as the idea is to get both you and the prop on the horizon - but you get the idea.
With Ricardo's 'diez minutos' almost up, I went into acrobatic mode and asked someone to take a picture of me doing a cartwheel:
33 going on six years old.
It was great to watch people come up with strange perspective shots for their family albums. People standing on other people's hands, people being eaten by dinosaurs and other toys, and the rest. I made do with one final star jump:
Back in Uyuni, the woman in Cristal Tours had explained that only a couple of tour groups actually dare to drive all the way across the Salar - visiting the cactus island in the middle of the lake and staying the first night in a salt hotel.
Most groups get as far as the first hotel - where we took the perspective pics - and head back to Uyuni before circumnavigating the lake. This is because we have just been through the rainy season and a large proportion of the lake is flooded.
I'd paid a little bit more with Cristal, but we were carrying on to see more amazing sights while other groups had to turn round back to Uyuni. It was definitely money well spent.
At the hotel we had picked up three Germans who had spent their first night there - Gisela, mother of Lena, and Lena's friend Evelyn.
The group of 6 of us, plus Ricardo, then drove on towards the cactus island - some 100km further into the lake.
On the way we stopped to photograph some incredible natural hexagonal salt shapes - apparently formed by the all the lithium in the lake. I can't remember the exact figure, but the Salar de Uyuni has something like 60-70% of the world's supply of lithium in it.
These shapes, and the salt crystals that glistened on top of them, were stunning:
At lunchtime we arrived at the cactus island - a strange peak jutting out of the white lake, covered in spiky cacti. We ate some beef and rice before walking over the top of the island. The air was clean, the noise was non-existent, and the views were fantastic:
There were a couple of cacti that caught the eye. First, one with a pair of boobs:
And then one who was flicking the middle finger at the passing tourists:
With Ricardo beeping the horn at us, anxious to get on, we quickly bundled back into the jeep for the final leg of the day. We needed to reach the other side of the lake before nightfall, and had the tricky task of negotiating miles and miles of flooded salt to get there.
At this point it was just us and one other jeep taking on the flood. We later heard that some other drivers, who had planned to drive across it, got as far as the water and turned back to Uyuni.
As we were driving along, we could see football-sized holes in the salt, with dark green water below. We held our collective breath as Ricardo weaved around the holes and kept us on solid(ish) ground.
When I asked him if it was 'peligroso' (dangerous) to be driving here, he muttered 'si, peligroso'. That constituted a conversation between Ricardo and I.
Driving further across the flat plain, we soon came across the proper flood. The water was 6-10 inches above the salt and it felt slightly scary, but exhilarating, to be driving through it towards an unseen spot on the blank horizon:
After a couple more hours, with the sun dipping swiftly behind the mountains, we reached a track leading us out of the water. We got on dry land, stopped the jeep and took pictures:
Fifteen minutes later, after Ricardo made us nervous by not appearing to know where he was going, we finally made it to base camp for the night - a hotel made entirely of salt.
Its surroundings were a nondescript village under the cloak of a dark mountain range, but inside it was just what we were hoping it would be.
The large dining room had tables and chairs made of salt:
The beds were of the same construction, as were the walls. The floor to the whole place was a shingling (if that's a word...) of salt grains, and just about the only non salt-built part of the hotel was the pool table and the ceramic toilet bowls. It was a great place to spend the night.
We had some dinner, chatted to the other group staying there, shared a bottle of wine, and went to bed.
Day two would turn out to be a day of surprises.
As I said, I hadn't done research about what this tour had in store for us. After covering the salt flat - which I obviously knew about, the final two days' itinerary were a bit of a mystery.
First up, we drove for an hour or two to a town called San Juan where we dropped off the Swiss pair, plus bikes:
We then continued for a couple of hours along dirt tracks and through vast, open plains. We passed snow-capped mountains and volcanoes, and stopped briefly at one of God's natural adventure playgrounds.
Under the shadow of a volcano that sat half in Bolivia and half in Chile (with the Chilean side erupting), we came across a large set of rocks that were perfect for climbing. So we climbed them.
Here's me trying to a David Bailey - if David Bailey ever took pics of mountains through rock formations:
As usual, Ricardo hollered for us after 10 minutes to get back in the jeep. At this point I got a little bit miffed and asked him why we always seemed to be spending less time at these sights than the other groups. He grunted and drove on.
Next up, we were going to the first of five natural lagoons. All along the way was some of the most spectacular scenery I've ever seen. Amazingly colourful mountains, enormous sand flats, deep blue skies.
Bolivia: wow.
At one point we even drove over a crispy bacon Frazzle:
Now you don't get to do that every day.
The lagoon where we had lunch was another stunner. Green shrubs led down to the blue water, with picture-perfect mountains completing the view. Not a bad spot for a picnic of chicken and rice.
Shortly after lunch, we arrived at a second lagoon. This one had pink flamingos standing (on one foot, naturally) on the ice, and a clear signposting to all the smokers out there:
I thought the dead flamingo was stressing the point a bit much, but fair play - it definitely got my attention.
In the afternoon we stopped at another climbing frame of rocks, these ones sticking out of the desert as if planted there by a movie director. I hastily climbed one of the largest rocks, not realising that the top part involved scaling a narrow ledge and gripping onto a flimsy overhang. But I got there in the end:
There was also a rock that looked like a tree:
With the afternoon creeping away from us, Ricardo continued covering the miles in our trusty jeep and we eventually arrived at the Laguna Colarada - a lake with deep red water. It was where we would spend the night.
This was the point when I was glad to have bought the big fleece back in Uyuni. There was a biting wind whipping across the lake and it clawed its way into my bones. Excuse my French, but it was f*cking freezing.
Perhaps inadvisably, I went for a walk along the lake to get some pics - and to enjoy the peaceful seclusion away from the small village. After five minutes, my nose felt like it was about to freeze solid. I had no scarf, so pathetically wrapped the ear toggles of my hat around it:
Probably not a fashion statement that will catch on.
Compared to the previous night in the salt hotel, this was like going from the Ritz to the shed at the bottom of your garden. The guesthouse had no running water (bucket flush for the toilet), thin window panes and cold, lumpy beds.
But it was only one night of our lives, and we made the best of it. The evening feed was another good one - soup and then spaghetti. We chatted a bit to a French-Canadian group who were also staying there, before going to bed under 87 layers of blanket.
At 4.40am my alarm went. Ricardo, ever the time-keeper, had told us it was a 5am start. We had a lot to do on day three.
With the cold biting into my fingers and toes (I have really poor blood circulation), and in the pitch black, I helped our driver load stuff on to the roof rack. And then we set off.
With no roads to speak of, just dusty tracks that fanned out in all directions, Ricardo proved his worth that morning - driving us through the dark; dim yellow headlights giving him little support.
After an hour - during which time I desperately clasped my toes with my hands in the vain hope that they would warm each other - we arrived at some fumadores.
Some what?
Fumadores, dontcha know, are like geysers - but instead of water shooting out of the ground these are sulphur clouds. With the sun finally rising, we clambered out of the jeep to the smell of rotten eggs and got some pictures:
I love travelling. I'm constantly seeing things I've never seen before. Fumadores: tick.
And what was next on this trip of many surprises?
Getting our clothes off in zero degree temperatures and soaking in hot thermal springs, that's what.
My toes at this stage felt like they were at the point of no return. I'm not sure what constitutes frostbite, but I can't have been far off. I hurriedly got changed under my towel on the side of the small spring pool, and got in the 40C water.
Suddenly the world was a better place. The heat came back to my body - it was great.
The Germans didn't have their swimming stuff with them so Lena took some pics from the side:
After one of the most pleasurable 20 minutes of my journey so far, I had to get out as Ricardo had prepared us breakfast of pancakes and coffee out of the back of the jeep. Here's me going from pleasure to pain in the space of two seconds:
During breakfast I'd hung my swimming shorts over the door of the vehicle, and ten minutes later - in the full beam of the sun - they were frozen solid. Ditto with my towel.
But my body was in much better shape, and my brain too. I was excited because the next leg of my adventure was just hours away - I was off to Chile.
We passed the 'Salvador Dali' stretch of rocks and mountain on the way to the border. It is so called, because - um - it kind of looks like something from a Dali painting. I wasn't hugely impressed.
My final thing to see in Bolivia, after almost a month travelling in this cracking little country, was the Lagunda Verde - the Green Lake.
Unfortunately, due to the time of year, the minerals that give the lake its green colour were absent - so instead we found a turquoise/grey stretch of water. But green or not, we stopped for a final group pic anyway:
And that completed my Salar de Uyuni tour. Ricardo drove me to the border where I said my goodbyes (as the others were heading back to Uyuni - a 500km drive in one day. Ouch).
I got my passport exit-stamped by one of the friendliest border guards you could ever meet and took a couple of pics. One of an abandoned bus (which Ricardo, in a rare moment of humour, joked was my bus to Chile)...
...and one final one of me in Bolivia:
I got on the bus, where I met a Canadian/German girl called Martina who I'd previously bumped into at the Colca Canyon, and a couple from Brighton.
After a bit of faffing around, caused by us seemingly having to ferry an old woman on her various errands, we said goodbye to Bolivia and crossed the border:
Straight away we came across a perfectly pristine tarmac road - something I hadn't seen since Peru - and the Brighton couple (Sam and Tash) dropped the bombshell about Osama bin Laden.
I'd had no phone or internet for three days. My jaw hit the floor and I didn't believe them for about 10 minutes. Wow.
We had a short 45 minute drive down to San Pedro de Atacama - thankfully some 2,000m lower in altitude than the Andes. We crossed the border on the Chilean side with minimal fuss, including a bag check, and arrived in San Pedro at lunchtime.
And that's where I am now. Chilling out in the sun and reflecting on an astonishing three days in the salt flats, deserts and mountains of southern Bolivia.
Btw, I went a bit snap-happy on my three day trip, and there are tonnes more photos on Flickr if you're interested.
*The famous criminal duo spent some of their heisting days not far from Uyuni, down near Tupiza.