Wilderness > Articles > Enchanting Moonscape of Salt, Lakes and Volcanoes

As my bus slowly rattled and groaned its way out of La Paz for the long journey south, I shuddered at what I’d let myself in for. For three weeks since arriving in Bolivia I’d resisted the lure of the far south-west. Though described by many as the most extraordinary experience in all Bolivia, there were many drawbacks. It was too far. Too high. Above all, it was much too cold. But, with a certain inevitability, my fascination overtook my reservations. I was on my way to Uyuni.

Organised trips to Bolivia’s south-west invariably start from the town of Uyuni and take the form of jeep tours. If travelling to Uyuni overnight from La Paz, you’re given an early warning of how cold things are going to get. You're strongly advised to take a sleeping bag with you onto the bus. Judging by the amount of ice on our windows when we pulled into the town early next morning, that’s very useful advice.

We arrived in Uyuni on a bright Saturday morning. A small, dusty town with low level buildings, it isn’t noted for much apart from a train cemetery where rusting hulks of steam engines and railway carriages slowly decay - victims of Bolivia’s severe shortage of working track.

Our tour company was sending out a convoy of three Toyota Land Cruisers. In my vehicle were six tourists, our driver Walter and our cook Rosemary. With all our food, water, fuel and personal gear safely stowed atop our jeeps, we were off.

A few turns around Uyuni’s inexplicably wide streets and we fanned out onto desert-like sands. In the distance were pale, hazy mountains. Not far out of town the terrain began to turn white as we approached the 12,000 sq km Salar de Uyuni salt flats. First came a few white streaks, then some larger patches. Before long we were engulfed in every direction by a dazzling white nothingness. The sun shone fiercely from the cloudless blue sky. I was grateful I hadn’t forgotten my sunglasses and couldn’t believe that Walter could drive without any, although the “path” was wide and the nearest thing to hit was several kilometres away.

The Salar formed from two evaporated lakes. The salt is the result of minerals leeched from surrounding mountains and deposited at the lowest point in the region. Near the edge of the plain we passed the ramshackle Colchani factory which is the only plant to exploit the estimated 10 billion tonnes of Uyuni salt. Nearby a solitary worker was hacking out raw material with a pick and shovel and piling it into long rows of conical piles. With supply so much outstripping demand, there was understandably no hurry.

All the while my senses struggled with the fact that I was surrounded by salt. I had to taste it to convince myself. And matters soon became even more confusing. Located on the Salar are two “islands”: sports stadium-sized mounds of rock and earth on which flourish cactuses and a population of stranded viscachas (large, Andean rabbits). There’s even a hotel in the middle of the Salar that’s constructed from salt blocks. An overnight stay there would undoubtedly be a wondrous experience. Judging by the thickness of the fur blankets on the beds, it would also be an unimaginably cold one.

By the end of the first day we had crossed the great Salar and had reached the more rugged terrain beyond. We spent the first night in the small village of San Juan. An uneventful experience except for an exhausting game of high altitude football played in the fading gloom of the Altiplano evening. When it got too cold and we were too breathless, we retired to our cosy, gas-lit dining room for a warming supper of soup and pasta.

The next morning we headed south-west across a harsh desert landscape towards the distant lakes that punctuate this surreal land. Stopping the vehicle to photograph a herd of llamas, we struck what was to be the first of several technical problems: a punctured left rear tyre. Walter changed the tyre and we moved on relatively quickly.

A short time afterwards, while passing the elegant smoking cone of Volcán Ollague, we had to stop again. Walter had decided that the new tyre (actually a very old replacement with hardly any tread) was no good, and decided to repair the punctured one.

Strangely, it was during these two tyre-changing stops that I first realised we were experiencing something very special. Quite a few jeeps were travelling on the same schedule as ours that holiday weekend, but the enforced stops put us behind most of the rest on that second day. Here we were on a high, remote plain, where the Altiplano meets the Andes. We were in the shadow of an active volcano, surrounded by pink-brown mountains set off dramatically against a deep blue sky. A herd of llamas grazed quietly nearby. Briefly there were no other jeeps or tourists in sight, and we had all that beautiful wilderness to ourselves.

In between taking photographs, smoking cigarettes and munching snacks, we took turns helping Walter pump up the repaired tyre, and we eventually got on our way again. Not far from our second stop, we came across a stricken sister jeep at the side of the track. Walter, with forty years of mechanical experience behind him, was soon in his overalls again and poking around the engine's electrics. There is a camaraderie among drivers in Uyuni. We slowed to make sure stopped drivers were all right, and they did likewise when we had stopped. In such remote and hostile conditions, it's not exaggeration to say survival could depend on it.

We bumped along for several more hours through tranquil landscapes of more pink-brown mountains, some snow-capped, others streaked with patches of ice and snow, and isolated, serene lakes. We climbed to higher and wilder terrain. As dusk started to envelop all, we arrived at the bleak shores of the incredibly red-coloured Laguna Colorada, lying at 4,278 m above sea level.

Ice lined much of the lake’s shores and the surface was partially frozen. The lake's coloration is caused by micro-organisms and a high ochre level. It seemed impossible that wildlife could prosper here but, like several other lakes in the area, Laguna Colorada is populated by several species of hardy, brightly-plumed flamingos.

That night by the lake shore was one of the coldest any of us had ever experienced. The temperature plummeted as fast as the setting sun. A fierce, icy wind whipped up the lake’s fiery red surface and forced us to beat a hasty retreat from our lakeside walk.

The one great advantage of our remote, rarefied location was the astonishing clarity and brightness of the night sky. Despite temperatures significantly below freezing, we were compelled more than once to venture outside our basic bunk rooms to marvel at the mesmerising celestial show. Orion and the Plough were magnificent. The Milky Way laid its lace-like mantle across the night vista. The brightly shining moon was almost a nuisance to the star show. It took the periodic shooting stars to snap us out of our gob-smacked trances.

That same night sky, still clearly visible early the next morning, was our reward for dragging ourselves out of our snug sleeping bags at 6am, rising to the sound of jeeps reluctantly warming their engines in the bitterly cold courtyard. Our destination at that unearthly hour was the 4,850 m Sol de Mañana geyser basin, unfortunately best seen before sunrise. The towering main geyser was visible from far off, beyond which was a smoking huddle of subsidiary vents and bubbling, spitting mud pools. The whole scene was densely shrouded in thick plumes of sulphur - a perfect setting for Dante's Inferno.

It was still early when we next stopped, at the shores of another partially-frozen lake with dawn mist rolling across its surface. To the sides of the lake were several thermal pools into which some of our group submerged themselves. Most of us, too cold to contemplate taking off any layers even to dive into a hot pool, drank coffee around the blazing gas fire on which Rosemary was preparing us a well-earned breakfast of scrambled eggs. With breakfast and the pale morning sun finally starting to warm our frozen bodies, we hit the dusty track once more.

We climbed up and over a high pass and reached another stark plain strewn with enormous, irregular rocks - the Rocas de Dali. I think the artist would have been pleased to be associated with these weird geological formations. We passed ruined stone houses long ago deserted by sulphur miners who abandoned the desolate land when mining became uneconomic.

All the lonely lakes we'd seen thus far were perhaps only preparing us for the most sensational sight of all - Laguna Verde. Isolated in Bolivia's south-western corner (crossing the lake and the mountain beyond lands you in Chile), Laguna Verde sits serenely and romantically at some 4,260 m. Volcán Licancábur rises 5,960 m behind its turquoise, borax-lined surface.

The lake’s deep green coloration derives from its high concentration of cobalt and other minerals, and is particularly striking when the frequent winds bluster the surface into a froth. We were privileged to enjoy this moment in total calm, when the entire vista assumed an other-worldly quality that none of us who saw it will ever forget.

At this point, some jeeps headed across the frozen shores towards the Chilean border. For us, when we'd finally pulled ourselves away from the spell-binding panorama, our route would take us back north across the barren plains towards Uyuni. Our return journey would be long and arduous, frequently bone-shaking and often head-smacking along the dusty and bumpy terrain. But, having experienced some truly magical moments in this enchanting, lonely corner of Bolivia, we didn't complain that much.

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