Elder Hostel – a term I came across
in the Lonely Planet just last night ... Definitely not the term that
would have come to mind yesterday morning, when, heavy with sleep and
still disoriented, the six inhabitants of our room stumbled about
trying to gather their wits at 3:45 in the morning, backpacks and
other paraphernalia making it even more difficult to get organized.
Once again, at 61 and 57 respectively,
we were indeed the 'elders' of our little group, consisting of a
German couple of the same age as our two oldest children and two
young Swiss girls just finished with high school. We had met Kristina
and Alex, the German couple, on the bus ride from Potosí
to Uyuni on Saturday and paired up already for the hostel search in
Uyuni, deciding it would be nice to do the three-day Salar Uyuni trip
together. Natasha and Sophie were added to our group from a different
tour agency Sunday morning, making us the 'substitute parents' –
not that any of the already well-traveled young people would have
needed that. We all got along very well, and especially with Kristina
and Alex, who are still living beside us in the same hostel here in
San Pedro de Atacama and will travel to La Serena on the same bus
with us tomorrow, we feel as if we had known them forever. Just now
Johann is playing Skat with them while I will try to recount the
events of the last few days.
Back
to yesterday morning, then, the third and last day of our Uyuni
adventure. The night before Bemer, our driver and guide from the
'Andes Salt Expeditions' tour company, had told us to be at breakfast
at four since we wanted to leave at 4:30 to be at the geysers for
sunrise – a very special place to view it, he said, and an hour's
drive away. Rubbing the sleep from our eyes we sat down to a
breakfast of cereal and 'drink yogurt', cold pancakes and jam and
'dulce de leche', the South American version of 'Nutella', a thermos
full of hot water the staff of the lodge had prepared for us and coca
tea flavoured with different herbs, meant to alleviate the effects of
high altitude. We had slowly been getting used to being higher and
higher, sleeping at 3,600m the first night, crossing a pass at 4,700m
on the second, descending to this place at 4,300m to sleep. For me,
the main problem was my stuffed nose, a still lingering part of my
cold, which made breathing difficult especially at night, and an
almost overwhelming need to sleep during travel at times; other than
that I was surprised how well my body had adapted to this high
altitude.
Now,
however, we were going to climb even higher than two years ago on our
way to the Colca Valley. Then, at 4,960m, we had been as high as Mt.
Blanc, the highest peak in the European Alps, and I couldn't keep my
eyes open, not to mention that I felt really sick despite (or rather
because of) chewing coca leaves. Now, we were going to reach 5,000m
before descending on our way to the Chilean border which we would
reach later that morning.
Going
to bed at 9:30 the night before proved to be a wise decision: well
rested I stepped out under the still blazing stars after breakfast.
The thin crescent moon, only a couple of days from new moon, had just
risen, Venus and Jupiter in their familiar places above. It was a
cold morning, but at least the wind of the night before had died
down. Beimer had removed the tarp he had wrapped around the hood of
our Toyota Landcruiser to keep the water lines from freezing; the
truck had been running for quite a while. With only a bit of delay we
left for the last leg of the trip. Our young companions were soon
dozing off again. Johann, in the passenger seat because it had the
most legroom, exchanged a few words with Bemer from time to time,
and I was free to gaze out and let my thoughts wander without any
distraction. Slowly we made our way up the mountain, the road rocky
and with holes Bemer navigated skillfully, as he had done ever since
we left the salt plain to ascend further into the Andes. The faintest
hint of light showed in the east, otherwise it was totally dark. Soon
I couldn't detect Jupiter anymore, but the sliver of moon and Venus
kept us company to our left, sometimes just sitting above a high
peak, sometimes drifting freely in the space between. The contours of
mountains and valleys changed and deepened in the slowly growing
light, the first shreds of pink clouds appearing in the almost
translucent piece of sky showing between the peaks. Above, the sky
was still dark, the moon higher now and dimmer, Venus already
disappeared from view. And still we climbed, rumbling along the
rutted road, a long, thin plume of dust now visible in the distance
ahead of us: the only one of the tourist-carrying cars that had left
before us.
'Now we are at 5,000m,'
Bemer said just after 5:30 right when we arrived at the crest. The first golden fingers of light reached
over the ridge across the valley. A moment later the sun showed its
face. A new day had begun.
The
others slowly stirred to life when we stopped to have a look at the
geysers. Much like in Yellowstone National Park sulphur smell
suffused the area. Bemer warned us to watch where we stepped; the
mud was soft in places, and people getting too close to the bubbling,
steam spewing holes had got hurt. Together with a few carloads worth
of other tourists we wandered between the geysers for a few minutes
before Bemer urged us back into the car: we had a few more stops
before he'd drop us off at the border.
The first one, no doubt much
anticipated by many of the people taking the Uyuni tour, especially
after the cold sunrise so high up, was a hot spring about half an
hour away, quite a bit lower. We passed a lagoon with still resting
flamingos standing in the ice-free center, some, already awake,
stalking slowly in the steam created by hot water along its edge.
The hot springs we were headed for
turned out to be a single pool of clear, about 35 degree Celsius
water contained in a rock wall. Bemer told us plans were underway to
build three or four more pools with different water temperatures in
the near future; the parking area for the vehicles is already in
place. So far at least nobody but the vehicles from the different
tour companies based in Uyuni find their way into this difficult to
access area, but even so dozens of people traverse the Uyuni and come
up here every day.
We stopped for forty minutes, some of us joining
other travellers in the hot water, while Bemer fuelled up the vehicle
with the help of a couple of fellow drivers, using gravity and a hose
to fill the tank from the two tanks he had brought from Uyuni
fastened on the roof rack.
The last stop of the tour was at the
Laguna Verde, the 'Green
Lagoon'. Here, the water will turn green when the right amount of
wind stirs its minerals, mainly copper and arsenic, so there is, of
course, no guarantee that it will really appear green. It didn't for
us, at least not very much, but to see 6,000m high Licancabur volcano
reflected in its waters was beautiful already. The green lagoon has
no flamingoes: it is a sweet water lagoon, and flamingoes like the
salt water lagoons so plentiful here because they provide the right
food.
Now, Bemer was in a
hurry to get us to the border, less so because he was worried about
not catching the transfer bus than because he wanted to get back to
Uyuni, a six-hour trip on difficult roads. Natasha and Sophie were
going back with him, while Alex and Kristina were going to cross the
border with us. It was time to say goodbye to our young companions
and Bemer who had safely brought us here, but also to the high Andes
we had been so privileged to experience.
A small bus, filled
with maybe twenty passengers, took us down to San Pedro de Atacama, a
steady downhill ride that brought us from about 4000m to about 2500m
within an hour. Still dressed in our warm sweaters and double layer
of pants we stood beside thinly clad people headed the other way at
the immigration window: San Pedro is hot, at least during the day. It
also is a real tourist town, with restaurants, shops and tour
agencies lining its narrow cobbled streets. I don't think I have seen
quite as many foreigners, nor have I heard as much English – and
German! - spoken since we arrived in South America – and San Pedro
is a little town of only about 5000 people.
Passports stamped,
the four of us walked along a dusty road and arrived at the small
Plaza de Armas ten minutes later. We hadn't decided on a place to
stay, but soon found that there were many clustered around the centre
of town. We felt we were entitled to at least a private bathroom
after the three days of roughing it during our trip, and the fourth
or fifth place we stopped provided not only that, but also looked
very inviting with its treed courtyards, adobe walls and friendly
rooms.
We have been here
for the last couple of days now, with no set program, enjoying the
peaceful surroundings of the hostel, relaxed atmosphere of the little
town, and the wonderful bread we found in a small bakery only a few
steps from our hostel. It's the best bread we've had here, crusty and
very tasty, and together with the cheese and olives also sold there
it makes wonderful snacks, especially when accompanied by a bottle of
wine.
Last night we went
out with a tour to gaze at the stars, so much more plentiful than
even at home in Alberta because there is hardly any light pollution
at all. San Pedro de Atacama's street lamps are few and pretty dim,
and there are no big cities anywhere close.
We have already
booked an overnight bus to La Serena, a city on the Pacific about 16
hours away, the last station before returning to Santiago on Sunday.
We can leave our packs at the hostel even after checking out a couple
of hours from now and will use the afternoon to have a look at the
Pucará
de Quitor, a pre-Columbian archaeological site about three kilometres
from town, thus in easy walking distance. We should sleep well in our cama (fully reclining) seats – a luxury we have only had once
before for a few hours - on the bus tonight.
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