When that blessed time came, utter bafflement marked my existence...! The way in which this full-content bowl-of-a-city consumes your senses is not worth the attempt at description. Well, at least, for a few deep breathes-worth of time. hhuuuuuuiiiihhhhh, hoooouuuhhhh... Okay, here goes...
It starts at the precipice overlooking the surreality of La Paz. The semi-panoramic view from there transports you into taking the leap and flying over the gigantickly-immense meteor-trenched basin lasting for miles and miles and more... The entire gargantuan basin is constructed upon, littered with buildings, shacks and homes running the spectrum of social class and livelihood. Just as you're enjoying this most shocking of views high above the valley of Chuquiago Marka, the bus tugs you back to its whereabouts as it turns to the left and drops down along a road that winds widely around the basin bowl and zigzags back and eventually forth to your arrival a half-hour later at the main bus station.
Still mesmerized by the whole experience, I took a couple deep breaths to calm it all down. Notwithstanding this attempt to relax, I still found it difficult to believe what my busmates and I had just been through; it all started out so anti-climactic and unassuming...and then BAMMM!!! La Paz: home to sensory overflow.
Regardless of percentage of oxygen content in lungs, I rose from my seat and fetched my bags along with the others. What exhilaration it was to be here in the paramount of all Andean cities with little to guide me other than my newfound (and oldfound) friends and I.
From the brink of exploration there at the bus station we had infinite opportunities: go straight to the old city and tool around for a bit, hit up the bohemian district of La Paz and make quick friends with whichever out-to-get-you character you could find there, find the touristy of hostels and go with the flow of Europeans. In the end, the trio opted out.
Instead of staying in the human expanse that is La Paz, Eves, Kazuhiro and I elected to travel forth to a place with some real elevation: Potosi; the capital city would have to wait this time for our return trip back up north. Our logic: keep moving. Our motive: escape the masses and take refuge both in movement and in a smaller Andean town/city. And with this, we located a bus company going south to the hugely important historical city in the high high Andes and we purchased our tickets. The bus left in one hour.
Partly relieved, partly exhilarated still, los tres amigos departed from the La Paz bus station incognito as if we had never really arrived in the Bolivian capital. This bus trip would be eight hours over night with a set arrival time of five a.m. the following morning.
The ride was mostly smooth though wasn't absent of worry given our unfamiliarity with the road and the surrounding area through which we passed. Locked in my wandering mind were the disconcerting images of bus accidents that I had previously seen on television. Bolivia, and in particular La Paz and its outskirts, was known for the occurence of countless bus accidents which became prime bait for hard-up T.V. sharks looking for any form of sex and/or violence to show on their equally shallow programs (note: thanks a bunch Dude TV or whatever the name of that macho channel is...). My one savior from this mental madness: daylight.
It came once we had arrived in the outskirts of Potosi, seven plus hours after our initial departure. In the end, the ride really wasn't all that bad; it was definitely worth the majestic views upon entrance to this special city. Beautiful morning light cast upon huge expanse of mountainsides spanned our entire view. It was as if the hue was silver (and golden) marking a literal hint of what was held beneath. Potosi was a mecca of South America in its early and mid-colonial hayday, offering the majority of wealth gained from the New World by the Spanish Crown and others. Silver (and other minerals) was so abundant in the area in and around Potosi that much of colonial society was shifted (in every way) around this nucleus in order to enable the proper and necessary exploitation and export of this valuable and highly-demanded/coveted mineral.
El Cerro Rico (Rich Mountain) is the name of the mountain on which Potosi is located, and when the large and numerous veins were discovered here in the 1540's, Potosi would never be the same. Immediately, the Spanish began to build all of the necessities for a full-level extraction operation. Within only a couple of years, Potosi became well-known and much sought-after for its promise of riches. The latter was found by many, and at its height Potosi was one of the highest populated and wealthiest city in the world. Potosi was legendary for the amount of silver extracted from its mountains. So much so, that other potentially high volume sites were named after it (i.e. San Luis Potosi, Mexico and Potosi, Nevada).
The abundance of wealth found at the mines of Cerro Rico also had its downside: the extraordinarily high human toll and, in particular, the loss of many indigenous peoples. Hundreds of thousands of miners perished by cave-ins or died slowly due to inhalation of mercury and other poisons. The average life expectancy for men was somewhere in the late 30s. Most of these miners were not local, given the mita system (indentured labor) utilized by the Spanish. This system obliged indigenous people from all over Peru and Upper Peru (name given to Bolivia, northern Chile and Argentina during colonial times) to work alotted periods of time at the mines of Cerro Rico and elsewhere. Excruciatingly long hours and tasks were taken on by the workers, both mitayos (products of the mita system) and wage-earning (and some slaves) in extra-hazardous conditions with little to no compensation. Fluctuating production (related directly to variance in capital investment coming from mine operators and influenced by the Crown) resulted in precarious situations for the extensive economy created by the Potosi mines, which ranged from textiles to agriculture to muleteer transport, but those feeling the effect most were the mine workers, mostly indigenous peoples, who were often forced to find new employment (Colonial Latin America: Burkholder & Johnson). The production at Potosi reached its nadir in the 1590s, only briefly rebounding in the early 18th century though never reaching the output of other Spanish colonial mines.
When the time came to decide what the daytime activity would be, the other two elected the mines while I chose to stay in the city and explore its alluring prospects. I didn't want to see the hell through which miners of yesterday and (still) miners of today endure. To me it was elementary: the job was intense, tough, back-breaking, torturous; it sucked! What I wanted to see was the meat and potatoes of what this formerly hip and snazzy city had to offer. And what I found demanded just a hint of imagination from my part.
First, a stroll through the main plaza. It was visible the historical/former wealth of this city: lavishly adorned balconies with a quality of wood-work impressive even today, notable stone work, various churches, two-story glory throughout the plaza areas stretching up to two blocks outside thereof and, more intuitively present than anything, a feeling of affluence lived, earned, and substained over a substantial period of time.
I lunched at a corner eatery bordering the main plaza. Right away, I could see the well-built quality to the construction of the room, expert wood-work etched into the stairwell twirling up toward the unseen second story, the thickness of walls and high-quality wood beams of the ceiling. This was the first of many examples of work done well, the product of lots of money.
Another example of affluence also present in the Potosi city center: the Casa de Monedas, the cash house that processed and tallied all of the monetary production of the mining sector at Potosi and its transference to the Spanish Crown coffers. This structure, whose notable characteristic is a room made of pure gold, wasn't blessed enough to have had my presence that day, for I didn't want to pay the $10 USD to enter the place! Instead, I went further down the same street,..., to a small plaza where I purchased a Spanish language version of "The Open Veins of Latin America," by Eduardo Galeano, a classic, and a must read for all Americans (or, estadounidenses, literally: United Statesians) due to its biting display and recount of Latin American events and histories.
I didn't have to see the "golden room" in the Casa de Monedas to be able to imagine the grandeur of this city whose population sky-rocketed from a menial 3,000 in the 1540s, to 120,000 in 1580, and finally to 160,000 inhabitants in 1650 (Burkholder & Johnson). This century-long spark in population, mine production (thus, economic production and expansion), investment, affluence could be felt in every block of this city. I could feel it in the restaurants I frequented, the numerous churches I visited, the myriad law offices (all historic and passed down through the centuries) I passed on the street, it was in the air; it was the aire of luxury, oppulence, abundance; that is, the descriptions of reality for some. As for the others: whatever they could eak-out.
When Eves and Kazu returned from their adventurous field-trip to the mines, we ate an upscale dinner at a beautiful restaurant in the old town. There we discussed our days and also explored the possibilities of what was to come. All of us were ready to keep the travel train alive by keeping on the road south to what we heard was an increible valley of salt flats, an old sea, dried and on display for examination.
The Salar de Uyuni is a 10,532 square foot expanse of high-altitude dehydration that provides a fascinating view into a formerly unknown territory, namely, a great salt lake. Thousands of years ago (roughly between 30,000 and 42,000), it formed the base of a few different lakes. Over time and the continuous sprouting of the very active Andes Mountains, the Salar, formerly Lake Minchin (later Lake Tauca), eventually dried and became the flatless beauty that it is today (so flat that its elevation only varies by a maximum of one meter). The Salar in southwest Bolivia ranks as the largest in the world. It is also estimated to be home to 50-70% of the world's lithum supply, among other elements including: potassium, sodium, borax and magnesium (wikipedia-"Salar de Uyuni").
This is actually just a taster for the real action that was to come. Which, like any worthy journey, occurs during the present and only the present. First off: our wild bus ride from Potosi to the town of Uyuni, six hours away.
We purchased tickets back at the bustling Potosi bus station at around 5:30 p.m. The bus was set to depart at 6:00 (Bolivian Time...similar to Peruvian Time), so we organized shop and headed out to the bus. Prior to leaving the heights of Potosi, each of the passengers buckled in for what was cautioned/promised to be the wild ride mentioned above.
Shoot forth ten minutes: the rollercoaster was out of control! apendages following the momentum of body cores shoved to and fro at an unpredictable rhythm. I resolved by laughing and closing my eyes for the duration of the trip. Just to make further light of the situation, Eves and I began to chat-it-up a bit, probably pissing off the majority of sleep-attempting peers around us. We eventually joined them fifteen minutes after this.
Midnight struck as our gladiator-of-a-bus pulled in to the "strip" of Uyuni (it's a very small town). There, with little activity present in the two-light-lite streets, resembling more of a wild west scene than anything else, we assembled our trio anew, were asked to be joined by a lovely Colombian girl, and we went in search of a place of respite for the night.
We found our place right away: a basic, newly remodeled hostal with just the right amenities for our needs: bed, bathroom and silence. I teamed up with Eves as the always "active" Kazuhiro partnered-up with Alejandra, the Colombian Beauty.
Next morning, wake up early, get breakfast and then a quick transportation to the Salar and leave from there. We, the four of us, did so, found a few more friends along the way in the form of three guys from Argentina (hey Boludo!) and matched up with our driver Raul.
The still-functioning Toyota Landcruiser that was our mode of transport to the Isla Incahuasi, one of at least two islands an hour's drive away toward the middle of the Salar, would be an ideal counter-transport to our mode used the night before. In addition to the smooth ride, the next half-day was a delight as the company, the food, the views and all else was first-rate and just a blessing to experience.
After landcruising our way across the flat, moist, and surreally-appearing salt, which better resembled ice, we made our first stop of the two-stop tour: the Salt Hotel. This place, made entirely of salt blocks, has eight rooms, a lobby, a meal room and forms a gimmicky, albeit impressive, stop to stretch, explore and buy a piece of candy from the indoor store (an act of respect/obligation as told to us by Raul). It was a fun stop and a nice respite from the road. Nevertheless, we got back to the flats refreshed with our sights set on the Isla.
Our arrival to Fantasy Island was not the typical one: no plane, no latin lover, no funny Venezuelan midget. Oh yaaa...and no palm trees either! In fact, as a strange alternative to the latter vegetation, the island was full of cactus, more of a phenomenon of a desert than that of an almost 12,000 feet elevated great salt lake island. The cactus was just the start of the whole escapade. Next, we joined the ten or so other land(like)cruisers and their cargo in the form of tourists and guides in an exploration of the hill-shaped island.
Once stepping foot on the island, further shock was added in that this fantasy-of-an-island was composed almost entirely of coral. There, of course, was dirt, rocks, small plants and the like, but the majority coral or a coral-like rock. This island is said to be previously (many thousands of years ago) the top of a volcano during its active days while it surely stood high above the series of lakes and the concomitant breathtaking views of the panoramic below.
Leisurely each of us inspected the island taking various pictures, assuming amusing poses and we ultimately settled in for lunch back at our Landcruiser's whereabouts.
The ride back to the "mainland" was just as interactive and alive as the first leg of the trip out to the island. Open-ended conversations initiated by always-eager Argentinians led to many laughs, intelligent discussions and authentic offerings. I can truly say that I made great friends that day as our group of eight (including Raul, the driver) spanned the globe, uniting some truly amazing people and places together.
Back in the town of Uyuni, Alejandra and I enjoyed the afternoon calm of nice walk through the main streets. There, at a street-side stall, the colombiana and I relished in our papaya juices as we chatted about the day and, in particular and surprise to me, the goings-on of the night before. Alejandra somwhat surprised me with the news that in the hostal room the previous night, Kazuhiro had come on to her in a very forward manner. She was not only offended by the action, but fearful of the potentials thereafter. So much so, that Alejandra could hardly sleep given her defensive positioning and alertness in the bed next to that of el Paraguayo.
I told her that I'd talk to Kazu later on in order to clear the whole thing up. In the end, he apologized and life went on...
Good news from the local front: there was a train leaving that evening and would be returning to Oruro, at which point a bus could be caught transferring all to La Paz. All of us opted for this opportunity to almost complete the buses, trains and automobiles trifecta just fabricated by yours truly!
Safely on the train following several hours of wait, the now foursome anticipated some time to sleep and rejuvenate for our reemergence in the capital eight hours later. Unfortunately for us, and many others onboard (most of which were there that day at the Isla Incahuasi), no shut-eye would be possible, for the train-to-track movement would prove too jittery and being-rocking. Thanks Beastie Boys...."No. Sleep. Till Brooklyn...!" Ah, the life of a traveler...
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