Day 3 — The Big Race

After a very cold night in the unheated hostel on the shores of Lago Colorado, we woke up early. Really early. The plan was to head out by 4:30 A.M., in order to see the sunrise over the Sol de Manana geysers, an immense field of steam and bubbling mud located some 5000m above sea level. Predictably, the truck didn’t start again. Less predictably, it continued to not start, even after we pushed it up a rather steep hill (with the help of several other tourists staying at the hostel and a cable tow from another SUV) and rolled it back down again.

4:30 came and went; sunrise came and went, and still the truck would not start.

Things look pretty bleak for a time, despite the best efforts of all involved. Suddenly, being in an isolated outpost, with limited food and drinking water, no heat, electricity for two hours a day, and no alternative means of transportation seemed a little less romantic, and a little more worrisome. To his credit however, our driver, guide, and mechanic Carlos — known to our cook as Don Carlos — never gave up. He had been up since 3 A.M. trying to fix the truck, and even after the sun rose and the other tour groups ditched us, he kept right at it. With the sun to guide him, he had the starter out and replaced within the hour. We all gathered around and watched with baited breath as he got ready to try again.

For some reason — ostensibly because of my previous experience driving standard, though I suspect it had as much to do with my gender — Don Carlos asked me to assist with the starting. I climbed in the driver’s seat and, at a signal from the Don, feathered the gas and turned the key. Low and behold, the engine coughed, sputtered, turned over, and ever so grudgingly, started up. While not exactly roaring to life, it was most definitely running. We were saved!

I’m not sure why — perhaps to prove just how fixed it was — the Don told me to turn it off again. Against my better judgement, I complied. A few anxious moments passed as we watched Don Carlos hammer out a nail using a couple of rocks and stick it into one of the battery leads (and I will allow that Bolivians, out of necessity, are a people of immense ingenuity, collectively masters of the work-around). With the nail firmly lodged in the lead, I started the truck again, and I’m happy to report that the battery didn’t blow up. We didn’t turn the engine off for the rest of the trip.

Unfortunately, our troubles were not quite over. We were now three hours behind schedule. Our tour of Bolivia was supposed to end at the border at 10 A.M. that morning, where and when we would catch a bus into the nearest Chilean town, San Pedro de Atacama. By the time we got going, it was already 8. Unphased, the Don assured us we would make it in good time; in fact, we would still be able to take in the remaining sights on the tour. So saying, we headed out to see the long-awaited geysers.

I’ll never know what they look like at dawn, but the geysers looked plenty cool at midmorning. Great vents in the earth, spewing up steam, sulfur, and bubbling mud. It’s easy to see how an over-zealous tourist could fall in.

The Don’s assurances notwithstanding, we were a little pressed for time, and so ninety seconds after we arrived at the geysers we were off again, heading for the next stop on the itinerary — The Dali Desert. Tucked away in Southwest Bolivia, the desert was apparently once visited by the great surrealist, who fell in love with a land as wide and weird as his imagination.

Clearly, he took away much that inspired him; a quick tour through some of Dali’s more notable works reveals an array of eerily similar desert landscapes.

Ninety seconds later, we were back in the truck, bouncing all the way to the Lagunas Blanca and Verde. Once there, our cook whipped us up a bit of tea and cake — an impressive feat given the altitude and the time constraints. Though only a few miles from the Dali desert, the land around the lakes was still in the grip of winter, with a light dusting of snow covering everything.

Now it was go time. It was 9:45, and the border was just a few bumpy miles away. We said our goodbyes to those staying in Bolivia, and hopped in the truck for one last dash. Don Carlos clearly knew what he was talking about; 14 minutes and 30 seconds later, we pulled up to the border. Disaster was once again averted. We rushed in to the border outpost, got our stamps, and breathlessly asked when the bus would be leaving.

Naturally, we were told that the bus was not there. In fact, it hadn’t even left the station in Chile yet. But, of course, there was no need to worry — the bus would be there in three hours, four at the most. Ah, Latin America!