Salty Anticipation

Five chicas.  A jeep.  A guide/driver.  A cook.  Several promises from Tupiza Tours: a jeep in good working condition, three squares a day plus snacks and sufficient bottled or boiled water.  Simple accommodations.  Information in Spanish on the sites we were to visit along the tour.

Four days touring Bolivia’s Southwest–active volcanoes, lakes of colors painters fantasize about, picturesque mountains bordering Chile, piedras that represent trees, vast landscapes–empty except for our group of seven (we saw other tour groups only at resting stops for meals generally), pink flamingoes, llamas and vacunas running free, a visit to natural thermal baths, the final day spent on the world’s largest salt flat.

It all sounded OK to me.  It had been impossible to escape the chatter about the Salar de Uyuni tour when I was traveling in Bolivia and Peru, and when I found myself in Northern Argentina and began hearing about the must-do tour again, I made my way further north, hooked up with Becca, a solo female traveler from England, in a hostel in Cafayate, Argentina and decided to hop on the tourist train again and return to Bolivia.

And so Becca and I arrived in Tupiza, Bolivia after a full day of travel and brutal border crossing and barely minutes later were offering a deposit to begin a three-night, four-day Salar de Uyuni tour the following morning with a company that had come to us highly recommended but which I cannot recommend (more on that later).

We joined two French women and a girl from Italy and learned that–surprise–the common language was Spanish and not English.  Becca’s language skills exceeded mine, though I was pleased to accept the compliment from the Tupiza hostel worker, who remembered me from the last time I was there with Hugo and told me that in two and a half months, my Spanish was “mucho mejor.”

Yet, the language wasn’t a barrier, and though I couldn’t understand everything that our guide, David, said,  I didn’t need to for my eyes to appreciate all that they were taking in.

Our group got on fine–most of the time.  Rising at 4:15 AM the first day, we five packed our bags, rolled up our sleeping bags (though we had been placed in a concrete-walled habitacion, there was no heat in the entire pueblo, and nights in Bolivia are insufferably cold), and met for a breakfast of cafe, pan, y dulce de leche several minutes later before heading out in the jeep for a twelve-hour day.

Much of the second full day, like the first, was spent inside of the jeep.  David would stop the car every time we reached a site of interest and tell us we had fifteen minutes to walk around and take photos.  As this was the typically standard tour, I didn’t complain about the long hours in the jeep, though the French girls were less than thrilled and drove me, more than once, to reach for my Ipod.

The sites were truly fascinating, and I don’t consider and have never considered myself a nature-loving person.  I like the outdoors and I appreciate awesome scenery, spectacular landscapes, and unfamiliar, natural places, but I don’t often feel moved by these types of things.  Thus, I didn’t mind the brief stops–there was so much to see, and the only possible way to see it all was by taking one of these tours–and I looked forward to our almuerzos each day, a pleasant break in the long days.  Julia, our cook and David’s fiance, whipped up some pretty impressive meals, often by the side of the road, out of the back of the jeep: milanesa, ensaladas de papas y tomatoes, pastas, meatballs.

When she sensed a growing crankiness among the group in the jeep–I don’t know, could it have been the daily, consistent jeep’s breaking down that unnerved us all?–she offered lollipops, Oreo’s, and jamon-flavored crackers.

Neither David nor Julia communicated with us much about the status of the jeep, but by the end of the third day, it was clear that we needed a replacement.  While their lack of communication bothered me, I reminded myself, with Becca’s help, that this was Bolivia, South America.  I had to change my expectations.

After she served us dinner in the salt hotel (everything made of salt save for the toilet), Julia left us to eat and drink the wine we’d purchased in the pueblo.  This tour differed far greatly from my trekking tour to Machu Pichu, for there was no talk of our group’s being a “family”, and David and Julia never ate dinner with us or took tea and biscuits with us when we arrived in the pueblo where we were to spend the night.

The last night, none of us minded, for we were deep in discussion about what to do about the problematic, dysfunctional jeep (when it said right there on our contract that the company would send a new one if necessary, and it was clearly necessary at this point) and whether or not we thought we should pay the full tour cost, which was to be settled once we arrived in Uyuni on the following day (so much responsibility for 22 year-old David).

Although none of us wanted to pay the total balance–how many hours had the crappy jeep cost us, we wondered?–when David told us, not in an angry or aggressive manner, that he and Julia would be docked an entire day’s pay if we didn’t pay what we owed, we reconsidered.  (In the same conversation, he also said that there would be no new jeep.)  I have neither the time nor the energy to express how abominable I find the company’s practices, if David’s words were true; in fact, I don’t know if I have the inclination or energy to write to Tupiza Tours (something I’d surely do if back in the States and dissatisfied with a customer service practice), for I don’t want to get the young couple fired, but mostly my disclination to take any action is simply because after our final day on the salt flat, negative feelings ceased to exist.

We rose at 4 AM the last day, allowing enough time to reach the salt flat for sunrise.  Armed with 3/4 of a bottle of vino tinto leftover from the previous night, we waltzed around the salty ground, passing the bottle back and forth as we watched the sun take its place.  David and Julia stayed in the car, keeping themselves from the bitter cold of that early morning, and I wondered if they ever got used to watching people’s outrageous expressions as they found themselves in the middle of twelve kilometers of whiteness that resembled snow but was– to be sure, for I tasted it– salt.

We were given hours on the salt flat (no complaints from any of us, most definitely not the French girls), taking breakfast on the flat and countless photos.  When the wine was gone, we started in on the mate, and I skipped around like a happy little kid.

“Siento volada,” I said to Sara, the Italian girl, and she smiled and nodded in agreement.

I felt high.  So high that later, once we’d returned to reality and were no longer free to run the blank space of the flat, I felt rather low, melancholy and a bit empty.  In all of my life, I’d never felt anything like how I felt when I was on the Salar.    Maybe that’s a lame statement and not full of anything valuable, but I don’t know what else to say.

It was that fucking amazing.

“Que increible!” is all that most of us could muster when we’d come in contact with what we’d been anticipating for three days or far more, given that it seems many people travel to Bolivia solely for the purpose of visiting the Salar de Uyuni.

I’d listened and nodded when other travelers told me about their experiences on the flat.  Sure, I thought, a lake’s a lake is a lake.  But somehow, when you’re the only person staring into that lake, when your jeep of seven is the only jeep as far as you can see way out in the middle of the salt flat at 6 in the morning, and the whiteness is so sharp that it’s dangerous to be without sunglasses, it’s not just a lake, and it’s not just the world’s largest salt flat.

Whatever it was that produced those incredibly rich and emotional feelings within me also had me handing over my remaining Bolivianos to David and Julia.  We were expected to tip the guide and cook based on our satisfaction and had agreed as a group a fair amount (for we were happy with all but the jeep), but in the end, I thought to hell with group decisions and offered David and Julia, who were to be married at the end of the year, a sum my dad would have approved of.

Situation check: couchsurfing

I’ve been a pretty big advocate of couchsurfing ever since my first flawless experience surfing in San Francisco in October 2008.  Although I wasn’t an active member in NYC (only attending a bar gathering here and there and hosting just twice), I was looking forward to surfing throughout South America as nothing beats getting to know a place with a local, who knows the ins and outs (and speaks the language), or so I thought.

If you’ve been following my journey thus far, you know that I had an excellent beginning to the trip in Sao Paolo, where I was fortunate to be surfing in the city’s nicest and safest neighborhood.  The experience in Rio was also pleasant–for the most part.  There was the briefest awkward exchange between my host and me, wherein he asked me if he should have kissed me the night before.  I explained that it was best that we just stay friends, and although he seemed to accept my statement,  if I’m being completely honest, the vibe between us was irrevocably changed from that point forward.

When no one in Salvador was able to host me, I looked forward to hooking up with some fellow travelers and staying in a hostel.  Meeting and discovering a city with other backpackers can be just as rewarding as getting to know a place with a resident, albeit in a different way.  Additionally, oftentimes, hostel owners are keen on getting to know their guests and will go out of their way to offer travel advice, tips, restaurant suggestions.

Owner Russ of Barra Guest House in Salvador, Brazil was one of those owners.  (The free breakfast–pancakes and eggs on order, plus a spread of fresh fruit, cheeses and ham, coffee and tea–wasn’t half-bad either!)  While the hostel could have used some sprucing up (the bed linens were so worn that it was impossible to make it through an hour’s sleep without the fitted sheet coming undone on all four corners), I had a fine time exploring the city and just chilling on the beach with the other travelers I met.  Iquazu Falls entered my radar, and I gained advice on the best places to see in Chile.

Because it is easier to couchsurf in large cities where there are more members, Bolivia meant staying in hostels until La Paz.  That is until I found myself poking around on the site one day and randomly decided to contact one of the four available hosts in Tarija, Bolivia.   Overall, the good reaped from my stay in Tarija far outweighed the bad, but I will think again before I even so much as contact a member of the opposite sex with a request to surf.

After speaking with a friend and couchsurfer, I know that my story is common.  Common but unfortunate given the wonderful possibilities that a community like couchsurfing promises.

Arriving by overnight bus at 3:30 in the morning, I was quite grateful that my host Jose, who’d given me his address, answered my desperate  buzz and showed me inside to a mattress in the middle of the dining room floor.  After the vacant house, the heavily blanketed mattress in front of me looked welcoming and appealing.  Before allowing me to nod off, Jose demonstrated how to make (real) coffee in the morning–a pretty big deal for a coffee-lover like myself as most of the good beans in SA are exported–and we talked about having lunch near a winery the next day.

Over our lunch, Jose and I got to talking about couchsurfing, and he told me that most people that he knows do it for sex.  Um, excuse me?  We were drinking wine and I didn’t want to make an issue of it, but I assume he meant the hope–as opposed to the expectation, a much stronger word–of sexual contact, which I still found appalling.

Our lunch was delicious and varied from the standard almuerzos I’d been eating.  Speaking of expectations, Jose expected me to pay for the majority of our meal, and while I was happy to offer him some form of gratitude for allowing me to stay with him (and his mother, a former cocaine addict, who woke up screaming each night), I didn’t appreciate the implication that I owed him.  That’s not what couchsurfing is about.  Aside from “Is it safe?” the second most popular question I’m asked regarding couchsurfing is if it is free.  My reply is always that, yes, it’s free, but it’s common to reciprocate in some way: a beer, a home-cooked meal, baked goods purchased on your morning stroll through the market.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jose expected plenty from me, monetarily at least, and while I value generosity and the ability to be generous, I resent the way Jose expected me to pay for our not inexpensive meal that day, a spare set of keys for his apartment later that afternoon, and a bottle of wine in the evening.

Still, he wasn’t hitting on me, and he seemed decent, if a bit insecure , so what was another few dollars? It wasn’t until late Monday night, on our walk home after hanging in the plaza, drinking and partying with some awesome guys from Argentina that Jose made his first move.  The casual arm slung over the shoulder, the attempt to pull me close and then the comment that “we could do so much together,” that I started to grow uncomfortable.  I walked on ahead, letting his arm drop and making it clear that his tentative advances were unwanted.

The following day, Jose’s bright and cheery attitude toward me had darkened somewhat, and suddenly, he went from being my personal tour guide to being completely swamped with work.  In truth, I was grateful and went on with my business, which included meeting up with the Argentina crew later that afternoon.

“Watch yourself around those guys,” Jose said.  “Maybe don’t bring your camera out,” he went on.  “You can’t trust them.”

My instincts are strong and my ability to read a situation is powerful.  My sense of when to trust and when not to trust is one of my greatest strengths, and I wasn’t worried about my safety with my new friends.  Jose stayed in (after instructing me not to come home too late and not to be loud when I returned), and I hung out for hours, practicing  my Spanish in a social, relaxed setting, and comprehending as much as I could with a group that spoke only their native language.

Sitting around Plaza Sucre, we passed a jug of cheap red wine around and took turns consulting my phrasebook when the language barrier became problematic.  Even though I was understanding about a fifth of what was spoken, I felt like I was learning in the best way possible, and it made me excited to think about hunkering down somewhere to take some classes.

Hugo, one of the Argentinian backpackers, walked me back to Jose’s at the end of the night, offering me his jacket and protection.  We agreed to meet the following day to go on to Tupiza together, and while I knew communication would be difficult, I was psyched for the challenge the journey posed.

I fell asleep fast and deeply but awoke with a start at around 3:30 in the morning when I heard mumbling.  My couchsurfing host, Jose, was standing naked by my bed, asking me if he could lie down with me because he couldn’t sleep.

I was frightened and backed away from his advancing form.  “No, No!  Jose, No!” is all I remember saying, and then he was gone, back to ned.  Perhaps he’d been sleepwalking.  I’ll never know.  He acted normal the following morning, and because my bus for Tupiza didn’t leave until 8 PM, I chose not to call him out on his inapporopriate actions.  Instead I locked my small backpack and went out for the day.

Still, I was undoubtedly shaken up, somewhat traumatized, exhausted and frustrated.  My distrust in Jose made me wonder for a brief moment if traveling with Hugo was a sound idea after all, but I turned back to my gut and knew it would be fine.

As it turns out, the three days in Tupiza with Hugo were some of my best days thus far.  Instead of paying $100 or more Bolivianos for a trekking tour, we found our own way up into the mountains.  Rather than getting sucked into one of the many tourist haunts during the three hour siesta where every authentic Bolivian restaurant shuts down, we purchaed pan (bread), and queso (cheese) and made sandwiches  in the plaza.   Unlike Jose, who showed little patience for my fumbling language skills, Hugo listened and waited for me to get to a place where he could understand me.  He repeated himself again and again, changing his way of speaking, and offered me an impromptu lesson on presente, pasado, and futuro uses of some common verbs when I expressed interest.

I told him I was going to take a class in La Paz and promised that my Spanish would be greatly improved when we met in his hometown of Mendoza in October.

Moving on, preparing for the next destination means saying goodbye.  I feel like I am always leaving someone or someplace.  I’m just getting to know a town or a city, finding my favorite breakfast stall in the market, and the fastest Internet cafe, and then it’s time to go.

While I am leaving by my own accord (and skipping much-vaunted tours like the Salar de Uyuni), I still struggle with embracing the new, though I almost always do.

If I trusted my gut before this trip (in deciding to do this trip, no less!), I am learning to value it more and more each day.  My negative couchsurfing experience led me to experience Tupiza apart from the other backpackers, and for that, I am grateful.  Of course, I will continue to proceed with caution in all that I do, and I will guared my safety, but I will rely on myself.  I have to.