They think its all over …. it is now!

Reality doesn’t take long to kick in.  It is just over 4 weeks since we arrived back in Ireland.  Standing the departures area, waiting for our bags, I was not sure what to feel: Excitement at seeing my family and friends after so long, Sorrow that the whole adventure was over, Nervous about whether or not I would settle back into the normality of life at home.

Now, almost a month back at home I’m still not sure how to feel.  I’m happy to finally have the routine I was beginning to crave towards the end of the trip.  I’m delighted to be home with my family and friends who I missed more than I would ever have expected to.  Naturally I suppose, there is still a part of me that wishes I was packing up my rucksack in the morning (even though that was the one thing I could not wait to stop doing) and heading off on another adventure. 

A friend told me before I left on this trip that it would change me – in some way, not necessarily in a fundamental way, but it would change me, change my outlook on life, what I viewed as priorities.  I have to admit I did scoff a little at the idea.  I figured at 28 years of age, I was pretty much who I was going to be.  Sure, I expected the trip to bring new experiences and maybe open my eyes a little, but change me, no.  How wrong I was. 

And how has it changed me? 

I haven’t a clue.

I don’t know has it made more tolerant or less patient, more confident or more fearful, more open minded or has it reinforced the stereotypes we all hold.  I really, really don’t know.  What I do know though, is that while nothing has really changed, everything feels just a little bit different.

Speaking with friends over the last few weeks, I have come to realise that my biggest fear coming back from this trip was that I would lose that feeling, that completely unexplainable feeling that a trip like this has given me.  The sense that nothing is pre defined, that we are all master of out own destinies.  Over the past 9 months, with all my wandering, and all my pondering, I have realised that the only person who stops me from doing the things I want to do, achieving the things I want to achieve, is me.  And well, I know me, so in a battle, it should be no contest really!

Last week, someone asked me if I thought that the trip had quenched my thirst for travel.  My response was unequivocal. 

Not a chance.

If anything it  has fueled it.  The past eight months have shown me how much the world has to offer and how little of it I have seen or even know.  For now, the reality I used to know has had to kick in.  And while that will be my reality for the next while at least, that part of me that has bigger dreams, dreams of wild adventures in South America, of wilderness treks in Asia, of white knuckle, adrenalin pumping action in New Zealand knows that it won’t be forever.  Ok, so the 9 month trip may be a one off, but there is far too much colour and life out there for this to be the end for me, and sure its only two months till 2010 and I won’t have been away all that year …. surely I’ll be due a holiday! 

The final stop – Rio!

A few days of chilling out in a Brazilian paradise ensured we were ready for reputedly one of the most exciting, energetic cities in the world.  Rio’s reputation precedes it, conjuring up images of the extravagant carnival, the glamorous bronzed bodies strutting along the Copacabana and the energy, colour and harsh reality of the favelas.  For some reason though, these images are, in my mind anyway, always accompanied by by bluebird skies and that bright yellow globe I am sure I recall from some distant memory.  

On an overcast day, Rio choose not show us her full glory.  All the same, we were not disappointed.  Our few days began with a brief tour of the city – no pussyfooting about, we were straight down to business with a short drive up the infamous Corcadova – a mountain in the heart of downtown Rio, better know for its most famous resident – Christ the Redeemer.  He stands tall, facing the rising sun and the entrance to the bay.  Built as a symbol of the strong Christian faith in Brazil and positioned atop the high point of the city, he was to be the  the first sight that the returning ships would see.  Interestingly, Rio de Janiero was so named because of a huge geographical misconception.  Early spanish explorers passing by the bay on the first of January many moons ago, mistakenly assumed that the complex network of headlands and coves was actually a river mouth and hence the city came to be named the River of January – ooops!

Rio is an incredible mish mash of mountains and beaches, with the sprawling favellas climbing up the hillsides, while downtown the city skyline grows ever taller.  And yet, it is beautiful, chaotic, but beautiful.  It should not all fit together, but somehow it works and just standing there at the feet of the Christ, you understand why he is where he is, with the city at his feet, to watch over and protect this stunning city.

Moving towards the Brazilian equivalent of Camden, Lapa.  Lapa is where the trendy people hang out, the artists, the spiritual hippies, the night clubbing tourists.  For us, the brief stop in Lapa was to take in one of the most colourful sights in Rio (and that means seriously colourful).  Some years ago, a Chilean artist by the name Selaron began what would become a life’s work.  He began to cover an entire staircase in colourful tiles.  Now, almost 20 years later, there are tiles from all corners of the earth which have, over the course of almost 2 decades taken the place of the original green, blue and yellow tiles.  It is an incredible site, more incredible still when, strolling up the steps, you pass the man himself, sitting there, chatting, taking it all in, seemingly oblivious or at least unaffected by the fact that his work has now become one of the biggest tourist attractions in Rio – now included in the city tour with Christ the Redeemer and the Sugar Loaf mountain.  Not bad company to keep Senor Selaron.  And it is beautiful – I could have wandered up and down those stairs for hours wondering at where this incredible variety of tiles came from.  But, as has so often been the case on this trip, time ran out.

Our next stop was at what I can only describe as simultaneously the most ugly and most beautiful building I have even seen.  The cathedral is a bizzare looking building, no question.  It looks like an ugly version of the beehive (the parliament building in Wellington), it is a huge block of cement, with layers like a can-can dancers skirt … well, see for yourself.

It is admittedly, fairly hideous.  Step inside however, and it is a different story entirely.  The high walls, caving in slightly on you as you enter meet to create this huge open space – it was the second time in a short number of days that something had made me feel insignificant.  The walls are made of overlapping cement slabs, making the building appear enclosed, but actually when you walk inside, it becomes clear that each layer of cement, shelters the cathedral from the elements, just the cement, no glass, no plastic, no curtain.  It gives the huge building a strangely airy and open feeling.  The darkness created by the concrete punctuated by the brightly coloured mosaic stained glass windows which run the height of the building on four sides.  This building is the greatest advocate for the old expression “never judge a book by its cover”.

Our final stop of the day was to the Sugar loaf mountain.  Unfortunately the promised views did not materialise for the most part,thanks to a thick blanket of cloud.  It gave the whole trip a sort of Hallowe’en-y feel, like those dark evenings in October and November, when the fog comes in and you can see your own breath and the only light is an eerie glow emanating fromthe orange street lights.  We travelled up the mountain in style in the once state of the art cable car, stopping at the half way point for a brief look around.  The odd clear patch provided us with glimpses of the city, its lagoon and even some sunny beaches!  The second cable car took us quite literally through the clouds and reaching the top of the mountain we were almost above it all…… almost.  Desperate for some warmth I made a bee line for the gift shop … not for the first time, I cursed the air conditioning!

Eventually though, we did get a few sustained breaks in the cloud, conveniently, just in time for sunset.  Despite the baltic temperatures, you could not help but stand and watch Rio fade in and out through the gaps in the cloud, the city made even more beautiful by the pallet of reds and oranges forming the backdrop, with Christ the Redeemer overlooking it all.

As if day one was not hectic enough, we followed it up with an even busier day.  Sunday saw us visit Rochina, the biggest favella in Rio de Janiero, with over 300,000 people living there in conditions ranging from basic to squalid.  Our guide began with the expected warnings – you may see guns, don’t buy drugs, common sense stuff really.  Reality kicked in when she warned that those carrying weapons might be kids as young as 10 or 11.  As we walked around though, it became quite clear that although notorious for all the wrong reasons, Rochina is just another town, another community, with its own difficulties,  its own warts, but also with its own sense of community!  It is difficult for someone like me to understand how a community run by drug lords and weapons traders can function, how people can be happy in a place with overflowing open sewers, deposits of rotting rubbish and rife with poverty and corruption.  But they are.  They may live by an inconventional set of rules, but while it may be an exaggeration to say it works, it certainly functions.

Leaving Rochina behind, we headed straight for the Marcana (football buffs, I apologise for probably getting the nname wrong!) stadium on the other side of Rio, set to watch local favourites Flamengo take on Cortiba.  Luckily for us, the local boys did the job, defeating the visitors by a convincing three goals to nil.  Move over Jackie’s army (or Trap’s army, or whatever we are these days), Brazilian fans know how to rock a stadium.  From start to finish they sang, shouted, cheered and jeered, all the time willing their boys to convert their energy into goals!  The flares burned all through the game and we even witnessed some samba esque dancing through the corridors of the stadium as the Flamengo fnas prepared to dance into the night.  Unfortunately, we could not join them, we had some dancing of our own to do.

A morning in Rochina, an afternoon at the football, what else was there to do, but party with the locals.  So we hit the road for another favela where we joined the locals at the sunday night favela party.  Booties shook, hips swayed (and that was just the tourists!).  So, after a hard day, we partied the night away (and most of the next morning) arriving back in Rio shortly before daybreak for a few badly needed hours sleep.  When we did eventually surface, it was just in time for a short walk to Ipanema before we had to say goodbye to our welsh friends who were about to make the long journey back to Wales!

It was hard to believe that the trip was almost at an end.  We had just three days left before our big adventure concluded.  Determined to make the most of it before reality bit once more, we spent the days relaxing, strolling around Copacabana, indulging in tasty local food, eating ourselves silly at the many all you can eat buffet restaurants, running along the beach front, and sampling the tasty local brew!  A hard life it was not, but with mixed emotions about the journey home, a few days to contemplate the return to reality and to reminisce about the past 8 months was welcome; all the adventures, the trials, the highs and lows.  But, we were determined to savour every last minute, make our last few days count and what better place to do that than beautiful Rio.

Brazilian Beaches

Ultimately, our time at Iguassu Falls ran out. I was gutted to be leaving Foz du Iguassu, a town which does not have much to offer, but leaving the breath taking Iguassu Falls, knowing that I may never have the opportunity to visit again was something to lament.

No matter, the beautiful coastal town of Paraty would take my mind off it. With its myriad old Portuguese colonial buildings, complete with brightly coloured doors and window shutters, hanging baskets, cobblestone streets (which flood daily at high tide in some areas of the town) and its wealth of fun filled activities, it is an understandably popular spot with locals and tour groups alike, which has fortunately managed so far to retain its old charm and character.

An early morning spent kayaking in the millpond bay, around a small island dense with tropical vegetation (and the owner’s washing line!), followed by an afternoon of horse riding up into the hills for magnificent views of the bay, even on a cloudy, rainy day, set us all up with a huge appetite for a fantastic home cooked meal courtesy of some of our more culinary minded group members!

The nature of these tours as I have come to learn however, is that there is never enough time – days are filled with activities, nights with too much good food and parties and all too soon it is time to move onto the next destination.

Fortunately for us, our next port of call was a little splash of paradise in the Atlantic, just south of the Rio coastline, the stunning Illa Grande.

Arriving in the boat, you would be forgiven for thinking you had just arrived in the Ko Phi Phi (Thailand) of 20 years ago. Illa Grande, though much bigger, boasts the same aquamarine waters, crystal clear and teeming with life, the same white sand beaches, sweeping hills lush and rich with tropical vegetation. When we finally docked, the picture could not have been more different. Absent were the drunken gap year students, the crazy party bars and the constant hum of a party, which have their place. I am just glad Illa Grande is not that place. The strict planning laws have ensured that Illa Grande has not yet and hopefully never will follow Ko Phi Phi down the path towards being the 24 hour party island.

All the same, Illa Grande does not shut down at night. There are parties to be found, but they do not dominate the island and its primary draw remains its unspoilt beaches, notably the truly beautiful Lopes Mendes. A two and a half hour hike from the main town through dense forest is the only route by land as there are no motorised vehicles on the island. The beach itself is part of a marine reserve, so if you wish to get there by boat, you must dock at the nearest beach, a 20 minute walk to Lopes Mendes. It is worth the hike though, two and a half sweaty hours later, the weary legs are greeted by white sand; clean and almost powder like; roaring green surf and for us anyway, an almost deserted beach. Summer brings the crowds and of course the surfers, but late afternoon on a winter’s day, meant the entire beach was our own private playground.

Did I mention parties? Our second day in Illa Grande was spent aboard a gorgeous little schooner, although I suspect it is a long time since she travelled anywhere under sail. The Caiprinha boat as she was more frequently referred to, took us on a day long cruise around the island, stopping at various beaches and snorkelling spots, for some fun, food and of course … Caiprinhas! After almost 25 days of hectic travel, it was just what the doctor ordered. Some one had also conveniently remembered to order the sun and the afternoon was spent basking in glorious sunshine as we ate more than our body weights in barbequed meat, fresh crispy salads and fabulous garlic bread, all washed down with … its getting old now, isn’t it? Caiprinhas!

Arriving back into the port in the late afternoon, we said goodbye to the caiprinha boat and headed back to the hotel to rest up for the following day’s boat and bus trip to Rio de Janeiro. That might be a little white lie, the party may have continued into the wee small hours, and 9 very weary souls may have boarded the scene of the crime the following morning bound for the mainland and Rio. One thing is for sure, nothing was going to prevent us from enjoying our time in Rio. A few hours rest and we would all be ready to go again!

Iguassu Falls

There is no denying it, I was expecting a lot from Iguassu Falls.  Nobody seems to visit it and leave disappointed.  Everyone talks about how incredible it is, how powerful, how beautiful.  I wondered if there was any chance that I would actually leave feeling the same.  As is so often the case when you visit a place whose reputation precedes it, I was afraid that Iguassu would disappoint.  Well, maybe not disappoint, but I thought there was a distinct possibility I would be a little … underwhelmed by the whole thing.

I was so far wrong I was in another continent. 

Iguassu Falls is probably the single most impressive natural site we have visited over the entire trip, in fact, probably the single most impressive site full stop; and this trip has brought us to many incredible places: The Himalayas, Angkor Wat, Polonnaruwa, Fox Glacier to name but a few that have really stuck in my mind.

Our first glimpse of the falls was from the Brazilian side renowned for its panoramic views (they straddle the Brazilian-Argentinean border).  It did not disappoint.  However impressed I was though, I was assured, the best was yet to come.  The following day, the jet boat ride up river towards the pounding columns of water blew me away and still I was told it would get better.  As we walked up the stone steps in the cliff side, soaked to the skin after the boat ride, the views became more impressive still.  With over 270 separate waterfalls making up the truly awesome Iguassu family, every few minutes walk was rewarded with mind blowingly beautiful views.  The climax though, the true winner of the day was the roaring “Devil’s Throat” – Garganta del Diablo – with water cascading, roaring down over 82 metres around 240 degrees, meeting in a violent, misty, swirling cauldron below.  The noise is deafening, the power unmissable, it is impossible to stand there, on the walkways adjacent to the falls and not be transfixed by the thousands of cubic metres of water sprinting over the edge and crashing into the basin below.  How could there possibly be this much water in the world? And how is this only the tiniest fraction of it?  Maybe places like this are meant to remind us that we are not as big a part of it as we would like to think.  I don’t think I have ever felt more insignificant in my life.  Bizarrely though, it was a comforting thought.

The story of the formation of the Iguassu Falls is an interesting one, not the geological version however, but rather the ancient legend of the native Guarani people.  They believe that at one time, the Iguassu river was a still, wide, flat river.  Each year the local Guarani tribe would sacrifice their most beautiful virgin to the serpent god of the river M’Boi.  Naipi was due to marry Taruba who was a warrior from another local tribe, but when the serpent god saw her, he fell in love with her and demanded she be the virgin sacrifice.  Afraid to anger the powerful serpent, the tribe conceded and made ready to sacrifice Naipi.  Naipi and Taruba being very much in love, made a plan to escape down the Iguassu river in a canoe.  Sadly for them, M’Boi uncovered their plan and in anger chased the lovers down the river, writhing and splashing and in doing so cracked the river bed forming a huge gorge which would become the falls.  In revenge for their disloyalty, M’Boi transformed Taruba into a palm tree overlooking the falls and the beautiful Naipi into a rock at the base of the falls.  The lovers would spend eternity always close enough to see one another, but suffer the torture of never being together.

Far fetched perhaps, but there is something magical about Iguassu Falls, something other worldly about the sheer power, the volume, the crashing, angry water, which makes you wonder … maybe, just maybe!  

The very dry (usually swampy) Pantanal!

After a few days of relaxation in Sucre, we said goodbye to some of our travelling companions and flew to Santa Cruz to meet up with the new contingent who would travel to Rio together.

This part of the tour had a shaky start – mainly due to the bus which would take us into the famous grassland swamp of the Pantanal. Sitting in Santa Cruz bus station we saw fancy air conditioned coach after fancy air conditioned coach enter the grounds and drive past our gate. Eventually, we saw a little humdinger enter, red and blue, it had certainly seen better days and we wondered what poor unfortunates would spent the next few uncomfortable hours on it. We did not have to wonder very long as it pulled in directly in front of us. After almost 8 months of travelling, we have spent time on some uncomfortable buses, with questionably qualified drivers (like the young driver in our leaky Cambodian bus who hadn’t obviously yet learned how to change gear, with no air conditioning, overcrowded with people, market goods and even animals. This one though, took the biscuit.

Initially, it was just not a pretty, modern bus. Then we noticed the small holes in the body work, the baggage doors which required a wrench to open and close them, the refrigerator being stored in the under carriage, while the spare diesel tank and tyre were removed. She had seen better days, this bus! There was however, worse to come. Our journey was to take us 17 hours from Santa Cruz, to the Bolivian border town of Puerto Suarez, 17 hours on bumpy dirt tracks. Even though she was old, you would think that being the only bus (apparently) running this route, she would be prepared for such a trip – the tyres told another story! With some tyres virtually bald and others, like this one having no treads at all, we were all anxious boarding.

As it turned out, we needn’t have been. Although not a beauty queen, she provided us with comfortable seats, a/c courtesy of the multiple open windows and reclining seats. We arrived safely to Puerto Suarez.

Our journey into the Pantanal was punctuated by a lunch stop and a quick swim in the shallow river, barely 10 feet from caiman basking in the sunshine. When we did eventually arrive at our accommodation, all thoughts of our dodgy bus journey evaporated. A small fazenda in the middle of the Pantanal, with stables adjacent, Fazenda São João provided us with a long dorm room with hammocks swaying in the warm evening breeze. It was nothing short of perfect.

The following morning after a filling breakfast, we headed up to the stables to meet our companions for the day. My trusty steed was Sagano. Having not ridden a horse for at least 10 years, I was anxious, but he took good care of me. Walking and trotting obediently initially as we meandered through the forests and tall grass paddocks, we both got a little braver towards the end of the trek and we even had a canter and a little gallop across the final few fields, ending with a jump over some bushes, which shattered any illusion I had that I was in fact in control. Nonetheless, it was a fantastic morning and I was sorry to say goodbye to Sagano.

There was little time for me to lament his departure however. After some lunch, we headed out on a safari drive. With the Pantanal experiencing a drought at the moment, the normally swampy grasslands are dry, dusty and bereft of the normally teeming wildlife. Even so, Our guide Alex showed us Caiman, Jabarou storks (symbol of the Pantanal), Capybaras (the world’s largest rodent), wild pigs and dozens of beautifully coloured birds. The true highlight of the afternoon though, was the hour we spent, fishing for Piranha at sunset. I am ashamed to say that I am one of two in our group of 9 who caught no fish, however, I think Schmo more than made up for my failings with a haul of 7 of the toothy critters! What else could we have for dinner then, but piranha! Despite the number that were caught between the group, we brought back only 9, one for each of us! The rest went back into the lake to continue their snappy little fishy lives!

Our time in the incredible Pantanal was almost over, but before we left, we had time for a short walk into the wilderness. With the land so dry, we were unfortunate in that the normally teeming swamps, were in fact completely absent. However, we still manage to catch glimpses of otters, caiman, capybara, storks, herons, cranes, South American screamers (like bush turkeys), cardinals, blue macaws, parakeets. No puma or jaguar unfortunately, but maybe that is a good thing, I reckon they could outrun me!

Potosi

Potosi is one of those places that anyone who has visited Bolivia tells you you have to visit.  One friend warned me, its not an easy visit, but something that should be done.

Potosi is the former star of the Spanish colonialism.  in its heyday in the 17 and 18oo’s, it boasted a population of about 160,000, larger than Madrid at the time, the capital of a huge empire.  Today though, it is a sad little town.  Some stunning building remain to remind Potosi of her glorious past, but the reality is that Potosi, although ruggedly beautiful, is a sad relic of the past.  Impoverished and almost entirely reliant on a rapidly weakening mining industry, it is a city which may be destined to fall further still.

The mines themselves are owned by cooperatives,with and estimated 15,000 miners, mainly locals, working daily.  Rules dictate that miners (all male) must be a minimum of 12 years of age, but we have heard that many are younger.  They work 12-24 hours in a row and are paid only for what minerals they can sell.  For 10 tonnes of minerals, a miner might make about 1,000 Bolivianos, but the cost of transporting these is the miners responsibility and could cost him 500Bs, leaving him a similar profit, about 50 Euros – and he mines entirely by hand and dynamite.

The other huge cost to the miners is their health.  The average life expectancy is about 45 years of age, with the majority dying of silicosis, caused by years of breathing in the fine silica dust found in the mines.  We met one exceptional man, a miner for 37 years, he was very old in mining terms at 53 years of age.  He has a son of 33.  Both are dying of silicosis, his son will most likely be dead before him, and yet both continue to work.  It is the only means they have of supporting their family, ensuring their survival after their deaths.  If a miner has a son, he will usually take his father’s place in the cooperative after his death.  If there is no son, the cooperative will try to find work for the wife or daughters outside of the mine.  Women are not permitted to work in the mine.

Scattered throughout the mine, are dozens of effigies of the devil – our guide estimated about 1,500 of them.  Complete with fangs, horns and a very large manhood, the devil was originally introduced to the mines by the Spanish as a means of inciting fear in the newly Christian miners and ensure they worked longer and harder for less.  Somewhere along the lines however, the devil became the protector.  Miners now make offerings of cocoa leaves, cigarettes and alcohol, to ask for the protection of the devil and patchumama.  Patchumama (mother earth) is for the miners, the mountain itself.  The devil is virile and hungry and in consummating his relationship with Patchumama, they produce the rich veins of minerals in the mountain.  Women are not permitted to work in the mine as the miners fear that if the devil sees them, he will fall in love with them,dismissing Patchumama and thus no more mineral veins will be produced, destroying their livelihood.

The reality of course is that with our without women in the mine, the minerals are disappearing, as is the mountain.  in less than 200 years, the mountain has decreased over 500m in height due to the mining,  Ultimately, Potosi, the former star, will need to find another means of survival or risk total collapse.

The day was not all doom and gloom however, we did have the opportunity to indulge in some explosion of our own and blow up a stick of dynamite once we were outside the mines!  In the end though, the visit to Potosi was just as I had been told to expect, fascinating, fun but a real eye opener and a reminder of how lucky I am.

Uyuni and the Salt Flats

After a few relaxing and very enjoyable days in La Paz, the evening came for us to meet with our group, the people with whom we would spend the next 25 days travelling across Bolivia and Brazil to Rio de Janiero.

Group travel is always a bit of a gamble, its a bit like Forest Gump and his box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. Fortunately, we got a cracking group of people from all corners of the English speaking world – Aussies, NY Aussies, Kiwis, Welsh, English and of course us Irish!

Our guide dismissed with the formalities and we all headed out to the witches market for some traditional Bolivian fare. I opted for a Llama kebab, which was surprisingly tasty and it doesn’t taste like chicken! With a long trip ahead of us the next day, we all retired to bed early, eagerly anticipating the next few weeks.

Our journey to Uyuni, our first destination began with a short bus trip to the small mining town of Oruro, south of La Paz, which is reputed to have been the last hideout of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid, a bit of information which came courtesy of one of our group members! From there a long dusty 8 hour train journey would take us through the desert to Uyuni, a salt mining town in the north of the Atacama desert and home of one of Bolivia’s greatest tourist attractions – the world’s largest salt flats.

The first stop on the salt flats was a small mining area, where the local miners essentially mark out grids from which they harvest the salt, stashing it into conical heaps, prepared for transport back to Uyuni for refining and purifying. You see little sugar loaf shaped mounds dotting the horizon for almost as far as the eye can see. Every mound must be transported before the rains come in November and wash it all away, flattening the landscape, until the floodwaters recede and the whole cycle can begin again.

By the time we had finished, bellies were rumbling, so we ventured on towards Isla de Pescado, Fish Island, a little oasis in the centre of the salt flats, a rocky outcrop more accurately. It seems to be the only area of height in an otherwise barren white landscape. Arriving there, we took a family hike to the top of the hill past the huge cacti for a stunning view of the salt flats and the outline of the distant mountains. There we made an offering to Patchumama (mother earth) and returned back to ground level for a delicious home cooked meal of fresh veg and salad and …. llama steak!

Naturally, no trip to the salt flats could possibly be complete without the cheesy altered perspective photos – hours of entertainment was had as we posed and directed each other in a host of ridiculous looking pictures. Finally as the sun set, we made our way to our hostel for the evening, fashioned almost entirely of salt. I can’t help wondering does it melt away in the rainy season too!

Over the next few days, we explored the desert around the Uyuni, visiting the Red and Green Lagoons, some stunning and unusual rock formations and from a safe distance, we even saw an active volcano. Our final stop was at the train graveyard just outside Uyuni, where the rusty remains of what must have been hard working mine trains are destined to spend the rest of their days, lying in the hot sand with only the odd visit from a curious tourist or a canvas hungry grafitti artist!

After the 3 days and 2 nights of wandering in the dusty desert and no showers, we returned to Uyuni, tired, smelly and happy, to enjoy some long hot showers and an incredible pizza and finally hit our beds to ready ourselves for yet another long journey to Potosi.