From sand to salt : Salar de Uyuni

Talking of cowboys in my last post, after hearing countless stories about the drunken cowboys who drive 4×4 tours through the desert to the Salar de Uyuni, the next day we were pleased to find that our driver for the next four days had a solid head on his shoulders. And a beaming, no-nonsense wife next to him to keep him in check and cook our food.

Lots of llamas

And so, after strapping our bags to the roof of our truck, Tess, Adrian, Med and I set off on our trip all the way from Tupiza to the salt flats with Segundeeno, our guide, and Porfidia, our cook and entertainment for the next few days.

On this first day, we were headed to the small village of San Antonio de Lipez (popn 250) via breathtaking landscape dotted with llamas. We had seen our fair share of cacti-pimpled desert over the last week but this really took the biscuit. Bright red, weather-beaten cliffs sat amiably among mounds of loose blue-grey shingle and tufts of parched, yellow grass.

Village children playing football

At every twist on the mountain road the plains became more and more beautiful throwing up even better, stretching vistas. The llamas were all different coloured and distinguished by the multicoloured pom poms and ribbons clipped to their pointed ears.

Muy frio in our homestay!

We arrived in the village where we were staying the night in someone's modest house. We watched children, layered in llama wool and gloves, play football in the forefront of a snowy mountain range that was catching the last of the day's sun. It was simple, authentic and lovely, despite the freezing temperatures at 4260metres.

We had limited electricity and an outside bathroom, and not even a fire to warm us up. So, after putting on all our clothes, we enjoyed our feast, listening to the songs of a shy local village boy who had come to earn a few Bolivianos. Money is scarce in these isolated, rural communities.

We woke up at 4am, still under the bright stars, moon-drenched mountains and in the bitter cold.

I couldn't feel my toes or fingers for the first hour or more as we made our way across the dusty, rubble track in the dark to San Antonio - an abandoned, ghost town that is thought to have been controlled by the Diablo (Devil).

Rub-a-dub-dub

As the sun burst over the mountains we entered the Eduardo Avaroa Parque Nacional, crossing frozen streams and bumping over rock-laden track - stopping for photographs and "el bano naturale"!

We drove through the gold mining settlement of Quetana Chico and onto the Polques aqua termales. It was freezing and we struggled in the wind, but we are hardened backpackers used to cold showers and a bit of dust so we stripped off and sprinted as fast as we could towards the pool.

Geysers and mud springs

Inside the hotspring it was absolutely divine just as long as we kept as much of ourselves as we could under the water. Still, when was the last time you took a hot bath at 4400m surrounded by mountains, desert and llamas?

After a brief stop at Laguna Verde and Laguna Blanco we headed through El Desierto de Dali - remiscent of the paintings of Salvador Dali and full of weird and wonderful petrified lava and onto the "Sol de Manana" - the geysers at 5000m.

It was colder than ever here and we felt a bit weak with the altitude, but it was great to stand among the plumes of sulphur.

Our accommodation that night was next to Lake Colarado, a huge red-coloured lake (because of the plankton and algae) home to hundreds of flamingos. Into bed after dinner with all our clothes on and extra blankets stolen from the other beds in the dorm.

Another early start, they were getting easier, to take us to the Desierto de Siloli to see a rock shaped like a tree and other petrified lava formations. We were now completely in desert, nearly 5,000m above sea level. Muy estrano.

We joined the laguna dots, visiting one after another to see more flamingos and watch them constantly snacking. And then on to a dust bowl of a settlement to see the tombs of the first inhabitants of the region, from pre-hispanic times. Nothing like a few explosed skeletons dressed in the rags they died in to give you the jitters.

One of many lagunas

That night we stayed on the cusp of the salt flats, in a hotel made completely of salts.

The walls, the furniture and even the beds were all made from solid blocks of sparkling salt. We crunched along the rock-salt floor to the salt-walled shower, then sat on my salt bed and plugged my camera into charge in the salt wall.

The next morning was what we had come for: Salar de Uyuni, the world's most famous salt flats. We drove across the water-logged part of the salt flats to watch sunrise in the middle of it - probably the best sunrise I have ever witnessed.

The salt hotel

The salt flats are indescribable, sucking all the colour out of the world and leaving just the vibrant blue of the sky and the dazzling white of the earth’s crust.

Everywhere we looked was white – just miles and miles of smooth, flat, sparkling white land joining the distant mountains that surrounded us.

Sunrise on the salt flats

As momentous as our first sighting of Salar de Uyuni was, every ounce of wonder and happiness had been hard earned in the cold and wind of the desert and mountains.

After a delicious breakfast of cake and cereals in the middle of nowhere, salt as far as the eye could see, we of course we made the obligatory stop so that we could take a hundred photographs that played with perspective. We had come prepared, bringing with us Godzilla himself and an almost-empty bottle of rum.

The cowgirls of Tupiza

According to Lonely Planet, Tupiza is a little slice of the Wild West in Bolivia, just the place to sling up your saddle. So before we headed off on our tour of the Salar de Uyuni (the world's biggest salt flat), Tess and I decided to go horse-riding in the sandy-scapes around the town.

The cowgirls

We were up early the next morning to meet our 16 year-old tour guides and our horses. We would be riding through the desert-land Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid spent the last of their days.

Today we were cowboys – fully fledged, straw-hat-toting gauchos – so we threw our legs over our horses and set off down the unpaved, dusty road at a slow plod.

The first few minutes were a bit touch and go; the horses weren’t paying a whole lot of attention to instruction and I ended up galloping off at an alarming rate away from the group. It emerged that my horse, Maximum, was not so fond of our guide's horse, who was the menace of the Tupiza horse scene.

Eventually though, our attention switched to admiring the immense beauty of the surrounding countryside: deep, sandy gorges, menacing cacti and our striking half way point - a towering, sandstone altar of Wild West scenery.

Happy and just a little saddle-sore, we survived our cowboy experience and sidled back through the dusty town to our hostel, on horseback.

Salta, sandscapes and The Simpsons

Salta is in a stunning location in the midst of a breathtaking sandstone landscape in the north west of Argentina. It's a town of white-washed churches, sporadic markets and dogs lazing in the sunshine. A perfect place to rest after a hectic week in B.A. and Iguazu.


From here, on my birthday, we decided to hire a car with our new Aussie friends, Tess and Adrian. We drove through the farmland and hills surrounding the town towards the coloured mountains and cacti-strewn desert.

Can you spot me?

On the winding road, we stopped off to climb into echoing canyons and look across huge valleys. We drove around the diversion where the main road had collapsed into the river and laughed as we were fooled by the scarecrow workmen, signalling us to stop.

We eventually pulled into the wine region of Cafayete, consisting of just two main streets with a beautiful central plaza, populated by trees, and more dogs.

The buildings are painted in vibrant colours – mustard yellow, aquamarine blue and ruby red. Polished wooden signs burned with the names of cafés and restaurants swung on their hinges in a gentle afternoon breeze. We had lunch outside in the sunshine, drinking the local wine and entertained by the local dogs who joined my party.

"What would you like to eat, signora?"

That evening, we headed to the Barney Gomez bar for birthday drinks - littered with spot-on The Simpsons' artwork and paraphernalia. It's funny what you find in the most unexpected places.

Chasing waterfalls at Iguazú

Iguazú Falls took us by surprise. We had expected it to be beautiful, memorising and eardrum-bursting. What we hadn’t expected was the jungle excitement, the animals and the extreme drenching.


Iguazú consists of 275 separate falls, extending nearly 2 miles in semi-circular shape, 80% of which are on the Argentinian side, which is the side we picked to visit. At it’s highest point it drops 83m, that’s 29m more than Niagara – a fact that prompted Lady Eleanor Roosevelt to sigh “Poor Niagara!” on her first visit.

While I knew this much before our visit, I had no idea just how big that would feel when stood before the falls. It's no wonder they've recently been made one of the Seven New Natural Wonders of the World.

With every world wonder, there's a story. According to local legend, a god planned to marry a beautiful aborigine girl named Naipí against her will. She escaped from him by fleeing with her mortal lover, Tarobá, in a hand-carved canoe on the river. The god flew into such a wild rage when he found out that he split the river into two and created all the waterfalls so that the two lovers would be condemned to an eternal 'fall'.

Or, it's the result of tectonic activity, but that's just boring. And the sheer size and beauty of the falls makes you to believe that something otherworldly played a hand.

So we started our day early, always happy to sacrifice (another!) lie in to beat the crowds. After a Disney Land-style welcome, we soon plunged into subtropical rainforest that is home to hundreds of rare and endangered species of flora and fauna. Before we had even heard the roar of a waterfall, we had seen rainbow-splashed birds, giant guinea pigs (capabarras), and delicately-striped coatis.
Within the Argentine Park there are three trails for you to follow; an upper, a lower and the trip to the Devil's Throat.

We began our day following the lower trail, a route that takes you much closer to the falls, where you could literally reach out and touch the water. You also feel much more like you are truly in the jungle on the Argentine side of the river, discovering the falls for the first time. Accompanying this feeling are the strange noises from the trees that you can't quite identify and the spray of moisture in the air. It is enchanting before you even get close.

And when you do, the view of the thick ribbons of water cascading down the dark rock is captivating, suspending you in a marvel of water, noise and balmy air. As we got closer and closer, the jaw-dropping view made us hurry along the trail faster and faster, with a dramatic change in scenery at every turn in the trail. First we were looking down on the strong sheets of water hurtling down the sheer drop, and before we knew it we were underneath them, feeling the spray on our face in the morning sun.

On the upper trail, we spotted so many birds, a huge pack of coatis with their long snouts and  an otter playing with death by swimming in circles near the edge of one of the falls. And still we were almost the only people there; the early bird catches the worm, and the otter.

As we headed to the lower trail we started to see more people and the famous Iguazú crowds were more believable. We spotted a vivid toucan at the start of the trail, followed by a tiny hummingbird and so many technicolour butterflies- we had gone from Disney Land to something straight out of a Disney film.

The gold at the end of the rainbow

This lower path takes you across scaffolded walkways, enabling you to walk over the smaller waterfalls, feeling and hearing them run underneath your feet as you look down. This was also our first glimpse of the most impressive part of the falls, the U-shaped cataract nicknamed Garganta del Diablo (The Devil's Throat), which has 14 falls plunging more than 350 feet.

It was so hypnotic looking at this powerful water falling and changing colour from the blue tranquil water at the top to bright green with white foam and spray as it falls over the edge. From here we could almost see all of the falls as they snake around, words cannot describe how formidable a view we had; photographs don't do justice to the energy and sheer might of what lay before us.

And then there were the rainbows, proving you don't need rain for a multi-coloured horseshoe in the sky. Protruding from the clusters of waterfalls were perfect, arching bows of red, yellow and blue on a backdrop of brilliant white and lush green.

We then caught a small boat across to Isla San Martin, putting on the obligatory life-jackets for the 60 second journey. The man on the boat gave me iced mate, the fresh, traditional tea supped constantly by Argentinians out of elaborate, patterned cups. It's surprisingly bitter and awful at first, but it gets more bearable with persistence.

As we climbed up the island, within minutes we had spotted our first armadillo, with it's tiered, shell-like back and thick, pointed tail. Then another, and then another. We arrived at the huge band of waterfalls known as Salto San Martin, Salto Mbigua and Salto Bernabe Mendez. From here, it looked like thousands of small waterfalls merging, with a huge rainbow in their mist.

Half of the island appeared to be closed off, but we saw some people walking past the broken 'Cerrado' sign. I'm glad we did, as along this less-trampled path we came across a huge congregation of vultures who glared down at us from their rocky fort beneath the falls.

On our way to catch the train to the Garganta del Diablo, we stumbled across another swarm of South American coatis – funny little animals who look like a cross between a raccoon, a possum and an anteater with a long nose and an even longer ringed tail. Not in the least bit shy, the animals zig-zagged their way across the busy trails, fishing half-finished packets of biscuits out of bins before staff members shooed them away. Strange and possibly cruel as it all was, having so much wildlife present reminded us that we were actually in a National Park – a park that is home to jaguars no less.

After cramming on a little train to take us round to the top of the falls, we crossed over a sedate, calm part of the Iguazú River, passing people going in the opposite direction who were soaked to their skin, but smiling nonetheless. Despite this warning, we were overwhelmed by the ferocity of the falls. The previous few weeks at Iguazú  had been particularly dry and so they had recently opened the dam to replenish the falls. While they are now helped by man, this part of the falls is a true reminder of what nature can do.

Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat)

Water thunders and pounds over the edge, sheet after sheet of white noise. We were deafened by the noise, soaked by the spray and entranced by its power. As it hurls over the precipice, the river looks more like a mountain-top avalanche than a waterfall and the resulting spray makes it hard to see anything more than a thick white mist and the occasional, suicidal sparrow that nose dives into the huge clouds of spray.

To finish our awe-inspiring day, we took a walk into the jungle and watched as black capuchin monkeys danced over our heads, putting on a swinging show from tree to tree.

Fútbol, flea markets and fiestas

We didn't stop with the steak when it came to classic BA pastimes - next came the fútbol. We picked a match between local teams, Independiente and Racing, whose stadiums are right next to each other in the same neighbourhood.

A rivalry doesn't get bigger than this; to say they hate each other would be the year's biggest understatement.

Tourists are advised to go with an organised tour to guarantee entry, safety and making it out alive - so this was one organised trip we were happy to give our money to.

We were picked up early, and dropped in a swarm of Independiente fans, chanting, hollering and swigging from beer bottles. Med was relieved he didn't listen to the stupid guy at our hostel who had told him to wear the OTHER team's blue and white colours - we were definitely in a red sea of fans and stood out like fat people in Hollywood.

We had to hustle our way through the crowds with the help of Paula, our guide. In Argentina, there are no wealthy bosses swooping in to run the teams and make their millions. Here, the fans are in charge and some of the money we pay goes to the so-called 'hooligans' to help us get through the police barricades and throngs of fans.

Two half-cut characters turned up to help us through.

At first, we didn't fancy our chances with these two in charge, but the women were quickly ushered past the police with their riot gear while the men had to wait in the crush. After police pat downs (you can't even take a lip balm inside as it could be used as a missile), a few confused minutes when it looked like Med wouldn't get past the police and a bit of argie bargie, we were into the 50,000-seat stadium.

The place was electric and the noise unreal! Everywhere you looked there were banners waving, fans screaming and drums booming. Our guide ushered us up to the top corner of the stand. It took me a while to realise why, but I soon spotted - and heard - the caged fans of the opposition above our heads

. They looked like wild animals up there, hanging off the wired fences, spitting and yelling obscenities at the people below. Only the razor wire kept them from jumping over the top, but I wouldn't have been surprised if some of them sacrificed their skin to get at their nemeses below.

The start of the game was like nothing I've ever seen before. Fireworks, red flares, paper streamers, thunderous feet banging on the stands and people of all ages singing at the top of their lungs, dancing and crudely gesturing at the opposition fans. Even the stray dogs who had somehow got past the police barriers were going crazy for the arrival of the teams, and arch enemies.

The match was the world's greatest circus: sprays of water, urine and blue ink from balloons hurled by Racing fans above; goals from both teams causing the fans to roar and get even wilder; obscene chants in Spanish; obscener dances and gestures; drumming and flares filling the stadium; red cards causing glass bottles and firecrackers to come crashing down near us (we quickly ran forward and right to the front for safety); a penalty and two last minute goals by Independiente to secure a win. I have never witnessed, and probably never will again, anything quite like that in my life.

We all enjoyed post-match beers and choripan (big sausages in baguette bread) in stunned amazement.

The next day was a more chilled out affair wandering the San Telmo market. The whole area is packed with stalls selling antiques and other curiosa, and a huge variety of street performers, including the tango dancers I had been waiting for. It was an amazing multi-sensory experience, quite different from the one we witnessed the day before. Buenos Aires was now exceeding my expectations.

And then BOOM, that night while enjoying some local wine with friends in the hostel courtyard, a block of ice came hurtling from the apartment next door, bounced off the table in front of me and crashing into my head. Some people come round to make a noise complaint, others shout down from their flat, some call the police. In Argentina, they throw missiles and don't care who they hit, and we weren't even being that noisy.

A cut head produces a horrifying amount of blood, but I lived and didn't need stitches. It could have been a lot worse.

For our last day in the city, we walked around the exclusive neighbourhood of Recoleta and Polemo – full of designer boutiques, sculptures, sprawling parks and grand old house. The highlight was getting lost in the cemetario - a casual wander reveals the crypts of Buenos Aires’s most elite families including the much loved Eva (Evita) Peron.

Some are old and uncared for – doors squeaking open to reveal cracked tiles, smashed dome windows and stacks of weathered or broken coffins. Some are brand new, built from the finest granite and fitted with heavy steel doors that will never bang in the breeze. The best are a mix of the two – old and cut out of white stone but as grand as any church with their wrought-iron doors, stained-glass windows and guardian angel statues.

Although visitors are in good company it is hard not to be mildly terrified when a door suddenly swings open, a glimpse through a window reveals a morbid pile of boxes or something rustles a little too loudly nearby. Still, the sheer size and unusual nature of the place is inspiring - my favourite was a huge sculpture surrounded by a garden full of real-life butterflies. Coming so close to death the night before (I jest!) I told Med I would settle with one of those.

In one day we went from death to more life and soul than you can shake a stick at! La Bomba de Tiempo - or The Time Bomb - had arrived. It was 8pm on a Monday night in Buenos Aires and night was slowly beginning to fall. The seventeen percussionists that make up La Bomba de Tiempo were preparing to go on stage and the beer and wine was being served in litre cups. As they took to their drums, the crowd went wild.

These hugely talented musicians – and their weekly guest artists – play a different show every week: unrehearsed, and carried out through “directed improvisation”. The communication within the band is held together through the slightest of hand signals and some highly gymnastic leaps on the part of the director. They had guest singers and drummers to keep the pace fresh and exciting.

As the night moved on, the collective dancing of the huge crowd grew more wild and spontaneous and I was grateful for my well-worn flipflops and leggings combo. We danced, we whooped, we sweated buckets and applauded until our hands were numb. I didn't want the night to end, but what a way to end our stay in BA!

Buenos Aires was just like that: a 'time bomb'. It rushed by in a blur of steak, good wine, tango dancing in the streets, a nightlife that never seems to stop, fútbol and flares, bustling markets, and music, art and inspiration around ever corner. Buenos Aires is all that and a bag of chips.

Raising the steaks in Buenos Aires

I had an image of the city of Buenos Aires before I had even got there. One of colonial buildings, sun-kissed parks and tango dancers on every street corner.

Old friends and new had raved about it, letting days drift into weeks there and never wanting to leave. But I soon snapped out of my rose-tinted daydream as we stepped out on the city's streets for the first time.

Getting splashed by air conditioning units above our heads, dodging dog poo on every uneven pavement and inhaling the fumes from the frantic traffic, I began to wonder what all the fuss is about.

One place we wanted to see first was the Plaza de Mayo, just around the corner from our hostel. The scene of many protests, rallies and speeches, including Evita's famous speech (not Madonna’s), I was sad to see the battered monuments and splatterings of graffiti. The hundreds of pigeons seem to be having a good time though, and some scruffy protesters had set up camp opposite the Casa Rosada.

First impressions? No bueno. Quite frankly, I was disappointed. But as we spent a few more days in the city, I started to see Buenos Aires in a new light. Not the postcard-perfect BA of my daydreams, but the cool, unpretentious, laid-back BA that’s full of energy and life.

Artists are doing their thing in spacey warehouses, musicians have come to town to make it big, tourists are happily soaking up everyday Spanish lessons from enthusiastic locals and markets seems to spring up spontaneously in the narrow streets.

And then there's the steak. We went with our Irish friends Keira and Alan (today, we were Irish too), who knew of a restaurant with huge, melt-in-your-mouth steak for around £7. In fact, it was so good that it rendered us all speechless for a few minutes.

Like all good steak restaurants in BA, the small place was a lively, carnivorous place, with an accordion player dancing between tables; when the steak is this good, it deserves its own theme tune.

Border crossings and bicycle bottoms

Being British in Argentina just a few days after the 30 year anniversary of the Falklands/Malvinas war made us nervous.

Seeing images on the BBC News website of your national flag reduced to a smouldering heap on the main street of Buenos Aires is certainly a little irksome, as was the stony face of the man sat behind the customs desk at the border crossing as he read slowly, and sternly: "Ingleterra." Everyone else got a smile.

So if pressed on the matter, we're Australian from here on in.

Our border crossing to Argentina, while spectacular (the customs office is at the foot of Volcan Lanin), has set a precedent for future border crossing in South America.

After our little fracas with the man at the border, I was just nodding my sleep-heavy head when our bus, freshly on Argentinian soil, screeched its breaks to a standstill. People on the bus started walking to the front and stepping outside, all speaking in fast Chileno Spanish that went way over my head, despite the lessons.


There was a protest, for what, I am still not sure. The road had been barricaded with a truck parked horizontally across the bridge and a group of roguish-looking men camping out behind it.

Everyone has heard a South American horror story, and I've listened to more than my fair share. But today we were lucky: the protest was peaceful (less the monster truck parked crudely in the middle of the road) and we were able to walk with all our bags to another bus on the opposite side of the bridge. The protesters even smiled and said "hola" as we passed them - not quite the hysteria I had anticipated.


It was striking to see the contrasts in the west and east sides of the Andes. While lush and green on the Chileno side, it was quite dry on the Argentina side - both tied together by mountains and stunning 'Monkey Puzzle' trees.

As we moved closer to our destination, the landscape changed from arid mountain plains to pine forests, golf courses, a ski resort and holiday homes. This was a playground for wealthy Argentinians, and not what I had imagined at all.

San Martin de los Andes is on the shore of a big and beautiful lake; houses are made of stone and wood; and the streets are lined with hundreds of trees. However, I was relieved to see the tell tale signs that this was still very much South American: stray dogs strutting around everywhere - they are the kings of these streets, but so friendly too.

Having started to feel the effects of meat and cheese, we bit the bullet and rented bikes for a day, up through the mountains and to the shores of Lago Lácar.

It was tough going as a lot of it was uphill up dirt tracks, mostly trodden by goats and cows. We had to pull into the side to let by two huge bulls being led by a local Mapache man, his children and a trail of puppies - it was good to see a slice of authenticity in this European-style town.

Our efforts were rewarded when we arrived at the mirador (viewing point) of the lake and surrounding mountains. It was good to get a bit of a sweat up but it was more fun on the way back, downhill and with the sun on our backs - we stopped only for lunch by the lake and to see the decorative shrines on the side of the road.

The next day I woke up with a very painful, bruised bottom; I should have taken the bull, not the bike, up the rocky, steep path.