From the road there was little to see but a snow peaked volcano, patchy verdant fields and the mostly brown terrain. As the road continued upwards toward the still unseen Putre, the high altitude drained my breath and the sun’s rays pounded my skin. My hat, sunglasses and shirt offered little relief as I carried and pulled my bags behind me. The before sunrise wake-up and long bus ride contributed to my fatigue. I was not enjoying this unexpected trek.

A police truck soon headed toward us, coming from Putre. I waved for it to stop and asked if I could get a ride back into town. The occupants had synchronized smiles while the driver said no. Are there any taxis? I asked. Again a no was given with a smile. I’m not sure if they were amused by my request or if they were just being friendly. Either way I continued walking uphill in the hot sun and thin air while Jose pushed his bicycle and caddy along side of me. I was grateful for his offer to accompany me.

A minivan passed by a short time later and I called out, “Por favor,” The van slowed to a halt and I asked the driver if he would give me a ride into town, he eyed Jose with his bicycle. I quickly added that the ride was just for me.  The driver agreed. Jose was undoubtedly pleased at the prospect of riding his bicycle the rest of the way. A woman got out and helped me with my things. I thanked them. Baskets of woven goods filled the van as I squeezed into a free space on the seat. As we drove toward Putre, I noted the long walk I’d been spared.

After a few more hours, we drove through the Parque Nacional Lauca. The landscape displayed arid plains except for the shoreline of Lago Chungura and the looming volcanoes, where one spewed steam. The Bolivian- Chilean border was near. When the bus stopped, we were instructed to take our bags, including those stowed in cargo, into a low, plain building. A few men and women with brown skin and black hair stood around casually in uniforms while one of them directed us to line up for customs. A dog, guided by an officer wearing an official emblem on her shirt, sniffed our bags and parcels with indifference. We showed our passports to a woman seated behind a glass partition while our belongings were placed on a conveyor belt to be scanned.

Standing near me was the only other tourist easily identified by his pale skin. I learned he came from Spain and spoke no English. His name was Jose. He was planning to ride his bicycle from Putre across the national parks to the salt flats near Uyuni, back in Bolivia.

We all re-boarded the bus. After traveling only a moment or two we repeated the customs procedure on the Chilean side. I assumed we would now be on our way, but after a few hundred meters we were asked to descend for another inspection.

An hour before, a traditionally attired woman sitting across the aisle expressed concern. She was leaving Bolivia with money, possibly exceeding the legal limit. As if practicing her anticipated appeal she explained to all within earshot her business affairs. She dug deep into her folds of fabric and flesh to extract a small but bulging pouch lodged securely near her heart. Her gesture seemed intended to insure us that her tale was true.

The border police again inspected our possessions and passports, all without incident.

Shortly after, I heard the driver announce Putre. I was glad to arrive. I was tired from the long bus ride and the early departure in La Paz. I envisioned the small town we would soon be driving into, finding accommodations, and sipping a cool drink at a cafe.

The bus stopped, Jose and I descended. I looked around, but saw no town. There was only the long stretch of highway we had been traveling on which extended for miles in both directions.  Two young men were seated on the other side of the road. They huddled into a small patch of shade cast from a lone sign marking Putre 5 kms. “It’s mostly downhill,” they said.

I was stunned. My ticket said Putre. How could we be dropped off on the road 5kms away? Were there any taxis? The barren road gave me an answer. At least it was during the day.

Jose offered to walk with me, saying it would do his upset stomach some good. He set up his bicycle with its trailing caddy. I thanked him then grumbled to myself at the unexpected and unwelcome walk ahead. We veered off onto a side road which climbed up at a fairly steep incline. “This can’t be right. Those guys said it was downhill.” I said.” Mostly downhill.” was Jose’s reply. I took out my large brimmed hat to keep the oppressive sun’s heat at bay and trudged slowly toward the destination over 3 miles away.

As we left the outskirts of El Alto, walls stretched along the highway marked with sí or no in various sizes and colors supporting or rejecting an extended term of the current president Evo Morales. It was difficult to assess where the majority lie.

I gazed out my window and sat uncomfortably while litter was thrown out the bus with nonchalance.  Unfortunately, public posters condemning these actions have not yet made an impact. The cityscape transformed into fields of multicolored quinoa and llamas. The sky was a brilliant blue and the air was eased of the exhaust fumes from the city.

The hours passed uneventfully until we stopped in a town. The driver announced a fifteen minute break, stepped out and was soon hunched over a large plate with rice, chicken, and potatoes, squeezed between several diners outside. Ample women wearing long black braids, the typical large skirts, sweaters and aprons were sitting or standing before covered pots where the question, “Qué tiene?” revealed chicken soup, meat stew and other fare. I asked for a bowl of sopa de mani, which cost less than a dollar, and squeezed in too on a long. narrow, wooden bench. Although the tasty, large portion sated me, it was not unusual for a diner to ask for more of something at no extra charge.

The stray dogs, never far, and remarkably patient and placid, sat near the cooking area just beside our table. These dogs, in a multitude of colors and sizes, like the many others I have seen in both Chile and Bolivia, rarely fight and display remarkably civilized manners. They quietly consumed the scraps of food thrown their way.

The part of the town I saw was similar to El Alto. Dusty dirt roads ran between brick low buildings in various stages of completion and occupancy. Residents and travelers visited the small markets set up near the roadside offering a limited assortment of dry goods and produce. Women carried their babies and possessions in the ubiquitous, colorful, bulging parcels, expertly tied and arranged to rest on their backs. It was not a scenic spot, but I enjoyed my meal while taking in the ambiance.

After our break, we boarded the bus with a few new passengers and continued on to the Chilean border.

The name La Paz, had conjured an image of an exotic city in a far away land, but the reality jarred me. The air was not only thin, but often blackened with each passing vehicle.  Despite considerable effort and a few exceptions, there was little I found that inspired an extended stay. However, the people I met were warm and helpful and the markets I visited with satisfying trout, sopa de mani ( peanut soup), delectable pastel(fried pastry-something I rarely indulge in)and api(a sweet drink made from purple corn), and other cuisine gave me the chance to experience local culture first hand. These were moments I always enjoyed. 

As I sat on the bus as we slowly, very slowly, merged with the crush of buses, vans, trucks, and cars, heading up towards El Alto (previously a suburb, now a city at 4000m above sea level and around one million, primarily indigenous residents) I focused on the women in their traditional attire. There are very few major cities that have not been seduced by the Western attire that has increasingly homogenized the appearance of their residents.

And I could not ignore the poverty. People seemed capable of feeding and clothing themselves, but the buildings that made up their homes, shops and community ranged from nondescript to derelict. Many were incomplete and abandoned.

The distant Andes in their splendor provided an infrequent opportunity for the word “beautiful” to come to mind.

The bus finally picked up some speed as we left El Alto for the main road to Chile.

I had not brought anything to eat or drink, except the nuts, raisins and bottled water I always try to keep on hand, for the eight hours or more of travel ahead. I entered a tiny shop in the La Paz bus station and ordered an egg sandwich with fresh tomato and other provisions to be prepared by a woman and her teenage daughter. The small diner-like shop was crowded with locals seated at small tables or booths drinking coffee, invariably instant (cafe grano or brewed coffee was a luxury I saw little of) and eating the ubiquitous white, rather tasteless flat rolls with butter and marmalade or eggs with an ample serving of mayonnaise (by far the most popular condiment). Some, mostly men, were alone, lost in thought or reading a newspaper before, I assumed, their impending journey. Others animatedly chatted, defying the early hour. None exhibited a sense of urgency to leave. I noted the buses in Bolivia, at least those I had taken, rarely left on time. Or perhaps they had already made their journey and were soon heading home.

I’ve accepted, while traveling in many countries, the evident truth that my down vest, Gore-Tex jacket and overall appearance dispels any notion that I am a local. I did not encounter many travelers from the U.S. in Chile nor in Bolivia and strangers generally assumed I was European.

A gentleman sitting at a nearby booth asked me if I was German. (Although I had known of Germans settling in Chile after WWII, they have settled in Chile since the mid-nineteenth century.) The question prompted a brief conversation. He had just returned from Chile for work and came home when he could. The close proximity belies the long hours to travel between the two countries.

Now ready, I checked back at the ticket office to find the proper gate. I was told, another ten minutes or so. The departure time, 6:30, had come and gone. After my third visit I was guided to the bus.

My travel bag was stowed in the storage below and I was given a claim ticket. I boarded the bus with my day pack and food in each hand, and settled into the assigned seat I had reserved the day before. It was in the front row: a cushioned, very comfortable “semi-cama” (a reclining seat with footrest).The aisle was on my left and a large window on my right. There was a sign noting a toilet in the back.

Women, ample in figure, wearing the traditional long black braids down their back with tassels at each end, bowler hats and full skirts with colorful sweaters and aprons made up the majority of the passengers. A young man with earplugs and sunglasses wore jeans and a faux leather jacket, a woman wearing a bandage across her nose in non-traditional attire and high-heeled shoes boarded too. There was only one other turista besides me. A man who had loaded his bicycle in the storage below. We left the terminal. It was 7:15.

 “There is nothing in Putre. Go directly to Arica.”  A Bolivian and frequent visitor to Arica, was not the only one with this advice. But avoiding a twelve plus hour stretch in a bus was enough of an incentive for me to buy a ticket to Putre anyway.

I arranged for a taxi to pick me up from my hostal at 6am, the bus was scheduled to leave at 6:30. The chill of La Paz’s early morning hours helped me wake up, but driving through the empty streets gave me even more of a jolt.  It didn’t seem possible that the sprawling, congested city, inundated with pedestrians and vehicles could know hours of vacancy.

The main bus station however was crowded. Locals bundled in blankets to keep warm and many sat on colorful woven bags of thick plastic, bulging with goods to sell elsewhere. A movie size screen in the central waiting area kept some of the awaiting travelers engaged, but the early hours nudged many to sleep. I suspect there were those too with no travel plans enjoying the relative warmth and comfort of the station.

A tiny woman bent with age implored me for money, I gave her a particularly generous amount knowing my coins would serve no purpose in Chile. I received no thanks and she hurried on to a couple with equal fervor.

Nearby a young woman sat on a small blanket with a paltry amount of individual pieces of gum and candy. She implored no one as she sat passively, patiently for a sale. I gave her too a generous portion of the Bolivian money I had. She responded with a tired smile and a gesture to take what I wished. I thanked her, but left with  empty hands.

I still had time to buy some food for my trip and headed over to a small shop just a few feet away.

Although I had heard of the Uyuni Salt Flats and had even seen some photos of it, I was not prepared for its extraordinary vastness and unique beauty.

Nowhere I have been can be compared.

The expanse challenges all I’ve known when land and water meet sky.

There is satisfaction in sleeping again in my own bed, but a realization too that the rush of the new is less easily attainable. It is not present in all I see and do.

Yet I reacquaint with what is home.