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stop was the tiny settlement of Uyuni. We were going to
spend Christmas Day here before heading off on a 4WD tour
of the Salar de Uyuni. Disappointingly, it didn't
look like Uyuni was going to provide a lot of excitement.
Even the Lonely Planet had said that there "was little to
recommend the dull and dusty town of Uyuni."
Nic,
determined to stay on schedule, argued that it couldn't
be that bad. Steve said that he really didn't want to get
stuck in a shitty town on Christmas Day. Teen threw a tantrum
and said that no one ever consulted her anyway. I thought
that we could make our own Christmas fun as long as we had
enough alcohol.
But
as our bus pulled into Uyuni on the morning of Christmas
Eve, I started to wonder.
 There
really wasn't much here apart from dust. Dust and a faded
plaza with crumbling concrete columns. Under the grime the
plaza was a pale flamingo pink, the colour of old ladies'
bathroom tiles. Past the plaza was a wide, empty street.
I knew from the map wedged between my thighs that this was
the town's main road and that it met the train station.
From my viewpoint on the bus, it stretched only into a low
horizon that made me feel scratchy.
The
place felt like an abandoned Western set. I almost expected
to see an unhinged saloon door lying about, with "BAR" written
on it in peeling gold italics.
A
Bolivian man sat on a plastic chair with three legs, chewing
coca leaves. He watched the bus with inscrutable black eyes.
Where
was the throng of accommodation spruikers that usually met
the buses? After a month in Bolivia I had gotten used to
the frenzy of spittle and hard sell that greeted new arrivals.
Now I felt robbed of the chance to roll out my new bargaining
skills. "No me querio, es demasiado caro!"
Maybe
all the tourist merchants were at the train station. Backpackers
with enough sense and money would probably have elected
to take the train from Potosi. It was three hours faster
and much more comfortable than the cramped, sweaty buses.
God I was sick of buses.
Nicola
had just shaken her head in bemusement and mouthed budget
when II had made the suggestion. She had been my best friend
for years and knew my disregard for money. Coming from London,
I saw bolivianos as itty'bitty play pounds. In
my head I had happily converted my tiny savings to a personal
fortune of a trillion billion bolivianos.
Of
course, the cost of jungle and pampas tours, terrifying
bike rides down La Carre de Muerte and excursions
into the twisted tunnels of silver mines added up, no matter
what the currency. Our last big, bumpy tour was going to
be over the Salar de Uyuni.
 Once
a huge inland sea, the Salar de Uyuni was now a
formidable crust of salt stretching for over 12,000 square
km. The effect was a stunning, blinding stretch of white
that looked deceptively like sand or snow. The snowfield
mirage was made more spectacular and strange by the sight
of Del Pescado Isla, a rocky, fish'shaped island
covered with cactuses.
On
the standard 4'day tour, travelers also saw Laguna Colarado,
a vivid sunset'red lake populated by flocks of flamingoes,
Laguna Verde, a lake so green it looked like a
giant liquid emerald and the spouting geysers of Sol
de Manana, a volcanic crater 5000 metres above sea
level.
Unfortunately,
the departure point for this magical interior was the parched'canvass
town of Uyuni.
Which
was why we were here on Christmas Eve, feeling irritable,
tired and dirty. Nicola had been sick for days with the
runs, nausea and altitude dizziness. Nic's sister Teen and
her boyfriend Steve had been squabbling or sitting in icy
silence for the entire 8'hour trip. I felt grimy and toxic
and wanted a bath.
Stoop'shouldered
under the weight of our backpacks, we shuffled off in search
of a hostel. We had made a group decision that if we had
to stay in such a dodgy place for Christmas, we could at
least go up'market. I was excited by the prospect of premium
lodgings with hot running water and clean sheets.
Hotel
Playa Blanca was located two long, moonscape blocks
from where the bus had dropped us off. A serene looking
woman with waist'long black plaits welcomed us in. Her grinning
husband bobbed behind her as she gave us the tour. He wore
navy overalls and big, bushy eyebrows set on friendly diagonals.
Inside,
the hostel looked like a Spanish palazzo with a high ceiling
and three or four terraces overlooking the central lobby.
The interior was all terracotta and vivid palm fronds edged
a water fountain in the lobby. After staying in windowless
concrete cells, this seemed to us a shining oasis of 5'star
luxury.
The
last guests had checked out a few days before, so we had
the entire place to ourselves. The husband was fixing the
water in some of the rooms but there were a few on the first
and second floors free. I threw myself onto the bed in a
starfish of joy while Nic was still negotiating the room
rate in Spanish.
Christmas
was saved. Our hosts had even offered to set up a table
for us on the roof to eat Christmas lunch. Our collective
mood buoyed, we hit the markets in search of yummy food,
booze and Kris Kringle presents to furnish our Christmas
rooftop festivities.
 Our
guidebooks pointed us to the large weekend markets near
the train station for all our shopping needs. If you were
in need of junk paraphernalia, cut'price confectionery or
witchcraft cures it definitely offered a comprehensive range.
There were rows and rows of stalls with out'of'date chocolate
and chewing gum packets, snacks of papas with cheese, bottles
of Sunsilk shampoo with peeling labels of ladies with big
hair, cartons of cigarettes, llama fetuses in jars and Barbie
imitation dolls with garish make'up. Stumped, Nic ended
up buying me a bottle of face cucumber cream and a bright
pink plastic pen that tripled as a mirror and a brush. We
had more luck finding food and all pitched in for pate,
French bread, roast chicken, olives, avocado, cream cheese
and champagne for our rooftop picnic.
That
night we headed out for a Christmas Eve meal on the small,
faded strip where the town's few restaurants and tour operators
were located. All but one offered up some renditions of
Italian, but feeling that a pizzeria was not so adventurous
and culturally crass, we opted for the restaurant advertising
an "authentic" Bolivian Christmas Eve menu.
This
turned out to involve several course of meat including
llama, lots of cerveza and some "export only" wine that
tasted like slightly acidic Ribena.
A
fragile sense of optimism tied us up in this little restaurant.
Teen and Steve had even stopped fighting. We were all
bursting with sweet wine, llama and goodwill. There was
a guy who was sitting by himself in the corner of the
restaurant. He was tall, tanned backpacker type. We had
seen him that morning weaving through the labyrinthine
markets with a furrowed brow.
He
introduced himself as Jean'Claude; he was from the Rhine
Valley in France and had been cycling on a sponsored adventure
across South America for 3 months. A week ago, his super'expensive
bike had carked it just outside Uyuni, leaving him stranded
until the obscure brake part arrived from France.
Jean'Claude
told us about a Christmas Eve disco a few blocks away,
and though we were groaning with too much meat and alcohol,
we decided to check it out.
"Club
Bolivia" was a long wooden building that could have been
a mid'Western church. Outside there were a few teenage
boys smoking cigarettes and affecting a languid disinterest.
The older boys on the door looked at us in amusement when
we bought our 5 "bollie" entry tickets, obvious toursiticos.
In
honour of Christmas Eve, we had traded our mud'splattered
jeans for our clean ones and rifled in the bottom of our
backpacks for a special occasion top. Jean'Claude looked
incomprehensibly clean and crisp, his bottom pert under
a Nike bum bag.
Inside
it reminded me a bit of Australian blue'light discos.
The boys and girls were on opposite sides of the room,
there was a small self'conscious group on the dance floor
and a huge gathering of girls loitering coyly near the
toilets. To the right of the dance floor was a small,
raised stage where the band were playing. With big coifs,
high'collared coats and pointy black boots, they looked
like they had been transported from an early'eighties
Prince's tour. The music was an energetic Spanish pop'rock
blend.
The
boys and most of the girls were dressed in contemporary
attire of jeans, sneakers, and jumpers. The few girls
in traditional Bolivian dress ' huge llama wool skirts
in colours of a burnt sunset, long black plaits past their
bottoms and bowler hats ' stood out immediately. I wondered
if they longed to ditch the traditional gear in favour
of the jeans that their girlfriends wore.
Bolivia
is the most indigenous country in South America' 85% of
the population are native American Indian and over 50%
maintain traditional values and beliefs.
The
sexual politics of the dance reflected a certain conservatism.
The girls and boys danced opposite each other in ordered
lines, a kind of free'style line dancing. The protocol
seemed to be to remain just beyond arms' length from the
opposite sex partner.
Many
of the girls were avoiding the dance floor altogether,
and instead hung shyly in the diamond of dark near the
toilets. Anonymity must have been the main appeal of the
location, because the black pit toilets emitted a rotten
smell.
Nic
and I were so busting after all the wine and beer that
we had to brave the facilities. Gripping each other's
hands as we treaded into the impenetrable dark, I thought
how ridiculous our fear was. We had slithered on our stomachs
in the diamond mines of Potosoi as dynamite was detonated
around us. This bathroom, with its starless night black
and swamp beast stench, seemed far more fraught with danger.
We
slid out with relief, just as the band was launching into
a screeching acoustic rendition of Madonna's "Papa Don't
Preach".
Back
in the hall Steve and Teen were bopping cautiously near
the bar, beers in hand. Jean'Claude looked like a big
kid, flushed and energetic.
I
got back from the bar as two nervous'looking boys aged
were approaching Nic. "Quieres baillar?" They
looked about 17 or 18 and both peered out from heavy fringes.
Out
on the dance floor, the boys' initial temerity fell away
as they moved in for some surprisingly provocative movements.
My partner stared studiously at the floor while his pelvis
gravitated closer to mine. I glanced over at Nic in concern'
her partner's hip'grinding also looked a bit invasive.
The other boys on the floor were definitely maintaining
a more respectful distance from their partners. I tried
to engage my partner with some faltering questions straight
from Introductory Spanish, but he was far too focused
on the floor and increasing the area of body contact to
pay much attention.
I
threw another desperate look at Nic and she gestured for
a getaway. I made some hurried, probably unintelligible
excuses and slipped back to the fringe of the dance'floor.
It was then that we realized that our Christmas Eve dance
partners had made off with more than just a small amount
of our modesty...both our beers were missing. Merry Christmas,
I thought.
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