I have no idea how to start this entry. My 3-day tour through the Atacama Desert and the Salar de Uyuni is certainly the biggest adventure of my trip. Here goes...

    The Chilean-Bolivian border is a strange landscape of desert, salt plains, geysers, volcanoes, and oddly-colored lakes. Toyota Landcruisers begin the journey between San Pedro, Chile and Uyuni, Bolivia everyday, carrying tourists with them. I was lucky to be able to make this trip. Ten years ago, it cost $500; today, it costs only $70.

    Our tour operator (Colque Tours, highly recommended, if anoyone else is planning a similar trip) was up-front about the conditions. "Muy, muy basico. Frigido," he said over and over again, jabbing a dirty thumb at the whole map. Our parting words were a supply list: water (lots), coat, sweaters, sleeping bag (even though we will have 4 blankets on our beds).

    We leave at 8 oīclock the next morning. The first stop will be the Bolivian border crossing. I have never seen a place that so embodies the words "desolate" and "godforsaken." The border guard lives in a concrete hut in the middle of a rocky, windswept plain. His stamp is partly broken and he writes in the missing parts with a ballpoint pen. Beside his desk is a pile of blankets two feet thick. Someone asks for the bathroom and Nestor, our driver, grimly replies, "The Bolivians donīt piss."

    At breakfast, Liz and I meet the 4 other members of our group: Helen and Leigh, traveling to celebrate their graduation from a British law school; Jesse, whoīs just graduated from Columbia University in the US; and Tom, who is traveling before he starts university in England. (Side note for the NYU people: Liz, Helen, and Leigh say that NYU torch t-shirts are really trendy in London.)

    The morningīs stops include two beautiful lagunas (see photo page because I canīt describe them) and a sulfurous geyser field. All of us are beginning to feel the effects of the altitude. Short walks leave us panting and gasping for water. I feel a headache building behind my eyes. jesse and Tom have brought along coca leaves, a local remdy for altitude sickness and also the base ingredient of cocaine. In their unrefined form, they are completely legal (in Bolivia anyway), barely addictive, and have mild narcotic effects like a cigarrette. Chewing them helps my headache, but they taste terrible.

    In the afternoon, we arrive at our hostel and discover the meaning of "muy basico" lodging. The roof is made from straw and corrugated tin, and even though the temperature drops to 20 below (celsius, not farenheit!) at night, there is no insulation. The floors are made from hardpacked dirt and the kitchen stove belongs in "Little House on the Prarie." We will have three hours of electricity every night and no running water. The toilets flush by pouring a bucket of water into the bowl.

    After a muy basico lunch of bread, cheese, cucumbers, and funky lunchmeat, we pile back into the Jeep for the short drive to Laguna Colorada. This is the strangest, though not the most beautiful, of the alpine lakes. Its water shifts from blue to red to brown, and at the edges, flamingos wade through the water, miraculously finding something to eat. Closer to us is a huge herd of llamas. We approach them very, very slowly before we realize that theyīre a domesticated herd and used to humans. Each has ribbons on its ears and a woven bib around its neck, so we think they must be too well-loved to eat. But once we get to Uyuni, we discover 3 or 4 llama dishes on every menu. (Side note: llama meat is really tasty). Iīve never been in nature like this before. Llama carcasses and bird carcasses litter the ground, probably victims of the extreme cold. I wonder why the owners of the herd donīt haul them off, but then, where would they put them? I donīt know why, but in the biting cold, nothing stinks.

    When we get back to the hostel, I crawl into bed. I have come down with every possible symptom of altitude sickness: bloody nose, headaches, exhaustion, shortness of breath, and vomiting. Especially vomiting. I canīt even keep down water, which is a shame because everyone keeps forcing me to drink more. In the end, I am so dehyrdated that my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. On the positive side, Helen found me a dashing British tour guide/doctor who uses his sexy, sexy accent to assure me that no, my head really cannot explode, no, I will not die, and yes, all of this will stop eventually. To paraphrase Elisa, at least I was with people who were worried about me instead of people who wanted to steal my possesions knowing that I could only groan in protest. I think (knock on wood) that the worst night of my trip is behind me.

    In the morning, I feel better but decide to stay dehydrated rather than drink more water and risk throwing up in the Jeep. Day two is not the most exciting day of our tour. We see so many volcanoes and beautiful lakes that we feel jaded and fall asleep. Late in the afternoon, we arrive at a tiny, abandoned-looking town where there is a general store that will accept our Chilean pesos. We buy chocolate, Fanta, and Coke, all of which seem like unimaginable luxuries here in the wilderness. When we pull into our hostel, we are in shock. This is NOT basico. The entire front wall is composed of plate glass windows that trap the heat and give a spectacular view of the Salar, which weīll drive across tomorrow. The building is clearly brand new and beautifully clean. We even have an en suite bathroom with hot water! Next door is a store that sells all the junk food we could want. No item costs more than 25 cents. Dinner is fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

    Weīre all awed by how hard the Bolivian staff works to make us happy. Nestor, the driver, gets up before dawn to cook our breakfast. Every morning, he leaps on top of the Jeep and maneuvers our heavy bags onto the luggage rack. He will take them down for us any time we ask. He doesnīt seem to eat lunch. Instead, he prepares our lunch and uses the rest of the hour to clean the Jeep and adjust the engine. At night, he brings our food to our table and clears it when weīre done. I am apalled by how much the cafeteria workers do for us. We stay in the cafeteria playing cards after dinner and they move between the tables, picking up the garbage that we would gladly clear for ourselves. When the power is switched off for the night, they are still in the kitchen juicing oranges for tomorrowīs breakfast. Donīt they know that we consider hardship interesting life experience? That if they left us to wash our own dishes and threw a loaf of bread on the table in the morning, weīd call it an adventure and write excited emails to our parents?

    Day three starts late: we donīt have to leave until eight. After only 15 minutes, we have reached the goal of the trip: the Salar de Uyuni. The salt is blinding white and cracked. Nestor says it is six meters deep. We see the salt, the sun, and mountains in the distance. I begin to understand how people see mirages in the desert. In places the salt is so clear that it reflects the mountains. Soon we reach the Isla de Pescadores, named because itīs shaped like a fish (which I donīt really see, but thatīs behind the point). This so-called oasis in the Salar is covered with sand and cacti. Itīs practically a cactus forest. Most of them are over six feet tall. On the rocky hiking trail, I have to remind myself not to steady myself by grabbing hold of the cacti. The island is littered with funny signs: "This is not a bathroom." "Do not hurt the cacti." Yeah, thatīs a risk.

    The rest of the day rolls on slowly. We drive past two hotels where everything is made of salt and we see workers harvesting salt. First they build it into small piles, then they scoop it into the back of a truck. Judging from how hard the salt is, this is very difficult work.

    The day ends with a trip to the Uyuni Train Cemetery. Itīs like a slice of the Wild West. Ancient locomotives rust on the tracks. We climb in eagerly, feeling like weīre eight. Inside one, we find old lumps of coal in the boiler. The whole place is surreal and a little creepy. We climb around the old trains until we are thoroughly freezing, and then we drive to Uyuni. People have told me itīs a hellhole, but I am intrigued as soon as I see it. Itīs clearly like no place on earth and I canīt wait to explore.

~Meredith