Around again, again

I'm tired. I{m very, very tired. As you can see, one function of my tiredness is that I will not be altering my keystrokes to hit the new location of the apostophe key on a teclado en español. {{{{{{{{ deal with it.

Asados morphed into returning to a forced entry and ravaged belongings, with nothing, miraculously, missing save a television and vcr. That led to hitchhiking through desert cum wine country with truckers and locals alike. That turned into biking through sandstone canyons crawling with cacti and skinny dipping in mountain streams. That evolved somewhat into hitchhiking northwards into Argentina's poorest province of Jujuy, and into the Quebrada de Humahuaca (canyon of Huma...). There, the cultural and physical morph of humans that had slowly manifested since departure from Buenos Aires made its last alterations as eyes became smaller, people became darker (and smaller), and modern cities turned to adobe villages. Altitudes exploded, vegetation dissipated, and the brown earth signaled a significant change.

As we crossed the border to Bolivia, colorful dress exploded as beggars and trash, alongside streetstalls of everything from packaging tape to Choripanes lined the streets once again. An hour of our day was gained as politicians dictated the location of the sun to differ despite a journey directly northwards, and the dusty air brought a chugging locomotive, which we gladly climbed aboard.

The journey was spent in variant styles - oscillating between marvelling at sandstone formations towering above fields plowed by oxen and lone andean villagers marvelling at our passage, and marvelling at the contrasts of cultures as the indigenous peoples aboard our car, dressed in flambouyant colors of dyed alpaca wool and donning the classic andean way-too-small tap hat, watched the television screen as it broadcast hollywood movies with plots revolving around surfers-cum-treasure-hunters and zebras-cum-racing-champions, as well as covers of Simon and Garfunkel and the Eagles a-la-Andean-folklore style. Perhaps this is the true face of successful cultural globalization - not outright rejection or embrace, but rather creative intermingling. Perhaps.

Uyuni thrust upon us remuses of Jaisalmer in India as streets lined with tour operators whose focus is the semi-rich backpacker community poured their touts upon us upon arrival at midnight. If you sign up now, we{ll pay for your hostel!! Go to hell, I{m going to sleep.

But, of course, we wanted what they were offering; so come morning we embraced hassle and signed consents. By noon, we were riding high in a white toyota landcruiser ready for entry to a land very, very, very well known prior - but not by us.

We crossed desert to desert, and brown turned to the white of snow, as the perfectly flat expanse of tierra sent senses blazing, sent ideas of what should be into chaotic spirals, sent perceptions ablaze. 12,000 square kilometers explodes into a flurry of white as the Uyuni Salt Flat beams NaCl from every one of its niches, nooks, and crannies. An expanse of the pure to match a crystal clear morning after a snowy night in the heart of a mountain meadow in the rockies - but with salt for snow, blazing sun for cool crisp air, and silence iterrupted only by passing land cruisers instead of chirping birds.

Nevertheless, on that first day my fears of utter and complete desert destruction at the face of speedy internal combustion were aleviated somewhat as a single worn track through the salt saved the dry honeycomb pattern of the pristine wild from human destruction. Or, maybe, two worn tracks: for as I peer out the window, I see an all too large landcruiser, distorted by the mirage of desert waves and particles, flying effortlessly over a white cloud of perfetion. It floats at exactly our speed, and to peer across the expanse of pristine, one would not realize we were moving, driving, cruising, flying.

Hours later, salt flat morphed to salt building as blogs dug from nature's resources turn to full-fledged hotel, tables, beds, seats, decorations. All salt. Jenny licked the table to test reality, and as she cringed with salt tongue, I took to more meditative wanderings. As my feet crunched against the loose rock salt covering the floor, I could not help but marvel at perceptions blasted once again. I could not help but marvel at how truly wonderful my life right now is, and how with the wrong eyes one might truly miss the magnificence through indifference.

A sunrise over white expanse led to a drive past enless brown rolling mountains of the Andes, until we arrived at Flamingo infested lagunas - they themselves with banks of borax fields, with deceptively glaciated appearances. As the next two days unfolded, we rolled past the twig-legged pink wonders as they feasted on microorganisms in mineral-rich waters. We rolled past stunning scenery to lagoons poised to once again destroy what I thought the world should be. Water turned red, white, and green with the winds. As wind churned lakes' surfaces, they beamed their chosen color skyward to announce their minerals, algae, or both. The lakes came alive with deep blood reds and turquoise greens beneath the onlooking face of at least one 6000 meter volcano. Their banks crawled with almost translucent insects amidst bizzarre foam and weaving algaes of brown, red, green, black...

We continue our drive up and up to a geyser field at 5000 feet - this one sans the boardwalks, warning signs, or easy access provided by asphalt parking lots in Yellowstone. Eight of us, solitary, standing in middle of nowhere southwestern Bolivia walking on hot ground, and edging way too close to bubbling mud pots to see from where the booming pop sound stems. We stick our hands in steam to try to understand, and in my mind I see park rangers everywhere cringing. This is not Rotorua, not yellowstone, not hold-your-hand west. This is Bolivia.

This is Bolivia where after four days and five hundred miles, we saw only very sporadic small towns scraping livings from collecting salt or borax, or scratching the dry earth to plant limited crops and raise skinny llamas. This is Bolivia where every hour or so, a new geological wonder thrust under our noses causes eruptions of the most basic questions of existence as assumptions and lessons turn to fallibility. Yesterday, I sat on the banks of a bright green lake unaltered by the hands of man and I wondered how it could be. Yesterday, I sat on the banks of a blood red lake miles and miles from anywhere, and I pondered flamingos{ existences. Yesterday, I was in endless non-understanding awe, aching for deeper digs. But we adapt, don[t we? And we move on.

Today, my understanding of the world includes sporadic geysers 16,000 feet above the sea; even as we sit back in the town full of backpackers unaware of the potential destruction of paradigm on offer by ominous tour operators lining the streets.