Tears of joy are a scarce elixir. I have shed no more than a few of those precious drops in my life. But here they were, pearls of liquid gratitude rolling down my cheeks to toast a moment so mundane that it would have evaporated into oblivion’s ether on any other day. A moment earlier I had been too miserable to think of betterment, of feeling well ever again, let alone of rejoicing at life. Goddamn valley, you made for one sweet sweet high.
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It all started with gentle baseline-content and unnoticed well-being on day one of our three-day trip into the white – Salar de Uyuni, the world’s largest salt flat. A car packed with good people, driving straight into the right place and time – heaven by the looks of it, but certainly unforgiving if someone were to strand in this burning, salty vastness. That’s why we, five friends and a stranger, had opted for a tour despite our general tour(ism) aversion. It was one of those few places where DIY is no longer a marker for indie-travel, but a sign of recklessness, like walking into the Amazon without local knowledge. This here was almost literally the polar opposite of a green, dense labyrinth filled with animals, but just as perilous without knowing your way around. Given that the Salar is bigger than Lebanon and almost void of visual anchors for orientation, crossing it by yourself with spotty GPS and meagre cell phone reception is only for hardcore gamblers.
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"... like a surrealist dreamscape it seemingly existed detached from all the rest of space and time, somewhere somewhen.”
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Our driver navigated the even white most instinctively, like a bird that just knew and flew. With a fierce sun high above, the Salar was a shining emptiness filled with enough salt to cover the fact that it was once a gigantic prehistoric lake. Miraculously, it was the utter monotony, the one-colored flatness that made for the lost lake’s spectacular beauty, and like a surrealist dreamscape it seemingly existed detached from all the rest of space and time, somewhere somewhen.
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We would stop for the obligatory photo ops, like all turistas before and after us, without ever loosening the grip on our tight schedule. It is well understood that one must adhere to a vacation’s rules at all times. 2 pm: lunch break at Isla Incahuasi, a cacti-covered outcrop and former island in the heart of the salt pan boasting a braggy 360 degrees of horizon.
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