It is ancient in so many ways. Both geological and societal, Bolivia is the very essence of the age old.
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
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