Into thin air: from Chile’s Atacama desert to Bolivia’s salt flats

Photographs by Nick Ballon

I caught my breath as the flamingos set flight over Laguna Colorada, a rust-coloured salt lake in southern Bolivia. All afternoon these rare birds had been standing, rumps-up like floating puff balls, heads down, busy eating the algae that turns their bodies pink. Then, disturbed by a grazing vicuña, the flamboyance – as a flock of flamingos is known – took off.

My guide, David Torres, and I were the only humans around to witness this extraordinary spectacle. It marked day one of a week-long journey along a portion of the Qhapaq Ñan, a road system of the ancient Incan Empire that extends over 18,600 miles across six countries, from Argentina in the south to Colombia in the north. Torres, from southern Chile, would be guiding me on a travesía (long crossing or journey) over a wide expanse of terrain.

We had chosen the 300-mile circuit between Chile’s Atacama desert and the Salar de Uyuni salt flat in Bolivia, a route that is famously spectacular – and notoriously uncomfortable. I was braced for slap-you-in-the-face winds, zap-you-dry sunrays, freeze-your-teeth temperature drops, clouds swirling like cartoon dust devils: it was all coming my way. Our Land Cruiser’s roof was loaded with drums of fuel because there would be no petrol stations for a week. Even intrepid backpackers typically linger no more than a night or two, but I’d be spending six nights above 12,000ft. We’d take it slowly, recharging in luxury Explora lodges along the way.

My altitude acclimation had begun the day before we embarked on the travesía and spotted those flamingos. Our base camp was the ancient town of San Pedro de Atacama, the gateway to the Atacama desert and Altiplano, also called the Andean Plateau. Overlooked by the Licancabur volcano, it is a startlingly green oasis, notable for its adobe buildings and populated by wayward llamas and yatiri (traditional Atacameño healers). We were staying at the Explora Atacama, a 50-room lodge with an observatory, two saunas and four lap pools half-hidden amid swaying pampas grass. No discomfort there. But it was located at just 8,000ft above sea level. I needed to start hiking in order to prepare for the higher altitudes ahead.

Torres and I began with a five-mile trek up to 14,000ft to view the Tatio Geysers, the world’s highest geothermal complex. The trek began at an apacheta, a type of stone tower unique to the Andes where travellers traditionally make offerings of coca leaves for safe passage. Then we descended to the salty Río Blanco and followed its path past spurting geysers and pits of burping mud pirouetting toward the sky. A faint smell of sulphur filled the air. In some parts, the river had veins of brick-red bacteria snaking along its surface like licks of fire.

We both woke early the next morning: Torros, bright-eyed; me, slow-moving after my first encounter with altitude the day before. We drove east into Bolivia at the Hito Cajón Pass and turned north from there to Laguna Colorada. That’s when we ogled those magnificent flamingos. We pressed on for another 146 miles, passing the puffing Putana volcano on the way to our next accommodation, the Ramaditas Mountain Lodge.

I had been told to expect an artisan shelter, but what does a luxury artisan shelter on the Bolivian altiplano look like? Driving at 13,370ft I saw what appeared, from the outside, to be something from a space colony: stilts held up two long metallic rectangles the colour of ochre, perched on the edge of the Ramaditas lagoon, a large lake with a white borax shoreline, volcanoes rising all around it. The eco-shelter was designed by Chilean architect Max Núñez to have minimal impact on the land. It is at one with the landscape. One structure contains the guest rooms, the other a large common area.

After a dinner of quinoa with smoked trout and minty huacatay pesto I retreated to my room. Its intentionally minimal furnishings and muted tones allowed the landscape to be the protagonist. I peered through the wall-to-wall window as the setting sun turned the small lake below into a liquid mirror.

We left the following morning. For the next two days the Land Cruiser diverted from the old caravan route to Pastos Grandes. One of the world’s largest calderas, which form after a volcano erupts, Pastos Grandes is a giant earthen bowl, 37 miles across. At the bottom, streams of water cut through the salty white ground.

The landscape had become newly animated with tall cardon cacti by the time we carved dust trails north to our next pit stop, the Chituca Mountain Lodge. The dark-green building looked like part of the landscape, surrounded by rock and scrub and overlooking a distant salt flat.

That night, trying to sink into a deep sleep, I ended up reflecting, astounded, on how remote our location was. The nearest big town was three hours away. The isolation was different to being in a jungle or on an island or amid dense forest. I was up-in-the-clouds apart. All that space. So much silence to fill.

We rose early to make a westerly detour towards the Chilean border to climb Irruputuncu, a nearly 17,000ft volcano, our highest point so far. It was now day four of the travesía. As I walked, the most potent effects of the high altitude, which I’d so far avoided, washed over me in waves. I could feel the limited oxygen altering my state of being; I was convinced I had become a less capable version of myself, light-headed, weak, short of breath. As Torres had taught me, I moved slowly, breathed with intention, and drank water greedily.

Two hours later, we cautiously crested the lip of the active volcano. Peering into the crater more than 100ft below, we gasped when we saw its far edge which, laced with sulphur, glowed an unnatural yellow, the colour of highlighters and running shoes. A fury of pungent smoke spewed from competing vents. At times, the air became so thick it seemed to block out the sun.

Turning back, we slid-jumped down Irruputuncu’s sandy slope as if we were descending a giant dune. We took a dip in a nearby natural pool filled with bathtub-hot thermal water, breaking the hydration rules with celebratory cervezas. And then we kept driving, until we reached the Salar de Uyuni salt flat.

We drove northward through the white emptiness and eventually, we came to a promontory of rock called Fish Island because of its elongated shape. We hiked to the top. For the first time in four days, we were no longer alone. The town of Uyuni, 70 miles away, has an airport and a burgeoning tourism industry catering to travellers coming to explore the flat. We watched as 4x4s crawled like tiny ants across the salar. “You completely lose perspective here,” Torres explained of the illusion. “Things that look close are actually very far away, and a mirage effect plays with your mind because Uyuni is so different from what our brains are used to.”

If we squinted, we could just make out the lithium mines, which grow by the year in Uyuni’s southeastern corner. The metal from the mines, which is expected to power electric cars, could potentially bring great wealth to the region and fuel an energy transition meant to combat climate change. Locals fear that the water needed to extract this “white gold” could irrevocably damage the fragile ecosystem as well as the lives of the humans and animals that depend on it.

“The salar is our treasure,” our driver, Cruz, told me as he drove towards Uyuni Lodge, our last stop on the trip, located near the base of the dormant Tunupa Volcano. “It’s our pride. It’s always been present in our lives. But who knows what will happen in the coming years?”

We hit the salar for sunrise on our last day, Torres and I wrapped in thick clothing against the freezing temperatures. Slowly the stars dimmed, the moon plunged and an operatic daybreak of tangerines and indigos, shimmering gold, powder blues and pinks filled the thin Andean air. I thought of the flamingos back at Laguna Colorada. Torres set out a breakfast spread – coca-leaf tea, fruits and pastries – and we sat in camp chairs on the salar, watching as our early-morning shadows stretched across the roof of the world.

Explora offers seven-night private itineraries on the Travesía Atacama Uyuni route (explora.com). Mark Johanson’s travel memoir Mars on Earth, set in the Atacama, is published by Rocky Mountain Books