Diane: Last night, my Land-Rover-mates hit the hay fairly early. Another group could be heard laughing in the dining room. And another group was singing old Beatle songs accompanied by a guitar. I decided to join the singers. They welcomed me with rum and coke. A couple of the young men took turns playing the guitar. The young women would then join in singing, if they knew the song. The point of playing the guitar seemed to be to get the women to join in singing. Eventually all the women, except for me, headed off to bed singly and in pairs. At this point, the men showed off their guitar-playing prowess to one another. A couple of the guys were from Argentina and spoke Spanish as their first language. As the motivating force behind the evening, I slowly realized that they were vexed as to how to stay involved with the women who were already trying to sleep in the adjacent rooms. Finally they hit on the idea of serenading one of the rooms filled with women with the song "Hotel California" - a song that everyone would know. They invited me. And so for the first time ever, I participated in a night-time serenade.
The women, who weren't quite asleep, but were still a bit groggy, slowly realized what was going on, grabbed their cameras and started snapping flash photos through their darkened window. This added additional fuel to the fire of the serenaders. We were stars for the only-somewhat-dressed paparazzi. Of course, we were loud enough that I'm sure we woke the entire hostel.
Only upon subsequent reflection did I fully realize that these Argentinian men had probably spent the whole evening wooing these primarily European women. Between their rum-and-cokes, their guitar playing, sharing of cultures, friendly conversation, and serenading, their whole evening was a bit of a hunting game. I was entirely off the radar, I assume due to my age. However, I was delighted to be welcomed as a participant-observer. Tom and I had noticed at dinner that we were the oldest people at this hostel, housing some 30 or 40 people. This is always a welcome change from Sarasota, where we are many times the youngest people in a group of 30 or 40.
There are just so many stereotypes in this little story clamoring for my observation and attention that I don't know where to start. I am wimping out and, instead, I notice the date of this entry and realize that somewhere in the U.S., someone is probably celebrating Earth Day. Today, we celebrated this vast earth by visiting a remote corner and drawing in its serenity, tumultuousness, vibrant colors, and harsh contrasts all at the same time.
Nothing big and obvious lives on the Salar we drove over yesterday. Although today we were back on "regular" ground, as we rise in elevation (4500 meters above sea level), I find that nothing big and obvious lives here either. Unexpectedly, in an area entirely devoid of vegetation, Vicuna grazed contentedly. Our guide said they were living on micro-organisms in the soil. The llama and alpaca did not live at these elevations. We did pass a herd of domesticated llamas with their cute, little, red ear tassels. They were living in an impossibly small pen, and despite their reputed bad temperaments did not mind having their pictures taken.
Their owner, on the other hand, felt that she deserved to be compensated for our photo opportunism. I would have taken a picture of her demanding, scowling demeanor, but she probably would have wanted my weight in silver for such a golden opportunity.
The landscapes we passed through, passed from surreal to sculptural to inviting to barren. We passed a smoking volcano.
We stopped in canyon country for a chance to clamber around the rocks. Surrounded by red rock that reminded me a bit of the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs were what looked like small boulders covered in bright green moss. It turns out there was no boulder, just a plant, called yareta.
The views were stark.
All of the rocks had a covering much like eggs have a shell. These covering sheets of rock were eroding away to reveal the underlying base.
We ate lunch near a lake with a flock of wild flamingos who avoided us as best they could. The next lake we came to boasted another flock of wild flamingos also doing their best to avoid us.
Tom, the outlaw with his bandana wrapped around his face, fell asleep on the way to the Stone Tree.
When we arrived at the Laguna Colorada, our guide informed us that the red color of the lake was due to micro-organisms. There was also a lot of borax in area, enogh to climb on in fact.
The last bit of terrain today was very bare. Some of the mountains had a painting-like quality to them. In another area, large rocks were randomly plunked down in a vast emptiness. All majestic in their own way.
It is very cold tonight. There is neither running water, nor hot water in our very basic hostel, the only kind of accommodation available in the area. I told the kids to think of it as camping, but with the benefit of a building, a bed, and a warm meal at the end of the day. This didn't seem to help raise anybody's spirits, so I retired to my sleeping bag, while I was still warm. No singing tonight.
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