Despoblado, Bolivia

From underneath their ill-fitting bowler hats, precariously affixed to their flowing black braids, the Aymara women bubbled with chuckles, almost losing their silly caps while teetering on their miniature stools. Evidently, I provoked their laughter after explaining my plans for the following week: to cycle 500 kilometers through sand and salt. Judging by their reaction, this wasn´t common, much less intelligent. But nevertheless, I kept my ambition through the humiliating encounter and loaded Surely with as many provisions as could be hoarded in the decrepit village. As I wheeled out of town, I glanced over my shoulder to see the glint of gold-rimmed teeth still glaring with hilarity. They waved, kindly acknowledging my departure, or, more likely, in anticipation of my demise.

Starting out, the washboards were so rhythmically consistent that I wished I had cogs instead of wheels. After hours of jostling my joints on the pitifully-kempt road, I resorted to a singletrack that I had spotted earlier, far off in the open plains. Following the narrow ribbon of compact dirt through thoroughly chewn prairie brought a grin back onto my crusted complexion. The llamas didn´t respond to my hoots and hollers, but the shepherds found it entertaining to watch someone on the fast track to desolation - or delusion.

Pink flamingos pranced across the reflective surface of a serene, saline deposit. Their tracks disrupted the mirror image of Sajama, looming leagues away under the cloud-stippled sky. Llamas and alpacas intermingled with their characteristically domesticable demeanor while nearby, a herd of vicuñas sauntered by, flaunting their freedom. This populace, unlike the others, didn´t laugh at me.

Hours later, the wind became so strong that I could have peed on Chile had it not been for the swirling vortex created by my body-shield that sent it instead, spraying into my face. Through the gusts, I think I heard Chile giggling. Next time, I´ll reconsider such vile acts and respectfully soil the adjacent ditch. Once again, I humbly mounted and labored along under the mocking observation of wiser beings. Thankfully, the gales coincided with my direction and swept me along the arid plains until another aid came rumbling from behind.

Soren and I had split that morning, calculating a route through this forgotten country, hoping to encounter one another along the way. As evening approached, we found each other, despite our caked, camouflaged apparati. That night, we holed up next to a cool spring - an anomalie of extraterrestrial significance. For the next few days, we would leapfrog our way through dust devils and sand traps as we approached the otherwordly expanse of the world´s largest salt flats. Soon, the laughers would be silenced by sweet, if salty, success.