A new year - a new story

Before I leave La Paz, I better turn to you again. There are already too many pictures and experiences to sort out and I'm afraid some things have already tumbled.
However, it's not just the constant supply of events and the resulting lack of time that has kept me from writing for so long, but the indescribable beauties of the events themselves. Chile and Bolivia are to blame. It's that simple!

Actually, I planned to take a rest and experience the altitude, which is 3,500 meters and more, in La Paz. But there are also wonderful things to do and admire here, but I can probably only write about my attempt to conquer Austria in Bolivia later.

Bolivia, how did I actually get here? The idea was already planted in my mind by a dear friend, hello and thank you my dear Gris! I already imagined the journey to the highest city in the world as very adventurous in Vienna.
The second push was given to me by a travel acquaintance named John, who is a true romantic and still sends me kisses via WhatsApp even though we only talked for 2 hours. He told me about Uyuni and that you must make a detour from San Pedro de Atacama. Because it's so beautiful. And he was right. It's SO beautiful!
But before I try to immerse myself in this dreamlike landscape, a few words about the Atacama Desert, or rather the tours that are offered there.

We start in San Pedro. A collection of adobe-clad houses and streets that couldn't be dustier.
A brief note about the journey: luxury bus with reclining beds, window seat on the coastal side, well-rested because feet up. Close your eyes, rinse in Calama (not worth mentioning), Brian, a diabetic from the USA, fidgets with me to the next bus. San Pedro, I get in a taxi. To my accommodation.

Unfortunately, my accommodation was a mistake and I finally have a feeling for "2 kilometers away from the city center". Not good. In addition to the eternal minutes under the hot desert sun, at least 3 kilos of dirt, i.e. sand, that I inhaled while walking, joined me. The mucous membrane in my nose was busy binding all the crushing desert sand, and several times a day I brought up bloody clumps of red and brown. Of course, only when no one was looking. I didn't want to appear gruesome. On the second day, I ruined my pajama pants because I woke up with a nosebleed. A mucous membrane is a delicate creature, and I only mention this so that you may be well prepared and don't put on your face mask voluntarily like I did on the third day.

Finally arrived in "the city", I join the stream of motive-hungry tourists. Half of the shops offer the same excursions, while the others provide food and, above all, water.
Like all those who are not here by car, I am dependent on the agencies that pick us visitors up in the morning and then take us to the places of our choice. The selection is made like at a Chinese restaurant. Show pictures of what we want to see. Idyll under a blue sky, flamingos pecking in the water, dazzling white salt crusts, volcanoes, geysers, rock formations illuminated by the evening sun. And what a surprise, everyone wants to see the same places. Have a photo of themselves as proof that they were here.

And so we are unloaded at stations where already 10 other minibuses with 18 tourists each are standing, get a little walk to the Kodak points, sneak our lenses past the crowds of tourists, obediently take our photos, and most willingly let ourselves be captured again. Rodrigo, an incredibly likeable Brazilian and also a solo traveler, and I, of course, dance out of line here. How could I do it differently? Statements like "We have to stay together as a group" make me feel sick, and I only want to vomit where no one sees me. So I'm not with the group. And Jose doesn't like that. Rodrigo? Petra? The desperate cries of a shepherd. He has a hard time with us. I smile pubescently to myself.

Fate then granted me an unforgettable excursion.
After trying in vain for 1 hour to get a taxi, I was rebooked by the very helpful (tip from the Frenchman who sends kisses) Paula. Instead of the English-speaking group, I found myself on a bus with Brazilians. Helpful, chatting, laughing, and marveling, we drove and walked through the Moon Valley. The guide was so stoned that he had no hurry and simply forgot about us in between. That gave me the freedom to marvel at my own pace and wander through the moon on earth. What I saw cannot be captured in a photo, and no one taught me the words to describe it. Salt. Stone. Rock. Brought into perfect harmony by ancient times, wind, and weather. The path we are allowed to move on separates perfection from the beaten path of sightseers. No step, no trace, plows through the naturally formed lines. No human hand plucks the crystals from salt and rock. The eye only sees one color, but in a hundred shades. It is a shape, with all its variations. Wide. And high. Untouched. Preserved.
And if you are quiet, you can hear the salt groaning. It cracks. A round, short, dull sound. Cold on hot, it expands. And speaks.

...

At this point, I have to rest for the time being. I will stay on the moon for a little while longer.
More will follow. "Soon" is the resolution, "Let's see" says experience. And certainty sends kisses and warm regards