“This guy is like that cartoon character, what’s it called, in Looney Toons, the Tasmanian Devil?” I was standing next to a madly boiling geyser in the Tatio basin, up at 4300 meters (over 14,000 feet) elevation. To the east, Andean volcanos of southwestern Bolivia brooded as icy sentinals, guarding us from the Amazon.
The Tatio is not the largest, or most spectacular geyser basin, but it is the highest. We’d been traveling for several hours in our Mitsubishi 4×4 from San Pedro (2500 m), 90 km to the south. Tours buses leave San Pedro at 4:30 AM, heading back down around 10. We left town at the more civilized hour of 8:15, and had the road up and the basin itself almost entirely to ourselves.
A few cars were leaving the guard station as we pulled up. Manned by several Andean natives, who appeared to be living in the station, they were asking 5,000 (about $US 8) pesos per person to enter. Leigh seemed a bit affected by the thin air, as she was shocked to be told it would be $20 for her and Craig. Given that this basin is maintained by the natives, and the money is for the preservation of their indigenous society, the extra $3 or so should have been a slam dunk. But it took 4 of us, and a good five minutes, to realise that value.
Once in, we drove to the closest of the three basins. At the entrance, a shallow pit had been excavated, into which water @ 185F was flowing. And in which a couple was lounging in complete luxury; by the time the water got to them, the ground and air had cooled it to about 90. Behind the pool, a long, narrow stone building with 8 wooden doors provided private changing rooms.
We walked around the crude path marked by small stones along the calcified ground, viewing a few continuous geysers, spouting one to ten feet; a number of fumeroles; steam vents; and several other bubbling spigots, all spraying vapor into the chilled air. We were comfortable in multiple layers, down jackets, and wool hats. But the white clouds rising from the Andean peaks were just beginning to widen and show a spot or two of grey underneath. Within the hour, I reasoned, they might start dropping rain or snow.
I tried to convince everyone that now was the time to get into the hot springs pool, without actually divulging my worry about the pending weather change. I couldn’t make a convincing case, so on we went to basin #2. Here were more of the same, including a rusted metal cylinder, like an upended train engine.
“Someone must have tried to harnass the steam for heat or energy,” Craig mused.
As he spoke, another miniature geyser erupted not ten feet away. He spouted for about 30 seconds, then retreated into his tiny hole, fuming and burbling as he went.
“Must be a periodic geyser,” I offered. We debated whether to wait and see how long it took for him to come back again, but the skies were darkening and spreading, and there was another, larger, continuous boiler 100 meters away still to see.
On the way back, the little periodic erupted again. Terry glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes since we last saw it go,” he reported.
I stuck around for a minute, and, exactly 90 seconds after he had stopped, up he went again. Two more rounds confirmed the minute-and-a-half interval. A miniature Old Faithful. About 1/60th the size, and 1/60th the period. And more on time, as well.
Just as we started up the cars to head downhill, we were pelted by sleet, or hail, or graupel, or maybe all three at once – those giant splats on the windsheild signifying icy droplets which melt on contact. But it barely covered the road, and within five minutes, we had dropped low enough and far enough away from the crest to be perfectly dry.
On the way down, we took time to stop and catalogue the unique sights on this unpaved highway. First off, we were the only people there.
Vicuña were in abundance. Fur a light fuzzy brown, swan like necks, curious eyes, and a strange quack like vocalization – they were pretty foreign to us. A herd was chomping away at the lush green shoots in a riparian right of way. But another pair seemed to be eating rocks. They were rooting around on a flat patch of scree. Closer inspection showed tiny leafed plants, about a centimeter or two in height, with dark red flowers. Beautiful in minature, and apparently succulent to the Vicuña.
Around the next bend, where the stream collected into a small shallow lake, flocks of flamingos were exploring the pool for brine shrimp. Yep, these look just like those flamingos you see in Florida advertisements, except here they were in the freezing mountains. The same pink tinge to their feathers, the same thin legs, stalks which bend in both directions and don’t disturb the water surface very much as they move, the same curved necks and bulging eyes.
I stopped and took a look around, sweeping the scene. To the East, peaks and volcanos rising to 18-20,000 feet. To the north, steam vents breath white puffs into the still falling rain. Spreading down from there, the land, except for the water near us, was smooth and lifeless – the Altiplano. Animals and birds, graceful in their adaptation to this unforgiving place. I gave thanks for the chance to be there, to be someplace unique in all the world, all alone except for five other friends and family to share it with.