Bolivia is something of a rarity in South America in that it has an operative rail network and, as luck would have it, Uyuni is well-served.
Before you go imagining a speedy, half-hourly service in all directions though let me quantify "well-served".
There are four trains per week passing through, originating in Oruru and making for Villazon on the Argentine border.
Four trains per week was cause for unbridled celebration though, it's four more than we have become accustomed to.
Oruro is four hours south of La Paz so we took a bus on Friday morning, 'admiring' the bone dry and litter-strewn landscape as we progressed.
With 60% of the population of Bolivia being of indigenous descent we were also treated to the sight of bowler hatted women shuffling about under the weight of several layers of woollen clothing.
Despite being 12000ft up we find the days boiling hot and are usually only wearing tee-shirts. The locals wear so many clothes that it's a wonder they don't overheat.
Near us on this bus was a guy in a wooly hat, a blanket, a coat, two visible jumpers, a shirt and a vest.
Here are a few other points of interest about Bolivia for you:
It is usually women who dress in the traditional way, men eschewing ponchos and sandals for western clothing.
Large amounts of silver were discovered in the country by the Spanish in the 1500s which resulted in the deaths of around 8 million people who were enslaved to extract it.
Simon Bolivar oversaw the creation of the Republic of Bolivia in 1825, the new country being named after him.
In the 180 odd years since independence was declared there have been almost 200 governments in power.
Back to the present day, we had three hours to kill in Oruro before our train departed so we bought our first class tickets (reclining seats, air-con, includes a meal) and had a lunch of thigh of goat in a watery broth in quite a swanky joint.
I felt a little out of place in flip flops, cargo pants and with my two months worth of beard dangling into my soup but Kerry demonstrated more acceptable standards with recently dyed, luxuriant brown barnet and had even conjured a stain and aroma-free top from somewhere.
Waiting at the station for the train, a steady stream of gringos pitched up, among them the familiar face of Andrea whom we'd met on the bus to Tiahuanaco the other day.
After high-fives and travel banter with her the train arrived and the station was a hive of activity and excitement. We found our seats, miraculously both facing forward and with an unrestricted window view and settled down for the seven hour journey.
As expected when travelling in a continent obsessed with television, first class accommodation came with the 'added bonus' of this medium.
Glitzy Hollywood movies are favoured, preferably with pyrotechnic displays and a multitude of explosions. Jason Statham appears to be revered here (rightly so) but dubbed in Spanish? Deary me!
Some people should never be dubbed: Statham, Ray Winstone, Clint Eastwood, Samuel L Jackson etc.
However, it wasn't Hollywood trash on the screen but none other than "The Old Grey Whistle Test" so, for once, we didn't have to plumb into our iPhones to escape the noise.
It couldn't last though and once we'd enjoyed twenty minutes of reminiscing, a truly dreadful Disney film was played where talking dogs saved Christmas.
By 1800 we were a bit peckish so took our seats in the restaurant car for our inclusive slap-up, only to be told by a heavily perspiring and seriously under pressure steward that we had different tickets and we should return to our seats where we would be brought something.
We waited a frustrating hour and a half before a chap waddled up the train with a plastic shopping basket administering paper bags to Uyuni bound passengers.
We could have eaten a scabby horse so you can imagine our dismay when we excitedly tore open our bags to find a packet of five biscuits and a sickly, E number-laden drink.
Deciding to pay for a proper meal in the restaurant car, we not only now found it full but with a queue having formed for the next available table.
Another hour passed before seats became free but the lukewarm chicken, rice and stone cold veg were just another disappointment.
The "Andean Explorer" this was not!
We arrived in Uyuni at 2210 and after much relationship-threatening prevarication, we wound up in a room with leaky sink and a pervading aroma of vomit for three times the price of the alternative (don't ask!). The beds were comfortable though and, providing you're not a fan of water pressure, the shower was hot.
Uyuni is a hole.
It only exists to service the salt pan so every other outlet is a tour operator, 90% of the rest are shoddily serviced pizza restaurants with the remainder made up of clothes shops where you can buy ethnic clothing to make you feel like you're truly embracing the continent and all it affords/look like a twat*.
(*delete as appropriate).
There were three options open to us tourwise: a one day, two day or three day tour.
Knowing that the next train out of here was Tuesday night and that any more spare time here could render us suicidal, we opted for the full monty, three days on the salt pan and beyond; in fact, a 1500km circuit of the far south west of Bolivia.
We convened on Sunday morning with our fellow travellers, people we would be confined to a jeep with and with whom we would share meals, a bedroom and rudimentary toilets.
We had actually selected them quite carefully, trawling round the agents asking to see who was booked for their trips.
There was Vincent and Elska, thirty something's from Am-schter-dam and Bengt and Lisa, late 50s from Stockholm.
We got into the jeep, me bagging the front seat to try to protect the old derrière as much as possible, and there was immediately a rumpus behind me.
A strapping chap with large backpack had taken a seat in the back, making seven in our six seat vehicle.
It's a well-known ruse of the agents, sell a seat that doesn't exist, squash them in, maximise profits. We remonstrated with the tour operator but he wasn't budging so it boiled down to leaving with an extra bod in the jeep or not going at all.
The first day of the tour was amazing. We visited a 'train cemetery' where defunct steam locomotives have sat and rusted since 1947.
Then we hit the salt pan and whilst only pictures really do justice to the tremendous vista we were confronted by, words like; otherworldly, mesmerising, surreal and breathtaking give you some inkling into what we saw. The brilliant white terrain made you feel you were in the Arctic and the clouds and blue sky exacerbated its beauty.
The salt pans were created when, ten million years ago (give or take a day or two) a huge inland sea dried up.
After suffering a puncture we visited a coral island which gave a fantastic 360 degree view from its highest point, flat and white as far as the eye could see.
There was great excitement on the island as two salt-encrusted cyclists rolled up and planned to spend the night.
I asked the guy, Dave, about the flag on his panniers as it looked like the Cornish flag.
"Yes, that's right, though I'm living with Sarah at the moment, in Devon, Exeter to be precise."
"Exeter? You're joking? We're from Exeter! Whereabouts?"
"Topsham".
It was such a coincidence and, if you're interested, you can read about their Alaska to Tierra Del Fuego cycle ride at www.5monthstomexico.blogspot.com.
Feeling very envious of them, their bikes and their true freedom I accepted the whistle from our driver as our cue to get back into the jeep and continue the tour.
(Baaaaa!)
We spent that first night in a salt hotel, accommodation fabricated completely with bricks of salt. It was a relief to see inside because outside it looked like a dilapidated hovel where one might keep pigs. The salt bedside table, salt bench and salt beds (with non-salt mattress) were quirky and fun.
Many jeeps from several agencies were running the same tour so there was a good thirty or so people spending the night here. Pre-dinner drinkies and chit chat flowed with representatives from most European nations.
We turned in early and slept like salt logs. It was incredibly peaceful and our salt door ensured we didn't hear a peep all night from anyone else.
We were roused early next morning for a full-on day visiting such natural wonders as: red, green and white lagoons - most with pink flamingos, a volcano, a stone forest and a desert, all interspersed with hours in the jeep gaping at scenery that would grace the pages of National Geographic.
Before setting out we had breakfast and a German chap took exception to Kerry and I helping ourselves to toast from his table. In an effort to smooth Anglo-German relations I apologised and offered him his choice of the flowery baps we had on our table.
He declined citing that toast belonged on his table and baps on ours.
We were finished quite early on the second day and had three hours to kill before dinner. This was made more difficult due to our accommodation being dormitory based, our seven jeepsters sharing one room, so lounging on ones bed in nothing but your grids was not an option.
Seeing Vincent and Elska outside our room taking tea and biccies at a table, Kerry and I joined them for a chinwag.
Herr Picky from earlier came along and asked if we'd seen a jar of Nescafé. I looked at our table and saw one so picked it up and offered it him. He declined saying that it might not be the right one to which I suggested he may be being a tad anal.
What followed is best not described in detail but suffice to say Germany and England were unhappy, Holland shocked, Sweden highly amused and Bolivia inexplicably agitated.
Its a shame because I have found Germans to be wonderful people over the years.
I guess I just brought the wurst out of this fellow.
After eating we had a couple of hours of inter-continental banter where we learned that our Swedes were both GPs and exceptionally well-travelled. Countries they have visited which were casually dropped into the conversation included: Vietnam, Uganda, Afghanistan, India, Iran and every country in Europe except Luxembourg, Latvia and Lithuania.
Not to be outdone, Ben, our dashing Bavarian and seventh man in the jeep, told tales of flying over the Colombian jungle in a military helicopter, drinking twenty bottles of lager with a priest in the slums of Medellin and having photographic evidence of being at the controls of a private jet at 45000ft.
He was a really likeable chap; gregarious, handsome, biceps like an arm-wrestling champion and teeth that could flog Colgate.
Why then he felt the need to pepper our evening with such tall-sounding tales I don't know.
On the other hand, if they're all true, he is the Christiano Ronaldo of travelling - he has it all.
On the third day we were woken at 0430 because we had around 600km to cover, 95% of which was off-road.
We set out under cover of darkness and made for a geyser field and the gurgling fissures of an active volcano.
We then bathed in the 30 degree water of a hot spring at 13500 feet before driving close to the Bolivia/Argentina/Chile border to drop Ben and a few others off who were Santiago bound.
That just left a 500km drive back to civilisation, mainly through scenery that could elicit gasps of admiration from a blind man.
One jeep broke down halfway back and we have no idea how long it and its six passengers were marooned there. Our driver tried to help but it was beyond him.
On the final approach into Uyuni, with bottoms aching and every other fibre of our beings yearning for anything but the inside of a jeep, we hit a particularly slippery section of mud road and slithered off, down the embankment and into a field. I guess we were lucky that we weren't, as you so often are around here, on a cliff edge.
Having seen the capital at length and now visited the fabled salt pans of Uyuni, we felt that we'd seen enough of Bolivia so undertook to head south into Argentina as soon as possible.
That opportunity was available to us on Tuesday night with the night train to the Argentine border.
Just what you need after three days in a jeep, with little sleep and without washing.
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