June 2010: Visiting indigenous cultures has always been one of my top travel goals, and there is no better country in South America for this than Bolivia. Approximately 70 percent of Bolivia’s population is indigenous, primarily descendants of the Inca civilization. The two largest indigenous groups are the Aymara and Quechua.
Beyond its rich cultural heritage, Bolivia is a country brimming with adventure. Its landscapes range from towering mountains and dense rainforests to the dry tropical forests of El Chaco. I have a strong feeling that Bolivia is a place I will return to more than once in my lifetime.
On this trip, I had one week to explore, and I set my sights on the vast, surreal Salar de Uyuni and the otherworldly landscapes of the Altiplano Mountains. To make it happen, I cashed in my American Airlines miles and flew to La Paz, Bolivia, where my journey began.
My Bolivia route in yellow
Bolivia is the poorest country in South America and has the highest percentage of impoverished people on the continent. This stark disparity between rich and poor has fueled the rise of socialism, giving way to leaders like Evo Morales. Symbols of communist revolutionary Che Guevara are a common sight in Bolivia, a country where he ultimately met his end—captured by the CIA and executed in 1967.
Evo Morales, Bolivia’s first indigenous president, rose to power as a former coca farmer and union leader. A close ally of Hugo Chávez, Morales has long been distrustful of the United States. Due to his strong ties to the coca industry, he expelled American drug enforcement agents from Bolivia, rejecting their efforts to eradicate coca cultivation.
Evo Morales billboard commom throughout in la Paz
Landing in La Paz at an elevation of 12,000 feet, you immediately feel the effects of the altitude. To help with acclimatization, freshly brewed coca tea awaits tourists at nearly every hotel. Coca leaves have long been used by the indigenous people of the Andes as a natural stimulant. While most Bolivians chew the leaves with lime to activate their properties, altitude-sick tourists typically prefer to steep them in hot water for tea.
La Paz is a colonial-era city dating back to the 1500s, dramatically built into the steep slopes of the surrounding mountains. The city is rich in colonial architecture, with historic buildings and churches scattered throughout. One of the most notable is the San Francisco Cathedral, built in 1549, which remains a popular site for indigenous weddings. The area around the church is a fascinating place to explore, with narrow cobblestone streets winding through colonial-era structures, offering no shortage of people-watching opportunities.
La Paz Streets
I really enjoyed this area of La Paz, with its abundance of great restaurants and stores along the way. Every so often, at an odd intersection, you might spot a few zebras directing traffic—costumed workers assisting pedestrians across the chaotic streets. These “zebras” are actually orphans hired by the government as part of a campaign to bring order to the streets and raise awareness of pedestrian safety. Unfortunately, the initiative hasn’t been entirely successful, and I was told that even a zebra or two has been tragically struck by traffic.
Normally, I don’t prioritize visiting museums when I travel, but the Museum of Coca was an exception. This fascinating museum delves into the history of the coca plant, its deep significance to indigenous cultures, and its transformation into cocaine, fueling the modern drug trade. One particularly intriguing piece of history I learned was that when the Spanish conquistadors first encountered coca leaves, they viewed their stimulant effects as unholy and deemed them satanic. The Spanish banned indigenous people from using coca—until they enslaved them to work in the mines. When they discovered that coca consumption allowed workers to endure longer hours and extract more material, they quickly changed their stance. The Spanish church even went so far as to bless its use, recognizing its economic benefits.
A fruit and vegetable market in La Paz dying down for the day because it was afternoon and a steady rain had set in.
The woman above is known as a Chola Paceña, a term used for indigenous women from La Paz who wear the distinctive traditional dress. This includes a full, layered skirt and, more often than not, a derby hat. Their long shawls, draped elegantly over their shoulders, have remained largely unchanged in shape since the 16th century, continuing a tradition that traces back to Inca princesses known as Ñustas, who wore similar garments.
Photographing these women proved to be a real challenge. I typically prefer to ask for permission and capture portraits up close, engaging with my subjects on a personal level. However, most Cholas Paceñas were adamantly opposed to having their photos taken—even when I purchased something from them or struck up a friendly conversation. Part of their reluctance stems from a traditional belief that photographs can capture a piece of their soul. Additionally, they are deeply protective of their culture and may fear that foreigners will exploit or mock their images.
In my case, my goal was simply to document their traditions, not their souls. But given their resistance, I often had to rely on a zoom lens, capturing candid moments from a distance without them noticing.
Parade
For about eight hours, thousands of people flooded the streets to watch performers dressed in traditional clothing dance and sing to the sounds of pan flute music. This was a major event for the local community, drawing large crowds eager to celebrate their culture.
Entrepreneurial locals took advantage of the gathering by setting up makeshift seating areas, arranging chairs and wooden boards, and charging a fee for a spot. To ensure only paying spectators had a clear view, they hung tarps behind the seating areas, blocking the parade from those unwilling to pay.
I found myself seated in one of these areas, squeezed between a group of Quechua women, fully immersed in the vibrant energy of the celebration.
Parade spectator
The guards standing at attention before the presidential palace, dressed in ancient-looking uniforms, were suddenly ordered by an undercover agent in a suit to stand beside me—along with a policeman—for a photo. Without much choice, I followed the command, and the agent then instructed me to smile for the picture.
The presidential palace itself has witnessed countless turbulent years, with Bolivia’s history marked by frequent coups. The remnants of these political upheavals are still visible, as bullet holes from past conflicts scar the palace walls.
The local people here seemed to find endless entertainment in surrounding their children with bird food, then stepping back and watching as flocks of pigeons swarmed the poor kids—capturing the chaos on camera.
This place was absolute madness. In some cases, pigeons piled four or five deep on top of heads and shoulders, flapping and jostling for space. It was a scene of pure, feathery mayhem.
The Witch’s Market was located not far from my hotel, and like much of La Paz—and Bolivia in general—the streets were filled with indigenous people, mostly women, dressed in colorful traditional attire and distinctive hats. I learned that indigenous women wear clothing and hats unique to their specific region, making it possible to tell where someone is from based on their dress.
The woman below, I was told, was from the Potosí area, identified by the vibrant, colorful hat she wore. I really liked the hat—it stood out as a beautiful representation of her heritage.
Lady from Petosi
Dried Llama Fetuses used by the indigenous people to ward off evil.
Just outside of La Paz lies a surreal landscape of towering rock spires, deep canyons, and dark, twisting crevices and caves. The terrain feels otherworldly, like a natural labyrinth carved by time.
The man above guided me through the maze, leading the way through its winding passages and hidden pathways.
Moon Valley
I spent six hours on the train from Oruro to Uyuni, and I loved every minute of it. There’s something about train travel that I find far more enjoyable than flying or taking a bus. The scenery along the way was breathtaking—vast open landscapes stretching into the horizon.
As the train rumbled forward, wild vicuñas darted away from the tracks, along with viscachas—plump, rabbit-like creatures with long tails that resemble a mix between a rabbit and a llama. Watching them scamper off as the train approached added to the experience, making the journey just as memorable as the destination.
Uyuni Train
Once I arrived in Uyuni, it was time to explore. Just outside the town lies the Train Cemetery, where the rusting skeletons of old locomotives—some dating back to the 1800s—have been left to decay under the harsh desert sun. Many of these were steam-driven trains, once vital to Bolivia’s mining industry, now resting in eerie silence, their weathered frames a haunting reminder of a bygone era.
Old train graveyard
Uyuni Salt Lake
Uyuni, the world’s largest salt flat, is one of Bolivia’s most popular tourist destinations—and for good reason. It is truly breathtaking. I was fortunate to visit when a thin layer of water covered the salt pan, creating a perfect mirror effect that made the landscape even more surreal.
To explore the vast expanse, I joined a small group of travelers to share costs, and we hired a local driver with a sturdy vehicle. Together, we embarked on a multi-day overland journey across the Altiplano, venturing into its desolate, wild, and otherworldly landscapes.
My vehicle in Solar de Uyuni
Solar de Uyuni
Me at Solar de Uyuni
Salt mining is a major industry on the Uyuni salt flats. I saw workers shoveling salt into mounds, ready to be loaded onto trucks and transported for processing. The sight of these white salt piles against the endless reflective surface of the flats was surreal.
With the shallow layer of water mirroring the blue skies and drifting clouds, walking across the vast salt lake felt like stepping into another world. The illusion of infinity stretched in every direction, making it an unforgettable experience.
Salt mounds at Solar de Uyuni
On the edge of the salt flats lies the tiny salt-mining village of Colchani. It feels frozen in time, with old 1950s-era trucks loaded with salt, their faded paint and rusted frames telling stories of decades past. The streets are quiet, lined with rundown buildings, and only the occasional person can be seen walking through the dust.
Many old trucks like this one were a common sight in Colchani. They are used to haul the salt out of the salt beds and into the village where it is ground and iodized before being shipped out of the village for further processing and sale.
village of Colchani.
Altiplano
What I enjoyed most was driving across the vast, lonely Altiplano, where encounters with other vehicles were rare, and guanacos far outnumbered humans. The isolation, the endless open landscapes, and the feeling of being in such a remote and untamed place made the journey unforgettable.
Road into Altoplano
The villages were small and deeply traditional, with most women wearing colorful indigenous clothing that reflected their heritage. Wanting to be respectful, I purchased snacks from a local woman’s shop, hoping to build a friendly rapport before asking to take her photo.
Indigenous woman wearing a derby hat; its origin is a mystery.
At the park headquarters of Reserva De Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa where I stayed during this night, the kids were bored senseless and just stared at us while pushing a poor kitten up against the window.
The altitude and strong sun takes a strong toll on the faces of the children as you can see from the rosy cheeks. I’ve seen this at other high altitude locations (Tibet, Ladakh, Bhutan).
Many of the indigenous women in Uyuni wore this unique dress with the sunhat, and a colorful sac almost always found draped around their shoulders with a baby inside.
After hours of grueling roads, our vehicle finally pulled over, and we took a much-needed dip in the hot springs. The air was chilly, making it a challenge to step out, but the water was the perfect temperature, and the surrounding scenery was breathtaking.
There were no fences, ropes, or warning signs—just geysers, boiling mud pots, and the freedom to wander among them at our own discretion. It felt raw and untouched, adding to the thrill of the experience.
Hot springs
Geysers of Sol De Manana
Laguna Chiar Khota
Colorado Lake
Colorado Lake
Colorado Lake
James Flamingos in the Colorado lake
Lago Verde-At the foot of active Likankabur Volcano. The winds were cold and howling here.
Wild chinchila in the rocks
Altoplano
vicunas/guanacos
It was fairly common to spot groups of vicuñas, the wild, llama-like creatures, grazing along the roadside. Once heavily overhunted for their prized soft, thick fur, they are now protected.
My driver referred to them as “machos”, pointing out a dominant male attempting to steal females from another. The two rival males were locked in a tense standoff, each determined to claim his group of female vicuñas. It was a fascinating glimpse into the social dynamics of these wild animals.
vicunas
After a few days exploring the Altiplano, I returned to Uyuni, where I had no choice but to take a bus back to La Paz, as no trains were running that day. I found myself seated next to another traveler—an 80-year-old South Korean man who spoke very little English. He had been born in North Korea and was on a multi-year journey around the world, which he described as his last hoorah.
The bus ride was pure hell. It was sweltering, the windows wouldn’t open, and the bone-jarring roads made every mile feel endless. Many passengers, myself included, stripped off their shirts just to cope with the heat. The irony was that outside, it was freezing cold. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, someone managed to pry open a rooftop emergency hatch, allowing a rush of cool air to bring some relief.
San Pedro Prison
San Pedro prison
On my last day in Bolivia, I attempted to visit San Pedro Prison, a notorious facility that has long fascinated backpackers as one of the most intriguing and unconventional tourist destinations in the country—if you can get in. Unfortunately, I don’t have a photo of it, but the experience itself was memorable.
San Pedro is unlike any other prison. Old and crumbling, it resembles a colonial-era fort, with walls that are literally falling apart. The roof is a patchwork of plastic tarps, cardboard, and metal sheets, haphazardly assembled to keep out the rain. Severely overcrowded and underfunded, the guards have essentially given up on patrolling the inside, leaving the inmates to govern themselves. Instead, the guards remain stationed along the outer walls, while inside, prisoners have built a miniature city, complete with its own economy and self-elected leaders.
Unlike most prisons, inmates live with their wives and children and range from the extremely poor to the incredibly wealthy. Everything inside—cells, food, even bathing water—must be paid for by the prisoners. Some inmates profit from black-market activities, earning thousands under the watchful yet corrupt eyes of the guards. Cocaine is even produced and sold within the prison, adding to its infamy. While much of the food is brought in by inmates’ families, many prisoners make and sell their own food within the walls. The only restriction? No one can leave.
For years, backpackers could bribe the guards to gain entry, hiring an inmate guide to lead them through the prison. At the end of the tour, it was common for visitors to buy and smuggle out cocaine at incredibly cheap prices. However, after word of these tours reached the public, the government attempted to crack down on the practice, officially banning them. Even so, underground tours still exist. While in La Paz, I heard rumors of backpackers who had managed to get inside in the months before my visit—only to be robbed of everything, including their shoes, by inmates. Another group successfully toured the prison, only to be arrested by the national police and deported as soon as they left.
Despite the risks, I decided to try my luck. I had heard that a riot had broken out in the prison just days before, which I knew could complicate things. Leaving my valuables behind, I set off from my hotel and circled the prison a few times, observing the scene. The prison’s perimeter was lined with makeshift food stalls, while armed guards patrolled outside. Normally, backpackers seeking entry would be approached by someone offering assistance—for a fee—but this time, no one approached me.
After some hesitation, I decided to take a direct approach. I walked up to the entrance gate, where a line of indigenous women stood, their arms full of food bundles for delivery to the inmates. Peering inside, I could see the chaotic, crowded world of San Pedro—food stands, prisoners moving about, children running through the filth, and an overwhelming sense of disorder. I asked a guard in Spanish if I could visit.
To my disappointment (and, in some ways, relief), the guard informed me that visiting hours had ended and I would have to return the next day—the day of my departure back to San Diego. It was getting late, and I was alone, so I felt a small sense of relief that I wouldn’t be entering. But I won’t deny it—if they had let me in, I would have gone.