An hour after the colourful lakes, the surreal nature of the landscape was taken to a more literal level when we reached the Dali Desert, a plain of sand dotted with strange stone protrusions that the artist saw and used as the inspiration for some of his most famous paintings.
By lunch time, the relentless shaking of the truck was becoming hypnotic and we had all descended into a trance while the Martian landscape passed by and Cameron shed components behind her.
After hours without seeing an animal, plant or sign of human life, we rounded a bend in the road and came upon the Polques thermal pools.
A large salt marsh extended into the distance where llama cropped the sparse heath grass that proliferated around the shallow lagoon and strange melting clock faces oozed around them. A small collection of yellow tin roofed buildings huddled in the lea of the hillside and a pool steamed in the cold air as hot water welled up from the plain.
Cyclists appeared in the distance, pumping head down into the prevailing wind. A series of sulphuric acid lorries passed, trailing a dust cloud visible from miles away.
The truck stopped and the brave dived into the 35 degree water while lunch was set up. They emerged and were shivering within seconds as they raced to dry and dress before the wind whipped the warmth from their skin.
The two bob toilets were clean and fresh and seemed a better choice that the 50 bob fine for going native. The signs prohibiting any release into the wild were an earthy Anglo-Saxon reminder that Polques was the haunt of English speaking tourists and the occasional truck driver.
We climbed further during the afternoon until we reached the summit where Cameron obtained her Bolivian vehicle passport. Whether it was entirely necessary to make her sweat up to an altitude of 5020m and park in the dusty approaches to a lonely Baric Acid factory is matter for debate.
However, the view was worth the climb and no one could resist the photo opportunity presented by the crisp white altitude sign painted on the wall of the factory office.
For those suffering from the altitude, the factory stop was the tipping point. This was the worst that they were going to feel but a few had descended into a catatonic state, one step away from needing oxygen.
The rest of the day was downhill and offered the prospect of some relief.
Before we stopped for the night at the remote mountain village of Vilemar, we bounced across the volcanic landscape and into a valley of geysers and steam vents that had blasted away all life and had brought a myriad of colours to the surface. Red, grey and brown mud bubbled in deep cauldrons. Steam filled the wind with clouds of sulphur and we dived for lens protectors as we were covered in a thin layer of this highly corrosive discharge.
Cameron disappeared in the billowing fog as we followed Bruilo across thin bridges formed between the competing mudpools. Dave dived into the mist for the photographers and our straggling line was reduced to grey silhouettes as the wind pulled the clouds across the barren horizon.
The track in and out of the valley was worse than anything we had encountered before and as Cameron laboured up the slope, the back wheels hit a stray boulder. She leapt bodily and spent an agonising moment on two wheels while we were scattered throughout the cab, our possessions skittering across the floor.
She righted herself and pressed on down the hill to Vilemar at a respectable 3,950m above sea level.
The upturned bus that we passed in the roadside ravine emphatically answered the question that the boulder had posed.
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