El Cono de Arita: Sunrise over the Sacred Inca Salt Pyramid
So far, our timing had been perfect. While the wind picked up in the afternoons, it was gone again by midnight, ensuring we slept as well as we could. Even though we’d been at this altitude for a week now, we were still not fully acclimatised, meaning that our sleep wasn't as deep or restorative as it usually was, so my smart watch kept telling me. Coupled with tough roads and long drives, the expedition was becoming a bit of an endurance test at this point.
The next morning was another critical juncture, as we needed fuel. We might just be able to make it to the next village, Tolar Grande, but we weren’t certain. If there were a lot of steep climbs or rough tracks ahead, we’d burn through our supply even faster. There wasn't going to be a huge range of options in the next village either, so as soon as we had packed up that morning, we headed straight into Antofalla.
This tiny hamlet has just 40 permanent residents and lies at the foot of Volcán Antofalla, which dominates the landscape at 6,440 metres tall. It’s a harsh place to live: sitting at an altitude of 3,800m, its arid landscape frequently plummets to -20C in winter and receives an average of just 150mm of rain per year. When we arrived, those statistics were entirely believable. The village appeared completely deserted — a rolling tumbleweed would have fitted right into the scene.
We drove through towards the spot where the "petrol station" was marked on our map. When we arrived, its gates were firmly shut. We knocked hopefully on the door, not really expecting an answer. This was a spanner in the works indeed. Being such a small place, we hoped someone would likely know the owner; we just needed to find a local. We parked Ruby in the car park outside a place that supposedly offered paid showers — also completely deserted — and decided to wander around on foot. We spotted a man walking down the street and asked if he knew where to find the fuel seller. He said he didn't, but mentioned that his wife worked in tourist information and would know. He pointed to a green bicycle leaning against the wall on the far side of the square.
We headed optimistically towards the tourist information office. A large painted rock outside announced its purpose, and we hoped that since the bicycle was there, she would be too. To our disappointment, the door was locked and no one was inside. That's what you get for travelling out of season! Our next plan was to find the local shop, reasoning it held the best chance of being open and staffed.
We wandered through a narrow alley and found a few people outside a local food joint. We spoke to one bewildered local who kindly offered to sell us four litres of petrol, though he had no idea where we could get any more. Then we stumbled upon the local shop and car mechanic. Two men were buried under the bonnet of a beaten-up pickup; as we approached, one wiped his hands on his dirty jeans and led waved us inside the tiny shop.
Having visited several remote shops, we recognised the familiar setup. Shelves were sparse, replaced instead by massive sacks of goods stacked on the floor, clearly bought in bulk from the nearest major town. A couple of haphazard hooks held way more than their fair share of random articles. What few shelves existed were piled high with an assortment of items in no particular order, carrying a surprisingly varied stock designed on the principle that they had one of everything or something that would "do in a pinch."
We asked the owner about the fuel seller; he nodded and pulled out his phone. He spoke briefly to someone on the line before asking if we could wait. We told him we could easily hang around for a few hours, and asked him to tell the seller to look for our red Kombi. The shop owner confirmed that someone would be back at 12 o'clock and could sell us at least 20 litres of fuel.
In light of this good news, we headed back to the car park, determined to get cleaned up. Days of driving along dusty, unpaved tracks had left our hair stiff with dirt. While the hostel with the shower was closed, there was a tap in the car park we could use. We lit the cooker, ready to heat up our own water in pots.
Around twenty minutes later, just as we were getting the operation underway, a woman appeared from around the side of the building. We asked if we could pay to use the shower, and to our delight, she told us we could use it for whatever donation we wanted to give. She led us down the side of the building to a spotless bathroom and told us to help ourselves. While we can manage a decent shower inside Ruby, it pales in comparison to the luxury of standing under unlimited hot running water. The shower was glorious, and we both emerged in vastly better spirits as we waited out the remaining half-hour for the fuel seller to arrive.
With surprising punctuality, she appeared almost on the dot of 12. Pushing her bicycle, she came over and asked if we were the travellers needing fuel, before waving a hand towards the green garage doors we’d parked outside earlier. Once inside the courtyard, we were all set. She brought out large plastic jerrycans, asking how much we needed. She then proceeded to fill the tank using the broken end of a traffic cone that didn't fit in the filler neck, dribbling fair quantities of our precious fuel down the side of Ruby. The price was slightly cheaper than in town, though not as cheap as we’d hoped at 3,000 pesos (£1.50) a litre. We bought 35 litres, which gave us a solid half-tank of fuel with a little emergency cash left over. We still had 10 litres stored on the roof, which we hoped would be just enough to carry us to San Antonio de los Cobres, where we could finally pay by card again.
With fresh fuel in the tank and clean hair, we left Antofalla behind and began a steep climb up out of the salt basin across a barren mountain pass. The sky was a vibrant, brilliant blue, and while the wind was present, it wasn't too forceful.
The scrubby mountain grasslands shone bright yellow against the backdrop of pastel-pink peaks. It was a magnificent day for driving, and with a solid dirt track beneath the wheels, even the driver could soak in the surroundings as we rolled along.
The landscape shifted gradually around us. The yellow grass thinned out and gave way to vast gravel plains that stretched toward a horizon shimmering like a mirage at the foot of distant mountains. As we drove on and on, the mountains never seemed to get any closer. We lost all sense of scale out there; only the satnav confirmed that we were actually making progress towards our destination.
And what a destination it was: El Cono de Arita.
This naturally formed pyramid sits squarely within the Salar de Arizaro, the sixth-largest salt flat in the world. With the nearest town still 80km away, this remote peak is the sole feature on the horizon as you enter the salt field. Standing 200 metres high, its name derives from the ancient Aymara word arita, meaning "sharp." Unsurprisingly, its striking geometric shape and isolated setting made it a sacred site for the Incas, with numerous archaeological finds around its base pointing to its historical role in ceremonial rites.
While its symmetry looks so perfect that it appears man-made, geologists believe it is actually a volcanic cone that lacked the explosive pressure to fully erupt; instead, the magma rose and cooled, leaving behind this remarkable, pristine peak.
That night, we camped with the cone framed directly in our windows. The following morning, we were up at sunrise to watch the very first rays of light illuminate its peak across the salt flat.
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