Location: La Paz, Bolivia, 3,800m
Miles from home: 15,218
Days on the Road: 255
I've found over the last three plus months in Bolivia, that this country is as bizarre as it is beautiful. From witch's markets filled with toucan beaks and fresh llama fetuses going for less than $2 a piece, to more 20,000 foot snowcapped peaks you can shake a stick at, Bolivia has a little for everyone.
With the bike finally fixed, I'm ready to hit the road once again for Peru, but not before a few last hurrahs Bolivia-style. From La Paz, I head out tomorrow down the "most dangerous road in the world" into the boot rotting heat and humidity of the jungle for a few days.
I must say that the interlude of waiting three weeks for the shock to arrive from the states gave me a new perspective on motorcycle travel. With four bus trips under my belt in the last two weeks, I can honestly say that ol' Cabroncito is a better traveling companion than most folks you'll find riding the Bolivian public transportation system.
Since it's been over a month since my last posting, I've really laid it on you. It's probably more than most will want to read, but for those of you with some time on your hands, enjoy! I've got a set of photos coming in the next few days...
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Back Road into Bolivia
Concepción, Bolivia -- Crossing the border into Bolivia from Brazil, I have the sneaking suspicion I'm in for a surprise. Although I'm nearly six months on the road, for the most part it's been paved. Sure, a few spots in Central America and one particularly messy time in Venezuela had me come to terms with my lack of dirt-riding experience, but Bolivia will surely be another story.
The country's own tourism department boasts a whopping 3% of it's major highways are paved. Even I can figure out the corresponding statistic: 97% of Bolivia is unpaved. Ugh.
I cross the border before noon, and hope to take a decent bite out of the 350 miles to Santa Cruz, the first real city and reportedly the first piece of blacktop I'll be seeing, before sunset.
Within five minutes, I realize I'm in for a slow ride. The foot deep sand is consuming by front tire and sending me squirreling every which direction but straight.
Some time back in Brazil, a bicyclist told me about the "Polvo de Muerte" that eastern Bolivia and western Paraguay are both known for. A deep and treacherous dust that makes two wheeled transportation nearly impossible, I've heard English speakers call it "Bull Dust," but I kinda like the spanish translation better: Dust of Death. Maybe I'm cocky, but I wonder how bad it could really be...
Rounding a corner at a modest 35 mph, the road takes on a strange look, wavy like water. Suddenly, the handlebars are jerked to the left and I nearly eat it. My front tire has sunk in a deep rut, but I can't see it. It's like I'm suddenly crossing a foot deep river, but I see no water.
The earth under my tires feels rocky and jolts me out of my seat even though it looks placid from here. What feels like water sprays up from the front tire in a steady fan and nearly blows my feet of the pegs. I look down to see that this is no water I'm riding through, but the finest tan powder I've ever seen in my life.
With the characteristics of viscous water, the "Dust of Death" has made it's precense known. What looks like packed earth gives way to foot deep powder rendering even the best of efforts to maintain control of the bike futile. After a car or truck passes over it, it just floats back into position, flat and seamless.
After few hours of mixed conditions between sand and "DoD" I arrive back out to a regular old dirt road. I'm not the only one who finds these conditions treacherous, obviously, as I've come up quickly behind an 18 wheeler hobbling along at 20 mph. The dense cloud of dust he's pitching into the air reaches back over 150 feet and envelopes me. Both the bike and I are choking on the smokescreen, and I decide to make the move to pass on a particularly open stretch.
Holding tight 20 feet behind him, I'm hoping he doesn't decide to slam on the brakes, because all I see right now is khaki. Accelerating along his left side, I honk the horn a few times to announce my intentions. Obviously seeing or hearing me, he slides off to the right. I twist the wrist to start to scoot by as quickly as possible, but then without warning he swerves left like he's either changed his mind or never saw me at all.
With less than three feet of play, I jolt the bike left and on to the shoulder, or what you might call the shoulder, and press close to the rocky wall lining it. Within a second I'm galloping over basketball sized rocks just trying to keep the bike upright while I slow down and let him by. I just avoid one boulder with the front tire only to land squarely on it with the frame.
There are a few sensations that make my skin crawl: wiping my teeth with dry tissue; chewing on aluminum foil; stepping barefoot in dog doo; and framing up my motorcycle on rocks, steps, or anything else for that matter.
Regaining control and composure, I pull the bike back on to the road once the rig has passed and stop of a breather. The image of going under those three and half foot tall tires runs through my head for second, but I let it go.
Four miles up the road, the rig is pulled over in front of a small lunch place and I cruise by, speeding up to get around the next big rig ahead that is just making it's way out of the three building town.
Later, I stop for the night in one of the only real towns within 300 miles. Before settling in, I get gas from the local "station," which is comprised of four rusty 80 gallon drums in a shed with a garden hose and a little lady with an awfully purty gas-rot smile.
And this was only Day One in Bolivia...
Air Sullivan
Quenaca, Bolivia -- It's true. White men can't jump. We can make a few nice fade away jumpers, though. At least, that's what I learned the first and only time I've played basketball at 15,000 feet.
Ok, ok, I should really just come out with it -- the whole grusome story: I got hosed by a 12 year old. A 12 year old girl, no less (no, not the same one as in the last story). But anyone who has seen me handle a basketball shouldn't be too surprised.
On the road back from the four day tour of the Salar de Uyuni and the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve, we stopped in Quenaca (sp?) for the night. The town didn't have much in terms of basic necessities (like running water or electricity), but it did have a posh slab of concrete for runnin' ball with two high tech, but slightly short baskets, and there was only one little girl holding court.
I should have known by the fingerless gloves and the sloppy baggy pants she was a hustler, but c'mon, Pasquala was half my height and less than that my age.
Maybe I'd let her win...
Within five seconds, I knew I was in for some schooling. My lungs cried for oxygen as I chased her up and down the court. Just getting my arms in the air for defense was an effort. At 4,600 meters (15,180), we were 686 feet higher than the highest point in the lower 48, California's Mt. Whitney which comes in at 14,494 ft. Last I checked, that was cruising altitude for most Southwest flights.
As my world began to spin, little Pasquala started to rock it. The squirt was hitting 25 foot jumpers handedly, although she wasn't one for that whole dribbling thing. I tried to explain, but something was lost in the translation. On my end, I had to box out for rebounds and keep to the inside game just to keep the score respectable.
In the end, she took me by one basket, but my lungs hurt so bad I thought I'd begin coughing up blood at any minute. She left the court with a proud strut, as if she beat every gringo who blew through town. Or at least, I hope that was the case...
Our Little Virgin of Copacabana
Copacobana, Bolivia -- Contrary to popular belief, the original "Copacobana" is not a sunny beach beladen with bronze bodies and tall glasses of frozen cocktails with umbrellas in them. The original Copacobana is a sleepy town on the shores of Lake Titicaca in western Bolivia set at 3,800 meters and is one of the holiest sites in Incan and Incan-Christian mythology. But that doesn't mean people don't party...
Although I thought I was heading out to spend a relaxing weekend on the lake while ol' Cabroncito was waiting for some new legs to arrive from the states, I arrive to find Copacobana at the height of its frenetic four day "Fiesta de la Virgen de Copacabana", which was shortly followed by Bolivia's independence day -- a two day event. Far from a "sleepy lakeside town" every square piece of dirt, pavement, and cobblestone is filled with merry making festivarians, their wares and their...well, we'll wait before I let all the cats out.
Every year thousands of believers make the pilgrimage to Copacobana to have everything from their cars, buses, and motorcycles blessed by one of the many holy men that roam the beach in hopes of a year of safe driving on the notorious roads of Bolivia. For a small fee, they cover the vehicles in colorful paper, confetti, depictions of Jesus and Mary, and, of course, beer. Can't forget the holy water.
Since they are all praying for safety on the roads, it's only mildly ironic watching them all drive away blind drunk after their "blessing" is concluded. The holy men are wise to not use ALL the beer in the ceremony.
This tradition peaks during the first week of August, when the entire beach is filled with trucks, buses and taxis. It's also the time when thousands of pilgrams arrive to climb el Cerro del Calvario (Calvary Hill) just outside town with miniatures of houses, livestock, cars, buses and cash to be blessed by another set of holy men that set up camp on the hill for the week. The idea is that having your miniature blessed will provide you with good luck to get the real thing in the coming year.
Pilgrims from throughout Peru and Bolivia (Lake Titicaca is shared between the two countries) descend for the week on the two horse town with their wares to sell, their beer to drink, and their items to get blessed. With ol' El Cab down and out back in La Paz, I was a little bitter about the vehicle blessing thing, as I could use a little extra luck on the road these days.
I spend the first day just wandering around in awe at the grand spectical of it all, and take to the streets on day two with a little more interest. With a handful of Spaniards I met along the way who never let my Spanish slip below the third grade level (ˇGracias Anayara, Sergio, Miguel, y Diana!), I set out for Calvary Hill.
Even after two weeks at 4,000 meters and then some, I'm still not used to the paper thin air. Thousands of pilgirms crowd the steep, rocky trail, and more than once we stop to "enjoy the view." Cresting to the first saddle before the real steep part, we take a breather and check out the items for sale along the trail that one could get blessed.
There's the following and more, ALL in miniature: houses, ranches, trucks, stores, buses, livestock, US currency, college degrees, dentistry certificates, sewing machines, toys, and sacks of grain. I look for a miniature BMW R1150RT in slate blue to have it blessed, but can't seem to locate one...
Arriving at the top after close to an hour, it is complete chaos. The hill is not just a mere hill, but also a major shrine. Along the trail are the twelve Stations of the Cross (only you Catholics will get that reference) at which each pilgrim stops, offers a prayer, and throws a stone, trying to land it on the base of the station. If your rocks stays, you have better chances of receiving your wish.
At the top are a series of shrines, culminating in the shrine to the Virgin of Copacabana -- a fifteen foot tall concrete edifice encasing a four foot tall statue of the Virgin Mary. There are a few ladders scaling up the front so people can get close enough to tell Mary what's on their minds.
The thousands of people that were all hiking with us on the way up, seem to have all arrived at the same time. Around us holy men perform ceremonies with beer and fire crackers, old women light hundreds of votive candles, and EVERYONE is jockeying to get close to the shrine of the Virgen of Candelaria. It's like Christmas Eve at Macy's, and everyone is pushing and yelling. "Get in line! Let's Go! What's the hold up?!"
The virgincita (little virgin) as she is fondly called, is already covered in beer, confetti, wax, and more as people shoved their buses, cars, and dental certificates in her face hoping for a true miracle.
We walk past the commotion and a bit down the other side of the hill where I hear some music coming from. Spurts of water (or something) shoot into the air as I round the corner to find another mass of people only slightly less impressive than the first, scattered about the hillside looking out over the lake.
"Lots! Land!" shouts a young boy at me as I attempt to figure out what is going on. "You want to buy a lot, sir?" he asked, quite insistently. Soon, I figure out the trick. Buy a mini lot here, have it blessed, and hope to get your real lot somewhere else with a year. This is something I couldn't miss out on.
Soon, three of us, myself, one of my Spanish friends, Anayara, and Naomi, a random Peruvian woman, sit down in front of two adjoining lots with a view of the water. Our "real estate agent" busily sets to filling out all the appropriate land deeds with signatures, seals, and the whole works.
As we close the deal, I am suddenly the proud part owner of a 2,000 square meter lot on Cabo Verde, an island off of western Africa (Anayara's idea). Soon our holyman, Juan Torres, arrives to begin the ceremony. Two huge bottles of beer, a pack of fireworks, and a bag of confetti arrive out of no where, and the ceremony begins.
Taking the first bottle, Juan blesses us, blesses the beer, blesses everything, and proceeds to shake the bottle over our heads. With each blessing, a spout of foamy pilsner shoots forty feet into the air. We hold out our hands to have them filled them with froth as well. "Now but the beer in your pockets so that they may also be filled in the coming year with money..."
Putting down the meticulously unemptied bottle of beer, Juan picks up something that looks like a small hibatchi grill. He dumps a lump of yellow powder on the glowing coals and suddenly we are engulfed in a thick, choking plume of inscence smoke. (AH!)
With a rosary and the inscence held over our heads, he invokes the Virgincita that we may have good fortune in the coming year, that our property in Cabo Verde be as beautiful as we dream, and that we have safe travels on the road ahead.
While we hold the inscence burner together, Juan takes the pack of fire crackers and lights them two feet from the front door of our little lot. Within a second we were covered in pulverized paper and choking on the smoke. He adds to the chaos with handfuls of confetti dumped on our heads.
To finish up, Juan takes the second bottle of beer and pours himself a glass. He toasts the Virgincita, toasts us, and toasts our lot before downing the glass in one gulp. He pours us each a glass and insists we do the same.
I soon realize why there were so many drunk people about. With out ceremony over, we are obliged to not only finish off our beer (did I mention they were one LITER bottles?), but also set into a few more. Seven in total. By the time we get up to "go in peace" we are pretty well snookered, and the Peruvian woman has decided we WILL come to stay at her house in Arequipa in the coming week.
The other three, arriving a bit late to witness the entirety of our beautiful ceremony, find a slightly nicer corner lot for themselves with an even better view of the water. (Damn those Jones's!) They all buy apartments in Madrid, and Anayara and I agree we were MUCH more creative in our purchase.
As my friends embark on their ceremony with Juan, I wander through the series of small "tailgaiting parties" that have sprung up along the hillside. One family invites me over to dance and asks me where the "Gringa" is. "Back in the US," I tell them with a sad, sloppy shrug, and an older man takes me by the shoulder. "Virgins!" he says, pointing to a few plump, young girls across from us. "Don't you want to take a nice Bolivian virgin home with you?" "Um, I don't know what the Mrs. will say," I respectfully decline, sliding out of his grasp.
A few feet away, another group calls me over with a drunken beckon. "Gringo!" they exclaim, pointing at me. "Bolivians!" I joke back, and we all ease into a good laugh. The mother is toting a beautiful one year old girl in her arms, and I give the little cutie a coochie coo. She laughs. The father, blind drunk, but friendly, asks me over for a little chat. I sit down as he pours me a beer.
"You like our daughter?" he asks. I get a little uncomfortable hoping an offer similar to the last one is not on its way. "Are you catholic?" he follows up. "Why, yes," I suspiciously reply to both questions. "Well, Meester Gringo, I'd like you to be the Godfather of our daughter. Whaddya say?"
I let out a nervous chuckle and tell him to stop joking. Suddenly, he's dead serious. "I'm not kidding."
He then begins to describe all my obligations as Godfather including paying for the baptism, helping the girl get into a good U.S. college, and finding her a good rich husband in the states when it's time.
As Dad isn't taking no for an answer, I let them know I'll look them up when I get to Peru and slide off back to the crew of Spaniards who are six bottles into their ceremony at this point.
As the sun starts to set behind us, we begin the stagger/stumble downhill and back into town. I arrive at my room at the last light of day and pass out.
The next morning, I go for a stroll on the beach to assess the damage done by 10,000 people in town built for 1,500. Knowing how the sewage systems of these small towns work, I'm not surpirsed to see a series of small, smelly streams flowing from town into the lake.
I am, however, a little thrown by the number of people bathing themselves in the water right where the "brown water" was coming down. Oh god, now I'm down right grossed out as I notice pile after pile of brown goo lining the beach. The smell is somewhat overwhelming, so I retreat back uphill to the relatively antiseptic hotel.
After a few more days of madness and splendor, the party winds down, the buses leave, and Copacabana is at last the sleepy lakeside town I was looking for four days ago.
We head out the next morning for Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun) and enjoy a full day hiking around the "birthplace of the Incas" before jumping a bus out the following day back to La Paz.
Huanyi Potosí: Bolivia's Bunny Hill
La Paz, Bolivia -- Standing at 6,080 meters above sea level (19,975 ft.) Huayni Potosí, Bolivia's most accessible and climbable of 6,000 m peaks, looms like Matterhorn over La Paz. From any reasonably high vantage point in La Paz, the narrow peak reminds me of Mt. Rainer in Seattle. However, it is almost a mile higher than Rainer, and only 325 feet lower than Denali, the highest peak in North America.
Anyone with any reasonable knowledge of mountaineering will laugh at my misleading stats, because the commitment to climb Huayni Potosí is not even a fraction of what's needed to climb Denali. HP can me done in a night. Denali in a month. Go figure.
Still, I could not let the opportuniyt to get over 6,000 meters ellude me. So, last week, I set off with one of my Spanish friends, Miguel, to conquer the great bunny of hills.
Huayni Potosí is Bolivia's "bunny hill" because it is the easiest, but that doesn't mean it's easy. Starting at 4,600 m at the trail head, the hike is three hours the first day to base camp at 5,200 m, then between eight and twelve hours the next morning to make it to the peak and back down to camp before noon.
Shortly after arriving at basecamp, Miguel started to feel ill. Despite pounding water, he couldn't shake a nasty headache. The altitude had gotten hold of him, and it wasn't going to let go. At 1 AM when our guide, Cecilio, woke us up to start the climb by 1:30, Miguel bailed. Better to wait until next time, then be proud and risk a potentially fatal complication from high-altitude pulmonary and cerebral edema, two of the biggest dangers on the mountain.
With crampons, an ice axe, half a pound of chocolate, and every piece of synthetic clothing I could find in my pack on, we set out under the pale light of the quarter moon at 1:40, hoping to summit by dawn. It's not a good idea to climb during the day as the hot sun weakens thin snow bridges than span deep crevasses and makes an ice axe pointless.
We were tied together by a 50 m rope that Cecilio would lengthen and shorten throughout the day depending on the conditions. In crevass terrain, we would keep the line taut, he explained. "No problem there, boss," I thought to myself, getting nervous.
The midnight air was bitter cold, but still. Hiking up at night also avoids the day's often unpredicatable weather. We followed a pretty obvious packed trail for most of the way, and above us I could see the blue glow of a few headlamps -- another team that set off a bit before us.
After two hours, we stopped at La Escalera. Quite literally, "the ladder," a twenty foot aluminum ladder spanning an eighteen foot wide crevass. We had caught up to the group ahead of us, and they were just crossing. One by one, we scurried across.
I tried not to notice as I was half way across that it was, in fact, not a twenty foot ladder, but two twelve foot ladders tied together. A Dutch man below me yelled that I should not touch the ladder with my crampons, as I might cut the ropes holding it all together. Great...
Safely across, we continued on, passing the Dutch group. There were still a few soft glows on the snow ahead of us, yet another group that must have gotten an even earlier start.
The stars took on a surreal quality as we hiked higher. My steps shortened to a shuffle as the altitude bit into me. One-motorcycle STEP, two-motorcycle STEP, I murmured to myself, trying to do anything but think about how tired I was.
After four hours we started the final approach to the wall, a 200 meter 50 degree ice slope that can only be attacked on all fours. We stopped for a breather, if you could really call it that, and looked back on the terrain just traversed. Some forty or fifty dull blue spots dotted the snow below us like intermittent bulbs on a long-neglected string of Christmas lights stretched across the mountain, packed together in small groups of five and eight. There had been a lot of tents at base camp last night, but I didn't think there were that many.
I looked up la pared (the wall), and saw two more blue dots slowly ascending the face. Soon there will be two more dots - us.
It was 5 AM, and the coldest part of the night had arrived. Cecilio fiddled with his harness as I began to shiver. First just my shoulders, then my whole body, uncontrolably. I couldn't feel my feet, and my hands were starting to form around the ice axe.
We started up the face slowly. Not used to the whole idea of crampons, I had little faith in their abolity to actually keep my stuck to the mountain. (You can't fall off a mountain, Japhy!)
About a thrid of the way up, I froze. I couldn't move any higher. My feet were numb, and the shaking of my body was almost enough to loosen my footing. My "sewing machine" leg kicked in, and I got scared -- really scared. Not being able to see more than fifty feet above or below me, I felt a certain vertigo. I began to believe the wall was steeper than it was, and I clung to the snow. The cold was beginning to get to me. Hypothermia was setting in.
Cecilio climbed ahead and told me he would set up anchors to belay me as I ascended. Although, this gave me a little more confidence, the seven minutes I had to wait for him to climb up and set the anchor did little for my chill.
When I heard him give the go ahead, I began up. Every five feet I stopped to breathe and wiggle my hands and toes.
At the second anchor, I turned away from the wall and out to the world for a moment. The fifty blue bulbs were beginning to gather on the snow field below us, and some were beginning the ascent. To the east, I noticed a subtle, familiar glow. Sunrise!
I spaced out and remembered a climb in Albuquerque with my friend Jeff as we summited the Thumb in the Sandia Mountains at sunset, only to then belay down at night. I recalled that same spaced out feeling waiting for him at the belay anchor, admiring the soft glow of a New Mexico twilight. It gave me warmth.
When I heard the next "OK!" I set out with renewed vigor. We were two rope lengths from the top, and I could already feel the warmth of the morning sun.
At 6:30 AM exactly, we summited, and greated our fellow climbers who were there only minutes ahead of us, a pair of jolly Italians and their guide. We dallied at the top for just a minute or two, and as I took the obligatory summit photos, the camera froze.
As I started the rapel down, we passed a handful of other teams of climbers who were still making their ascent. Lucky bastards, I thought, as I noticed how easy it seemed to be with the aid of the new day's light and warmth. That's what I thought, at least, until the first ice chucks broke off the wall, hurtling themselves into the faces of the ascending climbers.
We arrived back at basecamp at 9:30, and Miguel was just getting out of bed. He felt better and we munched some hot soup and bread. The high sun bored into me and warmed me from the inside out. Soon, I could not recall the cold, the pain, the fear. I just sat in that wonderful glow of exhaustion, as every cell in my body cried out to sleep. And sleep I did -- once we finshed packing up camp, hiked out to the trail head, and took the two hour cab ride back into town!
It may be Bolivia's bunny hill, but it still kicked this crazy rabbit's butt.
Posted by Sully at August 25, 2003 08:38 PM