Into Bolivia

The news from Julio at Riva Motos the next day was that there was not a set of clutch plates in the whole of Argentina and the only option was to get some made in Buenos Aires and sent to Santa Maria. All of which meant that Neil's bike would not ready for 2 weeks at the best, threatening our rendez - vous with our ladeez in Lima on the 22nd. Reluctantly, we decide for me to go on after a in case there is a further problem a few days helping Neil to get sorted out, arrangements confirmed in Spanish, etc and hopefully meet up later on the road to Peru. First, we decide to get a change of scenery and go on to Salta 2 up on my bike through the lovely Quebrada de Cafayete and its surrounding picturesque Vinas. We go to the municipal campsite in Salta as we have heard from several sources that it has great facilities, not least an enormous swimming pool. It is indeed enormous, but unfortunately due to the heavy rains it was flooded with mud and was being emptied and cleaned the entire time we were there. Disappointed, we head into the centre for a look see and a few beers. Next day, Neil decides to hire a car so he is mobile whilst waiting. We plan a day trip, hoping to complete a circuit of San Antonio de Cobres, on up the dirt track to the highest pass in South America, Abra el Acay at 4895m above sea level and hopefully on to the supposedly picturesque colonial town of Cachi before heading back to Salta.

All starts well as we visit the local Libertad hypermarket and get provisioned for a sumptuous picnic and head out through cactus lined gorges to San Antonio de Cobres, where we fill up with petrol, come across some coca induced carnaval dancing blocking the main street and discover that I have been nominated to run as Vice Gobernador for the Region. We then head up the dirt track, passing well - camouflaged guanacos and more obvious black and white woolly llamas on the switchbacks. We get to the top and both feel sick and it is freezing cold so we rapidly head down the other side with a few hours of daylight to spare. The already bad trail deteriorates with rockfalls, washouts and worsening river crossings no doubt prompted by all the recent El Nina rains, testing the Chevrolet Corsa Classic to its limit. I get it stuck nose first heading into a river that has decided to divert across the "road", but luckily manage to reverse and then Neil gets stuck trying to get out of the next river crossing. Luckily it is rocky on the bottom, so after several attempts and one and a half hours of jacking the car up, stuffing the gap between the wheels and the rocks with pampas grass and me pushing from behind whilst thigh - deep in rushing, freezing water, we manage to continue. It is getting dark now and after a couple of false alarms when the lights shine over a small ridge in the track, making it look like the track falls away, we come across a 10 foot sheer drop where the river has washed away a 10 metre section of the track. I take off my wet trousers, left only with pants, sandals and a T shirt and after a bit of a go at the picnic, try to settle down to sleep before turning back in the morning, in what turns out to be the longest and coldest night of my life. The footwells are full of puddles, the car is cramped and I am damp and inadequately dressed. Still at altitude, the night turns distinctly chilly and we only risk turning the engine on twice to get the heater on to warm up, worried about making it back, especially if the weather turns in the night. Fortunately, it stays clear, with fantasticly clear stars, but also colder and colder. Teeth chattering I get the brainwave to get the carpet out of the boot and wrap myself in that and some of our maps, which helps. Morning eventually breaks and in a tense reverse journey we make it back through, although we get a flat as one of the back wheels buckles at the rim after hitting a rock on a river crossing. Get back and have a snooze in unbelievely hot, but enjoyable nonetheless, tents which warm us to the bone. Then take off my back wheel and change the tyre and fix the car's dented wheel rim. My work is done in 10 minutes and costs less than a pound and Neil's less than 10 pounds and will be ready tomorrow at 5 so he can get his deposit back. Carwash and beers. Shower and a picnic dinner at the campsite. Next day, get up and pack, which feels odd to be doing myself and without putting the tyre on. Emotional goodbye with Neil after breakfast together in the Libertad hypermarket down the road and through steamy Salta and onto Ruta 9, north to the Bolivian border.

The road starts as a jungle mountain single track ribbon of tarmac and then heads through San Salvador de Jujuy and onto the altiplano plateau beyond. Cohorts of cardon cactus, some 50 foot tall climb the slopes of the Quebrada de Humahuaca with its transcendentally trippy multicoloured rock formations (sedimentary pinks, yellows and reds, splashed with igneous slate greys, purples and verdigris). The hallucinigenic effect is added to by surreal place names of the dun - coloured adobe pueblos I pass. Esquinas Blancas (White Corners) and Hornitos (Small Ovens) for instance. There are plenty of washouts, mud and some more river crossings on the way, the remnants of El Nina, before reaching the La Quica / Villazon border crossing. Chaotic scenes greet me, but the paperwork actually doesn't take long . At one point I get concerned when the Bolivian Aduana man asks to see my Bolivian insurance, but he gets distracted by the administrative inticracies of my Carnet de Passage and doesn't ask again. I stop to change my Pesos into Bolivianos in Villazon and decide to move on from the dusty and seedy looking bordertown. Dirt roads await me throughout the Southwest altiplano ahead, at least until Potosi and I soon encounter deep sand and muddy river crossings. On this section, I unintentionally act as the spotter for a group of Swiss in a 4x4 truck, who I constantly overtake on the good bits and have just ridden through, or walk - tested the hazardous parts when they turn up. Just before Tupiza, I go through my first single track tunnel just before a camion steams through, and into town. I find a good hotel for less than 4 pounds and have a spicy Chines style sizzler and a Huari beer for less than 2 pounds for dinner. The travellers tales of poor food and worse hygiene in Bolivia that we'd heard every time we met people heading south, certainly weren't in evidence yet. Next day, the road NW to Uyuni is blocked by a deep flood, so I take a detour along the raised railway line, constantly on the look out back and front for trains (which I know Neil would have hated), and get back onto track after passing through San Vicente, the town where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were finally gunned down, which was easy to imagine as this area has an increasingly "Western" feel to it.

No signs and no prospect of "combustible" until Uyuni and I am relieved to reach the halfway point at Atocha, just as a freight train pulls into town towards me along the joint high street and railway line, a worrying 25km further away than marked on my map, after plenty of mud and deep river crossings, which were thankfully slow moving. Taken me almost 3 hours to do little more than 100km. No fuel at Atocha and I curse myself for not topping up with fuel and water in Tupiza, which would also have given me a better mix in the tank with my high octane Argentine "Fangio" and more confidence about whether to continue on, or turn back to Tupiza and on to Potosi from there. I reflect on my situation whilst "enjoying" a lunch of toxic orange gaseosa (no bottled water in town) and a packet of out of date biscuits from the platform kiosco, watching the mayhem as the freight train leaves and the station master tries to stop a hoard of people rushing for a lift on the carriages before they pick up too much speed. Considering that my fuel consumption has been much lower due to the high altitude ( I have been between 3500 - 4500m since filling up with Fangio in La Quiaca), I decide to press on steadily and be prepared to turn back and cadge some fuel if necessary to make it back. I am very aware of the dangers of long traverses on dirt roads after the last few weeks and also of being alone without the reassuring presence of Neil. I carry on with no more signs, meeting no-one on the road and after passing the hamlet of what I assume to be Cerdas, the road turns into an increasingly soft sand. Still 50km out of Uyuni according to my map, I come to the softest section yet, as the wind whips off the Salar and has blown dunes up on to the road. Through the blasting dust, I can see several 4x4, buses and camions in various states of digging themselves in or being dug out. Off to the side, the surface is harder crystalline salt flat, with a thinner covering of sand, so after letting some air out of my tyres and a few weaves and wobbles in the deepest bits, and getting stuck once (running and pushing alongside gets me through) I eventually make it through back to the "road". To my pleasant surprise, 25km before it is marked on my map, the outline of Uyuni appears through the rippling heathaze of the Salar beyond it.

I arrive in the dustblown town and after a quick tour around I settle into the Hotel Tonito. I feel dizzy with success about making it here through all the obstacles alone, a feeling added to, no doubt, by dehydration and the effects of exertion at altitude. Orlando greets me at the door and sorts me out with a room in a friendly and efficient manner, which seems to be the Bolivian way. He politely doesn't mention my blackened and besmudged face (which I discover after wiping my face on the towel, after I have washed it) and I wonder whether this gentle character is part of the reason why Bolivians have had such a tough time from their more aggressive neighbours. I freshen up and enjoy some great food (garlic bread, salad and fresh pesto salad) prepared by the friendly mamalitas in the kitchen, who I get on well with immediately. They are native Quechua speakers and their slower Bolivian accents after the staccato pace of the Argentineans make our Castellano conversation seem more like a meeting of equals and we get on like a house on fire. Their pigtails and woven tresses, matched with homespun dresses, thick woolly stockings, boots and topped off with small bowler hats set at a jaunty angle is a perfect reflection of their quirky, no - nonsense and humourous characters. Best of all, I think the feeling is mutual and I am sure I am getting bigger portions and prompter service! After eating, buying water and enjoying a thirst - slaking Huari beer, I am very drowsy and head off to bed, where I am ambushed by a man with a tranquiliser dart lying in wait for me behind my bedroom door as I enter.

Up early after the noisy carnaval celebrations finish at dawn and am fully alert after the opportunity to chat with Lena for the first time in over a week. Good breakfast and walk out of town to the Cemetario del Trenos, for a couple of hours of Boys Own adventures climbing into and onto the abandoned steam engines. I head out for an attempt to get onto the Salar without the extra weight of luggage and once I have got the mamalitas to unlock the door and move the washing for me so I can get my bike out of the backyard, I find that the battery is completely flat and the clock has reset itself 18 hours ago, about the time I moved it inside to park it! I'm not sure whether this means that the complete soaking and sandblasting my bike has received over the last few weeks has caused a short circuit somewhere or whether I didn't switch everything off properly in my dazed state last night. The former would be must worse than the latter. Luckily, I have my trusty BMW charger with me, so I hook it up and wait for a couple of hours. Returning after using the 2 hours meantime to write up this blog, I find there is an intermittent charge and it is this, along with the fact that I am alone, all the reports I could get in town over the past suggesting that the recent El Nina rains have water-logged the Salar and dusk is only a while away now, that I reluctantly decide to not go, try to keep the bike charging and hopefully start it tomorrow and try to go non - stop to Potosi. I don't want to jeopardise the rendez - vous with the ladeez in Lima after all the setbacks of recent weeks. My mood lifts later though as the bike seems to be holding its charge now (?) and I see the marching bands and dancing couples parading through town as the carnaval starts to heat up again. It is not exactly Rio, but it is lovely to see nonetheless. All this is topped off by some more cool Huari, some lovely homemade tortilla chips, salsa picante and a freshly made garlciky pizza, the best on the whole trip so far. If the weather stays good and my bike behaves itself tomorrow morning, then I might try a dash to the Salar before heading off to Potosi after all....