Chapter 8 The Bolivian Diary

Día 59: Sand versus salt in an anomalous land (65km)

Jan 08, 2024

Post #50 - 25th June 2023

Ahead lies Bolivia, a maverick flamingo perched in a lofty nest high in the Andes mountain chain. In many ways it is a unique nation.

Firstly, it is a territory of extremes. Across much of it’s western frontier, the air is thin, altitude sickness is probable, and a dizzying headache is all but guaranteed. Yet Boilvia’s climates range from the humid and tropical to the cold and semiarid. We will cross stretches of land where it is difficult to imagine any form of life surviving. Conversely, great swathes of its eastern terrain are located at sea level, carpeted by the Amazonian Forest and positively teeming with the kind of biodiversity that puts Planet Earth’s other biomes to shame.

Secondly, it is one of only two landlocked nations on the continent and shares borders with Chile to the west, Argentina and Paraguay to the south, Peru to the north and a gigantic 3,343km rainforest frontier with Brazil to the east.

Bolivia is perhaps the most successful nation that calls itself ‘socialist’, and I’m looking forward to delving into why that is and whether it is a justified claim. Since indigenous leader Evo Morales took charge in 2006, he has transformed the country on a left-wing agenda, but is it a sustainable method of governance in a world dominated by capitalism?

It has countless intriguing traditions that entertain and delight the curious traveller in equal measure. For example, it is home to the world’s largest statue of Christ, the highest capital city in the world and the largest salt desert. It has more than 30 official languages across 112 provinces, and is celebrated for its wild carnivals, lucky llama foetuses and female wrestlers who grapple in puffed skirts and bowler hats.

On top of that, Che Guevara, an intrepid inspiration for this viaje, died here in 1967 aged just 39. By then he was the successful architect of armed struggles in both the Caribbean and west Africa, and a man with far more complex devils to deal with than his motorcycling self of 1953. He was murdered by the Bolivian army and his body was hidden because the commanders feared his grave would become a pilgrimage sight for the inspired many. His remains weren’t located and transported back to Cuba until the late 1990s.

In Bolivia we will cycle on nothing but white crystalline for three days, drink the foul-tasting bile of a psychedelic plant, and fly high above La Paz in a multi-coloured network of ski lifts. We’ll suffer temperatures from –10 to 22 in a single day, camp on an island surrounded by a solid sea and meet skeletons placed in hollow coral structures more than 40,000 years old.

This nation harbours deep and mysterious history. Say what you like about Bolivia, but the journey that follows within it’s boundaries is nothing if not unique.

Clip in, wrap up warm and lower your tire pressure, or else these sand roads will grind you to pieces.

There was minor tension at breakfast. It concerned my hacking cough and niggling cold that had failed to improve after a night indoors. The cause was unclear, but 20 hours of cycling a high-altitude desert without sufficient food, water or warmth may have had something to do with it.

The temptation to spend another night in the cosy hostel room with an electric heater and ample duvet was tempting but financially prohibitive; £25 a night is near bank-breaking money for our tight budget. Much as I was keen to rest, I knew that Jake needed to push on, and any time I spent recuperating in bed would necessitate a bus ride to catch up with him.

In these circumstances I’m always anti-bus if possible - I don’t enjoy skipping cyclable road - but my options were dwindling.

Jake wants to hear my plan before he heads for the border post 400m west of our breakfast table.

“You need to tell me whether you're going to get a bus or not.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll work it out, you need to set off.”
“I can’t do that till you tell me your plan. I really think you should get a lift to Uyuni.”
“But that’s 230km away!” I protested, “I don’t want to miss that much.”
“Yeah, but it’s more important you get better, you might not be able to shake it off otherwise.”

He’s not wrong.

He finally leaves after I promise to ask at the border crossing for a lift to at least San Juan (Jake’s target for the night). I reluctantly collected my things together and stuffed my panniers with mostly dirty clothes and a singular packet of crumbling Oreos.

Into the maverick Bolivia we went. Who knew when we’d leave.

With Jake gone I ask truckers and coach drivers if they are taking the northern road to San Juan, but it seems everyone is choosing the southern road to Uyuni instead. I hang about, picking through the meagre shop for bland crackers and sugared nuts which look like they’d been on sale since shortly after the arrival of the Spanish. The simple restaurant, more accurately described as a woman with three pans under a damaged roof with blue plastic chairs and complimentary ají, had nothing but meat stews.

San Juan, the evening’s destination. Note Ollagüe to the West (In Chile) and the two road options leading East to Uyuni

The paltry military outpost, Estación Avaroa, looked uncapable of repelling an attack from the more advanced Chilean military. In fact, it looked like it would struggle to repel a wave of marauding chiles. If a swarm of those fiery vegetables grew legs and stormed the border in an eye watering wave of destruction, the resistance would be futile.

There was, at least, a toilet building emblazoned with the convincing and reassuring sign:

BAÑOS Y DUCHAS 24 HORAS (Toilets and showers 24 hours)

Upon closer inspection however, I realised that the doors were firmly shut.

“They tend to open in the afternoon”, proffers a military man in green overalls nearby.

It’s an early example of the confusing signage that will blight our passage through this land.

With opportunities dwindling and, more importantly, absolutely nothing to see or do, I decided to take the only viable option: set out on the San Juan road and hope to flag down transport on route.

I stutter out on terrain that quickly disintegrates into sandy laminas. Imagine cycling on a corrugated iron roof where each curve judders into your body and forces your wheels to slip and slide without purchase. It isn’t enjoyable.

I put my thumb out plaintively for the first lorry driver that passes and rather unhelpfully get the same response back as he cheerily continues on his way. The universal hitchhiking gesture is not, it seems, standard practice in Bolivia.

I surrender to the inevitable and whip off my trousers in favour of cycling shorts instead. The best medicine, and in fact the only available medicine lay ahead: long hours on the inimitable roads of salt.

I rounded the first low hill, bumping and wobbling with increasing discomfort. The dusty golden ground around ahead was uneven and punctured by low lying rock. Scrubby bushes littered the edges of the ‘road’ and tire tracks told of past drivers' frustration. They had clearly left the primary route and ventured off in search of something smoother on their own winding tangents.

Suddenly, my eyes were drawn away from the irritating floor by a startling sight. Despite the lethargy and lack of food, I had to stop and gape.

The sky was a weak blue and the earth’s surface a well-worn white. The surrounding volcanoes were grey, silver and red. Over tens of kilometres a salt flat unravelled towards the feet of distant mountains. There was no trace of humanity bar a trail of dust behind the trucker who crept around the wide basin that fringed the Chiguana flat.

This was true adventure.

I realised I was in for a punishing day if I stuck with the road. But the GPS and faded tracks seemed to suggest a more direct reroute across the flats was possible. It would be risky without phone signal, but I didn’t think I could manage any more of that awful road. Decision made.

As the afternoon lengthens the warmth grows on my bare arms and neck. After battering down the hatches this morning I’m peeling off layers one by one, allowing the vitamin D to seep into battle against malevolent bacterial forces. A fading green and orange snake twists around my neck and down my spine but I’m streaming onwards, wearing my favourite t-shirt and grinning in the sun. The illness is fading.

Sticking close to the rail tracks seems the most direct way to reach my destination. An abandoned salt mine hangs dormant in the midst of the expanse. There’s a haunted air to this place, I don’t stick around to see what inhabits the crumbling walls and open roofs by night.

As the sun dips I begin to glide. Nothing can stop me pedalling this bold landscape. I’m rapidly reeling in San Juan without a bump in sight. The knowledge of the battering road to my left makes it all the sweeter. I laugh (somewhat guiltily) at the gooch ravaging terrain Jake has no doubt shuddered along to reach the town.

When I arrive to San Juan at dusk, the dirt roads are mostly empty. Loud music blares from a tent in the plaza. A few walkers clutch takeaway meals and gaseosas, most houses look deserted. The hostel Google maps recommends has no recognisable sign or front door so I search for food instead as the temperature begins to plummet.

At the first little shop, I come across an extremely dusty, tanned and slightly disgruntled cycle tourist. He’s chosen the very same tienda as I have to buy biscuits.

“How was the bus? Have you just arrived?” he says to me.
“Mate I had to cycle the whole way.”
“You’re joking.”
“It was pretty easy because I came straight across the salt flats, totally smooth, no bumps at all. I’m feeling a bit better too.”

He stares open mouthed for a second.

“For fuck’s sake. Those were the worst roads I’ve ever cycled. I couldn’t get any speed going at all, it was láminas the entire way, so bumpy, steep at times, and fucking draining. It’s taken me 9 hours.”
“I think it was 15k less to come direct,” I said, trying not to rub it in (admittedly not trying particularly hard).
“Haha I can’t believe that. I don’t even want to hear it.”

That night we drank maté and hot chocolate in an otherwise deserted hostal made of salt bricks. It had a sort of indoor courtyard from which all the rooms branched off. The floor was a fine sand. Wide paintings clung to the walls showing richly coloured Atacaman and Andean scenes. They were based on views that have remained the same for thousands of years in remote locations untouched by the steady march of new things.

The courtyard was filled with tables and stools interspersed with statues of llamas and, rather strangely, a city clock tower. Everything, including the simple beds built into the bedroom walls, was made of, you’ve guessed it, salt.

I turned off the light and hunkered down in all my clothes, still shivering a little despite my now warm and full belly. If the first day in Bolivia was anything to go by, we would struggle to predict what would come next.

The answer, the following morning, was even more absurd than we could possibly have imagined.