Llamageddon
Día 65-66: Skinned llamas and unbeaten tracks (117km)
Part of Chapter 8 The Bolivian Diary
It’s been a while since I posted an update to they story, so here is a link to the previous edition if you would like to read it - Parting the white sea
Día 65 (GPX) Llica to Coipasa, 77km
It’s still bracingly cold after dark. I wake before dawn and can’t return to a position warm enough to induce sleep, no matter how many times I shift my makeshift pillow from side to side. In fairness, I’d fallen asleep some time before nine the previous night; late ones on the Bolivian altiplano simply aren’t palatable. Over in the other tent, low swishing noises confirm another deflatory evening for Jake’s mattress. Recently, it’s been slowly releasing air throughout the night; he dips closer to the cold earth with each passing hour.
One of the most common questions I get about this trip is regarding how on earth I can be bothered to spend all that time unloading and repacking each morning and night. The truth is like anything; you just get used to it. Today however, my fumbling was frustrating. I tried to jam biscuits, spaghetti and inner tubes into little nooks and crannies, but progress was minimal. Each time I thought I had a section of the bike strapped down, the bags took their cue to slip and slide off the frame one by one. Finally ready, I pushed out through deep sand back towards the road only to realise that my lock had fallen off back at camp. It can only get better than this.
We were confronted by a barren landscape. Some roads were smooth-ish packed earth, some were fine sand, none were easy to ride on. Jake quickly established a significant lead and disappeared out of view, making it easy for me to imagine I’m alone in this vast, relatively featureless landscape. Occasionally you’ll see a car pass in the far distance on one of many wiggling tracks round the edge of the salar. Other than that, it’s only the occasional barbed wire fence that hints at human cultivation of this isolated land.
Eventually I catch up with him, he’s waving next to a fence post and standing on something dark and matted that has been pressed into the ground. As I get nearer it looks more and more like an animal pelt.
“I think you’re standing on a dead alpaca.”
“Wait, what?” He shifts his feet uncomfortably, “Oh, shit yeah I think I am.”
On closer inspection we decide it’s a discarded llama coat rather than the body of a beast. The pelts seem to demarcate farmers boundaries here; perhaps they stop other llamas walking onto land they’re not supposed to, the prospect of trampling a fallen brother in the process of escape is a step too far.
The lunch tomatoes are useless because they’d frozen in the night and then thawed to mush in the morning heat. Instead, it’s another low-calorie, childhood-nostalgic ‘meal’ of crip & ketchup sandwiches. For the final time we say goodbye to firm land and set a course for the distant mountains across Salar de Coipasa, hoping to reach the town of the same name by nightfall. In fact, it was essential we made it, because we didn’t have enough food to make dinner. Coipasa is a titchy sibling to Uyuni, a mere fifth of the size of the latter (although this still ensures 5th place in the rankings of largest salt flat in the world). It’s located some 200km west of the town of Uyuni, close to the Chilean border. It lacks any meaningful tourist facilities, let alone a resupply island like Incahuasi. You’re more likely to spot iterant flamingos than 4x4s packed with western tourists. As it turns out, we see neither.
Crossing Uyuni, we’d generally stuck to the worn car paths which had eroded the salt hexagons that form on the brittle surface. Here the salar was so smooth we had no need for roads. We picked a spot on the horizon and cycled for it, using Komoot’s maps to make a rough guess at where our nighttime town would appear. It was very difficult to gauge progress. When either one of us cycled ahead of the other, it would appear to the man behind that we were in touching distance of the mountains at the salar’s edge. Then we’d catch up and realise the optical illusion; the slopes remained 40km away. In every direction, the salt glistened like diamonds as John Hopkins grew to a crescendo in my ears. Heart stirring piano notes couple beautifully with his melodic soul-searching tones. It’s spatial, tearful, supreme music. I find myself wondering how it’s possible his tracks seem so perfectly suited to the landscape. Was Jon born on a salt flat?
The mind wanders when you’re on a long ride. Sometimes to the far corners of your cerebral cortex, turning over relationships and routines and life decisions back home. In those instants you’re removed from what’s in front of you. But every few minutes you’re back in this dreamscape reality and gobsmacked once more. I decide to stop for a minute to take it all in; laying my bike on its side and lying flat out on the floor to look up at the infinite blue sky. I may never see anything like this again.
Jake flies past as I lie arms outstretched staring upwards. He photographs a burnt-out car half way across, it would have made for a special photoshoot when fully lit. You can see me in the background if you look very closely.
Coipasa finally appears in nestled into a bay overshadowed by a pleasingly spherical volcano. The village is depleted of life. There are no paved roads, many unpainted buildings and the occasional multi story municipal structure with large but flimsy looking glass windows. A white cross sticks out from the mountain side at the end of a long line of steps; the nod to a Christian-dominated colonial past.
But the people are ebullient in the face of what must be a sheltered lifestyle. We’re delighted by the frankness of the locals. One old lady accurately summarises our feeling about the sharp nights with a knowing grin,
“Oh the weather’s fucked, it’s so fucking cold.”
A shop keeper cheekily offers us some free salt from an overflowing bag.
“Don’t worry, it’s on me. We have quite a bit here.”
Coipasa is far from the modern world and its food resources leave everything to be desired. They sell a sort of chewy tube-shaped cereal crisp. At some point in its life cycle, I think it was maize but now it’s been crafted into something closer resembling cardboard. I come to grow fond of these peculiar snacks, but Jake is far from impressed. He selects what he thinks are “artisan nuts” from behind smudged display cabinet glass – they turn out to be sugar puffs. We buy two packets each and swallow them dry. At 3,700m we struggle to eat and breathe at the same time, elite athletes indeed. The lack of tomato sauce, our staple spaghetti condiment is glaring. Between a few dusty shops we scavenge oil to go with the salt and coat the pasta in that instead. It’s remarkably good after many tomato-heavy meals.
We camped in a rubbish dump out of town after being laughed at for asking if there was a restaurant or a place to stay. Rubbish flutters everywhere in the wind. It’s fair to say the locals do not seem at all fussed about litter picking.
Día 66 (GPX) Coipasa to Sabaya, 40km
In the morning, both of us would rather have access to a toilet than be forced to squat in the dump but asking round town, there’s no WC to be found. Sticking with the renegade attitude of previous locals, our shopkeeper chuckles and suggests we “tira a la orilla” (shit on the shore) instead. Waste duties complete we navigate out of the harbour and back to the white empties. It’s brown, white and blue till the salt turns to sludge and the freewheeling to laboured pushing. Sabaya another minor town to the Northwest of the flats, is the target. It cowers in the shadow of Volcán Pumire (4,900m tall). The hope is it may even have a basic restaurant or laundrette. Both together would be an unspeakable luxury.
Finally off salt, the road variation is unpredictable, at times it’s a curve filled rally track with tram lines to fizz along, at others it’s a barely homogenous miss-match of churned earth, hellbent on ruining our progress. Confusing colours pockmark the horizon amongst heat shimmers, hues of black, brown and white seem at odds with the tapestry until we realise they are herds of alpacas crisscrossing farmlands. At one point we are separated and I glance back to see one such matriarch leading a troop of 80 camelids towards Jake’s trusty Dawes. The threat of llarmageddon is all too clear before he pauses and she carries on through unperturbed. Conflict avoided.
Feeling like dusty pilgrims in the holy land, we finally reach Sabaya, which is looped by a gloriously smooth wire of tarmac leading off to Chile in one direction and La Paz, the Bolivian capital, in the other. The prospect of riding without rattling across destructive terrain is like the promise of a hot bath after a long winter walk in the driving rain. We book in for the night at the hotel of a grumpy landlord who looks Jake in the eye then spits on the floor as he uses a little water to clean the salt from his bike. His petulance is a constant feature of our stay.
Fortunately, simple but tasty food is to be found in Sabaya. A light pasta soup and then salty fried eggs dashed with homemade chili are convincingly dispatched to our stomachs. Later on, a chicken shop proprietor makes us healthy portions of chips whilst questioning our decision to abstain from chicken meat. Variation is not the name of the game, but any hot food is a treat, we’re learning to respect those laws of rural bike travel.
In the afternoon, I go searching for a laundrette and follow several positive leads towards the edge of town where I’m promised there is a place to wash clothes overlooking the football pitches. It turns out there are several standing stone sinks. All are broken, none have a tap, and a grim line of water runs through a ditch beneath them filled with dark green algae and discarded clothing. Moving closer to the water tank I spot dark fishes flitting in the shadows amongst the murky depths. I decide to buy bottled water and use that to clean my socks instead.
Odometer: 66 Tours. 328 hours. 5371km. 50,410m climbing
The story so far
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
Podcast appearances: 10Adventures | Seek Travel Ride
Next post:
The Ruta de Las Vicuñas. A 4-day jaunt through the Chilean Altiplano. In the words of Cass Gilbert ‘Set to a backdrop of snow-capped volcanos, it promises an abundance of wildlife, as well as hot springs, well preserved Jesuit missions, and guaranteed starry nights...”
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Spoke 11: The Hero's Quest
A spoke is a little metal rod connecting the centre of a wheel to its outer edge. There are 32 such spokes in the rims of my Brother Mehteh. A Spoke is a guest writer on 10,000km Arriba. One day I will publish a collection of Spokes: 32 voices, 32 stories.
Salt’s on me! Haha! This bit sounded pretty tough going. Great to catch up with your two wheeled travels again, Jack! Xx
Thanks for the great read to distract me from the African heat — I’m currently sitting under a mango tree escaping the sun’s zenith. All too happy to imagine some ‘fucking cold’ nights… ah sweet escapism!