The coral necropolis
Día 60-61: The formerly subaqueous town with skeletons in it's closet; I told you Bolivia was unique (125km)
Part of Chapter 8 The Bolivian Diary
Día 60 (GPX) San Juan to Río Grande, 58km
The parched mountains clove the bright blue sky in two. We watched the jeep racing out to meet us, a trail of dust in its wake. It was the only movement on the edge of a village lost in time. San Juan was far from the modern world yet startlingly beautiful.
Edwin, our local guide, arrived still wiping sleep from his eyes and hitching up his jeans. He had a mane of dark black hair and the air of someone who met tourists often, but rarely on time. He apologised for his lateness and we waved away the courtesy. We hadn’t even expected him and had been ready to stroll the cemetery alone. Thank goodness we didn’t, or else we’d have missed a story stranger than any fiction.
Edwin, shielding his eyes behind dark glasses, began to speak with conviction. He explained that some 20,000 years ago, this driest of bone dry places was a mighty salt lake. In fact, the entire south western region of Bolivia was submerged in deep water that covered some 80,000sq km. The majority of which now lies bereft of fresh water sources for the thirsty cyclist.1
Edwin explained that a pre-Incan culture, the Lipes, who share ethnic ties with the Aymara, migrated to and occupied this area from c1250-c1450 AD. They settled on a stretch of land at the foot of Cerro Kharal between Pujtín and the Chotomal hills at an altitude of 3,660m. They grew quinoa, a frost resistant crop with 15% more protein than maize or wheat, in great swathes across the hillsides. We glance up and can still see the corrals that demarcated farmers lands and kept alpacas firmly in place.
Curiously, it’s believed the Lipes only came out at night to farm, build and socialise because they feared the power of the sun. They experienced a significant Vitamin D deficiency as a result, and the adults grew to just 130cm (4ft 2in). When the Inca came to subjugate the Lipes in the second half of the 15th Century, they imposed their standard practice of deforming the craniums of their babies shortly after birth. This helped to distinguish the nobles from the common people. They strapped a wooden instrument to the back of the skull to force elongation and sometimes the fissuring of bone. Presumably the Inca felt the Lipes needed an even more peculiar backstory.
But the most absurd element was still to come, and Edwin revelled in telling it. Gone are his sleepy eyes. He’s guiding us with passionate history now and he has our full attention.
Within the dry stone walls of the necropolis, on the edge of this lunar landscape, he points out spiky rock formations 10-15ft high that litter the ground around us. But they aren’t actually rocks. Nor are they man-made as we had assumed on first sight. They are fragments of ancient, formerly living coral that decorated the lakebed 40,000 years ago. In the 1500s, the Lipes decided to hollow out the calcareous bubbles and entomb their dead. Yep, that’s right, they stuffed their corpses into coral, placing one or two bodies arranged in the foetal position in each tufa. Remarkably, although half a millennia has passed, the skeletons are still visible sheltered in their funerary towers, wrapped in decaying cloth and surrounded by pots and other artefacts for use in the afterlife. The extremely arid climate has preserved these items to a quality simply not attainable in warmer climes. Peering into each tomb you can see loose ribs, folded legs and gaunt eye sockets. Half snapped rows of teeth grin back at us.
The funerary custom of the Lipes is thought to be a practice unique to the Andes if not the world. It needs preserving. The necropolis was protected with a stone border from 1999 onwards after an archaeological dig confirmed the importance of the site and sought to reduce the chance of further damage.
Edwin smiled and thanked us for our visit before heading back to the village, satisfied with another pair of awed travellers. I wondered if he’d be called out for more mummy time before the day was out.
It was unbearably cold last night. Cold enough to toss and turn as the temperature ghosted well below freezing. The salt bricks did little to conserve warmth and there was certainly no heating system. As it turned out, four blankets, a long sleeved shirt, a fleece, a buff and a headband failed to keep out the penetrating chill. Only after several cups of hot chocolate and coffee were we ready to tackle the cold.
The morning dose of learning at Kausay Wasi (The House of Life) complete, we turned our attention to the no less surreal salt flats. We decided to head straight across in the hope of finding a short cut smoother than the horrible road Jake had taken yesterday.
Initially, it’s as beautiful as expected, but when we ambitiously go off-piste, it gets trickier. I crash to ground when my wheel rapidly sinks into salty mud. At times we are far apart, each choosing our own way across the flattened expanse. We reconvene at a path near yesterday’s railway, and as we round the mountain to our left, the horizon evaporates. A huge expanse of nothing, Salar de Uyuni, the matriarchal head of the Salt Family stretches north.
By lunch we shudder on to Julaca where a wrought-iron alien stalks the deserted town centre beneath two rippling flags. One is the national bandera of Bolivia, the other is a gloriously rainbowed Andean flag, the Wiphala, that we’d first glimpsed in Jujuy. It represents the high sierra peoples of Bolivia, Peru, Chile, Ecuador, north western Argentina and southern Colombia. A reminder of the arbitrary boundaries of modern states.
Over egg sandwiches we chat to a little boy with a spider man ball. He babbles non-sensically, taking breaks to spring around the space beneath the tables, dart towards the railway, or ‘pass’ the football to his toddler mate. The technique is poor and is good evidence of why Bolivia has won only one edition of this football-mad continent’s showpiece event, the Copa America, back in 1963. The young lad is also keen on Jake’s crisps, both before and after he wipes globules of gunk from his nose. Mercifully he’s not keen on mine because I’d chosen the spicy ones.
The afternoon is a hard stretch of corrugated road. Jake is miles ahead and into the town of Río Grande well before me.
Día 61 (GPX) Río Grande to Uyuni, 67km
In the morning we flit about the town in the early sunshine, acquiring all manner of snacks for the day ahead, which proves a wise move as we won’t stumble upon another shop until sunset. Froe, the hotel owner and lorry driver tells us about the region’s salt mining co-operative in which all profits go to the workers. It’s low-key anarchism in action and Jake approves.
“Welcome to Bolivia. This is an incredible place. We’d love to travel to your country but our economy does not allow it,” he says, wistfully.
It’s a timely reminder of the privilege of our economic strength that, despite it’s issues, still reigns supreme over many others.
Route-wise, we’re going direct again, straight across the flats. Komoot doesn’t even hint at the presence of a route parallel to the railway track, but we take a punt that there’ll be an access road as there was yesterday. Initially, the surface is ok, then it is poor, then it shrinks to a trio of interweaving bike tracks before dissipating to nothing. We cover just 26km in 4 hours, alternating between riding on surface-hard-but-squidgy-beneath salt, cracked earth, impassably sludgy mud and the edge of the rail road irons themselves. None of these surfaces are enjoyable. We plan to flag down the train and hop on till we spot the access road, but no train ever comes. Jake ventures far ahead at one point and a heat shimmer opens up between his rubber tires and the ground.
After a gruelling morning, a battered road materialises outside of Vinto K where various signs affirm the community’s socially responsible mining operation. Huge piles of salt deck the entrance to the factory as we role on through, unsure if we are allowed to be on bikes here.
There’s no shop open in town, but a friendly couple – a Bolivian man and a much younger Chilean woman – advise us on which road to take out of town. We chat about the recent floods down south in her country and the fires that ravaged the country over the summer.
“Es que ha cambiado un montón el clima. Parece que los malos acontecimientos vienen de nosotros.”
“Bueno, quizás. Pero yo veo que vengan los fuegos forestales cada vez que cambiamos del gobierno. Creo que están empezado por los manifestantes, no por el medio ambiente.”
Ah, pues tu también ves Fox News.
“The climate has changed so much everywhere in recent years, it seems to be linked to humans don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe. But I’ve seen that the forest fires come every time we change government. I think they’re started by protestors, not through climate change.”
Ah right, so you watch Fox News too.
The climate change denial apparatus is in full swing in Chile. Two nights ago we had watched the news. Soaked reporters told of the most significant rainfall in 30 years. Whole roads had been washed away, low lying towns submerged, injuries and deaths were minor but 21,000 people had been affected and the government was forced to declare a state of catastrophe stretching from Valparaiso to the Biobío. The coverage was sensationalist, repetitive and bereft of bigger picture analysis to explain why it was happening. We'd seen and read about the rampant logging and deforestation of Chile’s wooded regions, but that wasn’t on the agenda. Yet another tragic example of humanity fumbling vainly for profit over preservation.
A gaggle of primary age kids spy on us from around a corner of the building where we’ve stopped to ladle up our ketchup and crisp sandwiches. They gleefully flee whenever we make eye contact or jokingly threaten to chase them. Soon they’re brave enough to come closer, and we descend into a seemingly never-ending game of
“Cómo se dice X en inglés?”
“How do you say X in English?”
This runs for at least 30 words without a shred of boredom creeping into their glowing faces. The pinnacle of the language lesson is when one small boy asks,
“How do you say Miguel in English?” and points at his little brother, beaming.
“Michael. That’s my middle name too!” I reply.
They’re incandescent with giggles. Miguel’s face flushes and he shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. Having the same name as a gringo must be very embarrassing for a Bolivian chiquito.
After a brutal morning, the afternoon is kind. Hard packed red earth sees us steam through to Uyuni in a couple of hours. Amidst the cobbled streets, revitalising showers, warm beds and family size pizzas are waiting. It’s been six straight days of hard graft to get here.
Tomorrow is an exquisite day of rest with running water and toilets and an actual duvet. This is luxury of the finest quality in all the world.
Post #51
The story so far
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
Odometer: 61 Tours. 307 hours. 5,067km. 49,760m climbing
Next post:
Previous post:
Earth Magazine, Bolivia and the altiplano