By: Daisy Bell
Location: Bolivia
Date: 26th March 2007

Rock into the colourful (yet mighty cold) land of Bolivia, in particular the colourful city of La Paz, said to be the highest capital in the world although not technically the capital at all. Breathing becomes a struggle again, though we don’t mind so much as we have a lovely hotel with hot water, fluffy towels and a marvelous view of Base dealers on the street outside, not to mention the disturbing multitude of public urinators and defecators. The Mate (tea made out of Coca leaves – tastes like, umm, leaves, but hey, when in Rome…) gives us a perk as we explore the fascinating Witches Market selling an array of weird and wonderful stuff including llama fetuses reeking to high heaven as they would (99% of new buildings have one in the foundations to bring luck to the owner).

We try our luck at getting into the notorious San Pedro prison (described as “the strangest tourist attraction in the world”) where the 1,500 inmates are obliged to purchase their cells, can open up shops inside, their families can move in with them and they do a fine line in homemade cocaine. Anyone sent there for rape or murder are rapidly ‘sorted out’ and their deaths swept under the carpet – it’s so rough even the police don’t go in, just hang about outside awaiting bribes from the curious tourists wanting to get in. That’ll be us then. We befriended Spanish inmate Ernesto who was happy to give us a guided tour for $20 and a packet of cookies, but alas we were unsuccessful as The Colonel on duty that day couldn’t be doing with the hassle.

We drown our sorrows at a 100% fake English pub serving Shepherds Pie and PG Tips, accompanied by Jasmine, Carl and Lachlan who was celebrating his 30th and had the biggest choccy cake in the world! The boozing had to be limited as the next day we were doing something a bit silly…

…The Death Road (most accidents on one road in the whole world, approx. 100 per year) proves to be a stunningly beautiful off-road track into the Amazonian basin, past endless cascades and waterfalls, even if we are a bit bonkers to be doing it in the rain, sleet and thick fog. We register the amount of shrines and crosses by the edge of the sheer drop as the fog clears to display a group of young Israeli mountain bikers looking over the edge of the mountain. At first we think they’re just admiring the 4,000 metre cliffs, but it quickly transpires that they’re actually trying to work out how to rescue their friend who had had an accident on the bike and gone over the edge. Unfortunately their friend was beyond rescuing but they weren’t in a state to realize this. The emergency services were expected in approx. 2 hours. There was nothing we could do except offer some moral support, hand out sweets and biscuits for the shock and continue along the pass, subdued and wondering why it was such a novel idea to do this. It shows a certain arrogance thinking you’re so untouchable you can ride a road by that name through choice and come out unscathed.

The road culminated in a beautiful village locked away in the mountains, perfectly still and quiet, where we enjoy the epic panoramic views and more public defecation – conclude that this spontaneous composting is why Bolivia is so lush and fertile (the ‘when in Rome’ theory only goes so far for me I’m afraid!). I’m not complaining or anything, makes the spuds taste phenomenal.

Three days of dodging electrical storms and admiring multiple rainbows, plus another flat tyre, and we find ourselves in a hotel room resembling Rising Damp. That’s OK, I can ‘do’ retro, as can the landlady, straight out of a 60’s knitting supplement, painted red fingers (not fingernails – she seemed to have missed them) and crazy bouffant, but with a heart of gold. She points us in the right direction for BBQ tripe and (something’s) kidneys – bad guts abound. Where did we pack the Imodium again?

We say our fond farewells to The Wonder Years Hotel and opt for what looks like a B Road South – turns out to be a Z Road, and with all the recent floods in Bolivia, we have to cross endless bridgeless rivers, swollen to the brim. I’m Guinea Pig and wade across to check the bottom is suitable for the bike – course it’s bloody not but we do it anyway, Mu now the expert at crazy off-road shenanigans and me merely the poor wet cow on the back.

The Z Road with its lack of habitation means we have our first South American camping experience, hidden away in the sand dunes with a 10-minute fire and maize soup. It’s wonderfully peaceful, the sky is vast and pink with a scattering of cheeky clouds, then the stars come out, so clear and sparkly and we see the Southern Cross in all its glory. As we have no wine, internet or glow-in-the-dark Scrabble set, we go to bed at 8.30pm, but stay awake listening to bumps in the night and wondering why we didn’t pick up a Machete in Peru, ‘just in case’. I make Mu sleep by the door, ‘just in case’!!!

The nearest village/hamlet/backwater provides us with water tasting of salt, Cornish Pasties (called something else but in effect they’d kick Ginsters ass) and big jugs of what’s meant to be petrol, though a few miles down the road the bike starts juddering and making weird noises and we imagine we were probably sold Somerfield apple juice instead. We drained the petrol and replaced it with Waitrose apple juice. Then the front grill falls off the trusty steed. My foot pedal is wonky, the pannier rack is cracked and we’re kangarooing down the road with zero suspension. Oh dear. Guess the thousands of miles of pot holes and mountain passes have taken its toll.

We bounce comically into a one horse town on the edge of the salt flats, 12,000 square km’s of nothing but the white stuff. Carl from La Paz is here, as are NZ Bridget and Dave – we drown our sorrows for the bike in the usual way. Next day Mu has the bike is in bits and I spend over 2 hours washing 13 countries filth off our minging bike clothes.

Days pass slowly waiting for parts to arrive from the UK so we can get “on the road again” as Willie Nelson would say. As it goes, we’re in for quite a wait…

By: Mark
Location: Bolivia
Date: 5th March

We ride through a quiet border crossing and over into Bolivia.  Ten clicks down the road we reach the little town of Copacabana and stop for a coffee.  I ask for a white coffee but the woman tells me she doesn’t have any milk.  Instead she offers me a Trout, which although tempting, looks far too big to fit in the cup, so I opt for the more traditional black coffee.

Leaving the smell of Trout behind, we make for La Paz, the largest city in Bolivia.  Along the way, we cross part of Lake Titicaca on a rather rickety looking (and feeling) ferry which proves to be quite a relaxing experience….honest.

Reaching the outskirts of La Paz, we’re presented with an amazing view of the city, some 1000 meters below.  In we go and find a hotel for us and the bike.  The next few days are spent wandering the streets, avoiding the stench of Llama foetuses, avoiding Daisy spending all out money on ethnic tat and avoiding the late night base heads that hang about our street.  Time was also spent drinking in Oliver’s Bar (self proclaimed as the 5th best bar in La Paz) with Jasmine the English girl and Lachlan the Ozzy and a group of Dutch boys and girls finding breathing even more difficult than us.

After a failed attempt to get into San Pedro prison (worth a google), we decide to get a batch of contact cards and stickers printed.  Normally, in another, reasonable and sane life, I would consider this course of action to be …well…a little on the sad side.  However, after more or less 10 months on the road, we’re (well I am) ecstatic about this.  I precede to sticker our path down from La Paz, including hostels, other bikers, restaurants and generally anything stationary.

Out of La Paz we ride over the Andes watershed and head for the ‘Death Road’ – the road with the most fatalities in the world.  Quite what possesses us to do this is unknown, but after an hour or so, we arrive at the road that promises to drop us down towards the Amazon basin from a height of ‘Bloody High’ meters to a warm and easy to breath ‘Sensibly low’ meters.  To be fair, this gravel road is actually a breeze, as we’re ridden much worse in Peru and Colorado.  The only reason why this route has had such a high death toll is a combination of Bolivian bus driver’s inability to drive and over packed trips (one incidence included a 40 person bus loaded with 80 people).  However, since the ‘New Road’ was built, the only traffic that now uses this route are tourists, mainly riding downhill on organized cycle tours.

As we turned a corner, it was one of these tours we found looking tired and milling about on the road, with their support vehicle and push bikes strewn across the path.  As we stopped two of the cyclists approached us, asking us whether we had any rope as one of their friends had just gone over the edge.  Looking over the edge of the road at the mangled and obviously dead body lying 200 meters below I quickly realised the group of tired cyclists were actually a group of people in different stages of shock and disbelief.  All we could do was make sure the emergency services had been called, get people away from the water fall that was soaking them, offer up biscuits and sweets and carry on down the hill towards town.  For some reason I spent the rest of the evening be annoyed with everybody.  Daisy took it all in her stride.

The next day we road back out of the warm tropical town and up towards La Paz again.  High into the Andes and the scenery changes from warm green tropics, to something like Snowdonia, but with less air and more Llamas.  Through La Paz and south along the high, flat planes of the Antiplano, heading for the Salt Plains in the South of Bolivia. 

Another puncture, and another night in a nondescript town and then out onto a 300km dirt track heading for the salt plains.  Along the way, we camp out in the sticks amongst a bunch of Dunes and underneath the stars.  In the morning, Daisy notices that one of the Pannier frames has cracked.  Grrrrr.  We’ll have to get that welded in the next town.

Bollocks!

Then, after the umpteenth river crossing of the day I realise something a little strange with the bike.  It suddenly feels…well….bouncy.  Proper bouncy, like Zebedee at a Sex Pistols gig.  After closer inspection, I realise the rearshock has finally given way under 25,000 miles (6,000 off road), 440kgs and one to many instances of “Oh fu*k it, lets just gun it and see what happens”.

Bollocks…..Bollocks!

Bouncing down the road at snails pace the bike starts to splutter.  You’re joking me?  The fuel we just purchased from one handed jack, out of a barrel in the rear room of a village shop (no proper petrol stations for miles) turns out to be mixed with Llama piss. 

Bollocks…..Bollocks…..Bollocks!!!

150 miles of dirt road until the next town, no sign off habitation  on the map apart from a couple of Adobe settlements and one bouncing, spluttering, cracked bike.  What can you do apart from carry on?

By: Daisy Bell
Location: Bolivia 2
Date: 31st March 2007

…and the wait goes on. Decide no Bolivian can possibly be trusted to get the Rear Shock Absorber into this one horse town, so we go on a 3 day Jeep tour with the intention of going to La Paz to collect the part in person to save time & hassle on our return. Ozzies Richard & Jason are great company and let us download 9 episodes of ‘Scrubbs’ so we don’t have to think about Hare Kare just yet.

We stock up on water and Oreos from the ‘shop’, served by a vacant 90+ year old woman with coca leaves sellotaped to her temples, then hop into the Jeep driven by “if-you-keep-talking-to-me-I-might-not-fall-asleep” Mario, his nose-picking, bowler-hatted wife Felicidad (Happiness) and a random selection of backpackers from around the world. First stop the train graveyard, the end of the line (ha, ha, ha!) for old steam trains in the middle of the desert – almost romantic if not for the excess of tourists clambering all over the rusty old beasts shrieking “Choo-choo”.

Mario refuses to drive across the salt flats in the Vengabus because of the damaging salt, so we paddle around in 12,000 km2 of pure white stuff. At this time of year the flats are flooded with rain water, providing a beautiful reflection of nearby hills onto the flats. It’s silent. And neverending. And it’s damn hot.

Off we head into the desert, passing through very little except (of course) Llama’s and Alpaca’s, finally arriving, tired, sand and salt-coated, to our little family-run hostel where the terrible twosome Marisol and Jhenny exhaust us with their ball games, puppy Princessa and constant crazy giggling. We’re sad when we have to leave the cuties in their population-of-50-village as we think they’d make quite good traveling companions compared to Sloth-like boozer/driver Mario and his bogie mining wife.

The family Rooster rudely awakens us to Day 2 in the desert – we stumble about in the dark (the electricity is only on from 7-9pm), trying not to dress in each others clothes, and head out to more nothingness, which is slightly less nothingness than the day before. Felicidad gives us foul-tasting lollipops probably to shut us up whinging about having to leave in the middle of the night. Gorgeous lake after lake, red, green, clear waters, all housing a ridiculously squawky amount of Flamingoes – what beautiful creatures, all standing there on their skinny legs sucking at the water for minute pickings.

Back into the Vengabus and my eyes are red and sore from so much dust, my hair is a la Bjork 1992 /Sideshow Bob and my skin has turned to some type of undiscovered pastry foodstuff. Apparently drug trafficking from our little town down to the Chilean border, by the Jeep drivers, is relatively commonplace. So it’s no surprise when the FELCN (Bolivian drug cops) stop us and half-heartedly check out the boot while we all imagine getting ‘done’ and ending up in San Pedro Prison. Turns out all is well; all I personally had were a couple of cheap, ineffective Paracetamol from Peru and Felicidad’s rancid lollipop. That night sees us in a shack in the middle of the desert, not so remote so as not to have a ‘shop’ selling the old vino (only because it’s one of the girl’s birthdays of course). The common language between our tour group is Spanish (What?! No English?!) and we surprisingly get by pretty well, staying up til, ooooh, 9.30pm pretending we don’t have to get up at 5am the next morning.

Next morning, we get up at 5am. Mario and Felicidad have been up most of the night drinking cheap Bolivian wine and chewing on Coca leaves. Dear Christ. It’s black out there. And cold. But it’s all worth it as we visit a load of spitting, bubbling, sulphur-reeking Geezers and watch the sun come up beyond a volcano. Wow. Mu can’t resist a dip in the thermal pool (the excess of bikini-clad Ozzies in there may have had some bearing on this decision!) as our hung-over guides feed us cake, cake and more cake. I think Mario is pissed off with me for writing “I wish my wife was this dirty” on the back of our (by now) utterly minging dirty Jeep.

We off-road it back to town, narrowly avoiding startled wildlife and other startled Jeep drivers (Mario Mansell it appears should now be officially sectioned). It was a wonderful trip, but glad to return to hot water, the 10am lie-in and the famous Minuteman Mexicana Pizza, hooray! And there’s good news and bad news waiting for us. The good news – UPS have done their stuff and the Shock Absorber has arrived in La Paz. The bad news – there’s been road blocks in the North since we left, meaning NOTHING is leaving La Paz and NOTHING is entering. No one actually knows why the road blocks are there, but coincidentally it was 120 years since Bolivia lost their sea border to Chile and they seem to have a bit of a cob on.

Frustrated and bored, but at least stuffed to the brim with Mexicana Pizza, we stumble upon James and Will –‘The Bad Boys’ on BMW’s from the UK, going in the other direction – always the way! They have ipod’s, immense energy and large bottles of beer, smuggled in past the one-eyed Fascist landlady (once heard shouting “Ja Woll” {sp?} from the balcony). We take the Kangaroo Twin out to the salt flats with James and Will and take posy photo’s before returning to our gaff and debating whether Radiohead are the best band in the world or not and whether to have the Mexicana or Llama Pizza tonight.

A night of strange dreams later (due to Altitude – bizarre, eh?) when I awake to find Mu IS NOT the singer of UB40, we bid a sad farewell to The Bad Boys who ride off into the desert, Rear Shock Absorbers intact. Mu is a day behind them on the night train to La Paz following the announcement that the road blocks are clear, leaving me to assist with the first parasailing trail on the salt flats where everyone comes out damaged in one way another from the high winds – not to worry, I hear skin grows back!

Another night of pizza with groovy Brighton Callie & Tom, then Mu returns with the beloved Rear Shock and gets the bike in pieces again. The Israeli people from our hostel assist with breaking bits off the bike then apologizing by making us tea as that’s what they think Brits do (well, OK, we do, but that’s not the point!). Sad goodbyes all round and we’re off, bike intact, desert landscape awaiting us…

…did I say “bike intact”? Ah. An hour and a half into the ride and we break the spankingly new, expensive Rear Shock that we just waited over 2 weeks for – again! What ARE the chances?! Decide to Kangaroo on regardless, dropping the bike on the wet sand a couple of times, through numerous scary lightening storms, through a scary village with animal skulls hanging on the washing line, through miles of desolate landscapes, drenched and cold (don’t think I’ve EVER wanted a cosy living room and a bowl of Reddy Brek so much!). God, we’re going to die and be found in 3 months time hanging on some old woman’s washing line! Am thinking “Bolivian Chainsaw Massacre”. But on the other side of the hills is a bizarre, spiritual, Road to Damascus type experience: twin rainbows, not just rainbows but ¾ of a circle’s worth, could even see both ends as clear as day – totally amazing, I can’t really describe it – they stay with us for about 20 minutes as we struggle on, but eventually our spirits lighten, the rain stops and we find a hovel for the night. This is what it’s all about!

Like Honduras, Bolivia seems to have put a curse on us – everything that could have gone wrong pretty much did. Huge thanks to Chris & Susie at Minuteman Pizza for helping us out in so many ways and being shoulders just when they were needed - oh, and of course AMAZING pizza! Thank you and goodnight Bolivia!

P.S.  If you want to know what’s at the end of the rainbow, send a blank cheque to Gypsy Bell, PO Box 666, Brighton, England.

By: Mark
Location: Bolivia
Date: 31st March

We bounced into Uyuni sometime in the afternoon and headed straight for the Minute Man Pizza restaurant.  Various reports had rated the restaurant as the best joint in town and apparently one of the owners was an American guy, who we thought could help with local contacts and language barriers.

Chris and his wife Suzy did indeed run the best place in town, a Oasis of fine food, good music and comfortable surroundings that was always welcoming and alive with the chatter of other ‘Overlanders’.  Over the two weeks that we would spend in Uyuni, Chris and his wife showed us an excess of hospitality, homeliness and help and made the stay in Uyuni far more enjoyable than it would have been without them.

After carrying out some maintenance on the bike and arranging a new shock to be shipped across from the UK, we decided to take one of the many three day Land Cruiser tours that leave Uyuni for the mountains and lakes in the extreme South West of the country.  Passing by the largest Salt flat in the world, we visited the Uyuni Train graveyard, an eerie dumping ground full of rusting 30’s locomotives.  From here, the road took us south through strange and surreal desert landscapes, via a multitude of brightly coloured Flamingo filled lakes, spouting geysers and finally some thermal pools (otherwise known as ‘Sopa de Gringo’ to our driver and his wife the cook).  3 long but good days fly by and once again we return to Uyuni.

Upon arriving at Uyuni, we find that our shock has made it to La Paz, but wasn’t going to be released by the courier company until the import tax was paid.  Hesitant of paying money into an unknown bank account and trusting that the shock would be put on the right bus for the 500km journey South and fearful that it would inexplicably get incorrectly delivered to a local in Potosi and we instead get a cage of chickens, I decide to make the journey North to La Paz myself.  That is after the complete transport blockade of La Paz, a fairly regular occurrence by all accounts, is finally lifted.  I hear from a couple of Australian lads we met in Uyuni (with a unhealthy obsession for teenage drama theme tune music - *********) that they did manage to break the blockade in their bus, but spent much of the time pushing it out of deep mud and ditches when it got stuck bypassing the roadblocks and protestors.  I decide to wait with Daisy and the good Pizza.

In the meantime, James and Will (two Brit bikers riding South to North) arrive in town and we spend a couple of days arsing about, including a trip to the still damp salt plains just outside of town.  More bike talk, beers, pizza and good company.

Has the blockaded lifted yet?  No?  Hummm….Pizza?
Has the blockaded lifted yet?  No?  Hummm….Pizza?
Has the blockaded lifted yet?  No?  Hummm….Pizza?
Has the blockaded lifted yet?  Yes?  Vamos!

Two days, one train, three buses, two taxi rides, five pints of PG tips (courtesy of Oliver’s Bar – La Paz), one fry up and several beers later (mental note to self – I must get fit when I return to the UK) I arrive back in Uyuni at 5am, rear shock in hand. 

The next day is spent wrenching the new shock into place and preparing for our departure.  The day turns out to be a corker, as we spend it with a good group of Israelis and Phillipe and Victor, two French guys heading towards Lima.

VAMOS! VAMOS!  We’re out of Uyuni (after one last farewell breakfast at Minute Man) and riding South towards the Argentinean border.  The bike feels firm and steady and we hustle along the deserted dirt road at a healthy 40mph….then about an hour into the ride….

“No….. that can’t be.” 

We stop.

“Did you feel that?” asked Daisy.

“Yeah, but it can’t be.  It must just be the shock just bedding in or something.” I say, waffling rubbish and not wanting to contemplate the truth.

Under closer inspection we find that the new, 40mile fresh shock is buggered.  Not quite as buggered as the old one, but still pretty buggered.  Buggered enough to slow our progress towards the Argentine border (and smooth tarmac roads) to a miserably slow 15-30 mph.  What would have been an awesome ride turns out to be a slow and laborious plod.  Thankfully however, the stunningly beautiful scenery and ever present fear of being caught in one of the many electrical storms keeps us wide awake until will arrive at border town of Villazon.

Rolling up to customs, I found myself hoping that Argentina would be as good as everybody we had met heading north had said.  I also hoped that there wouldn’t be any animosity to two Brits riding through the country in the 25th anniversary of the Falklands War.  Fingers crossed.  

Continue on to Argentina