Breathtaking Bolivia

There´s something oddly rewarding about riding in Bolivia. The difficult roads, thin air, freezing tempartures and lack of water make for a harsh environment. But all that hardship just makes you appreciate the awe inspiring scenery all the more. Crossing Bolivia is difficult, challenging, and exhausting, but I cant think of any other country that offers more in the way of adventure.

Catching up
You´ll remember from my last post that my first attempt at crossing Bolivia ended in a bit of a disaster with the Phoenix and I in rough shape after countless falls in Tupiza Creek. Fortunately though, after a few days of R&R back in Argentina we were both ready for a second go. The Phoenix was riding better than ever thanks to a new clutch, new shock absorber, thorough service, and even a bit of a paint job. And I was feeling rejeunvated following a few days of horse riding and socialising with the locals.



If at first you don´t succeed...
Having left the entertaining civility of Argentina behind, it was time for another crack at Bolivia. My mission was to reach the Salar de Uyuni - the world´s largest and highest salt flats. But rather than ride via Tupiza again, I decided to go for the more scenic and more challenging route via San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

This is the path that most tourists take in their battle hardened Land Cruisers. It is a spectacular ride lined with volcanoes, sandy plains, mysterious lakes, and salt flats. But, despite the significant tourist presence, the route is one of the roughest Bolivia has to offer, with no discernable roads leading the way, only countless tracks heading in all directions.

I was apprehensive about riding it. There were horror stories of bikers getting bogged on the edge of the salt flats and having to wait days to be rescued. Others of riders getting hopelessly lost and escaping the area with multiple injuries. Even the tour guides with their local knowledge and seemingly bulletproof vehicles had tales of blown suspension, flat tyres, and even the odd broken chassis.

Moreover, to make the going that little bit more difficult, I had to carry extra petrol, food and water as the three hundred mile journey was beyond the range of my tank and through the desolate high altitude Altiplano. With all that extra weight, the bike would handle a little bit worse and be that bit harder to pickup in the event of a spill. And, with my previously detailed GPS maps replaced with nothing more than a blank screen there was every chance of going the wrong way and running into trouble.

But of course, those are exactly the sort of conditions that make for an excellent adventure.

As if to spur me on, even before reaching Bolivia the scenery began getting more and more spectacular. Crossing the Andes via the Pasa de Jama, I was treated to yet more stunning mountain scenery and twisty roads.



And, just on the outskirts of San Pedro was the Valle del Luna - an eerie salty area filled with otherwordly rock formations.


But the real spectacles started cropping up as soon as I crossed into Bolivia.

Premonitions
At the border, I met an American rider - Jebediah from Nebraska - who had just finished the three day odyssey from Uyuni. He was riding with his girl - two up on a Triumph Tiger. That was encouraging. If they could make it through with two people on the same bike, then I shouldn´t have too much to worry about. But as Jebediah regailed me with tales of countless drops, punishingly deep sand, and rocky stretches that had almost broken his suspension, my confidence faded somewhat. According to Jebediah the first leg of the journey to Lago Colorada was the most picturesque and easiest of the trip, while the second day to San Juan was brutally tough. The third was "tricky in places".

His description turned out to be oddly prophetic of my own journey. During the first day I was treated to one stunning sight after another. Barely five miles into Bolivia I was greeted by Lago Verde - a lifeless green lake, laden with arsenic and surrounded by towering volcanoes.



And for the rest of that day, as I made my way to Lago Colorada on decent dirt roads, I was taken aback by the majestic volcanic scenery - truly breathtaking, and not just because I was riding at 5000m above sea level.



Having completed Day 1 with no drops I was feeling good. I found a basic cabana in the small settlement on the edge of the lake and with only a few llamas for company decided to turn in for an early night.


Raring to go the following morning, I dared to dream that I´d make it all the way to the Salar without a single drop.

That was foolish thinking. Within minutes of setting off on the 120 mile journey to San Juan the bike went down in a slow speed drop, courteousy of a deep sandy rutt. Unbeknownst to me, the drop also loosened one of my panniers and I rode for two miles before I realised that the bike´s odd handling was not just because of the rough surface, but because I had lost some luggage. Fortunately, after backtracking I found my case, reattached it, and spent the rest of the day glancing back at my panniers to check they were still there.

The riding wasn´t quite as hard as Jebediah had made out. In fact, at times it was brilliant. There was one particularly special stretch made up of a vast open plain of sandy tracks fringed by volcanoes and martian rock formations.

It was sandy and rocky, but sand is only difficult in a confined space (i.e. in a deep rutt). When there are acres of room to play with you can glide the bike wherever you like. In such a situation there´s only one thing to do - gun the engine and sail smuggly past the tourist jeeps at 60mph.




Of course, my smugness didn´t last for long. After reaching another captivating lake, I basked in the brilliance of the ride for a few minutes, and chatted happily with a few tourists who had pulled up to do the same. Two minutes later, riding over rocky ground, I was down for the second time that day - a completely unexpected slide out caused by a layer of slippery sand on the rocks. Bugger it.



As I spent the obligatory twenty minutes doing post-drop repairs, it was the tourists´turn to smugly ride by. Fair play.

The rest of the day continued in much the same way with the occasional drop (invariably in front of a group of tourists) interspersed with brilliant scenery. By four in the afternoon I had made it to San Juan - exhausted but chuffed to bits. There were five drops that day - three of them big enough to spin the bike around 180 degrees.


But other than a few dents in the Phoenix´s tank, and a few more bruises for me, we had made it through. Based on Jebediah´s description the worst was over. Thank God for that.

Again, I dared to dream that the drops were over, and as a reward I stayed the night in the best hotel in town, had llama for dinner (which was delicious) and spent three hours the following morning treating the Phoenix to a tune up.

As my fellow riders know, whenever I do a bit of work on my bike I have a habit of cutting my hands. Despite wearing gloves, after five weeks on the road and two attempts at crossing Bolivia, this was the state of my mitts.


But I didn´t care that it had taken blood, sweat and a whole lot of effort to get to San Juan. The salt flats were now just a few tantilising miles away and I couldn´t wait to get there. And with the Phoenix riding well, I was adamant I wasn´t going to drop her again (particularly after spending so long getting her cleaned up). But then, after barely an hour´s riding I hit a patch of fesh-fesh - a stretch of seemingly smooth sandy terrain that has the consistency of talcum powder, and usually hides a rocky surface underneath. After fifty feet of erratic bouncing the ground ate my front tyre, snatching the bike sharply to the left, sending me flying over the handlebars and the bike down hard.

I came to an abrupt halt in a dusty ball, with a sprained thumb, bruised shoulder and a mouthful of sand. Stumbling to my feet, I saw that the Phoenix was in similarly bad shape. Both panniers had been ripped off (almost unheard of in a crash), there was another dent in the tank, one of the mirrors was broken, and she too was covered in dust.


Dejected, I spent a few minutes just staring at my bike. I couldn´t believe it. I wasn´t far off kicking sand on it (a la Tyson) but I was saved by a bit of pick-me-up pud (i.e. a chocolate bar). That helped me pull myself together, and I had soon got the bike back upright and was back riding again.

An hour later, we reached the mirrored surface of the salt flats, where I parked up and spent several minutes yelling at the top of my voice and doing a little jig in triumph. We´d finally made it.



And then it was playtime. The salt flats are much like a giant carpark (only much more dazzling and surrounded by volcanoes). And, as all schoolboys know, carparks offer the ideal surface for doing stunts and generally mucking about. That´s exactly how I spent the rest of the day, doing somersaults, tricks, and riding with my eyes closed at 88mph.





An unforgettable place, and an unforgettable journey.