Day 230: Trouser Rouser (15/09/2011)

The hotel laundary lost my trousers.

Truck Departure Time (TDT) was in thirty minutes.

I went to reception, explained the problem and got a Bolivian shrug.

Pressing it further, they mustered a call to the laundry woman -  who denied all knowledge.

At 22 minutes to TDT I put it directly to the sweet lady at reception that I gave my trousers to her and paid for the service so she should reimburse me for my $60 trousers. I held her gaze until 20 minutes to TDT at which point the back locker was being opened and the first bags were being loaded.

She broke first and the moral victory was secure. All I needed now was some cash from her.

At 16 minutes to TDT, she put down the phone from the laundry lady and made her first offer - $10 for the trousers? I fixed her with a steely eye and reminded her that my deal was with her and not some anonymous washer woman on the end of the telephone. I wanted to buy new ones so $60 was my first and last offer.

She made another call and countered with $20.

I cast an eye to Cindy. The locker was filling fast and people were climbing on board. It was 12 minutes to TDT and Izzy was turning over the cold engine.

I held my ground but Bolivian time was against me. She could see me nervously inspecting the progress of the truck preparations and, emboldened she stalled at $20 and would move no further.

I cried like a girl.

She remained unmoved with a face like stone. She had me and she knew it. The truck was leaving in 8 minutes and all she had to do was hold out and she would watch me leave empty handed; timed out by the convergence of TDT and the ponderous nature of Bolivian urgency.

There was nothing more I could do but get tough.

I pushed up my sleeves, put on my sunglasses and deployed the nuclear option. I was not leaving until I had the price of a new pair of trousers. Cindy could go without me – I would catch up but this was serious. I banked on the presence of a long term complainant in the lobby as a significant leverage in the negotiations.

She paused, clearly startled by the sudden escalation and offered $25. We ping-ponged back and forth but the gambit had failed.

T.J. was standing behind me when the idea dawned.

Dragoman put 6 trucks a month through La Paz and I was pretty confident that they all went through this hotel. Grabbing his elbow, I pulled him to the desk and issued a direct threat. Either I had $50 for the pants or Dragoman pulled all future business from the hotel.

It was a rash move but in an instant I could see that the problem had risen above her pay grade. T.J. said nothing but stared impassively at the women from behind his aviators.

She fingered the phone and looked back and forth at T.J. and I, searching for some hint as to whether we would go through with this crazy plan, all for the sake of a pair of tatty trousers.

She broke.

Her final offer was drowned out by Cindy's engine roaring into life. She pulled $40 from her till and thrust it into my hand. T.J. hauled me bodily out of the door and up the truck steps.


I would have pocketed the cash.

If I had any trousers.

Day 229: Hello and Goodbye (14/09/2011)

With the Inca trail fast approaching, gloves and socks were in short supply.

Calle Sagarnaga is a steep cobbled street that provides for the aspiring trekker.

After shopping, we walked further down the hill and through a corrugated chicane and out into the square of the church of San Francisco. The ornate 16^th century church boasts an beautiful doorway with spiral columns. As we left, the first rain started to fall since we arrived in South America. It was light and short lived and did nothing more than remind us of how much drought-stricken land we have crossed.

Walking back up Sagarnaga, we were passed by a convoy of the city's distinctive microbuses. Dodge 400’s crawl up the city’s hills belching thick black smoke. Smaller sandwich vans, halfway between a bus and a taxi, ply the streets calling out their destinations from the open sliding door and stopping only when hailed.

They fight for priority at the junctions and might is usually right.

Reaching the outer limits of wearable hygiene we opted for the hotel laundry service and carefully bagged up  our load before handing it over at reception.

Washing in South East Asia was a case of accepting that your clothes would be dunked in river water, hit repeatedly with a stick and the left to dry in a sealed plastic bag for three days. Here we hoped for detergent and a washing machine.

Walking away in our last best hope at acceptably clean clothes we strolled back down Sagarnaga, passed the small army of knitters who occupy the steps and kerbs at every turn. Brightly dressed in traditional skirts puffed out with a dozen layers of petticoats to ward off the chill and brown velvet bowler hats, they are Bolivia’s indigenous people with dark faces -  more American Indian than the Spanish par-venues.

They carry their possessions and often their children in a colourful strip of material that knots across the shoulders like a rucksack and sit for hours at a time selling knit wear, nuts and bottled drinks.

After lunch we wandered to Placa Murillo in the centre of colonial La Paz. Orange juice sellers sit by their trollies, peeling the fruit before pressing it into large tanks. The zest carries on the breeze and fills the air with the tang of citrus. The peel comes off in a thin strand a metre long and the un-pressed oranges sit in a bucket like a carved wooden Christmas decoration.

The square houses the Cathedral and the Parliament building and so is heavily policed. We passed a tough looking police officer, fingering his night stick in anticipation of trouble. His side kick held a handful of lollipops and grinned a broad toothy grin at us as we passed, lollipop stick protruding from his mouth and the ball lodged firmly in his cheek.

The Parliament is a colonial structure of columns and pediments but is painted typical South American white and red. The cathedral is a tall Italianate-Gothic structure. For a Catholic church in South America it is almost austere in its lack of gold and ornamentation. The dome is compact and economical. The square columns that support the round arches complete the architectural confusion.

We wandered back to Sagarnaga as the clouds began to gather and turned into the Witches Market. Lama foetuses sell for good luck and often are buried beneath the threshold of a newly acquired house to bring good fortune.

Cameron was parked up in a La Paz truck stop for the next few weeks and we were facing the prospect of the emotional wrench of two timing with her sister, Cindy on the way to Lima. With Cameron, Dave and Ivan gone, we felt cast into an emotional vacuum that would take time to fill.

Izzy and T.J. were their replacements and they limped into the upstairs salon, noses dripping for the introductions meeting.

But goodbyes were imminent.

We chose the Steak House as a suitable place for the send off and ate Chorizo that surpassed anything that we had experienced in South America. Vanessa fended off the tears that had made an appearance at lunch time and we hugged and said farewell with promises of future visits.

Jade, despite her sling and bruises, was not finished and downed her last drink as the 6am taxi arrived to take her to the airport. Pain relief comes in many forms.

Dave’s advice is stop at three beers when drinking at altitude.

He never followed it so neither did we.

Day 228: The Death Road (13/09/2011)

Things rarely match their description.

The Death Road is a famous route from the mountains on the far side of La Paz to the small town of Coroico. The old road was largely closed in 1991 as a result of the appalling fatality rate that earned the macabre name

The 'Gravity Assisted' truck collected us from the hotel at 7.30am and we left La Paz, forked off in the outskirts and continued to climb the range of mountains that rings the city. John, our Kiwi guide doled out essential advice. At 16,000 feet we parked by the La Cumbre lake in barren terrain far above the tree line.

"If you go off the edge, you will die" he concluded.

We offered 96% proof alcohol to the Inca deity, Pachamama and cruised round the bend and onto the first descent of the 63km road which would take us down 12,000 feet.

Rumbling ominously along behind us was the support bus, ready to sweep up the dead.

Juby, our Bolivian guide rode tail and together we snaked down 15km on tarmac, over-taking slow moving lorries and sneaking occasional glances at the awe inspiring rock faces that plunged a thousand feet into the ravine beside us.

At Hospital Corner, John took delight at pointing out the wreckage, far below, of a camper van that had misjudged the bend a few months before and plummeted to a fiery and mangled end on the rock field 500 feet below.

We edged to the precipice and peeked gingerly down at the remains.

“They all died” he added unnecessarily.

At the bottom of the first section we pulled up at a narcotics check point at Unduavi. We filed through the cordon, John having warned us to abandon or consume any illicit substances that we were carrying. No one had anything to ditch but the idea of taking on the Death Road with anything but a clear head seemed ridiculous.

The tarmac ended and we wound down a dusty gravel track and competed with buses and trucks to be the first to make the corners. So steep were many of them that the cornering vehicles risked pushing us whole sale off the increasingly steep edges. The barriers disappeared with the tarmac and the lack of protection began to focus the mind in a way that John’s black humour didn't.

What followed were sixteen sections of downhill, with a brief but painful 8km uphill climb part way through.

We paused for photos at the viewing point at the beginning of the Death Road and a nervous peel of laughter rippled through the group. Far below us on the far side of the valley snaked a yellow line; a road cut into the heavily forested mountain side. The drop was visible, even from this distance and it was steep, long and entirely unforgiving.

With John’s stories ringing in our ears, we started slowly.

Twenty-six tourists have been killed while cycling on the road since 1998. That number pales compared to the 108 Bolivians lost in a single bus that went over the edge on this section. We passed the small cross that marks the spot and paused to look down into the ravine that falls away from the unprotected edge.

What unfolded was a procession of rides of varying ease but accompanied by the psychological strain of riding alongside the precipice.

"A Japanese tourist fell to her death here" yelled John as he whizzed past.

"An American photographing his group stepped back to his death - look, you can still see his camera" he added 500m later.

"A Chinese woman overbalanced while climbing off her bike - just there". Arghh - make it stop we thought but no one said anything.

The list went on and I wasn’t sure whether John was delighting in the gory detail or instilling in us a respect for the true danger that we were exposing ourselves to. The answer is probably both.

Despite the stories, our confidence grew and as a result, so did our velocity. We learned the technique for taking the corners and increasing speed over the rock strewn path.

And then it happened.

Alex had been over reaching himself all morning. Flushed with success, he failed to spot the offending rock and his front wheel flicked 90 degrees. He tumbled over the handle bars and sprawled into the road. The bike followed overhead and the edge beckoned.

Fortunately his speed and direction were such that he came to rest in a cloud of dust a metre and a half from his Maker. Clearly rattled, he was up and off in seconds despite the blood streaming from his leg.

Further down the hill, Jade fell in identical circumstances. The bus swept her up and took her down to the bottom while we continued on our way, now paying much closer attention.

Periodically a local bus would tear down the road and pass us in a choking cloud of dust, blaring its air horn as it went. The Death Road is officially closed to most traffic but as still saves 20 minutes compared to the new road, some still use it.

This guarantees that those who do use it are in a rush - and that the road will continue to claim its victims.

We passed under the San Juan waterfall with whoops as the cold water soaked us and washed across the road and before long we had entered the lower reaches. The 1,000m drops had reduced to 20m and we felt impervious to the danger.

After dinner at a wild life reserve amongst inquisitive monkeys and Macaws with attitude problems, we showered and prepared for the return journey.

To our alarm the bus was planning to retrace our steps up the Death Road rather than the new road. Descending in the light in control of our own bicycles was a challenging experience. Sitting in a bus barely able to fit four wheels on the narrower stretches was frightening.

Looking down from the windows, the road surface was not visible. Only the drop, the meandering river and the tiny houses with smoke curling from their chimneys far below gave any perspective to the elevation.

Groans filled the bus as it lurched around corners. Moans and whimpers escaped strained throats as the it bumped and jumped over the uneven terrain. Couples hugged and single men buried their faces in women’s shoulders to escape the terror as darkness fell.

When the bus reached the tarmac after 90 minutes, applause rung out and the tension gradually began to subside. 

Death Road?

It did exactly what it said on the tin.

Day 227: Walk Slowly.... (12/09/2011)

The road into La Paz is deceiving.

A flat, congested dual carriageway formed as the tundra gave way to the city limits, without a hint as to what was to follow. Darkness was falling and the lights of the roadside kiosks twinkled as we passed. Suddenly we crested a rise and La Paz opened out before us like a hidden world.

The city of nearly 2 million clings limpet-like to the steep sides of a valley. The poorly built, bare brick houses cascade down the hill sides and the larger office blocks and colonial buildings pool in the valley floor.

It was dark when we arrived but a full moon lit the cloudless sky and bathed the amazing scene in a weak light. The whole valley was alive with pin pricks of light, like a constellation of stars had laid itself across the contours of the land.

We all snapped in vain to catch the night-time spectacle but the darkness and the rattling truck left us with nothing but smeary shots of the road side barrier.

Instead, after we had wound down the road into the city, we dumped our possessions in room 505 at the Hotel Estrella Andina before heading down the steep, cobbled Calle Sagarnaga to Sol y Luna for a Dutch dinner that Leon, Vanessa and Bert translated.

The walk down was a carefree jaunt.

On the way back, the thin air at 3,600m left us gasping in doorways, reminding us of the Bolivian words of wisdom issued to all new arrivals.

Walk slowly, eat little and sleep by your poor little self.

Day 227: Road Block (12/09/2011)

Recovering from the extreme weather conditions, we pressed on only to be confronted by another natural phenomenon of equally destructive power.

Bolivian politics.

As we approached the small town of Oruro the traffic came to an emphatic halt and climbing down from the truck, it stretched as far as our dust-filled eyes could see.

After a little local scouting amongst the truck drivers ahead of us, it transpired that the local Mayor was falling short of his election promises.

The English way is to grumble, drink some tea and wait five years until the polls open.

Before forgetting to vote.

The Bolivians favour more direct action that usually takes the form of burning tyres and lynching the offending politician. El Mayoro was holed up in the town hall, frantically revising his manifesto for re-election and nailing planks across the windows.

Rather than express an opinion, we reached a mutually beneficial arrangement with a local fedora-toting type. Freddie agreed to help us bypass the political impasse in return for a lift to his home on the far side of town.

We turned right, off the highway and onto a dusty dirt track that meandered for several miles into cliff-strewn farm land. After a while we caught up with a grounded commuter bus, that despite the driver’s best efforts, refused to move. The passengers decanted and rocks were wedged under the wheels. After five minutes of frantic manoeuvring, the under-carriage of the coach lifted off the road and we were moving again.

Two minutes later the saga repeated itself.

And again five minutes after that.

It was becoming increasing apparent that the coach was not going to be able to make the detour but as the track was so narrow and beset on all sides by steep drops, there was no way to turn around.

It was forward or bust.

After a mile, a small passing place appeared and to a cheer from the crew, Cameron eased passed, courtesy of her high wheel base. The coach followed but in no time we were bouncing over a rocky riverbed and the he was firmly stuck.

If you care to take a right off the highway just short of Oruro, you can still see the bus.

The Bolivian bus schedules are sufficiently fluid that technically, he's not even late yet.

Day 227: Let's Play Twister (12/09/2011)

In the space of five minutes, twenty-two dust devils rose from the dry ground and weaved toward us on the highway.

It was a sign of things to come.

From a distance, they look harmless as they wobble and twist across the plain. Most of them peter out after a few minutes and from a distance, even the large ones don’t look like they could do more than ruffle your hair affectionately.

We set up camp for a late lunch at about 3.30pm. The usual routine was now working like a well-oiled machine - after a few false starts. Seats were out and washing buckets filled. Food was prepared and we were half-way through eating when the fateful words were uttered.

“Oh, shit” was all Jade said.

We turned to the direction she was looking and 40m away and approaching at a sprint was a rotating wall of sand. Jade was clambering up the truck steps before anyone else had fully taken on board what was about to happen.

I followed her instinctively, jabbing her in the buttocks with my fork to convey the urgency that was  rapidly dawning on me.

And then it was upon us - I say us. I mean them.

The wind hit the carefully laid camp and scattered everything. Chairs zipped a hundred feet into the air before landing 500m away. The washing-up bowls dumped their contents into the maelstrom before following the chairs upwards.

The peppers and cheese smashed into the truck and slid down the windows as we cowered in amazement at the force of nature that was passing through. Knives flashed through the air - cups and plates flew away.

Everyone caught outside the truck covered their heads as they were blasted by sand and crockery.

And then it was over.

The chairs and bowls were still dropping from the sky like confetti on the far side of the road while Dave marshalled the walking wounded to gather anything that could be salvaged.

On the upside, Dave was able to use the ‘items lost in tornado’ column of the Dragoman spread sheet for the first time in the company's history.

They found Sharif clinging to the top of a telegraph pole and Nic buried beneath a pile of agricultural machinery a quarter of a mile down the road.

We never saw Leon again.

Day 227: De Nada Empanada (12/09/2011)

Once you descend from the mountains where Potosi clings to the rock face, you very quickly enter a long and dusty plain.

Ahead, La Paz is still at an eye-watering altitude of 3660m.

Since Potosi is at 3,950m, it’s not much of a descent but psychologically that small drop is important. The breathlessness that strikes you from time to time at 4,000m feels like the sensation you get when you realise that you have made a terrible mistake.

First there is a sharp intake of breath followed by palpitations and then some very, very deep breathing.

We hit the plain by 10.00am and, arriving in some non-descript ribbon development, Dave needed to make a ‘phone call and so we pulled up on the dusty side strip to wait. There were a few stalls selling biscuits and crisps and so, fearing that our cholesterol levels were too low after 21 days of red meat for every meal, we  set about loading up for the final leg.

That is when we came across the Empanada Lady.

She had a cute trolley with glass windows heavy with condensation and a nice smile that translated in any language. Two Bolivianas (or twenty pence) was the price for her little pockets of joy and before long we had formed a disorderly queue with some shoving towards the front.

They disappeared, complete with paper wrapping, in fours and fives at a time and when we got back to the truck, the smell had preceded us. Gemma, a universally proclaimed empanada fiend, was champing at the bit to get Elliot to the trolley.

Empanada Lady obliged, when she saw the stir her produce was causing, and wheeled the trolley across the busy junction, over the high kerb and within striking distance of the truck. Those who hadn’t bought some already rushed out to meet her.

Lunch for her - and for us, soon became an academic consideration as we cleared her trolley of every last one.

So often, the twenty-one of us descend on a small town and buy in bulk.

First we clear the bread shop, then the butchers and the locals only get a look in if there is a supermarket, but only if they want stuff from the freezer aisle. So it was that Empanada Lady went home with full pockets but an empty stomach.

As we left town, a hungry mechanic stood at the usual spot, denied his lunch-time empanada for the first time in years.