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Link #22
23 October - 20 November, 2000
Potosí, Bolivia to Mendoza, Argentina (2,099 km)
Our first day out of San Pedro de Atacama, Chile almost did us in. It
was a big day by almost any measure: Earliest start, Size of the climb,
Pitch of the road, Time in the saddle, Number of roadside naps, Amount
of lactic acid buildup in the thighs, Chilliest gusts, Instances of profanity.
* * *
But we should probably go back to how we got out of Bolivia. In short,
exiting proved to be much easier than entering. That's not to say our
first day back on the bikes after a two week rest in Sucre was fun. The
strikes were over and the roads were clear, there just wasn't enough oxygen.
We started mid afternoon out of Potosí, and made a mere 30 kilometers
before collapsing. We pitched the tent in the nearest roadside ravine
and went to bed with strong headaches. The atmosphere was making it's
lack of presence known. That morning we had bused the from Sucre to Potosí,
gaining some 1300 meters along the way. Such a quick gain in altitude
does not come without some pain.
After a night's worth of heavy breathing, we were far more acclimatized
and the next day's ride came much easier. The roads still lived up to
their notorious reputation, but the weather was great and the views outstanding.
On the third day the washboards took out Nicole's rear rack, shearing
the main support an inch above the bolt hole where it attaches to her
frame. #?*@%-&#!@*# aluminum! We vowed not to start our next cycle
tour without heat tempered, cold forged steel racks. An hour's worth of
jimmying with hose clamps,
strips of rubber, and scraps of steel first used on her original panniers
eight months ago in southern Chile and since set aside for an occassion
such as this, Nicole was back on the road.
We made the pueblo of Ticatica for lunch. There we met a couple of Austrian
cyclists plying their way to Potosí. Andreas was cycling the world
and dressed the part: head to toe lycra and a Canadian's flap-eared hat.
His companion for this leg of the trip was John Rambo's toe-headed cousin.
Complete with a survival knife, a full suspension bike, and 60-pound pack
which he carried on his back, he provided us with a solid week's entertainment.
While chowing sardine sandwiches, we swapped details on the sections of
road each was about to ride. In between chugs from his lunchtime liter
of lager, Rambo explained that the road was flat and very easy. Coming
from him we expected hills and headwinds.
On the forth day, after a heinous ascent up a loose gravel road passing
through the disheartening remains of a lead mining town, we made it over
the last range. The vista over the other side almost made us forget the
agony of the ascent and the depression of the town. From the crest we
could look down upon the enigmatic oasis of Uyuni and then out to the
endless expanse of white. For us, this was the first of southern Bolivia's
myriad of Daliesque views. The grand Salar de Uyuni, or salt desert/flat,
stretches some 200 kilometers to Chile and encompasses over 13,500 square
kilometers, or twice the size of the Great Salt Lake in Utah.
* * *
From the town of Uyuni we booked a jeep tour across the Salar and then
through the desolate but incredibly scenic southwest desert. We wanted
to see this part of Bolivia and doing it on bikes would have taken weeks.
The roads are horrenduous and there's no water. That is, unless the rains
come, in which case we'd be stranded in the mud for who knows how long.
Apart from the odd Austrian or Swiss, not many cyclists attempt this stretch.
So, our bikes went ahead of us and would be waiting at the Bolivia-Chile
border. Separation anxiety lasted only until the second hour of the tour.
After our three day desert jaunt, we came to the only conclusion possible:
southwestern Bolivia is a very weird place. Map
The first day had us speeding across the Salar making stops to talk with
the salt miners, to visit a hotel made entirely of salt blocks, and hike
around an island. The miners work year round harvesting the Salar's endless
supply of salt. In some places, it's estimated the deposits reach depths
of 200 feet. Since most miners don't own trucks, they use their bikes
to haul the stuff.
There's really not much to say about the salt hotel other than it was
like a Holiday Inn, but different. Everything save the roof and lightswitches
is made of sodium chloride. Tables, chairs, beds,... We didn't stay long
enough to dine, but figured that was for the better.
The Isla de Pescadores, or "Island of Fisherman," is
an outcropping of volcanic rock covered with massive sahuaro-looking cacti
situated almost smack dab in the middle of the Salar. Supposedly it was
a real island at one time - back when the entire altiplano was under water.
It's an eerie feeling, gliding at 80 mph across a blank white landscape.
Our only points of reference were the mirages of distant mountains floating
above a thin layer of liquid air. These peaks were often so far away as
to give the sense that we weren't moving at all. Time stood still as we
floated through space. The effect was strong enough to silence all eight
of us in the jeep for a half hour.
While charging across the salt flats in an automobile was a unique experience,
we still lamented the fact that we were in a Toyota Landcruiser and not
on our bikes. Motors and windshields make speedy travel possible, but
create borders between you and the land.
The second day the landscape got even more surreal. We ascended to about
4,500 meters (about 14,750 feet) and eventually leveled onto a high desert
floor. Volcanos smoked on the horizon. The Dali Mountains, named for their
drippy, colorful strata, reared in the distance. The only vegetation was
the aptly named paja brava, or brave grass, and the mystical, bright
green, rock-hard moss called yareta. Later, as we climbed up to
nearly 5,000 meters, even the paja brava and yareta would disappear. After
a while we came to the Valley of Rocks, a 15 mile stretch of ancient boulders
seemingly sprinkled across the sandy desert floor by a careless hand.
Over the millennia, the wind has carved these boulders into fantastic
shapes. Stone trees the locals call them.
About midday we spotted small herds of rare vicuna - smaller, more lithe
versions of their llama cousins. How they live up there, or better yet,
why, we still don't know. As if that wasn't enough to contemplate, a few
hours later our guide Gerardo delivered us inside the mind of Lewis Carroll.
In the middle of apparent nowhere we stopped at a solitary crop of rocks
and were instructed to place carrots and lettuce on the rocks. We thought
for sure Gerardo was playing gringo games. Yet soon after baiting the
rocks with vegetables, furry creatures came out of the cracks and started
nibbling. They were rabbits with long tails, or vizcachas. When
they invited us for tea we split.
Next up on the Mad Hatter's tour was a stop at Laguna Hedionda,
or Smelly Lake. There we saw hugh flocks of flamingos wading in the shallow
sulfury waters. Apparently these aquatic birds get their red coloring
from the bacteria that lives in some lakes. The contrast of pink birds
against turquoise waters, yellow banks, brown mountains, and screaming
blue skies defies description. I tried to capture it with my Olympus and
in less than an hour found that I had taken over 100 photographs and three
digital videos.
By day's end we arrived on the shores of Lago Colorado, or Red
Lake. When the sun is out and wind stirs up a few waves, it's waters are
bright red. Lots of flamingo feed they say. On the opposite shore were
large, bright white salt desposits. Again, the colors and contrasts registered
beyond our realms of imagination. By then we had had enough sensory stimuli
and retreated to our spartan bunk room to drink beer and play cards with
the other befuddled travelers.
"To the geishas" Gerardo said as he rousted us the following
morning. It was pitch black out but he looked chipper enough. Maybe he
wasn't kidding. Sounded like fun to me, plus I had no reason to doubt
him given the prior two days. If one man could deliver, it was Gerardo.
As we slowly climbed to over 5,000 meters, I watched a rosy fingered
dawn paint the landscape anew. Though in all honesty, I don't think I
fully enjoyed the sunrise as the whole time I kept one eye trained on
the horizon. Where was the host of painted Japanese seductresses going
to come from? Finally we reached the apex of our climb and gained the
view down the backside. Below we could see a vast sandy bowl swirling
with mist. As we descended into it, I had both eyes peeled. Gerardo explained
that this area was a hot bed of geothermic activity. As he pulled up along
side a set of spouting geysers, he proudly exclaimed, "Geishas!"
* * *
The town of San Pedro sits at 2,200 meters, or about 7,210 feet above
sea level, on the eastern edge of the driest desert on earth. In some
spots in the Atacama desert, it may rain once every 100 years. Then again,
it may not. Oddly enough, there is some vegetation, but where it gets
its water, we haven't a clue. All we knew is that we would have to carry
all the water we would need with us. And so, we calculated for the better
part of one morning just how much we would consume, down to what we would
need to brush our teeth.
While purchasing water and provisioning in town, we stopped into a local
Internet cafe to get off a few emails. While there, we met Devlin, a cyclist
from South Africa. He was one of an eight-member international relay expedition
that was traveling, solely by human power, from the North to South pole.
The Pole
to Pole 2000 expedition started skiing from the North pole in April
and aims to reach the south by New Year's. Their message: inspire people
around the world to take responsibility for our planet.
We talked about the road so far and then about the upcoming cuesta out
of San Pedro. The team was to tackle Jama pass in the morning.
While Devlin explained that their two support vehicles carried all their
gear and food, we groaned in envy under our breaths. At least we thought
we did. Devlin must have heard since the next minute he offered to cache
some water for us at the top. Having stared at that pass looming in the
hazy distance from the main plaza in town, we knew we could use all the
help we could get. Soon is was settled: one of their support vehicles
would drop 15 liters of water at kilometer marker 47.
We knew getting to that marker would mean a tough, long day. What we
didn't know is that by day's end, we would have new definitions for "long"
and "tough."
The next morning we started at 5:45am in the hopes of avoiding the Atacama
heat. Until the sun rose at about 7:30am it was finger-numbing cold. Initially
the winds were at our teeth, cold dry air rushing down the pass into the
warmer basin of the lowlands. The first 13 kilometers from San Pedro are
relatively flat, gaining at most 100 meters of elevation. After that,
there is a slight dip where a wash intersects the road and then the climb
starts. We took a small rest there, drinking some water and windmilling
our arms to coax the blood to our fingertips. The newly paved road was
completely empty. Just us and the ascent. The bulk of the climb would
come in the next 30 kilometers, taking us from 2300 meters to 4500 meters,
or about 7,200 ft up in less than 19 miles.
We started cranking up at 6:30am. Even in our lowest gears, we could
pedal no more than 2 kilometers at a time before stopping for air. Earlier,
while calculating water intakes, we figured if we could average 7 km/h
up the grade it would take 4-5 hours. After the first hour of climbing
at about 5 km/h and realizing our rest times equaled our crank times,
we knew it would be a long day. A couple hours later when the pitch of
the road reached 12-13%, we knew it would be a really long day.
I remember trying to think different thoughts. What do I want to be?
What kind of lifestyle do I want when we get back? Where should we live?
These same questions that I've started to ponder ever since we confirmed
our return tickets home. My mind could focus elsewhere for maybe a few
minutes before having to return to the task at hand. I could manage only
simple observations. That guard rail up ahead looks like its floating.
Strange, the birds seem happy but otherwise there's not a signal sign
of wildlife. The volcanos still have snow on their upper flanks, but it
won't last long. Nice that the road is so smooth and there's no traffic.
That weed with a purple flower, how does it grow up here?
After the sun breached the peaks of the pass, it took a couple more hours
for the land to heat up enough to balance out the winds. One more hour
and the winds reversed direction and actually pushed against our backs.
Even then, the going was at best tortoise-like. Four roadside siestas
at various points gave us well needed rest but didn't make us feel any
more harey.
Between our third and fourth nap, a fully loaded semi crept up behind
us. This two trailer behemoth was going so slow that we were able to clutch
a side rail as it passed. Having learned from John & Carolyn, who
pedaled with us from Quito to Cusco, not to grab anywhere near the exhaust
as it tends to melt your panniers, we grabbed on about mid trailer. With
our one free hand, we concentrated on steering clear of the truck's double
axles. While it was chugged only a few more kilometers per hour faster
than us, it felt like we were flying. The driver, probably glad for the
break in the ennui of the ascent, smiled at us from his side view mirror.
Before our arms gave out, we had hitched almost four kilometers. Our
upper bodies could now commiserate with our lowers. While we were glad
to have guiled our way farther up the grade, despair was setting in. At
that point, we were at about 4000 meters above sea level, the sun was
directly overhead, our water tasted like it had been served in a dirty
ashtray, our legs were whacked, and all we could think about was the remaining
ten kilometers and 500 meters of vertical gain to the water drop. Since
we were carrying only enough to get to the top of the grade, we had to
get to the water. We didn't have a choice. It was only six miles on smooth
road with a slight tailwind. Under normal conditions, about a half hour's
ride. Under Jama pass conditions, it would be a multiple hour affair.
Not wanting to couple despair with rigor mortis, we decided keep pushing.
We agreed to stretch out our breaks to one every two kilometers because
each time we stopped it seemed twice as hard to get back on. Zigzagging
up the steep sections helped. Moaning didn't; so we didn't talk much.
Four hours later we reached marker 47. It was almost 4pm. It took us
slightly over ten hours, twice the time we had thought. But, we had made
it.
The water was exactly where it was supposed to be. Thank you, Pole 2
Pole 2000! We topped off all our bottles and distributed the over 30 pounds
of liquid weight. Nicole's beleagured rear rack buckled under the additional
load and Bob took it wincingly. Matt carried an extra three liters in
two bottles lashed to his front forks with strips of rubber and supported
by a short scrap of rebar - a
hack mothered by necessity in a San Pedro garage.
While the water was there at marker 47, not much else was. We scanned
the horizon for potential campsites, but came up with nothing but sand
and the odd rock. The lunar-like landscape offered zero in the way of
windbreak or cover. Onwards, downwards, and upwards it would have to be.
The road from there was a bit of a coaster. Luckily, the winds were stronger
and pledged to help us.
We had word from other cyclists that there was a "rest area"
after about 30 more kilometers. After ten hours on the road, we hardly
thought we'd make that. We were hoping for something around the next bend.
All we found was more moony terrain and swept looking mountains. If it
hadn't been for a couple lovely downhills and that kind wind, we would
have camped on the moon and weathered the gale. As it was, we reached
the "rest area," more of a highway pullout serving as an observation
point to a sulfury set of marshes that were home to a flock of flamingoes,
at about 8pm. The cycle computer's trip time read 7 hours, 10 minutes,
our longest day ever.
There was a three foot wall that protected the bottom half of our tent
yet ensured that the top half would get twice the wind shear. We cooked
up our pasta and made tea as the sun was setting in a glorious burst of
color. Too exhausted to appreciate it, we ate about half our regular amount
and crashed hard. In the morning all the water outside the tent was rock
solid and the bananas inside were frostbit.
* * *
As if the previous day didn't break enough records, the following one
shattered a few too. After a slow morning's climb into the icy wind, we
reached the true top of the pass, a heady 4,900 meters (over 16,000 feet):
the highest elevation we've pedaled through. Then, as we came down from
the summit, we hit a stretch with a fierce tailwind and clocked our highest
speed ever, 92.4 km/h.
A few quick hours later we hit the Chile-Argentina border. That's where
the smooth asphalt ends and the gravel dust trail begins - 150 kilometers
of it to the next town. Cyclist friends Beatrice and Emanual introduced
their description of this stretch with, "Welcome to Hell." It
appeared Argentina was giving Bolivia a run for its money in the Worst
Road in South America contest.
On our way down this nasty road to the Argentine border post, Nicole's
#?*@%-&#! rack sheared in the same place, on the other side.
Having run out of hoseclamps and scrap metal, we appealed to the border
patrol officers. They didn't have such luxuries either. They didn't even
have a screwdriver much less a drill. When a large, not quite full tour
bus arrived at the border 15 minutes later, I started suspecting sabotage.
Was it possible that faced with the prospect of three days of nightmare
roads, Nicole had somehow induced that breakage. Something smelled fishy.
On my way to inspect the file on her Swiss Army knife, I realized I wasn't
exactly looking forward to the next three days either. A few minutes later
the bikes were loaded and we had two one-ways to Susques, Argentina.
* * *
We spent the night at an unmarked hotel in Susques. In the morning we
set to fixing Nicole's rack. We had found a piece of 3/4 x 12 x 1/8 inch
scrap metal and used a local's hack saw to cut two 3 inch long pieces.
Next, we needed holes.
First stop was the tire shop, or gomeria. Every town, no matter
what, has one of these and they always seem to be open. Susques' gomeria
was run by a 12 year old named Samson. He said he didn't have a drill
and then added that he doubted anyone else in town would either. He assured
us that if it was holes we wanted, we didn't need a drill. Samson was
more than willing to burn holes using his electric arc welder. We didn't
have much to lose so we agreed.
Not having a proper plug, he stuck one wire at a time into the socket
and got the welder buzzing. As he didn't have a welder's mask, he squinted
his eyes real tight. After 15 minutes of zapping, he got about a quarter
of the way through the first piece. We don't know if he did the math or
just looked at our expressions, but he decided he'd try something else.
With the arc welder still humming, Samson fired up his acetylene torch.
We think the idea was to blow a hole through the steel. The only problem
was he couldn't keep the torch lit and was quickly running out of matches.
So, he poured some gasoline in an old paint can and lit that to serve
as a candle of sorts. With that bit of ingenuity, Samson resumed his torchery.
The trained blue flame almost earned him a hole but then started to melt
the entire piece in the process. Next up: brute force. Samson grabbed
a cold chisel and a sledgehammer and started forging a hole through the
steel. It worked. For the three remaining holes (we needed two in each
piece), he alternated techniques and eventually got the job done.
We put Nicole's rack back together again and bid both Samson and the
town of Susques a fond farewell.
* * *
The next town we hit was another 160 kilometers east and a good 1800
meters down. Still, due to the roads, it took us two days. From Purmamarca,
we cycled to Jujuy and marveled in all the happy green plants and trees.
For the first time in months, the vegetation wasn't sparse and brown.
Between Jujuy and Salta we pedaled one of the best stretches of cycling
road in all of South America. Route 9 is the more direct but longer road
that winds through the subtropical hills above the Rio Grande river valley.
It's a wonderful single lane (that's for both directions) road that's
almost carless.
For us, route 9 was the start of two weeks of great, relatively easy
riding through northern Argentina. We enjoyed smooth roads, dry weather,
little traffic, and favorable winds. And being Argentina, we also enjoyed
good food, cold beer, and toilets with seats. While it's the stuff cyclists
dream about, it surely makes for exquisitely dull reading. Let it suffice
to say that after a three day eating & drinking fest in Salta we cruised
for 12 days, averaging over 100 kilometers per day, and arrived in Mendoza
a bit tired but elated. We had finally reached Argentina's womb of wine.
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