(10) Bolivia: The Road to Villamontes

The road east from Tarija to Villamontes was total tierra...ripio...gravel...dirt. You get the picture. 300 kms of slow and twisty mountain roads with corner upon corner upon corner as the road moved up one mountain and down the next. I must have crossed twenty ranges with a dozen or more river crossings and one mudpuddle. I had expected a traverse down a valley but it was not to be.

They said it would take eight hours...it did. Three hours to do the first 100 kms told me I would have no time for lunch. It would be a double "Snickers" day. I had provisioned myself well.

I pulled into the service station to top-up. They had no gasoline, only diesel. I had anticipated this and had stuffed my tank in Tarija before leaving. Gas was not going to be an issue. At the speeds I was travelling I was getting 75 mpg. My total distance should not consume more than 1/2 tank, but I like to be on the safe side. I motored on...180 more kms to go.

I was moving off of the mountain...down into the tropical zone. I entered a hairpin corner. I heard the bus coming, but it was too late. I was already into the corner. I had just passed the turn-out lane for passing, on this one lane road. We met nose to nose. The bus going uphill, me going down.

He was in the center to the road. I was in the right track. He motioned me to move over so he could pass. I looked at the 'V-Notch' ditch that greeted me. The soft, wet clay would suck me in and leave me there with no way to get out. I shook my head and motioned to him to back up. He pointed to the ditch. I pointed to him to reverse. We glared at each other through our respective windshields. He gunned his engine. I motioned for him to back up. All I needed was three feet so I could turn around and return to the passing lane.

For minutes we stared each other down. I was not going into the ditch for the asshole. All he had to do was release the brake and roll back a few feet. Finally he did just that. I spun around and returned uphill to the turn-out. He crawled by in a cloud of black diesel smoke.

I came through a one mule town. It was 4PM. The exit road was blocked. I could not believe it. The gate keeper told me there was construction ahead and the road would not open until 7PM...after dark. I still had almost 100 kms to go. I could not ride these roads in the dark.

A truck driver came up and talked to the gate keeper. He agreed with me. I should be let through. A bike can probably get through the construction he said. In less than five minutes I was mobile again.

They were doing a fine job on the upgrade. My expectations rose as I shifted into third gear for the first time in the day. My GPS counted down the kilometers. I was expectant about my fresh fish dinner in the shadow of the gorge which was the terminus of the road before it joined the pavement. A pleasant resort would await me there too.

It was not to be be. I came into the active construction zone. They had blasted the walls off of the side of the cut. Twenty feet of debris blocked the road. There would be no passage...not before 7PM.

I dismounted to review the situation. A truck driver came over to talk to me. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Villamontes and Yacuiba" I replied. He intoned that to mean I was passing directly through to Yacuiba. He did not know about the fish dinner, the resort, the relaxation, the cold beer and the naked women. "Less than a km back there is a detour," he said. It is a good road. You won't have to wait. I looked at my GPS. Yes the road was there. It looked like it bypassed the construction and moved on to Villamontes. I thanked him, spun around and headed out.

The road headed south. I wanted to go east. There was an intersection about 15 kms to the south, that turned around, headed north and then east to Villamontes. The GPS tracked the road to the pixel. I arrived at the intersection but it was not there. I rode further south and then turned back thinking I had missed it. It simply was not there. I tracked the road I was on. It went south. It went south to Yacuiba, on the Argentine border. I had no option. There would be no gorge and no fish tonight.

It was almost 5PM now. This road to Yacuiba was over 100 kms long. I doubted if I could make it before dark. I picked up the pace...3rd gear and 4th when I could. I rode like a desert racer, skidding around corners. River crossing after river crossing greeted me. Finally I came to an intersection which would take me directly to the pavement. I confirmed it with the "street watchers" in the small town. "Yes," they said, "it is not far."

I sped off. I had about 50 kms to go to the pavement. I might just make it before dark. 50 kms of pavement would be OK in the dark, but not 50 kms dirt and mud.

10 kms down the road my spirits fell. The road was blocked for construction. It would not open until 7PM. I talked with the gate keeper. "I cannot ride this in the dark" I said. "It is not safe." The lady in the kiosk agreed. It was 5:30 PM. Dusk was falling.

He phoned ahead to the construction zone. "You have to wait", he said, "until at least 6PM". I counted down the minutes...they seemed like hours. Would I get stopped ahead if they let me though early. I had no choice. I had to try it. At 6:10 he let me through.

This was rough construction. It was getting dark. My low beam had shaken itself to death sometime during this day or the day before. I only had high beam which was too high for this kind of driving. I moved on. I wended my way through construction vehicles. The road was passable...at least so far. Dusk blended into night. My GPS showed 20 kms to pavement but with this tortuous terrain you had to double that number...it was 40 kms.

I was in first and second gear again, dodging rocks, ruts, roots and debris as I crossed yet another mountain range. Some sections were soaked from underground springs, the dirty clayey material like grease...sideways...my foot kicked out and righted the bike...a save. Deep gravel a foot thick, not yet spread. I ploughed into that with rocks and dirt flying as I did a tank slapper...another save. A cliff wall on one side...a drop-off on the other.

I cursed these people. How could they close the main road and the detour too. What were they thinking?

Then I could see traffic moving perpendicular to my direction of travel. It was the pavement. I moved on, dodging bicyclists moving out of the dark, riding blind in this near black environment. Just what I need...a moving obstacle. Suddenly I was at the pavement. I turned south to Yacuiba.

100 meters down the pavement the road was blocked. It was a police drug check. More delays. "Where do you come from?". "Tarija". "Where are you going?". "Yacuiba". The standard grill. If he decided to search the bike it would cost me another half hour. I was in no mood for this. I volunteered only what he asked, no more. The bike was ticking over impatiently...waiting to go. I never stop the engine. It is my signal to them that I am busy. I have no time for their games. It is time to go. He stared at me. I stared back. It was a Bolivian stand-off. I was tired. I was late. It was time to go. The seconds seemed like minutes. The minutes like hours. He turned away from me; in profile; watching me out of the corner of his eye. I waited. Finally he motioned me on.

Yacuiba was still half an hour away. My high beam was a constant annoyance to the oncoming traffic. I flicked on my low beam and drove in darkness to show them my predicament. They were not amused.

Finally I was there. I was in Yacuiba, but it was a town with no end...no distinguishing features...no street signs...no directions...just mile after mile of houses. Every few blocks I asked for directions to the Centro. "Further ahead" came the reply. Finally, after my 10th try, the lady said turn left here and go three blocks. I was close.

The first hotel was a new, deluxe hotel. I took it. It was a waste of money but what the hell...it had a hot shower and a bed. The full American breakfast which was included in the fare turned out to be a Continental...bastards, they cheated me out a a lousy egg and a piece of toast...25 cents worth.

The steak dinner down the street, however, was not a disappointment. My two Snickers lunch had long since disappeared into oblivion. I can say I have never had a steak like that anywhere. In these Latin countries it is common to serve fish with the head and tail attached. In this steak, the only thing missing from the cow was the head and tail. The rest of it was there, on my plate. As thick as a Black Forest cake and just as tender, it was strictly a meat and potatoes meal. It disappeared. It was $5.

(9) Bolivia: The Bolivian Hospital Experience

Bugs will rule the earth. There is no doubt in my mind. They are just waiting for the right time...the right conditions and then they will conquer all.

A week or so ago I was in a one hotel town...too late to go ahead. I checked in.

I awoke in the morning to find a blood sucking critter hanging on, gorging his swollen body with my precious blood. He had dined all night I am sure. A row of red marks marked his passage. I took his life that morning. It was an easy decision.

I did not know his heritage. I did not know his name. I feared the worst and counted down the days as I watched his marks fester and swell. The color changed from red to purple. I used my medications but they had no effect. Then by the eighth day I started to experience physical symptoms. My stomach was unsettled, my head light. I salivated and felt like vomiting but didn't.

It was time to make a move. Time to visit the hospital. I checked myself into Emergency.

The first room contained the Cashier. Unfamiliar with the procedures I joined the line-up for the cashier. People pushed and crowded in front of me...they merged in from the sides. After half an hour I had not gained an inch. Agressively I pushed the interlopers aside. They gave me a dirty look. Why were they more important than me? Sure it was there country but I was in front of them. I deserved to be able to maintain my position.

A lady wider than I was tall squeezed into the 6 inch gap in front of me. I had visions of the bug whose life I had snuffed. I let it pass.

Finally I was at the Cashier. "I need to see a doctor," I said. "I have been bitten by a bug." Silently, she motioned me into the hallway beyond the room. I joined the growing crowd of disabled and injured.

I looked to be the true physical specimen in this mottley lot. A man stood limply against the wall, his head bandaged to his brow; the right side of his face purple. A man limped in wearing sandles, his toes wrapped in a red stained bandage. A woman breast fed her baby. A young boy on a gurney was wheeled up and down the hallway periodically to spread the growing crowd. I looked oddly out of place.

An hour passed...an eternity. In this numberless game I wondered if my number would ever come up. No one even looked my way. A doctor stood in the doorway of his office looking for business. He had none. He kibitzed with the nurses and orderlies. Why not me?? Why not do something productive?? Finally a nurse took me over to him. This could have happened an hour ago.

I explained my situation. I drew him a picture of the bug. I told him I thought I had Chagas. "No, no" he said. "That is not a Chagas Bug". He drew me a picture of a bigger and uglier bug...a cross between a scorpion and a spider. "That is a Chagas Bug," he said, "not your little bug."

I wasn't convinced. "We will do a blood test he said," and wrote out the request. He marked "URGENT" on top of the paper and underlined it. "Take this to the Cashier" he said, and waved me out the door.

Back in the Cashier´s room, the line-up had swelled until it filled the room. I joined the fray, agressively beating off any interlopers within reach. The games continued. Half an hour later I was at the Cashier's Window. I passed the paper across to her. She pulled out a giant ledger and tried to price it. She could not find the codes. Finally she totalled everything up. It came to 75 Bolivianos.

I handed across the money. She pushed it back. "You cannot pay now," she said. My computer is down. "Take this to the laboratory and come back when you have had your test." I had a bad feeling about this. I looked around frantically. "Where is the laboratory?" She waved her hand like a wand. "Over there" she gesticulated. "Where?" "There."

An orderly took pity on me and led me down the passageways, through closed doors, around corners and passed abandoned, dirty rooms. My spirits fell. Did I really want to be a part of this?

We arrived at the Laboratory. I was first in line. I had beat the rush. I handed across the slip of paper. The nurse looked at it and passed it back. "I can't do anything with this," she said. "You did not pay". "Come back when you have paid." I looked at the orderly, he looked at me and we headed back to the Cashier.

Same scene, same place, different time. Finally, back at the cage, I explained the problem. "Oh, my computer is running now. You can pay." The price was now 80 Bolivianos. I don´t care...80, 90 a 100. Let's get this show on the road.

The orderly had disappeared...given up...gone somewhere else. I wandered through the maze of halls but could not find the laboratory. Finally, in desperation I stopped a nurse in a hurry and beckoned her to take me to my destination. She did.

The Laboratory room was filled to capacity. More jostling, line jumping, pushing and shoving. I beat my way to the front of the line. There was only one more person in front of me. Suddenly a male nurse appeared behind the window, shouting and screaming like a lunatic. "There are too many people here...too much work to do. I quit. There will be no more tests today. Everybody go home." He waved his arms frantically and then he slammed the window shut and disappeared.

We looked at each other in muted silence. Nobody said a word. We just sat in the waiting room. Eventually the crowd thinned out. People went somewhere else. People went home. People just gave up. Half an hour later nothing had changed. No one re-appeared at the window. Nothing was happening.

I left the room. I couldn't find the way back to the Cashier. I wandered through hallways and closed doors. Finally I ended up at the back of the hospital, on the opposite side of the building. I walked around the perimter until I finally reached Emergency again. I went back to the Cashier. I joined the long lineup and worked my way to the front. The cashier smiled at me as I reached the cage. "I want a refund," I said. "I want my money back. The technician at the lab has quit. There will be no more tests today."

A cross look passed over her face. She looked at my paper. She turned off her computer. She locked her cash drawer. She took my slip of paper, exited the cage and locked the door behind her. She grabbed my by the arm and led me to the laboratory. Only a few people remained in the waiting room. She walked up to the window and rang the bell...she pounded on the sill...she bent through the window and shouted down the hall. A nurse appeared from somewhere.

"What's going on", the Cashier shouted. "This man has paid for a service and needs to have this work done. Can't you see it is URGENT?!!" "But, But." "Get this goddam work done and do it now!!"

The window closed and the nurse appeared in the waiting room through a side door. "Have a seat, sir," she beckoned. "I will be right with you." I selected a chair and lowered my haunches to it. Before they touched metal, the nurse reappeared. "Come on," she said. "Let's get going." I sprang to my feet. The Cashier smiled at me and returned to her cage.

In five minutes flat, the nurse had dusted off a new syringe, jabbed my arm, drew blood, squirted a little around the room to ward off evil spirits and sent me on my way.

"Now what?", I said. "Come back at 3:30 and we will give you the results. "Today," I queried, not believing I had heard correctly. "Yes." "Where to, the Cashier?". "No, come here." "OK. Bye. Thank-you." I left in a daze. Almost 3 hours had passed.

I went downtown and bought an ice cream cone to cool off. I ordered a double.

3:30 appeared quickly. I returned to the hospital. They were in lock-down. A guard stood at the barred gate. "We are closed," he said. "Come back at 5:30." He spoke through the bars. "But, but, I had this work done," I sputtered. "They told me to come back at 3:30." I showed him the slip of paper. He opened the gate and let me in.

I now knew the hospital layout by heart. I took a short-cut to the laboratory. I was back at the cage. A stout, brusque lady looked up from her work. "What are you doing here?", she seemed to shout. "I was told to come here at 3:30", I responded meekly. "Get out. We are closed. Come back at 5:30 when we are open." She returned to her work.

I left muttering to myself. I really don´t give a fiddler's f--k when I get the results. Why, just why can I not get the same answer twice in a row?

I returned at 5:30. The hallway was jammed with people. The place was locked up tight. No one was around. The clock counted down the minutes. An orderly appeared and rang the bell. Nothing happened. Finally at 6:00 the same woman who threw me out earlier appeared at the side window with a box of test results. She began calling out names like bingo numbers. I never heard mine. At the end of the stack she said "That's it. If your name wasn't called come back tomorrow. Maybe we will have them then."

The crowd surged forward. Only a few had had their names called. Many remained, I among them. She pawed through the pile again. More papers were passed out. I looked at the recipients. Were they all medical students? They studied the test results and charts intently. They acted like they understood. I pushed close to the window, hoping she would find my paper before she got angry at me again. She pulled it out of the box and handed it to me.

I looked at my blood analysis with the percentage breakdowns. I looked at the graphs and charts and the spiked curve. It didn´t mean shit to me. Who were these people kidding anyway? They couldn't make any more sense of this than I could.

Now what? In a daze I staggered down the hall. I know. I'll go back to the Cashier. At the front of the line I handed her the paper. "What do I do now?" I asked. "Oh, you need a doctor," she said, and led me down the hall. I walked into the doctor´s office and we went through the results.

They have confirmed "NEGATIVE ON CHAGAS", he said. I already knew that. I had read that much. "What about all of these sharp spikes? What are they?" "I don't know you," he said. "I can't say if that is good or bad."

"Let me have a look at the bite. Where did the insect bite you?" "On my right testicle." "Where?" "You heard me." I dropped my drawers. The door to the Consulting Room was pushed open. People peered through the door. The doctor turned to close it.

He prescribed a cream and some antibotics to be taken over a period of four days. I hoped he was right.

(8) Bolivia: South Central

I had criss-crossed Bolivia like a politician campaigning for office. From Paso Tambo Quemada to La Paz, south to Cochabamba, east across the Chapare and the Beni via El Camino Nuevo to Santa Cruz, north and east into the Missiones district, back west on El Camino Viejo and south to Sucre, further south to Potosi and Tarija. Then east again to Villamonte and finally south to Yacuiba where I plan to make my exit to Argentina.

What a grand country. What a country of contrast and change...from high, arid altiplano to the lush tropical Amazon, the middle agricultural zone and finally the low and arid desert zone of the Chaco, with everything imaginable in between.

Bolivia was once twice the size it is today. It's numerous wars with its neighbours have been wars of attrition. They lost land to Brazil in the rubber rich area of the Acre. They lost their east coast access via the River Paraguay to Paraguay, most recently in 1932. They lost their Pacific Coast access to Chile in 1884 in the War of the Pacific. And finally, they lost land to Peru in the lower Amazon basin in 1909.

Political instability has not been kind to Bolivia. They have endured 192 changes of government in 178 years as a Republic. Social reform lags, but the people endure. They are the most resilient, most friendly, most helpful of all the countries I have visited.

Twice, in different cities (Sucre and most recently Potosi) I have pulled up to the curb and opened my Travel Guide to the city map to try to determine where I was relative to where I wanted to go. My book was barely open when a lady came up and asked where I wanted to go. She set me straight in two minutes flat. This has never happened to me anywhere, in any country before...only BOLIVIA. Simply incredible!

The road to the Chaco, from Potosi, was through Tarija. It was a long eight hour drive over gravel roads to get here. Most of the road was being prepared for paving, with many detours; hence the extra time to cover the 380 kms.

The country changed before my eyes, from high altiplano at 14,000 ft to middle altiplano at 10,000 ft and then a lovely red valley at 8,000 ft. From there I climbed back up to 10,000 ft ever so gently. If I hadn't check the GPS I would not have known. I was expecting my destination any time now but my GPS said another 38 kms. I thought I would just drop off of the altiplano down to Tarija but no, that was not the case. There was a mountain between me and the city.

The steep ascent had but a few switchbacks as I climbed up to 12,700 feet. A totally different environment greeted me as I crested the mountain. The descent too was a different story. The spiralling descent into Tarija at 6,200 ft. was one I had never seen before. Hundreds of tight switchbacks covered in deep, floury powder, the road barely wide enough for a single vehicle...the corners almost too tight for a bus to negotiate. The temperature warmed with every turn until it was finally 20C when I reached the bottom.

Tarija, an isolated oasis of tranquility. What a lovely, delightful town. It is disconnected from the rest of Bolivia and I am told because of its proximity to Argentina its citizens feel a stronger affiliation for that country and lifestyle than that of Bolivia. The rest of Bolivia seems to share that sentiment too. I think when the road is finally completed all of that will change as Bolivia discovers the gem they have forgotten.

I was quite surprised to find that some of the police here ride the K100RT Police Model. The officer told me they have ten of these bikes in this metropolis of 132,000 people. There cannot be more than 100 miles of paved roads in and around Tarija and yet this model had 118,000 kms showing on the odometer. You have to wonder where he went. There is a flurry of Japanese 250 cc Police Models also. This country just never ceases to amaze me.

Tarija...the only city in Bolivia that I have visited that has normal, legible street signs. What a pleasant surprise to be able to navigate about town with confidence.

For many years the world has seemingly thought that there were no dinosaurs in South America. The tracks near Sucre should have proved different. The museum in Tarija surely will dispel any such notions...dinosaurs, mammoths and giant armadillos over six (6) feet in length, just to name a few. Many more remain to be discovered.

(7) Bolivia...Potosi

I had been living high at the top of the world...literally. The cost be damned. At 13,200 feet ASL, Potosi was simply the highest city in the world. At one time it carried two other accolades...the biggest city in the world and the richest. Bigger than Paris or Rome or any other...richer than all others. That was back in the Colonial era, in the mid 1500s. Much has changed since then.

The reason for the affluence and the growth was quite simply a single, solitary commodity...SILVER. An entire mountain of silver. Cerro Rico. The single, largest accumulation of silver anywhere. Other places tried to emulate Potosi when they made a rich strike; for instance, San Luis Potosi in Mexico, named after its namesake Potosi, Bolivia. They all paled by comparison. There simply was only one CERRO RICO.

The Spaniards could not get enough silver. They went crazy for the metal. They would stop at nothing to get it out of the mountain. With veins over a meter thick it was relatively easy to get out. But it took manual labour and lots of it.

They worked the Indians to death...and when they died they moved more in. Soon there were not enough Indians left to fill the ranks of the dead. They imported African slaves. The slaves however did not fare well in the high, cold altiplano and died even faster than the indios.

To be assigned to the mines was a death sentence. A single term was four months without returning to the surface...without seeing the light of day... forever breathing noxious gases and dust...living, eating and sleeping in the mines. In the upper levels the temperature often exceeded 45 C. If you survived, you were given a brief rest and then returned for a second term. Few survived to return a third time.

The attrition rates were incredible. Over the 280 year period from 1545 to 1825 it has been estimated that over 8 million lives were given to the Spanish lust for the Silver...the ultimate Cancer de la Moneda. There is no way to know the exact number, but what is known is that the death rates were so high the dead were never returned to the surface. They were simply piled into chutes and shafts and covered over with mining debris.

Today Cerro Rico still looms over the city as a silent reminder to the lusty days of past. It is still worked but on a small scale. For the most part it is mined out, but miners are a unique breed and cannot believe that there is no silver left. The quest continues. The mountain is so heavily mined with tunnels and shafts that it's height has subsided by 300 meters.

With wealth comes prosperity and waste. Over eighty (80) churches and cathedrals were built in Potosi. The rich sent their Parisienne silks back to Paris for cleaning. Not really a simply task. They were bundled up and trundled over the Andes on llama pack train to Arica, Chile. Then by boat, north to the Isthmus of Panama. By pack train again they were transported across to the Caribbean. Once again loaded onboard ships where they entered the final phase of the journey to France.

After cleaning the shipping procedure was repeated in reverse. The whole process probably took a year to complete. One has to wonder if it was really worth it. The fashions would have changed...the fleeting fancies of the rich and whimsical altered.

Today with the silver boom over, Potosi is struggling to survive. It is a mere shadow of its former self. Most of its churches long since stripped of their gold and silver, melted down for hard currency; many of its buildings stand in disrepair.

Slowly the town is being rebuilt. Tourism is one mechanism, but it is a long battle. Potosi is a long ways off the tourist track. You have to want to go to Potosi to get here. It is on the way to nowhere.

There is no change in this town. I have eaten a fine dinner but they cannot make change for a 100 Boliviano note ($14). I give them the last of my change, which I have been hoarding, so I can pay the exact amount. Now I cannot do anything because all I have is a 100 note. I go to the corner kiosk and buy a chocolate bar to break the bill. The lady wants the sale but hesitates. I buy three chocolate bars to make it worth her while...

(6) Bolivia...El Camino Viejo

The Surazo can hang around for days or weeks. There is no telling.

Saturday was a wet and miserable day, the temperature barely above 10C. A good day for a movie...The da Vinci Code. Interesting, perhaps a little melodramatic, but a good distraction.

Sunday dawned overcast and cold, but no rain. I made a break for it. I knew that somewhere to the west the Surazo would run out of gas and blue skies would return.

I headed west on El Camino Viejo. I had heard much about this highway, mostly bad. Could it be true? My friends in Conception warned me it was a dangerous highway. I thought of robbers, guns and knives. They thought of land slides, wash outs and unpaved sections. I went to find out.

The first half was incredible...a road and a river sharing a narrow, deep canyon. The pavement was flawless and dry. The air cool. My destination was Samiapata, normally a weekend tropical retreat area for the Santa Cruzianos. But, on this weekend I had the place to myself. Of course there were a few obstacles...

Near Samiapata was the pre-Inca ruin named El Fuerte by the Spanish since they thought it was used as a defensive site. It was most likely a religious ceremonial site, carved into the top of a mountain. Without the benefit of mind altering drugs to enter the induced hallucinagenic state enjoyed by von Daniken, I failed to encounter any extra-terrestials or their craft.

Beyond Samiapata the road began to leave the valley and climb the pass. As the ascent began, the pavement ceased. It turns out the "Old Highway" has never been finished either. This section which lasted for the duration of the ascent and the descent, a distance of about 100 km, was finished in the brain rattling, mind numbing, suspension breaking roughest of all finishes...pit run.

At 10,000 feet the temperature plummetted to 9C and I had entered the zone of the neblina (the fog). Visibility was reduced to a few feet and the inspiring views that should have greeted me disappeared into the mist. Villages abounded in this high altitude region and in my zero visibility state I could only wonder why anyone would live in this godforsaken place. As I crested and moved down the other side, I moved beyond the fog. Then I could soon see why. The mountains had been farmed to their peaks. The fertile, steep slopes cleared and cropped much as they were in Ecuador and Central America. The concept of terracing not used...the near vertical slopes simply cropped and harvested as nature had built them.

Near the bottom of the descent, the road became maintained gravel with intermittent pavement proving that at one time this side had been paved. I watched my GPS for my turnoff but it was deceptive. All along the route the GPS had tracked the road to the pixel. Now that I really need it, it was an inch off of the mark. A tiny sign not much larger than a knee-cap alerted me to my intersection. But it just didn't make sense. I spotted a service station and gased up. This inconspicuous little town was Izacara, the thriving truck stop and junction that I had been looking for. No wonder I didn't recognize it...it was a one horse town...but it was still the primary junction to Sucre, the proclaimed most beautiful city in all of Bolivia. It was hard to tell from where I was standing.

I made the turn. A cobblestone road greeted me. A dual carriageway extending into the distance. Polished smooth by centuries of traffic, there is a slickness in a cobblestone road like no other. Dry it is doable, but wet it is unforgiving. Today was a dry day.

This cobblestone road would lead me through hills and valleys, over mountains and back down again. It would last for 100 km, all the way to Aiquile. The surface was flawless...as good as cobblestone can be. The stones mostly hand sized. The manhours...the man years required to build it were incalculable.

I hate cobblestone roads. They are only a few steps better than pitrun. Idling along in 3rd gear was a reasonable speed...a mere 60 km/hr. I was glad when it came to an end at Aiquile. It was replaced by what I call a fast gravel road. I skimmed along a 80 kmph. A dust cloud of epic proportions followed me. They said it would take me four hours to go from Aiquile to Sucre. I was there in less than two.

Out in the middle of nowhere I encountered a toll booth. On this dusty, miserable road I could not imagine they would be charging a toll. I argued with the money changer that motorcycles were free in Bolivia. He disagreed. Reluctantly I paid the toll...50 cents. Hey, you have to try. It is part of the game.

Around the corner and across the bridge I had my answer. As I exited the bridge I came across a brand new concrete highway leading to Sucre. What a pleasant surprise. It wound its way along the broad river, up the valley and over the mountains. What an incredible ride made all the better by a superb roadway. Well worth the 50 cents any day.

In fact the entire ride from Santa Cruz to Sucre will remain one of my all time favorites, simply because of the variety of road surfaces and total transitional environment. I had moved from tropical, to tropical transitional, to montane, to desert and on to altiplano where Sucre was situated...back at 9,000 ft.

Entry to Sucre from this direction, takes you right past the limestone mine where they quarried the rock for cement. Embedded in the upthrust plate was a massive accumulation of dinosaur tracks...over 5,000 in total. I stopped for a visit. They have named the site Cal Orcko.

Now, located in an almost vertical position, due to the upthrust, originally the tracks were on a flat mud plain.

My lovely guide was most accomodating and provided a personal tour.

(5) Bolivia: Conception to Santa Cruz

The Missiones circuit...

At Conception I lodged at the Hotel Etayo. I was their only guest. They welcomed me into their family as one of their own. I had planned to stay one day and ended up staying for three. We shared stories and traded lifestyles. Fernando had learned English in the United States...Ohio. We talked well into the evening. Born in 1950, he was the same age as me. He had moved to Conception to start a new life and to raise his family.

His young son, Matthew, became enamoured with my camera. Initially camera shy he became fascinated with the magic of the silver box. It had pictures of him, and more...it had pictures of macaws, motos, monos (monkeys), llamas, vicunas and many wonderful things he had not seen before.

But he still remained shy of me. I think it was the beard. When pressed as to whether I could be his friend, he was insistent. "No, I was too old to be his friend." He liked me, but I could not be his friend.

I left Conception and began backtracking to Santa Cruz. The day gradually cooled as I moved south to the city. A Surazo was blowing into town. I had hoped I could escape Santa Cruz without this experience but I guess not. The Surazo is a cold wind that blows into this area from the Argentinian Patagonia. The temperature dropped from the 30's C to the low teens...and with it came the rains.

We lined up at the one-way entrance to the "Train Track Bridge From Hell." It had been raining; the polished boards on either side of the tracks slickened to the consistency of ice.

I was in pole position...everyone behind me itching to pass the gringo on this narrow trestle. The slickened boards sometimes placed with a 2"-3" gap along their length...bigger gaps where they should have butted together...sometimes missing. They were a challenge when they were dry, never mind now.

I caught an edge and it threw me to the outside railing. I recovered only to hit a too large gap that grabbed the tire and tried to spin me sideways. Again, I somehow reovered and continued...the bridge too long to expect continued miracles as I worked my way along its 1km length.

More gaps; sideways; my foot shot out to kick the bike back upright. The train tracks in the middle gave me only a 4 ft margin to work with. Suddenly the bike felt ponderous, way too heavy, incapable of going the distance without a crash. The taxi driver on my tail, nudging me to my doom.

I accelerated out of his range. A board was missing. I narrowly averted disaster. Glancing upward, away from the track directly in front of me, I could see the end of the bridge. The criss-cross pattern of the bridge started to diverge instead of converge. It was a race against time. Could I make it before my luck ran out?

The boards became smoother...the gaps narrower and then I was at the end. But, I could not exit. I was on the right hand side of the tracks. The exit road was on the left hand side of the tracks. I could not cross the 6" high rail.

I bumped my front tire against it and it skidded along. Wet and slippery, it could not grip the rail to climb it. I tried again and almost fell. The impatient traffic stacked up behind me now. I moved off of the bridge and bounced along the ties. The situation did not change. I now only had a 3 ft verge before the rail bed dropped off into a deep ditch...the 3" ballast difficult to negotiate. I was being pushed to the outside...closer to the edge. I couldn't go back.

Ahead of me the tracks split creating another barrier. I cursed the rain, the tracks and the goddam taxi drivers. The only option I had was to ride down the steep, rain soaked, mud embankment hoping it was firm enough to support me. Once at the bottom I would have to turn around and pull a 1/2 Steve McQueen.

I looked around. That was my only option. The crowd lined up for the show.

The sticky, clayey mud balled up on my tires. I twisted the throttle and did a quick 180 turn as the back wheel spun in the mud. I paused 10 seconds to ponder the steep ramp in front of me. I could not see the tracks from here, but I knew where they were.

I had but one chance. If I spun out I was done. Too much speed and I would break something crossing the tracks. If I did not hit them perpendicular I would crash.

I twisted the throttle and released the clutch. A rooster tail of mud and rocks flew skyward behind me. I accelerated up the embankment and then "shut it down." The front wheel hit the rail hard enough to clear it. As the suspension compressed the rail hit the underside of the bike with a "clang." I jumped the second rail... clang...and then I was done. I merged into the lineup and accelerated the hell away from there. I didn´t bother to look back...my vision firmly fixed on the road ahead...the future and not the past.

It started to rain hard. I could see it coming as the sheets descended onto the highway just ahead. I did a "Right Turn Clyde" into a garage, to suit up. I was followed by a flock of chickens and a bicyclist. We joined the moto taxi already there. The owner watched patiently as his shop filled with non-paying customers.

I rode off minutes later as the burst dissipated, slowed to a gentle rain. I had better places in mind to spend my day.

(4) Bolivia: Reflections in a Mud Puddle

....Reflections in a mud puddle....

I wish I had time in my life to understand all that I see...the mysteries, the passions, the motivations behind the work. Those things, those memories that lodge in my mind but remain unanswered, unexplained and not understood. So much has happened before me; so much will happen after me; so much will remain a mystery in my life and the next...

I wish I could help these people. I wish I could buy all of their handiwork. The haunting eyes penetrate beyond the sale, for behind them lurks the hunger and desperation of daily life, the struggle to survive, to exist in this hand to mouth world. I wish, I wish, I wish...

Nobody has change in these countries...not the big hotels, not the mercados, not the taxis...only the gas stations. I pay for dinner with a 100 Bolivano note ($14) and they cannot make change. I pay for my moto taxi with a 5 Bolivano coin (70 cents) and he cannot make change for a 37 cent ride. You are expected to have the exact change, but if you can't get change, how can you give exact change? It's a CATCH-A-22 of mega proportions.

There is not much to do in these little towns. You can make love, eat or go to Church...make Church, have love or go to eat...make eat, have Church or go to love. It is an endless cycle.

In this little town, everyone with a computer thinks the other guy has an internet connection. "Go see Fred on the corner." OK, I went to see Fred. Fred has 6 machines but no internet connection, only games. Fred says to see Mike 2 blocks away. Mike has no internet, but he is sure Fred has because Fred has 6 machines. I give up my quest and go to Church. I have already eaten and even though sex is appealing, Church is better for you.

I come out of Church after the 7:30 PM mass. There is a power outage and I cannot see my hand in front of my face. People at the shops sit behind lighted candles. A panic moves through my body. I cannot find my way home from here in total blackness. Even the traffic of moto taxis is almost non-existent in this absolute darkness. Finally, I tackle one and get a ride home.

Here in Conception, the little moto taxis (125cc Hondas) whisk you around town for 30 cents. Careening down the dirt streets littered with potholes, dodging pedestrians, dogs, moto taxis and the odd car, we move along in a state of near-out-of-control. My bulk on the rear seat, almost double that of the conductor puts me in control even though he holds the handlebars. By shifting my weight I can re-direct him at will, putting him in a state of confused panic as he struggles to regain control. Finally arriving at our destination he is more than happy to see me disembark and once again regain control of his craft.

Word must have passed around town about the gringo with the blue shirt. Soon no one would stop to pick me up. I go back to my room and change into a white T-shirt. Back on the street, I am soon picking up taxis with random abandon. The games continue.

Some of these little bikes have over 50,000 km on them and I am sure they have never been more than 10 km from the edge of town.

The asparagus is wonderful. The thick, meaty stalks offer no resistance to the bite and provide a flavour sensation without equal, never before experienced.

My girlfriend came by to greet me during supper. I met her yesterday. She is such a sweetheart...an absolute doll. She is ten, with all of the grace and dignity of a lady. She is the self-appointed hostess and stopped by to wish me "buen provecho." She saunters through the dining room, into the next room, out of sight. I pause to reflect on her passing. I wish I were ten...but only for an instant.

There is an Orchidaria in town at the Hotel Chiquitos. I go to visit. It was not the season, but enough of these delicate beauties were in evidence to arouse the senses...their frail and delicate beauty exceeded only by the nectar of the sweet aroma eminating from within. The visual memory of the beauty lingers, but it is the delicate and delicious, sensory memory of the scent that remains forever. The Nectar of the Gods...for it cannot be captured...it cannot be duplicated...it cannot be confined. It is nature's gift to the world. A world bent on a course of chaos and destruction, in man's quest for "The Cancer of the Moneda" so profoundly spoken by Carmen those many months before, in Santiago, at the beginning of the journey.

(3) Bolivia: The Missiones

Armed with only a small amount of information and the promise that they offered a unique spectacle I set off for the Missiones.

Long an isolated area to the NE of Santa Cruz, the Chiquitania, was once only accessible by a not too well maintained dirt road. The entire loop was over 700 km, usually taking the better part of a week to complete in the dry season; nearly impassible in the wet season.

Within the last two years the first 350 km from Santa Cruz to Conception had been paved. I took the easy route.

They were right! The way to this Chiquitania Region was through Santa Cruz. You had to go south to go north. For the sake of a 50 km connector road you had to go 100 km south and return 100 km north to arrive at the same latitude only a few km to the east.

In the absense of any real information I conjured up an image of a small country parish offering service to twenty or thirty parishoners. I could not have been more wrong.

The Jesuit Missionaries came from Bavaria, Bohemia and Switzerland, over the period 1720-1760. They incorporated German baroque elements into their designs. Once long forgotten, the Missiones now are considered one of Bolivia's and the world's greatest cultural treasures.

Conceived, designed and built on a grand scale, by Father Schmid, the Missione Complex was a complete unit. In the shape of a quadrangle occupying at least, a complete city block, the outer perimeter enveloped a spacious inner courtyard.

The Missione formed one side of the quadrangle; the other three the living quarters, convent, kitchen etc. The bell tower, always a separate structure was located either inside or outside of the compound. The Missione with a capacity for hundreds...maybe even a thousand...the walls whitewashed adobe and wood construction. The inner and outer walls highly decorated with painted frescoes, the roof a wooden beam structure supported by barley twist Ironwood columns, the trademark of the designer and builder, Father Schmid.

Once in disrepair they have been restored to their former glory and pressed back into service, not as Jesuit missions, for the Jesuits were expelled in 1767 by the Spanish Crown, but as a Catholic service. The restoration was initiated by Roman Catholic Archbishop, Antonio Eduardo Bösl, who mobilized the resources to finance and execute the work, in the early 1980's. His final place of resting is fittingly within the Missione at Conception (1925-2000).

The Jesuits had worked their way west from Brazil and Paraguay into this unknown corner of Bolivia. They organized and educated the Chiquitano and Guarayo Indians and changed their subsistence lifestyle into one of crop surpluses and plenty. They introduced crops and farming techniques unique to this part of the world and generated a sedentary lifestyle for these semi-nomadic people. They raised and trained a strong army to protect themselves and their way of life.

Eventually the Spanish and the Portugese became aware of this thriving civilization. In a simultaneous and uncoordinated effort, driven by their greed and lust for and gold and riches, they attacked from the east and the west. As efficient and effective as the Missione forces were, they were unable to defend against a sustained attack on both fronts. They fell.

The Portugese and Spanish found not gold and riches but only a coordinated, religious, farming community content in their daily lives, in this land of abundance.

With the guidance and knowledge once provided by the Jesuits, removed from their daily cycle, the learned technologies were soon forgotten and the Indians returned to their subsistence lifestyle.

Without the gold of conquest to sustain their greed, the Portugese and Spanish retreated from whence they came.

The society, so patiently nurtured by the Jesuits, fell into disrepair and decay. The Missions began to crumble and deteriorate.

(2) Bolivia: El Camino Nuevo

Cochabamba was nestled in a broad valley at 8500 ft. The climate was moderate; warm in the day and cool at night.

I had heard much about the "new" road to Santa Cruz. I had heard much about the "old" road to Santa Cruz. I decided to ride them both.

The new road was the tropical route. I had been hearing about it for years. It was on all of the maps, but we know that doesn't mean much.

I climbed to 13,500 ft. Even at this elevation the land was different than other high passes. This pass was fertile. The steep slopes were cultivated. There was also the remnants of an ancient forest that had not been totally harvested. This is now a protected area.

It was 165 km to Villa Tunari, a tropical village that was my destination. They said it would take 4 hours...it did!

Moving onward, I crested and started the long tortuous spiral downward. Sometimes the road was there...sometimes it wasn't...sometimes it hadn't been built yet...sometimes it was being built.

The lush greenery of the jungle rushed up to greet me. Flowers abounded. Tropical vegetation replaced the scrub grass and moss of the altiplano. The temperature soared and with it the humidity. I was surrounded by beauty and warmth and greenness and banana trees and fruit trees of every description.

These people lived in a different dimension, a different time from those on the other side of the pass. Life, in its tropical simplicity became so much easier. Food was abundant, shelter easy and clothing barely necessary.

I scrubbed off 12,000 ft over the course of the next two hours. Traffic was heavy and traffic was light. Traffic was backed up. At one point the road was reduced to one lane for construction. I coasted along at 2 mph as the road was downhill. The meandering course and speed dictated by the many semi-trailer trucks in front of me...the single lane too narrow to pass on.

On my left was a concrete paving machine, it's auger full of drying cement...it's hopper empty, awaiting the next load. But there was no mixer truck in sight. I never met one as I descended deeper into the valley. I passed the concrete plant, but still no trucks. I wondered silently how many paving machines had been frozen by the very product they were designed to place.

I didn't realize how lucky I had been until I was relaxing in the evening and reviewed the day's happenings. The traffic up the mountain had been stopped to allow for our passage. The line-up was miles long...mostly heavy trucks. They would wait for hours for us to pass and then grind their way uphill for hours at 2-3 mph...much too slow for a motorcycle. Had I been going in the opposite direction my clutch would have been fried...my engine cooked...my nerves shot. As it was all I had to contend with was an hour of slow coasting. The timing had been right. I did not have to wait.

At Villa Tunari a lovely room awaited me. But I had other things in mind. In the midst of a tropical garden I set up my tent. I couldn't wait to sleep under the stars in the fresh Amazon air, surrounded by a lushness that was foreign to me. The moon was full, the stars bright, the sky clear. What more could you ask for. I drifted off into a restful slumber.

I had it in mind to ride to the Missiones Region north and east of Santa Cruz the next day. I could not find the road when I came to the junction. I asked everyone I thought might know. The map showed a road, but the answer was consistent..."go to Santa Cruz and take the new road from there."

I went to Santa Cruz. It was against my wishes because I longed for the tropical, aloneness of the outdoors. I was not ready for another city just yet. It would have been better on my return from the Missiones...but it was not to be.

The chaos of the city drove me nuts. With blocked streets, streets going nowhere and one-ways to HELL I "do-looped" my way around the centro until my bike and I were fried. Finally I just took the first hotel that had secure parking and checked in. I was frazzled...my plans reversed...my perfect day altered.

(1) Bolivia: La Paz

There were seemingly a few good reasons to go to La Paz. However none of them balanced with the chaos that greeted me as I rolled off of the hill.

There are so many buses, mini buses, mico-buses and taxis in these Latin cities that they consume 99% of the road. El Alto, the city at the top of the bowl, was no exception. Six of the eight lanes were plugged with the 'load' and 'unload' activities of these public transport vehicles. The other two lanes were blocked with drivers trying to escape the chaos. I was somewhere in the other two lanes.

I had a strange feeling about me. Within the chaos, and rising above it, was a chanting sound. It had an eerie taste, like a crowd being encited to action. I wondered if the rioting and demonstrating was still going on. With the mass of humanity and buses about me I could not see what was going on. I edged forward. The sound encompassed me. What a strange, unforgettable feeling.

Later, the next day I discovered what it was. Where all of the buses gather to collect and disgorge their contents the ticket taker opens the sliding door and calls out to the people on the street, reciting the fare and the destination, trying to gather customers in this free-market system. Combine that with a thousand buses and a thousand chants and you get a cacaphony of sound that matches what I heard.

Every vehicle is a diesel...even the micro-buses. Their 1.1 liter engines producing a black smoke cloud equivalent to an eighteen wheeler. With 1.5 million people in the area and 1 million buses you can just imagine. The air is a black, murky, foul tasting mess. Down below in the bowl, where everything just settles in, it is even worse. If these diesels were tuned for high altitude operation they would smoke less, run more efficiently and cost less to operate. I guess it makes too much sense to happen.

I entered the bowl. The police at the toll gate waved me through. They knew that the five minutes it would take me to de-glove, find my wallet, pay, pocket my change and re-glove would create more chaos than the 25 cent toll was worth. I dropped into La Paz.

I had only a few good reasons to come to La Paz, all of which made sense before I got there...good food, good museums and a movie. I had been thinking about a good movie ever since I had been sick. I was not going to give up on that one. The rest be damned.

I satisfied my first need. I hadn´t eaten all day and even thought it took a while to find a good restaurant I settled into that. The next day I captured my museums and topped it off with "Memories of a Geisha". I found it quite enjoyable. They still maintain "old world" movie theatres down here. You get a huge screen, about 40-50 feet across and a nice lounge chair to relax in. Movies are cheap...about $3 and popcorn is 50 cents. Need I say more!

The first time I had ridden the Yungas Pass to Corioco, Peter and I had encountered the "dog gods". Dogs line the road up and over the pass expecting passers-by to contribute a portion of food to their well-being and in return receive their blessing for a safe voyage. We had thought this worship to be unique to this pass.

I was wrong. In all of the passes I had crossed this trip, the "dog gods" were in evidence. I had just never noticed them before. One must ask oneself, "how does this thing get started and how does it expand in perpetuity to all of the passes in Peru?" "Are they really gods?" "How do they communicate?" This is a most perplexing phenomenon.

Back on the altiplano I headed south and east for Cochabamba. The thin 13,500 ft air refused to climb above 12C. Wind chill was much lower. The air was clear and still, and I wore a smile as I moved on. I had a nice easy day ahead of me. I settled in for the ride.

As I slowed for a toll booth, I heard a sound I have come to hate and recognize instantly...that gunshot sound where a projectile entires your tire and creates an explosive noise as the carcass is pierced and the precious air begins to escape. Goddamit. This shit always happens at toll booths and check points.

I pulled over to have a look. A 7/16" x 3" long bolt had been driven into the tire, dead center. My heart sank. I didn´t even know if my plug would fill the hole. All I could do was try. It slipped it in, with only a few bubbles of air escaping as I re-inflated the tire. I had almost 400 km to go before my days end. I did not want to fix it again before then.

I rode all day. I had forgotten how lovely the pass from Oruro to Cochabamba was, rising to 15,400 feet at its peak, the temperature dropping below 9C. Finally I was over the top and into the verdant valley below. Cochabamba, the bread basket of Bolivia. The temperature soared to 27C.

In town, the back end squirmed as I accelerated away from a light. The tire was deflating. I made it to my hotel, just as it went flat. I didn´t even ask how much. I just checked in...I had made it...barely.

I had the hole patched for $1. The tire was now filled with Bolivian air. I should have done that before. With only one oxygen molecule instead of two, it is lighter, runs cooler, accelerates quicker and has higher rotational speeds.

I changed my oil in Cochabamba. It is a much more complicated procedure than one can imagine. First of all you have to find the "oil vendors". Everyone seemed to have a different idea of where I could find them. Finally, I found a Taxi Driver and said "Take me there." Once there you have to find the vendor that sells the oil you want. Then you have to find a place to change it. All in all it consumed the better part of an afternoon. But the price was right. Synthetic oil was $15/liter in Peru, $20/liter in Chile and $7/liter in Bolivia. This economy of price is consistent with other costs in Bolivia.

Food is very inexpensive. A filete mignon is about $4. And, do not kid yourself it is excellent. $1 for 1/2 liter of wine and then dessert and coffee. The total is less than $6. An ice cream cone is 50 cents, gas is down from a high of $1.60 per liter to $0.70, a six course breakfast with croissants, toast, juice, coffee, ham and eggs and fruit salad is $2. Life at the top of the food chain is just fine.