So, I’ll start with the border. It was very crowded but not a problem for us because we were smart enough to obtain our Bolivian visas from the consulate in Buenos Aires in January. Score! The official wasn’t even positive of how to process such well-prepared gringos. I’m only mentioning it for all you would-be travelers out there. Instead of hours of paperwork and probably having to come back in 24 hours, we were through in ten minutes. And this border was wierd enough without extra complications. For one thing, anybody could just walk across the bridge without even talking to an official, in either direction. We knew we needed our passports stamped or else we’d be there illegally, but apparently if you want to be an illegal in Bolivia it’s pretty much your problem. Then right next to the official bridge was another bridge called the “smuggler’s walk”. On one side was a huge pile of contraband consumer goods and food items. On the other side was more of the same. In between were hundreds of people jogging across the border in a nice orderly fashion (southbound on the right, northbound on the left) with huge loads on their backs. The cops, military personel, & border guards of both countries appeared not to notice. That’s all I saw, and I scratched my head about it for a bit but pretty soon it just became another thing we just kinda accept like nice open-minded yankees with no clue.
The guidebooks had told us that the border town (Villazon) was a bit shady with scams & pickpockets so we rode right through town to the end of the pavement & kept going. The countryside looked much like Argentina only more undulating and with no utility lines, plus half the adobes had no roof anymore. But the railroad was actually fully funtional, as opposed to slowly being re-claimed by the earth. Every tiny settlement has a functional soccer pitch, though usually devoid of grass.
We spent that night in the town of Mojo next to a river after asking at the nearest house if it was ok. Many townspeople ambled by our camp and all were friendly, if a bit surprised. Just before bed a herd of skinny cattle led by an 8-year old boy & his younger sisters went right around both sides of our tent. OK! It’s cool with me.
The next day was long but featured an un-expected descent of 2,000 feet into the soupy oxygen-rich air a mere 9,800′ above sea level. We followed the Rio Tupiza past amazingly productive irrigated farmland, passing through a few towns. In one of them the local school was having recess and all of the kids stopped playing to cheer us on! We waved & Elicia rung her bell, and we felt kinda like the circus going by. NEVER had that kind of reaction as a bike tourist before! That’s been one of our favorite things about Bolivia so far; people alongside the road wave at us, wish us well, and often beckon us to stop by walking out into the road with outstretched hands to find out who we are, what we’re about, how things are going, and perhaps to answer any questions we might have. Much more preferable to the “Why don’t you just drive your car?” reaction we might get back home, or the look of utter confusion like we just landed a flying saucer and started bike touring out of it. But then again, bicycles are very common here. People ride heavy chinese 1-speeds with rod-activated brakes for 30 km across the desert on poor roads (or even cross-country) carrying huge bundles of fire wood, or maybe a baby in front with a friend on the rack in back. It’s certainly no big deal to them. Every day we see people herding llamas by bicycle. So our bikes are fancy & modern, but everybody seems to get the idea. Nobody asks why. They just want to know where we’ve been and how much we’re enjoying ourselves.
Quite alot, so far!
The road to Tupiza turned into red-rock canyon country just like southern Utah, complete with a short tunnel through the stone. Tupiza is a decent-sized town with streets paved by hexagonal tiles. We got a nice room at a hotel for less than I´ve ever spent at a hotel, or a hostel for that matter. Then we decided to take the train to Uyuni instead of riding the 200 km there. This was a controversial decision, but we both really wanted to experience Bolivian trains. We also have taken alot of boats and a couple buses already, so it ain’t like the purity of our bicycle ride was at stake. In the past I’ve put alot of emphasis on riding or walking from here to there exclusively under my own power (side-trips not included) and I still take pride in those accomplishments. But this time around I´m taking a less strict approach. It seems to be more compatible with international travel.
The train was our first experience of¨”The Gringo Trail”. This is not exactly a trail, like the Appalacian of Pacific Crest. It´s a network of places where concentrations of backpackers (not hikers, but travelers with backpacks) from other countries can be found in South America. In Argentina and Chile it was far less obvious because most of the backpackers were other Argentinians and Chileans. Ditto with the bike tourists and car-campers. They love to travel! But in Bolivia the difference between natives and travelers is far more obvious. That morning at the train station we waited for a couple hours to buy our tickets, and by the time they called our number they said they were sold out of everything except Executivo Class (1st Class). OK, it´s still affordable. But we were two of the four people in that room who weren´t native Bolivians, and the other two also ended up in 1st Class with us. As a matter of fact, every single non-Bolivian on that train ended up in 1st class with us. All the Italians & Germans and Spaniards & Argentinians & Yankees (´cuz we can´t consider ourselves Americans, can we?) were in our car. Hmmm…. We know we don´t fit in, but we´re not accustomed to being shuffled around with the backpackers. That´s one of the reasons we brought bikes! In the end, though, it´s not something to complain about. I´m sure the railroad workers have plenty of stories about how badly the Gringos cope with salon-class travel, and how would they know we were any different?
So there we were waking up in Uyuni the next day. Our hotel had suspiciously few Castillian-speaking voices echoing about, but hey, it´s a hotel. Then we went out for breakfast. We had to turn down a few offers for jeep-tours of the Salar de Uyuni in the first block, jeep-tours being the main thing tourists do in Uyuni. The jeeps carry six passengers and won´t go out with less, so the companies try really hard to put sextets together from passing couples & singles. Not our plan. Breakfast was our plan, but as we choose our cafe we got seriously disorriented. Uh, how come everybody has white skin and is speaking some variety of English or German? We were definately on the Gringo trail. I found myself wanting very much to have shown up in the middle of the day on my dusty bike, filthy, sweaty, stinky, and ravenous like a proper bike tourist should be. At the cafe, where one 12-year-old boy was working the whole room, half of the customers walked out due to the not-like-home service. One guy made a scene. Came all the way across the ocean to Bolivia and this is the service he gets? It was pretty appalling. But that´s the darker side of tourism for you.
I must say, however, that there´s a guy from Boston named Chris who married an Uyunian woman & moved there some time ago. He made pizzas for a living back home, so he opened up a Boston-style pizza joint in Uyuni. He was an invaluable source of information to us concerning our Salar plans (thanks for the tip, Colby!) He also provided us with the best breakfast we´ve been served in South America. We do really miss things like hash browns & fresh coffee, and longingly savored every bite of his pure gringo food. Didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it either. It was SO GOOD!
But after that we went to the market and got fresh veggies, brown bananas, & fresh wet cheese as flies swarmed around the older items. We squeezed past stalls with piles of meat next to big bone saws & hanging scales with hooks on the end. We bought crusty bread from a couple old ladies on the street wearing four woolen skirts each, colorful shawls, two long braids down their backs, and Laurel & Hardy-style top-hats just like most traditional women of the altiplano. The air smelled like coca leaves & coca-leaf breath. We once again felt like we knew where we were. Then we packed up, filtered 27 liters of water, and headed out to the Salar.
Whew, thanks for reading this far! We´ll be back soon, and Elicia´s working on getting pictures up as we speak. Hasta luego,
-Andy