[018] Cycling the Altiplano (Part 1/2)
I'm travelling in South America. Here's what I'm up to, some photos and other bits
I turned 30 in my tent on the Uyuni Salt Flats. The end of a 600km bike ride down the Chilean/Bolivian Altiplano and not where I expected to spend it. If you'd asked me a year ago I would have guessed a party on the sticky carpets of Walthamstow Trades Hall. But life moves unexpectedly, and it was amazing to spend my birthday in a place I will never forget. It was one of those *rubs hands* and 'I love it when I plan comes together' moments
The idea started when I serendipitously met Izzy in Argentina at the Easter Sunday asado of an old university friend. They'd met whilst working the Gaucho Derby, and that night we bonded over cycling and Cinzano. I'd already spotted her bike parked outside (brilliantly named 'The Wild Carrot'), and it was perfect timing that I was ripe off the back of a cycling trip and had spent the weekend researching my next ride. On the excellent bikepacking.com I'd found two incredible routes which could be cobbled together, and so that night the seed was planted...
Two months later we were in Sucre, Bolivia, building a set-up capable of taking me from Sajama to Uyuni. I didn't relish the task but it went surprisingly smoothly. A few purchases later - the modest 'Trinx' mountain bike, Ortleib panniers passed down from Izzy's boyfriend, canvas trouser belts to strap tent to handlebars, and questionable knock off Deceuninck Quickstep kit - we were ready to go. Bike: 3,500 BOB, Panniers: 1,000 BOB, Cycling the Altiplano: Priceless?
So we headed to Sajama where we spent three days adjusting to the altitude (and cold - it's 4,300m and below freezing from the moment the sun dips down). Our days were spent drinking coca maté, breathlessly pottering around the town and bathing in the hot springs.
We woke on the day of the grand depart eager to get going but were hit with delays. First the hostel owner's toddler son developed an obsession with Izzy's belly, lifting her shirt and giving it a poke. Then his attention turned to my MAMIL camel toe. Not a comfortable position to be in, so we headed quickly. So quickly that Izzy distractedly rode straight into a brick wall. Then we noticed a fault with my panniers, the supporting rods bent uncomfortably out of shape. We spent an hour tinkering with it, covering our hands in oil and destroying our cuticles.
My confidence at this point was pretty low. Peering every 10 seconds between my legs the rack seemed to be holding out, but I couldn't see it lasting. Still, we pressed on.
First an hour of undulating track in the shadow of Nevada Sajama (Bolivia's tallest peak at 6,500m), then we hit the main trucking road, a long, soul-crushing, looks like nothing but takes-out-of-you-everything climb to the Chilean border which sat at 4,700m. We were carrying 11 days of food and may as well have had an elephant sat on the back.
I struggled for two hours listening to three rounds of 'Joy As An Act Of Resistance' (motivation soon turning to despair). I battled with a pulsing headache which seemed to intensify every time I flopped over my handlebars to rest and suck in oxygen.
But arriving into Chile an epic view of Parinacota volcano opened up (it was to be our guardian, occupying the rear view mirror for four days), then we descended in the failing light, revelling in the success of smuggling a ton of illicit nuts over the border. We pitched our tents on a sandy slope as the sky turned pink and the alpacas looked on curiously. Then we settled in for a cold night and I woke up at 3pm with frost on my wooly hat.
It was roughly here that I reflected on something I'd recently read about 'Eudaimonia' vs. happiness. Eudaimonia being roughly translated from Ancient Greek as fulfilment, and pain being what distinguishes happiness from fulfilment.
I'd suffered climbing that long hill to the border. Had I been happy in the moment? Well, no. Knackering my hands repairing the rack? Again, no. Shivering in my sleeping bag as I wiggled my toes to stop them turning to ice blocks? Definitely not.
But still this journey felt worth undertaking. Worth it for that feeling that I can push my lungs to their max over a high pass, then soak in the stillness at the top. Getting satisfaction from enduring freezing temps in the night, then enjoying a hot pan of porridge in the morning whilst watching a Condor soar on the thermals. All this and more was to come, and whilst challenging, it all felt worthwhile to me...
We completed our second 4,700m pass on day two, then stopped to soak up the silence. The mountains here were true stillness. We listened for life but heard none. Not even the whisper of the wind or the babble of a brook.
That afternoon we arrived in the village of Guallatiri. Here the CONAF officers made us tea, put on music, then pointed us to Tia Betty's guesthouse. It must be said, 'Tia Betty' didn't seem enthralled to see us, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. It seems a trend in these parts that hostels, 1) appear perplexed why someone would be enquiring about a room, then 2) seem mildly inconvenienced that they have to prepare a room for you. Maybe it was just our stinky bikepacking vibe.
The following morning started with cold, oh so cold descending. Ice hung around the edges of the river in the canyon bottom, but we soon warmed up after some long dusty climbs. Trucks rumbled past, and it turned out they were nice trucks. They all slowed down to limit the dust thrown into the air, and we always exchanged friendly waves which became happy moments of my days.
These are those small interactions which matter in this world. Nick Cave put's it elegantly in his Red Hand Files (issue #279):
In this therapeutic age we are told that our self-worth should not be dependent on the validation of others, that it is an inside job, but the truth is that we are social animals who depend greatly on respect and commendation from others. This is what binds us together, it is what dignifies us – a true and common regard. Small acts of ordinary kindness or courtesy, or the simple gestures of appreciation toward each other, speak into our increasingly individualised world saying, "I believe in you."
I am often guilty of subscribing to this view of self-worth being an inside job, but here in this lonely world it felt of heightened importance to exchange such “I believe in you” gestures.
Me, my left hand raised off the handlebars saying "yes, thank you for slowing down... this dust is rather a nuisance, but my life is now that little bit easier as I battle up this hill. And also, I respect the lonely days you are spending out here away from your families to put food on the table." And also, let's be honest, probably "christ, I feel very vulnerable out here, hope this trucker ain't a serial killer".
And in response their strong, wide, outstretched palm would come off the steering wheel, mirroring my gesture, maybe just maybe saying "thank you strange gringo, what the hell are you doing out here, I wish you suerte only suerte on these cold dusty roads".
We soon realise the trucks are coming from a mine on the western shore of Salar de Surire. Our destination is a geothermal hot spring on the other side, and we quickly start passing a bunch of other Altiplano denizens: Alpaca (curious and friendly), Vicuña (shy and cute), Rhea (rapid and freaky) and Flamingos (pink and lanky). We stopped regularly to admire them through our binoculars, then hit a horrible stretch of road with deep sand and hit head-down mode.
We arrived at Termas de Polloquere where we would be for the next two nights, allowing ourselves a well needed rest day. After soaking our muscles in the waters we pop some tunes on and lay on our backs. These are the darkest but brightest skies I've ever seen, stars in their millions diluting the usually distinct constellations. The only other lights are three pairs of headlights trundling across the north shore, 4x4s headed for the smuggler pass into Bolivia. They suddenly go dark, trying to obscure themselves from what we see as a pair of red lights driving the opposite direction.
We retire to our tent, try to block out both the imagined shootout happening on the opposite shore and sulphur fumes wafting into our nostrils.
Report on the second half of the journey across the salt flats to follow next week.
Lots of love,
George