Date:     01/14/2009  (extremely delayed)

To:         touring@phred.org

From:    “Michael Ayers” <michael@terminalia.org>

Subject: Gondwana – Back to Basics & Burning Rubber in Beautiful Bolivia

Kamisaraki Phreds,

Crossing the dusty border between Argentina and Bolivia seemed like rolling onto another continent. After being in South America for so long already, that felt like a good thing.

Remote, landlocked since losing its former coastline to Chile in the War of the Pacific, and famous for the lofty heights of much of its area, Bolivia was one of my most anticipated destinations.  Geographically, the country consists of a lower, more tropical region in the east, on the fringes of the Amazon basin that contains many large agricultural operations and most of the country’s large hydrocarbon deposits, and the chilly, thinly vegetated, and rugged Altiplano, the highest area on the continent, indeed one of the highest on the entire planet.  Perhaps surprisingly, the majority of the country’s rather small population lives in the harsh climate of the Altiplano, where rural people herd llamas and their shaggier cousins, alpacas, while growing whatever crops can tolerate the high altitude. The latter are chiefly corn, various vegetables, and especially potatoes, which were originally domesticated in the Andean region.  However, like many other countries these days, many rural people have been relocating to urban centers, mainly the current capital, La Paz, which currently dwarfs all other cities in the country, and its surrounding areas. Unlike all the other countries I had been to so far in South America, the modern population of Bolivia, by a wide margin, consists of people with exclusively Native American ancestry, a situation that I found quite appealing. Most people speak Aymara, the language of the region dating back to pre-Inca times, in addition to Spanish, while some rural folks don’t speak Spanish at all. Of more interest to me, many people continue to observe customs and practices similar to those from centuries ago, the most visible being clothing. This is especially notable for women, who wear layers of puffy skirts, more layers of brightly-colored woven sweaters, and their trademark hats, these most often being a black derby-style cap.

A most welcome aspect of the country is that it was the least costly place to visit on my South American route by a significant margin. By the time I arrived I was significantly overspending, and that change was definitely appreciated. This was evident in both the costs of food and accommodation, the latter being generally so low that, though I had intended to start camping more frequently, I ended up indoors most of the time as there was usually a low-cost, but quite serviceable, place to stay just where I needed one. As for food, this was the first place I’d been during Stage Four that required a bit of a change in my dining habits. This was mostly due to the lack of much in the way of portable food available at markets. In fact there were only two cities on my route large enough to have a real supermarket, though I couldn’t try them as they were either too far away from where I was, or closed. Petrol station mini-markets, common all around the earlier parts of the stage, were also absent, though there weren’t many petrol stations in any case. That left only kiosks, or small shops in the public markets, though their stocks were distinctly thin with regards to items I might have been interested in. So there were only restaurants to depend on, though, as you might expect when there was not much else available, they were generally easy to find wherever people were gathered, not to mention reasonably priced. In larger towns, roast chicken places, ubiquitous all over the continent, were always a dependable choice. In other places, most establishments served up a fixed menu meal, almost always starting with a tasty soup, followed by a plate with potatoes, rice vegetables and some type of meat. The nice thing about these type of places was that they served generally the same menu all through the day, so if I passed through the only real town on the day’s route at, say, 9:30 in the morning, it was still possible to get a decent meal, as opposed to the skimpy breakfast one might have found in countries further south. One other distinction that appeared once entering the Andean region was the availability of what could be described as exotic menu choices. The most common of these is Cuy, or baked guinea pig, which I fully intended to try, but never got around to tasting. I did order a viscacha, one time, which is another, somewhat larger, rodent with an acceptable taste, but which contained more fine little bones that the most bone-laden fish. The best of these choices was alpaca meat, which was lean and delicious and, not surprisingly, reminded me of the camel meat I ate in Africa. A final, and most appreciated, feature found in the country was the mostly pleasant roadway conditions seen much of the time. As with most countries considered to be “poor,” the bad roads are really bad, while the good ones are usually excellent, often recently built, and with rather light traffic away from the cities. All of these factors were what I had been looking forward to the most, and all contributed to the enjoyment of my visit.

My route would, unfortunately, not include the lowland areas of the east, as it didn’t seem reasonable with the time I had left to drop down out of the mountains to go there, only to climb back up again right after. Instead, I planned to ride generally north, from Argentina straight though the Altiplano, taking in a few sights along the way, then up to La Paz and Lake Titicaca. The border crossing from La Quiaca, Argentina into Bolivia involves crossing a dusty bridge over a practically dry river into the town of Villazon, followed by relatively quick and painless immigration formalities. La Quiaca is a fairly small town, but Villazon was a little larger and surprisingly commercial, clearly dependent on duty-free trade and retail with its more wealthy neighbors to the south. As it was early afternoon when I arrived, and since there was a tough stretch ahead, with few large towns, I chose to stop early that day, to rest a bit and to acclimate to the different culture and surroundings. The route beyond consisted of a long 350-km section with only one major town, and marked as unpaved on my map, though I had recently heard from other cyclists that some of it had been improved. The area around the border was at around 3,600 meters elevation and the next big city, Potosi was up at 4,000, so I cautiously hoped that the terrain would be more plateau-like than mountainous, and that I could comfortably get there in three days.

As usual, I again underestimated the slowness of that area somewhat, and it took four. At first it seemed even worse than that, as there were a lot of badly corrugated sections during the first morning, which slowed things down a lot. Also a factor was the lack of, well, anything, along the route. The one village appearing on my map never materialized and though there were occasionally others, most seemed to have been abandoned long ago, their adobe buildings having been eroded down to half of their former height. In fact, this area could claim the prize as the most un-serviced populated place of the whole Tour. A few places had buildings that were still in use, with the faded paint of murals from bygone political campaigns covering their walls, a common feature around the country, but few people seen out and about. This was surprising as, essentially everywhere I’ve been, even the tiniest of settlements had people curious about the strange cyclist passing through, and, more importantly, some sort of small shop where one could find at least snacks and drinks. In this area, many of the little villages didn’t seem to have such a place, and if they did the only useful items there were the drinks. While that was of course important, I found it rather unusual that the shops usually stocked only the largest drink containers. Since the weather was quite cool, I usually had to buy more than I needed and then carry the rest, though that was better than nothing, of course. Overall, food seemed to make itself available just before it was too late during that first section, however. That was the case on the first day, when an unmarked village appeared midway down an unexpected 530-meter descent. At that particular place, the local ladies had set up stands to sell cooked meat and vegetables to passengers on passing buses, and that was just enough to keep me going. A little town further on, Suipacha, was somewhat larger, though without much more than drinks available. A little more troublesome was the unexpected descent, which invariably meant that the terrain ahead would not be the plateau that I had hoped. For the rest of the day, at least, the route crossed numerous, rather tough, rolling hills, though there was some impressive scenery in the area to occupy my attention. In spite of all that, there were still a number of hours of daylight left when I reached the only town in this area, Tupiza, 93 km from Villazon. After a break, I probably would have had enough time to continue on that day, but perhaps would have managed only 10-20 kms more, so I chose to stop for the day.

Tupiza was a surprisingly pleasant place, founded in the 01530’s, though the current town appears considerably more contemporary than that. With somewhat of a tourist industry present, focused on visitors coming to the area for the rugged scenery, there were a number of places to stay, and as was the case in most places in the country, going straight to the most expensive place was the right choice. In Tupiza, that was a simple, but pleasant enough, hotel, with quiet old rooms for the equivalent of $7.00. I have noticed in many places that towns that are very isolated seem to be much more attractive and enjoyable than similar-sized towns in other, more crowded, areas. I attribute this perception to the fact that with nothing else around, the residents are more motivated to make their home a better place, and that there is usually a better concentration of necessary services. Even with a short first day, I still hoped to finish this section in two more days, which seemed like it would have been tough in any case. In reality, once again, that was rather unrealistic. The second day brought more rough gravel, with lots of corrugation, a moderate-to-large climb and, later, another descent, which was not much faster than the climb. Similar to the day before, I reached the only town on the route, Santiago de Cotagaita, in the late afternoon, where there were a couple of very basic places to stay and a few thin restaurants, With not much time left to go farther, I stopped there for the night. That decision was based in part on the fact that I had heard that after Cotagaita the road was supposedly recently upgraded, with one person telling me that it was “fixed all the way,” though I was suspicious of that.

If that were true, it would still have been theoretically possible to get through in one long day. Actually, the new road began just outside of town, but only had been completed for the next 67 km at that time, though there was a construction site along the route, so perhaps more of it will be fixed one day soon. The new section was cement, which is my least favorite surface, but at the time it was new and perfectly smooth with almost no traffic. Though I wondered how long it would be before it started falling apart, as cement roads invariably do. The new surface was a big help, as, after an initial small climb, the road plunged into a big canyon and then climbed back out again. If the road had been as rough as the previous day, I would not have reached the only town in the area, a little place called Vitichi, that day. As it was, the poor gravel surface returned for the final 15 km to the town, so, like the previous four days, I arrived late enough in the afternoon that going farther seemed impractical, and the final 90 km to the next city was out of the question. Vitichi was kind of a neat village, however, with a big outdoor market out by the highway, just closing down as I arrived, and a quiet, charismatic little colonial-era center set back about 500 meters from the road. The only place to stay was a small house in the center with a few very basic rooms for rent, but that was fine with me. I had to walk back out to the road to find something to eat, but that was no problem, and, to my surprise, there was a telephone company office with Internet available in the same area. Bolivia was actually one of the easiest places of late to find ‘net access, as any place with a telephone center, which were located in even very small places, had at least one pc available. In the morning I tried to get an early start, which was a good idea, as the rough gravel continued for another 40 km. I clearly would never have made it past that section the previous day. When the pavement finally returned, I expected a moderately easy time to finish the day, which was to end at the major city of Potosi. The city rests at just over 4,000 meters, and after gaining a little during the gravel section, it didn’t seem like I had too much climbing left to go. A few restaurants appeared midway along, and after a much-needed meal I thought I’d reach the city in the mid afternoon. However, as is often the case, the climb, which really got going right after my break, continued to rise up well beyond the level of the city, passing through a cold, windy, and bleak section of barren terrain, toping out at around 4,400 meters. Total gain for that day was 1,300 meters, and through I had already been well acclimated to the altitude, the last section of that climb was quite tiring. Eventually, though, I reached the summit, on the upper slopes of Cerro Rico, and casually rolled down into the crowded, and confusing city, the first views of which give the, partly correct, impression of the city as a hastily-built, frontier mining outpost.

Up next came the Tour’s version of A Tale of Two Cities, though, in this case it wasn’t London and Paris, but Potosi and Sucre. I arrived first at Potosi, which claims to be the highest city in the world at 4,090 meters, and was, at one time, the largest and richest city in the western hemisphere. The reason for that was Cerro Rico, the “rich hill” rising just above the city, and its productive mines, which for over 450 years have produced, more or less continuously, tons upon tons of silver ore, and other minerals. In the last century, or two, the mine’s output has decreased, and with it the city’s fortunes, but today Potosi remains a large, vibrant place, and is one of Bolivia’s top tourist destinations. Still mostly laid out according to the style of its colonial past, the city is laced with winding, narrow streets, much too fine to accommodate the crowds that walk their lengths, not to mention the buses and cars that try to push their way through the crowds. So finding the city center was a rather slow, confusing process, which at my level of tiredness was not really welcome. It was also tough to find a place to stay, as the first few that I tried were full and, after a good number of recent nights spent in rather basic places, I wanted more of a mid-range choice that time. Those were surprisingly costly, by Bolivian standards, but since that was the only place in the country where I expected such a situation, it didn’t really matter much, and I eventually found a good place. I had planned to spend two days in town, and then make the long day’s ride to Sucre. One reason for staying longer was that I had package sent from home containing fresh clothing, and a few other things, to replace the threadbare items I had been wearing since I left India. As usual, given the “curse of the shipments,” which some witch must have put on me many years ago, the box was a day or two behind schedule and would not arrive during the days I was in town. As it turned out, that wasn’t too much of a problem, as some rather poor weather on one day would have caused me to stay in town an extra day anyway.

Though somewhat shabby around the edges, Potosi was a rather fun city, with a nice historic center. I enjoyed wandering around the busy streets and markets, watching one of the frequent religious processions around the plaza, and visiting the museum housed in the former royal mint building. In its heyday, the mint was one of the world’s largest, and processed most of the mine’s silver into coins for export to Spain. One display stood out to me, namely the rugged iron box, its lid held closed by sturdy hasps, and secured by locks to be opened though old-fashioned keyholes—an honest to goodness Treasure Chest. The highlight of my stay, however, was a tour of the Cerro Rico mine itself. Visitors are first taken to a little market to buy trinkets as gifts for the miners working underground. I bought some work gloves and dynamite, but coca leaves, cigarettes, and alcohol are also appreciated. Even today, the mine tunnels do not have the appearance of a high-tech affair, dimly lit, dusty, damp, and tight, with not much in the way of mechanized equipment in use. In their early days the mines were operated using exclusively slave labor, with the slaves being captured from the local Aymara population. African men were also brought in to work the mines at one point, but they could not tolerate the high altitude as well, or so the story goes, and they ended up as domestic slaves in the city. Today, the mountain has been parceled out to various landlords, and those who choose to work as miners pay rent to the owner of a particular claim, and then keep the proceeds from whatever ores they are able to extract. Eventually, visitor meet up with a few miners hard at work in the tunnels, and the tour guide passes out the guest’s presents to them. My gloves and dynamite were kept to be used during work, while other visitor’s coca, cigarettes, and alcohol were, mostly, left at altars to Tio, the god of the mine, placed beneath a patched-together effigy of that particular deity. His benevolence would be helpful, as mining in Cerro Rico is still quite risky, though certainly less than in earlier times. Estimates of deaths in the mines are as high as 300,000 during its years of operation.

Next, I planned to visit Sucre, which like Potosi, is a World Heritage Site. The cities are connected by a good road, covering 165 km, though Sucre is, according to the maps, about 1,300 meters lower than Potosi. That distance is reasonable for me on a typical day, though I had not had any typical days in a long time. However, with the descent, I assumed that it should not be too difficult to ride in a single day, though I was cognizant of the possibility of additional climbs along the way. That was actually quite a beautiful ride, with smooth pavement, warmer temperatures after the descent, and some very nice semi-arid alpine scenery along the way. The only significant town along the way, Betanzos, was only 45 km out of Potosi, before most of the big descent, and so it wasn’t very useful as a place to take a break. But there were a couple of restaurants a short way past the halfway point, in a small village called Millares, and they worked out well. However, just after that, my concerns were verified, and a 550-meter climb presented itself, meaning that it would probably be rather late when I arrived. Sucre, in many ways has been disparate in character to Potosi since both were founded in the mid 16^th century. Sucre is claimed to be the most elegant city in Bolivia, with a large and well-preserved historic center, and the largest university in the country. It also houses the country’s Supreme Court, but in colonial days the entire capital was located there. After a bitter civil war with the residents of La Paz, the capital was relocated to that city, high in the Altiplano. In a more basic sense, the two cities histories were both linked and divergent right from the start. Potosi was built to exploit Cerro Rico, while Sucre was founded as a seat of government for the Spanish colony. Most of the Spanish colonists found the warmer climate of the lower regions more appealing and settled in the eastern part of the country. Indeed, today this was the only part of the country I visited where a part of the population, superficially at least, appeared to have exclusively European heritage. In the early days this meant that while slaves were working in Potosi, literally to their deaths, the portion of the silver they produced that was not sent directly to Spain was used, in large part, to build the mansions lining the streets of Sucre, where their colonial overlords lived. In Bolivia today, this dichotomy still exists, though it has morphed into a more 21^st-century form. While I was riding the early Stages of the Tour, Evo Morales was elected president of Bolivia, becoming the first person of Aymara descent to hold the office. He received widespread support from the majority, Altiplano-residing section of the population, indeed most of the political murals I saw painted on the adobe houses of that region expressed support for his party. Their main priorities were to draft a new constitution that guaranteed indigenous peoples rights, and to use the country’s hydrocarbon deposits to the benefit of the whole country. Predictably, the eastern provinces, where those deposits are located, have not been enthusiastic about these ideas, to say the least. I was only vaguely aware of these issues when I arrived in Bolivia, though I would quickly get brought up to speed.

By the time I completed the unexpected climb, afternoon was becoming evening, and just at that time a rather strong rain shower began. I pulled into a petrol station to put on my rain jacket and wait it out under their canopy. The owner started chatting with me a little, a typically futile exercise, but after I indicated to him that I was heading to Sucre that night, he mentioned something; the only word of which I picked up was “blockada.” I assumed that he meant a police checkpoint, or some similar situation, which are common enough in South America. After a short descent, and some additional distance through the fringes of the city, I learned what he actually meant. Some sort of rather large campus of buildings was spread out on the right side of the road, while a large crowd was mingling around on a hillside along the left side, and spilling out on to the roadway below. A contingent of uniformed men appeared to be guarding the entrance of the campus on the right. Nothing much seemed to be happening, so, as I had done before, I just slowly started to pass through the crowd. At that point, someone in the crowd noticed me, and instantly, a big round of applause and cheers broke out among the people. I played along, waving back and shouting out “Buenos Tardes!” and so forth. I’ve had that sort of thing happen to me numerous times before, and it’s usually fun, but this time it was almost dark, damp, I was tired, and there were police around, so I thought, “Well, this must be the blockada,” and I chose not to linger around. At the time, I couldn’t really tell who the people in the crowd were or what issue they were supporting, or opposing, but they did appear to mostly be Aymara people.

However, nothing is ever so simple, and just a few hundred meters further on, I encountered the “real” blockada. The first thing I came across was a large group of police, perhaps a couple hundred, many in full riot gear who were manning a position at a junction in the road. Off to one side, well out of any potential harms way, was a smaller group without masks, which I took to be the commanders. I assumed that they were, at least, because, well, that’s where commanders usually stand. Fifty meters down the road, was a big pile of burning tires, and I could see a crowd of people beyond that. Assuming that this was the epicenter of the troubles, I simply wanted to get past it and into the city center, so I could get a place to sleep and take a shower. There didn’t seem to be an alternate road available, and there were a number of local people, including ladies and kids, walking past the fire on a muddy dirt path alongside the road. After a few minutes of mulling over what I should do, I happened to glance over towards where the commanders were standing, and they were motioning for me to go on ahead. All right, I thought, and started walking the bike down the path. Just twenty seconds later, the police in the main group decided that that would be the perfect time to launch their canisters of tear gas towards the crowd beyond. They sailed right over my head and landed about thirty meters farther on. Gracias, Amigos!

The wind blew most of it ahead, but I still had to retreat to a clear location for a while to let the air freshen, in the meantime the police rather clumsily used an armored vehicle to push the burning tires off to the side of the road.  After ten or fifteen minutes it seemed ok to go ahead again, though by that time it was well past dusk. It didn’t take to long to reach the opposing lines, which had thinned out a bit after the gas barrage, but still was manned by a good number of young men, agitated and shouting. I wondered if, with my black-and-blue rain jacket and black helmet on, I might be mistaken for a police officer, and considered removing those items. However, there was still an occasional rock being tossed and it seemed potentially safer to leave them on. As I actually suspected, however, I was completely ignored by the protestors as I went by. Hopeful that I was past all the action, I started riding again, now in the dark, and it seemed to be still quite a distance to the center with at least one small hill to cross. By that time I was quite anxious to stop for the day, but things were not quite over yet. I encountered at least one large march of protestors, mostly younger people, carrying the provincial flag and shouting “Viva Sucre!” and other chants that I couldn’t understand. Closer to the center, there were more piles of tires burning at just about every corner, and as I really had no way of knowing which way I was supposed to be going that made things even more confusing. The only helpful effect was that there was not much traffic, and I could ride down one-way streets in the incorrect direction without any problem. Eventually, I found the main plaza and, as had become my policy while in the country, checked into the nicest hotel in town, in a beautiful old colonial building with first-class rooms at a surprisingly low cost. However, I’m not really sure if I paid the normal rate, or the special city-closed-down-by-political-protests rate. After cleaning up, I was still very hungry after a long, eventful day, but I soon learned that all the local restaurants were closed, except one, a Swiss place a block or two away. I found it after a while, and the food was pretty good, even though I was the only customer in the place. Walking back to the hotel, the city seemed very surreal, with alternating periods of still quiet and the echoes of distant chanting; the air thick with the aromas of the day, a piquant blend of incompletely combusted rubber and tear gas.

I learned, once back in the hotel, that the cause of the current crisis was the constitutional convention begun by president Morales. It was being held in Sucre, and the eastern provinces were not happy with the tone of the new document at all, and protestors had begun trying to disrupt the proceedings. That caused the conference to be moved to the local military academy, which was the campus of buildings I passed when entering the city. It seemed to me at that point that the large crowd that cheered me as I passed by the academy was probably made up of supporters of the federal government and Morales. The following day was to be a day off, and I wanted to tour around the historic city center. While I was able to do that, it wasn’t the greatest experience, as everything was still closed due to continuing protests and because it was a Sunday. The public market was open for business, as was most of the main pedestrianized shopping street, but not much else. With mostly cloudy skies, piles of burnt tire residue and trash lying all about, and political graffiti splattered over many of the historic buildings, it was tough to get many nice photos of the place, though I could see how in calmer times Sucre could be a rather attractive town. This was the second time on the Tour that I have found myself entwined in local political protests. However, the mood here was definitely not as exciting and infectious as it was during the first case, way back in Kathmandu. In the months between when I visited, and when I finally wrote this, the situation has slowly continued to get worse. The eastern provinces have unilaterally declared autonomy, which the federal government has rejected, tried to have the federal capital moved back to Sucre. Sporadic periods of violence have occurred, with the very real potential for continued problems and perhaps even civil war. I have generally been supportive of separatist movements in other regions, when they are founded in culture or geography. However, in this case the basis for the eastern provinces grievances seems to be more closely tied to economics, and so my sympathies lean towards the federal government. It seems to me that the old differences that separated Potosi and Sucre in colonial days are still present today, now taken up by the larger Altiplano and lowlands regions.

My next main destination was the capital, at least for the time being, La Paz. There were two highways heading in that direction, one from Sucre and another from Potosi. Both were marked as unpaved on my map for the first 300 kilometers, or so, then joined for the final section to La Paz. Since I was already in Sucre, the route from there seemed like the logical way to go, however, a Google search turned up a report from some other cyclists which recently rode that way, and who were appalled by the road conditions, claiming it took three weeks to go 300 km. I’m sure I could have done better than that, but when I learned that the highway from Potosi had been paved for its entire length, there was no longer any further uncertainty. That would mean, however, a return to Potosi, back the way I came. It was a great road, so I didn’t mind a short duplicate ride, though in that direction there would be a net gain of 1,300 meters, and so a day and a half would be needed. Accordingly, I made it as far as Betanzos the first day, which gave me a little time to wander off the next morning to look at some nearby rock art before reaching Potosi at midday. Another good reason to go back that way was that my delayed package of clothing had finally arrived and, for the first time in months, I had the pleasure of wearing clothes without holes, which was surprisingly satisfying. 

I knew that there shouldn’t be any descents dropping the road down below about 3,600 meters all the way to La Paz, and that this area was finally supposed to be more of a plateau, but I was taken by surprise by the tough terrain on the first day. There were a total of 1,000 meters of descents, and 1,110 meters of climbing, most of that on a single climb, over the 90 km that I managed after a late start that morning. While it was quite cold up there, I lucked out a bit on that day, and throughout Bolivia in general, to avoid any significant rain. Due to my late arrival, I was now in the first weeks of the rainy season in the Andean region. However, it was just the beginning, and things hadn’t really gotten started yet. On several afternoons there were threatening, but scattered, showers floating around the area, but most of the time what rain they produced failed to reach the ground. There was some impressive scenery in that area as well, and also one other thing I noticed that impressed me a lot. Namely, the fact that this was the only high-altitude place I’d been where local people riding bikes were commonly seen on the highway. I doubt that most of these folks were routinely crossing the passes, but even the flat sections were covered by rather thin air, so there presence was still notable. Among these often-seen cyclists were numerous road maintenance crews, who were easily identified by their bright yellow cover-alls, and by their bikes lying in a group at the roadside. This sort of makes a traveling cyclist feel right at home.

The second day out of Potosi, the long-anticipated plateau finally appeared and I covered what I would consider to be a full day’s distance, a rare event of late. Trying to get to the capital rather quickly, I was held up, unfortunately, by a sore throat, which appeared during a chilly night of camping, and caused me to spend a day and a half in the large, but rather frumpy town of Oruro. Other than that, there were no real difficulties in this section, but nothing else particularly notable or interesting either. I did encounter a couple of other tourists heading south, but the section of road on the edge of a town where we passed each other was rather busy, and we didn’t have a chance to stop and chat. Approaching La Paz from the south one first encounters El Alto, a more recently built, and rather large city, populated mainly by recent migrants from the rural areas, and located at a lofty 4,100 meters. This would seems to surpass the elevation of Potosi, making El Alto the world’s highest city, perhaps even more so, as both times I entered Potosi, I measured an elevation noticeably less than the official value of 4,090 meters. Perhaps Potosi has subsided over the years due to all the mining going on beneath its streets. While I have seen many hastily built cities on the Tour, El Alto, aesthetically, at least, may be the least attractive, with most of the red-brick buildings appearing to have only been halfway finished. At the center of El Alto, lies a typically hectic intersection overrun by the outdoor markets, and choked with minibuses. From there, La Paz can be seen spilling down the mountainsides, probably making it unique among major capitals, with its metro area differing in elevation by about 900 meters from one side to the other. In a striking contrast to most others cities in the world, the wealthier residents, bypassing any potential “million-dollar views,” live in the lower parts of the cities, while people struggling to get by are pushed up into the chilly higher slopes and into El Alto. There is no obvious cycling route down into La Paz from that intersection, with most of the smaller streets plunging straight down the hillsides, looking as if they were made with cobblestones and filled with traffic of all sorts. The main route down was the Autopista, or expressway, and though I normally avoid roads like that, when I asked two policemen near the top how I should get to the Centro, that was the way they told me to go. Taking their advice, I began the 400-meter descent down to the city, rolling right past a “bikes prohibited” sign. Actually, there wasn’t much traffic at all, some of which was indeed other bikes, and though the shoulder was a little bumpy in places, it was fairly wide the whole way down, and so I think that really was the best way into the city.

Leaving the Autopista at the first exit at the bottom of the hill brings one rather close to the part of town with the most tourist interest, with a variety of places to stay and close to the markets, including the fairly interesting Witch’s Market. La Paz was the first really large city I’d visited in a long while, and though I’m not really a city person, it was a fairly reasonable place to spend a couple of days off, with most sights and services close enough to where I was staying to keep things fairly relaxing. On the other hand, I found La Paz to have probably the worst air quality I’ve seen on the Tour since Asia, probably due to the multitude of stinky diesel minibuses roaming the city and its high altitude location. So it’s probably not a place I’d enjoy staying in for a very long time. One other thing I found interesting was that La Paz has perhaps the most beautiful, and efficient-looking, Post Office I may have ever seen. Unfortunately, when I went there to ship a package of arts and crafts back to home, I was sent down to the basement, to the customs department, which was about as inefficient as similar operations in Asia and Africa. After that, a few other errands, and some much-needed sleep, I was on the way again, climbing back up to El Alto the same way I had entered.

There was not much left in terms of distance to cover in Bolivia, but a couple of great sights left to see. Beginning with Tiwanaku, the first significant ancient city I reached during the Stage, located about a half-day northwest of La Paz, along a highway which was rather busy close to the city, but which gradually calmed down a bit farther out. At the present time, the site has still only been partly excavated, and so doesn’t quite compare well to other, more famous sites, though the parts that are complete are still impressive. What I found rather interesting is that the ongoing excavation work is being performed by people from the tiny village nearby, including ladies wearing their best skirts and hats. To visit Lake Titicaca, the next place on my itinerary, there were two routes to choose from. Continuing along the same highway I used to leave La Paz, would take me to the south shore, but was supposed to be much less interesting. The northern route was supposedly much nicer, but would require a little backtracking. I chose that way anyway, and shortened the amount of duplicate riding by taking a short-cut on rough gravel road towards the north-bound highway, which actually worked out quite well, for once. That allowed me to reach the Lake shore fairly quickly, which was nice, as Lake Titicaca was a place that I have wanted to see since, as a youth, I watched a Cousteau documentary filmed there in the 01970’s.

I would be in the vicinity of the Lake, the largest high-altitude lake in the world, both in Bolivia and then in Peru, for 5 or 6 days, and my visit did not disappoint. The first afternoon was quite good, with some pretty scenery and a nice little village on the shoreline with a selection of places to stay and a few restaurants, where I stopped for the night. The next day, however, was simply outstanding. The weather was perfect, the road good, and the views over the Lake spectacular. After rolling up and down costal bluffs for a while, the highway next travels down a long peninsula, and then crosses the lake by ferry back to the south shore, at its narrowest point. That crossing provided a nice break, and on the other side there was a little town with a fairly good selection of places to eat. Also present there were a few sailors, dressed in uniform, complete with the traditional sailor’s hats, gazing out over the Lake from benches adjacent to the ferry dock. They were part of the last remaining remnants of the Bolivian Navy, a service perhaps holding on to slim hopes of their country ever having an oceanic coastline once again.

After the ferry crossing, the highway leaves the shore for a while and climbs over the headlands running along the opposite peninsula, not a tremendously big climb, but still beautiful. The following descent brings one to Copacabana, the closest thing Bolivia has to a beach resort. However, that is not the only claim to fame for that pleasant little town. It derives its name from the Basilica de Copacabana, one of Latin America’s most important Catholic pilgrimage sites. The name itself derives from an Aymara phrase meaning “lookout over the lake,” and every other Copacabana around the world, from the famous beach I walked along in Rio, to hundreds of cheesy nightclubs, owe their names to that very spot. The Basilica itself is very beautiful, with sort of a Moorish style, accented by its green-tiled roofs. I liked the town, in general, as well, which has a bit of a worn-out counterculture feel, though it was predictably more touristy than other places in the country, and a little pricier as well. From its little harbor on the beach, it is possible to take a boat tour out to two islands, Isla del Sol and Isla del Luna, both considered sacred since Inca times, and probably long before that. Each island has a few small Inca ruins, and a small population living quiet lives, though these days most depend quite a bit on the stream of tourists brought out on the daily boats. I went out for a day tour, though it is possible to stay overnight on Isla del Sol. Getting to Isla del Luna required hiring a local boat, as it is not a part of the normal tour, but I decided to go there as well.

Back at the town, the border with Peru was just a short ride away, and so the next morning I completed my visit to Bolivia. I had a great time, and found the country to be a refreshing change of pace. Even a few breaths of tear gas now seem like a memorable event. I would have liked to have spent more time there, to see some other parts of the country, but I expected continuing on to the rest of the Andean countries to be an equally fulfilling experience, and they were just ahead.

Juspaxar,

Mike

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The Tour of Gondwana

May 02005 - ???

http://www.terminalia.org/tour