Stage 9: Bolivia, 6th - 12th February
6th February. Copacabana, Bolivia. 113 miles.
It was raining again this morning so I was in no hurry to leave. I had breakfast in a cafe attached to a bakery – so had som very fresh rolls. Around 9 it dried up and I got moving. I got on the right road out of town, but the petrol stations there only had leaded 84 octane, so I had to turn back to one I had seen coming in yesterday. Back in the centre some of the main roads were being blocked off with rocks. At first I followed the cars down diversions but was getting nowhere, so I just weaved through the rocks, which the police didn't seem to mind, then a gathering crowd of people, to the other side of town. I filled up and decided to fill my plastic can as well. I think it holds about two gallons, an extra 120 miles or so. Back in the centre where big crowds of campesinos (peasants basically) had gathered and traffic was completely blocked. I asked someone what was going on and got that it was a protest of some kind, but none of the people standing around to watch knew how long it would last. However I was told that I could go back a bit and take a ring road that would bring me out the other side. I immediately knew the road the guy was talking about, and it did indeed take me past the trouble and I got away, albeit it was now eleven o'clock.
The road, which was not as smooth as before – a patchwork of bad repairs, followed the lake and at times the land on either side of me was very boggy. Then I saw another overlander ahead of me. I caught up and we pulled over. He was Japanese but if he gave me his name I didn't catch it. He spoke very little English so we talked in Spanish, and his was clearly better than mine. He was on a Honda 250 which he had bought in LA, and had a friend waiting for him ahead, also on a bike. We set off together but he went very slowly, especially up hill and I left him behind after a while.
Approaching the border there was a fork in the road, with no obvious right way so I pulled over to ask. It turned out both were okay but one bypassed the small town of Yunguyo. I decided to wait for my friend, and while I did filled up my tank by syphoning off from the can. Slow but it meant I didn't have to unstrap it from the seat behind me. I was about halfway through this when the Japanese guy caught up with me. I told him which way to go and not to wait. When I got to the border he was just leaving the Peruvian side, and I haven't seen him again since then.
It was a painless crossing with almost no traffic. Again my Carnet was used for Bolivian entry, but this time I also got a typed up 'permiso' to surrender on exit. As with Ecuador/Peru there were no fees, and I was gettign used to this welcome change from Central America. I changed my last Peruvian soles into bolivanos then rode the short way in to Copacabana, a small holiday resort type place on the lake, but nothing as glamorous as its Brazilian namesake.
I went straight to the hostel Greg had recommended, and there also was the Italian couple on an 1150 GS that he had also mentioned might still be around. We exchanged brief pleasantries but they had just come back from an island tour and wanted to wash up, so we said we would cathc up later.
Bolivia is an hour ahead of Peru so it was 4pm before I was sorted out. Copacabana is pleasant enough, although you can walk around the main streets in about 10 minutes. It clearly relies entirely on tourism for income. In the afternoon it seems very quiet, and I spend some time catching up with my website before heading out to eat.
Again most restaurants are empty and I choose a place with one other table occupied because they offer me a discount that gives me a free soup and a cup of coca mate (tea from coca leaves). The other table, who are English, soon leave, but as I am finishing, 3 large groups of gringos come in in quick succession. The coca mate, which was available in Peru but native to Bolivia I think, tastes quite a lot like spinach. The indians chew coca leaves which supposedly have a mild sedative effect and are traditionally used as a homeopathic cure-all. Including altitude sickness. Packets if leaves are openly sold on the streets, even though the US government is trying to limit the crop, because it forms the base ingredient for refined cocaine. The leaves are perfectly legal here though. My guide book says it is illegal to take them across borders, but otherwise is silent on the issue, just as it is silent on the issue of safety in Columbia. I don't know if this is a deliberate avoidance of political hot potatoes, but it seems like a major omission of informaiton to me. Which reminds me that the Japanese guy told me he went through Columbia, flying from Panama to Bogota. He said he had no trouble are really like the place, the people being very friendly. Still, no regrets.
7th February. Oruro. 247 miles. Passed 16,000 trip miles.
Its been an action packed day. I left Copacabana in the rain and it stayed with me, on and off, for most of the day. The first stretch was hills and bad road to the “port” of San Pedro, where I caught a “ferry” across the Straits of Tiquina on the lake. The port was a few planks of wood serving as a dock and the ferry was a small flat bottomed boat. I rode on behind a minibus and it was full. The floor was more fairly precarious planks of old wet wood, with lots of room in between for a wheel or my stand to slip into. I chatted away to the bus driver while holding on to the bike for the 10 minute trip. At the other side I had to manhandle the bike backwards, with the help of the captain, over more slippery planks and on to the muddy bank. It was exhausting stuff at this altitude and I had to stand there in the rain for five minutes just to catch my breath.
I had a couple of hours through villages and small towns before I entered El Alto, a scrappy place perched on the edge of the altiplano that is the gateway to La Paz 600 metres below in a valley. Winding down on the autopista gave some great views of the sprawling mess that is Bolivia's largest city (but not the official capital, which is Sucre). It was a hellish place of nose to tail traffic, pouring rain and almost nowhere for me to stop and consult my guide book. I had been in two minds about staying here as it was only about 100 miles from Copacabana, but being there for just half an hour was more than enough to make it one mind, and I got out. This involved back tracking to El Alto to get on to the road to Oruro, along the altiplano once more. I also stopped for my first taste of Bolivian petrol. My guide book says there are two grades, but in reality only one seems to be available. The big question is whether its leaded or not. I've been trying to find out for a couple of days but have got conflicting information. Some international research documents I found on the web suggest all pertol in Bolivia has been unleaded since '96. Other bikers I have talked to think it is mostly leaded. The girl at the pertol pump didn't have a clue, not even an idea of the octane rating. And this was a Shell garage where I might have expected better information. I guess when there is no choice, no one asks such questons. When it came down to it I had no option but to fill up and hope for the best. According to other advice the worst that will happen is that my catalytic converter will be buggered but otherwise the engine should run okay. I also fill up my pertrol can for safety's sake. It doesn't do to get stranded over night at these altitudes.
The road is a good one for the most part and I can cruise along between 50 and 60 mph, except for a few road works and toll booths where I don't have to pay. So I arrive in Oruro at about four pm and in glorious sunshine. Bolivia is an hour ahead of Peru so it doesn't get dark til after seven. I find a hotel that is recommended for parking, it is being renovvated but it is very cheap so I live with it. Parking the bike however is a bit of a palaver. They want me to ride in through the front door, which involves a kerb and a couple of small steps. This I can manage but the door is too narrow. So I back out again, remove the panniers and this time make it inside. Along a corridor its clear they want me to negotiate another double door with a step into a courtyard. No problem except for the two big rolls of carpet on either side of me. These I can fit between, with one foot on each roll, but when I get to the door it is partially blocked by the carpet and even in my slimmed down state there is no way I am going to fit. This has taken a good twenty minutes so far.
Then the boss lady says, there is another entrance. So its a push back to the front door, where there is just enough room in reception, by moving some of the furniture about, to turn around so I can negotiate the steps back down to the street under power. I have to go round the block a bit due to the one way system, but there I find the maid standing by a great big gate opening onto the back yard of the hotel, where other cars are parked. Its perfect. I'm just amazed that they didn't suggest this first off as its much better for them as well. Latin logic strike again.
Laying the bike up for the night I syphon some petrol from the can into the tank. As it happens it takes almost all the petrol in the can to just about fill the tank. From which I can work out that the can will extend my range by up to 150 miles – useful information.
I wander around the town for a while before dark, nothing special, and notice that there is a local carnival starting today although there is little evidence of it on the streets. I go back to the hotel for an hour or so, do some repacking as I have the panniers handy, then head out for some food, not having eaten since breakfast in Copacabana, albeit a substantial one that was included in my roome price. I find a place that is recommended, but closed, so start heading off when I come across a gathering crowd. It soon becomes clear that they are here to watch a procession of dancers. There are several distinct groups each with their own marching brass band. Each group of dancers is either exclusively male or female, but they are al dressed alike – black shoes, black trousers, white short sleeved shirts, cravats and little red caps with those French Legionnaire flaps at the back (though most are pinned up). They all carry a handkerchief in one hand for waving about, and a torch in the other (battery not flame), for similar. The only difference I can see is that the men wear a spur on one foot.
All the bands are playing the same piece of music over and over again. Upbeat, very Mexican sounding with lots of drum and trumpet. Each group also appears, to me at least, to be doing pretty much the same dance. However what is really funny is that despite all this apparent effort, the dancers are not that well rehearsed. They all appear enthusiastic but many it seems are not quite sure what move comes next. As if despite the appearance of preparation it was all a bit of a last minute thing.
Dancing in the streets.
In the midst of this I spot a bloke in scruffy biker gear darting about with a camera. I reckon he must be an overlander and follow him. He turns out to be one of three Brazilians who have clearly just arrived in the midst of all this, and are parked in front of a hotel on the main square, unloading their bikes. I introduce myself and we have a brief chat that soon stretches the limits of my Spanish. I get that they have crossed over from Brazil into Eastern Bolivia (a very remote area) a few days ago and are heading north for Peru. I of course explain that I am heading south but will end up in Sao Paulo. We run out of common language (or at least I do) and I leave them to unpack. It reminds me that I also passed two other bikers on the road this afternoon, heading north. Bolivia is clearly full of overlanders right now.
It has gone nine o'clock, getting very cold, and I still haven't eaten. I choose a place that is practically empty but fills up shortly afterwards. I also choose, by chance, the right dish for my appetite, a huge plate of fried chicken, chips and rice with a very picante sauce on the side. With a beer it costs more than my room, although altogether its still less than $10.
Oh, and I almost forgot. Coming into Oruro this afternoon, whilst on a roundabout I was nudged from behind by a 4WD. They touched my pannier very lightly, clearly trying to overtake where there was not enough room. Not serious enough to cause any alarm, but when they did overtake and I looked at them – they glared back in a way that said they thought it was my fault.
8th February. 215 of the toughest miles ever.
I have never been so tired. The pavement lasted about 80 miles, and the rest was dust, rocks, rivers and mud. In an enormous irony, for the first time I was forced to pay a toll at the end of the pavement. It started off reasonably well, and my first major obstacle appeared when the road seemed to end in a river clearly too deep to cross. There was a railway bridge however, and some kid on a bicycle was trying to convince me that I was supposed to use it (no real danger of trains, they only run once or twice a week and then almost exclusively at night). I got off and walked across. Some of the cross beams seemed too far apart for my wheels and at the other side I could barely see the track continuing. I turned to cross back, and there was a guy with a little 125 just coming off the bridge. He tried to convince me that I was supposed to get the wheels on one of the tracks and push the bike across, as he had just done. There was no way I was going to risk it, one false move and the bike would fall 20ft to the river below. End of bike, end of trip.
I was not thinking logically enough and was about to turn back and head for an alternative destination - Potosi, when an old man who had just wheeled his bicycle across on the line opened my brain. He explained that there was another crossing, just down river, used by the buses and trucks. Of course there would have to be another route for them. In fact a bus was just crossing at that moment and he pointed it out to me. The solution at last.
Back into the village I had just gone through and I found the other track. No actial bridge mind you, just a marked crossing with pylons to ride between at what was clearly a shallower point. Still it was 20 metres or so across and there was only one way to test it – I waded in. There was a concrete surface in places but it was mostly covered in sand, though the water was little more than 7 or 8 inches deep. I let some air out of my tyres for greater traction, gathered myself, and went for it.
No problems at all. I got to the other side and practically jumped off the bike in triumph. My first serious, solo river crossing and pretty damn textbook. I was feeling oh so cocky. 50 metres later I got my comeuppance.
After the river.
I came across a non-descript looking mud patch on the track. I should have followed the obvious detour round it, but didn't. I was quickly up to my hubs, with no traction, and promptly toppled over onto my right side. The engine was still running so I quickly got up and hit the kill switch.
The back wheel had clear off the fround, leaving the bike resting on the pannier and the end of the handlebar buried in the mud. First task, and the easiest, was to get it back to the halfway point, with the rear wheel back in the mud sharing the load with the pannier. But I could not get it upright. I was standing in the deepest part of the patch, about halfway up my calves, slipping around and the mud sucking at my feet whenever I tried to lift them.
The sun was out and it was baking midday heat. I stripped down to my t-shirt and got as much off the luggage off as I could. Then I had another go, and with much roaring effort go the bike back up on its wheels. It was exhausting work – remember that I am over 3,500 metres above seal level. I walked round to the other side so that I was standing on higher, drier, ground. Hit the ignition. At first it didn't start at all, totally dead, but this was just mud stopping the starter switch make contact. A quick cleaning off and the engine came alive perfectly.
Revving up and letting the clutch out slowly I started walking the bike out of the mud. It was going well until I tried to steer it towards me to get to the drier ground quicker. The rear wheel slipped and down the bike went again. I was knackered and this time could not get it back up. This was trouble.
Very fortunately, five minutes later while I was girding my strength for another attempt ans considering going back to the village for help, a truck full of people turned up. I jumped and waved my arms about and they stopped. A couple of blokes got out, waded in and between us we got the bike upright. This time while they held on I got into the saddle, started it up and powered it back onto dry land. With lots of very grateful handshakes and 'muchas gracias' from me they went on their way almost as if it was something they did every day.
And after the mud.
I made a futile attempt to get some of the mud off both me and the bike, but got underway an hour later having made little impact and feeling much humbled by the experience. There were many more mud patches on the track ahead (I had stopeed thinking if it as a road) and at each one, unless there was an obvious detour, I stopped, got off and scoped out a route. Sometimes this took me off the track completely into the surrounding fields of scrub and grass – often soft and sandy, but better than the mud.
I had 3 or 4 more river crossings (I lost count) and at each one I stopped and waded across first. The last one was up to my knees and I almost turned back to a village at a railway crossing just a few hundred yards back, where I figured I could get a room for the night. This was about 3pm. The only problem being the storm that was brewing behind me. The sky was black and I could see flashes of lightening. Tomorrow the water might be even deeper. So I went for it, and though I came close to stalling at the deepest point, with a good twist of the wrist I made it through.
River crossings were the easiest part of the day really. After mud my worst enemies were the washboard corrugations, judderingly unconfortable at almost any speed, and I could help thinking what they were doing to my wheels. The storm was at my back for the whole afternoon and at times threatened to overtake me. I did get a few spots of rain and the prospect of rivers of mud filled me with dread. At these moments I gave it a handful regardless of the terrain and hoped for the best.
At one point there was a sign in the track (the only one all afternoon) that seemed to indicate a side road that was a more direct route to Uyuni. It was clearly less travelled but I took it anyway. What a mistake. Through fields I went to a village astride the railway tracks, where my detour simply disappeared. The village seemed deserted except for some kids and I made towards them for directions. They clearly thought I was crazy, said there was no way through here, and so I back tracked to the main route having lost half an hour.
This is when I really began to be worried about the time. Sunset is around 7.30 and my best estiamtes of time and distance gave me little room for leeway. From this point on whenever saw somebody by the track, which was not often, I stopped to ask them how much further Uyuni was, in time rather than distance, and they confirmed my estimates. There was much less water about now (apart from the storm) but it was extremely rocky and narrow. A few times I pulled over while trucks and buses going the other way came past, parely slowing down. It amazes me that they would take this route at night, which is clearly what they were doing.
Chasing sunset and trying to outrun the storm I was going too fast and the bike was bucking around like the proverbial angry donkey. Finally I made it to Colchani which I knew was not far from Uyuni, with about an hour of daylight left. Here there was a barrier across my path and when I stopped I was surrounded by children grabbing onto bits of the bike. There was one guy there, barely a teenager, demanding a toll to lift the barrier. I couldn't believe he was the official gatekeeper and played dumb until he gave up and let me through.
The final 15 miles of so was relatively flat and quick. I arrived in Uyuni with back and arms aching from something like 7 hours almost uninterrupted standing on the footpegs, with a total of nine hours riding. I hadn't eaten anything all day, and only a coke at the railway crossing earlier had given me any sugar boost. I rode into the courtyard of a hostal totally exhausted. I parked up and a Swedish guy stuck his head out a window to get my story. The bike and I were still covered in mud and must have been a real sight.
A couple of Americans stopped by while I was unpacking, decided I had a good story to tell, and invited me to join them for dinner. When I got the the restaurant there were four of them – Jill, Pete, Amos and Dave. They were very friendly and it was a great way to end the day, telling them about my adventures with them saying how brave I was (I get that a lot, especially when people realise I am going solo, and it always gives me a little boost even though I make out its nothing). It wasn't all one way though and I did hear about them. It was barely nine o'clock before I excused myself and crashed out, dog tired and aching all over.
9th February. Uyuni.
I slept well but was up early this morning, unloading and trying to clean up both the bike and my clothes, though it was tough to know where to start. There is only one reason to come here and that's to see the Salar De Uyuni, the highest and largest salt flats in the world. Its possible to cross over to Chile from here and riding the flats is something of a mecca for overland bikers. The only problem being that now its the wet season. I had taken some advice about riding the salar at this time of year and decided instead on a day trip by jeep. Which turned out to be a good idea, in one respect at least.
The jeep left Uyuni at about 11am and there was a stop at Colchani (where it turned out the toll was geniune) to see how they harvested the salt – very direct from the ground to the table. They also made souvenirs out of compacted salt, but we couldn't see how these could survive. There were 5 of us in the jeep apart from driver and guide. Claire and Jonathan, an aussie couple living in London, an other aussie girl, Christina travelling alone, and Adriano an Argentinian.
From Colchani there was a couple of miles of mud before we hit the salt flats. At Colchani the jeeps (all the different companies basically follow the same timetable, and my American friends were here to, although they had chosen a multi-day trip into Chile) were all prepped for the salt, with protective hessian wrapped around bits of engines, and driy grass stuffed in front of readiators, presumably to absorb the salt but it didn't look like it was too effective to me.
The flats were covered with a layer of water, up to about an inch deep and it was an eerie landscape. It was almost impossible to see where the horizon was as the perfect reflections merged alnd and sky into one. Our first stop was the Hotel del Sal – made entirely of salt – bricks and mortar, chairs, beds, bar. It was once a functioning hotel but is now only a museeum, basically because the original toilet facilities were contaminating the harvest. Say no more.
Look at that, a 4WD made entirely out of salt.
From there we rode out to the Isla de Pescado, Fish Island, so called because its reflection in the water makes it look like a fish. It is also right in the middle of the flats. Rising out of the salt, covered in cactus, it is very bizarre. The views were almost uninterrupted salt to the horizon in every direction, with some distant mountains at the edges.
From the left: Jonathon, Claire, me, Adriano, and Christina.
When I see how caked in salt the car engines are from the 3 hour or so drive I am so glad I didn't bring my bike out here. We have a very nice late lunch before turning back, and as one of the last to leave the island I work out that we might just get to see sunset before we get off the flats.
We are driving back and I notice a train of private vehicles being towed by a truck. I figure it must be the local rescue service, picking up the days collection. There are about 5 or 6 of them, chained up one behing the other. Then it becomes clear there is something wrong with our jeep. The driver was working on the engine while we ate, and now he was stopping and revving it up. We had stopped for fuel at a petrol station first thing this morning but I had noticed ( I was riding up front) that even as we set out we had barely a quarter of a tank. As the speedo didn't work at all I though nothing of it. However as we came back towards the Hotel del Sal it was clear there was a problem, and that problem was we were running out of fuel. The driver and the guide were both playing it down however.
We stopped at the hotel, but they didn't have any. We pushed on, with Colchani just visible on the horizon and gathering gloom, but half a mile later we stopped. No more gas, we were going nowhere. I was quite relaxed about it all but some of the others were getting a bit agitated. We had each been told that we would be back at Uyuni by five at the lastest. It was now seven and there was well over an hour to go.
The tow train pulls up and after much negotiation, including giving a lift to a local woman we cadge 5 litres of fuel. So we get to see the sunset on the flats after all but due to heavy cloud it is not as spectacular as I had hoped. There last miles though the mud are in the dark but we get to Colchani. There is clearly something more wrong with the jeep though as we have to stop twice for more fuel. On these occasions the driver seems embarrassed to admit that he has no money, so being in the front and the best Spanish speaker amongst the gringos, I get stung for it. I had discovered earlier that I had actually paid five dollars less than everyone else, but this made up the difference.
We eventually get back to Uyuni nearly four hours later than anticipated, where I am reimbursed for the fuel costs. I'm not bothered by it, quite an entertaining end to the day really, but Jonathan is not happy, and kicks up a bit of a fuss, mostly about the money though. He doesn't get any back but seems happier nonetheless for having got his point across.
10th February. Potosi. 164 miles.
After the road from Oruro I had no idea what to expect, except that this is also an unpaved route (as most are in Bolivia). I set out from Uyuni at a reasonable time after checking the wheels for loose spokes and oiling the chain, tasks which I didn't have time to do yesterday but necessary after the previous ride. There is still mud caked on the bike in placed, but none on any moving parts which is just about good enough.
The road starts off pretty smooth, going uphill slowly, and I can get up to 50 miles an hour at times. About 10 miles out, at the village of Pulacayo I am stopped for a brief search at a military check point. A good thing too as I then noticed that one of the bolts attaching the rear subframe to the main chassis, was missing. Not a good thing. I can only assume that it had vibrated loose or broke during the ride of pain. So I turned back to Uyuni.
Very fortunately, yesterday before the Salar trip I had found a motorcycle workshop as I was looking for some chain oil. I went straight there. The boss wasn't around and no one else seemed willing or able to help me. So I waited as there was nothing else to do. He turned up after about an hour, took one look a the problem and almost immediately produced a bolt to fit. Not exactly new, or probably to BMW standard, but it would definitely do for now. A bit of huffing and lifting the bike around to get the holes to line up and it was in. He charged me one Bolivano – about 10p. It was now 11.30 and all the advice I could get said it was five hours to Potosi with the road much better than my last one. I set off once more.
And the road was in pretty good shape most of the way. It was some really good mountain scenery which I actually had the time to look at. There was one dry river bed but at other crossing there were even bridges, sheer luxury. I did have a couple of mishaps, within half an hour of each other, shortly before arriving in Potosi. The terrain suddenly became very sandy, which seemed surprising to me at over 4,000 metres. It was a very fine, white sand and at first, from a distance, I thought it was snow. It was all over the track as well and coming round a corner I hit a deep patch near the edge and went over, almost in slow motion it felt like.
With the ground being so soft there was no harm done to either me or the bike but I did have a little trouble getting it back up because the wheels kept slipping. About five minutes later I almost did the same thing – a deep patch caused the bike to start fishtailing wildly. I managed to stop without falling off this time, but my rear wheel was half buriedand I had to dig it out before I could get moving again. This time I learnt my lesson and let some air out of the tyres, after which I had no more problems.
Just outside of Potosi there was another barrier, this time manned by people in uniform and I was forced to paya fee. On the other side a bus was parked sideways across the track, with stones as chocks for the wheels, looking like it was going nowhere in a hurry. I squeezed past but there was no room for any cars to get through. Then as I arrived in the city itself, around 4.30 there were more buses and trucks blocking the main routes into the centre. I navigated round some and had to detour others on side streets – at one point mounting the pavement to get by. I learnt aftwerwards that it was a protest against a recent rise in petrol prices, though it was also an excuse for bus drivers to complain about there being too many taxis stealing their business.
This blockade is due to go on tomorrow as well, and the real down side is that it means I have to wait an extra day to do a tour of the mines – which is the main reason for coming here on the first place.
Seems like an excise for a day off if you ask me.
11th February. Potosi.
I managed to do almost nothing today except wandering fiarly aimlessly about the city, which is tiriing enough at 4,000 metres. I may have been acclimatising to the altitude for some time now but walking up hill was still quite a slow task. There is a group of American godbotherers staying at the hostel, buidlign a new church near the mines. As if there weren't enough already – as with most of these colonial cities you can hardly walk a hundred yards in the centre without stumbling across another church. However the yanks are not preachy and I spend some time talking bikes with a guy form South Carolina, who was pleased to hear I had ridden through there.
I book a trip for the mines for tomorrow mornig and catch up on my diary which I have neglected for a few days. And that's about it. Early evening and I'm sitting in this bars with Spanish rock music on a big telly. The girl behing the bar is playing with a very small kitten.
For dinner I have a picante Viscacha, which Jo will be delighted about as its a sort of rabbit with a squirrel's tail, I had seen one back at Macchu Pichu. Si would definitely like it here as most traditional Bolivian dishes are quite spicy.
12th February. Potosi.
Well it was worth the wait. The tour started at 9am, there were only two of us, I was joined by Arnaud, a Frenchman living in London (I keep meeting foreiners who live in London – how odd is that?). Our guide was a former miner who had worked them for 10 years although he didn't look old enough for that – except that sometimes they start as young as 10.
We were kitted out in bright yellow overalls, wellies and a miner's helmett, then first stop was the miner's market, to buy gifts for the miners we meet. They work in co-operatives and are therefore effectively self-employed. The gifts included coca leaves, “special” cigarettes of possiblly dubious content, 94% alcohol (for actually drinking), and dynamite. All freely available without the need for a license – though I wonder what sort of recetoption we'd have got without our guide.
Then it was up to the mines. There are about 50 of them, but all in one mountain, none of the others round here have anything of any value. The silver was first exploited by the Spaniards in the 16th century and was apparently once regarded as the best in the world, but most of the top quality stuff has gone asn today they scratch out a living on what is left plus other metals like tin and various minerals.
We arrive at the San Juan mine and are told that this is a special day in the miner's calendar when amongst other things they sacrifice a llama to the Quechua god of the mines. The llama is held in a small pen near the min entrance, waiting it fate, but we are not allowed to witness this event. We don primitive gas headlamps powered by some sort of carbonate mixed with water in a cannister that is worn on a belt. Then we go in.
The mine is a maze of tunnels and interlinking levels where it would be incredibly easy to get lost. Some of the tunnels date from colonial times and these are extremely low – even for our guide who like most Andeans is much shorter than the average European. Even the more modern tunnels are narrow in places with some difficult climbs between levels. With very little machnery in use even today, they only need to be big enough for the miners themselves. This is not a tour for the claustrophobic or unfit.
There are some miners working the seams, in pairs, though not as many as on most other days of the year. It is extremely primitive and although they have pneumatic drills we are told, we watch two preparing dynamite holes with what amount to hammer and chisel.
The miners are very superstitious and in each mine there is a shrine with an effigy of the devil, whom they call Uncle George, and once a week they congregate here for a kind of thanksgiving ceremony. Its a little eerie and I can't help thinking what those yanks building the church make of it – though maybe that's why they feel a need to build another church. Yesterday however I saw a small procession of miners carrying some kind of offerings into the big church in the centre of the city, so there is clearly a very mixed up set of religious beliefs at work here. Maybe they are just covering all their bases.
We spend a good couple of hours exploring the tunnels, which simply follow the seams of ore without any real design. Apparently sometimes tunnels from different mines meet up and there are then some quite serious disputes about who owns what.
The highlight of the morning however was definitely blowing up a stick of dynamite. Our guide prepared it from a left over gift, with a standard one minute fuse. Then he planted it about 100 yards away, we were outside again at this point, and ran back towards us yelling warnings. Both Arnaud and I were filming this with our cameras, but the explosion when it came was still a big shock that made me jump – very loud with a big cloud of dust, though of course nothing like the movies. Pretty damn exciting nonetheless.
Now where shall I stick this? Answers on a postcard please.
The rest of the day is a bit of a wash out. Quite literally in fact. It has been cloudy and much cooler today and rained in the late afternoon. As a result it is very cold tonight. I had been recommended a good restaurant but when I got there is was empty, so instead went to another one where the food was basic but filling.
There seems to be quite a practice here of advertising a fairly extensive menu, but once you get inside the coice is down to one or two meals, which are bascially a variation on a theme anyway, one with beef another with chicken, for example. Getting chang efor a lot of things is also very tough in a lot of places. For example, my meal tonight is 17 Bolivanos, about $2. I only have a fifty plus the seven. Yet they have enormous difficulty making my change. The waitress has to go off into the street and come back twice before she can give me the correct amount. The other day when a shop could not make change for me, for an even smaller amount, they gave me some bread instead. In a cash dominated society, this is just crazy.