Dog on wheels, couple of miles, bits of chook.

The border crossing into Perú was smooth, as was our negotiation of our first request for a bribe from the cops. Christ, man, we worked hard for this money, and honestly, too. Our funds are not up for grabs by dodgy people in uniform, thanks. Word amongst the motorcycle travellers seems to indicate that Peruvian plod is constantly on the scam, so we should be able to have some fun with that!

Into Perú by a few dozen kilometres, and who should we come across but the dog on wheels mob, spoken of so fondly and so recently! We had first met them in Argentina. They were in their usual order of march - Kerry up front, Jochen a hundred metres back from her, and Tarmo the Labrador/Husky relaxing in his kennel/chariot just behind Jochen's back wheel! Check their website out here, especially if you speak German (in English too).

We'd been thinking of going another eighty-odd km up the road, but decided that town could wait until morning, and instead hung with the three of them in a little town called Juli. Our terribly helpful host mother (really the owner of the hostel we picked, but definitely the mothering type!) walked us into town to show us where all the churches were before letting us off the hook to go for dinner. We found ourselves wishing she had been as informative about restaurants as we scoured the town looking for something other than chicken and chips.

We found a place that served something different. Different indeed. I think each of us found the sight of a bloated chicken foot in each other's soup pretty entertaining. Funny that the joke was over for each of us when the pale toenails turned up in one's own soup, despite the predictability that they would. Emily's reaction was strong enough to scare the rest of us! Tarmo, lying under the table and no doubt wondering what the fuss was about, coolly disposed of each of the limbs as they were disdainfully tossed his way. Later, we got some take home beers and went 'home' for a yarn.

The next day Em and I intended to cover about 500km, a week's pedalling for them, especially given that it involved a couple of thousand vertical metres. So we farewelled each other in the morning, over a breakfast of bananas and bread, thinking it unlikely that we would catch each other again on the road.

Lake Titikaka, island in the sun

Of course we got away from La Paz in the mid-afternoon after one of us had run around town all morning, and the other had worked on the bike. To be frank, the destination didn't necessarily excite us all that much, even though Lake Titikaka was revered by the Incas as the origin of their animist religion, and as the abode of the sun and moon. But in the open space of the high plains, with the chill wind on our faces and the sun shining back at us from wet roads, we were once again happy to be on the road.






A pleasant afternoon's ride, a short crossing of the famous lake on a really dodgy-looking punt, then an exhilarating ride above the sunset-lit lake got us a bit more excited, though more about the physical beauty of the place than anything else. Arriving in Copacabana after sunset, we were quite chilled ourselves and really had to exercise our expectation management skills to make the shower feel warmish! Yep, we gringos are soft! Over a delicious dinner of Lake Titikaka trout, we mentioned the fact that we hadn't seen any of our travelling mates lately, and wondered in particular where Kerry, Jochen and Tarmo - the dog on wheels crew - might have made it to.

Lake Titikaca and the Isla del Sol, or Island of the Sun, are 'must-see's' on just about every South American tourist's list, and we were pressured to buy our tickets on the 'only' boats to the island there as soon as we hit town. We're not interested in joining ques of other visitors, and so morning time we pointed the bike in the direction of the Isla, less-than-determined to sus out the Incan ruins, but happy for a spin and maybe a boat trip in the mild sunshine and interested to see what those reed boats are all about.

Out near the end of the road, we got our wishes all in one. Mr. Hilario Paye Quispe came running toward us, proffering a fistful of postcards from satisfied clients and offering just what we wanted - a cruise in the sun and some explanations.

Lovely morning, we saw all we wanted to and rather than going around the island, we got Mr Paye to turn around halfway along the coast of the Isla del Sol. Heh - we could do what we wanted, as we were the only passengers. Despite his huge reputation as a Lake Titikaka's expert guide, Mr. Paye didn't really explain much to us, despite my questions. Maybe he sensed our relative lack of reverence for the place, if that is how it should be described.

(We don't lack respect for the Incan culture or beliefs, but nor do we have the overblown and often starry-eyed reverence for them that the tourism industry here in South America seems to want to generate. Maybe because we are some kind of animists ourselves, each already holding this Earth in reverence without the intermediary of western religion? Possibly because we already have close experience of cultures close to the earth? And maybe also because we know that the Incans invaded this continent, enslaving the local people and overrunning many cultures in the process, just as the Spaniards were to do later.)

Anyway our visit to the Isla del Sol was a pleasant experience, spent on the crystal waters of Lake Titikaka and bathed in glorious sunshine, and it didn't need to be anything else.

And we managed to see a couple of reed boats, too.

Mapajo Tours

Well, Hayley (and everyone else),

sorry it has taken us a while to write back too, but you should see where we have been! From the mountains to the Amazon rainforest, and back! The trip out there took two days, and then two days back as well, on roads full of dust, mud, rocks, trucks, naughty drivers, chasey dogs and even waterfalls, but it was worth every bit of effort.

Rurrenabaque is a little town on a big river called the Beni, and most people who don't live there go there because of the rainforest and jungle. There is loads of wildlife there, living in one of the world's most biologically diverse national parks, called Madidi, and just across the Beni River in a biosphere reserve called Pilon Lajas. Biosphere reserves are designed "to promote and demonstrate a balanced relationship between humans and the biosphere", and they allow people to sustainably use the land and its resources, too. There are some in Australia, too - even part of Mornington Peninsula.

Anyway Emily and I walked around town checking out the companies which offered tours to Madidi or Pilon Lajas, and found a little tour company owned by local aboriginal people, and called Mapajo. We decided to go with them, of course - who better to show us around their land than indigenous people? Also, the company is a cooperative, meaning that all the money they make goes back to their community.

(This community and others around it petitioned for the Biosphere status to protect their land and their jungle, and now it is internationally protected - an activism sucess story of the highest degree - e)

So next morning we were up early, and pretty excited too! We had breakfast, then second breakfast like the Hobbit, because they had told us we would be travelling on a boat for a few hours. We got on the long, narrow boat made of a tree trunk (but with an outboard motor!) with about five other people, and set off up the river. It was hot and humid, the boat was small and the swirling river was big, but we were just stoked to heading into the wilds!

An hour or so into the trip, the boatman broke the propeller on a snag in the river, so for a few minutes we drifted downstream sideways, before the guide got out in the shallows and pulled us aground on an island. We sat there for a while, reading and eating bananas and paddling in the water, whilst they procured a new propeller. It wasn't a hassle, more a part of the adventure, and we were on the way again soon enough.

When we arrived, we were shown to our cabin in the forest, except for the mosquito netting, all made of forest things - palm leaves on the roof and walls - and with a hammock swinging on the front porch. Lovely! The showers were cold, just the thing in the tropical heat, and the food was delicious the whole time we were there too. What's more, nearly all the food was grown and processed right there in the community.

But of course we were there to be in the forest, so that is where we went. By luck we had a guide all to ourselves - his name was Dino, and though he was a young man, he was a real expert on the place he lived in. This aspect of the trip reminded me a lot of Anangu Tours, where Wally, Richard, Milly and all the crew have such expert knowledge about their desert. We went for four long walks in different parts of the jungle and forest with Dino, and he showed us loads of stuff.

Plants used for building boats and houses, as bandages, skirts, bags, nets, ropes, medicines for crying babies and lots of other problems, all kinds of stuff. He showed us birds, animals and animal tracks: macaws, monkeys (though they were far up in the trees and very fast), and an alligator on the riverbank. The tracks were of tapirs (kind of like a very big guinea pig, though related to horses and endangered too), capybaras (the biggest rodent in the world), and even a puma! More impressive still, there were the agitated scratchings of a jaguar on the trunk of a tree - Dino reckoned the big cat had been trying to hunt monkeys and got a bit worked up when they escaped.

I know Emily has written to you about the big trees, too - they were also very imressive.

We also went into Dino's village, and met his sisters and grandparents. They showed us and let us try various skills they use in everyday life, like husking rice, three different types of weaving (Emily learned well!), and spinning cotton.

Dino's grandpa taught me to use a traditional bow and arrow, too - I think Emily emailed you all about that too. I had a lot of fun, and hit the coconut target a few times too.

Oh yes and one of the evenings they had a party too - we drank some very strong stuff with coconut juice, and they showed us how to chew coca leaves as well. Mapajo is a tour company, but to spend three days with them felt a lot more like just hanging out with our new mates, learning their ways. And besides anything else, operating a tour company gives people in Pilon Lajas a way to earn a living which does not involve letting corporations cut down their trees. In fact, the people of Pilon Lajas fought for the area to become a biosphere reserve in order to protect it and its animals. Wow. I am sure staying with them will remain one of the real highlights of our year away.

Anyway I have been meaning to respond to your email and to tell you about this experience too, so there it is. And now that I have written it down, I might even adapt it and put it on our blog. Would you mind that?

I will have to go soon. Hope all the scales and arpeggios are going well, and thanks for telling us about your outings in the city and with the hippo! Hey pretty exciting that nan and pa are moving, isn't it? It looks like we will be home in time to help pack and lift boxes too!

Again, I really must go and write our blog.

Much love to you, Jem, mum and dad,

Uncle Bob and Emily.

Rurrenabaque by road, thoughts on poverty, and a big, blue Volvo.

After our death-free ride down the Camino de la Muerte, and after making the acquaintance of Sambo and Wara, those charming spider monkeys, we got down to the business of getting to the rainforest. 350 kilometres has never sounded like much for a day's ride for me, but we try to keep daily distances down to a good bit less than that while we're travelling. Especially after our earlier experiences in Bolivia, when we have travelled as little as 60km in a full ten-hour day, we are pretty realistic about what is possible, especially on dirt roads. So we aimed to cover the distance in two days.

30-odd km of sloppy clay, which had turned to bulldust by the time we came back!

The really steep part of the Yungas Road, the part known as the Death Road, has now been supplanted by a modern asphalt road, including numerous bridges and a tunnel. But heading north, east and down to the savannah and rainforest from Coroico the road is just as it has ever been, and of course is still the only route available to mainly responsible truckies and idiotically speedy bus drivers.

On the way out, it was rocks, mud, trucks, bastard bike-chasing dogs, a landslide, more mud, and once a day rush hour of buses. Just three buses each way, but a proper rush hour. Coming back, rocks, dust, trucks, bastard bike-chasing dogs, more dust, and the buses.

Bolivian bus, driven with typical enthusiasm and respect for road conditions.

Add to this the Bolivian petrol, about as good for the bike as a tankful of fresh orange juice, giving vastly reduced power, and the road was quite a handful. I had fun, mostly, though the road did at times become a chore, but I don't think Emily will ever describe the trip as anything but the latter (actually, I was shit-scared on the way down, and had a sore sore arse on the way back, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world - e).

Credit once again to our trusty, heavily-laden BMW, which just takes in its stride whatever we point it at. Oh yes and very happy with our new Hyperpro shock absorber, the trip was a real test for it too.

We stayed the night at a little town called Caranavi, a place very unused to the presence of gringos (whitefellas/tourists) to judge by the shameless and relentless staring across the breakfast table, street, room or whatever. Annoying as the staring was, it is actually refreshing to be the odd ones out in the world of rural Bolivia. It's another advantage of having our own transport - we are not reliant on public transport or limited to tourist destinations, so often find ourselves in the "outback". We are quite sure that this brings us closer to the people of the lands we are in than most visitors can get, and gives us a real taste of and sometimes understanding of how and why things are as they are.

I am pretty sure that our coming from a land colonised by strangers and immigrants gives us further useful perspective on Latin America. The vast majority of people in rural Bolivia are indigenous, but they seem to struggle under the rules, religion and lifestyle foisted upon them by the colonising Spanish just as the Australian indigenous minority does. Here too, fried chicken and chips are a staple.

Emily and our GDP-buster after a set-menu lunch stop, middle of nowhere but after the mud.

Very often we feel quite conspicuous out here. The bike, about three times the size of all the other ones in the country - along with the colour of our skin and hair, our motorcycling clothes, possibly my beard, and doubtless other factors - makes us quite noticeable. People are often friendly and curious, and of course it is our duty as strangers and usually our pleasure to have a yarn with these folks. The thing is, the subject of conversation invariably turns to money. People are just fascinated, and have to ask how much the bike is worth in our country. Or what jobs we do at home to be able to leave for such a long time, even if we do understate the length of time we have been away. I am quite relieved to be able to honestly say that I earned the money for this trip by good, old fashioned hard work, mainly driving trucks. I have also begun to skirt the question, answering with a laugh that the bike is not for sale, that I have had it for nearly ten years and that it is getting old. If pushed, I tell people more or less the truth, about $5000. But that blows people out too. I can't blame them for being curious - we are in a country where the national GDP per capita in 2006 was far less than half the value of what we are travelling with. And we are in the poorest areas, where I have no doubt that many people would live for a fortnight on what it costs to fill our fuel tank.

One more road story before I post this entry. As does the former Camino de la Muerte, the rest of the Yungas Road includes "Keep Left" sections, the opposite to normal road rules in this continent. Thankfully, these changes of rule are well marked with signs. Around one of the innumerable curves, and on a relatively wide section of road, we came up against a blue Volvo truck. As we had hundreds of times already. So we kept left. And the Volvo kept right. See what I mean? Very soon we were looking very closely at the wide grille of the truck, and it was still steering to its right. You panic, you die, right Andy? Yep, words of truth reportedly often spoken by Emily's dad. So I calmly steered into the ditch, the front of the truck sweeping by just centimetres from the handlebars. No exaggeration. Very blinkin' close.

Proof of the "Keep Left" zone.

I'm not that fluent in Spanish swearing, so I had to revert to Italian in my exchange with the driver. As soon as I ascertained that Emily and I were both alright, and that the bike was undamaged, I got off and chased the truck up the road on foot. I was full of energy, to put it mildly, so caught up with him quickly. Gave him both barrels. Something along the lines of... well, I can't remember the content, but nor can I readily remember being so pissed off. Anyway I am sure he understood, and I got my point across that as a professional driver he really ought to know which side of the road to drive on. I also suggested that he might remember what side of the road to keep to before the next time he came up against another big Volvo. I stopped short of dragging him from the cab, but I have to admit to regretting this after the episode was over, and being tempted to go find him. Thankfully, Emily and I each regathered our calm and rode on, back to Caranavi.

The next day, after visiting our favourite monkeys once again, we took the new road back up to La Paz. Even with the bike sputtering on bad fuel, lack of oxygen and the steep climb, and despite difficulties with the throttle mechanism, the ride was infinitely more relaxed than the previous day's.

The old Camino de la Muerte, way down in the valley and seen from the new road.


A half-hour or so to watch the bulldozer sort out a big landslide. The operator had clearly done it all before!

The backside of one of those Volvos, emerging from the bulldust.

Dusty, tired and safe!

La Senda Verde

We had heard about La Senda Verde - a wildlife refuge near Coroico - while in La Paz, but as it happened, we didn't even have to look for it. As we came to the bottom of the Camino de la Muerte we met three people walking a couple of well-behaved (otherwise unheard-of in Bolivia) golden retrievers. The people were volunteers at the refuge, and showed us how to get there.

We were in for a bit of fun. We were greeted by Sambo and Wara, juvenile spider monkeys - the little dudes dashed straight over to Andy. Apparently Sambo, the boy, loves big men, especially hairy ones. Andy has grown quite an impressive beard while over here, and the monkey's seemed to like it as much as he does!

The monkeys were sweet, after a few minutes, they each came into my lap for a quick little cuddle before heading back to the hairy man, who (noting thier interest in it) had by this stage put his helmet on.

They loved it, sitting on the log as if to watch telly before venturing over to join the comedy. Heh, maybe Andy was happy to find some amigos amongst all these bare-faced Bolivians as well - they really couldn't get enough of each other!

The other inhabitantants of the refuge included the beautiful and endangered Macaws and this other strange (and as yet unidentified - Ginny's on the case) animal. I wasn't so sure about this one, it wouldn't be disuaded from the food we were feeding the monkeys, scared them off and procceded to hog into it, before someone came and took it away by the tail.

The fast and cheeky yellow squirrel monkeys had the rooster cooped up for a while, and there was an ocelot - the smallest of the big cats, and definitely one of the most beautiful. This poor animal was sold as a domestic kitten to a couple living in a unit! The refuge had to take her, but as yet had not build a home suitable for her.

The troop is completed by a host of other monkeys (including red howlers), turtles, and a couple of boa constrictors. They also serve strong coffee and a very delicious selection of home-made cakes - for us, a perfect morning tea break before heading off towards Rurrenabaque.

The Death Road

By our calculations, the Camino de la Muerte, or the Yungas Road, drops about 4000m in altitude over a distance of about 70km. From La Paz, already at about 3600m, the road climbs to over 4500m, then it is all down hill. Quite incredibly, this single-lane, two way road was until 2006 the only road connection between most of lowland Bolivia and the capital. Trucks, buses, and private vehicles alike negotiated the road, passing under waterfalls, within millimetres or even overhanging 500m precipices, risking landslides on the saturated surface. Sliding off the edge was and still is a certain one-way trip. The road gets its name from the outrageous death toll it exacted until the asphalt alternative route was completed - about one person per day died on the road.

We haven't had to keep left on the road since leaving England, but the Yungas Road is different to most other roads in Bolivia in this and another aspect. The keep left rule was instituted so that drivers coming up the road, and therefore nearest the precipice during passing manoeuvers, could look out their windows at the front tyre, and thereby get as close to the edge as possible. Those going uphill also have priority - downhillers have to squeeze over and/or back up to let opposing traffic pass. I am probably more interested in road rules than most, so I won't go on too long about it; suffice to say there was more than the usual to think about on this little track.

Anyhow, the top of the road is in territory that looks like this - sunlit alpine peaks and passes bathed in sunshine. We were there at about 7:30 in the morning, and it was bloody cold, but we soon descended into the relative warmth of that cloud.

The surface is of wet river rocks and clay, hard enough at the best of times, and with those cliffs alongside the ride hovered somewhere between chore and adventure. Don't worry mums, there was no traffic! We had left early in the morning just so we would have the road to ourselves, and riding I left nothing to chance.

That's Emily and the bike down there in the middle ground of the photo, checking out one of the scores of crosses we saw, erected for obvious reasons during the road's heyday. Here and there Emily spied the carcases of cars, buses or trucks down in the ravines. Can't say I was looking off the edge much!

We had been told there were fantastic views, but these were not on offer on the day we went down; we got them from other vantage points later on. The fog made it all the more eerie and atmospheric though - Em was stoked to be riding in a cloud forest.

There I am, riding under one of several waterfalls that just fall onto the road, turning it into a creek for some distance downstream. The forest grew more dense and spectacular as we progressed slowly downhill.

There's not much traffic on the road nowadays, unless you count mountain bikes, so there are far fewer deaths too. Each day, several La Paz-based companies take up to a hundred or more paying customers for a spin on the road. Gravity-assisted, they cruise or fang down 64km of unbroken descent. Sounds like fun, though just days after we tip-toed down a man died on one of these excursions, reportedly suffering a heart-attack either before or after he slid toward the edge of the road, and oblivion.

We just had a beautiful morning, wondering at the beauty of the mountain, the altitude and its effect on vegetation, and of course the forest.

La Paz

La Paz - the administrative capital of Bolivia - tumbles out of the high plains, clinging to an erosion-ravaged canyon. All roads lead to the bottom of the valley, a higgledy-piggledy mass of stone buildings, vehicles, street stalls and people struggling for their bit of space amongst the thick clouds of exhaust fumes.

Our first view was quite breathtaking - the city is nestled under nearby snow-capped Illampu, some 6000m high. La Paz itself is surrounded by another city - the sprawling El Alto, whose population surpasses La Paz itself (1.3 mill to La Paz's 800 000). It's colder and windier in El Alto, and the people live closer to the ground, though at higher altitude.

As we decended deeper into the valley, hand-pushed carts, animals and mud dwellings gave way to asphalt, smart vehicles and substantial double-storey stone buildings.

We found a base just out of the centre - Andy once again riding the bike into the foyer - across the plaza from the fabled San Pedro prison (the novel Marching Powder by Rusty Young gives an interesting, if slighty dry, account of his stay there). We were hoping to make a visit -apparently possible on Sundays for a small "donation".

As it turned out we never got to make the visit. It might have been the altitude (even the valley is at a lofty 3660m), or possibly that our sensitive western systems finally gave in to local food prep techniques ... or maybe it was the water. Anyway, both of us spent our first two days there shivering under our blanket-mounds and building up the energy to make frequent trips to the toilet. At one stage, we had run out of toilet paper and drinking water and neither of us had the energy to go out to buy some more! ... rather a low point of our stay.

When we finally emerged, it was to seek out the most gringo-of-gringo food joints in the hope of plain, clean food ... and to get a buzz again from the the bustling atmosphere created by the colourful mix of the traditional and the modern, vying for a living in La Paz's steep narrow streets.

Wall-art in La Paz, quoting and illustrating article 23 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Our second visit to La Paz, after our trip out to Rurrenabaque, was far shorter and more productive, with Andy squeezing in some bike maintenance while I handled the gift-shopping and post office duties.

Samaipata and beyond

So there we were in Samaipata, having made it up the track from Villa Serrano - the first to do so since last dry season. After the remote territory and small villages we had been through to get there, Samaipata seemed positively civilised (not the outpost it was reputed to be) and we made the most of it ... banana smoothies, hot showers, a double bed ... etc.

And our shock absorber had held out to the end - now there was nothing but asphalt between us and it's replacement. We decided not to try our luck, and so had to give the nearby national park a miss (a bit of shame, but plenty more to come), opting instead to visit the local museum - all about the nearby ruins - and then the ruins themselves.

Here they are behind me, our only photo as our batteries chose this moment to run flat (by the way, we charge our batteries on the bike ... there's no excuse for throwing these toxic things out willy-nilly, even on a bike). The site (now carvings in a huge rock) is considered to have been built in pre-Inca times, and also used by both the invading Incas and Spaniards, as a ceremonial site and becuase it commanded a good view over the main pass between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz. Much to my pleasure, the ruins were also surrounded by rainforest, giving us a pleasant taste of things to come.

Ruins visited, smoothies drunk, and we were ready for the next adventure. We found this in the ride to Cochabamba - again, the road took us to heights over 4000m, and we got to experience something I had only read about in an otherwise pretty stupid novel we found in a book exchange (The Gringo Trail - has some redeeming features, but not really recommended) - a cloud forest.

Just the sound of such a place had excited my imagination, and as we were riding through the clouds, in the forest, I realised we were probably living the dream. Really quite beautiful, it appears the trees are used to living among precipitation, and so they made these wonderful shapes to suck up the moisture - each branch resembling something between that of a trufella tree and a sea plant. They made for great silhouettes looming out of the mist, but unfortunately, not so conducive for photos (and anyway, our batteries were still charging), so I only managed to snap this one out when we got to the other side.

One more night (in a quite unfriendly satellite town - it's not all smiles and bowler hats 'round here) and we were in Cochabamba in the morning ... picked up the new shock (it's purple!) by midday (nice one DHL), and Andy had organised with a Hubb community workshop to put it in by the afternoon .... flying.

Next stop, La Paz.

Bolivian backblocks

What a spot! First job of the morning to dry out our gear, the dew heavier than expected. That's our bike manual lying on the mattress, it's taken more than a week to properly dry out after our swim in the river.

The road offered just about every type of challenge a dirt road can offer. These included countless landslides (like the one we are camped on above). In some cases, the whole side of the mountain had slumped metres, making for a sharp drop to get into it and a sharp climb out on the other side. We also faced creek crossings, river crossings, deep mud, deep sand, loose surfaces and steep steep country - out in the middle of nowhere.

Even as pillion I was challenged, when we stood up, no longer could I stretch my legs, loosely hold Andy's jacket and look over his shoulder - I was gripping him and the bike for sheer life ... and often didn't dare look!

In the afternoon, after a particularly long climb, we came to a sign 'Ruta del Ché' next to a small track. Despite the fact it had no indication of how far away it was (visitors will benefit from the '10km' Andy added to the sign in permanat marker on our way out), we decided to head down it.

In 1967 Ché Guevara and other core revolutionaries had come to the area looking for a suitable place to set up a revolutionary training ground for South Americans (this site being relatively central in the continent). It was here that US soldiers caught up with them and killed three of them in combat. Ché and one other were taken captive and locked in a small school building with the bodies of their dead comrades.

The next day, Ché and his last remaining comrade were executed without trial.

The town, La Higuera, seemed like a shrine to Ché, an the school building used for execution was set up as a museum. We payed our respects along with other visitors.

While we were there, a group of Germans making a documentary about the Ruta del Ché turned up and interviewed us (being the only international tourists apart from some Argentine hippies - seemingly not interested in Germans or docos).

While we both thought of things we would have liked have raised (for me, the virtues of non-violent activism), we were pretty happy with our performance on camera. Wonder if we will ever get to see the results, they didn't seem the most professional of crews - not even a basic Spanish speaker amongst them.

The road eased up a little after Pucarà, the town after the Ruta del Ché detour, and after endless more crazy switchbacks and patches of loose surface, we finally made it to asphalt, and then Vallegrande.

At Villagrande we were told we were the first vehicle to come through that way since the last dry season.

Despite the fact it was getting late and Samaipata was still two hours away, we decided to make the journey. The dark brought new challenges (unlit vehicles, people and animals, and unmarked roadworks, gravel and piles of dirt on the road), but we made it there without incident, headed for the centro, and found a hostel for the night. Finally in Samaipata!!

Culture on their backs

Last year I posted this blog after visiting a Karen hilltribe village in northern Thailand:

Apparently in parts of rural Thailand and Laos there is some pressure on women to maintain traditional dress to carry on the culture of the village, while the men have largely abandonded traditonal garb. The women are very strong here - although small of stature, they are able to carry rice on thier heads, babes at thier breasts, and also the culture on their backs! !! Go girls!

The same can be said for Bolivian women. While almost all men have adpoted a western style of dress, even in the city, many a Bolivian woman still wears traditional garb of a full skirt, a lacy top and a bowler or sunhat perched on top of decorated black plaits. (This city lady has dropped the traditional woollen stockings and sensible shoes in favour of bare legs and heels.) The outfit is completed with a bright bundle on her back. The bundles may be used to carry a baby, the day's shopping, or in the case of a couple of old women we saw in the country, a load of wood. Here, as well as in South East Asia, it's the women who have the culture on their backs ...

Six rivers and a bog

Well. There we were in Padilla, about a third of the way to Samaipata and hoping we might make it there before nightfall. First stop, a little town called Villa Serrano. After breakfast (which didn't match the culinary delights of the night before), we drove the bike out the door and headed off.

The 30km road between the two towns was as we had come to expect, so we weren't too surprised that after two hours we still had 10km to go. 10km and one river. We have crossed a number of deepish rivers this year - quite a feat on the bike, loaded with both of us and our gear and weighing about 450kg. This river didn't look to be anything out of the ordinary, a drop into brown swirling water, about 25m to the other side. We decided to cross without taking the precaution of walking it first. (That was me who decided that. Over keen to get through without wetting our boots - oops! a.)


I think the moment we got in, we both realised this was a mistake. The drop was steeper than we expected, and also, the rocks at the bottom were not mere pebbles like on the shore, but too large to be pushed aside or rolled over. It was one of these that was our undoing, and before we knew it, Andy, myself, the bike and all our gear were sideways in the brown, fast flowing river. This is the first time we've dropped it on this trip.

No matter, though. Neither of us were hurt. Just wet, up and over the waist.

With a bit of effort, we picked the bike up and pushed it out of there. We gave it an hour or so to dry out, emptying the tool tubes and drying out all the important bits of the engine. This also gave us time to notice the footbridge just upstream. The locals were riding their motorbikes across the bridge. Also while we waited in the sun, a woman to offered Andy one of her goats for sale (a large lechon - presumably still milk-fed - goes for 60 bolivianos, about $9.)

In Villa Serrano we were getting mixed messages about whether the road was passable to the next slightly larger town north, Valle Grande. It seemed noone knew of anyone coming that way since the last serious rains (only three weeks ago), or even since the beginning of the wet season, but some people thought we would be fine with the bike. We decided to give it a bash.

This was probably the most degraded road we had seen yet - as it hugged the ranges, we picked our way over landslide after landslide. Over an hour (and probably no more than 15km later), we came to one we just couldn't get past. Even the family and their goats we saw there were having trouble.

We admitted defeat.

It was time to turn around and head back to Villa Serrano for the night. So far, it had been two days, and we still were not half way to Samaipata. We spent the night drying out our gear, including our all-important bike manual, which had become saturated. After the dump in the river, nearly everything on the left of the bike was satched. (My pannier, thankfully - a)

The next day we were told by the locals there was another way around the landslide, but that we would have to ford three rivers. These turned out to be five, the first four getting easier and prettier as they came on. We took the precaution of unloading the tool tubes and carrying the gear across.

The last river, el Bañadito (little wet one) about four hour's ride from the village, was the deepest. The road abruptly descended into it's fast flowing waters, and came out again about 30m later. This time, as well as taking the gear off, we had to push the bike across. Luckily, we had the help of a local man, and, despite a few hairy moments, had the bike across with no incident.

Sugarcane, swapped with some guys in the back of a ute (the only vehicle we were to see for a couple of days), provided a good recharge on the other side.

The road from there provided both stunning scenery and challenges ... not least this bog in the middle of a landslide which had us stuck for almost two hours, and convinced us to stay overnight too.

By the time we got the bike out, it was dusk and we had no option but to stay there (this photo is of me holding the bike steady, before we realised it wasn't gong anywhere). Completely wet and muddy from our efforts (Andy did a lot of digging around in the mud, and I pushed from the back as the bike spun it all over me), we walked down the hill to wash ourselves in the river (with our clothes and boots on - luckily it wasn't cold). On the way, we asked permission of the local villagers to camp there, and also if they could sell us some vegies (our stash containing dry food only). Permission granted but no food forthcoming, we headed down to the river, and as well as washing, filled our waterbottle with (very muddy) water to be boiled, settled and used for our dinner.

While the walk up was steep, it was stunning - the sky really turned it on with a full complement of stars, unhindered by any electric light. Dinner was pasta, garlic and chilli (bland but filling), and afterwards, we opted to camp without tent, falling asleep in our little coccoons on a landslide on the edge of a mountain in the middle of Bolivian nowhere.