Oh Bolivia, if I had known you were so bold and beautiful, I don’t know that I would have seen you here. ‘Senor, no documentos para moto? No, no nessecario. Por que? No problema, don’t worry, sign out again at the exit. But just you writing this down in your book that’s it? Yes, and quatorze Bolivianos. Okay I said reaching into my pocket, But no documents proving I was here? No, no problema’. So off I rode after immigration, and another Policia guy asking this time for venty Bolivianos and writing in his journal about two kilometers from the border. ‘How much Bolivianos is venty? Two dollars’. More like 2.75 I later figured out. Nickles and dimes. ‘No documento senor? No, no necessario. Si si, I said, I’ve heard that one already. No more check stops si senor? No, no masse’. So off I went ….
And the magnificient La Paz, Bolivia from the top of the road going in ….
I had two glasses of wine and a good medium pizza for $5 bucks that night. The next morning I gave Crawford the coordinates from my GPS so he could meet me at my hotel. He’s the guy I met in Peru on my way to Machu Picchu. He arrived, and we had to make a decision right away before even riding a foot together. He wanted to get to Potosi to meet up with some people he had met in Cusco, Ken and Carol Duval. It meant nothing to me so I said why don’t we just ride until it’s time to quit and Crawford agreed so we rode off into the heavy traffic, the first time for us riding together and it worked well; both of us passing each other when necessary, when one thought he had the better line …
When we arrived in Oruro it took some time to find the vibe and a selection of hotels … and then we saw this group, The Black Devils, and they lead us to a couple until we agreed to stay at the one we found, cool process though ….
The next morning we got a good start and we headed for Challapata to fill up with gas and get some more money, but there was none. No ATM definitely, and two gas stations out of gas till the next day …. maybe, and we didn’t have enough gas to get back to Oruro so we started asking around ….
We also filled up Crawford’s extra tank, and paid double for all, but well worth the price ….
Then we found a road that was being built, and the driver of the steam roller or whatever nodded to me to come aboard so after talking to Crawford, we did….
But then we hit this … and it may not look like much, but the truth is these pictures never show the road as it is, especially with all the weight.
So we found this alternative ….
… and a seemingly innocent over except I took it too slow and then dug myself into the fine dirt and then smoked the clutcch until I smelt it and killed the motor. ‘Shit, fuck, stupid, shit!, I mentioned to myself and in the middle of nowhere. The thoughts were racing, how to do the right thing. Crawford was awesome, he knew this one already; let the clutchh cool, dig the front tire out so that is going down hill and then push the rear after we tried to no avail before. We were burning in the midday sun. I prayed and prayed to someone I may or may not know for the clutch work again …. also if you look back at the picture before you will see in the far background that we were not on the right road ….
Then thankfully on the road again except the bad road, until we just started hoping back and forth from the temporary road and the new one yet unfinished.
And then we hit the really rough road ( just a note, it doesn’t look as bad as it is, and the photos are never taken when the shit hits the fan … )
Both Crawford and I almost wiped out on the same corner of treachorous sand pits. There was no time for thinking … especially after Crawford’s shock blew, oil spewing everywhere and he pogo’ing as Ken says it (more about Ken and Carol later), down the road to Uyuni, Bolivia. Ironically this gave me time to wander the trails by the road, sand and fine dirt, while watching Crawford slowly meander to Uyuni.
And finally, Uyuni. Argh, a spectacular ride but difficult and the washboard was insane. I was thinking I could really use a beefier tire, something like Crawford’s, his rear being a TKC and the front a Pirell 60. Regardless, it was tough on both of us, and Crawford had to bounch around in first gear for the last 25km with his blown shock.
When we literally rolled into the hotel, I met Ken and Carol Duval, two famous Australians who ride two up on their BMW R80R, who are currently on their 2nd world tour. I don’t know how to describe them except it’s kind of like meeting real life super heroes; they know so much about moto travel and roads and packing and technical stuff that honestly, over the course of the five nights we spent time with Ken and Carol, I learned things that would have taken me five years of internet research and still I wouldn’t have learned what I learned from them and their friends and fellow travellers. And best of all they are really kind, patient and interesting people.
The next morning Crawford caught a lift to a local mechanic with the policia to have the shock fitted with a valve that could accept air rather than nitrogen. If there was an airport nearby he could have had the shock reloaded with10 grade oil and then shot with 300psi of nitrogen but there was no airport. So the plan was to change the valve to accept air from Ken’s pump.
While Crawford dealt with the shock, Ken, Carol and I spent time talking about this and that. They have so many stories and have met so many other moto people that most of the time my jaw was open in amazement. To cut a long story short about the shock, between Ken and Crawford, the shock was finally fixed and remounted on the bike, but it took some trial and error, much like the process of fixing a sound problem in my business eh Bruce.
After a couple of days, we prepared to ride out to the major attraction in Uyuni, Salta de Uyuni, an old ocean dried to the bone. Hords of tourists come here usually by bus and then 4X4 to see the salt plains.
Along the way Crawford’s shock was still knocking but better. It was decided that he would go back to Uyuni to play with the shock again while Ken, Carol and I camped out on the dried ocean. Crawford’s camping gear was stolen somewhere along his journey anyway so it didn’t matter to him if he camped or not.
Here we found this homage, and according to Carol, these are found all over Argentina. Apparantly a woman’s husband had to go to war, but she was so upset she took her newborn and attempted to walk to find her husband. She was found dead with her baby still alive and suckling her breast. People still today leave water and food for her and perhaps anyone else who may attempt a leap of faith.
We stopped here at fish island for some food and drink, an oasis in the middle of nothing. Later Crawford rode back to Uyuni while us three found our own island to camp at for the night.
Ken made a tuna pasta with fresh garlic and onions that accidentally fell onto the salt surface so he didn’t need to spice the food. It was delicious, and helped with the raging winds and cool night air.
There were so so so many stars, and all new to my eye being below the equator. After we retired for the night I spent some time listening to the wind, thinking, writing and eventually listening to music with my tent open to the night.
The next morning we packed up and rode around to the other side of our island to take ‘silly photos’. Most people that visit here take these crazy pictures and many of them are posted in bars in Uyuni, so we made our own too ….
Ken and Carol made some of their own too but I don’t have copies of those. Well actually I do but just not now. Carol copied them to a stick of mine, plus some video of us riding on the salt plains which I will try and load at a later time. I saw this woman on our way back to Uyuni, quite a striking site in the middle of this hot, white land.
Back in Uyuni, I along with this girl listened and watched the dancers in the background.
Back at the hotel Crawford had success with his shock, gently sanding the burr that caused the whole problem. He also fitted a piece of plastic to protect the shock from the rear tire shrapnel, like rocks and things. His original protector had fallen off on the road to Uyuni a few days ago, and then I realized that mine too had been left behind on the road so we went to work applying them to both of our bikes, during a dust storm.
The next morning we said our good-bye’s to Ken and Carol and then rode to the gas station only to find that there was no gas. I had filled up the night before but Crawford still needed gas so we waited with everyone else for the tanker to arrive and fill the pumps. After 45 minutes we were on our way to take the road from Uyuni to the Chilean border. The night before I found out that Ken, Carol and Crawford who had gone through a different border than I to enter Bolivia had been given documents to import their bikes so we were all concerned about what would happen to me with no import papers for my moto. Sgt. Marty and Don had encountered this problem in Brasil I believe, and they wanted to confiscate their bikes. In the end I think they got a lawyer and such to keep the authorities from taking their bikes. It was the fault of the border for not giving Sgt. Marty and Don the papers required, saying it wasn’t necessary. Shit. What is going to happen to me?
We finally hit the road only to find more severe washboard, rocks, dirt, and sand. Crawford was worried about his shock for we had a long way to travel down this barren road to the Bolivia/Chile border. I was in the lead, carefully manouvering from one obstacle to another. After about 100km I noticed a trail beside the road and was occasionally looking to see how deep the sand/dirt was and if the trail was better than the road ….
… and that’s when I hit a gully of sand, while looking at the trail beside the road. I didn’t see it coming, so suddenly my handlebars were tank slapping, and in all of one or two seconds this is what happened …. I was fighting to keep the front wheel straight at about 70km/hour but then I hit a second gully of sand right after the first one except that when I entered the second gully, my front wheel was turned to the left and all I could see was sand in the air all around me and I was immediately catapulted from the bike and flew about twenty feet in the air before landing on the gravel road stomach first. The funny thing was I was aware of how I landed because of my bad shoulder from years of hockey injuries, so I purposely kept my arms in to my chest and allowed my body to take the fall rather than my arms extended out. Whew, no dislocation. I got up and staggered over to the bike to shut it off and that’s when Crawford pulled up. He later said he saw a big cloud of dust and knew that I had gone down.
Based on the evidence of the damage to the bike, I believe that after the front wheel caught the second gully of sand, it immediately slammed down to the right, while I was flying in the air it then flipped over to the left side and ended up facing the direction from where I had come from. The damage was severe, the front fairing was broken from the bike and pieces of it were scattered on the road, both panniers were bent and the brackets bent out of shape. We picked the bike up and then I had some water and a smoke while my knees were still shaking. I seemed okay, with a mild scrape on my stomach and a sore elbow and knee. The Aerostitch jacket did great, as well as the BMW pants, both with protection inside. So we went to work seeing what the problems were; first we bent the fairing and guages as much as possible so I could steer the bike, then we taped up the fairing as best we could with duct/gaff tape, put the panniers back on and then we tied a rope around tightly so they wouldn’t fall off rattling down some more hundreds of kilometers to the border. After an hour or so, I hoped back on and rode away from the crash site, knees still trembling.
You can’t really tell from the photos the severity of these roads but believe me, they are ruthless on two wheels. Regardless, the road led to incredible vistas, absolutely stunning. All through the tormenting ride, over and over again I was thinking about the crash in increments of those two seconds …
At the border, funny I didn’t take any pictures, but I was worrried about the consequences of not having any papers. I accidentally rode past the Bolivian exit office, the Aduana, just waving at the people standing outside, and arriving on the Chilean side. That was a good mistake said Crawford, who was waved over to the Bolivian Aduana but just kept on riding thinking that I didn’t stop because of my dilemma. However inside the Chilean office, after being stamped out of Bolivia, my person that is, and then stamped into Chili, my person that is, next was the co-operative Chile/Bolivia Aduana. Shit. Inside was a confiscated XT 650 Enduro for having fake license plates. I imported the bike into Chile but then across from that desk was the Bolivian export desk. ‘No documentos? No, Policia said no necessario. But your friend here has the correct documents. Yes but we went separately and to different border crossings. This is a problem my friend. I know but it’s not my responsibility to do the correct thing at the border, it’s not my job, it is Bolivia’s, I said calmly, politely and with passive respect. One moment please’. And he left the building. While he was gone the Chilean inspectors went through our bikes to check for fruit, meat etc. . ‘Do you have any of these things? No, I said. But what about this on the front of your bike? (The turtle shell from Panama to Columbia) Oh. And this …. (the sheep skin from my Mum’s house), Oh … and this stick (the walking stick from Mexico) But why I asked. The stick could have insects inside. Oh. No problem though about the turtle and the sheep skin but the stick I will have to take’. Well at least he didn’t take the shell and my Mum’s sheep skin. The Bolivian guy returned and gave me a look like you’re lucky and my fellow border people are stupid or corrupt, and he stamped my bike out of Bolivia. Whew. It was getting late so we decided to stay in the only hotel on a one road town surrounded by volcano’s at the Chilean border.
