Going The Distance

Sergio sets off early, leaving us with the wonderful chilled out and generally upbeat Ale’. After the usual fandango of breakfast (“no, we don’t have milk. No you can’t have juice.” and it arriving 45 minutes later), we hit the road.

The first half of the day is tarmacked road. It’s one of the most beautiful drives we have done in South America. We weave along windy roads overlooking vast stretches of altiplano, the colours change from greens and yellows to reds and browns then back again. Breathtaking. Llamas pepper the landscape, herded by bowler-hatted cholla women carrying babies on their backs. It’s the stuff of cinematographic legend.

Then the tarmac stops. Bear in mind this is the main road between Bolivia and Argentina, and the road is like a dirt track leading from a house to its outhouse. For 8 hours.

Dust clouds regularly enshroud us as massive trucks pass us. Every bone in our body is jolted with constant but irregular vibrations as our trusty and beloved Russian steed is thrown by small rocks and ripples in the road. The exhaust pipe falls off. We’re in the middle of nowhere, the sun is blazing down and the pipe itself is hotter than hell. We drive 20 minutes to the nearest cluster of houses. Mud houses, one of which is a llanteria (a tyre seller. He obviously knows that this road is going to drum up some good business). Llanterias are everywhere along the Latin part of the PanAmerican highway. They distinguish themselves with a large black tyre stood up at the side of the road with the word “llanteria” (llanta = tyre) painted large on them in white. I think there are more llanterias than restaurants, genuinely.

The shop is built of what appears to be wood and mud. It’s hard to tell because it, like us, is covered in dust. There is a woman sitting on a small block of wood outside the door to the place. She looks older than time, a face wisened with lines. One side of her mouth bulges with a bolus of coca. She chews sporadically, a thin trickle of dark liquid staining the right corner of her mouth. She squawks manically. She’s drunk, pointing and flailing, chewing all the while, spluttering at us.

The mechanic largely ignores her and gets to work, replacing the rubber holding the exhaust pipe in place. I decide to wander off for a wee. The ground is dusty and littered with dried thorn bushes. I tread as carefully as I can to try and find a suitable hiding place to derobe (there’s nothing elegant about a woman in a workman’s overall trying to do a wee). As I walk, I feel the thorns occasionally pierce through the rubber red Crocs which I so love. A powerful pain. Then comes the blood, erupting out of the sides of the Crocs, dripping on the thirsty dusty ground.

I sit down for the clean up operation. Local unctions are offered (Alexandre even endorses one of them) and I work my way through tissues to tidy up the copious blood (only to find the smallest, most rubbish little wound in the eye of all that blood). My coca-chewing heckler friend is going at me hammer and tongs by this point. I’m sitting near her and she is shrieking and pointing. It’s a little off-putting, if I’m completely honest, reader.

Back on the road. God, it’s long. Poor Mike and Ale have to navigate it. At least the view is good. Darkness starts to fall. The exhaust pipe falls off again. I lose a shoe. And the desire to be in Bolivia for any more time.

The final push into Tupisa is achingly slow. The road is terrible, dusty, hilly. It takes an hour to do 30km. We arrive in the town at 9.30pm in total darkness, having left Challapata at 8.30am, That’s one hell of a day. We’re absolutely covered in dust. It’s everywhere, on all our bags, in our hair, on our faces, in our teeth. Then a much-craved shower. Mike pretty much passes out with fatigue.

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