| Jeff Poulter & Graham Tillotson: 2nd November 2004 |
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La Paz to Arica
A tortuous and traffic-jammed exit from La Paz. Blocked junctions meant that we spent 15 minutes over the first five blocks but, once out of the centre of La Paz, the road cleared (with the notable exception of El Alto, on the rim of the La Paz basin). The first 100km or so were along the Pallina valley which was very pretty but unexceptional, climbing gradually to the 'southern' Altiplano. Unlike the northern bit, we actually saw this one. The valley was green and marshy without too many trees where herds of llamas - black, white and brown - were feeding happily.
It was when we turned off Highway 1 to Highway 4 that the drama quotient rose a notch. Soon three snow-capped volcanoes appeared on the horizon, one large and nearer on the left and a pair on the right which were clearly further away. By this time we were riding in desert conditions with twitch grass and pampa scrub on the side of the road, if anything at all. The grass grew in curious clumps which looked like small Christmas trees about a foot or so high.
Sajama Volcano
The large 6,550m volcano, Sajama, was to be our companion up to and beyond the Chilean border. Its perfect cone shape reminded me of Boots prints of Mount Fuji and its presence was almost magnetic. We were both riding by looking ahead for two seconds and then to the right at the volcano for three. For 100 km the road circled around this magnificent lump of rock so that we saw it from three points of the compass, each of which exposed a different perspective. Constantly changing light meant that she (has to be a she) altered colour and texture as, of course, did the amount of snow on her slopes.
As well as Volcano Sajama, we were treated with additional fabulous views
of two further distant volcanoes, the Payachata twins, Volcano Pomerape
and Volcano Parinacota, which are one each side of the Bolivian/Chilean
border.
As GT had his cameras stolen I was deputized to record the next few days on my Pentax analogue and, whereas normally it is Graham who stops for photo shoots, this time it was me. And, seemingly, every 10 km, the volcano was so beautiful.
At one stop several llamas were grazing so we managed to achieve the tourist coup of llama in the foreground, monster volcano in the background. At other stops we were confronted with extraordinary rock formations next to the road: huge, dramatic, jagged rocky lumps, some with Polo holes eroded in them. Natch, with Mrs. Volcano as backdrop.
Bolivian Border
We climbed towards the Bolivian border via a long, long incline up which the bikes wheezed to 4,300m and, the scenic drama was elevated with the altitude. As we arrived at the border, Tampo Quemado, the wind was blowing with gusto and it was quite cold. The formalities, although cumbersome, were completed in short order with commendable efficiency. We paid the only levy so far in South America (excepting the Quito farce) of 10 Bolivianos each (65 pence) for the very real pleasure of using this Bolivian road.
Chilean Border
As we set off to the Chilean border I was mildly surprised to be greeted
with the information that it was 10 km away. But it must be one of the
prettiest 10 km of road anywhere in the world. As well as Volcano Sajama
on our right there were very high, sandy-coloured hills on the left and,
between the two, lovely blue lakes. This is no-man's land? The Chilean
border became visible around a long right-hand curve, between two grand
lakes the largest being Lago Chungara one of the highest in the world.
On this deep blue lake walked and fed dozens of stunning pink Flamingos.
(I know they are always pink and always stunning but this setting they
were especially so.) This border must be one of the most remote and wind-swept
in the world. There were just the official buildings: no catering nor,
for the first time, no money changers. It is, I guess, just too cold and
too far from anywhere. Formalities were dealt with swiftly. Indeed, each
office has a large number over its door, so we simply traipsed from 1 to
4. Borders by numbers.
On our original plan we had intended to over-night here. Mmmm. The next
town, Parinacota, was 30 km away. We had already ridden 300 km so it was
only half an hour away. Trouble was, we missed it. Never saw hide nor hair
of the place, so insignificant was it. According to the map, the regional
capital, Putre, was another 21 km down the road so we set off for there.
All the time we were passing through the most extraordinary scenery, the
lake district. The edges of the lakes were fringed with chromium yellow
algae, the water a deep blue and the now very snowy volcano reflected in
the water.
Putre - Interesting people !
Putre was 4 km off the Arica road, down a winding track. It turned out to be a weird place apparently full of drunken in-breeds - at least the restaurant we stopped in had its share thereof. By this time we had 350 km on the clock and had not passed a petrol station for 200 km, so I was getting concerned about fuel. But there must be a gas station in the regional capital? Nope. We had no choice but to tip in our spare cans of fuel, about six litres each, and hope that the anticipated 140 extra kilometres would enable us to reach Arica, 138 km away. According to the map, there was no town worthy of mention between Putre and Arica. It was now 5:20 and we expected darkness at around 7.15 and we did not want to break our golden rule of never riding in the dark, especially on twisting mountain roads like these. I reckoned that, if the road maintained its current standard, we would make Arica before nightfall, with a whiff of petrol to spare. I was hopelessly wrong.
This became apparent after 50 or so kilometres when the nice paved surface started to deteriorate badly with lengthy gravel sections, especially on corners, and deep potholes in between. Our average speed was dropping to around 50 kph. Then we hit the dreaded sign "Carretera sin asfalta para el proximo 28 km" Oh shit. Then "Precaucion trabaja profundo". Double shit. If things could get worse, they did, with the sun setting directly in our line of sight so that, often, on the most appalling mud and gravel surfaces, we were quite blinded by the low sun. Then we hit the first of three one-lane sections. I have no idea why the Latin Americans repair their roads in this way: they dig up 20 km and divert all the traffic around the working by sending it into the desert, over rocks and all sorts. Three times the bastards did us, each time we waited for ages for the man with the green and red paddle to let us go.
It got dark when we were still 60 km from Arica, just as we entered the
third single lane working. This time they wanted us to use the gravel torn-up
road bed while the lane in the opposite direction was freshly tarmaced
and pristine. I stopped and said to GT, let's ride up over that hump of
gravel between the carriage ways and use the smooth stuff. Follow me I
said as I aimed diagonally (mistake) at the gravel which was much higher
and deeper than I thought. (Well, it was dark.) The bike objected and gently
fell over. Prat. I picked it up and we continued on the rough for another
10 km.
Tanks on reserve now !!!
At 100 km, 40 short of Arica, Graham went onto reserve. The last time this
happened we made only 20 km before completely running dry. Hearts in mouths
we limped along at minimum revs in top gear for 15 km, then 20 km. I was
looking constantly in my mirrors waiting for Graham to suddenly drop back
as his engine cut. 25 km, 30 km. Surely soon? At 35 km the hugely relieving
sight of a petrol station rose over the horizon. C'mon GT, hold on. We
can push it from here if need be. To my amazement, we rode onto the fore-court
with engines running. To be greeted by...four diesel pumps. You're kidding.
No gasolina? Nada.
We had already completed over 40 km with Graham running on reserve. We had no option but to continue. I was still running on main tank so we would get as far as we could until GT ran dry when I would leave him and set off for Arica and return with fuel. After five harrowing kilometres we could see the lights of Arica on the horizon. Then my bike ran onto reserve. Eight kilometres later we drifted into a Shell (!) petrol station and put in one and a half litres because that was all the Chilean money we had. There had been no banks nor money changers in the over 200 km since the border. Graham had ridden over 50 km on reserve and we had completed 510 km on one tank of fuel plus our spare cans. Well, it's a benchmark.
When we went out for dinner later that evening to a nice fish restaurant, the bloke at the next table started a conversation, overhearing us speaking English. He was pretty boring, surprising for a Tottenham supporter, but then he did go to Latimer School in Enfield which has always been the big rival to my alma mata, Edmonton County. So what do you expect from an ex-Latimer boy?
Jeff 02.11.04 |
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